#SHE WANTS ME DEAD YOURE LAUGHING AND SHE WANTS ME DEAD
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Neverending battle
Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader
TW: mentions of canon character death, mass casualty event, grief, PTSD, lockdowns
Robby's sitting outside on the steps when you get home.
You reel back slightly, unsure. He has his head between his hands, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He's not dirty, still wearing the same cargo pants and black scrub top he left with in the morning. The face full of grief isn’t new either.
There's added weight to his shoulders though, you can see it. It’s almost like he’s doing an effort to stay upright against a crushing weight pushing him downwards, unsure of if he even wants to anymore.
You try your best to get closer without making a sound, slow steps and controlled breathing. His hands clench slightly.
"Jake's girlfriend died on me today."
You freeze.
"Remember I told you I'd give him the tickets so he could go with the girl he told us about? Her name was Leah," his voice breaks when he says her name, "I got to see her alive and happy through a call, and a few hours later I was covered in her blood and she was dead right in the middle of the ER."
You had seen the news, had called him a hundred times before it got through and Dana had answered. He talked to you five, ten seconds maybe, just to tell you to call Jake, to tell you he loved you, that he'd get home late. A watery chuckle was what he got back, and a 'be safe'. They had both sounded wrecked in that controlled way you knew so well, Robby had mastered it ages ago.
Which is why you don’t really know what to do with what’s pouring out of him right now. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked up at you, talking to the floor with his backpack by his side. He never tells you anything, never talks about what eats him alive and wakes you up when he starts crying at midnight.
He can talk about the funny, quirky cases, not with any other details but the fun ones. The girl who broke his arm trying to see how far she could jump, the boy who had a condom stuck inside, the teacher who had an accident in class and had been sneezing glitter for two days.
A month ago he got home laughing his ass off because a bunch of teenagers had gotten to the Pitt in a blind panic from their tongues being blue without "apparent reason", fearing the worst.
They just got high off his asses with a blue brownie and didn't remember, he kept saying, tears streaming down his face from laughing too much. It had made you so happy to see him like that, so carefree and finding something nice at work for once.
The man sat in front of you is a whole different person.
Your mind unhelpully supplies that Leah must have been around those teenagers' age.
"I broke inside the ped's room after Jake told me it was my fault, a-and it is, right? It is. Over a hundred people saved and I let my- I let Jake's girlfriend die."
Irrational anger flames inside your chest.
He's just a boy, you know.
He didn’t see Robby five years ago, though. Didn't spend months having to see him through the car window only, with dark circles around his eyes and thinner than ever. He has no clue about the first time he came back home and woke you up with his retching inside the bathroom, or the way he got paranoic for days and cleaned every single surface again and again. The blind panic that would show up on his face when you so much as sneezed, how he bought packs of facemasks that haven’t run out to this day.
But he’s just a boy, you know. And you know that you would hate anyone too if they were somehow even remotely capable of saving Robby and he died anyway, no matter how crazy it would be. Grief isn’t rational.
"I don't think we're gonna be seeing Jake anytime soon, babe. Sorry."
And he says it just like that, like that boy hasn’t been the shine in his eyes for years.
You sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands away from his head and clutching it between yours. He lets you, but doesn’t move otherwise.
"I think just us two will be fine for a while."
Not like you have any option, but still, he chuckles. "You think?"
Shrugging, you bury yourself into his side, ignoring how tight his entire body feels. You wonder if, this time, it was Jack the one who had to go up and talk. It makes you pull him closer.
"You sayin' I'm not fun enough for you now? Want me to go around pulling odd shit again, like when we first met?"
Finally, he turns slowly and kisses the top of your head. His body trembles slightly, adrenaline rush wearing off. You don’t dare mention it.
"As if I'd need anything else."
You smile.
You'll pressure him into going to therapy tomorrow, again. You're not sure if you should be relieved or worried sick at the fact that your chances at winning seem better this time around, not like the hundred times before.
"Whatever you need, Robinavitch."
You stay outside until his shaking calms down, and let him cry himself to sleep with his head on your chest.
In the morning, he finally agrees.
#michael robinavitch x reader#dr robby#dr robby x reader#michael robby robinavitch#micheal robinavitch x reader#the pitt#the pitt fanfiction#dr robby x you#dr robinavitch#michael robby robinavitch x reader#this is kind of sad but i tried my best to show hope lol
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------ Knight Class -------
Fierce clashes between Shura and Maki left Rioto and Panda at in awe. Kinie hums, watching through Taz's eyes. She blinks.
'Wait...aren't you supposed to be at the Dragoon class first before knight??' Kinie reminds her vessel, making her blink. "Oh no! You're right!" Taz gasps and runs off. ----- Aria Class -----
"Yes...." "Oh, I am fully aware of what you did, Hashimoto. Principal Meshipto already told me. I must it's pretty funny and yet you're so lucky that you didn't end up dead!" Lighting laughs making Daichi slump his shoulders, hearing that.
"Creating a barrier to trap a curse and try to exorcise it from the inside. Not a bad plan but given your injuries, you made a few mistakes which ends to the barrier exploding and accidentally made a summoning circle. Now do you want me to tell you how this happened?" Daichi blinks before nodding, "Yes sir." Akia and Kamo were curious about this.
----- Dragoon Class -----
"Okara!" Toge raised his hand. Yukio nods, "Alright, Toge. You're up." He said as Toge goes to grab a gun and proceeds to do the same thing as Miwa. He aims and fires at the target. He wasn't as good as Miwa, as he got two shots in the chest, but he has potential.
Maki was looking at the the other but she was still keeping her focus seeing Shura remain silent. However, Shura and seeing the others looking shocked. "Wait, how in the world was Maki about to-"
"Yuji, just watch." Panda said now seeing the two going at it again being faster and heavily with strikes moving around trying to attack the other.
----- Dragoon Class -----
"Wait, did we miss anyone?" Yukio asked.
"I think we got most but what about Toge? Taz?"
----- Aria Class -----
"...An accident?"
"More like a....persona accident?" Kamo said with arms crossed though he said nothing else remembering about some report about it.
#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the witch with the hammer and nails nobara kugisaki )#thesilverpeahenresidence#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the sorcerer of ten shadows megumi fushiguro )#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the king of curses sukuna ryomen )#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the cursed one yet kind soul yuji itadori#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the one who sees them the badger miko yotsuya )#thesilverpeahenresidence ( the son of satan who is going to become a knight - rin okumura )#Exorcists & Sorcerers Cross-Training Boot Camp!;rp#rp#ic#blue exorcist x jujutsu kaisen crossover rp#deamon-mun: You're fine! I need to put Taz in Dragoon first because she forgot! XD
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My Dead Girlfriend

Angstrom Levy plays his hand. You fuck it up. [Invincible Variants x reader]
[Part one] [Ao3] [5]
6 * Bad Dog [5.5k]
"Since all those lost years when I thought I was the monster,
It turns out I was really the prey
Masturbating and waiting for the raid,
And hating every little thing about you all the way!"
The Ruminant - Go Hang
The acrid breeze makes his blue curtain of a mask flutter. "Give us our shit." You almost don't think it's Mark talking, his voice is so different, so stereotypically New York native.
The man standing on solid air ignores him. Good eye sliding from one Mark to another. "You're down one."
"We're down a lot more than that, numbnuts." Mohawk throws his arms out. Gesturing to the empty space where other Marks could have been, but weren't.
"To be expected. This reality is much more resilient than most." At that, the men surrounding him bristle.
"You meant for us to die." Baldie accuses, crossed arms tensing with the need for violence. "You were never going to deliver."
The man, Angstrom, though you don't quite know it yet, laughs. Holding a scarred finger out to point at you. "I have though, haven't I? More than half of you wished to see this one again."
You are slack in the arms of your savior. Conscious but head spinning with the sudden change of atmosphere. It was a good thing none of them could see your face behind the mask, see that you were awake and biding your time.
But he knows you're awake. The one holding you, the warrior raised on Viltrum from birth. He feels your pulse pick up under his hands, hears the skip of your heart, the faint smell of fear induced sweat under your armor. The others aren't close enough to sense it, you hide your feelings well, play dead good as a possum, but he knows. And he tells nobody.
"You've all had a turn, so I think my end has been delivered." He finishes.
The one with a bare face looks at Angstrom, confused. "I have no idea who that is. Where's William?"
"Yeah." Backs up the long masked one. "Like I'd even give a fuck about some... whatever." he waves his hand, uncaring to find a word for some insignificant bug.
Despite the backlash, Angstrom smiles pleasantly. "I'm aware in your realities, you didn't know or care for (Y/n) (L/n). That is perfectly acceptable. Don't think I've forgotten about the deals we've all made. But to fulfill them, I'll need you to find this dimensions Mark Grayson and bring him to me."
Eyes twitch. Lips curl.
"No," Scars finally says. He looks to you in the arms of that straight-laced Viltrumites arms and barely contains a smirk. He's going to enjoy ripping you out of them. Tearing his arms off for touching you. "I've got what I want. I'm done with this place."
"You are aware I could leave you here or somewhere worse, correct?" Angstrom doesn't sound the least bit concerned regarding the mounting tension. The cracking knuckles. The nasty grinning-snarls, thirsty for a little more blood.
"You won't." Lensless hums, "We'll kill ya before you get the chance."
"Then we'd actually be stuck here forever, dumbass." Mohawk barks. "We'll just torture him instead, duh."
Angstrom rose a brow. "There's only one of her left in all existence, remember that before you threaten me."
You are consumed by crackling green light that seems to statically stick to your armor. You are falling, then not, draped over Angstrom's arm like a coat. Still trying to play knocked out. "I have the perfect reality ready for her if any of you move." He says before you're settled. "Pit of man-eating octomen I've been starving for months, waiting right here." A ring of power encircles your body, not touching you but threatening with its presence. "Move and she's there."
"I don't care, man." Long Mask says.
Angstrom ignores him. "Get me Mark Grayson."
"You've got ten of him right here," Emperor says. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll drop it."
Angstrom laughs, nastily. So hard he shakes you in his grip. "Am I dog now, Mister Grayson?"
"You're no better than one," Emperor replies.
"Look at you all- looking at me like you want me to die. After everything I've given you." Spit flies off Angstrom's lips, landing on your visor. "I met so many of you with snot dribbling out your noses over this thing," he jostles you in his grip as you grit your teeth, "this worthless animal who in so many dimensions joins your conquest. Just some regular human who adds absolutely nothing to nearly every timeline. I don't get the appeal, but I don't have to. Do as I say or she dies."
You observe the Marks. Ready to pounce. To throw caution to the wind. Some are hesitant, actually using their brains but enough of are ready to fucking shred you think you might get eaten by whatever an octoman is.
It leaves you with no other choice. It was just a bonus it'd get him to shut up. You were dead tired of hearing this guy's voice. Hearing any guy's voice.
You let out a weak, groggy groan. Catch Angstrom's attention, which is all you need. Watch the grin spread across his busted face. "Look who's awak-"
"Bite off your tongue." Blood comes out of your nose in such a rush it splattered against the inside of your helmet. Power ripped from you all at once, used on this guy you didn't know, but definitely didn't trust.
Drip, drop atop your helmet. Then came the rivers of blood down his chin. Weaving through his beard. Tongue stuck all the way out his mouth, teeth grinding down, down, down. Sawing, squelching. He blinks, tongue half removed from his mouth, when your hold snaps. A scream that was more a gargle, splatters more blood across your visitor. You're thrown, ass over heel.
His words are thick with pain and a brand-new lisp as he says, "Bad dog!"
The sickly green light surrounds you as a portal opens up behind your back, snapping shut before the closest version of your ex could reach you. The last thing you saw was him smiling with blood bubbling over his lips.
Your landing was surprisingly soft. Skidding to a slow stop on silky tan sand. Scrambling to your knees to see where the portal was. Gone. No green, just a cloudless, hazy sky. Sun fat in the sky. Beating down harsh on the black metal of your armor. Around you there is nothing but more sand and ruins of a society long forgotten.
You don't know what happened. Don't know how to process what happened. Calling out to the nothingness, "Bring me back!" To no reply or help at all.
***
"You-!"
Biting off your own tongue was something the deeply deranged and suicidal did. Despite that criteria, Angstrom Levy had never wanted to do such a thing, but there you'd been- making him do it.
He was in acute shock. Slow. Unable to dodge the hands grabbing him, the fists beating him, not with his tongue dangling half-cut out his mouth. Threats came pouring in quick as they were delivered. Ribs broken. Ligaments torn, good eye gone red with burst blood vessels.
It'd lasted thirty seconds, maybe less, but a voice cut through the violent haze. "We can't get her back if he's dead." Said the boy who killed his father and wore his cloak. God, if Freud were still around.
The words didn't calm them, but soothed the blows like a balm. Mohawk had him by the collar, choking him with it. "Open the portal, cocksucker."
Angstrom rose a hand, the only one he had left after that Viltrumite loyalist chopped the other off. He let it open slow, teasingly so. Power roiling under his skin, revenge on the mind. They'd thought they'd had him down and out, but he was nowhere near dead. He never planned to keep them along for the full ride. The plan was always to betray them. This was much sooner, and much bloodier, than planned. So be it.
"There." He heaved. They turned, looking into the opening to a new world. A world so dry it'd evaporate the marrow out of your bones.
Phantom didn't speak. Just shot his black and blue body through. One down, nine to go.
"That world," he begins, tongue awkwardly flailing over the bottom of his mouth, blood spilling down his throat just to be hacked out, "-that world has major time dilation. She could be very far from the origin point by now. Miles. It'll take him too long to find her... I can't-" He let the portal waiver, looking unstable, "I can't hold it long."
"You can and you will." The ex-prisoner grabbed him by the balls. Through Angstrom's pants but still. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes.
If guilt tripping wouldn't work, he had no other choice. "Wait... I can.. I think I've found her." More portals zap open all around him. Nine in total. "Do you see?" They turn, just to watch the portals shoot closer, swallowing them all whole before snapping shut. Leaving them to fall in the sand and Angstrom alone to his devices.
***
You'd tried it all. Screaming. Looking for an exit. Digging. Trying to call someone, anyone on your phone that had not a bar. All while the sun beat at your back. You didn't give up, not really, just resigned to moving somewhere else. Powers, you knew, were stupid. Angstrom could find you again even if you'd left the dropoff.
You walked. Migraine gnawing at your temples. Power stores drained out. Boots dragged in the sand, prints sifting away as soon as they were made. Moved from wreck to wreck for the tiniest slivers of shade. Baked inside your helmet until you popped it off, wiping at the drying blood with your gloves. When there was a breeze, it felt like a hairdryer, making your eyes water.
Two hours, you'd walked to find nothing.
The sun moved slow, the sky fading to a dull purple, but you knew the second it dipped below the dunes, you'd be dead without a fire. Deserts don't stay hot without sun. Planks were easy come by, old wood waiting to disintegrate into the sand. You rooted through the tool belt attached to the body armor. Tear gas, a high-powered taser, a flare, a knife, ammo for a gun you didn't have, and a to-go first aid kit.
You tried the taser on the wood. It made the old thing crumble in your hands. You tried again to the same result. Again and again as the sun crossed the sky and the heat began to ebb.
***
He flew through the desert, combing it in a gird. Square mile by square mile, searching. Growing more desperate by the second. Head filling with what if's.
It's faint, a mere vibration in his left ear. He banks hard. Following. Forcing his hearing to it's limit- catching grains shifting below his flight path. Then it comes again. Audible this time. Bzzt. Lil more to the left. Bzzzzt! Not long now. He starts to slow right as the sound pinged from below. BZZZT!
"Fuck you, motherfucker." Came out from a line of beams fallen together to make a concrete tent.
He landed gently, trying not to make a dust cloud and scare you away. Watching your back as you tried to light a plank ablaze with a taser. It crumbled in your hands. You scoff, kicking debris into a cloud that makes you violently cough.
You could turn and see him. Husky purple dusk not yet camouflaging his blue-black body suit. But you don't. Instead, you keep trying to tase the remaining sawdust into flames. It doesn't work.
He floats above the sand, slowly rolling into your view.
***
Chaos. Total, absolute, chaos.
Nine of them in the middle of some desert planet, tenth fucked off God knows where. No Angstrom to take them out. No (Y/n) to soften the blow. The rage settled in like a beat behind their eyes, a thrum under their fingerpads. They wanted to choke each other for existing.
Their personal genie had betrayed them, left them for dead.
He wasn't the first to blast off into the desert. Searching for a way out, for you. He was, however, first to shoot into the sky for a birdseye view. The atmosphere thinned, going from an ugly yellow to the familiar dark of space. Above the sphere, he hovered, seeing only sand. Around the planet he went, hoping, then finding those hopes were something juvenile.
The search extended into space. For other planets. He noticed then, flying through the cold dark there were no stars or gas giants or distant worlds. Only the planet they landed on and the too-close sun.
As if Angstrom Levy had found the one reality in all of existence with one dead world. One big, sandy, uninhabitable world. The perfect place for them all to die. The search could be expanded later, with more of them looking, but he doubted even their Viltrumite bodies could reach any planets if he couldn't see them.
He was angry, but couldn't fault the guy. He was going to rip off Angstrom's balls after all. He'd find a way out of this, the same way he'd found a way out of that hell of a Viltrumite prison. Scarred beyond recognition. Coming home to find the love of his life dead and long buried.
Except that now you were down on that sandball, somewhere. Hopefully alive. So why was he angsting up in space?
***
The taser shot out, connecting thick prongs to his suit. Electricity traveled fast through the carbon fiber, penetrating to his skin. He didn't seize and drop. He took it like he was nothing but thin air, like you were imagining him in a wave of heat induced hysteria.
The prongs retracted and he took that as cue to step down into your concrete hut. Coming closer, slow, hands up over his chest like he wasn't going to hurt you- as if you'd believe that.
You hear it. Something moving so fast the air splits around you.
You don't know what you're going to do. Shout? Duck? Gasp? You don't get to decide because he's on you. Holding you hard against himself, feet inches off the ground, hand pressed firm over your mouth. Head tracking the sonic spec in the sky as it passed over. When the coast is clear, he sets you down and backs off. Not leaving your nothing of a camp, but any space willing given by these freaks was noticeable.
"Leave." Power doesn't even bother to tickle your throat. You had jackshit left. Wouldn’t have jackshit for days if your luck stayed bad. You'd only blown yourself out like this one time- that day at the beginning of the end of your life. You'd never used your power on someone else powered before. Barley used it period. Only on little, meaningless, petty things. Until you used it all at once to save his life. Then on him. Blowing out you out like a tire. Failing.
Now you were here. Staring at a fully masked version of him, unable to control him or your life again.
Yet you try, "Go." The taser finds its home in your belt, replaced by the tear gas canister held over your head. "Or I'll set this fucking bomb off if you get any closer." It's a lie so obvious you couldn’t put your chest behind it. "I'll kill us both, I swear to God."
He doesn’t move. Your helmet sits on the ground at your feet. You wonder how fast you could set the tear gas off and put the thing back on. If the GDA-enhanced tear gas would make you go blind.
As you fingered the pin, he pulled something from his belt. A short, metal pin. He approaches the pile of wood you’d made. You back up, knowing he'd catch you if you ran. Knowing you didn't have energy for any more running. He cracks the metal against a shred of concrete. Sparks rained down on the dry material and then there was fire. Small but as he stepped back, blaze growing.
Technically, you knew what he was doing. Starting a fire so you wouldn’t freeze to death, the breeze as the sun went down already cool. But mentally? You had no idea what he wanted. You knew that he was one of the ones that asked for you, that knew some version of you and decided thousands dead was worth it. Even though he was the first to your side on multiple occasions, you couldn’t know what he wanted. If he wanted something in exchange.
The sky had gone a deep gray. Cold settling in between the sand dunes like an old bone's ache. You could leave, but the growing fire was your one and only shot of living. Just a guess, but the taser thing wasn’t going to work.
"What do you want?" You asked, shuffling closer. Still gripping the tear gas hard, reared over your shoulder like a weapon. "Tell me or I'll set it off."
"I'm not going to hurt you." Through that demon of a modulator, you catch a softness, Mark whispering a secret he hadn’t told anyone else. More genuine than you’d heard from any of these alternates.
"How do I know you're not lying?" But there is no reply, and you don’t think he is. He's done talking and you're done fighting.
He sits first. On the edge of an uneven slab, leaving plenty of room for you. You watch him carefully. Sure he's going to lunge, a lurking predator luring you into a false sense of safety. So you lean against the wall instead, watching him and the fire.
He does lunge eventually, ten minutes later. Dashing forth to stomp out the fire as another body streaks across the sky. Tense as you both watched it go by. Waiting until there’s nothing but the night. Then he was back on his knees, cracking the stick onto new planks.
"What is that?" You're still standing. Arm lifting the canister overhead once again.
He looks up from the fire at you. Black going brown in the light. Tentatively, tortuously, and against every nerve in your body, you sit. Slip the tear gas canister back into your belt. Hoping he'd talk if you seemed a little less hostile.
"Tell me where I am. Who the fuck was that?"
You’re not shocked when he says nothing, only annoyed by your acceptance of it. He can’t bring himself to ruin this moment with you, finally alone. Hearing your voice, even angry, was like an angel’s song for the damned. Your face like something out a dream. Any nervous tics, little movements, shifts in your weight, was studied and tucked away to categorize and compare to what he knew.
You at seventeen, nervous and shy and sweet. Could you have become this bitter thing had you lived? Surely not. He'd have made sure you were taken care of. Made you into a wife with nothing to fret over. He hates him. The Mark of your dimension. Wants to turn him inside out for letting whatever happened to you- happen.
You watched him right back with no knowledge of what his gaze meant. None of the same interest, but watching for the same things, instincts of being prey. Wondering when the slowly stalking fox was going to pounce, if the gaze was a challenge. In the thickening night, he was starting to blend in. You could still see his outline and the dark lenses reflecting back your stare. You try to look past them but can't, can't read anything from the blank, dark slate. You look away, wanting a momentary reprieve, backing down from the challenge. Movement. Your gaze right back, tense all over. Hand on the taser holster.
The mask is off. Chin up, he is bare. There is stubble dark on his jaw, skin paler than you recalled Mark ever being, his hair a shaggy mess that hung past his ears, eye bags deep, nearly purple. He was Mark, no surprise there, the surprise was the slate blue of his eyes. Just like his father's.
You pull the taser out, but not wanting to escalate further, voice almost a whisper after you’d grown used to the quiet. "What do you want?" He looks up at you under dark brows and long lashes. It reminds you so much of your Mark you want to strike him, but think better of it. "Answer me."
It comes out breathy, hardly audible. "I just-" Two syllables and his voice breaks. Cracks right down the middle. He shuts his mouth, hand going to his throat, thumb massaging. He swallows, tries again but all that comes out is a hoarse sigh. His brows knit in frustration. He’d talked more than he was used to in the past few days, and with the dry air and nerves, what was left of his vocal cords wasn’t going to cooperate.
You don’t know what’s wrong with him, but now you understand why he wore that modulator.
The mask goes back on. He's given up trying to talk, trying to show his belly like he wasn't a threat. You suspect violence, harassment, almost get up anticipating it, but it doesn't come. You're about to settle down when the ground shudders just outside your camp. You don't get the chance to check what it was because it steps inside between the concrete pillars.
"We've been working together to find a way out of this shithole and here you two've been, love shackin' it up." His mask flutters in front of his face as he talks. Sand stuck to his tracksuit where blood had wet it. "Jesus, yer lucky I found you. Those other dudes have been losing they's fuckin' minds."
Phantom rises, dashing the small fire away. He'd know his alone time with you would be short. They'd find you both eventually, but he was glad to have had it. Even if you looked at him with such disdain. For so many years, that's all he wanted. His voice failing him was punishment for letting you die, for letting this version of you get stuck in an unending desert. He'd make it up to you. Find a voice to say what needed to be said.
He steps towards the other. Long mask, long face, you don't quite know what to mentally call him yet- steps back. Making room for Phantom to exit the ruin.
"I'm not leaving." You tell the newcomer, though you grab the helmet. To throw at him? To cover your head from the cold now that the fire couldn't ward it off?
"You dunno if I've found a way out or not and yer just gonna act like that?" His laugh is humorless, "Glad we weren’t a thing in my world."
Behind him, Phantom jerks his head, a 'come' gesture. Wind, not a breeze, cuts through the dunes and sends winter cold through the cracks in your armor. Settles under the fabric, making you shiver.
"Do you have a way out?" You demand.
"Would'a left your ass behind if I did." He says, stepping further back. Annoyed but understanding you wouldn’t come within a certain distance; despite how fast he could liberate your head from your shoulders. "Come on," he lifts inches off the ground, "the longer you're gone the edgier those shitheads get. I can't take it anymore."
You really, really, really did not want to see any of them. You look back to your concrete shack. But. Survival is easier in groups, right? You know what else is easier in groups? Mass murder. The second you got your powers back, you were taking them out like you'd set out to do. Sure, you'd probably only kill one or two more of them but it'd be enough to kill Mark Grayson four times before you went to hell. Only then did eternity of torture sound bearable.
You also couldn't make a fire, it was freezing, you had no food and you'd be starving soon, and you had nothing to drink but codeine, which was a bad idea.
Phantom waited for you on the ground. Tracksuit, ah there's that convenient nickname, hovered low in the sky waiting. "Let's go already." You can't fly and something tells you Tracksuit isn't willing to walk however many miles it is back to camp.
Phantom taps his masked cheek. At first you're disgusted, thinking he wants you to lay one on him but realize, he's telling you to put the helmet on. You'd seen those old stories of superhuman and regular-Joe-human romances going bad because their lover flew too fast and all the human's skin was flayed off. You didn't want to go to the others, but you really didn't want to go without skin.
You put the helmet on and he moves towards you. Slower than the first time he scooped you up and took you to the sky. He definitely felt bad about dropping you. Elbows move under knees, strong hand supporting your back. Lifting off gently this time. Accelerating slowly enough for Tracksuit to scoff and shout, "Dude, move it!"
You'd never been flying like this. Before, it was too quick to process, too much adrenaline. Now you were burnt out and empty enough to actually process the passing dunes. To feel your body relying on his for support. You would have liked it, really, if it wasn't one of the crazy Marks- which was pretty much all of them. Horrified at any time he'd drop you or dangle you by an ankle until you cried, "Uncle." He hadn't seemed the type, but he also ripped off Psychopomp's arms the second time you met him. He wasn't as forward as the others, which made him less predictable.
The whole flight you were scared shitless, because the second it was over, things were only going to get worse. The bright side was, things were always awful before they got better. Thinking about killing Mark calmed you down a fraction.
Even in the distance, you could see the camp. No mountains to hide its orange glow. The only thing of note for miles upon miles.
Tracksuit sighed with relief, "Thank God." He shot forward, gone, leaving you and Phantom to meander along. You'd noticed he'd significantly slowed. Sucking up all the remaining alone time with you he could get. Hovering hundreds of feet over a massive bonfire. Figures below, waiting with baited breath.
Phantom contemplates the success rate of leaving. Running with you. Surviving alone together. His black boots touch down on the sand. He sets you down, keeping a hand at your back as you wobble to your feet. Unaccustomed to flying. Human heart fluttering in your chest.
You get no peace or relief.
Just Mohawk flying forward and almost knocking you over "Dickhead," he hissed before his fist sent Phantom careening into the desert night. Phantom catches himself, but stays further back, hidden in the dark. It was chilly but this planet was nothing compared to the vacuum of space. To what his life had been before seeing you again. The fire, here and there, were for you. Warmth and signal. He would keep watch from the shadows.
The perpetrator turns to you, sand stuck in his mohawk. "You good?"
You don't meet his eye. Opting to stumble closer to the bonfire, trying to avoid eye contact with the Marks standing around.
"I thought you'd need it," Omni-Wannabe says.
"Where are we?" You stare into it. Hoping they don't notice the answers aren't forced out of them. That they don't piece together the only reason you're not going batshit is because you're powerless.
"A desert," Lensless kicks at the sand, "Duh."
"What desert?" It's hard to keep the venom out of your voice.
Emperor stretches his legs over a rock. Leaning back in his low earthy chair, looking like he meant to be stranded. "You tell me. You're the one who got us trapped here."
You don't bite the bait. You can't fight back, so opening your big mouth is the last thing you should do. But he's looking at you like he wants to chop you to pieces. You go for fawning but not too out of character. "Wasn't expecting anyone to end up here with me."
Under the yellow fabric, his brow twitches. "After all the chasing and defending, you didn't expect backup?"
"I didn't ask for backup." You say, "I have no idea what's going on. One second I'm working, the next this guy," your arm gestures to Mohawk who grins, "is beating the shit out of my boss."
Emperor's muscles tighten. You'd said the wrong thing. Towed the line too willy-nilly. He says, "You really must be dumber in this world if you haven't figured it out yet. Don't speak to me until you do." And goes back to watching the fire.
Crisis averted.
Somebody thinks it's a good idea to rest their fat, meaty hand on your shoulder and say, "Are you okay?"
When you turn it's the bald one. Wearing an expression you think is concern.
You can't help moving away and snapping, "Get off."
"D'aww, somebody mad their geriatric handler didn't pick them up?" Scars is right behind you. Not close enough to touch, but too close for comfort. He could push you into the fire and you'd be roast dinner. "Not expecting to deal with the consequences of your actions, were you?"
This time, for real, you hold your tongue. Stuck straight to the roof of your mouth. You are not fucking with this guy.
He touches you the same place Baldie did. You're scared to shove him off. Baldie was a mistake, one that could've gotten you killed. Scars would be a mistake that would get you killed.
"Hey, look, she's afraid of me!" He announced like it was an honor. "That's a smart girl, but where's that fighting spirit? Come on, I wanna see you try n' hurt me again."
You don't reply. Don't move. Don't breathe.
"Your heart just skipped a beat, there, Dregs. Don't tell me you're gonna avoid me by killing yourself again." His fingers tighten on your shoulder. Nearly bruising. "I won't let it happen again." He's masking his anger being here with nine of himself by playing with you. Relieving stress.
"You're wasting your energy antagonizing her." The grip lightens immediately, someone else to play with. Scars' violent attention turned toward the bare baby-faced version of himself.
"You telling me what to do?" Tension cracked off his split lip.
"No." The other says evenly, "But we're stuck in an alien desert. Now's not the time to pull some master-slave dynamic bullshit on some girl you don't even know. Be smart."
Scars slipped around you, prowling toward the sat man. "And how do you suggest I 'be smart'."
He started counting off on his fingers, "Get more firewood if you don't want her to freeze to death. Search ruins for something that could get us out. Look for food. Rest, conserve energy, because we don't know how long we'll be stuck here. My guess is until we get ourselves out because there's no way Angstrom is coming back for us."
"He will," Lensless says with unwarranted confidence. "He has to know we'll find him and kill 'im. It's dumber to let us be mad n' stuff."
Maskless shakes his head. "He chose this planet because he expects us to die. I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not fighting you guys over some human I don't know. If you're smart, you'll do the same." He slides off the rock and lies himself sideways in the sand. Head propped on his elbow like a pillow. "At least shut up or go to sleep so you can kill echother quicker tomorrow."
Scars took two steps toward him before an arm jutted out, stopping him. Omni-Mark stood between the two like a wall. "He's right. We should sleep while it's cool. Search more tomorrow."
"Who said you're in charge?" Emperor snipped despite being deeply unhelpful.
"I'm not trying to be," he said, "it's just a suggestion."
One you take. Moving away to the other side of the blaze while their bickering went on and on. You sat on a rusted pipe. Maskless a few feet to your right, brow furrowed but eyes closed. The Viltrumite to your left, arms folded behind his back. Posture painfully straight. His eyes flick over to you, head not moving.
You don't see it, but he's content with the situation at hand- for now. He could take the others. Savvy enough to survive in the harshest conditions where the others surely weren't. He'd conquered harsher planets than this without help. Atop of all that, you were choosing to be by his side. That is enough for him, for the moment.
