#Took me a while to get around to writing this

[vineee2000]

Fly by wire was/is truly a primarily software innovation, and its main benefit were the ones brought by software. You can do replace all the cables and pulleys with wires without FBW, and that requires no sophisticated software in the loop - indeed, many FBW airliners have backup controls that are just that, sending electric signals to the actuators without the flight computer.

I think, as also a software engineer it is too easy to get lost in the knowledge of how sausage is made and all the problems we deal with on the daily and loose sight of how software solution can be a genuine improvement - not just a shortcut we have to put up with. After all, perfect hardware doesn't exist, and even if it did, any piece of software only needs to be more reliable than a human operator trying to deal with all of that hardware simultaneously without any assistance

And that assistance is indeed the main benefit of fly-by-wire that actually prompted its adoption! Planes are awfully complicated and counterintuitive machines to operate, and multiple disjointed modes of flight that behave differently and can change suddenly, being unaware of the true state of the plane, and certain inputs doing not what you think they'll do are all problems that can and do occur on a plane even without any computer in the loop

It is here that I need to correct myself, because when I said fly-by-wire allowed Boeing to implement their hack, when that's almost the exact opposite of truth. Boeing 737 did not have fly-by-wire, which is what caused them to need MCAS in the first place! (I look at 777 instead of 737 when writing my op)

If 737 had full fly-by-wire, the crashes probably wouldn't have happened in the first place, since dealing with complicated aerodynamics in real time without failing and without even bothering the pilot about it happening is exactly what FBW systems are meant to do.

And it is here that I want to again empathise just how reliable FBW is. Some modern planes, like A220, forgo having any sort of backup controls entirely, because the flight computer can be trusted just that much. Back in the 70s, when NASA was undertaking its digital fly by wire program, one of the requirements was no mechanical backup - this computer system had to be sufficiently reliable to be the only option they need; and they made it so, and it successfully flew over 200 of its test flights.

Ultimately, designing mission-critical, failure-resistant software systems is no easy feat, of course - but it is no easy feat for hardware systems either! And I would argue that neither is inherently easier than the other, and obviously the regulations and industry culture need to make sure the hard work is put into both.

Ultimately, what doomed MCAS wasn't the the sin of turning to software - it was lack of redundancy and integration testing, - a phrase that I'm sure made you reflexively wince in psychic pain - but so it would any hardware engineer reading this!

"Boeing’s solution to its hardware problem was software." *ominous sting*

“and then the programmers made everything work better” just isn’t something you ever hear in an engineering story.

[mytherapyisreading14]

Hey could you write a fic with post prison Reid where the reader has a crush on him and she doesn’t think he likes her so she keeps it to herself and when they are on a case she she’s Spencer manhandle the unsub and she gets kinda distracted because she wants him to manhandle her and then he finds out about her crush and then he kinda teases her about it then he fucks her like really rough sorry if that doesn’t make sense 😭 also could you make the reader have a thing for his hands lmao

Don‘t get Distracted

Summary: You got distracted when Spencer arrested the UnSub during your current case - he noticed and confronts you back in the hotel.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Smut, some Fluff (18+ MDNI)

Warnings: Mentions of Knifes and stabbing, dirty talk, kissing, making out, unprotected sex (don’t do that), choking, spanking, orgasm denial, dom!spencer (kinda)

Word Count: 2,9k

Author’s Note: I’m sorry it took me so long to finish this🫢 I never really liked a single version I wrote and now I simply give up, I’ll leave it like this😩 Anyway, I hope you like it! :)

It isn't like you are trying to fall for Spencer Reid. In fact, you do your absolute best not to. You keep it professional. Friendly. Safe. Because if there is one thing you are sure of, it is that he doesn't feel the same. It isn't anything he does. He isn't cold or rude to you. Quite the opposite – he is kind and polite. But never more than that.

You aren't the type to be noticed by someone like him. Not after everything that happened. Prison changed him, and if there is ever a chance he looked your way before, it is long gone now. So you keep your crush a secret, but some days make that harder than others. Like tonight.