#invincible x reader#invincible variants x reader#invincible#invincible variants#mark grayson x reader#mohawk invincible#lensless mark#emperor mark#viltrum mark#phantom mark#fanfic#sinister invincible#sinister mark#omni mark#prison mark#capvincible#no goggles mark#mohawk mark x reader#omni mark x reader#sinister mark x reader#target invincible#target invincible x reader#viltrum mark x reader#full mask mark#rea writes#my writing#full mask invincible#long post#mdgf
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SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWGIRL ⛰︎ ོ you know what they say… only a woman knows how to treat a woman right. “got any cowgirl in ya? want some?” — SHOKO IEIRI
smut! 𐚁 minors and ageless blogs do not interact. indulging: afab and f!reader (she/her), arranged marriage, fingering, oral, thigh riding, drinking, you wear a skirt, #wlw
word count: 1,397
romy’s note: lesbians eat what?!

tomorrow, you’d be a wife. tonight, you were just a girl with shaky hands and a good liver.
“you planning to marry that poor boy hungover?”
her tracks are muddy, faint half-moons against the floor your mother scrubbed every morning. you wipe your palms down your skirt, eyes on the swinging doors, expecting a wobbly stray to storm through.
“I’ll rally,” you say, voice rough from too many shots of your father’s gutrot whiskey. “done worse.”
shoko hums, flicks ash out the window. the cigarette tip lights her profile soft orange. she smelled like everything familiar and terrible and good — like old afternoons, salty tears, and the stale shampoo they keep in the bunkhouse showers.
“you sure?” she mocks. “he’s gonna be real happy when you puke on his boots at the altar.”
“you shouldn't be here,” your fingers twitch toward the shuttered window out of habit. sherrif’s boys were known to stay out late wandering.
she shrugs like she wasn’t a dead man’s name on a dozen bounty posters pinned to fence posts from here to god knows where.
“came to wish you well,” she counters, a white lie. “and maybe get drunk enough to forget you’re marrying that twitchy little banker.”
you smile despite yourself. it made your mouth hurt.
“why?” you ask, voice cracking at the ends. “you didn’t stay to say goodbye the last time.”
her mouth pulls taut. something like guilt, or maybe just the bane memory of it.
“you were never gonna leave this place,” she says, tipping her head upward, where the piano had faintly started up again, crooked and sad. “I was.”
she pushes off the doorframe and walks in until she stands on the other side of the bar. the heavy smell of stale beer and woodsmoke lived in the bones of the place and seeped into your skin.
you swallow. the air between you stretches thin, sticky with all the words you hadn’t said two years ago when she first rode out and never came back.
“you could’ve asked me to go,” you breathe.
shoko leans close, palms braced flat on the wood, close enough you see the subtle scar along her jaw, new since you last saw her.
“you’d have said yes,” she says in an undertone far too lonely for your liking. “I wasn’t gonna do that to you.”
with her injured horse stabled down the street and nowhere else to turn, she figured a quick stop wouldn’t hurt. and boy, was she wrong.
she looks at you, as if remembering her own name.
“c’mere.”
a beat.
“c’mere, sweetheart,” she repeats, tired, thumb dragging over your knuckles. “one last time.”
you did. stupidly fast, pressing your forehead into her shoulder and looping your fingers into her belt loops.
her fingers fit into the dip of your waist like she’d known exactly where they belonged this whole time.
you yank her belt loose with clumsy hands, the heavy buckle thudding against her thigh. she laughs into your cheek, and you swear you feel your heart stop.
one hand braces at your jaw while her thumb rubs at the hinge of it, nails short and uneven from where she’d chewed. shoko tilts your face up and examines you, checking a calf for broken bones.
she lifts you back onto the bar stool — it rattles the screws. “you’re gonna get me killed.”
you smile, starting on her buttons.
“wasn’t planning on letting you live forever anyway.”
her palms leave dry prints on your hips, and when she kneels between your legs, the floorboards creak under her knees. the piano upstairs doesn’t stop.
outside, a dog barks once, sharp and distant. the fan keeps spinning. shoko doesn’t stop.
the bar digs into your spine, her hands already up your skirt, callouses skimming up your thighs. she works fast, but not rushed — the way someone does a job they know by heart.
“fuck,” she shudders, finding you already slick when she pulls your panties down. you kick them off blindly, heels dry-scraping the tablesides.
“gonna make you forget your own name,” she mutters, almost to herself. you hear it all.
her mouth is on you before you could say anything smart, biting a line up your legs, marking you like the goddamn animal she was.
you tug her hat off, toss it onto the floor. her hair’s damp at the roots, stuck to her forehead where the night heat had decided to settle.
“thought you were here just to drink,” you gasp.
shoko grins against your hip, teeth scraping sensitive skin. “changed my mind.”
she pushes a finger into you, palm grinding the way she knew you liked — the way she remembers.
it’s filthy, the wet sound of it, loud in the quiet remains of the closing hours. someone upstairs laughs— a sharp bark — makes your heart nip at your ribs and bottom lip bleed.
“stay quiet,” she shushes, kissing up your stomach, smudging her lipstick all over. “or don’t. might be the only good story I leave this town with.”
you bite your own hand to muffle the sound when her fingers curled just right, rough and sure inside you. she watches you the entire time, catching every little twitch, every whimper.
“still so fuckin’ pretty,” she slides up, kisses you again — deep, open-mouthed, desperate. so desperate.
your hands fumble at her pants and she helps, hitching her hips to shove them down for you.
you wrap your legs around her, dragging her in. the first press of her hips against yours punched a sound out of you that you barely recognized.
you shove at her until she gets the hint, letting you manhandle her onto the other stool. it creaks under her weight, one of the legs uneven — it’s been needing fixing for months.
shoko leans back, pants open, shirt rumpled, thighs spread loose. she cleans you off of her mouth, eyes glittering under the low lamplight.
“c’mon then,” she tilts her head, ever the cocky bastard. “take what you need.”
you climb into her lap, skirt bunched up around your waist, straddling one of her bare thighs. you move once, dragging your cunt along the muscle of her thigh, and your whole body jerks at how good it feels.
shoko hisses through her teeth, clawing at your hips, locking you down onto her.
“juuust like that,” she coos, voice wrecked.
you grind down harder, chasing the friction, the bone sliding right against your clit, relentless. the room tilts around you, too hot, too loud in your own head.
shoko slips a hand between you, fingers sliding through your folds, thumb catching you right at the top. she barely had to do any work with the way you were rocking against her.
“you’re dripping all over me,” she says, smug.
you come grinding against her thigh, thighs trembling, breathing like you’d been shot. shoko keeps her hand on you, pressing through every little aftershock until you sagged entirely spent against her.
but she wasn’t finished.
shoko steadies your thighs over her shoulders like she was settling into church pews.
her tongue laps through the mess she’d already made, nosing into the soft parts, tongue flicking away because she’s cruel — always has been. you whimper, try to close your legs, and she just tightens her grip, nails digging in enough to sting.
“you’re gonna be a good wife,” she sighs, bitter while inside you. “better get used to being taken apart.”
you barely hear her — too far gone, legs trembling, toes curling in your boots.
you come again, hips bucking up off the stool. she holds you down with her whole damn body. doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow, working you through it ‘till your thighs are spasming by her ears.
when you push weakly at her shoulders, she finally pulls back with a small, satisfied noise, chin glistening. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, grinning up at you like the kid she still was.
you gripped the edge of the bar behind you, the wood worn smooth from years of your father’s hands, and realized hers would never be allowed here again.
“you’re an outlaw,” you said matter-of-factly. “you’re wanted in three counties.”
“four.” she pulls the gold band off of your ring finger and kisses the bruise it leaves.
“but you always did love trouble.”

hello from april 28th i’m in the trenches and seasonal depression is kicking my ass. need a hot lesbian cowgirl to lasso me up and take me away asap. hope you enjoyed xo
side note i see all the comments you guys leave on my works i swear i do </3 trying to get better at replying to them but i see them weeks after they’re put up and i get embarrassed bc i’m late lmao. but i see them and appreciate them so so so much i’m sloppy kissing you all on the hot mouth rn
do not copy, edit, or repost, any of my works on any platforms.
#my girl ween hard#jjk x reader#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#shoko ieiri x reader#ieiri shoko#shoko ieiri#shoko x reader#shoko x you#shoko smut#wlw fic#lesbians#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jjk smut#jjk fluff#romy is 5km away and lonely!#romy is 5km away and lonely :(
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Stranger Like Me: Chapter Two
Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader
Summary: From a young age, the animal kingdom had fascinated you, and maybe that's why you chose to pursue that passion. You quickly became a force within the field, becoming the leading expert on ape social structures, which is how you found yourself on an expedition into the African jungles searching for a troop of gorillas. What you weren't expecting, however, was to run into the local wild man on one of your excursions... (Tarzan!AU)
Content Warnings: Language, Dead animals, Injury to self, Reader is a bit of an idiot, Baboons, Jack not understanding boundaries, The crew make fun of Boots. I think that's it.
Word Count: ~3.3k
Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Writing Info || Blog Rules
You woke up to the sound of yelling coming from the Frank’s tent. You scrambled out of the sheets, barely pulling on a pair of shorts over your underwear before running out of the tent and towards the camp. Frank and Whitaker were standing outside the tent, looking uneasily at each other as Mel, Trinity, and Victoria all came running up with you.
“What’s wrong?” You asked, a little out of breath from your run. “What happened?”
“Well,” Whitaker started, glancing over at Frank as the brunet ran a hand through his hair.
“Wild man left a goddamn fish in my bed,” he snapped, glaring disdainfully into the tent.
“He what?” You questioned, pushing past them to look in through the opening. Sure enough, a large, bloody fish sat atop the usually pristine sheets. You grimaced, backing up to stand with the others. “What kind of fish is that?”
“What?” Frank hollered, looking at you incredulously. “Who gives a shit? There’s a fish in my bed, Boots!”
“Do you think he’s threatening you?” Mel asked thoughtfully, stroking the length of her jaw as he eyed the fish. Frank turned to look at her, a surprised look on his face as if the thought only just crossed his mind. He looked back at the fish with pursed lips.
“Jack isn’t like that,” Whitaker assured, placing a gentle hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.”
“There’s a fish in my bed,” Frank gritted out, waving wildly towards the tent. You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms in front of your chest.
“Quit being such a baby about your gift,” you scowled. Frank began to splutter, face going red as he fought to form a coherent thought. At that same moment Robby and Dana came walking up from where they had been fixing dinner.
“What’s going on?” Dana asked, glancing around at your little group. Frank pointed a finger into the tent, taking deep breaths in through his nose and out through his mouth as he pinched the bridge of his nose. The two older researchers pushed past you and Trinity to peer into the tent, their eyebrows shooting up their foreheads at the sight.
“Huh,” Dana laughed out. “He must have seen you working with the plants this past week.”
Frank stared at him for a second, blinking slowly as he processed what the brunette just said.
“Pardon?”
“He sees me growing some of the food here,” Dana explained, gesturing towards the small patch of land she had set aside to grow some vegetables for the camp. “I use fish from the river to help fertilize the crops. He helps me with it sometimes, in fact. He must have thought you’d want some fish to help with your research.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet,” you sighed. Frank stared at you, an unreadable expression that slowly morphed into one of distraught.
“But,” he murmured, waving uselessly back at the fish, “my bed? Why?”
“Now that is a bit of a mystery, I’ll admit,” Dana hummed, staring confusedly at the bed. Robby rolled his eyes.
“Is it though?” He muttered, giving you a knowing look. You shifted uncomfortably. Surely he wasn’t implying…
“Boots, we’re going to have to take a raincheck on going down to the waterfall,” Frank sighed, looking at you now.
“What?” You frowned. “No way! It won’t take you that long to clean up! We can just go after!”
“This is going to take me forever to clean up,” he argued, shaking his head. “No, we’ll just go tomorrow or something.”
“Frank, if I have to spend one more day in this godforsaken camp, I’m going to lose my mind,” you scowled. “I’ll just go on ahead and you can meet me when you’re finished. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like a terrible idea,” he frowned. “The jungle is dangerous, Boots. God only knows what’s out there waiting to snatch you up.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” you snapped, glaring at him. “I’m just as capable as the rest of you. I can take care of myself. Mel, tell him.”
Mel sucked in a breath, eyes darting between the two of you as you waited for her to say something.
“I don’t know if I feel comfortable getting in the middle-”
“Fine, whatever,” you hissed, turning back to Frank. “Frank Langdon, I am a capable woman who can take care of herself. I’ve done this plenty of times before when you aren’t here to infantilize me.”
He mulled over your words, but it was Trinity who spoke up first.
“I mean,” she started, crossing her arms, “all of us go off all the time. She should be fine on her own, right?”
Frank gave her a hard look before huffing.
“Fine,” he relented, “but don’t go too far, okay? I’ll join you when I’m finished with this. Hopefully, it won’t take me too long.”
You smiled in victory, turning to head back to your tent and get ready. It didn’t take you long, just changing into a fresh set of clothes and filling up your canteen with water before grabbing your backpack. You were just about to leave camp and head towards the falls when Dana stopped you.
“I packed you some lunch,” she said, handing you an old container. You took it from her, smiling gratefully as you shoved it into your backpack.
“I’m guessing there’s something else you wanted to say to me?” You asked, earning a chuckle.
“Just,” she hesitated, shoving her hands in her pockets as she gazed into the jungle, “be careful. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Frank, but Victoria and I spotted a leopard by the river not too long ago. It’s possible it’s moved out of the area, but I wanted to let you know just in case. Just stay vigilant.”
“Yeah, I will,” you smiled, readjusting the strap on your shoulder.
“I’m sure Jack will be keeping an eye on you too,” she added. “You should be fine.”
“Thanks, Dana,” you nodded, turning and heading into the jungle before you.
The sun shone brightly, some of the rays penetrating through the canopy above. It was strange being out in the wilderness by yourself, the strange new noises keeping you slightly on edge as you continued to trek through the leaves. You took another swig from your canteen, the cool liquid easing the unsettling warmness that surrounded you. You tried in vain to wipe away the sweat accumulating on your forehead, letting out a frustrated sigh and grunt of disgust when you just ended up smearing more sweat onto your face. You shoved the canteen back into your pack, stopping when you heard a chattering sound coming from up above.
You looked skyward, seeing a couple of baboons racing along the trees. You grabbed blindly for your notebook, eager to jot down some notes and sketches of the creatures for Robby and Whitaker to go over when you returned. You trotted after them, now digging in your bag for a pen as you continued after them. The baboons noticed you, chattering at each other loudly as they took you in. Seeming to taunt you, they waved their arms at you, tilting their heads as if to say “can’t catch me.” You huffed out a chuckle, twisting and turning through the trees as you chased them. You were so caught up in trying to jot down some notes that you didn’t notice the dip in the ground or the tree root that arched out of the dirt beneath you. You fell with a panicked yelp, hitting your head on another one of the large roots, the world going dark around you.
You weren’t sure how long you had been out, probably not too long since the sun still beat down through the canopy. You touched the sore spot on your head, wincing at the slight sting, but sighing with relief when you checked your fingers and found no blood.
The baboons were still shrieking and chattering above you, almost as if they were laughing at your unfortunate predicament, and you cast an errant glare upwards at them. Damn monkeys.
An ache rippled up your leg from your ankle, and you bit your lip as you shuffled back to lean against one of the trees, hoping against all odds that you hadn’t done anything too bad to it.
Your head pounded, a wave of dizziness running through you that was most certainly not helped by the intense humidity and heat of the jungle. You let out a groan as you experimentally moved your ankle, hissing when a jolt of pain ran up your leg. Yeah, definitely sprained. You huffed out a sigh, leaning your head against the trunk of the tree.
The cacophony of noises did little to ease your aching head, and you wished you had waited for Frank to finish cleaning his bed like he had insisted. Now you were stuck out in the jungle, hoping and praying someone would find you before something else did.
You groaned at the thought of what Frank would say if he could see you now. That smarmy look he’d give you as he looked you over. The “I told you so” that would follow. You would never hear the end of it, but a chilling thought ran through you. The group had to find you before Frank could be his insufferable self, and as far as they knew, you would be down by the waterfall. How far away were you? You scolded yourself for straying away from the trail markers that had been laid out. How was anyone supposed to find you now? You sniffled, biting back the tears that threatened to spill over.
You checked your canteen, grimacing at the sound of the half empty container. Setting it down with a thud you gazed at the canopy above, wiping the sweat from your brow. It could be hours before someone realized you were missing. You hoped sooner.
Another wave of emotion rushed over you, and this time you allowed yourself to let a few tears slip down your cheeks. How could you be so foolish?
The sound of rustling foliage drew your attention across the small clearing, your heart rate picking up at the sound. Your thoughts raced back to what Dana had told you before you left the camp. Victoria and I spotted a leopard by the river not too long ago. Inwardly groaning, you lamented about your situation, hoping that whatever was hiding in the foliage wasn’t a giant cat. You stayed as still as possible, praying for whatever it was to continue on. From the sounds of it, whatever it was, was huge, and it was getting closer.
You gripped your canteen in your hand, ready to throw it at whatever came out of the dense leaves. It wouldn’t do any lasting damage, but perhaps it would daze the creature long enough for you to scramble away and towards help. Surely Jake was done by now? How long had you been out here?
You bit back a shriek as the leaves parted to reveal...a man?
He so unfairly handsome. Tanned skin stretched across bulging muscles, greying, brown hair curling at the top of his head. It was his eyes though, that captured your attention. Deep, mesmerizing honey-colored eyes that stared at you intensely, as if trying to make sense of you.
"Who the hell are you?" You asked, voice tight as he crouched down, inching closer to you with slow moments. "Where did you come from?"
He didn't answer as he crept closer, his movements almost like that of the apes you observed during your travels. His hand reached towards you, his knuckles brushing against the tips of your fingers. You jerked your hand back, regarding him wearily.
"Human?" He asked, cocking his head to the side.
"Me?" You spluttered, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. "Of course I'm a human! What did you think I was?"
His eyes narrowed at you, his lips pressing into a thin line as he seemed to consider you.
“I see," he spoke, his English seemingly broken. "What kind?"
It took you a second to figure out what he was asking you.
"I'm a woman. A scientist like Robby and Dana and the others," you told him, a sense of unease filling you. Was this the man that Robby and Dana had told you about? What was his name again? Jack, right?
“Seen you at the camp,” he continued, watching you for a moment. “Smell good.”
Your cheeks warmed even further at the comment, and you cleared your throat before shifting where you sat, wincing as the movement jostled your ankle. Jack glanced down at the swollen appendage, frowning at the redness that seeped to the surface.
“Hurt?” He asked, leaning forward, his face so close to yours. You swallowed thickly, eyes roving over his face and hesitating on his lips. The scruff that grew on his face wasn’t a bad look on him, quite the contrary actually, and for a second you wondered what it would be like to feel it on the skin of your thighs as he-
You blinked rapidly, trying desperately to clear the depraved thoughts from your head. You chalked it up to the combination of the African heat and the fact you hadn’t been laid in God only knows how long. You cleared your throat and briefly met his gaze before looking away.
“Yes,” you answered him, cursing at the shakiness of your voice. “I think I hurt my ankle when I fell. Do you think you could go back to the camp and tell the others where I am?”
Jack frowned at you before shaking his head.
“Boots hurt,” he rumbled. “Can’t leave here.”
“Then how do you expect the others to—hey!”
You yelped when Jack slid one large hand under your knees, the other coming up to rest on your back as he lifted you off the ground. You scrambled to find purchase, finally wrapping your arms around his neck, eyes widening when he turned to look at you, face so close, your noses were practically touching. You tried desperately not to think of the hard curves of muscle you were being held against, willing yourself to think about anything else.
“This is,” you began, swallowing thickly as you stared into his eyes, “this is not the most practical way of doing this.”
He stared at you for a moment, blinking at you in confusion.
“Practical?”
“You know,” you mumbled, tearing your eyes away from him, “the best way to do this.”
He frowned at that, giving you a challenging look as his grip on you tightened. You gasped as he held you closer, a spark of mischief in his eyes.
“Can you walk?”
“What?” You blinked. He chuckled, bringing his face even closer to yours which was not helping you form a coherent sentence.
“Can you walk?” He repeated, the corners of his lips tugging up just a hair. You processed his question, scowling at him once you realized he was messing with you.
“No,” you huffed, meeting his gaze with a glare. He gave you a smirk as he turned and started walking through the jungle.
“You don’t have to be so smug, you know,” you grumbled, relaxing a little when you felt confident that he wouldn’t drop you. He hummed, the smirk still painted on his face as he continued on.
“So you know what smug means, but not practical?” You groused. Jack spared you a look before turning his attention back to where he was walking.
“Dana calls Robby smug,” he supplied. You hummed, but didn’t say anything else as the two of you carried on.
“Boots?” Whitaker asked as you and Jack appeared from the jungle. He was standing by the fire pit, a confused look on his face as if he couldn’t quite figure out what it was he was looking at. Frank and Mel glanced up at the sound of your name, the brunet scrambling to his feet when he saw you in the arms of the wild man.
“What happened?” He asked, crossing the distance to come stand beside you. Jack let out what could only be described as a growl as he swung you away, fixing Frank with a glare. Frank gaped at him, jaw slack. “What the hell-”
“Jack?”
All of you turned to see Robby and Dana walking up from the other side of the camp, looks of concern as they glanced between you and the man whose arms you were still currently in.
“I, uh,” you stammered, glancing around at everyone. “I fell.”
“You fell?” Frank asked accusingly, already eyeing your swollen ankle.
“I was following some baboons,” you admitted, refusing to meet his gaze. You could already feel the accusatory look he was giving you. “I was taking notes, and I tripped over some tree roots. Jack found me and brought me back here.”
“You were supposed to go straight to the river,” Frank accused.
“Yeah, I know.”
“You strayed off the path, didn’t you?”
“Frank-”
“Dammit, Boots,” he growled, running a hand over his face. “You could have been seriously hurt!”
“Speaking of,” Robby interrupted, moving forward to examine your ankle. “Let’s get you looked at. Jack, would you mind setting her over here?”
Jack looked over at the bench that Ice gestured to, pausing for a moment before walking over. He plopped down, situating you on his lap, his arms still wrapped around your middle. You let out an indignant squeak, glaring when Trinity, Frank, and Whitaker snickered, trying to cover them up with coughs.
“Looks like wild man is already attached,” Trinity quipped, earning another glare.
“Why don’t you come over here and say that,” you snapped, feeling the heat on your cheeks grow even warmer. Robby looked like he was struggling not to laugh as he crouched in front of you, and you just barely caught the smirk that Dana had on his face. You winced as Robby began his examination, biting your lip from the pain. You felt Jack’s arms tighten around you, and you gripped onto his arm a little tighter to keep from crying out at the red hot spike of pain that shot up from your ankle.
“Looks like you sprained it,” Robby finally announced. You let out a groan, leaning back into Jack as you rolled your eyes.
“Just my luck,” you grumbled. “How long am I stuck here for?”
“I’d say at least four weeks,” he surmised. “Maybe six if you don’t keep off of it.”
“Looks like wild man will just have to carry her around everywhere,” Trinity snickered, the others joining in with her.
“Would you be quiet?” You growled. “This is going to be a nightmare!”
“Serves you right,” Frank smirked, that smarmy look you hated already on his face. “You should have waited for me.”
“I hate you,” you mumbled, crossing your arms with a huff. Robby chuckled, moving to stand.
“Jack, would you mind bringing Boots to the medical tent for me? I should have a bandage for her to wear.”
You scrambled once again as Jack lifted you, clinging to his shoulders as he began to walk after Robby across the camp. The others were barely holding in their laughter as they watched you, breaking out into fits of giggles as you flipped them off.
Jack was none the wiser as he held you, his hold gentle as he took care to not jostle you too much. You supposed the next couple of weeks wouldn’t be so bad.
A/N: How are we feeling? Are we staying hydrated? Go drink some water ya silly goose.
As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!
#slm#stranger like me#Tarzan!jack#jack abbot x reader#jack abbot x you#jack abbot x female reader#jack abbot fanfic#jack abbot imagine#dr jack abbot x reader#dr jack abbot x you#Dr Jack abbot imagine#dr jack abbot fanfic#dr. jack abbot x reader#dr. jack abbot x you#Dr. Jack abbot imagine#Dr. Jack abbot fanfic
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Write me karina mall date n I'll kiss u 👅👅👅
(Pretend I'm a male bird trying to seduce u into writing this)
mall rat



summary jimin’s boredom drags you out of your depression nest and into a mall date full of cuddly crimes, weird juice, and the slow realization that she’s your favorite person to suffer with.
genre fluff / crack / girlfriend brainrot
pairing yu jimin x fem!reader
i hate birds especially when they're male so im only doing this for the ppl
masterlist.
it begins at war. well, not really. it begins with you horizontal on the couch for the fifth hour straight, remote lost somewhere under your ass, half-dead from whatever seasonal depression was cooking up this time.
jimin’s draped over your legs like a stylish barnacle, wearing her 'i’m up to no good’ hoodie (you knew because it was yours, stolen, and she only wore it when plotting). she’s scrolling through her phone aggressively, thumb tapping at light-speed.
“i’m bored,” she said.
“congrats.” you didn’t even look at her. you were emotionally and spiritually one with the couch.
“no like,” she huffed, dramatic as ever, “i-need-to-go-out-and-buy-things bored.”
“what the fuck,” you muttered. “you literally ordered six shirts last night.”
“yes. and now i wanna touch them in real life.”
“jimin i am in a state of complete and total sloth. i cannot mall. my body will evaporate under the fluorescent lights.”
she sat up fast, excited now, like a toddler who just saw a dog. “mall.”
“no.”
“mall.”
“absolutely not.”
“mall date.”
“no.”
“i’ll buy you that overpriced cinnamon pretzel you like.”
pause.
“...fuck.”
- jimin had her sunglasses on even though the sun was nonexistent. she was strutting in like she owned the food court. you were ten steps behind her, still waking up.
you looked like her tired little assistant. she looked like she was about to host a ted talk on how to seduce women in the cologne aisle.
“babe,” she called over her shoulder, “should we get matching tote bags?”
“should you stop financially ruining us?”
“that’s a no.”
- you weren’t even in the squishmallow store for ten seconds before she screamed, “LOOK, IT’S THE WEIRD TOAST ONE YOU LOVE.”
you tried to deny it. tried to act normal. but the squishmallow had eyes. and a smile. and you folded.
“you’re weak,” she said proudly, already buying it for you.
“you enable me.”
“and i’d do it again.”
you walked around the rest of the mall with a giant smiling piece of bread in your arms. at some point she took a photo of you and posted it on her story captioned “baby’s first loaf”
- you sat on the fitting room bench watching jimin do stupid little runway spins in outfits she had no intention of buying. she was narrating herself like it was a documentary:
“here we have the rare lesbian, hunting in her natural habitat… hunting for discounts.”
“jimin.”
“she spots her prey—an overpriced corduroy jacket. will she attack?”
“please shut up.”
“she attacks.”
you laughed against your will and she grinned so fucking smug.
- “try this,” jimin said, handing you a mystery cup of juice from some random vendor.
“what the hell is this?”
“i don’t know. it was free.”
you drank it. instantly wanted to curl up and die. “it tastes like grass and feet.”
“why is it spicy,” she whispered after sipping. “who puts ginger and feet in a drink??”
“capitalism.”
you both made matching disgusted faces and tossed it in the trash like war survivors.
- you were sitting side by side outside the mall now, sun setting, squishmallow between you, her head on your shoulder.
she was humming something dumb and playing with your fingers absentmindedly.
“today was nice,” she said, voice soft.
you hummed. “you dragged me out of the house like a hostage.”
“but did you die?”
“emotionally, yes.”
she giggled and kissed your cheek. “you love me.”
“shut up.”
“you do love me.”
“say it.”
“fine. i love you. now buy me ice cream or i’m taking the squishmallow hostage.”
“deal.”
#kpop x reader#yu jimin#karina#aespa#yu jimin x reader#yu jimin x fem reader#karina x reader#karina x fem reader#aespa x reader#aespa x fem reader#gxg#x reader#kpop x fem reader#oneshot#fluff#aespa karina#aespa karina x reader#fem reader#female reader#karina x female reader#yu jimin x female reader#aespa x female reader
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Covenant
Choi Seunghyun x AFAB! Reader x G-Dragon Synopsis: As Seunghyun goes to reveal his secret, tragic news comes out. What happens when Jiyong's own secret is revealed? Warnings: Angst, grief, mentions of a dead body. A/N: Part 6 is here! Thank you for all your support on this story! Please comment if you'd like to be tagged in future updates! Part 5



You watch as he knocks on the door, his posture straight, the bedside lamp the only faint light in the room.
You watch it open, everything feeling like it’s moving in slow motion.
“Can I talk to you, privately?” Seunghyun mumbles. Jiyong’s eyes faintly flit to you, if you hadn’t been watching you never would’ve caught it.
“Yeah,” he says and Seunghyun disappears behind the door.
Your phone rings and you see it’s the hospital.
“Hello?”
-
On the other side of the door Seunghyun patiently waits as Jiyong’s guest is kicked out of the room. Once the door shuts behind her, Jiyong stares at his friend, waiting for him to speak.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Seunghyun starts.
“Oh fuck, you know,” Jiyong mumbles.
“Huh? Know what?” Seunghyun looks at his friend who is now visibly panicking.
“Don’t you?” He asks confused as to why Seunghyun isn’t more upset.
“I don’t know, you won’t tell me what I know.” Seunghyun says.
“Fuck,” he curses under his breath.
“You know about me and y/n,” he sighs and Seunghyun purses his lips.
“I do,” Jiyong interrupts his friend.
“Hyung, listen, I’m sorry, it’s my fault, things were bad between you two, I seen the situation I took advantage,” Jiyong rambles before Seunghyun can stop him.
“Bro, I’m not mad,” he laughs and Jiyong tilts his head in confusion.
“What?”
“Y/n and I,” he sighs, "It's complicated, we aren't,” before he can finish the door busts open, you’re in tears and your body shakes.
“I need to go home,” you sob. You break down, your body falls to the floor before both the boys rush over to your side.
“Wait, baby, what happened?” You cling to Jiyong despite Seunghyun’s presence.
“The hos-hospital called, it’s my sister,” you sob into his shirt and Jiyong looks at Seunghyun unsure of what he should do.
“Y/n,” he says as he hesitantly puts an arm around you, “What did they say?”
You look into his eyes, nothing but care and concern are present in them.
“She-she’s gone,” you sob. Jiyong’s face turns guilty and Seunghyun’s brow quirks at his friend.
“That makes no sense,” Jiyong mumbles to himself.
“Huh?” What do you mean?” You sniffle as you peer up at him.
Jiyong realizes you heard him and his eyes grow wide as he stiffens. You sit up off him.
“I’m going to let the guys know.” Seunghyun goes to get up. You nod at him as he leaves the two of you alone.
“What makes no sense, Ji,” your eyes are red and puffy, but your voice is steady as an ox.
“Well, you’re mom called me earlier today, she said your sister was doing better and,” your eyes are now growing wide as you shrink away from him.
“You fucking knew something was wrong?” your voice raises a few octaves.
“Y/n, please, she asked me not to tell you, she didn’t want you to worry,” he tries to keep you calm.
“That doesn’t fucking matter Jiyong! You knew she was getting worse?” You shout at him.
“She said there would be no reason to tell you because she was doing better, I was just trying to listen to her,” his defense is useless.
“By keeping me in the fucking dark?! Are you fucking kidding me?” you stand up and what Jiyong see’s pulls goosebumps to the surface of his skin. He’s never seen so much anger and down right hatred in someone’s eyes.
“Y/n, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry aint fucking good enough,” your eyes are now watering once more.
“What the hell’s going on?” Seunghyun walks back in, Taeyang and Daesung in tow.
Seunghyun wraps an arm around you as he see’s the disgusted look on your face.
“You’re a piece of fucking shit,” you mutter as you storm out of the room back into your own. Anger bubbles within you, he was a good friend to you and your family, but could he not tell you about your own sister? That this had all happened in the span of a few short days.
Seunghyun enters the room, see's you packing your things furiously and grabs his own suit case. He starts putting away shirts and you stop him.
“No, you have shows to do. Just let me go alone.”
“There’s no way in hell that’s happening.” He states.
“Seung, please I don’t want shows canceled.”
“They won’t be,”
“You’re part of Big Bang, please just stay,” your voice cracks. He looks at you, tears silently sliding down your cheeks.
“I’m your husband. I wasn’t there for you the first time, I’m not making that same mistake again.” He says as he embraces you. Your arms envelope his waist, finally allowing yourself to cry and shake violently in his arms. Your chest heaves, air feels like it’s not enough, and the hurt in your heart from Jiyong is overwhelming.
“I feel like I’m going to pass out,” you say just before you start gasping for air as your body shakes.
“Come here,” he pulls you to the edge of the bed.
“Put your head between your knees.” He guides you and helps you breathe. What neither of you see, is the way Jiyong silently checks on you. The way he peeks his head into the room hearing the chaos. Jiyong feels a hand on his shoulder.
Taeyang.
“She’ll be ok, hyung.” He tries to reassure his friend, but its no use.
He watches as you pick your head up, your eyes meet for a split second before you look away, still too hurt to look at him. He knows he was wrong, but he also didn’t want to burden you for something that he was told the doctors said was fine.
Seunghyun helps you stand up, your breath evening out. The door to your room is shut, the two of you left alone.
“How could he not tell me?” you scoff as you resume packing your things.
“He might have thought he was doing the right thing.”
“He fucking didn’t. Because now, thanks to him, I didn’t even get to say goodbye!” You start to sob again and once again Seunghyun’s arms envelope you in a hug.
“Baby, you may not have gotten that chance anyway. There’s no guarantee you would’ve made it.” He mumbles into your hair.
“I could’ve at least tried!” you pull back from him, not wanting to hear logic and reason. Seunghyun sighs and nods his head.
-
You arrive in Seoul, a car picking you up to take you to the hospital. A few fans showed up but nothing crazy. Seunghyun threatened anyone who told the media would be fired immediately. You meet your mother at the facility; Seunghyun by your side. He hugs your mother and rubs your back soothingly as you step into the room. You’re still able to view her body, and your own starts to shake as you take her cold, lifeless hand.
“I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry.” You sob once more and Seunghyun holds your shoulders and kisses the crown of your head. You drop her hand and turn into him, his chest feeling like the only safe haven you have at the moment. Your hands fist his shirt and tears soak into it.
“Why the hell didn’t you call me? Why did you call Jiyong!” you shout at your mom and your husband does his best to keep you calm.
“I didn’t want you to worry, she wasn’t feeling well yesterday, doctors said it was a result of the chemo and this morning she was better,” she tries to explain with tears in her eyes.
“Baby I never expected this to happen,” she lets a few tears slip but you’re too upset to care.
“So everyone got to know but me. Great.” You scoff in disbelief.
“She knew you loved her,” she says desperately as you grab your bag.
“She should’ve heard it from me,” you bite as you go to the front desk to ask about making preparations.
The nurse fills you in on the details, they’ll have the body frozen and sent to whatever funeral home you choose.
“Honey I can do this,” your mother pipes up.
“NO,” you shout gaining stares from the hospital staff.
“I will do it.” You say quietly.
“Jagi, whatever you want or whatever she wanted, I’ll pay for it, ok? Just do whatever would’ve made her happy.” He whispers to you as you get some paper work from the nurse. You nod and he presses a kiss to your temple.
-
You get to your home that night, walking in you see Hae sitting on the couch. Your body slumps.
“Seunghyun!” She sings, “I missed you, baby.” She throws you a nasty look as she breezes past you to hug him.
You roll your eyes, frustration with him slightly rising within you. He seriously couldn't tell his girlfriend not to come over for one stupid night?
“I’m going to bed,” you mumble as you race up the steps. The door slams behind you as you fall onto your bed, allowing all the emotions to come up. Screams, tears, body shakes and all. You beat your fist against the mattress as you scream into it.
-
Downstairs Hae is already pulling Seunghyun to the bedroom.
“Stop, Hae.” He pulls against her, earning a look of confusion.
“Not tonight,” he sighs. He knew this was coming, he just wasn’t sure how he wanted to deal with it.
“How did you find out I was even home?” He asks as he takes off his jacket.
“I called your team because you weren’t answering your phone and they said you were on a flight back.” She shrugs.
“So I used my key to get in and wait for you. After being with y/n I was sure you missed me.”
“She’s the reason I’m home,” he tries to explain to her.
“Figures, selfish bitch,” she spouts off, “can’t even think of your career,” she mumbles.
“Hey, watch your mouth! That’s my wife and you will not disrespect her!” He shouts. Hae takes a step back.
“She’s your FAKE wife!” she yells.
-
Upstairs you can hear the heated discussion and you step out onto the top of the steps, just out of sight. At least someone else was having problems now.
“Or do you not remember complaining to me night after night about how awful she is. How she’s so boring and annoying and you'd rather be dead than do this any longer?” Your heart aches in your chest at her words.
“How you hated her, hated her presence around you, how she was just a stuck up bitch who wanted you for your money. The endless times you’d come crawling to me to work out your frustrations.” She steps closer to him, laying her hand on his chest.
“She doesn’t love you, Seunghyun. She’s in a contract with you. There’s a difference.” Seunghyun, despite his best efforts, starts to question her words.
“I said all that before this happened,” he weakly defends.
“You still said it, and after one night with me, you’ll remember why.” Her smile is devious and calculated.
She leans up to whisper in his ear, “And if you don’t, then I’ll make sure the whole world knows your little secret.” She pulls him off to the direction of the downstairs bedroom and the door shuts.
Your heart shatters into pieces as you walk back to your bedroom. You let out an ear-piercing scream into your pillow.
No Jiyong.
No Seunghyun.
You’re on your own. Your body shakes, and you feel as though you could collapse in on yourself.
So much for trying in your relationship.
You need Seunghyun but he isn’t there. You need someone, but you’re too mad at Jiyong to even call him, despite all the times he tried calling you. You spend the night alone, your tears making a wet spot on the sheets. Your body weak and exhausted.
The darkness swallows you whole that night, you toss and turn unable to sleep. You slip on our slippers and pad down to the kitchen, who says you can’t drink at 1 in the morning?
You pour yourself a glass of wine, the house still.
“Wow, a dead sister and a drinking problem, huh?” you hear a snarky voice suddenly speak. You jump at the sudden intrusion before rolling your eyes.
“Fuck off, Hae.” You raise the glass to your lips, tasing the sweetly bitter beverage.
“Fuck you, bitch, I’ll do what I want in my house,” she folds her arms and smirks.
“This isn’t your house, but whatever.”
“Oh, sweetie, it is. My name’s on the deed.” Your heart skips a beat.
“What?”
She chuckles to herself.
“Yeah, well, mine and Seunghyun’s anyway, and that’s my wine you’re drinking so you can replace it when your through.” She smirks.
You smirk back at her as you take the rest of the wine and pour it back in the bottle. Backwash and all.
“No need, keep it.” She makes a disgusted face.
“God, how he could ever even pretend to love a girl like you.” You stare at her. Disbelief running through your veins. He never told you Hae’s name was on the deed, he never said this was her house.
“Baby, trust one thing, once Seunghyun’s done with this funeral business, he won’t need you. So you may as well keep your shit packed.”
“How do you know?” Your voice waivers but you can’t help it.
“Because what’s better for his image than a doting husband being there for his wife. Then due to tragedy his wife leaves because she just can’t handle the life anymore. Or they could say you had an affair because of your grief or something. Either way, this is the perfect excuse for him to get out of this stupid ordeal. So, I guess I have your sister to thank for dying. She’s giving me my man back.” Her smile is evil and she chuckles as she walks back down the hall to the bedroom.
-
You and Seunghyun walk into the funeral home, the air between you ice cold.
The funeral director starts showing you plans, but you’re barely there. Your mind is running a million miles a minute. Thoughts of Jiyong come to mind, thoughts of what Seunghyun and Hae did and talked about come to mind, thoughts of your mother who hasn’t bothered to call or check in, thoughts of how you sister must have felt when you weren’t there and she couldn’t hold out any longer. Tears brim your eyes but Seunghyun’s hand on your thigh pulls you out of your head.
“Baby?” He asks with a questioning look.
“Huh, oh right,” you wipe the few escaping tears from your cheeks.
“I guess, I uh, gosh I don’t know,” you try to think back to what your sister wanted.
“I think her wish was to be buried.” You nod your head and the funeral director goes into the process, explaining everything that will happen, but once again, it’s muffled as you return to your head.
-
Back in the car, you both sit there silently.
“Do you want to talk or,” Seunghyun asks breaking the silence as he starts the car.
“Just take me to the Crown Park Hotel,” you mumble as you look out the window.
“Wait, what? You have a room at the house-,”
“I want to stay in the hotel!” Your voice snaps and Seunghyun’s lips part slightly as his brows shoot up on his face.
“The room is paid for so just take me there,” you cross your arms over your chest. Seunghyun pulls over and turns to look at you.
“Not without you talking to me,” he says. You scoff with a bitter laugh.
“Why the hell do you care. As soon as the ordeal is over you can be free. I’ll take the fucking blame, just get me to the damn hotel and get the hell away from me.” You shoot daggers at him.
“Woah, what are you talking about? I thought we were working on this,” he motions between you.
“So did I,” you say weakly.
“If you don’t drive me to the damn hotel, I’ll get out and walk.”
“Y/n, no,”
“No? Ha,” you laugh defiantly. You open the door and slam it behind you. Seunghyun watches as you round the car. He opens his door when he see’s you start to walk toward the busy street. He jogs up to you, taking you by the arm.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” you yank your arm from him, tears sliding down your cheeks.
“I’ll drive you to the hotel, ok?” You walk back past him and get back in the car.
Seunghyun drops you off at the hotel, he doesn’t come in, he just watches you disappear inside. The place is nice, red carpeting, golden fixtures, very high end.
You’re sitting in the hotel room, the tv is on for background noise, staring at the ceiling.
You pick up the phone, seeing yet another three missed calls from Jiyong. You tap on the icon, briefly considering calling him. But there’s a knock on your door before you can do so.
You get up with a huff and slowly pad across the hardwood floor.
You open the door, your eyes growing wide at the face before you.
Jiyong.
Tags: @breakmeoff @ilovethe141 @tom-hollands-blog @tabibabib @gdgirl21 @thelovelybireader @hyunjifilm @bcfcpsh @patheticgirl127 @1950schick
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Covenant Masterlist
Love notes, comments and requests are appreciated!
#kwon jiyong#g dragon#choi seunghyun#top#t.o.p#t.o.p x reader#choi seunghyun x reader#top bigbang#top x reader#bigbang x reader#gdragon#kpop#kpop fanfic#angel posts#kpop x reader#kpop angst#kpop fanfiction#gdragon x reader#gdragon fanfic#choi seunghyun fanfic#choi seunghyun fanfiction#t.o.p fanfic#top fanfiction#kpop imagines
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Adding on: Barbara finds out and what leads to them coming back to Gotham
Barbara would be the one to find them. She’d be shocked and be like “WE THOUGHT YOU DIED OR SOMETHING?!” Sibling would be like “Almost did. Was shot. Three time, Miss Gordon. But I’m here. Meet my partner (insert partner). Now if you’ll excuse us we like dealing with the no bat zone, thank you very much. (Insert hero) isn’t nearly as annoying or hurtful.”
That would set it off for Barbara. “You’re telling me you’re hiding from them? Your family?” “Yes, yes I am. Not like they’d care, for fucks sake I got shot because dad didn’t. Anyway, what brings you to (city name)?”
Like she’d be so overwhelmed that ANOTHER ONE OF THEM WERE ASSUMED DEAD AND NO THEY’RE NOT! “This is like Jason all over again.” They’d say “Nah, he actually died first. Harley Quinn found me in time to take care of me before she crawled back to Joker.” That was the real punch to the gut. “You accepted the help of **her**?!”! They’d nod and say “best two months in my life in Gotham, really. Anyway and why is that a problem?” They don’t see this as substantial since Barbara knows what’s going on in the manor. They’d say “look I’m happy here, plus I’ve gone to therapy. I’m healing and this is home to me. Now me and partner need to get going.”
Barbara would be so confused and look into them herself because yeah. I feel like the biological version of sibling would be some type of doctor, usually a surgeon and not because Thomas Wayne was one, simply because deep down they do want to save lives. They just aren’t a hero.
An adopted sibling scenerio I’d envision more of a more passionate career. They’re either in business with a passionate love for their product or my personal favorite, a dog trainer. Specifically they train service dogs.
Barbara would tell the batfam when she gets back and they’re all, except the trio as they’re post sibling’s kidnapping, surprised. They’re alive?
Bruce obviously is relieved they’re safe, but then upset they never came home. I feel like he’d find Harley in jail and speak to her, pretending he’s asking in favor of Bruce Wayne, but she’d be like “Aw that poor kid? Yeah, I remember them. I was runnin’ from some people angry at Mr. J while we were on break. I hid and there the poor sugar was, three bullet wound. The guys must have been amateurs ‘cause not one hit any vitals. Bandaged them up and told me about their home life, didn’t blame ‘em for not wanting to go home. Why? Whatcha need about that sweetheart?” She laughs and says “Sounds to me they’re doin’ just fine on their own. Lemme guess, their family worried bout em?” Batman said they thought they were dead and she laughs again, “I didn’t hear anything about that. The amount of criminals here? Yeah, if they were to know that they’d fight over who hands em over. All for money.” He then says, “So you knew they’re a Wayne?” Harley nods, “Of course, I did!”
Dick is one of the worser to hear about all this. How could they prefer HARLEY QUINN over them? Or leaving Gotham than going back home?
Dick doesn’t understand it at all and is quite upset.
Jason isn’t as upset as everyone else. Jason isn’t anywhere near as yandere or obsessed because he’s been where she’s been sorta. His was way more traumatic, but he understands not wanting to come home. He also understands making herself something that isn’t Wayne, he’s actually kinda proud she could just move on. Yes this does make the rest of the family annoyed.
Tim? EXTREMELY annoyed that this is how they find out. He looks into it and there they are with their lover. He’ll be concerned if they’re a villain kid. He’ll look through everything and feel a pang in his heart. They wanted to help people. And they have.
The worst person is DAMIEN. Damien has been HAUNTED by images of her death and Alfred’s. He needed this, more than anything. He’s the worst one. He won’t settle for her ‘being happy’. For some time the others would attempt to keep him away from doing something irrational, especially Jason because again he gets **why** they didn’t come home.
The longest time it’s how it is. Bruce doesn’t want to compromise what appears to be a happy life for them. Especially when the hero in her current city says she’s doing okay, thinking he’s trying to help ‘Bruce Wayne’ feel okay about the child who went missing. Jason holds Damien back with the help from our three post-batsibling kids. Then it happens. Joker gets involved in the city because he being the dick he is, somehow knows the Bat’s identity (like in SOME iterations of Joker) and Joker decided to target batsibling. Batman is called via league and while helping the hero, Harley does turn on Joker once she realizes exactly what he was planning to do. Does joker question it? A little because it’s out of character for her to turn on him like that.
While they’re trying to save them by dealing with Joker, their partner would have found their way up. It’s even better if this is a villain kid because they probably hijacked their parent’s stuff to do this. Just when they think they’re safe they hear a gun go off and it got the partner.
Imagine bat sibling balling their eyes out, holding their lover’s corpse, while the heroes and Harley try to apprehend Joker. Then he goes for another shot which was in line to hit Batsibling, only for Harley to take the hit. This would be the last shot Joker could get.
Now if it’s a non-villain kid, it’s because Batman pinned him down, if it is a villain kid, the parent showed up and shot the gun out of Joker’s hand with one of their weapons and started to beat the crap out of him (didn’t kill him because that’s too good for him)
Villain would have been held back by their hero finally and once they’re calm (and joker is in custody lol) they’d tell the hero to let go. They’d have a whole ‘why so you can actually kill him’ and Bat sibling through choked sobs would say “He’s their son, (hero) please.”
That’s when Batman’s attention would solely look back at them. They’re no longer a child… a grown adult and they just witnessed what Bruce could only assume was their first love get murdered in front of them, trying to save them. He felt choked. “(Hero), let them go to them.”
The villain parent would rush by their dead child’s side and cradle them close. Their own child was gone FOREVER. Sibling would try saying sorry, that if they hadn’t come to save them, but villain wouldn’t hear it.
After the body is taken away, after everything… Bruce does talk to Sibling because while clearly he made his mistakes, if there was a time to be the father he’s supposed to be, it was then. At first sibling doesn’t want to hear it but Bruce ends up hugging them and saying what he could say. That he understands they just watch someone they really care about get shot and there was nothing they could have done to stop it from happening.
Sure the situation was different from when his parents died, but the emotional trauma was the same variety.
Bruce would also take full advantage of it and suggest they come back home, telling them about three new siblings she never got to meet and holding the info about Alfred, since they just lost their partner. Them, knowing they couldn’t afford to live in the apartment without their partner and knowing this city would just torment them with the past, agreed to after they put in for a transfer and go to their partner’s funeral. Bruce stays in a luxury hotel in the city, texting Tim who’d handle this the best in his mind, what was going on.
But this isn’t some tragedy you walk away from for family and magically heal over night. Nor can they really heal in the bat mansion, especially not without Alfred.
Add more about when she comes back in another reblog.
You know I’d love a batfam neglects batsis/batbro that starts not when they’re brought into the family… but show it as nightmares, flashbacks, etc. warning dead Alfred.
Have batsis/batbro move on in another hero’s city as to avoid them. Have them live happy in whatever profession of their dreams after finding themselves. Not the version behind Wayne manor, truly them. Fall in love with someone (maybe a hero kid or something. Hell secret villain kid) and every time they feel good they hear news of justice league, of bat man. Some nightmares… flashbacks…
Have each unfold the story slowly until you get to the climax, what TRULY happened. They didn’t come to this city under the best circumstances no. The reality was they were kidnapped for a hostage situation and Bruce never paid, forgot them and thought it was a fake. A scam. They survived by mere luck. They shot them and left them to rot, but much to their surprise Harley Quinn found them and helped them—it was one of her ‘redemption’ periods before going back to the Joker but she still saved them. A villain saved their life when their own family wouldn’t. That’s when they left, when she went back. They had no reason to stay and built a life away from them all. Have them confess to their lover about what happened….
Then switch to the bat family currently.
Cassandra, Steph, and Duke never knew them. They look at the few portraits of them in the manor and wonder what they were like, they don’t have the full story. The others had other varying reactions when they’re brought up. They had so many questions but since Alfred’s death, there was no one willing to tell them.
Tim still kept an eye through his skills and connections hoping to find them. He had figured out first after he noticed their lack of presence about the call Bruce had awhile back that he had a hostage situation. Bruce had been second to hear the conclusion that Tim had, that it was no scam because they had batsis/batbro. He knew they were likely dead but he couldn’t rest until a body is found… or they come back.
Damian gets quickly irritated, but he has nightmares at night that he’d never admit to or tell anyone about. He was younger, but they weren’t strong. Normally that would make him disregard them or just insult them when mentioned… but he can’t. Not anymore. At first, he’d just remember how he treated them, not these horrific nightmares, but then Alfred died. The nightmares came, repeating how Alfred died… then images of all the things that could have happened to batsis/batbro. In some, he saw a demon-like version of himself killing them… it shouldn’t bother him… but it does.
With Dick, he would wander close to their room when he was in the manor. He’d go in and look at their school achievements and the photos they had with coaches and instructors… with Alfred. He didn’t get nightmares, he barely slept since they told him what probably happened. So, so many unkept promises he’d probably never get to make up for. One picture had disappeared from the room, he never knew who had it.
Jason felt pissed every time he remembers anything about them. He avoided the manor more than ever. He blamed Bruce, but he knew deep down they all had a contribution. He was horrible to them in life and he fully believes they’re dead. He doesn’t see how they wouldn’t have come home if they were.
Then there’s poor Bruce. He lives in denial. That they’re somehow still alive. That missing picture? He took it out the frame and kept it with him. It was one of their birthdays, they had baked their own cake with Alfred and Alfred took a picture of the two of them after. He remembers he never made it home to wish them happy birthday. He made so many mistakes, let his vigilante work consume him so he forgot he had more in his life besides it. And it’s likely he lost that for good.
All means they’re obsessed about finding the truth, finding them. But when will they realize they aren’t in their city?
#yandere#yandere x reader#batfam neglect#batfam x batsis#batman#batsis!reader#batsis#yandere batfam#dc#bat siblings#bat bro#batfam x batbro#it’s gotten dark but will it get darker? probably this is Batman
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i hope you’re taking requests right now!! but i have an idea for maybe hawks or bakugo where they took a picture of something intimate and instead of just saving it or sending it to someone they put it on their story or something by accident. i feel like that would be so funny how panicked they would be 😭
Feathers and Fiascos
It all started with a harmless selfie.
Well, harmless in theory.
In reality, it was a photo of Hawks—real name Keigo Takami—flat on his back, absolutely wrecked, with your legs draped over his shoulders, his hair tousled, and a look on his face like he’d just seen God.
And you?
You were in the frame, too. Sort of. More like, your hand holding the phone was, and one of your thighs. That was about all Instagram got before the blurry, NSFW chaos of post-coital bliss kicked in. His tongue was out. There was a feather stuck to your chest.
He took the picture with a smug grin, murmuring, “For posterity,” before collapsing back onto your body with a satisfied sigh.
“Don’t send that to anyone,” you warned, already half-asleep.
“Babe, I’m a Pro Hero. I’m discreet.”
Ten minutes later, the scream from the other room nearly gave you a heart attack.
“OH NO NO NO—”
You bolted upright, dragging the sheet with you. “What? What happened?!”
Hawks looked like he’d seen a ghost. Or worse—Endeavor.
“I—I posted it. To my story.”
“You what?!”
“I thought I was saving it to my camera roll and—WHY IS THERE NO UNDO BUTTON FOR LIFE?!”
Cue the descent into chaos.
---
1 Hour Earlier...
The pro hero agency group chat was alive with the usual banter.
Endeavor: “Team meeting tomorrow. Be on time.”
Mirko: “Not if I break my ankle fighting this villain. Again.”
Edgeshot: “Remember to submit your patrol reports.”
Mt. Lady: “Omg who’s watching Hero Housewives tonight??”
Then, suddenly, a ping. A new story.
@hawks_official has posted a story.
The thumbnail?
Blurry skin tones. A shock of blond hair. A bare foot. A very unfortunate angle.
Mirko clicked it.
Immediately spat out her protein shake.
“YO WHAT THE HELL—”
She screen-recorded it before it could vanish.
Mt. Lady opened it while waiting for her iced latte. She screamed so loudly, a barista dropped a blender.
Endeavor opened it.
Dead silence.
Then:
Endeavor: “Takami.”
Hawks: “I CAN EXPLAIN—”
Mirko: “Bro that was your entire soul leaving your body.”
Mt. Lady: “Is that a feather stuck to her—OH MY GOD I NEED TO WASH MY EYES.”
Edgeshot: “...That was the most flexible leg positioning I’ve ever seen. Impressive.”
---
Meanwhile, you were trying to fix the damage while Hawks hyperventilated into a pillow.
“Keigo, calm down. It was only up for a few minutes—”
“Long enough for Mirko to save it. She’s going to meme me into oblivion.”
Your phone buzzed.
Mirko: “Tell Birdbrain I want royalties if I use this as my new reaction image.”
Another buzz.
Mt. Lady: “Girl... y’all good? Because from that angle he looked like he saw heaven and got dragged back.”
You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to have to wear a disguise next time I go to the grocery store.”
Hawks groaned. “They’re never gonna let me live this down. This is gonna be a panel at the next Hero Con.”
You tried not to laugh, but failed miserably. “At least they know you’re flexible.”
“Flexible?! Babe, I was folded like laundry. Laundry. And I moaned!”
You wiped a tear from your eye, cackling. “Oh my god, you did moan.”
Hawks flopped down dramatically. “I’m retiring. Effective immediately.”
You kissed his forehead. “You’ll live. Eventually.”
Another buzz.
Dabi: “LMAOOOOO.”
Hawks stared at it. “I don’t even KNOW how he saw it. He’s BLOCKED.”
“Not from chaos, apparently.”
---
The next day.
The pro meeting room was dead silent when Hawks walked in.
All eyes on him.
He sat down.
Someone snorted.
Edgeshot handed him a small trophy that said “Most Enthusiastic Hero 2025”.
Mirko winked and whispered, “Nice arch, Romeo.”
You owed her a drink for that one.
Endeavor stood at the head of the table, glaring.
"...Next time, Takami, check your privacy settings."
#my hero academia#reader#mha x reader#bhna#funny#hawks#takami x reader#keigo takami x reader#keigo x reader#keigo takami
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Like You Would ♡
f!reader, full fluff!! 🥰🥰 18+ / pic by me! / divider: @aquazero A/N: wrote all this down in an hour 🤭 I love this actually <3 the happy ending he deserved! ☹️

Arthur huffed out a satisfied sound, pulling the lasso hard enough to make the bounty fall.
Faceless. Dead or alive for $1000.
“Hold still,” the outlaw grumbled as he reeled the wanted in and started tying them up — not without a fight, to none of his surprise.
Once tied tight — pulling a grunt from Faceless — Arthur sat them upright and crouched in front of them, snickering at the glare from the badly cut holes of their mask.
“Now let me take a look atcha,” he said, voice low and dripping in mischief. Just a glimpse of the person who had him running in circles for weeks.
A beat and then the mask was pulled off.
His eyes widened as he took her in; a woman. A pretty one at that-
“Wait a minute! Mama was an outlaw too?” Your 10 year old gasped, sitting up from where she laid.
“Mhm. And a pretty one at that,” you teased, elbowing your husband who’s sat with you at the edge of the bed.
“Well,” Arthur cleared his throat with a smile. “We don’t know for sure so don’t interrupt me. Anyway,”
She turned away from him, hiding behind her hair. That fire in her eyes remained bright.
“I-..” Now he was the one tied; on his tongue. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have handled you so rough, I didn’t-”
“Didn’t think I’m a woman did you? Heard it all before. Just get on with it and handle me like you would.”
And with that, Arthur nodded. Though the last words had him feeling a little-
“Alright that’s enough. Bedtime,” you cut off, pushing Arthur off your daughter’s bed. You had forgotten this.. cursed little detail from the story. And curse him too, he laughed, that bastard.
“Aw! Feeling what-”
“Maybe you aren’t old enough after all,” you smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “For another time, okay?” She can only sigh in defeat and nod.
“Sorry kid,” Arthur chuckled, walking to the door.
“You should be,” you muttered as you joined him. He only pulled on your hand, fingers quickly intertwined. Following it, a soft kiss on your temple.
With a roll of your eyes and a smile you could barely dam, you wished your daughter a good night and closed the door.
“Now you,” you turned to your husband.
“What about me?” He played, turning to you too. That stupid — and irresistible — half smile on his face as he walked backwards to your bedroom.
“You are staining my outlaw legacy by putting unnecessary details like that. I’ll have you know I was famous.”
“Why, it ain’t unnecessary, darlin’. If anythin’, it was the start. The foundation of our marriage, if you will.”
“Shut up,” you giggled, pushing him. But before he got very far, he pulled you into a kiss.
You gladly melted into his lips, moving until he’s pressed against the door. With a click of the doorknob, the both of you are stumbling onto the bed, laughing like teenagers.
As your laughter died down above him, he looked at you just like he did that night. That fateful night he caught you.
“C’mere,” he gently said, right hand already guiding your face towards his again.
The sound of his breath as your lips melded with his was like the hiss of a fire put out; like the whole world disappeared with it and it was just the two of you.
“If they had your face on that poster,” he muttered between kisses, flipping you over. “I’d have caught you sooner.”
“Ain’t work that way.”
“Ain’t gonna let me say somethin’ nice?” You laughed. Oh, how happy he made you.
He pulled away, that same look in his eyes as he cradled your face. Like a man who won much more than $1000 that night. He made a mental note to thank Alden again first thing in the morning.
“Now handle me like you would, Arthur,” you whispered, turning slightly to kiss his hand.
“Yes ma’am.” And with that he was gone <3
thank you for reading! 🫶🏼
my masterlist
#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x f!reader#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x you#red dead redemption 2#rdr2#red dead fandom#red dead redemption community#rdr2 community#arthur morgan fic#arthur morgan fanfiction
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So, Billy is actually Bruce's biological son.
Marylyn married CC when she was already pregnant, CC knew and was okay with it, they really love each other and Bruce was just an accident? I don't know.
A few years later, Ebezener tries to sell this information, someone from the Waynes or Kanes, I don't know about that side of the lore… Are the Kanes still alive? Sorry, I'm ignorant in that area. SOMEONE is going to pay him to shut up. So they sell Billy again to a bunch of bad guys who are going to sell him AGAIN to somewhere, I don't know, far away from Gotham.
Well, but Billy is kind of like "oh my Gods, why this is my life", so he uses his powers, leaves the place as Cap and, as a bonus, he even gets Ebezener's money, the one the Kanes give him to shut up.
Kate, Batwoman, finds out, tells Bruce about this whole crap situation and now Batman is opening an operation to find this secret biological son, who was apparently sold to someone, but a mysterious magical person came there and saved him and the other children who were also being trafficked, but who??? This is a very secret operation, of course, only Wonder Woman, Superman and the Batfam are there to really know the details.
Well, but one day, like, YEARS after all this suffering, because Bruce never managed to locate this secret child that he now thinks is DEAD, boom, a child shows up on a mission, 15, 16 years old maybe, the age his secret son would be… blue eyes, dark hair, pale as paper, skinny, but yeah, it's pretty obvious. It's something immediate, but before he can say anything, someone else shows up, hugging the kid and saying that he was really worried.
Yeah, guys, Cap and Billy got separate cliche, but well, the JL, needed help, so they went to help them like this.
Billy is Billy, 16 year old Billy, and Marvel doesn't look like CC Batson, but rather like an adult version of Billy. Bodytpe less like Superman and more like Nightwing.
And then they introduce themselves as CAPTAIN MARVEL'S ADOPTED CHILDREN. Yes, we have Recruit (Billy) and Lightning (Thavma).
And so yes, they are helping the League, guiding them out of that evil, magical cave, and the League keeps asking questions.
Recruit, sitting on Lightning's shoulder: Uh… yeah, so, actually I… was going to… get taken by a metahuman taffricking ring, Lightning saved me and after that we really didn't want to be apart, he convinces Cap to adopt me too, and now he helps me with my magic training and everything. But I'm Lightning's… sidekick. Not Marvel's, that's why you guys and I have never really met.
Flash: Yeah, but like, even if we never met you since your hero job its not Marvel related, how come we never met Lightning? It feels like he's been a hero for a few years or more.
Lightning: I don't really like being seen. Im more of an underground hero? I want to help, but I honestly don't know how to deal with the public like Cap does. So I help in the shadows. I help, and then I'm gone. Maybe I'm more of a vigilante..? Not a hero.
And Batman's like, "I want to adopt you two now," but he's also like, "My baby found a good, powerful family, what right do I have to tell him about our kinship? What if this ruins everything for him? He's fine. He doesn't need me," but it destroys him.
He sees the way Recruit fights, remembers him of little Dick, jumping around and doing silly stunts. And his smile, so bright, so hopeful, so happy.
He hears his laugh and it calms something inside him.
"He's fine. He's happy, that's enough for me."
Billy and Cap actually take a long time to undo the magic spell that separated them, so they end up covering Marvel for other missions, and one day, Billy kind of spills the beans.
Kon: So, about your birth parents… Are they dead? Didn't they come after you were rescued from trafficking? Recruit: Uh, so… My parents are dead, but my dad was not my biological father, or something… My shitty uncle sold that information to my bio "family", I guess, and they're super rich, so they probably didn't want me to ruin their image in high society as some bastard orphan, so they were the ones who cut me out of that circle from the start. From what I heard when I was in the ring, my... Progenitor, has a lot of bastards already, and the family was happy to be able to stop another one from coming to steal their fortune or something. assholes, I never wanted to meet them in the first place, even if my uncle had dropped me with them, I wouldn't stay, I'd rather live on the streets again.
And some of the batfam, who know all about this "he's the one" thing, are there, listening, and they already know that these words are breaking Bruce from the inside out.
Lightning: You're being mean. We don't even know if they sold you out. The… Big guy seems to like adopting and doesn't care about their background. I believe it was a decision by the old conservative family heads.
Recruit: Don't sugarcoat it for the rich, they already pay people to do it. yeah, i know, maybe this is that "no he wouldn't do that" thing, but i wanted to write a sadder au with angst and misunderstandings and a sentimental bruce who longs to be a present father with a bonus of thavma and billy being brothers :D
#billy batson#headcanon#shazam#batman#captain marvel#dc#dc captain marvel#bruce wayne#batfamily#batfam#thavma
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ORDER UP? || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'
Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader
Summary — Stiles finally gets a chance at a job part time and you have to help through that process.
Memo— IGNORE how long this took and how I literally fell asleep at my computer trying to edit this (I have no time management)(I didn't even know I was tired)(I know I missed things while editing this). This was inspired by a single tiktok edit so if anyone wants to see that just ask. Also, turns out there's a 1k block limit so this is blocked out really weirdly here and there, I apologise. Oh, also, I did write some of this scenes out originally with a gendered reader so if I left anything in please just comment the line or something, I'd appreciate it!!!
Warnings — Smut. Lots of fluff though. Buzz cut Stiles. Idk how to describe this lmao. This does include cannon divergent headcanons. Yes I did also continuously bring up cheap soap/detergent. My boy does not have any life skills and I didn't know what else to put :(
Word Count — 30k~
Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures
The first time Stiles bursts through your bedroom door that week, he’s vibrating with so much nervous energy it feels like he’s about to physically lift off the floor.
He’s still got his Converse on (muddy, of course), hoodie half-zipped, hair an absolute disaster even though it’s buzzed short now—like somehow the universe decided that even if there was less hair, it would still find a way to look chaotic—and his eyes, wide and sparkling, instantly lock on yours like he’s about to drop the most important news of the century. His backpack falls off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thump loud enough to make you jump a little.
"Guess who just nailed a preliminary interview at McDonald’s?" he blurts out without even saying hello, voice high-pitched with excitement.
You blink up at him from where you’re sprawled on the bed, textbook open across your chest, headphones around your neck. You grin. "Uh, President of the United States?"
He snorts, practically bouncing in place, legs jittering like he’s vibrating at a molecular level. "Close! Me! Me, babe! I’m the President! Of—of like, Quarter Pounders and french fries and Happy Meals!"
He’s pacing now, wild hands moving as he talks, his body too full of restless energy to stay still, rambling so fast his words trip over each other like they’re racing to get out first. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his skinny forearms, and he's tugging them up further with jerky movements every time they slip down, like even his clothes can't keep up with him.
"I went in just to grab a Coke, right? And the manager was there—like, the manager, not just some shift lead who’s like seventeen and already dead inside, but the guy who wears the tie and has a clipboard and everything—and he saw me looking at the Help Wanted sign and we started talking and he was like, 'Hey, you seem like a personable kid,' and I am personable, right, you think I’m personable—?"
"You're the most personable person alive," you say without missing a beat, biting back a laugh as he whirls around to beam at you like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.
"Right?! Right, exactly! Anyway, he said they were short-staffed and he could squeeze me in for an interview next week, and like, I’ve never had a real interview before, not unless you count Scott’s mom asking me if I could babysit Scott, which doesn’t count because she literally knew I’d already snuck beers into the house twice—like, twice, and she still trusted me, can you believe that—?"
He finally pauses to breathe, chest heaving slightly, cheeks pink, buzzed hair sticking up in tiny tufts like static shock got him. You sit up fully, setting your book aside, and open your arms wordlessly. Stiles practically dives onto the bed without hesitation, collapsing into your chest with a dramatic oof like you’re the softest thing he’s ever touched. His hoodie smells faintly like fries, Coca-Cola syrup, and fresh laundry detergent—the cheap kind his dad buys in bulk. You wrap your arms around his back, feeling the way his whole body buzzes under your hands, a livewire of pent-up excitement and nerves.
"Hey," you murmur into his hair, smiling against the soft bristles of his buzzcut, "I’m proud of you."
He makes a small, pleased noise against your chest, burrowing closer like a cat finally settling after climbing the curtains. His fingers fidget restlessly against your side, drumming little random rhythms, and you can feel the way his brain is still moving a thousand miles an hour even if his body’s trying to stay still.
"You really think I’ll get it?" he mumbles after a minute, quieter now, voice a little rougher, like he's admitting something he doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. "I mean… I know it’s not like… a career career. But it'd be cool to have my own money for once. I could help my dad with groceries. Buy you stuff. Not be the guy who always shows up with lint and IOUs in his wallet like some kind of sad Dickensian orphan—"
You squeeze him tighter, running your fingers slowly up and down his spine in long, calming strokes until you feel his muscles finally start to melt under your hands. His breathing evens out a little, less frantic.
"Baby," you say, kissing the crown of his head, "they’re gonna be lucky to have you. Seriously. You’re like… pure human serotonin. Plus you’re cute as hell. You’ll charm the pants off them."
He snickers, tilting his head up just enough to give you one of those lopsided, slightly crooked smiles that make your heart ache in the best way. His buzzcut looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time, little whorls of hair you want to rub your face into like some lovesick idiot. You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose, making him wrinkle it adorably.
"I love you," you admit softly against his skin, heart thudding a little harder because he’s so him, so alive and twitchy and perfect. "Guess you'll have to get the job and find out."
He hums happily, finally still in your arms, his heartbeat slow and steady against your chest now. You card your fingers gently through the short buzzed hair, untangling the imaginary knots, feeling the way he relaxes completely under your touch like you flipped a switch labeled Safe.
"Interview’s Monday after school," he says into your hoodie, voice muffled but somehow clearer than anything else in the whole world. "Will you help me pick out what to wear? I know it’s just McDonald’s, but I don’t wanna look like I just rolled out of bed. Even though, let’s be real, that’s kinda my brand." You chuckle and squeeze his hip lightly, thumb brushing over the waistband of his jeans where his hoodie had ridden up a little.
"Yeah, babe. I'll help you. We’ll make you look devastatingly hireable."
Stiles lets out a deep, long-suffering sigh like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his scrawny, restless shoulders, and he melts even further into you, his entire body draped over you like a too-warm, buzzing blanket. You hold him there for as long as he wants, your fingers still gently stroking the back of his neck, whispering stupid sweet nothings into the fading golden light leaking through your window, the two of you tangled up in each other in the easiest, softest way imaginable.
You shift a little under him, feeling your legs start to go numb, but there’s no way in hell you’re moving him off you. Not when he’s finally calmed down, weight pressed against you like he’s trying to merge the two of you together at a cellular level. Stiles hums contentedly, nuzzling his face against your chest, the short bristle of his buzzcut scraping lightly through your hoodie. It’s clumsy and awkward and somehow still the sweetest thing you've ever felt.
You press a kiss to the top of his head and whisper, "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
He lets out a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like, "Takes one to know one," but it’s mostly just him breathing you in like you’re his oxygen tank.
The room is heavy with the golden kind of quiet — the type that feels full, not empty. Your fingers find the hem of his hoodie and start tracing random patterns along the exposed skin of his lower back, drawing lazy shapes like invisible constellations. Every now and then, he shivers slightly but doesn’t move away, just burrows closer, if that’s even physically possible.
Minutes pass like that, warm and tangled and safe. Then, because it’s Stiles and he can't let a single second of peace pass without filling it, he stirs and lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are kiss-bitten pink from where he’d been pressing them against your hoodie.
"So uh," he starts, and you can already hear the wheels in his head spinning out of control, "think you could, y'know, help me practice answering questions?"
You blink down at him. "Interview questions?"
"No, Jeopardy questions," he deadpans, eyes wide and innocent for about two seconds before he dissolves into a little snorting laugh against your chest. "Yes, interview questions, genius."
You grin and play along, tapping your chin like you're thinking very hard. "I don't know, Mr. Stilinski. What’s in it for me?"
He narrows his eyes dramatically, propping himself up on his elbows now, body hovering over yours awkwardly because he’s not sure how to balance himself without crushing you. His knees dig into the mattress on either side of your hips, and you get a very distracting view of the way his oversized hoodie bunches around his waist, exposing the smallest sliver of pale, freckled skin above his jeans.
"I'll pay you," he says seriously, like he’s negotiating a hostage situation.
"You don't have any money," you remind him, poking his side and making him squirm and laugh.
"Fine," he grumbles, cheeks pink, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'll pay you in… unlimited Stiles cuddles. Lifetime subscription. You can cash 'em in whenever you want."
You make a show of pretending to consider it, tapping your chin again, while he wiggles impatiently above you.
"Throw in a forehead kiss," you say finally, "and you’ve got a deal."
Without hesitation, Stiles leans down and plants the sloppiest, most obnoxious kiss right in the middle of your forehead, complete with an exaggerated mwah sound that has you dissolving into helpless laughter beneath him. "Sealed with a kiss," he says smugly.
"Alright, alright," you say once you manage to catch your breath, "you ready?"
He sits up a little straighter, doing his best impression of Serious Adult Stiles, folding his hands primly in his lap like he's about to sit for a Harvard admissions panel.
"So, Mr. Stilinski," you say in your best fake-interviewer voice, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s taking this, "why do you want to work for McDonald's?"
He opens his mouth immediately, panic flashing across his face because apparently he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Uh—uh, because—because I believe in providing people with delicious food at reasonable prices, and also I need to fund my insatiable addiction to Nerds Rope and energy drinks?"
You burst out laughing, grabbing at his sides to pull him back down on top of you. He lets out a dramatic, wounded noise but collapses willingly, landing half-off center across your body in a tangle of elbows and knees.
"Terrible answer," you tease, carding your fingers through the soft buzz of his hair.
"Hey!" he protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. "It's honest! Don't they want honesty?"
"Maybe leave out the Nerds Rope part," you advise, laughing so hard now that your ribs ache. "Go with something like, 'I want to build valuable work experience and learn about customer service.' Y'know. Boring adult words." He groans loudly, rolling his face into your hoodie like he can somehow disappear into it.
"Boring adult words are hard," he whines dramatically, kicking his feet behind him like a toddler.
You’re still laughing when he lifts his head again, brown eyes huge and stupidly fond, looking at you like you hung the damn moon. He shifts so he’s straddling your waist fully now, legs on either side, leaning down until his forehead bumps yours. And he just… stays there.
Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, your breaths mingling in the tiny space between you. His eyes flutter shut, and he rubs your noses together in a soft, clumsy little eskimo kiss, the tip of his nose brushing yours back and forth like he’s memorizing you through touch alone.
You close your eyes too, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can feel it through your chest. He smells like cheap soap and detergent and something distinctly Stiles — sharp and sweet and a little bit wild, like he’s never stood still long enough for the world to catch up to him until now.
You stay like that for a long, long time, barely breathing, barely moving, wrapped up in the kind of warm, stupid, dizzy feeling that makes your hands ache to hold him tighter and never, ever let go. And somewhere, deep down, you think: if he asked you to spend the rest of your life doing stupid mock interviews and getting bribed with forehead kisses, you'd say yes without even thinking.
And then, with a soft, shuddering little breath, Stiles leans down and kisses you.
It’s not rushed or desperate, not messy or hungry the way some kisses get when he’s vibrating with too much energy. No, this one is slow and tender, his mouth brushing yours like he’s scared you might disappear if he presses too hard. His lips are a little dry, a little chapped, but he tastes like soda and the faint lingering sugar of something sweet (probably candy), and the way he sighs against your mouth makes your chest ache in the best, most stupidly overwhelming way.
You kiss him back just as softly, hands sliding up the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over his freckled cheeks, holding him there like you could anchor him with just your touch. Stiles hums low in his throat, content, tilting his head to deepen the kiss slightly, nose bumping yours as he shifts again.
Except when he shifts, he rocks forward a little too much, grinding his hips down against yours just by accident, and he immediately lets out this tiny, wounded whine, pulling back just enough that his forehead stays pressed to yours but your mouths part. He’s breathing a little harder now, cheeks flushed red, and he mutters in a rapid, slightly panicked tumble, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I swear, I'm not trying to — like, I'm not— I mean, I am, I want to—God, I really want to, but I’m not, like, ready-ready yet and I know you’re being super patient and amazing and literally the best person to ever exist on the planet, maybe the galaxy, maybe the universe, but I promise I’ll get there, I swear, it’s just my brain is like, you know, kinda stupid sometimes and—"
You cut him off by squeezing his hips gently, grounding him, giving him the softest, most adoring smile you can manage. "I know, baby," you whisper, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek. "You’re perfect. No rush. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be."
But Stiles is still frowning, his whole face scrunching up like he’s deeply offended by his own body’s betrayal. His eyebrows knit together and his mouth twists downward, and he looks about two seconds away from either punching a pillow or launching into another thousand-word apology that would only tangle him up more.
You can't help yourself. You lean up and start peppering kisses all over his face, little quick ones like you're trying to cover every single freckle. One on his forehead, one on his temple, one on each cheekbone, a bunch right across the bridge of his nose. He jerks in surprise, letting out a startled bark of laughter that melts the scowl right off his face.
You kiss both corners of his mouth, feeling the way he starts smiling underneath the touch, soft and helpless, and then kiss his actual lips properly — once, twice, three times — until he’s giggling breathlessly against you, the tension draining out of him like a popped balloon.
"There’s my boyfriend," you murmur against his skin, kissing the dimple that appears when he grins. "There’s my Stiles Stilinski."
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling, before adding with a wicked little grin, "My cutie with a buzz." Stiles groans, rolling his eyes like he’s too cool to be called cute, but the way he’s blushing all the way to his ears says otherwise. And because you can never resist when he looks like that — all red-cheeked and soft and pretending to be annoyed — you lean forward, open your mouth slightly, and bite the tip of his nose, gently but firmly.
"Ah—hey!" he yelps, scrunching up his face, but he's laughing now, breathless and loose and so beautifully alive.
You grin, wicked, and without giving him a second to recover, you drag your tongue up the length of his nose in one long, slow, ridiculous lick. Stiles makes a noise that’s somewhere between a shriek and a moan, jerking back a little and then just staring at you, eyes wide and blown and full of disbelief and something else that’s hot and sweet and so much.
"You are," he says, voice low and a little wrecked, "the worst. The absolute worst."
You just shrug, smirking up at him, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans again to keep him close.
"And you love it," you say simply.
Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but then he just slumps forward until he’s lying fully on top of you again, wrapping his arms around you like a starfish, burying his face against your neck.
"Yeah," he mumbles, words muffled but clear enough. "I really, really do."
~~
The afternoon sunlight spills lazy and golden across Stiles' room, painting warm streaks over the mess he’s creating as he rifles through his closet. You’re sat cross-legged on his bed, the mattress squeaking every time you shift, idly plucking at a loose thread on the hem of his comforter, just watching him with a dopey smile you’re not even trying to hide anymore.
Clothes are flying out of the closet at random — a wrinkled plaid shirt, a hoodie that might’ve once been white but now looks vaguely gray, a pair of jeans that hit the floor with a defeated plop. Every few seconds, Stiles lets out an annoyed grunt, muttering to himself under his breath as he digs deeper into the disaster zone that is his side of the closet.
"I have nothing," he whines dramatically, tugging a random sweatshirt off a hanger and holding it up, only to scowl at it before tossing it into a growing pile. "I can't show up looking like some degenerate who just rolled out of a dumpster."
You snort. "You'd still be the hottest dumpster rat in the whole world."
Stiles freezes for a second, like the words hit him straight between the shoulder blades, then whips his head around to glare at you — but he’s blushing already, the tips of his ears turning a deep, furious red. "You are legally obligated to say that," he says weakly, pointing an accusing finger at you.
"Nope," you say casually, leaning back on your hands, grinning at him like you’ve got all the time in the world to admire the way his buzzcut catches the sunlight, the way his cheeks pink up so easily for you. "I just speak the truth, baby. You're stupid hot. Even buried under half your wardrobe." Stiles grumbles something unintelligible, his face so red now you’re actually concerned he might combust. He turns back to the closet in a huff, arms flailing as he yanks a pair of khakis off a hanger and tosses them over his shoulder.
"You are objectively wrong," he declares, voice high and cracking just a little, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing because he’s just — he’s so stupidly cute when he’s flustered like this. "I am a mess. A chaotic, anxious, hopeless mess. You’re just — you’re biased! You’ve got the Stiles-tinted glasses on."
You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider that, tapping a finger against your chin. "Or," you say slowly, dragging the word out, "maybe you're just insanely attractive, and you don't even know it yet. Maybe you're a whole-ass snack and I’m the only one smart enough to have noticed."
Stiles lets out a strangled sound, half laugh, half horrified whimper, as he throws another hoodie into the air like it personally offended him. "Stop! You're literally gonna give me an aneurysm before my interview!"
You laugh softly, heart squeezing painfully tight with how much you love him. "Just saying, if you show up in, like, a potato sack, they'd still hire you. 'Cause you’re charming. And smart. And so damn handsome it’s honestly unfair to the rest of the applicant pool."
He mutters something about "biased lovers" and "rampant slander" under his breath, still facing the closet because he clearly can't deal with you looking at him while he’s this pink and flustered and adorable. You watch him with nothing but awe, feeling like you’re seeing something secret and sacred — the way he fidgets, the way he talks to himself under his breath when he’s overwhelmed, the way he still doesn't seem to realize how magnetic he is. You could watch him like this forever and never get bored.
Another shirt flies out — this one a faded Batman tee that you know he secretly loves but would never wear to a job interview. "No Batman shirt?" you tease gently.
He spins to face you, wide-eyed. "It’s McDonald's, not Comic-Con! I have to look, y'know, professional! Adult! Hireable!"
"You are hireable," you say immediately, voice softening because you can see the way his shoulders are starting to creep up around his ears, the way he's working himself up again. "You’re smart and funny and you work hard. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Seriously, babe."
Stiles looks down at his feet like maybe if he doesn't make eye contact, he won’t spontaneously combust from the praise. His fingers fidget with the hem of the Batman shirt, twisting it up, and you swear you see the tiniest hint of a proud, shy little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth before he quickly hides it.
"You're such a sap," he mumbles, kicking at a hoodie on the floor.
"And you're not?" You fire back instantly. He huffs out a laugh, still not meeting your eyes, rummaging blindly into the back of his closet now like he might find a magic outfit back there if he digs hard enough.
More clothes get flung into the air, a pair of khakis hitting the side of your leg. You don’t even flinch, too busy watching him with your heart practically glowing out of your chest. Watching the way he bites his lip when he’s thinking, the way he pushes up on the balls of his feet and back down again like his body just can’t stay still. Every movement is so Stiles — chaotic and beautiful and real.
He doesn't find anything yet, but honestly? You wouldn't trade this moment — this stupid, messy, hilarious moment of him throwing half his wardrobe around while blushing like mad — for anything else in the world. Then another shirt — something nondescript and beige — flies through the air and hits the lamp on his nightstand with a dull whump. You watch with a lazy, fond grin as Stiles curses under his breath and digs even deeper into the abyss of his closet, muttering nonsense about "business casual" and "life or death situations" like the stakes couldn't be any higher.
You’re about to make another teasing comment when something different flutters out of the closet — a flash of maroon and white — and lands in a soft heap right by your feet. Curious, you reach down and grab it, the familiar weight and smell of it hitting you instantly. It’s Stiles’ old lacrosse jersey — the one from when he was still trying to figure out how to run without tripping over his own feet. His last name, STILINSKI, is bold across the back in thick white lettering paired with a large nupber 24, and the fabric is worn thin in places, soft from so many washes.
You glance over at Stiles, but he’s completely oblivious, still buried halfway in the closet, arms stretched overhead as he tries to wrestle a rogue pair of khakis off a hanger. His back is to you, totally vulnerable, totally unaware. You smirk to yourself, a wicked little idea sparking in your brain. Quickly — quietly — you peel off your own shirt, tossing it into the chaos on the floor without a second thought. The room’s a little chilly, goosebumps pebbling your skin, but you barely notice because you’re too busy pulling Stiles’ jersey over your head.
It’s way too big on you — hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs — but it smells like him, like detergent and grass and something sharp and boyish and Stiles, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. You pad across the room, silent on your bare feet, and come up right behind him, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. He stiffens for a second, startled, before relaxing into the touch with a little hum, one of his hands instinctively coming up to rest over yours.
"Find anything yet?" you murmur against the nape of his neck, smiling into his skin.
"Nooope," he says miserably, leaning his weight back against you a little. "I’m a lost cause. Just bury me in a hoodie and call it a day."
You laugh, and he turns around to face you — and freezes. Like, completely freezes. Eyes wide, mouth falling open slightly, his entire body going rigid as he stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost or maybe the hottest thing his teenage brain has ever processed. You blink up at him innocently, trying — and failing — to suppress the smug little tilt of your mouth. "What?" you ask sweetly, tugging lightly on the hem of the jersey. "This old thing?"
Stiles makes a noise that sounds like he’s choking on air, his hands flailing uselessly in front of him like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. His eyes are glued to the sight of his name stretched across your chest, the way the loose fabric hangs off your bare skin, the peek of your hip where the hem rides up. He visibly swallows. His hands twitch.
"I — you — holy — what are you doing?" he sputters, voice climbing about three octaves.
You bat your lashes at him, playing it up. "What, you don’t like it?" Stiles looks like he’s about to die on the spot. His cheeks go crimson almost instantly, his ears burning bright pink, and when you shift your weight slightly — the jersey riding a little higher on your thighs — he actually whimpers under his breath.
"I — it's not — I mean, yes, but — fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut like that’ll somehow make the image of you in his jersey disappear. It doesn't. It only makes it worse. When he opens his eyes again, they drop instinctively to the way the fabric clings to you, the way his name looks against your body, and you see it happen in real-time: the way his breath catches, the way his hips shift forward just a little without meaning to.
And then? The telltale bulge tenting the front of his jeans. Stiles makes a panicked, horrified noise, hands flying down to cover himself instinctively, as if you hadn’t already noticed. His face is a whole new shade of red now, somewhere between embarrassed and ready to fake his own death and start a new life in Alaska.
"Stiles," you say, voice low and fond, stepping even closer. He stumbles back a step, bumping into the edge of the bed, his hands still hovering awkwardly in front of his crotch like that’ll do anything to hide the very obvious way his dick is straining against his jeans now.
"I swear to God, you're evil," he gasps out, eyes wide and panicked and impossibly turned on. "You’re, like, a demon. A hot demon. A sex demon. Sent to destroy me."
You can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you, wild and bright and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. You close the distance again, hands sliding up the sides of his waist, feeling the way he shivers under your touch, his whole body buzzing with nervous, giddy energy.
"You’re so cute when you’re flustered," you murmur, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his.
Stiles lets out another helpless little whimper, frozen in place, heart pounding so hard you can practically feel it against your own chest.
"You're evil," he repeats weakly, but he's already leaning into you, already chasing your warmth without even thinking about it.
You just smile, brushing your lips lightly over his jaw, feeling the way he shudders under you, his hands finally coming up to grab at your hips like he can't not touch you anymore.
And God, if this is what happens just from you wearing his jersey, you can't wait to see what happens when you show up to one of his lacrosse practices in it.
You chuckle low in your throat, feeling the way Stiles grips your hips a little tighter, like he’s grounding himself — or maybe like he’s trying to stop himself from completely losing control. His forehead drops onto your shoulder, and he lets out this soft, desperate whine when you run your hands up under the jersey, dragging your fingers lightly across the bare skin of his sides.
You tilt your head so you can press a kiss to the crown of his buzzed head, breathing him in. He smells like cheap detergent and boy and sweat and Stiles, and it’s perfect, and you’re so head over heels stupid for him it actually aches a little.
"You still need clothes for your interview, baby," you remind him sweetly, dragging your nails lightly down his spine. "Can't have you showing up in just your boner."
He lets out a strangled noise — half-laugh, half-moan — and rocks his hips against you without thinking. The hard press of his cock against your hip is so obvious now, and he doesn’t even try to hide it, just lets himself rut into you slow and helpless, like he can’t even help himself.
It’s so Stiles. It’s so stupidly adorable you might actually combust.
"M' working on it," he mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder. His hips rock again, a slow, desperate little grind, like maybe if he moves slow enough it won’t count.
You smirk, sliding one hand up to tangle in the soft baby fuzz at the back of his head, gently scratching at his scalp the way you know he loves.
"You won't fuck me," you tease, voice low and fond, "but you'll hump me like you’re in heat?"
Stiles lets out the most wounded, scandalized little noise and lifts his head just enough to glare at you — his cheeks red, his mouth a little open, his whole body practically vibrating with how overwhelmed he is.
"It’s different," he huffs indignantly, grinding against you again like he can’t help himself even while he’s trying to argue. "This is — this is safe! This is, like, non-penetrative! No fluids crossing borders! It’s basically the sexual equivalent of a handshake."
You bark out a startled laugh, leaning back enough to catch his flushed, wrecked face in your hands. You kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere you can reach, worshipping him with soft, silly affection until he’s whining and squirming and smiling despite himself.
"You're insane," you tell him, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "My beautiful, genius, absolutely insane boyfriend."
He pouts, grinding into you harder now, a little desperate, a little frantic. His cock is leaking precome already, dampening the front of his jeans, and the friction must be just this side of painful, but he’s chasing it anyway, burying his face against your neck and whimpering softly under his breath.
"You feel so good," he mumbles, like he can’t help himself. "You're so warm — smells so good — fuck."
You keep running your hands all over him, up and down his back, squeezing his waist, praising him in low, soft murmurs that have him shivering against you.
"So good for me, Stiles," you whisper, letting your lips brush his ear. "So handsome. So smart. Gonna kill your interview. Gonna blow them all away."
He whines again, grinding harder, his breath hot and panting against your throat. His hands flex against your hips, holding you in place like you might disappear if he lets go.
"Gotta — m'gonna —" he stammers helplessly, rutting faster, his whole body trembling.
"You gonna come for me, baby?" you murmur, sweet and coaxing. "Just from humping me like a needy little thing?"
He nods frantically, too far gone for words now, his face flushed and sweaty, his body straining against yours as he chases his orgasm.
You keep whispering to him, nothing but praise and love, telling him how proud you are, how beautiful he is, how good he feels against you.
And when he finally stiffens and gasps and grinds one last desperate time against your hip, coming in his jeans with a soft, wrecked little sob, you hold him through it, kissing his forehead and stroking his back, loving him so much it feels like your heart might actually break from it.
Stiles clings to you, panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks. He doesn't move for a long minute, just lets himself be held, lets himself be loved.
Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes glazed and dopey, a crooked, embarrassed little smile tugging at his mouth.
"You are," he pants, "the worst."
You laugh, kissing his temple. "And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."
He groans, hiding his face against your neck again, but you can feel the way he’s smiling, the way he’s still trembling with leftover pleasure, and you know he’s soaking up every word, every touch, every bit of love you pour into him.
You’re never gonna get tired of this — of him — of the way he gives himself to you so completely, even when he’s overwhelmed and messy and a little bit ridiculous.
Especially then.
You press one last kiss into his sweaty hair, breathing him in, before pulling back just enough to catch his eyes. They're big and brown and still a little hazy, all soft edges and vulnerable in a way he only ever lets himself be with you.
"You gotta strip, baby," you say, voice warm and teasing but still soft, coaxing. "Can’t pick out a clean outfit if you're still covered in…" — you smirk, flicking your eyes down pointedly — "…evidence."
Stiles groans like he wants the earth to swallow him whole, his hands clamping protectively over his crotch, his whole body curling inward. His ears are so red they could probably catch fire.
"I — you — you can't just —" he stammers helplessly, voice cracking halfway through.
You smile, all fondness, and nudge him gently toward the bed. "C’mon, babe. Clothes off. Nothing I haven’t seen before."
He grumbles under his breath — something about "emotional terrorism" — but he shuffles a few steps back, still moving like his joints have been replaced with overcooked spaghetti. His fingers twitch nervously at the waistband of his jeans, and you watch him fight an internal battle for a second before he finally, finally undoes the button.
The denim clings stubbornly to his hips, and it takes a ridiculous amount of wiggling and cursing to get them down his thighs and off his legs. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, not wanting to make him more self-conscious than he already is.
Then he's left standing there in nothing but his damp, sticky boxers, looking utterly wrecked and so stupidly beautiful it actually steals your breath for a second.
"Boxers too, Stiles," you say gently, crouching down by the pile of rejected clothes to start sifting through them. "They're dirty. Can't put clean clothes over that."
He lets out this pitiful whine, face scrunching up in embarrassment, but he knows you're right. He hesitates for one agonizing moment longer before yanking them down in one quick, desperate motion, stepping out of them and kicking them behind him without looking.
Immediately, both of his hands fly to cover his dick again, arms crossed awkwardly in front of himself, chest heaving a little from nerves.
You glance up at him from where you're sitting and feel your heart absolutely shatter at the sight.
Bright red chest, trembling thighs, ears so pink they’re practically glowing — and that twitchy, twitchy need to bolt, even though he’s staying right where you asked him to. For you.
You set the clothes down gently and get to your feet, moving slow and careful, like you’re approaching a skittish baby deer.
"Hey, hey," you murmur, stepping close enough that your chest almost brushes his crossed arms. "You’re perfect, Stiles. So good. So handsome."
He ducks his head, a strangled little noise clawing its way out of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.
"You're — you’re just saying that," he mutters, voice cracking at the edges.
"Nope," you say simply, reaching up to trace your fingers lightly along his jaw. "I mean it. Every inch of you. From your ridiculous brain to your stupidly perfect legs."
He twitches visibly at the praise, his hips jerking slightly like he wants to squirm but won't let himself. His hands tighten over himself, but you can still see the way he’s shaking — this trembling, earnest need to believe you, even though he doesn't know how yet.
You lean in and press a kiss to the center of his forehead, lingering there.
"My gorgeous, brilliant, sweet boy," you whisper against his skin. "My Stiles."
A tiny, broken little sound escapes him, and when you pull back just enough to look at his face, you catch it — the tiny smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, like he’s trying to hold it back and failing miserably.
"There’s my cutie," you tease gently, tapping the tip of his nose with your finger. "Still bashful even after grinding all over me like you're in heat."
He lets out this spluttering, indignant noise — but it’s weak, and you can tell he’s fighting a grin now, his chest still burning red but his whole body vibrating with this silly, overwhelmed happiness.
"You’re—" he starts, but he can’t even get the words out. He just shakes his head, helpless and fond and so stupidly beautiful you could die.
You turn back to the bed, forcing yourself to focus — because otherwise you will just end up kissing him senseless again — and start sorting through the chaos of clothes he threw everywhere.
"Okay," you say, half to yourself, "we’re thinking something casual but clean. Like you didn’t try too hard but you’re still employable."
"That’s… an impossible standard," Stiles mutters from behind you, his voice muffled by his hands and embarrassment.
You laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him.
"Good thing you have me, then, huh?"
And God, the way he looks at you right then — naked, flushed, trembling, but looking at you like you hung the damn moon — it nearly knocks the air right out of your lungs.
Yeah.
You’re so gone for this boy.
You hear him shuffling around behind you while you’re elbow-deep in the explosion of his closet. When you glance back, Stiles is hastily tugging on a pair of clean boxers, nearly falling over in the process because his coordination goes straight out the window when he’s nervous — or naked — or, well, both.
You snort quietly and turn back to your mission, rifling through the mess until you pull out a pair of khaki shorts. They’re a little wrinkled but otherwise clean, and more importantly, they look like something that could pass for trying without looking like he’s been dressed by his dad.
"Found shorts!" you announce triumphantly, waving them over your shoulder. "Now, we need a shirt that doesn’t scream 'help, my dad still dresses me.'"
"That’s a very specific ask," Stiles grumbles from where he’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging his boxers into place with an awkward little hop. He crosses his legs at the ankles and starts fidgeting immediately, picking at a thread on the comforter like it’s personally offended him.
You shoot him a grin over your shoulder. "Good thing I’m a miracle worker."
It takes a minute — and several sarcastic comments from Stiles about the black hole that is his closet — but eventually, you strike gold: a simple navy blue polo that’s still somehow unmistakably Stiles but definitely says "I’m hireable and won’t burn the restaurant down on day one."
You toss it at him and he catches it against his chest with a soft oof, peeking at it like it might explode.
"You’re seriously a genius," he says, awe and relief mixing in his voice like he can’t quite believe you actually found something.
You wipe fake sweat off your brow and shoot him a wink. "All in a day's work, babe."
You’re about to declare the outfit mission complete when you spot something poking out from under his bed — something distinctly familiar. You crouch down and snag it, and sure enough, it’s one of your jackets. One you’d been wondering about for weeks. The one Stiles had definitely "borrowed" and then conveniently "forgotten" to return.
You stand up and hold it out with a smirk. "And look what we have here. You thief."
Stiles flushes immediately, tugging the polo over his head like maybe if he moves fast enough you won’t see how red his ears are turning again.
"I was gonna give it back," he mutters, voice all high-pitched and defensive. "I just — it smells like you, okay? And — and it’s comfy. And —" he waves his hands like he’s trying to physically bat the embarrassment away "— you're not using it! Sharing is caring! You love me!"
You laugh, heart feeling ridiculously full, and step closer, draping the jacket over his shoulders and smoothing it down. It swallows him a little, hangs long on his arms, but he just tucks himself into it like it’s armor, beaming at you from under the too-big collar.
"You’re right," you say, nudging his chin up with a gentle finger. "I do love you."
And it’s so true — so blindingly, obviously true — that it makes him freeze for a second, all wide brown eyes and parted lips like he can’t quite process the enormity of it.
You don’t make him sit in it too long. You just lean in and press a kiss to his forehead, then one to his nose, then another to the corner of his mouth until he’s giggling helplessly, wriggling in his stolen jacket and khaki shorts and looking like the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
"Okay, okay!" he squeaks, batting at you half-heartedly. "Save the mushy stuff for after I nail my interview later!"
"You’re gonna kill it," you promise, pressing one last kiss to his temple. "You’re gonna be the best McDonald's employee they’ve ever seen."
He beams at you, buzzing with that uncontainable energy he always gets when he’s excited, practically vibrating out of his skin.
"You really think so?" he asks, voice cracking just a little with how badly he wants to believe it.
"I know so," you say, tugging him into a hug and squeezing him tight enough that he squeaks again.
He hugs you back immediately, fiercely, burying his face against your chest and swaying you both back and forth like he can’t quite stay still. And you let him, because there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right here — holding your boy, wrapped up in the mess and warmth and ridiculousness that is Stiles Stilinski.
Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look up at you, grinning that big, ridiculous grin that shows all his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"I’m gonna get the job," he says, full of conviction now, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to charge out the door and start work tonight.
You laugh and kiss him again, quick and breathless.
"You’re gonna get the job," you echo, heart so full it feels like you might actually float away.
And in that moment, watching him buzz and shine and look at you like you’re the whole damn universe — you know that no matter what, you’ll always be right here, cheering for him, loving him, catching him whenever he needs it.
Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And it’s everything.
~~
You sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep, the afternoon sun beating lazily against the windshield. The outfit you picked out yesterday — khaki shorts, navy polo, your borrowed jacket — was folded neatly in a bag on your lap. You were early, of course. You’d gotten out of school a few hours ago for a check-up and figured you’d surprise him, beat the crowd, and maybe calm him down before his big moment. Plus, sitting here in his beloved Jeep, keys jangling against your thigh, it almost felt like you were soaking in a piece of him even while he was still inside.
The keys had been a quiet, shy Christmas gift two years ago, just after you'd confessed to him— and you hadn’t taken the responsibility lightly. Especially not now, watching the doors of the school burst open and a gaggle of students pour out, loud and chaotic and alive.
~~
It was Christmas Eve, and Beacon Hills was cold enough to bite.
The little pop-up ice rink downtown was buzzing with sound — Christmas music blaring tinny through cheap speakers, kids screaming with laughter and occasional terror as they slid on the slick surface, parents huddled at the edges with hot cocoa clutched in gloved hands. String lights arched over the rink, glowing soft yellow against the deepening blue of the sky, casting the whole place in a warm sort of magic that tried to make up for the freezing wind that bit through every layer of your clothes.
You were sitting on a cold bench just outside the rink, bent forward and yanking tight the laces on the rental skates that pinched slightly at your ankles. Your fingers were numb, but the sting didn’t really register — not when you looked up and caught sight of him. Stiles.
Already on the rink with Scott, sliding gracelessly across the ice, arms flailing just a little too wide to be confident. Scott, bless him, was skating backwards like he was born on ice, goading Stiles with bright eyes and loud laughter as he gestured wildly for his best friend to pick up the pace. Stiles was trying, you could see that — teeth bared in concentration, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth, fists clenched in his sleeves like if he just focused hard enough, he could become someone who didn’t look like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time.
He wasn’t bad, though. Not really. He’d been worse the last time you all went skating. He was keeping up now. Wobbling, sure, but moving. There was still that tightness around his shoulders, the faint flicker of worry in his eyes whenever someone passed too close or when he caught you looking and flushed like you’d seen something embarrassing. But then Scott would laugh, shout something dumb over his shoulder, and Stiles would grin wide and too sharp, skating harder like he had something to prove.
And you were just… watching. Watching like you always did when it came to Stiles. Heart full to the brim with him. You’d shown up late, dragging your body through the cold and into a cab you could barely afford because your mom had bailed at the last second. It wasn’t her thing, the holidays — not since the divorce. But Stiles? Stiles was your thing. Had been for a while now.
You’d barely hesitated when you saw the time. The cab ate the last of what you had saved in your wallet. Christmas presents be damned. All you could think about was how he’d light up when he saw you — how his ears would go pink and he’d do that fidgety thing with his hands like he couldn’t decide whether to hug you or punch you in the shoulder. You would’ve walked across the whole damn county barefoot if it meant seeing him smile like that.
And now, sitting there on the bench, lacing up your skates, you were already grinning without meaning to — not just at him on the ice, not just at how Scott caught him by the wrist to steady him when he wobbled — but at everything that shimmered just under your ribs when you looked at Stiles Stilinski and thought this. Him. Always.
You flexed your fingers once to bring some feeling back into them, tugged the laces one last time, and stood. The cold hit you all at once, and the wind cut deep, but you didn’t care. You were already stepping toward the ice. You weren’t late anymore.
Your blades hit the ice with a sharp little scrape, and for a second, you wobbled—just enough to make you stumble forward a step and throw your arms out. The cold shot straight up through the soles of the rentals, settling in your knees, your spine. But then balance returned, muscle memory catching up, and you pushed forward with one foot, gliding out toward the center.
Stiles saw you before you could call out. His head whipped up so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap, and he immediately started flailing his way toward you, half-skating, half-praying to the friction gods that he didn’t go down in front of everyone. His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but they deepened into something bright and blooming the second you met his eyes.
“You made it!” he called, way too loud, like the music and noise and chaos had vanished and he just needed to fill the space between you with his voice.
You grinned. “You sound surprised.”
“I was surprised!” he said as he skidded up next to you, arms wheeling a little before he caught his balance. “I—I thought you weren’t coming. You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought maybe—maybe your mom bailed or like, you got kidnapped on the way here or something or I don’t know, fell into a Christmas tree lot and froze to death because that happens, and—”
“Dude,” Scott’s voice came from somewhere behind him, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “You’ve been doing this for the last twenty minutes. Let 'em' say hi.”
You caught Scott looping around with a smooth turn, skating backwards effortlessly like he was auditioning for the Olympics. He winked at you and then made a face at Stiles, mimicking the nonstop motion of his mouth with one hand. Stiles looked back at him, scowled, then whipped around to face you again.
“I’m just saying, okay?” he huffed, arms crossed now, chin tucked down defensively. “You didn’t answer your phone and I know you said you’d try, but like, you never just not text, and I thought maybe—well. Never mind.” His voice dropped at the end, losing steam.
You softened immediately, reaching out to gently tug on the hem of his sleeve. “Hey. I had to catch a cab last minute. Spent the last of my allowance on it, too.”
Stiles’ eyes went wide. “You did not.”
You shrugged. “You guys are worth it.”
That shut him up. At least, for a beat. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—but nothing came out.
Scott skated by in a tight circle, doing a ridiculous spin that earned him a loud “Show-off!” from a random teen nearby.
“Let me guess,” you said, watching him skate off with mock suspicion. “He’s been doing that since you got here.”
“Ugh, yes,” Stiles groaned. “The second he realized he was good at skating, he’s been all ‘look at me, I’m a majestic deer’ or whatever.”
You barked a laugh and leaned in slightly, bumping your shoulder into Stiles. “You’re not doing so bad yourself, Stilinski.”
He flushed deeper, and for a second he looked like he was going to say something cocky—but then he caught the slight curve of your smirk, and all the wind left his sails.
“I missed you,” he blurted instead. “Like. A lot.”
You smiled, and it must’ve shown in your eyes, because his ears went red. “I missed you too,” you said, your voice a little quieter now.
He blinked rapidly and then made a weird noise that was probably meant to be a casual laugh but sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue. You giggled, skating around him once in a loose circle, and then held out your hand.
“Come on,” you teased. “Before Scott starts spinning so fast he creates a vortex and takes out a bunch of third graders.”
“You’re assuming that wouldn’t be hilarious,” Stiles muttered, but he took your hand anyway, fingers clumsy in his gloves, grip tight like he was worried he’d fall right through the ice if he didn’t hold on.
You tugged him forward, and he followed without resistance, grinning and unsteady and full of energy like he didn’t know how to hold it all in. He slipped once or twice, cursed loudly, clutched your arm, then laughed so hard he nearly dragged you down with him. And through it all, you just kept your hand in his and skated a little slower, steady and solid, just enough to keep him upright.
Scott whooped somewhere across the rink, executing a wobbly jump that made a kid scream and his mom glare.
“See?” you said, laughing. “Vortex. I warned you.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, cheeks pink and glowing. “Whatever. If we get pulled into a black hole of Christmas-themed ice death, I’m glad it’s with you.”
You tightened your grip on his hand and squeezed. “Same, Stilinski.”
Stiles squeezed back without even realizing it, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more with his hands than he could get out of his mouth. Which tracked — you knew by now that when his brain got too loud, sometimes his body took over, jittery and awkward and honest in all the ways he didn’t know how to be out loud.
You kept skating, slow and easy, letting him find his rhythm beside you. It wasn’t really about the skating, though. Not anymore. Not with the way he kept leaning just a little too hard into your side every time he wobbled, like it was less about losing his balance and more about making sure you didn’t float too far away.
At one point, a particularly sharp turn had him yelping and practically throwing himself into you with both arms, his chest thumping against your side as you laughed and caught him with both hands at his waist. “You good?” you asked, biting back a grin.
“Define ‘good,’” he muttered, eyes wide, clinging to you like a particularly cold and clumsy koala. “Because if ‘good’ means ‘one sneeze away from death,’ then sure, I’m awesome.”
You laughed, heart tripping a little over itself because now you had your hands on him, and he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned in more.
“I’ve got you,” you said quietly, mostly because it felt true.
And he froze for just a second. Not in the panicked, ‘oh no, I’m about to fall and break every bone in my body’ way, but in a way that felt… smaller. Like something soft had just unfolded inside him, and he didn’t know what to do with it yet. He looked at you then — really looked. Not the usual wild-eyed panic or the half-distracted ADHD tunnel vision that came with everything Stiles did. Just him, here, eyes bright and unguarded under the glow of the string lights, cheeks pink from the cold, and lips slightly parted like you’d surprised him.
“I know,” he said finally.
Your breath hitched, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or from the way he said it — so quiet, like a secret. Then, of course, Scott ruined it. He came rocketing past at warp speed, hoodie flapping behind him like a cape, arms outstretched in what could only be described as an attempt at “figure skating Superman,” yelling, “WATCH ME, LOSERS!”
A second later he slipped spectacularly, flailed for balance, and somehow managed to grab a traffic cone from the rink’s edge on his way down — dragging it with him as he skidded twenty feet across the ice like an orange-and-gray torpedo.
Stiles snorted so hard he choked on his own breath, doubling over against you in laughter, the earlier tension melting away instantly. “Oh my god—did he just—was that intentional?!”
“Does anything Scott does ever look intentional?” you said through a wheeze.
“I—” Stiles shook his head, beaming now. “No. No, but like, respect.”
Scott popped up from the ice, grinning like a maniac with wet knees and no dignity left. “That was so cool!”
“Lies!” Stiles called back.
“You’re just jealous,” Scott hollered, spinning in a way that almost worked before his right foot betrayed him and sent him crashing down again. “I’m evolving!” Stiles laughed so hard he had to clutch at your arms for support again, and this time, you let him lean. Fully. His weight was solid against you, warm even through your coats, and he stayed there longer than necessary, his head tilted just enough that you could smell the faint traces of whatever shampoo he used — something clean and sharp, like pine and laundry detergent.
Your heart was doing acrobatics in your chest now. You should’ve said it right then. Hey, Stiles. I like you. Simple. Honest. The words had been sitting on your tongue for weeks now, waiting for a moment like this. But you're young, and your heart was a shaky thing. So instead, you stayed quiet, letting the warmth of him at your side fill in the words you couldn’t say yet.
He pulled back after a second, still grinning. “Okay, okay, one more lap and then I need hot chocolate or I will actually die.”
You nodded, but didn’t let go of his hand. “Deal. But if you fall again, I’m not catching you this time.”
“Rude,” he said, mock-offended, but his fingers tightened on yours all the same. “What happened to ‘I’ve got you’?”
“That was before you tried to use me as a human anchor.”
“You love it.” You didn’t say I love you, because even for you, that felt a little too real, too raw for now. But your smile said enough, and his did too — wide and a little shy and full of something that made your stomach flip.
“Come on,” you said, tugging him gently toward the edge of the rink. “Let’s get you that hot chocolate before Scott starts trying to do triple axels.”
“Too late,” Stiles muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the absolute chaos Scott was currently spinning himself into. “God, I’m gonna have to explain a head injury to his mom again, aren’t I?”
“Probably,” you said.
“But at least I’ll have backup,” he added, voice a little quieter again, eyes on yours.
And you nodded. “Always.”
You squeezed his hand once more, then gently tugged him forward, back into motion. The final lap around the rink wasn’t exactly graceful — Stiles was still more chaos than control, and he kept muttering curses under his breath whenever his skates hit a rough patch — but it was yours. Yours and his, side by side, hand in hand, cheeks red from cold and smiles, and Scott yelling about physics behind you somewhere like the world’s loudest Christmas ghost.
You didn’t rush it. The loop around the rink was slow, unhurried. You both knew the cocoa stand would still be there. That eventually your feet would start to ache and the cold would creep back into your fingers. But for now, the wind bit a little less. The lights twinkled just a little softer. And Stiles didn’t let go. Halfway around the last curve, where the crowd thinned out and the lights arched low enough that everything felt a little more private, Stiles suddenly spoke again.
“I really did miss you,” he said, unprompted, voice gentler this time. “Not just, like… you know, ‘my friend didn’t come to a thing’ kind of missing. I mean, like… it felt weird. You not being here right away.”
You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t looking at you this time — just staring straight ahead, brows drawn like he was trying to get the words right before they ran off without him.
“I was gonna wait out front,” he said. “Like, just sit there and see if maybe you showed up. But Scott dragged me onto the ice, said if I didn’t move, I’d freeze my ass to the bench and he’d leave me there till spring.”
You laughed softly.
“But I kept checking,” he went on, kicking at the ice. “Every couple minutes. Looking around like an idiot. Pretending I wasn’t. But I was.”
You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. Your chest felt tight in that warm way — the way it always did when Stiles got a little too real without meaning to, when the things he said hit closer than you expected.
“I just…” He shrugged, still not looking at you. “I dunno. Things feel better when you’re around.”
And there it was. That thump in your chest again. You turned your head slowly, eyes tracing the shape of him — the slope of his shoulders in his oversized coat, the pink curve of his ear poking out from under his beanie, the way his mouth tugged down at the corners like he hated every word he was admitting but couldn’t stop himself anyway.
You let the silence stretch a little longer than you probably should have, then smiled and bumped his arm with yours again.
“I’ll buy your hot chocolate,” you said, light and teasing, like that could somehow contain everything you felt. “Y’know. To make up for missing the start.”
That finally got him to look over, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dude, you literally said you spent the last of your money getting here. The cab, remember?”
You shrugged, lips twitching with something just a little too close to guilt. “Yeah. Well. I… made sure I had enough for this, too.”
He narrowed his eyes at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “How?”
You leaned in, close enough that your breath fogged warm between you. Close enough that your noses almost bumped. You could count the freckles on his cheek from here.
“I got some from my mom,” you whispered.
He blinked. “Your mom who doesn’t even like Christmas?”
You didn’t answer. Not really. Just held his gaze and let the question hang there, unanswered. The truth was complicated — a short, sharp fight in the kitchen before you left, voices raised and then dropped into cold, brittle quiet. A slammed door. You asking, Just twenty bucks, please, and her sighing like it was more than she could afford to give, even if it wasn’t.
Stiles stared at you for a beat, like he wanted to press — wanted to ask. But he didn’t. He just gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and something in his expression softened. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “Thanks. For… y’know. Coming. And this.”
You gave him a tiny smile. “What, the skating? The chaos? The part where Scott nearly wiped out a toddler?”
“The part where I didn’t freeze my ass to a bench alone,” he said, mouth twitching like he was trying to be funny but couldn’t quite pull it off. “The part where you held my hand.”
Your stomach flipped again.
You reached out, adjusted his glove where it had slipped slightly at the wrist, and said, “I’d do it again.”
“I hope so,” he said, way too fast, then froze like he regretted it immediately.
You just smiled wider, heartbeat pounding, eyes locked on his like you were braver than you felt. The edge of the rink loomed ahead now — the little opening in the rail where people stepped off the ice, where the real world started up again. You guided him toward it, careful and slow.
He turned his head, a little breathless, a little pink. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get that cocoa. But I’m getting extra marshmallows. Like. A dumb amount. Enough to make it a choking hazard.”
You grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
And you meant it. Every dumb marshmallow. Every weird joke. Every clumsy fall and wide-eyed smile and tangled word that Stiles threw your way. You wanted all of it. And later — maybe after the cocoa, when the wind wasn’t so sharp and your nerves had settled — maybe then, you’d tell him.
Stiles, I like you. Like, really like you.
But for now, you just walked side by side toward the little stand with the peeling paint and the smell of cinnamon sugar in the air, his hand bumping yours like he didn’t want to let go just yet.
Your fingers brushed again as you and Stiles edged your way closer toward the rink’s exit, skates clicking awkwardly on the ice beneath you. You were both flushed — from the cold, from the skating, from the hand-holding and the something that neither of you had said out loud yet. It sat thick and electric in the space between you, quiet but impossible to ignore.
You glanced over at him. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to look like he was watching you out of the corner of his eye, but he totally was. His gloves were still slightly damp at the fingertips, and his scarf was crooked in a way you wanted to fix — gently, like in the movies, with fingers grazing skin and—
“LOOK OUT!” The voice tore through the night air like a cannon blast. You barely had a second to react — a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, the sound of blades carving across ice like a freight train, and then suddenly—
WHAM.
Scott McCall, future Lacrosse captain and current menace, came hurtling toward you like a human snowplow, arms flailing, knees buckling, half-screaming half-laughing as a blur of pink puff — a tiny girl in a sparkly coat — darted past him after tripped him up without even noticing. There was no time to step out of the way.
Scott slammed into the both of you like a meteorite, and all three of you staggered backwards — you, Stiles, Scott, in a tangled knot of limbs, ice, and chaos. Stiles yelped something halfway between “OH MY GOD” and “MY SPLEEN,” while Scott’s foot kicked back and hooked around your shin, nearly taking you down for good. You were sure you were going down. Except — somehow — you didn’t.
You, Stiles, and Scott staggered and shuffled like an uncoordinated circus act, spinning in a desperate half-circle, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and jackets and whatever else you could grab. Scott had one hand fisted in the collar of your coat, and the other braced against Stiles’ chest. Stiles had his elbow hooked around your neck in a way that felt like a one-armed headlock, and you were clinging to both of them with a death grip around their waists like some kind of three-headed, cold, confused creature.
For a horrifying moment, the world tilted sideways. But then — balance. Somehow, miraculously, you all managed to stay up. Silence fell. Breaths heaved. Arms untangled slowly, cautiously. You all blinked at each other — a foot here, a scarf twisted around a wrist there, Scott’s beanie now sitting askew on top of Stiles’ head, as if it had been transferred in the chaos like a crown of idiocy.
No one said anything for a full five seconds. Then, without a word, you each took a cautious step back. Straightened your coats. Adjusted scarves. Cleared throats. Stiles carefully handed Scott back his beanie like it was a delicate diplomatic exchange.
No one made eye contact. No one mentioned a thing. You all stood there — weirdly still, ridiculously composed now — like three people who had absolutely not just been part of the most awkward three-person crash in the history of winter sports.
Finally, Scott nodded, completely serious. “So. Uh. Cocoa?”
“Yes,” you and Stiles said at the exact same time.
And just like that, you all turned and walked off toward the cocoa stand like nothing had happened.
Except for the fact that Scott’s hair was sticking up at the back, and Stiles had somehow acquired glitter on his jacket (from the sparkly pink puff girl, you were guessing), and your left skate was untied and flapping slightly as you walked — none of which anyone addressed. Because of course you weren’t going to talk about it. You were teenagers. You had dignity. Sort of.
As the three of you approached the little wooden stand tucked near the far corner of the rink, the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and warm chocolate grew stronger, comforting in a way that settled under your ribs. Scott peeled off first, already waving a five-dollar bill and declaring he was buying “the biggest one they had,” like this was some sort of hot beverage competition.
Stiles lingered beside you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and close, still a little breathless from the collision.
“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “I think we survived.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Scott, who was currently trying to convince the cocoa vendor to put a fourth scoop of whipped cream on his drink. “I’m not sure he did,” he muttered.
You snorted. Then reached out, brushing some of the glitter off his jacket. Stiles blinked down at you. “I—uh,” he started, but then you just smiled and stepped up to the counter beside him.
“Two hot chocolates,” you told the vendor. Leaning in to whisper, “Extra marshmallows on one.”
Stiles’ ears went red again. But he didn’t argue. He just stood beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to grin or hide behind the cocoa stand. He chose the grin. You handed over a crumpled bill from your pocket, the mystery of where it came from still lingering between you both like fog on a winter window. But Stiles didn’t ask. Not yet. And maybe that was the nicest thing about him.
The cocoa stand vendor handed over the two steaming paper cups, both topped with a generous heap of mini marshmallows that had already started to melt at the edges, sticky and soft. One cup had a crooked candy cane poking out of it like a flag of victory. You took both drinks carefully, balancing them like precious artifacts, and turned back toward the matting where Scott had already taken off.
Well—collapsed was probably the more accurate word. He was sprawled across one of the rubber-matted benches just outside the rink, legs still stretched out in his skates, cocoa cup crumpled and empty beside him like the aftermath of a sugar-induced war. “I think he inhaled it,” you muttered to Stiles as the two of you approached.
“Did not,” Scott said from his position, though it sounded garbled—his head was tilted back like he might actually fall asleep right there in the open cold.
“You absolutely did,” Stiles said, plopping down on the bench beside him. “I saw it. There were like, three sips, maximum.”
“That’s a subjective opinion,” Scott mumbled.
“I don’t think that’s how opinions work,” you said, lowering yourself carefully onto the bench beside Stiles, handing him the cocoa without even looking.
“Thank you,” he said automatically, then added, “Wait—extra marshmallows?”
“Of course extra marshmallows,” you replied. “You need to replace all the sugar you burned trying not to die on the ice.”
He huffed out a laugh and nudged your knee with his. “I’m a natural talent, actually. Scott said so.”
“Scott lies all the time,” you said. “Especially when he’s full of sugar and ego.”
“I heard that,” Scott said without moving.
The three of you burst out laughing.
It wasn’t a huge thing—just a quick crack of sound, breath in the cold night air—but it felt good. The kind of laugh that cracked open your ribs a little and let something warm in. The kind you could only have with people who knew you inside and out, who didn’t need to be told when to laugh or when you were joking. The kind that filled all the empty spaces that the holidays left sometimes.
Stiles took a sip of his cocoa and made a face like he’d just touched hot lava.
“Too hot,” he hissed, fanning his tongue like it was on fire.
You grinned into your cup. “You’re supposed to wait.”
“I never wait,” he said dramatically, eyes a little wide and watery from the burn. “I live on the edge.”
“You nearly fell off the edge earlier,” Scott muttered.
“I was pushed,” Stiles said, glaring down at him.
“By a child.”
“A very fast child!” You were giggling so hard your drink almost sloshed over the rim.
“Anyway,” Stiles said, turning back to you, trying to look dignified and not like he’d just been tackled by a kindergartener and then lost a fight to cocoa, “you made it.”
You looked at him, really looked—his eyes a little brighter now, cheeks red from the cold, scarf still not sitting right. And you thought: he has no idea. No idea how many times you’d imagined this. Sitting here. Right here. With him. Just like this.
“I did,” you said softly, sipping your drink. “Worth it.”
He stared at you for a second, like he wanted to say something else—but then Scott groaned loudly and sat up like a zombie rising from the grave.
“My spine is frozen,” he announced. “I think I need surgery.”
“Or a blanket,” you offered.
“Or a less dramatic personality,” Stiles added.
Scott waved a hand, unconcerned. “Nope. Definitely surgery.” You all laughed again. The cold didn’t seem so sharp anymore.
Around you, the rink sparkled with lights strung between poles, kids still shrieking with joy as they slipped across the ice, parents chatting and sipping drinks of their own. It was warm and golden here, in your little circle on the bench, even if your toes were going numb. Stiles shifted slightly closer to you, shoulders brushing. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Scott stood up dramatically, swaying like he’d just returned from war. “I’m going back in,” he declared. “For glory. For honor.”
“For more glitter to attach itself to you,” Stiles mumbled under his breath.
“I heard that,” Scott said again, but he was already wobbling back toward the rink.
You and Stiles watched him go, sipping cocoa side by side.
“You think he’s gonna fall again?” you asked.
“Oh, definitely,” Stiles said. “Like, within minutes.”
You clinked your paper cups together gently. “To gravity.”
Stiles grinned. “To gravity.”
The cocoa steamed steadily between your gloved hands, warming the space between your palms like a tiny furnace, and beside you, Stiles was still blowing cautiously at his cup, squinting down into it like he was trying to solve a physics problem with marshmallows. Scott, meanwhile, had become an entire event on the ice.
At first, he was doing those smooth backward glides again, one hand behind his back like he was posing for a skating magazine cover, hair bouncing, eyes focused, just so full of himself. It was honestly a little majestic—like, if deer could have egos and wear sneakers and be fifteen-year-old boys.
But then—like the universe remembered Scott had the attention span of a fruit fly and a tragic lack of spacial awareness—he clipped the corner of the rink on a turn and went tumbling sideways into a teen girl trying to take a selfie. The two of them spun in a chaotic, flailing blur before separating, Scott landing flat on his back while the girl stood above him blinking with her phone somehow still upright, still filming.
You snorted into your drink. “Oh my God,” you said through a giggle, “he’s both. He’s like… the Swan Princess and Wile E. Coyote had a baby.”
Stiles burst out laughing beside you, nearly sloshing cocoa all over his jeans. “Why is that so accurate?” he wheezed, clutching his cup like it was the only thing keeping him from full collapse.
Out on the rink, Scott picked himself up with all the dignity of someone who definitely knew he’d just been recorded falling. He brushed off his jacket, gave a thumbs-up to the girl (who was still laughing), and then promptly slid straight into the wall, arms spread like a starfish.
You wheezed. “We should help him.”
“No,” Stiles said immediately, sipping again. “We should absolutely not help him.”
Another burst of laughter passed between you like static—crackling and easy. The cold had settled into your cheeks now, numbing them into a constant tingle, but the sound of Stiles next to you, warm and close and here, melted straight through it. You turned your head slightly to look at him just as he tilted his drink back for another sip—and immediately ended up with a stripe of foam across the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t seem to notice. Still talking. Still going on about how if Scott fell one more time he was going to nominate him for some kind of honorary physics award for redefining “trajectory.” But you didn’t really hear all of it. Not past the way your eyes got stuck on that little line of marshmallow foam just sitting there. Without thinking, you leaned over.
“Hold still,” you said softly.
“What—”
But you were already reaching out, one gloved hand steadying his cheek as the fingers of the other found that smudge of foam and swiped it gently away. It came off easy, but you didn’t move right away. His skin was cold where you touched it, a little pink from the wind. His mouth had gone still. Stiles blinked. Looked at you. His breath was caught halfway in his chest, like he hadn’t decided if he was supposed to inhale or just freeze entirely.
Your thumb hovered for a second longer before you pulled back. “You had… something.”
“Oh,” he said, like he’d forgotten how words worked. “Thanks.”
You gave a tiny nod and returned to your cocoa like nothing had happened, like your heart hadn’t just leapt out of your chest and sprinted halfway to the parking lot. Out on the ice, Scott tripped over his own foot again, let out a strangled yelp, and crashed shoulder-first into a stack of foam barriers. A small child clapped in appreciation.
You and Stiles sat there in silence, watching him. After a beat, Stiles coughed into his drink. “Okay but seriously. If he breaks his nose again, you have to explain it to Melissa.”
You smiled down at your cup. “Deal.”
Your leg brushed his again, and this time neither of you moved away. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was the kind that came with knowing someone so long that you didn’t always need to talk. The kind that filled up with tiny sounds—the scrape of a skate blade nearby, Scott shrieking faintly in the distance as he probably collided with yet another civilian, the crunch of marshmallows melting into cocoa. It was soft. Comfortable.
Which was horrifying. Because you were about to ruin it.
You were about to take this stupid warm thing—this perfectly untouchable, safe friendship—and set it on fire with the words that had been stuck behind your teeth for months. Maybe longer. Words that might make him laugh, or freak out, or go quiet and never look at you the same again. You sipped your cocoa like it might delay your entire future by a few seconds.
He was still beside you, still watching the rink like Scott might spontaneously grow wings and ascend. His knee bumped yours again. He didn’t move it away. Your hands tightened a little on your cup.
“Hey,” you said suddenly, before you could stop yourself.
He turned to look at you, brows raised. “Yeah?” Too late. Too late, abort, abort— You swallowed. Tried to play it casual, like your heart wasn’t rattling in your chest like a pair of dice in a Yahtzee cup.
“Just…” You shrugged. “Thanks. For, y’know. Being here.”
Stiles blinked. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“No, I do,” you insisted, forcing a smile you hoped didn’t look like a grimace. “I kinda showed up last-minute, basically hijacked your Christmas Eve.”
He snorted. “Hijacked? You made my Christmas Eve.” Your heart stuttered.
He looked away then, like he hadn’t realized what he just said, like it slipped out before he could shove it back in. A breeze blew past and fluttered the edge of his scarf into your arm. Neither of you fixed it. He cleared his throat. “I mean, not that Scott’s not fun. But if I had to spend another two hours watching him reenact Swan Lake on ice I might’ve walked into traffic.”
You laughed—really laughed this time, because the image was too strong. Stiles grinned, proud of himself, basking in the glow of making you laugh like he’d just won a prize. And for a second, you almost chickened out again. But then he looked at you, all bright-eyed and ridiculous, cheeks pink from cold and cocoa and something else—and you thought, I can’t keep this a secret anymore.
So you took a breath. Then another. And then, in a voice that felt way too small to carry something this heavy:
“Hey. Stiles?”
“Yeah?”
You looked down at your cup. The marshmallows had mostly melted now, turning the top of the drink into a frothy mess. “I gotta tell you something,” you said. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m never gonna.” He stilled. Just a little. But you felt it. Like he braced for something. Like he knew. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I, um. I like you.” There. You’d said it. Your heart didn’t stop. The world didn’t end. Nobody screamed. The rink didn’t split open and swallow you whole.
But the silence was deafening.
You forced yourself to keep going, to fill the gap before it could echo too loud.
“Not like… just friend-like. I mean—I do like you like that, obviously, because you’re my best friend and you’re the funniest person I know and you always do this weird twitchy thing when you’re trying to lie, and your brain is like, terrifyingly fast but also completely chaotic, and you make me laugh even when I don’t want to, and—and I think I’ve liked you for a while now, like, a while, and—”
“Hey.”
You stopped. His voice was soft. Not shaky. Just… quiet.
You finally looked up.
Stiles was staring at you like you’d just told him the moon belonged to him. Like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like someone had switched the language on his entire life and he was just now learning how to read again.
“Seriously?” he asked.
Your heart dropped. “I—yeah. I mean, unless that’s, like, terrible news to you. In which case—"
“No! No. It’s not. It’s not terrible,” he said quickly, cup forgotten in his lap. “It’s just… wow. Okay. I need a second.”
You winced. “That bad, huh?”
He barked out a laugh—not the reaction you expected.
“No, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “You’ve been living rent-free in my brain for months and I thought I was the one being a total disaster about it.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait—what?”
Stiles looked straight at you then, cheeks flaming, mouth twitching with a smile that didn’t quite know where to go. “Yeah. I like you too. A lot. Always kinda have. I just thought… I dunno. That I’d ruin everything if I said something.”
Your laugh came out more like a breath of relief. “Oh my God.”
He grinned, leaning a little closer. “So, uh… you wanna ruin everything together?”
You looked at him, cheeks aching from smiling, heart still hammering, but lighter now. Way lighter.
“Yeah,” you said, bumping your knee against his. “Let’s be disasters. Together.”
Just then, a distant “I’M OKAY!” rang out from the rink as Scott collided, once again, with the barrier wall.
Stiles tilted his head. “You think we should tell him?”
You both watched as Scott dramatically rolled over and then gave a double thumbs-up to a nearby toddler.
“Nah,” you said, sipping your cocoa again. “Let’s let him figure it out the hard way.”
It took a few more minutes, and a lot more laughing, before the cold finally crept in enough that sitting still wasn’t really an option. Your fingers were starting to go numb around your cocoa cup, and Stiles had started doing this little bounce in his seat like he was trying to stay warm without actually moving from the comfort of the bench. Scott was back on the rink by now, doing an exaggerated slow-motion routine for the benefit of a group of giggling kids at the other end. One of them threw a snowball at him. It missed, but he dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been shot and went down like a tree.
Stiles elbowed you. “Okay, we can’t leave him out there unsupervised.”
You smirked. “He’s a danger to himself and others.”
“Exactly,” Stiles said, standing up and offering you his hand with mock gallantry. “Come on, partner in crime.”
You took it, grinning as he hauled you up and nearly overbalanced in the process.
“Whoa—easy!” you laughed as you both stumbled forward a step, ice skates catching awkwardly on the mat.
“I have the grace of a gazelle,” he insisted. “A very confused, gangly gazelle.”
“Noted,” you said, still holding his hand as you both made your way back to the rink entrance. “Lead the way, Bambi.”
“Rude.”
But he was smiling. You were both smiling. There was a lot of that happening now.
The cold slapped your cheeks again the second you stepped onto the ice, but it didn’t feel so sharp anymore. Maybe it was the cocoa. Maybe it was the laughter still stuck in your chest. Or maybe it was the way Stiles squeezed your hand once before letting go—only to nearly eat it on his next step and immediately grab for you again.
“Okay, nope, no letting go,” he muttered, clutching your sleeve like his life depended on it.
“You’ve skated before,” you reminded him, already adjusting your stance so you could steady the both of you.
“Yeah, and it went badly. Remember the bruised tailbone of ‘07? I do. It haunts me.”
You were too busy laughing to answer.
Scott spotted you both right away and made a beeline over, which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t decided to zoom toward you like he was reenacting the final scene of an ice-dancing drama. His scarf flapped behind him like a cape. His arms were outstretched.
You saw it coming too late.
“GUYS—CATCH ME—”
“Scott, no—!”
It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.
He hit you both at once, crashing into your side while also managing to trip over Stiles’ skate and somehow launch himself into a half-spin that would’ve been kind of impressive if he hadn’t slammed into you like a human wrecking ball.
But somehow—somehow—nobody fell.
You were tangled. Arms everywhere. Stiles clutching your waist, your hand wrapped around Scott’s elbow, Scott gripping both of your shoulders like he was on a lifeboat and you were the last bit of floating debris in the ocean.
Silence.
Then Scott, very solemnly, said: “I think I saw the face of God.”
Stiles groaned. “Get off me, dude.”
“Hey! I saved us from falling!”
“You caused the near-fall!”
“I added dramatic tension!”
You snorted, finally managing to extract your arm from between their shoulders and stand upright. “Okay, okay, reset. Everyone alive? No broken ribs?”
Scott patted himself down. “Only my pride.”
“I think you left that behind five minutes ago when you tried to do a twirl and crashed into that trash can,” you said.
“I was trying to dodge a kid!”
“She was five feet away.”
“She had a look in her eye! She was coming for me!”
You and Stiles both cracked up at that, and then the three of you started skating again—slower this time, more huddled together, like a three-person train of barely-functioning limbs and wheezing laughter. You held onto each other shamelessly, drifting around the rink in ungraceful loops, feet sliding out at odd angles, scarves flapping, cheeks pink and sore from smiling too hard.
Scott kept breaking off to attempt weird spins or finger-gun the other skaters, and each time he slipped, he’d flail wildly until one of you caught him. At one point, he accidentally pulled Stiles into a clumsy spin and then tripped over his own feet, dragging Stiles with him into what could only be described as a tangle of limbs and swear words.
You skated over, breathless from laughing. “You guys good?”
“Define good,” Stiles groaned from where he was half-sprawled on Scott’s back.
“We’re excellent,” Scott mumbled into the ice.
Eventually, you all got moving again, more careful this time, more about sticking close and bumping shoulders and being together than actually skating. The lights above glowed golden against the navy sky, and every now and then a puff of snow would catch the breeze and swirl past like glitter. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker crackled, switching to some poppy remix of a Christmas song none of you liked, and yet Stiles started singing under his breath anyway—off-key and dramatic—and Scott joined in with harmonies that almost worked.
And you?
You just skated beside them, cheeks aching, chest full, one hand occasionally brushing against Stiles’ as you looped around the rink again and again, like maybe if you just stayed in motion long enough, you could hold onto this night forever.
You didn’t realize how many laps you'd done until your legs started to ache in that warm, satisfying kind of way that meant you'd used muscles that hadn't been awake in weeks. Your cheeks hurt from grinning, and your throat was a little raw from laughing. Stiles had been at your side almost the whole time—sometimes clinging, sometimes gliding, always making some comment that bordered on brilliant or deeply dumb with no in-between.
Scott had finally gone off to test his “aerodynamic technique” one last time (which meant he was probably going to fall flat on his back again), so it was just the two of you coasting in a slow, lazy circle, close enough to bump shoulders every so often, not quite speaking.
You liked the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. It was warm.
And then—like a well-timed holiday movie cliché—someone cleared their throat nearby.
You turned just as one of the employees—a teenage girl in a puffer vest and a beanie that had seen better days—skated slowly past, holding a dangling piece of mistletoe above her head. She was grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing.
“Merry Christmas,” she sang, and then, with all the enthusiasm of someone getting paid minimum wage but absolutely living for teen drama, she added, “Rink’s closing, lovebirds. Last lap.”
You opened your mouth to correct her—lovebirds? Please—only to realize the mistletoe was hanging right over your heads.
Stiles noticed it at the same time you did.
He froze.
Actually, you froze too.
The music had dipped into something softer now, bells chiming under strings, that slow orchestral swell that felt like a quiet end rather than a loud finish. Around you, the other skaters were slowly making their way toward the exits, a murmur of chatter and tired laughter following them. But for just a second, it was like the rink had stilled around the two of you.
You looked at Stiles.
He looked at you.
The employee, watching from a safe distance now, covered her mouth and giggled.
“I mean—” Stiles started.
You beat him to it. “It’s tradition,” you said, breath coming a little faster now. “Right?”
His voice cracked just slightly when he said, “Yeah. It—it totally is.”
You didn’t know who leaned in first.
It might’ve been both of you.
The kiss wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. His breath was cold against your cheek. One of your skates slipped just slightly and he had to steady you with a hand at your waist. But when your lips met, everything else—the cold, the awkwardness, the crowd—went quiet.
It was soft. Careful.
Warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cocoa or the bundled-up coats or the string lights still twinkling overhead.
It only lasted a second. Maybe two.
But it was enough.
You both pulled back slowly, eyes still locked. Stiles' cheeks were flaming, and your heart was pounding, but neither of you moved away. Not really. Not even when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone gliding toward you at full, uncoordinated speed.
Scott.
“Merry Christmas, suckers!” he announced at full volume, slamming to a stop and throwing one arm around each of your shoulders in a dramatic half-hug.
Before either of you could react, he leaned in and kissed both your cheeks—yours first, then Stiles’—and then grinned like he’d just delivered a diplomatic victory.
“What just happened?” he asked brightly. “Do I need to pretend I didn’t see anything, or are we already naming your future kids?”
“Scott,” Stiles said, voice strangled.
You groaned, covering your face.
“Wait, wait, let me guess,” Scott added, pulling back with a mock-thoughtful expression. “Merry Crisp-mas, right? Because the tension was crispy as hell.”
Stiles made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a slow collapse of all his social defenses.
You bumped Scott with your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
He beamed. “And yet you love me.”
But Stiles turned back to you then, still a little pink, eyes soft in the glow of the lights. He wasn’t smiling now—not the way he usually did when he was trying to cover how big his emotions could get.
He just looked at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best way.
“Merry Christmas,” he said quietly.
You smiled back, heart full and breathless. “Merry Christmas, Stilinski.”
And even as Scott started singing off-key next to you and the rink lights began to dim, that warm, fluttery feeling stayed tucked behind your ribs, steady and real.
Because this? This was yours.
~~
You spotted Scott first, predictably a mess of flailing limbs and big energy, backpack sliding off one shoulder. Stiles wasn’t far behind, chasing after him with wild, exaggerated steps, his voice carrying across the parking lot even though you couldn’t make out the words.
They were laughing, tripping over each other like puppies, Scott tossing something (a crumpled piece of paper?) at Stiles and Stiles catching it against his chest with a dramatic stumble. He fired back with a wad of notebook paper so hard Scott yelped and ducked behind a very confused girl. You could hear Stiles' cackling even from the car.
You leaned your head against the back of the seat, a dopey grin pulling at your mouth. God, he was so him — ridiculous, chaotic, pure Stiles Stilinski energy. It filled the whole parking lot, the way he lit up any room without even trying.
Like he felt you watching — because he always did — his head snapped toward the Jeep mid-giggle. The second his eyes found you through the windshield, he froze like a deer in headlights.
You could see it happen: the realization creeping in, the way his face went from bright and open to pink and startled in less than a second. His laughter stuttered to a halt, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to run but couldn’t decide whether it should be toward you or the other way.
You just smiled wider, soft and patient and warm in a way reserved only for him.
His ears turned a violent shade of red.
Scott, oblivious as always, threw an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tried to tug him along toward the parking lot, still babbling about something you couldn’t hear. Stiles stumbled after him, but his gaze kept flickering back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile and hide at the same time.
He nudged Scott with his elbow a little harder than necessary, muttering something that made Scott peel away with a loud groan and an exaggerated gagging sound, waving his arms like he was being attacked by secondhand embarrassment.
Stiles jogged awkwardly toward the Jeep after that, still pink in the face, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt like it might save him from combusting.
You didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just watched him with that same stupid, smitten grin.
By the time he yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat beside you, his blush had reached critical levels. He couldn't meet your eyes, staring determinedly at the steering wheel instead.
"Hey, babe," you said softly, still smiling so much it hurt.
He made a noise — something between a huff and a whimper — and finally risked a glance at you, biting his lower lip hard enough to turn it white.
"Hi," he said, voice cracking, wrecked and breathless like just looking at you had fried all his brain cells at once.
And you swear to God, you’d never been more in love with anything in your life.
Stiles sits there for a second, all awkward limbs and red ears, gripping the steering wheel like it might help him hold onto the moment. His mouth is twitching at the corners, like he’s trying really hard not to smile too much, but failing miserably.
“Hi,” he repeats, quieter this time, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.
You lean a little closer across the console, resting your chin in your palm. “Hi.”
He huffs out a laugh, finally letting himself look at you full-on. His whole face softens, like the tension in his shoulders just gives up the fight the second your eyes meet his.
“You’ve been waiting long?” he asks, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.
You shake your head. “Nah. Figured I’d get comfy while I had the Jeep all to myself. Smells like you in here. Kinda miss it sometimes.”
Stiles snorts. “It’s probably just a mix of Axe, fast food fries, and my dad’s coffee spill from last week.”
“Still smells like you,” you say with a soft shrug, your voice going all gooey, and his face practically combusts again.
He laughs, flustered, and rubs the back of his buzzed head with one hand, cheeks glowing. “You are literally the worst. And by worst, I mean the best, which is so unfair.”
You lean in and steal a quick kiss, just a soft press of lips, lingering for half a second longer than necessary. When you pull back, he’s blinking at you like his brain has short-circuited.
“Hi again,” you whisper, and he giggles helplessly.
“You are such a menace,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. He looks like he could float right out of his seat.
You reach down into your lap and lift the bag up. “Here, Stiles. Your lucky outfit. You’re gonna crush it.”
He takes it reverently, holding the handles like it might disintegrate if he’s not gentle enough. “You brought it,” he says, like he still can’t believe you’re real.
You nod, smiling. “Told you I’d help. You’re gonna look sharp. Hirable. Like the charming, competent, adorably chaotic employee of the month you’re destined to be.”
He barks out a laugh. “Adorably chaotic, huh?”
“Like a golden retriever in khaki shorts.”
“You’re so lucky I’m into you,” he mumbles, shaking his head as he unzips the bag and peeks inside. “God, this is perfect.”
You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just a moment too long before nudging his shoulder. “Go get changed, Stilinski. Interviewer awaits.”
He clutches the bag tighter, nodding with a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ve got this. I have got this.”
“Damn right you do.”
He opens the door, then pauses, turning back with that look — the one that’s half soft panic, half warm affection. “Wait here?”
You smile like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “Always.”
He beams at you, full teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s off — all long legs and awkward enthusiasm, jogging back toward the school doors with the bag bouncing against his hip, calling something at Scott as he vanishes inside.
And all you can do is watch him go, heart full to bursting.
You watch the doors like you’ve got tunnel vision, elbows resting on the open window, fingers curled just under your chin as the sun starts to shift. It casts long, soft shadows across the dashboard, and you catch yourself tracing little patterns in the dust on the glove compartment—absently, aimlessly, in that warm, fizzy sort of headspace that only ever seems to hit when you’re thinking about him.
It’s not even five minutes before Stiles bursts back out of the building, practically skipping steps down the front stairs with the outfit you picked clinging to him in the best way possible. The khaki shorts are a little wrinkled from the bag, but he’s tugged the polo shirt into place like it matters, and he’s even wearing your jacket — a little big on him in the shoulders, the sleeves tugged over his hands, the hem swishing as he jogs.
He looks nervous and shiny with effort, his backpack bouncing on one shoulder like he didn’t take the time to shove it into a locker, which tracks. His face is pink again — probably from rushing, but maybe also from the fact that you’re still sitting there, exactly where he left you, smiling at him like he’s the whole damn sun.
He doesn’t even stop to greet you. Just throws the driver’s side door open, tosses his backpack into the backseat, and slides in with a breathless, “Okay, okay, let’s go, let’s go.”
You blink, brows raising. “Wow. That was fast. You break land-speed records getting changed?”
“I didn’t even fully button the fly until I was halfway down the hallway,” he mutters, fumbling with the keys. “I can’t be late. They’ll think I’m irresponsible. What if I’m late and they’re like ‘Wow, classic, look at this clown, total liability, can’t even show up on time, hope he doesn’t burn the fries’—”
“Stiles,” you say, laughing as the Jeep jerks into motion and he throws it into reverse with more aggression than necessary. “Deep breaths. You’re fine. We’re early. Like, extra early.”
“Which means we won’t get stuck behind a tractor or a school bus or a pack of angry geese or whatever Beacon Hills decides to throw at us today, thankfully,” he says, eyes darting between mirrors.
You reach over without thinking, smoothing down the edge of his collar. “You look good,” you murmur, fingers brushing under the collarbone seam and fixing where it folded awkwardly at the dip of his neck. “Really good.”
He makes a strangled sound. “No, I don’t. I look like I’m cosplaying ‘acceptable teenage employee number four.’”
You shift a little closer in your seat, hand drifting down to press flat against his chest for a second. “Stiles, you’re literally the cutest thing on the road right now. If you got pulled over, it’d be for excessive handsomeness.”
He snorts, cheeks flushing red again. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re adorable.”
“That’s not gonna help me grill nuggets.”
“Grill nuggets?”
“I’m stressed, don’t correct me.”
You laugh again and gently tug his sleeve, straightening the edge of your jacket where it’s bunched at his elbow. “You’re gonna do great. You’re gonna be charming and fidgety and enthusiastic and they’ll see how much you wanna do a good job and they’ll love you for it.”
He goes quiet for a second, hands tightening on the wheel. The streets are calm, the sun low enough now that it’s turning everything gold. You glance at his profile — the way his buzzed hair still manages to stick up in the wrong places, how the tip of his tongue pokes out when he’s trying not to smile.
“I’m really glad you’re here,” he mumbles after a beat, so quiet it’s nearly lost under the hum of the engine.
You reach over and lace your fingers through his, guiding one hand off the wheel just for a second. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He squeezes your hand and, for a second, he stops fidgeting.
As the Jeep rumbles down the quiet street, the tires humming over the asphalt, Stiles finally settles into a more consistent rhythm. His shoulders are still high with tension, though, and you can practically feel the little storms of anxious energy swirling in his head. He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, bouncing his knee and glancing between the rearview and side mirrors like they're going to start whispering judgments at him.
"Okay, okay, okay,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “What if they ask me why I want to work there and I freeze? What if I forget the name of the manager? What if I—"
“Stiles,” you say gently, your voice soft as you lean against the passenger-side door, watching him with warm amusement, “you’ve rehearsed this interview in the mirror, like, seventeen times. I watched you rehearse it. Twice. In accents.”
“I blacked out for both of those,” he replies, half-serious, glancing at you with wide eyes. “You ever watch your own reflection and feel like it’s judging you in real time?”
“Only when I'm not with you.”
He snorts, finally cracking a smile, and his fingers twitch against the steering wheel like maybe he wants to reach for your hand again.
“You don’t have to be perfect, babe,” you say, tone light but sincere. “They just wanna see you. And you’re—y’know—you. You’re energetic, and smart, and you care. You’re gonna do great. And if you trip over your words a little? You’ll still be the most lovable thing in that whole building.”
Stiles makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “You’re gonna make me crash.”
“You won’t. Your panic reflexes are too strong.”
“Okay, yeah, fair,” he admits, breathing out hard through his nose. “I once dodged a deer with my dad’s cruiser going forty.”
“Exactly. A job interview’s nothing compared to a rogue woodland creature.”
The golden arches come into view up ahead, glowing faintly against the late afternoon sky. You watch as Stiles swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he pulls into the parking lot. He parks with a little too much force—braking too fast—and then stares out through the windshield like he’s contemplating the meaning of life. You lean over, reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble-dotted edge of it before guiding him to face you. His eyes flick to yours, and they’re wide and nervous, but still sparkling with that light only he seems to carry.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Come here.”
He leans across the console and you meet him halfway, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s slow and warm and grounding. Not rushed, not too deep. Just the kind that says: I see you. I’m proud of you. I’ve got you. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded and glassy, like you just knocked every anxious thought out of him in one go.
“You’ve got this,” you murmur. “No matter what happens in there, whether they offer you the job or not, I’m proud of you. So proud.”
He nods, lips twitching. “Yeah?”
“Always.”
He huffs a breath, pushing the car door open with one hand and holding the bag with the other. “Okay. Okay, cool. I’m gonna go. I’m going. Right now.”
“I believe in you, cutie with a buzz.”
He groans under his breath and throws one last look over his shoulder as he closes the door. “You suck.”
You grin. “Love you too.”
He disappears inside, and you’re left alone in the Jeep with the echo of your kiss and the smell of his cologne clinging to the seatbelt, heart full and already counting down the seconds until he comes back out.
The hum of passing cars fades into the background as you sit there, still angled in your seat like he might walk right back out any second. The golden arches above the restaurant cast that familiar neon haze over the lot, and inside the Jeep it’s warm with late sun and the lingering scent of him—fabric softener and cheap shampoo and something sharper, something that's just Stiles. It feels a little like summer, even though it’s barely spring. The kind of day that makes your skin buzz a little, even if nothing’s happening.
You rest your cheek against the seat, watching the front doors where he vanished, and your mind drifts. You think about how far you’ve both come. How, a couple years ago, Stiles couldn’t even make eye contact with a cashier without stammering through six filler words and a small breakdown, and now he’s in there trying to land a job, trying to grow up—choosing to take a step forward. Even if it’s just flipping burgers and wearing a visor, it’s still something he chose.
And that’s kind of the beautiful thing about Stiles. For all the noise, the chaos, the impulsive tangents and nervous energy that feels like it could spark something on fire, underneath all that is someone who cares. So much. Maybe too much. He tries so hard, sometimes he runs himself ragged doing it. He overthinks because he wants to get things right. He spirals because he’s afraid of messing up what matters.
You know, deep down, that he’s probably in there right now talking at warp speed, tripping over his own enthusiasm, voice pitching up with every third sentence, hands moving like he’s explaining a math equation in midair. And yet, despite all that, he’s probably winning them over without even realizing it. Because there’s something impossible not to love about someone who just feels everything that much.
Your fingers toy absentmindedly with the strap of your bag, and you smile softly to yourself. He’ll come out flushed and wired, buzzing from adrenaline and second-guessing every single answer he gave. You’ll talk him down, like always. Tell him he did great. Kiss his forehead or ruffle his hair until he cracks a grin and groans, “You’re so annoying,” like it’s the highest compliment he can give.
It’s strange, how something as small as waiting for him in his car can make you feel so full—like your chest isn’t big enough to hold it all. You love him. You love this. The simplicity of being trusted enough to have a spare key, to sit here and wait, to see him run off into the unknown and know that he’ll come back looking for you.
Your gaze drifts up to the McDonald’s window, wondering if he’s sitting in a hard plastic chair, legs bouncing, fingers knotting together in his lap, doing that thing where he bites his lip until it’s redder than it should be. And maybe he’s thinking about you too. Maybe knowing you’re out here makes it easier.
You rest your head against the window with a small sigh and close your eyes for a second. The world hums on. The sun keeps dipping. And still, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—waiting for Stiles Stilinski to come back out, heart full of hope and hands ready to hold his.
Time drips by slowly, like honey from the edge of a spoon. The kind of waiting that feels stretched thin, but not in a bad way—just soft around the edges, tinted golden by the sinking sun and heavy with expectation. A breeze rattles the few wrappers in the parking lot, and you adjust your position in the seat, stretching your legs a little as you glance at the dashboard clock again.
It’s been… longer than you expected. Maybe twenty minutes? Twenty-five? You lose count somewhere between checking your phone and daydreaming about the way Stiles' face lights up when he gets excited about things like space documentaries or really obscure facts about wild mushrooms. You’re not worried—just curious. Curious about how he’s doing, what he’s saying, whether he remembered to breathe between sentences.
A kid walks out with a milkshake and slams the door behind him. An older guy in uniform shouts something back at someone inside. You watch it all pass like a quiet movie, until—
There he is.
Stiles bursts out of the doors like a spring wound too tight, full of nervous energy and flushed cheeks and the kind of restless momentum that screams adrenaline. He’s halfway jogging, his arms a little too animated, his mouth already moving even though no one’s with him to hear what he’s saying. His backpack bounces against his side and his shirt is rumpled like he’s been fidgeting with it the whole time.
You’re out of the car before he even makes it to the Jeep, heart tugging you forward because he just looks so Stiles. So alive. So him.
He sees you and immediately lifts his hands like he’s about to start explaining the chemical makeup of nerves themselves.
“I don’t even remember what I said in there, oh my god, I think I blacked out for a minute, again—like, legit blackout, like the kind where you come back and your mouth is still moving but your brain’s playing elevator music—and I definitely used the word ‘synergy’ unironically, and then I tried to make a joke and I don’t even know if it landed, and—”
“Stiles.”
You step in, close the distance, and kiss him. Just once, quick and grounding, your hands coming up to cup his face as you do. He melts instantly, shutting up with a soft “mmf” sound and blinking rapidly as he looks at you like you just stopped time with your mouth.
“Breathe,” you say gently, grinning as you slide your hands to the sides of his neck. “Start with that.”
He does, dragging in a huge inhale like he hasn’t taken one since walking in.
You ruffle his buzzed hair with affection, thumb sweeping across the curve of his warm cheek. “You did it, baby. I’m proud of you.”
He bites his lip, hands fluttering at his sides for a second before he finally lets them land on your waist, gripping tight like he needs to anchor himself. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze, tucking your chin over his shoulder. He’s trembling just a little.
“I—okay, so, like, not to be dramatic or anything,” he starts, muffled into your neck, “but I think I almost puked on the floor in there.”
You laugh softly, rubbing his back. “Sounds about right.”
“But I didn’t! I kept it together. Kinda. I think. And—okay, this is the part I don’t believe myself yet—I got it.”
You pull back.
“What?”
His ears are red. His grin is crooked and sheepish and so insanely proud, like he’s not sure if he should be proud yet but is doing it anyway.
“They offered me the job,” he says, voice half-wheeze, half-laugh. “Like, actual hired me. I start next week. They’re gonna send me the training schedule tonight.”
You blink at him for a beat, stunned—then your face splits into the kind of smile that hurts your cheeks.
“Stiles Stilinski, you beautiful, brilliant, disastrously handsome disaster, you did it!”
He squeaks out something between a laugh and a breathless noise of disbelief as you throw your arms around him again, this time lifting him a little as you hug him tightly. He clutches you back like a lifeline, his grin pressed against your shoulder, and when you let him go just enough to look at him again, he’s glowing.
“I got a job,” he says, like he needs to hear it out loud to believe it. “I actually got a freaking job.”
You kiss his nose. “You deserve that job.”
“And they said they liked how enthusiastic I was, which—what? What? I was literally vibrating. I think I saluted at one point. Oh god, I did, didn’t I—”
“You did great. You’re perfect,” you say, punctuating each word with a peck to his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth.
He’s laughing now, eyes crinkling with joy, and you hold him close again, grounding him with warmth and kisses and soft affirmations. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in a parking lot under a fading sun—future coworkers and schedules and burgers be damned.
You’re proud of him. You’re in love with him. And right now, the whole world feels like it’s turning in the exact direction it’s supposed to.
~~
He’s got that look again—like he’s going to vibrate straight out of his own skin.
You’re leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like it’s a personal performance just for you. Stiles is moving like a man possessed, frantic energy spilling from every clumsy motion. His black McDonald’s polo is half-tucked, half-wrinkled, like it fought him this morning and almost won. He’s hopping in uneven circles while trying to get one sock over his ankle, breath coming fast, mumbling nonsense to himself.
You’re trying really hard not to smile, but it’s impossible. He’s too much. In the best way.
“Okay, okay,” he mutters, not even looking at you, “I have my ID, I have my schedule, I have deodorant, I think. Did I put on deodorant? Shit—smell me real quick—wait, no, that’s weird. Don’t smell me. I’ll reapply. I can reapply. It’s fine. I’ll just—oh my God, I’m going to die in a vat of fryer oil and be buried in a McNugget box.”
“You’re gonna be great, babe.”
He stops mid-rant, finally looking at you. “You have to say that. You’re contractually obligated as my lover to say stuff like that.”
“I’m not under contract. I’m under the influence.” You grin, stepping into the room and catching his face between your hands. “Of how cute you look in that ridiculous uniform.”
Stiles flushes immediately, the buzzcut doing nothing to hide the red creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that. I already feel like an overcooked mozzarella stick, you can’t just flirt at me like that.”
“I can and I will,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his jaw. It’s smooth—baby soft, freshly shaven, still carrying the faint scent of the generic foam he insists on using. You lean in a little, close enough to feel his breath stutter against your lips.
“Oh God, do you think they’ll make me do drive-thru on my first day? I don’t even know how to work a headset. What if I mess up someone’s order and they throw hot coffee at me through the window? What if I drop a McFlurry and slip on it and fall directly into the fryer like some tragic fast-food final destination moment? What if I get arrested for involuntary food manslaughter?!”
You blink. “That’s not a real thing.”
“It could be!”
“Stiles.”
His name in your voice quiets him a little. Just a little. He stops and meets your eyes, hairline damp with nerves and his chest rising too fast. His lips part like he’s going to start again, another tumble of fear and overthinking about fryer grease and minimum wage and what the hell a Filet-O-Fish even is, but you just gently frame his face in your hands.
His skin’s warm. You can feel his heartbeat jumping under your fingers, fast and uncertain.
“Hey,” you say, quiet. “You’re okay.”
He tries to scoff, but it comes out more like a breathy wheeze. “I’m a wreck.”
“You’re adorable.”
“You’re biased.”
“Of course I am. I have taste.”
He groans and tilts his head back like he’s praying for patience. “You are impossibly unhelpful.”
“I’m helping you chill out. With my charm. And my devastating good looks.”
“You are a menace.” But his lips twitch—fighting a smile, always fighting the smile when you do this to him. It’s like he wants to stay panicked, like it gives him structure. But then you’re this—soft and steady and smirking at him like he’s already won—and the panic slips sideways into something warmer, something gentler.
You slide your thumbs across his cheekbones, grounding him. “You’re gonna go in there, clock in, and prove everyone wrong. You’re smart, you’re quick, and you care way too much about doing everything perfectly.”
“I’m also clumsy, awkward, and prone to catastrophic thought spirals about dipping sauces.”
You kiss him. Not hard. Just soft, slow, lips pressing into his until he stops talking. Until he exhales against you. He always melts like this when you kiss him first—like his brain short-circuits and everything in his head hushes for one goddamn second. You feel his hands curl into the hem of your shirt, not gripping, just holding, like he needs something to keep him grounded.
You pull back just far enough to whisper against his lips, “You’re gonna do amazing.”
He breathes you in like oxygen, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re a little glassy.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say. “And if anyone gives you shit, just remember you’ve got a personal cutie who’s more than willing to show up at 10 p.m. and commit a light felony on your behalf.”
That gets a real laugh out of him. Quick and embarrassed and full of fondness. He steps back with a shake of his head and drags a hand over his buzzed hair. “God, you’re ridiculous.”
You shrug. “You love me.”
“I do. Unfortunately.”
You watch him double-check his bag for the fifth time, patting pockets, muttering about gum and his schedule and wondering if it’s weird to bring his own pen. And then he stands there in the doorway, still and awkward, like he’s not sure what comes next.
So you step forward, wrap your arms around his middle, and hold him close.
He exhales into your shoulder, all the tension in his body pulling tight and then slowly unraveling, piece by piece.
“I’m proud of you,” you murmur into his ear. “For real.”
He squeezes you back. Quietly. No more rambling, no more jokes. Just him, holding on a second longer than necessary, until he finally pulls back.
“Okay,” he says softly, voice steadier now. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”
“You’ve got this.”
“I do.” A breath. “I do, right?”
You give him a smile he can hang on to. “You do.”
And then he’s gone, jogging down the stairs, fumbling with his keys, and yelling something to his dad that you can’t quite make out. And you stand there in the empty doorway, listening to the door shut, heart full and warm and already counting down the hours until he calls you again—nervous and breathless and needing you all over again.
Just the way you like him.
Honestly, The house felt hollow without him.
You hadn't realized how much noise Stiles carried until it was gone—like a trail of clutter and muttering and half-baked theories that usually followed him around. Now the silence was oppressive. You’d tried to distract yourself. Laundry. Scrolling. A game on mute. Even watched half an episode of some random show you'd already seen before just to fill the space. But the whole time, your mind kept drifting back to him—wondering if he was okay, if the headset finally stayed on, if his manager was being cool or if that new-kid awkwardness was clinging to him like fryer grease.
You checked your phone too many times. You typed out a couple “how’s it going?” texts and deleted them. You figured he’d let you know if something was wrong.
It turned out you didn’t have to wait long.
Your phone buzzed hard against the arm of the couch around 5:47pm—just late enough into his shift that something had clearly snapped. His name lit up your screen, and you answered before the second ring even hit.
“Hey—”
“Oh my God, I spilled two milkshakes, I slipped—like, full-on slipped—on a wet floor sign next to the wet floor sign, and I think I accidentally rang in fifteen McChickens instead of one and then had to void the whole order but the system froze so I had to get Terri to come over and un-jam it and she gave me this look, like I’d just pissed on the register. I think the new guy saw me trip, and also the headset keeps, like, echoing my own voice into my ear so I sound like a stammering idiot every time I try to say ‘Welcome to McDonald’s,’ and the ice cream machine started beeping and I don’t even know why because I swear I didn’t touch it, and I—I’m so bad at this. I’m—this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I once tried to wax my own chest with duct tape—”
“Stiles.”
“—and I burned my wrist because the fry basket thing slipped when I was—”
“Stiles.”
“—and I forgot to punch out for break and then tried to retroactively do it, but apparently you’re not supposed to do that? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I—”
“Baby.”
He fell silent.
You exhaled softly and sat up straighter on the couch. “First of all, you’re not dying. Second, you didn’t accidentally launch a nuke, you just had a normal shift at a shitty fast-food job. Everyone spills stuff. Everyone trips. Everyone screws up the POS system, and if your manager's not giving you clear training, that’s on them, not you.”
A shaky breath filtered through the line. You could hear the dull, muted chaos behind him—orders being called, grease crackling, the beep-beep-beep of some back timer going off.
“I feel like I’m… I don’t know. Drowning?” he said, his voice smaller now. Not the frantic rant from before, but raw. Close. “Like I’m just—flailing in this ocean of soda syrup and mustard packets and everyone else is just swimming laps around me.”
You closed your eyes, letting his words settle in your chest. “You’re not flailing. You’re learning. That’s what this is. And I promise you, no one there has it all together. They’re just better at faking it.”
There was a pause.
“…I got ketchup on my shoe,” he whispered miserably.
“Tragic.”
“And the floor’s sticky in the breakroom.”
“Call the police.”
He let out a choked laugh that turned into a soft, pathetic sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “I’m not cut out for this, babe.”
“You’re cut out for everything. You just weren’t born knowing how to operate a headset and scoop fries and decode corporate fast food nonsense all at once. Nobody is. You just need to get through tonight.”
Another pause.
“I kind of want you to come here.”
“I kind of already have my keys in my hand.”
“You—wait, really?”
“Yeah, babe. I’m kinda on my way.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Kinda already locking the door.”
He was quiet for a second. You could picture him there in the tiny backroom, curled in on himself, hoodie bunched up under his stupid uniform, hair flattened under that dumb visor, mouth red from chewing his lip.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You’re… I mean. You’re kind of everything.”
“I know,” you teased, shouldering your hoodie and stepping out into the night.
And when you climbed into the car and started the engine, there was already a plan forming in the back of your mind—a slow burn of want curling through your gut. He’d sounded so fragile, so wound up, so wreckable. And if he thought you were just coming there to talk him down…
Well, he was in for a hell of a comfort shift.
The drive felt longer than it actually was.
Beacon Hills wasn’t big, but when someone you loved sounded like they were hanging on by a thread—frantic, flushed, tangled up in his own nerves—every red light was a personal insult. You drummed your fingers against the wheel, headlights bouncing over familiar signs and sleepy storefronts, your chest buzzing with a mix of protectiveness and low-simmering heat.
Stiles always wore his anxiety on the surface. He didn't hide it; he couldn't. It lived in his fingers, the way they twitched or drummed or curled into sleeves. It lived in his breath—fast, shallow, rushed like it might forget how to come back in. You’d seen it a hundred times: when he was late to class, when his dad got called out on a tough case, when his shoelace snapped and he thought it meant the whole day was cursed.
But this was different.
This wasn’t school nerves. This wasn’t test-taking panic or awkward social tension. This was him trying to step into something new, trying to be an adult, trying to not mess it all up—and every little bump was hitting harder because he cared. Because he wanted to do well. Because he wanted someone—anyone—to look at him and say, you’re doing okay, kid. You’ve got this.
And tonight, that someone was going to be you.
You reached over and turned the heat up a notch, like it might hold you over until you got your hands on him.You were going to wrap your arms around him, hold him against your chest until he remembered how to breathe, kiss his stupid little visor right off his head if that’s what it took.
The McDonald’s lights were visible before you even turned into the parking lot—neon yellows and reds casting long, tired shadows across the asphalt. It wasn’t busy anymore. Just a few cars in the drive-thru. Most of the windows were dark except for the glow behind the counter and the dull blue light leaking out from the back hallway where staff came and went.
You pulled in slow, parking just off to the side where employees usually stood during breaks. The air smelled like fryer oil and half-burnt coffee, and it clung to everything. Even from here, you could see someone mopping through the front—a blur of motion and yellow “CAUTION” signs—and your stomach tugged.
Because you knew he was in there.
You knew he was somewhere in that building, buzzing out of his skin, twisting his fingers into his hoodie sleeves, probably pacing a line into the tile, telling himself he was messing everything up.
And you were about to walk in and make him feel like the most wanted, seen, safe person on Earth.
Your phone buzzed in the cupholder. One new message from Stiles:
Backroom. Please don’t laugh when you see me. I look like a gremlin.
You stared at the screen for a second, smiling gently.
Then you sent back:
You’re my favorite gremlin. On my way in. Don’t melt.
You grabbed your hoodie from the passenger seat, tugged it on over your tee, and stepped into the night.
You were about to give him the only kind of relief that actually mattered—more than touching, more than teasing.
Love that wraps around you and doesn’t let go. Love that whispers: You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re enough.
And you were going to remind him of that until he believed it. Until every last crack in him had been kissed quiet.
The moment you stepped through the double doors, the greasy hum of fluorescent lights and the low hiss of fryer oil hit you like a wave. It smelled like salt and stress and plastic-wrapped baked apple pies, and the tile squeaked under your shoes like it didn’t want you there.
You didn’t care.
You made a beeline for the counter, eyes scanning the inside with practiced calm, like you belonged there. And technically? You did. Your boyfriend was in the back losing his mind, and you were here to fix it.
There was a girl wiping down the milkshake station, blonde braid hanging over one shoulder, her visor crooked at a charming angle of not-giving-a-damn. She glanced up when she saw you, blinking at first—then pausing, looking you up and down like she was trying to place something. Her eyes widened slightly, and she let out this soft little, ohhh, under her breath.
“I’m here to see Stiles,” you said, not even bothering to lower your voice, your hands planted casually in your hoodie pocket. “He called me.”
Her whole face lit up like a rom-com meet-cute just exploded in her brain. “Oh, you’re his?”
You blinked. “Yeah?”
She grinned, eyes sparkling now, tossing her cleaning rag on the counter like it no longer mattered. “Dude’s been pacing in the backroom like it’s a damn telenovela. Full-on muttering, pulling at his sleeves, acting like he just set fire to the kitchen or something. I figured he was talking to someone important, but this is cute.”
She didn’t wait for you to respond—just jerked her thumb toward the back like she was already halfway invested in your love story. “Come on. He’s all freaked out and pink in the face. It’s either endearing or tragic, I haven’t decided.”
You followed her past the registers, the overhead menu screens still glowing like hollow billboards in the dark. The kitchen smelled stronger back here—more oil, more cleaner, more burnt starch—and the sound of timers ticking down and headset chatter fuzzing in the background wrapped around everything.
“Just back here,” she said, pushing open the swinging door labeled “STAFF ONLY.” “Try not to break him.”
You huffed a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”
As soon as you stepped through the backroom door, the difference was immediate. It was quieter—still buzzing faintly with the building’s hum, the occasional ding from a timer—but otherwise dim, cramped, and a little too warm. Boxes stacked along the walls. Wire shelves full of paper cups and ketchup packets. A narrow bench pressed up under a mounted coat rack, someone’s half-finished soda sweating onto the floor.
And there—curled into himself like a stormcloud in human form—was Stiles.
He was standing in the far corner, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms and his McDonald’s polo bunching awkwardly around his waist like it didn’t quite know how to sit on his frame. His head was down, visor casting a shadow across his buzzed hair, one hand raking through the stubble like he was trying to find an escape hatch in his own scalp. His mouth was moving—talking to himself, still going—and you could catch the faint edges of it:
“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. It’s just a job, it’s just a job, nobody died—unless I gave someone the wrong order and now they’re allergic to pickles and—fuck, no, no, Stiles, stop—just breathe, just—okay but the fries were overcooked and now they think I don’t care—God, I probably look like I’m high or something—”
You stepped into the room, quiet but deliberate.
“Hey.”
He spun so fast he nearly knocked over a crate of straws. His eyes were wide, frantic, and when they landed on you—real, present, warm and solid—his whole expression cracked.
“You came.”
You stepped forward slowly, hands still in your hoodie pocket, voice gentle like you were trying not to spook a wild animal. “Of course I came. You sounded like you were about to collapse in on yourself like a dying star.”
“I—okay, yes, that’s probably accurate,” he said in a half-laugh, half-wheeze. “I just—I didn’t expect you to actually—like, you had your night. You were doing your stuff. And now you’re in here, and I look like the end of a stress PSA.”
You tilted your head and smiled, soft and full of something warmer than just affection. You stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back a little to keep eye contact.
“You’re the best part of my night, Stiles,” you said, voice low. “Of course I came.”
He looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. Like his brain short-circuited on kindness alone. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t think he was allowed.
So you closed the space yourself.
One hand reached up, curled around the back of his neck, thumb brushing gently under the edge of his dumb drive-thru headset. The other slid to his waist, fingers hooking into the hem of his polo like it was a lifeline. His breath caught. His shoulders dropped, just a little.
And then, finally, he exhaled. Like your presence was permission to let go.
“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I got you. You’re okay. I’m here.”
He nodded once, just barely.
Then he leaned into your chest and whispered, voice breaking, “I missed you so bad.”
You held him tighter.
“Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”
He sank into you like he’d been waiting to fall.
Every muscle in his body let go the second your arms wrapped around him—like all the tension that had been knotting up in his chest since his shift started suddenly had somewhere to go. His breath hitched again, not like panic this time, but like relief—like he was holding back a sound he didn’t know if he was allowed to make.
You pressed your face into his hair, the faintest whiff of fryer grease clinging to the buzzed strands, and held him closer.
“Deep breath, baby,” you whispered against his temple. “Come on. Just one. In through your nose.”
He followed you, a shaky inhale filling his chest where it was pressed against yours.
“Good. Now out.”
Another breath, this one steadier. His hands finally unclenched from the bottom hem of his hoodie and crept around your back, squeezing tightly like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.
“You’ve been doing so good,” you murmured, peppering soft, featherlight kisses along the top of his head, his temple, the curve of his cheekbone. “You’ve only been working here a few hours and you already care this much. That’s not failure, Stiles. That’s you giving a shit. And it’s beautiful.”
He let out a choked little laugh. “It’s a literal minimum wage job. I shouldn’t be this stressed about deep-frying potato product.”
“That doesn’t make your feelings less real,” you said, pressing a kiss under his ear. “You can be overwhelmed and still be doing amazing.”
You felt him shiver.
Maybe it was the kisses. Maybe it was your voice low and soft and warm in his ear. Maybe it was the pressure of your hands sliding slow and firm up his back, grounding him.
Or maybe—just maybe—it was the way he’d been shaking apart in private for hours, alone in this shitty, overlit fast-food hellscape, and now here you were: solid, warm, steady. A break in the noise. A safe place to land.
Your fingers trailed down his arms, thumbs sweeping softly along his wrists. He’d rolled his hoodie sleeves halfway up, and there was a red mark blooming near the inside of one. You kissed it gently.
“This the burn?” you murmured against his skin.
He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Fryer tray. It hissed like a demon.”
You kissed the mark again, even softer. “Well, you survived. My brave little grease warrior.”
He let out another breath, this one a little more laugh than sigh. He tilted his head up, and you finally got a good look at his face.
Cheeks still flushed. Mouth bitten pink. Eyes wide and glassy, lashes clumped slightly from the heat in the backroom. The black visor was tilted too far forward again, casting a shadow over his buzzed head, and for a brief second—just a flicker—you had the thought again:
He looks so goddamn good like this.
Tense. Overworked. Pink in the face from stress and stubbornness. That ugly polo stretched tight over his chest. The fabric of his khaki pants tugged in all the wrong places. And that visor, crooked and dumb and so Stiles, sitting low over those big, frantic eyes.
God, he wore chaos like no one else.
You pressed your forehead to his, nose brushing his, breath warm between you.
“You’ve done nothing wrong tonight, okay?” you said softly. “Spilling milkshakes? That’s human. Frying things too long? Literally everyone does that. You didn’t burn the place down. You didn’t punch the headset. You’re still standing. You’re doing great.”
His lips trembled like he was trying not to cry—not really out of sadness, but just relief.
“I kept thinking I was gonna get fired,” he whispered, voice raw. “Like they were gonna realize I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re doing. No one does in their first week. That’s why training exists. You’re not failing, baby. You’re learning.”
Another kiss, this time to the center of his forehead.
“And even if you were failing—newsflash, you’re not—but if you were? I’d still be right here. I'd still show up the second you call. I’d still wrap you up like this and tell you how proud I am of you.”
His breath hitched again, and his grip on you tightened like he was worried he might float away otherwise.
You let the silence sit between you for a beat, thick and full of held emotion. You brushed your knuckles over his cheek, catching the tiniest sheen of sweat. He must’ve been running around for hours.
“You need a drink?” you asked gently. “Water? Or like… four gallons of Sprite?”
He sniffed a little and laughed, small but real. “I think I just need you.”
“Good,” you said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Because you’ve got me.”
You hugged him tighter, slow and full-bodied, and he melted again—like your chest was the only place he could breathe right.
You didn’t mind staying there a while.
You were going to hold him until every shaky inhale evened out. Until he remembered what it felt like to be steady. Until that dumb little visor wasn’t a symbol of failure, but something you could tease him about later, probably while pulling it off his head and kissing him breathless on a couch.
But not yet.
Now was for softness. For presence. For steady love in the middle of a fluorescent storm.
You stood there in the backroom, arms looped tight around each other, the low buzz of a distant fryer and the occasional squawk of the drive-thru headset fading into nothing. The moment had narrowed down to just you and him, caught in a quiet little pocket of warmth tucked behind crates of ketchup packets and stacks of napkin sleeves. The world didn’t reach here. Not right now.
Stiles was still pressed against you like gravity wasn’t enough. His breath had evened out a little, but you could still feel it—the lingering tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of your hoodie like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to fully relax yet.
You weren’t about to rush him.
You kept your movements slow, soft. One hand rubbed lazy circles at the base of his spine, the other brushing up and down his arm. His skin was warm under your touch, slightly sticky from the heat of the kitchen, and still tinged pink across the cheeks and ears. That dumb visor hadn’t moved—it still sat just a little too low on his forehead, shadowing his buzzed hair and making him look like the overworked, underpaid, stupidly beautiful mess he swore he wasn’t.
“Y’know,” you murmured, brushing your nose just beneath his jawline, “I think the visor’s growing on me.”
He snorted against your chest, the sound muffled. “You are such a liar.”
“No, I’m serious.” You tipped your head just slightly, enough to rest your chin on his shoulder as you nuzzled closer. “I think it really brings out your exhausted, end-of-the-world aesthetic. Like a sexy drive-thru apocalypse survivor.”
He huffed a breath, shoulders jerking with barely-contained laughter. “That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.” You kissed the curve where his neck met his collar. “I should’ve worn a matching one. We’d be unstoppable. Like, emotionally unavailable but aesthetically devastating.”
He finally looked up at you, blinking through lashes still clumped from sweat, eyes clearer now. Still soft around the edges, still vulnerable, but no longer braced for the world to shatter. Just Stiles—your Stiles—tired and wrung-out and still looking like the best thing you’d ever held.
“I must look like hell,” he murmured, almost shy.
You reached up and gently ran your knuckles along his cheekbone. “You look real. Honest. Hot, actually.”
He flushed immediately, jerking back a little with a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”
You stepped in again, closing that tiny bit of space, your hands finding his waist, your mouth tugged into a crooked grin. “I don’t lie about what turns me on, babe.”
His breath caught again—but this time, it was with a smile. A real one. Small. Lopsided. But his.
You leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, your forehead brushing against his until you felt the soft press of skin meeting skin. He let out a little sound, barely a noise, like all the air in his lungs had just gone sweet instead of sharp.
You rubbed the tip of your nose against his.
Stiles blinked, confused for half a second—then his face broke into this ridiculous, perfect smile.
“Are you trying to Eskimo kiss me right now?” he whispered, incredulous.
You nodded, noses still pressed, and whispered back, “Maybe.”
His shoulders shook as he laughed, warm and breathy, and he bumped his nose against yours in return.
It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You both accidentally headbutted each other a little, and Stiles let out a tiny, high-pitched ow, even though it clearly didn’t hurt. And then you both just stood there—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, giggling like idiots in a supply room surrounded by cardboard boxes and the ghost of burned fries.
Your chest shook with laughter, and you watched him through blurry eyes as he tried to get his breath back, still grinning, still flushed.
“God,” he said, leaning into you again, the visor almost bumping you in the face this time, “you’re, like, obscenely good at this.”
“At what?” you teased, rubbing your nose against his again, gently this time.
“This,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Making me feel… safe. Like I’m not screwing everything up just by existing.”
You pulled him in tighter, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth again—tender, quiet, grounding.
“You’re not screwing anything up,” you said. “You’re figuring it out. And I’m right here with you.”
He looked at you, and for a second it was all there in his eyes—everything he couldn’t say without crying again. You saw it. You held it.
And then, still smiling, you bumped his nose with yours again, quick and mischievous.
He squeaked.
You grinned.
And then you were giggling again, together, wrapped in this quiet little hurricane of affection and cheap polyester and the kind of love that makes all the fluorescent hum and grease-slicked chaos feel small.
You could’ve stayed like that forever.
The hum of the freezer, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Stiles’s breathing—still a little shaky, but steadying—are all that fill the space. He’s in your arms, pressed soft and warm against your chest, his stupid little McDonald’s visor tilted askew, cheeks still red from crying and adrenaline and embarrassment, but his smile—God, that smile—is back. Small. Real.
He giggles, just barely, and his nose crinkles in that way that should be illegal.
You should keep things sweet. Just hold him. Tell him again that he’s okay, that he’s good. But something shifts in your chest when he looks up at you through those lashes, smiling like you hung the moon, and you feel it—low, deep, needy. Like gravity pulling you forward, body reacting before your brain has the words for it.
You tilt your head. Your lips brush the corner of his mouth. His breath catches again.
“Can I…?” you whisper, your voice quieter than it’s been all night.
He nods, the barest movement, and that’s all the permission you need.
You lean in, slow, kissing him softly—once, twice—before deepening it just a little. Enough to let him feel the edge under your sweetness. Your hands smooth down his back, fingertips catching on the hem of that ridiculous polo, and he lets out a sound so soft it barely registers.
He melts into it.
When you kiss him harder, you feel him gasp into your mouth, his hands fisting your hoodie again like he needs something to anchor him. You keep it slow, deliberate—your lips sliding over his, teasing, coaxing. You suck his bottom lip gently between yours, letting your teeth graze it before pulling back just enough to see his eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy with something that’s not quite stress anymore.
You’re not letting go.
You guide him gently, one step at a time, until his back bumps the wall. The steel of the shelf rattles faintly behind him. His breath hitches.
“God,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek, “you’re so fucking cute.”
He flushes instantly, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you, like the words don’t fit in his ears right. “Shut up,” he mumbles, biting back a smile, “I look like the damn Hamburglar had a mental breakdown.”
You kiss him again, firmer this time, your hand sliding up into his buzzed hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver.
“No. You look like someone who's mine.”
That stuns him for a second. He just stares at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast, and then he grabs your face and kisses you like he means it. Messy, eager, all tongue and heat and teeth bumping because neither of you cares about finesse anymore. You’re holding him against the wall now, one hand gripping his hip, the other cradling the back of his head, and he’s clinging to you like he’s scared the moment will end too soon.
When you finally slow, mouths parting just barely, noses still brushing, he exhales shakily against your lips.
“I’m gonna die if you keep kissing me like that,” he breathes.
You grin. “Then I guess I better keep going. Just to make sure.”
He snorts and buries his face in your neck. “You’re a menace.”
“You love it.”
He nods. “Yeah. I really do.”
Your heart stutters when he says it—Yeah. I really do.
So soft. So honest. It hits you right in the fucking chest.
You pull back just enough to see his face again, still partially hidden in the crook of your neck, and tilt his chin up with two fingers. He looks up at you, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and you swear to God he doesn’t even know what he does to you. He’s breathing through parted lips, that messy little visor still cocked sideways, and the way his buzzed hair feels under your hand—it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. Or maybe you are.
You lean in, kiss him again, slow and purposeful. He melts like warm butter against the wall, fingers still gripping the front of your hoodie, hips just barely twitching toward yours like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.
“You’re so fucking cute,” you whisper again, lips brushing his as you speak. “You don’t even know, do you?”
He lets out this strangled little noise, half-laugh, half-groan. “I—I don’t. You say stuff like that and my brain just… crashes. Like a Windows 98 shutdown sound.”
You chuckle softly, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then that little spot right below his ear that makes him shiver. “Yeah? Poor baby. Can’t handle compliments?”
He whimpers, actually whimpers, and it goes straight through you.
Your hands slide down slowly, over the cheap polyester polo that’s clinging to his torso with the faintest sheen of sweat, down to where his khaki shorts sit too snug on his hips. You toy with the waistband, just brushing your knuckles beneath his shirt, and he squirms a little—nervous, but not stopping you.
“You okay?” you murmur, kissing down his jaw, your breath hot against his skin.
He nods quickly, voice barely a breath. “Y-Yeah. Just… no one’s ever…” He swallows. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
You smile against his neck, nuzzling there, soft and sweet even as your fingers work the top button of his shorts. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”
He exhales hard, his head thunking softly back against the wall. “Holy shit.”
You pop the button and unzip him slowly, deliberately, your knuckles brushing the soft cotton of his boxers. He’s hard. Not fully—yet—but getting there, thick and warm under your touch, twitching when your fingers graze him through the fabric.
“See?” you murmur against his lips as you kiss him again. “You are turned on. Told you you were hot.”
He groans and tries to hide his face again, but you’re quicker, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at you.
“Don’t hide from me,” you whisper. “You look so good like this. You’ve been working so hard all night, being so sweet, and now you’re letting me touch you? Letting me make you feel good?” You slip your hand into his boxers, and he gasps, hips jerking.
“You’re so perfect, Stiles. So fucking good.”
He looks wrecked already, just from a hand on his cock. His lashes flutter, mouth hanging open, cheeks impossibly red. “I—I think I’m gonna short circuit,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like I can hear the dial-up tone in my brain.”
You kiss him again, deep and slow, while your hand strokes him lazily—fingers wrapped around the base, thumb teasing the slit. He twitches in your palm, moaning softly against your mouth. His cock is hot and leaking now, and his boxers are damp with it.
“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” you murmur. “Look how hard you are. Just from some kissing and a little praise. God, you’re so responsive.”
“Th-that’s a word,” he whimpers, voice going high and sweet. “Jesus. You’re like… you’re like a fucking sex wizard or something.”
You laugh against his mouth, so fond it makes your chest ache. “Just for you, baby.”
And then you kiss him again, because if you don’t, you’re going to say something like I think I might love you—and neither of you is ready for that while your hand’s still down his pants.
You stay like that for a breath—a heartbeat—lips barely apart, your hand wrapped around him warm and slow inside his boxers, his cock twitching with every soft stroke. Stiles is flushed all the way to his ears, breathing like he just ran a mile, his eyes half-lidded and overwhelmed, but still looking at you like you hung the damn stars.
You shift your mouth down, slowly, kissing along his jaw. He tips his head back instinctively, giving you space, trust spilling from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You mouth at his skin just under his jaw, just above his collar—soft, wet kisses that make him sigh—and when your teeth scrape lightly across the bend of his throat, he makes a sound. A sharp little gasp that melts into a moan as his hands grab at your hoodie again, grounding himself.
“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked and wobbly, “I don’t—I don’t think I’m gonna survive this. This might be, like, the best and worst way to die.”
You smile against his neck, lips dragging slowly down. “Not dying, baby. Just feeling good. Just letting me take care of you.”
You nose the collar of his polo aside, biting softly at the edge of his shoulder, your tongue flicking over the spot before you kiss it better. His hips rock against your hand, needy now, his cock growing fully hard beneath your touch. It’s beautiful—the way he responds. Like he doesn’t know how to not give you everything.
“You’re doing so well,” you murmur against his skin. “So perfect. Letting me touch you like this. Letting me see you like this.”
He lets out a breathy little “fuck” and whines when you squeeze him gently, thumb brushing over the tip through his boxers, slick with pre-cum. The fabric's damp now, sticking to him, and you can't help it—you need more. Need him.
You sink slowly to your knees, eyes never leaving his flushed face as you ease his shorts and boxers down in one fluid motion. His cock bobs free, thick and hard and so achingly pretty, flushed deep at the head and leaking steadily. You stare for a second—just breathe him in—then press the softest kiss to the tip.
Stiles gasps, hands flying to your shoulders like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or push you away.
“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice cracking. “That’s—you’re—fuck.”
You press another kiss to the side of his shaft. Then another. And another. Slow and reverent, like you’re memorizing him with your mouth.
“You’re perfect,” you whisper between kisses. “Look at you. All flushed and sweet and hard for me. You’re so fucking good, baby.”
He makes a wounded little noise like he doesn’t know what to do with the praise, thighs tensing under your hands.
“You don’t even get it, do you?” you murmur, kissing along the vein on the underside of his cock. “How good you are. How much I want you.”
You mouth at the base, nuzzle against his skin, press your lips to the crease of his thigh. He’s trembling now, breath coming in little gasps, hips twitching forward, like he can’t decide if he wants more or if it’s already too much.
His voice is barely a whisper: “I’m gonna—gonna break into, like, pixels if you keep saying stuff like that.”
You laugh softly and kiss the tip again, eyes flicking up to meet his. He’s staring down at you, lips parted, completely wrecked—and you haven’t even really started yet.
“Good,” you breathe. “Fall apart for me, Stiles. I’ll catch you.”
You let the words settle between you—I'll catch you—and for a second, Stiles looks like he might cry again, not from panic this time, but from something soft and terrifyingly big. His fingers tighten on your shoulders, and his thighs tremble beneath your palms, and you don’t rush him. You just stay there, on your knees on the cold backroom tile, mouth near his cock, hands splayed gently on the sides of his hips like you’re holding something delicate.
Like he might shatter if you hold him too hard.
He swallows hard. Looks down at you, dazed and flushed and blinking like he doesn’t understand how he got here. “I, uh…” he starts, voice low, trembling, “I don''t…”
“I know,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his hip, “and you don’t have to. You say the word, I stop. But if you want me to… if you want to feel good, I want to take care of you.”
His breath stutters out of him, shaky and tight, and he nods. Slowly. “Yeah. I—I want. Please.”
You smile and press one more kiss to his inner thigh before you lean in again, kissing the base of his cock with the kind of care people usually reserve for sacred things. You drag your lips along the length, slow and soft, feeling every twitch, every slight tremble. He’s so sensitive already, his hips shifting forward and back, but you don’t take him in yet. You just savor it. Savor him.
When you finally part your lips and wrap them around the head, he shudders like a live wire, a low, strangled sound caught in the back of his throat. His hand flies up—then hesitates—hovering over your head like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.
You pull off slowly, just enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can guide me. Go slow. Tell me what feels good.”
He nods, shakily, then gently rests his hand on your head—light, careful, like you’re made of glass. You lick the head softly, swirling your tongue around it, and his fingers twitch, not pushing, just holding on.
His other hand slaps over his mouth the second a choked moan slips out.
“F-fuck,” he mumbles against his palm. “We’re in—Jesus—we’re in the backroom. Oh my God. There are—there are, like, fries ten feet from here.”
You hum around him, slow and low, which makes his knees buckle a little. You reach up and grip his hips to keep him steady, then take him in again—deeper this time, just a little. You go slow, wet and warm and gentle, sucking him down a few inches at a time and pulling back just as slowly, letting him feel every inch of it.
Stiles is gasping now, trying desperately to stay silent, his hand gripping your hair like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. He’s so responsive, his cock twitching with every pass of your tongue, every soft moan you let out around him. Every time he almost makes a noise, he clamps his other hand harder over his mouth, eyes wide and wild, like he’s afraid he might scream if he lets go.
You glance up and he’s looking down at you, wrecked and shaking, sweat on his brow and his mouth open just enough that you can see the shape of the vowels he’s biting back.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whisper when you pull off again, stroking him slowly with one hand. “So sweet. Letting me take care of you like this. You feel so good in my mouth.”
He whimpers, actually whimpers, and you watch the shame and heat war on his face like he doesn’t know whether to melt into it or run.
You smile gently, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock. “You don’t have to be quiet for me. Just do your best. I know it’s hard.”
“Everything is hard,” he whines under his breath, voice cracking, and you both laugh quietly—because even now, he’s still Stiles—and then he moans again when you take him back into your mouth.
This time, you let him guide the rhythm. Let him roll his hips just a little, slow and hesitant, like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. You keep your hands on his thighs, squeezing gently, encouraging. You hollow your cheeks and moan around him, and he shudders, grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle.
He’s shaking now, full-body trembling, holding his breath like that’ll keep the noise in, and you can tell he’s close—but he’s fighting it. Trying to hold back. Trying not to let go too fast, even though it’s his first time, even though he’s barely holding on.
You pull off slowly, kiss the tip one more time, and look up at him with a soft smile, thumb brushing his hip.
“Still with me?”
He nods quickly, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon. “Y-yeah. I just. I need a second. Or, like, twenty. You’re gonna kill me.”
You press a kiss to his lower stomach and grin. “Nah, baby. I’m gonna make you feel alive.”
You let that last promise hang in the air for a breath, then you lower your head again—no teasing this time. No slow build. He’s already teetering, already right there, and you want to give it to him. Want to take it from him.
Your lips part and you take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, letting him slide past your tongue inch by inch until he’s pressing against the back of your throat. You breathe slow and steady through your nose, adjusting, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as you savor the feel of him—hot, heavy, pulsing, twitching.
The sound he makes is helpless. Desperate. A strangled, half-choked moan like he doesn’t know whether to sob or scream. His fingers curl hard into your hair now, not to force you down, but to hang on, like he’s barely holding himself together.
You bob your head slowly, rhythm steady, sucking him down and pulling back, letting your tongue work around the head on every upstroke. The taste of him is everywhere—salty, hot, Stiles—and you groan low in your throat just to feel him jump against your tongue. Your hands grip his thighs tight as you feel his muscles strain and shake, and when he gasps again, it’s almost a warning.
“I—fuck, fuck, I’m—” he pants, wild and broken. “I’m gonna—shit—I’m coming—”
And you don’t pull off. You don’t slow down. You suck him deeper, lips sealing tight around him, hand sliding from his thigh to cradle his hip as he jerks, as his whole body locks up and his cock twitches hard once, twice—
Then he’s spilling into your mouth.
He shouts through gritted teeth, trying to muffle it with the back of his hand, but the sound still bursts out of him, rough and wrecked and real. His legs nearly give out, knees buckling under the intensity of it, and you hold him steady as hot spurts of come hit the back of your throat. You swallow immediately—reflexively—your throat working around him as you keep him deep, making sure nothing spills. His cock twitches again and again as he empties himself into you, and you take all of it, not letting up until you feel the pulses start to slow.
Even then, you don’t move right away. You stay there, mouth full of him, holding him safe and snug while he shakes through the aftershocks. His hand is a death grip in your hair now, not rough, just desperate—anchored. You can feel him trembling under your palms, chest heaving, every inch of him overstimulated and twitchy.
Finally, slowly, you ease off him, inch by inch, keeping your lips soft and sealed around him so nothing smears, nothing escapes. He makes a pitiful sound as you pull off, this soft, broken whine like he doesn’t know what to do with himself without your mouth around him.
His cock twitches again when you release him with a soft pop, slick and sensitive and still hard enough that it bobs slightly in the cool air. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking once, too raw to hide how overwhelmed he is.
You press a gentle kiss to the tip—just a soft touch of your lips—and then another to his thigh, and then lower your head to rest it lightly against his hip.
You can feel the way he’s still trembling. See it, too—his fingers shaking where they hover awkwardly in your hair, his knees visibly wobbling, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps like he’s still coming down from the high.
And his face—god, his face.
He’s flushed to the ears, eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth parted and lips swollen from biting back every noise he could. There’s a look there that’s hard to name—part awe, part disbelief, and something else. Something deeper. Like he’s not just undone by the orgasm but by what it meant. By the way you took care of him. Like he doesn’t know how to hold that kind of softness.
You rub slow, soothing circles into his hips with your thumbs, grounding him.
“You okay, baby?” you murmur, voice low and warm.
He nods, fast at first, then slower, like it takes effort. “Yeah. I just—Jesus. I—I died. That was—you killed me.”
You smile, and lean up to press a soft kiss just above his navel. “Nah. Told you, remember? I made you feel alive.”
He laughs—actually laughs—a rough, wrecked little sound that cracks halfway through, and then he sinks down toward you, collapsing half into your lap. You catch him easily, arms sliding around his waist, pulling him close as he curls in.
His breath hitches once. And then he lets it out, long and shaky, as he presses his forehead against your shoulder.
“…I think you broke my knees.”
You laugh quietly and kiss the side of his head. “You loved it.”
“I did,” he groans, voice still hoarse and shaky. “Which is terrifying. Because if your mouth feels that good on me, I don’t even know what the hell’s gonna happen when, uh… when I—y’know… fuck you.”
He winces a little at the last part, cheeks blooming red like he can’t believe he just said that out loud. His eyes widen slightly, flicking away for half a second like he's about to apologize, but when he glances back down at you—on your knees, lips slick, eyes shining—he seems to find something steadier inside himself. Still unsure, still amazed, but holding onto it anyway.
You blink up at him from the floor, hands warm on his thighs, and Stiles swallows thickly like he’s trying to reboot his whole brain just to process you. The look on his face is a jumble of things: shock, awe, deep, unfiltered want—but under it all, this aching kind of gentleness. Like he can’t believe this is happening, and he’s terrified he might mess it up.
His hand’s still hovering near your face, twitching a little like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if it’s okay. You lean into it, your cheek brushing his knuckles, and the soft exhale he lets out is wrecked.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but quiet, like he’s almost afraid of the answer. “That wasn’t… too much, right? You’re not, like, sore or—God, I didn’t mean to, like, shove myself down your—”
“Hey,” you say softly, and his mouth clamps shut. “I’m fine. More than fine.”
The way relief floods his face—it’s like you flipped a switch. His shoulders sag just a little, like he’d been holding himself tense without realizing, and now he’s trying to come back to earth.
“I just,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ve never… had anyone do that for me. Ever. And especially not like that. It wasn’t—like, it didn’t feel dirty or fast or… y'know, like one of those locker room fantasy things. It felt…” He swallows again. “It felt like you actually wanted to.”
“I did,” you say.
And oh, God, the look that earns you—his whole face goes soft, like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. Like maybe he’s not used to being the one someone else wants first. You shift slightly and press a last, warm kiss to the soft skin just below his belly button before gently helping him tuck himself back into his boxers. He hisses a little when the fabric brushes over his still-sensitive cock, and you immediately kiss the crease of his hip, murmuring a quiet “Sorry.”
Stiles just shakes his head quickly, his hand finding your shoulder this time, steadying himself—not because he needs to, but because he wants the contact.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “Like, in a good way. A really, really good way.”
You smile as you guide his khaki shorts back up, fingers brushing lightly over his thighs as you do the button. There’s something weirdly intimate in the quiet domesticity of it—like you’re not just helping him get dressed, but grounding him. Letting him stay in this moment. When you glance back up, Stiles is already watching you. Eyes wide, soft, like he doesn’t want to blink in case this all disappears. “You okay to stand?”
“I mean, in theory,” he says with a dazed little laugh. “I can’t feel my knees, so there’s a strong chance I just collapse and die.”
You rise slowly, and the moment you’re up, he pulls you into him—not rough, not demanding, just… close. Like you’re an anchor he’s afraid to lose. His hands settle carefully at your hips, and when your noses bump, you realize he’s leaning in again. The kiss he gives you this time is softer than any of the others. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real. He lingers there, lips barely moving, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the space between you.
You melt into it, sighing quietly, and slip your hand into the back of his buzzed hair. It’s soft and warm under your fingers, and when you scratch gently at the base of his neck, he exhales against your mouth. He pulls back slowly, his eyes a little clearer now—still wide, still reeling, but more focused. More there. And his expression shifts—like he’s trying to say something important but doesn’t want to scare you with it.
“I—um. I really, really meant what I said,” he mumbles, a bit shy now. “About, like, doing that next time. Being the one who… who gets to—y’know.” He gestures vaguely. “With you. I mean, if you want that. And if it’s not weird. And if I don’t completely mess it up and fall over or hit my head on something.”
You blink, heart stuttering. “You want to top?”
“Y-yeah,” he says quickly. “Not in a, like, ‘alpha male’ way or anything. I just… I wanna take care of you. Like you just took care of me. And I… I want to see you like that. See how you look when I’m—” He stops, turning even redder, then mumbles, “Inside you.”
You stare for a beat. Then: “Stiles…”
“I mean, if you don’t want to—”
“No,” you cut in, smiling. “I do. God, I really do.”
He visibly relaxes, smiling a little—awkward and crooked and impossibly sweet. But there’s a flicker of heat behind it now. A little more grounded. A little more sure.
“I, uh… maybe not here, though,” he says, glancing around sheepishly. “I don’t wanna break your spine over a bag of crinkle fries.”
You laugh, and he beams.
“But like…” He glances down at his hands on your hips, then back up at you. “Later. Somewhere, like, safe. Where I can go slow. Where I can see your face. Take my time.”
Your breath catches, chest suddenly aching in the best way. He leans in again, brushing your nose with his. “Okay?”
You nod. “More than okay.”
“Cool.” He kisses you once more—sweet and lingering—and then rests his forehead against yours, breath warming your skin.
“We should go before someone walks in and I get fired for literally dying happy.” You laugh, heart fluttering. And you both know: this was only the beginning. And next time—when it’s just the two of you, no fry smell, no ticking clock—he’s going to give you everything. Even if he’s still figuring out how.
He’s still holding you close, warm hands settled on your hips like he’s afraid if he lets go, you might disappear. His breath is a little steadier now, brushing soft over your cheek, and the adrenaline’s finally bleeding off, leaving just the afterglow and a fragile sort of awe. You stay quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the back room of a McDonald’s like it’s the most sacred place on earth.
Then, with your lips close to his ear, you murmur, “So. You’re gonna fuck me, huh?”
The sound he makes—it’s somewhere between a gasp and a strangled choke. His face goes from flushed to full-body red, and his eyes shoot wide as he pulls back to look at you, stammering. “I—wh—You—that’s not—I mean, yes, but not like—God.” He scrubs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You grin, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “I think I like you flustered.”
“I’m always flustered,” he mutters helplessly, voice muffled behind his hands.
“Exactly,” you murmur, nuzzling against his cheek. “It’s cute.”
He drops his hands with a sigh and gives you a look—half exasperated, half so stupidly fond it makes your chest ache. “I’m trying to be, like, confident and sexy and a ‘I’m-gonna-fuck-you’ guy. And you’re over here making fun of me.”
“I’m not making fun of you,” you say, smiling. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a difference.”
Stiles huffs, but he’s fighting back a smile. His hands squeeze your waist a little tighter like he doesn’t want to leave this bubble you’ve built. “You know this is the weirdest, best day of my life, right?”
You lean your forehead against his, humming. “Yeah. Same.”
For a while, you just stand there. Tucked into each other, surrounded by the low hum of the freezer unit, the faint smell of fries and fryer oil lingering in the air. It's cold on the tile, harsh fluorescent lights overhead—but none of it matters. Not with his arms around you. Not with his heart thudding steady and slow against your chest, like it’s syncing to yours. Stiles sighs, that same quiet, dazed kind of sound he made when you first kissed his neck. “I don’t wanna move,” he admits, voice low. “Like, at all.”
“Me neither.”
“But if we stay here too long, someone’s gonna come in looking for ketchup packets or something, and I’ll die. Just, like, spontaneously combust. You’ll have to explain to the coroner why my body’s in a pile of ashes next to the mop sink.”
You laugh softly and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess we should get back out there before you turn to dust, then.”
He makes a dramatic groan and buries his face in your shoulder. “Fine. But I’m not letting go.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
Eventually—reluctantly—he straightens, brushing your hair gently back from your face. His eyes are so warm now. Still wide with disbelief, still a little unsure, but there’s a steady thread of something new behind it: hope.
“You’re really okay?” he asks again, one last time. “With all of this? With me?”
You take his face in your hands, brush your thumbs over his cheeks, and nod. “I want you, Stiles. Nervous, rambling, sweet, brilliant you. Whether we’re making out in a supply closet or you’re trying to figure out how to top without imploding—I’m in.”
He stares at you for a second like he’s memorizing the words. Like he’s filing them away for every bad day, every night he doubts himself. Then he kisses you again. Slow. Sweet. With a kind of reverence that makes your knees go weak.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead to yours and whispers, “Okay. Then I’m in, too. All in.”
The two of you straighten your clothes and make your way out of the back room, fingers still brushing, hearts still pounding. And later—when it’s dark and quiet and he’s got you alone in a real bed—he’ll finally get to show you what that means. But for now, in the echoing hum of the McDonald’s kitchen, you’ve got each other.
And it’s more than enough.
#stiles stilinski#stiles stilinski x reader#gender neutral reader#stiles stilinski fluff#stiles stilinski x reader fluff#stiles stilinski fanfiction#stiles x reader#x reader#stiles stilinksi imagine#stiles stilinksi fanfiction#stiles stilinski imagine#dylan o’brien#x gender neutral reader#stiles stilinski smut#stiles smut#stiles x gender neutral reader smut
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WE NEED THE NEW MAYA BREEDING FIC IT IS URGENT AFTER RECENT EVENTS (❤️please)
Tip Jar 💰
💛🔒 Maya Playlist tooooooooo
Maya x Readed COMING RIIIIIGHT UPPPP just as I'm coming too...what?! Who SAID that?! 🫠🫠🥵🥵😵💫😵💫

UHHHH HUHHHHHH ASK AND YALL SHALL RECEIVE! Open your mouth and take it, baby!

You had basically thrown yourself at Maya the second she dragged you into her bedroom with her hand tight around your neck. It was an intensity within her and yourself you had never seen before; basically throwing yourself for her to use in however you saw fit.
You managed to scramble and wiggle your way out of her grasp and felt her sharp manicured nails scratch the soft of your neck. You stared at her, dead in the eyes as you stripped down to nothing in such a hurry one would think your clothes were on fire and setting you ablaze as well.
Her bed was right there behind you and you knew where it was in proximity to where you currently stood in her bedroom; knew the ins and outs of it now with the amount of times she had dragged you in here to fuck your brains out. That's exactly what you wanted from her now and nothing more. Mind-numbing, toe-curling sex that shouldn't even be called sex; you wanted her to fuck you senseless.
You turned your back to her as you started to walk towards her bed. Hitting the edge with your legs, you flopped forward and lay there until your body and instincts took over, and you very quickly and provocatively lifted your hips and spread your legs in an act of submission You pressed your hips down as you tried to grind into her bed, feeling the already painful throb of your clit and the dull clench of your insides wishing you already had Maya Mason's cock buried deep within you.
You heard her laugh then; cold and mean, and your stomach dropped, and you swore you were already dripping onto her sheets.
"You get more and more fucking desperate, don't you? God, it's embarrassing! Your ass and cunt so high up in the air, one would think you're in fucking heat!"
Her words were like a gut-punch, like a burning cold that turned boiling. You were wet without a doubt; could feel it against the front of your thighs; could smell it.
"...maybe you shouldn't...waste the opportunity, Maya..."
You managed to mumble out from under your breath, your face turned to its right side so she could head your words. You only heard her take a step or two closer to you and the bed before her words cut through the silence like an axe.
"Begging me already? God, you really are fucking pathetic, kid. I know I tell you this every fucking day at work but fuck...maybe you need to be a little bit more clear about what you have your pussy on display for..."
Her words drill into you and you hope that same sensation happens actually inside of you with the aide of her silicone toy you've come to desperately love. You bit your lip and swallow back a moan before mumbling out as loudly as you can.
"I...I want you to come inside of me...I...want you to knock me up..."
"Mmm...a little better but not qui-"
"I want you, Maya Mason, to use me like your own personal..."
What was the word she had used that one time with you? Buried so deep she was missing pumping back into you and her cock kept hitting the back of your thighs; causing them to bruise over the course of days?
"...cumdumpster..."
The air seemed to crackle in the room as the energy shifted dramatically. You felt her hands first, out of nowhere, as she grabbed your ass cheeks and pushed you harder down onto the bed. Intensity sparked as you heard the 100% silk sash of her robe rustle and fall so she could expose herself and the toy she had waiting and ready snug around her waist, sitting proudly in her harness. The sudden jolt between your legs made you moan as she slotted her right knee upwards and just barely rubbed at your clit and cunt with it. You were ready to fold right then and there.
"When I first hired you, I didn't realize how much of a desperate slut you were going to turn out to be for me..."
Your only response to that was a whiny, high moan.
"Not even asking for me to fuck you but to breed you! Jesus fucking christ, you are the most pathetic fucking thing, aren't you? You just want me to..."
You feel her knee pull back as she lips your hips up and back; drawing you closer to the head of her cock.
"...come inside of you and knock you up."
One single push forward by Maya's hips filled you up until you felt the tip of her cock push all the way up and hit it's resistance inside of you; tears springing in the corner of your eyes as you choke back a sob.
Unrelentless. Cold. Calculating.
And just as sexually aroused and depraved as you.
You didn't have time to think or even react as she pummeled herself into you; nails sinking into the side of your hips as she kept you face down and ass up to her liking. You lost count of how many times she filled you; how many times you felt her pump into your embarrassingly soaked pussy. It was only when her left hand released from your hip to grab your hair and lift your head up from her bed.
"You need to use your words, you little slut...doesn't sound like you want this as badly as you did before..."
Your eyes had rolled back into your head, and your mouth had felt like it was stuffed with cotton; tar coating your tongue that stopped you from speaking. You swallowed hard and almost choked; sputtering as you tried to clear your throat.
"M...Maya...please..."
"What the fuck is that?!"
"Maya....please...pleaseknockmeupohmygod...fuck please! Please!"
Her hand grips tighter around your hair as she pulls you back even more; feeling the sharp curve of your lower back. She can barely fuck you this way; the angle too sharp and your body too coiled. But does Maya Mason care as she continues her tight little thrusts into you? The way her right hand now leaves your hip to go to her own? Tears blurring your vision as you want nothing more than to feel her fill you up with her cum.
Her thumb expertly grazes the top of the plunger; nail scratching the plastic thoughtfully. She waits for you to catch your breath and buck your hips back, fucking yourself now on her cock inside of you. That's all the motivation she needs now as she bends over onto you; breasts to back as she pushes down onto the plunger.
You feel her fill you and you know she can feel it; can feel the way her cock twitches inside of you. You moan loudly into the air; your face not covered as she holds you still by your hair. You know she wants to hear you, see your face. You know she wants to see you drop your jaw and ride out your pleasure; completely overtaken with being bred by her.
"Ohfuck...ohMaya....please...pleasefuckingfillme..."
And you know you don't have to ask because you can feel it inside of you, mixing with your own wet release. You can feel it overflowing; dripping down your folds and inner thigh. You know for a fact then that she overfilled the ejaculating toy so that this would exactly happen.
She lets go of your hair and your body flops forward once again. You feel your body is overly sticky with sweat and your muscles limp. You never want her to stop; can't have her stop fucking and cumming inside of you.
And she knows it. Maya Mason knows it. Because she keeps going; persistent in the way you know that's overkill. If she was going to fuck you and put a baby inside of you, she had done it tenfold.
But she wasn't close to being done, not when she pulled herself out of you to turn you over onto your back so you could face her now. You hadn't realized how easy it was for her to turn you over; how easily it was for her to drag you to the end of the bed so you dangled over it once more.
You stare up at her with half-lidded eyes and feel your mind start to drift. You're completely drenched; numbed and blissed out but you know she's nowhere near done. You know it because she pushes back into you and laughs; laughs as she fucks you.
#Ask#Anon#The Studio#Maya Mason#Maya Mason x Reader#Maya Mason x reader#Maya x Reader#Maya x reader#Writing#Writing prompts#OH GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD HELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE#FUCK ME MAYA MASON#BUT A BABY IN ME WHY DON'T YOU#FUCK#HOW ARE WE ALL FEELING?
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second series!!
{ hate how much i need you. }
part { 1 }
꣑ৎ { enemy user x matt sturniolo } ꣑ৎ
{ ! } contains: sex, blackmailing, nsfw content, adulatory , drinking, bars, swearing, .. etc
based on the song
╰┈➤ ❝ . ۫ . too sweet . ۫ . ❞۫


{your pov}
i hated matt sturniolo the second he opened his mouth. not because he was rude — although he was — but because he looked at me like he already had me figured out. like he’d seen a hundred girls like me before and none of them were worth the trouble.
“you post to be seen,” he said at that first party, lazily drunk, slouched into the couch like the room belonged to him. “it’s desperate.” i laughed. “and you post to be worshipped. at least i’m honest.”
we’d spent the rest of the night wrapped in that tension — arms crossed, words sharp, eyes dragging across each other when we thought the other wasn’t looking. i knew he wanted me. he knew i knew. and that’s what made it worse.
he ghosted me after the first time we hooked up. he didn’t say a word, didn’t follow me, didn’t answer when i reached out. just left me with bruises on my hips and a bitter taste in my mouth. so i ghosted him back when he came around the second time.
i stopped asking why we kept circling back. by the third time, i’d learned not to care.
we weren’t friends. we didn’t talk. we avoided each other in public and stalked each other in private. i knew his fake finsta. i knew he subscribed to my alt spam just to watch me go out with other people. he knew who i hooked up with and made sure every guy i even flirted with got the message: don’t try it.
lol he never said it outright, but i could feel it. he hated that he wanted me. and i hated how much i liked it.
the worst part?
i craved it too.
⸻
{ matt’s pov }
i’ve had sweet. the kind of girls that text back right away, giggle when you say dumb shit, show up early, kiss like it’s their first time every time. but her? she wasn’t sweet.
she was all bite. all heat. a problem in platform heels and low-cut everything. the kind of girl who made you forget your own name just to moan hers. and i was stupid enough to fall for it.
the night at the bar changed everything.
it was a private bar, the fanciest, so i wasnt afraid of paparazzi going there.. or any crazy fans, most of my fans cant even drink yet.
i was already in a bad mood. some shit had gone to my mind, my brothers were pissing me off, and then i saw her. across the room. skin glowing under neon, dress short, eyes sharp, with dark eyeliner. some guy had his hand on her waist and i knew right then i was about to do something dumb.
the guy was yelling. too loud. too close.
“baby,” i said, sliding my hands around her waist from behind, like they belonged there. i looked him dead in the eyes. “she’s with me.”
her body stiffened like she was about to tell me off — and she should’ve — but she didn’t. instead, she leaned in, head against my neck, like we were already halfway home.
when the guy left, she shoved me against the bathroom wall. “you don’t get to play hero,” she hissed. “you hate me, i hate you.” “i do,” i muttered, pulling her hips to mine. “so shut up and let me hate you like this.”
we fucked like we were trying to destroy each other. hands bruising, lips biting, her legs locked around my waist like she wanted to break me open and live inside.
after, we sat on the tile floor, breathing heavy. she stared at the ceiling like it didn’t matter, like none of it ever did.
“this isn’t real,” she said, eyes blank. “i know.” but it felt real. it always fucking did. i couldn’t stop going back to her.
she made me insane. she blackmailed me once just to see if she could — sent me a photo of us in her bed and said, “post that stupid tiktok about loving clean girls and i’ll drop this instead.”
i swear that picture had an effect on me, it didnt show my face, but it showed my arm and someone could recognize my tattoos easily. it was a picture of her, my cock in her right hand. she was staring darkly into the camera, teasing smirk, lips plump, hair messed up, makeup ruined, yet she still looked like a goddess.
i should’ve been furious. instead, i jerked off to that picture more than i care to admit.
⸻
{ your pov }
matt’s obsession was the only thing more dangerous than mine.
we didn’t belong together. he was brand-safe, swore on camera but gently , didn’t even drink. i was everything he wasn’t allowed to touch. my name wasn’t attached to his in public — but it was written all over him behind closed doors.
he kissed like a man trying to make me forget everyone else. and when he begged under his breath — “just this once, please baby ive been good and—” i always let him in.
but after? it was always the same.
i’d fix my hair. he’d adjust his hoodie. one of us would say it.
“i still hate you.” i’d mutter as i put my clothes on. “i hate you more sweetheart, dont forget it.” he would replied with a soft murmur.
we both knew it was a lie.
#Spotify#fanfic#chris sturniolo x you#matt sturniolo x reader#chris sturniolo x reader#sturniolo smut#christopher sturniolo#matthew sturniolo#nick sturniolo#chris sturniolo#sturniolo triplets#matt sturniolo#sturniolo fanfic#nicolas sturniolo#sturniolo x reader#chris smut#smut#matt sturniolo x you#matt fluff#matt stuniolo fanfic#matt smut#viralpost#viral#x reader#chris sturiolo fanfic#fanfic writing#fanfic series#foryou#too sweet#song lyrics
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KIDNAPPED BY CHRIS PART ONE



CURRENT WARNINGS: sadistic!chris, physical abuse, mental abuse. Please read at your OWN risk
STARING: Sturniolo triplets x Delilah
I walk through the empty, cold streets, no one near by. It's nice. The rain drenching me as I walk. I've been warned about how dangerous the streets here are but I don't care. They just seem empty, all the shops have been closed for ages here, it's creepy but cool. I rather walking here then in town, there's hardly any cars by, the only weird thing that's happened to me was someone once trying to sell drugs to me. I refused. They followed me for a little then stopped.
It's beginning to get dark. I hear footsteps behind me, I turn around, no one. I turn back around. I'm just imagining things. I hear glass smash on the concrete not to far away from me. I don't turn around, I walk faster, starting to get a little scared now. I suddenly feel something hard hit me on the head causing me to fall to the ground, then I'm completely out.
Blackness.
"She's quite pretty isn't she?" I hear a mans voice.
"Indeed" another man says.
"How hard did you hit her Chris, she's been out for like 6 hours now, it's supposed to be 2 hours" Someone else says.
"Maybe she's dead" one laughs.
I try to move my arm to rub my eyes but my arms are tied behind something.
"Oh she's awake" one of the men say.
I open my eyes slowly, my head throbs. I look up at three men. One had curtain bangs, one with a mullet and last one was wearing a black ski mask as if he wanted to look more intimidating then the other too. I could only see his dark blue eyes and the tips of his fluffy hair.
"What is happening?" I whisper.
"I don't know" the one with the mask says. One of the others laugh. One walks out of the room and the other follows.
"Who the fuck are you?" I say. mask man leans down to my height of where I'm sitting. He grabs my chin and pulls it towards him.
"Didn't anyone warn you of walking around the streets" he whispers. I stare at him, he runs his thumb over my lips then pulls my bottom lip down.
"especially when your so small and pretty" he adds on. I move my leg to kick him in the crotch. He puts his knee down on my calf and puts his weight on it, I wince, "don't do that" he whispers. He moves his knee off me.
"Take off your mask" I whimper.
"if I take off my mask then I'll keep you forever" he whispers.
"where am I?" I look around the room.
"No where near anyone you know Delilah" he whispers and let's go off me.
"How do you know my name?" I ask. He shrugs and stands so I try to kick him again. He turns around and stands on my thigh, making me yelp in pain, he brings knife to my throat. "Don't do it again, I don't really want to have to kill you so early" he whispers. A tear leaves my eye. "I'm not going to hurt you Delilah" he whispers slipping the knife up my throat and pointing at my chin.
"What do you want?" My breath hitches. "I wanted to punch the shit out of you everyday until you're dead but I think I'll keep you" he whispers.
"Maybe you will get a couple punches though" he shrugs and pulls the knife away from me.
"Why me?" I ask, "because you were stupid enough to walk around the streets" he whispers. Then he stands and walks out of the room slamming the door. Tears stream out of my eyes and I bring my knees to my chest.
"How long should we keep her?" I hear the faint voice of one of the others say.
"I think we should keep her for a while then kill her, I mean, we can't keep her for to long, they'll have everyone looking for her" the other one says.
"No ones gonna find us nick" the masked one answers.
"I know, but, if we keep her, what are we gonna do, I mean, we'd have to feed her" one says.
"And thats what we'll do"
TAGLIST: @blushsturns @blahbel668 @riasturns @iloveduckssm @cl1tlover3000 @emmaweasley @mattsfavho @sturniolobananas1 @courta13 @alexisa78 @chrisissos3xy comment here to be added
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A Planet in a Crowd Full of Stars



Synopsis: Childhood friends Y/N and Karina made a promise—she’d become an idol, and he’d always cheer her on. Years later, she’s living her dream, and during her biggest concert yet, she confesses her love… to him, in front of thousands.
Word Count: 929
Karina X Male Reader
Thanks for the request !! I love doing them ^^
It was a sunny day—the kind of day that smells like grass and melted ice cream. You were at the park, probably fighting over the last swing or seeing who could throw a rock the farthest. You were a chaotic duo: her with her scraped knees and a wild ponytail, you with dirt on your face and a heart too big for your age. She had her favorite choco milk with her, and you were chewing on a lollipop like it was your entire personality.
That was the day she said it, out of nowhere.
“I want to be an idol,” Karina declared, lying on the grass, arms stretched toward the sky like she could catch the sun.
You blinked at her. “An idol? Like… a statue?”
She glared. “No! Like… someone people admire! On TV! Singing, dancing!”
You nodded slowly, not understanding a thing, then replied seriously, “I wanna be a shapeshifter.”
Karina laughed. Loud and unfiltered. “That’s stupid.”
“You’re stupid.”
But you still pinky-promised her. You swore you’d be her number one fan. Even if you didn’t know what that really meant yet.
Years passed. Things changed. You got older, taller, a little colder. She got prettier, quieter, and harder to reach. She moved to the city, chasing her dream with glitter in her eyes. You stayed behind with hands in your pockets and a head full of memories.
And now, today—tonight—you’re running like a madman through the venue, clutching your phone and dodging crowds. You’re two years older, but you feel like a child again, nervous and breathless.
She did it. Karina. Your Karina.
She’s the star now. The girl whose posters line bedroom walls, whose voice fills playlists, whose name is chanted by thousands. But to you, she’s still the girl who once shared choco milk and dreams on a patch of grass.
Your phone buzzes just as you reach your VIP seat—front row, dead center.
Karina [7:42PM]:
hey weirdo. made it? did security let you through or did you look too suspicious again? lol
You [7:43PM]:
shut up. focus. i’m recording the whole thing so don’t mess up your choreo.
You can almost hear her giggle through the screen.
The concert starts 30 minutes later. The lights dim. The crowd erupts. And then she appears—spotlight kissing her skin, hair like stardust, eyes scanning the crowd like she’s searching for someone.
You.
Song after song, she’s radiant. Every smile feels like a secret. Every glance feels like a message. You can’t take your eyes off her.
Then, the encore.
A soft, acoustic melody plays. She stands in the center of the stage, holding the mic a little tighter. The fans quiet down as if they feel something coming.
“There’s someone here tonight,” she starts, voice shaking ever so slightly. “Someone really important to me.”
You feel your breath hitch.
“Someone who’s seen me not as ‘Karina the idol’… but as just… Karina. The girl with big dreams and weird hair. The one who used to eat sand and fight over swings.”
The crowd laughs.
You freeze.
She looks toward your direction. Your heart stops.
“I made a promise once. On a sunny day, with choco milk in hand and a heart too loud. And tonight…” she pauses, tears in her eyes, “I want to keep that promise.”
A pause.
“I love you,” she whispers.
Spotlight. Directly on you.
And the world fades. The screaming, the lights, the cameras—it all disappears.
Because she’s smiling. At you. Just like she used to.
You’re two kids again, laughing under the sun, making dumb promises. Only this time, she’s the idol—and you’re the boy she never forgot.
The show ends in fireworks and confetti, but your hands are shaking. The crowd is still buzzing, unaware that their idol just dedicated her heart to someone in the front row. To you.
A staff member in black taps your shoulder and leans in.
“She’s asking for you. Backstage.”
You follow him, dazed. Past the heavy curtains, beyond the chaos of dancers and managers, your heart races. The lights are warm, but your palms are cold. And then—
There she is. Standing by the vanity, wiping the sweat from her neck with a towel. Her hair’s a little messy, her cheeks flushed, but her eyes—her eyes light up the moment they land on you.
“You made it,” she says, like it’s the only thing that matters.
You scoff. “Yeah, and security didn’t tackle me.”
She laughs and walks toward you, slowly, like every step is a memory. “Did you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
She smacks your shoulder lightly. “Y/N.”
You grin. “I heard everything.”
A pause. The air shifts.
“Did you mean it?” you ask, voice suddenly smaller. “Back there. On stage.
She nods, barely hiding the nervous smile on her lips. “Every word. Even the sand-eating part.”
You both laugh.
Then silence. A kind of silence that feels too loud.
You take a deep breath, stepping closer. “Karina…”
She tilts her head, expectant.
“You still remember that promise?” you ask.
“I remember everything about you,” she says.
You reach into your jacket pocket and pull out a crumpled candy wrapper—the same kind she used to give you after winning a game at the park.
She gasps. “You still have that?”
“I told you. I’m your number one fan.”
She bites her lip to hide the blush, then throws her arms around you—sweaty, tired, radiant.
You hold her close, breathing in the moment, whispering against her hair,
“I love you too, you know. I just never got the spotlight to say it.”
#spotify#kpop#aespa#aespa x reader#aespa karina#karina#karina x reader#yu jimin x reader#karina fluff#yu jimin fluff#yu jimin
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