You sit on the edge of the bed, files spread all around you, but your focus is on Spencer. He stands by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the city below. You can tell he is thinking. He looks tense. Focused. Hot.

And all you want is to be close to him. To touch him. To tell him you noticed the way his smiles have grown rarer since prison, and that you missed them. That you missed him. But you don't.

-

The next day, everything shifts. You are closing in on the case, currently on the way to arrest the UnSub. The farmhouse where he is holed up looks like it could collapse any second. You, Spencer, and Morgan decided to split up. You take the back and step over a few broken door frames, your flashlight shining in the dark. A few minutes later you hear a noise.

You recognize it’s Spencer’s. "I need you to put down the knife. Now." You sprint toward the voices, and what you see nearly stops your heart. The UnSub takes a step forward and tries to stab Spencer in the stomach. But Spencer, he is faster. He sidesteps, catches the man’s wrist, twists it back, and then shoves him up against the wall with a force that makes you shiver.

One arm locks the guy in place, while the other brings out the cuffs. He works quick and controlled. And god, you are not okay... Your feet move on autopilot, but your brain doesn't. You can barely think past the rush of heat that explodes inside you at the sight of him. It is like watching a completely different version of him. You stare and just can’t look away.

He turns to you when it’s over. "You okay?" he asks. "Uh—yeah," you manage to breathe out. "I’m fine. Just... Didn’t know you have that in you." His mouth twitches into something between a smile and a smirk for a second. "Prison teaches you a few things." You try to play it cool. You really do. But your cheeks are already burning.

-

Back at the hotel, you tell yourself to forget it. That it’s just adrenaline. That the reason you’re so flushed has nothing to do with Spencer’s hands and everything to do with the takedown. Yeah, sure.

You avoid him the rest of the evening. Bury yourself in reports, avoid eye contact at dinner. Because the idea that you’ve reacted so obviously… and that he might’ve noticed? Absolutely mortifying. So when there’s a knock at your door around 10 p.m., the last person you expect to see is him.

“Spencer?” you blink. He stands there, holding two cups of tea like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I figured you might need a distraction,” he says. “The last few days were intense.” You hesitate. Just for a second. Because what is he doing here? Still, you step aside. “Yeah. Uh… thanks.”

He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands you the tea, and for a while it’s quiet. Then he breaks the silence. “So… you were staring.” You freeze mid-sip. “What?” you ask, trying to act confused. “At the farmhouse.” He turns his head, watching you. “You looked surprised. And a little… flustered.”

“I was not—” you start, but he interrupts you. “You were,” he says, and this time there’s something different in his voice. He’s teasing you. “And then Garcia texted me something… interesting.” Oh god. You already know what’s coming. “No,” you say, but he nods, clearly enjoying himself.

“She said you made a comment about me. Something along the lines of… ‘if Spencer ever wants to manhandle me like that, he can.’” You nearly drop the tea. “She did not say that to you,” you say. “She did,” he says with a smirk. You think about an excuse, anything that might save you from total humiliation. “That is—I mean—I don’t mean it like—”.

He tilts his head. “Don’t you?” You blink at him. “I - no, and I… I think you don’t even like me like that.” His expression softens instantly. The teasing fades, just enough for something real to shine through. “What makes you think that?” he asks gently. You shrug, suddenly very aware of how close he’s sitting next to you. “I don’t know. You never… looked at me that way. You always seem kind of... distant.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He looks down at his tea, then back at you. “The truth is… after prison, it was hard to let anyone in. I didn’t feel like myself. I did really trust myself for a while. So I kept my distance.” He pauses. “Maybe I was trying too hard not to look at you that way.”

That shuts your brain down completely. “You were?” you whisper. He nods once. “Ever since I got back. Maybe even before that.” You didn’t expect that, but when his words settle, you grin. “So… what now?” you ask him. He leans in, eyes flicking to your lips for just a second. “Still want me to manhandle you?” he asks with a smirk back in full force. “Spencer!” you say, blushing and playfully hitting his arm.

He laughs and sets his tea aside, hand brushing your knee as he stands. “I’ll take that as a yes.” You stare up at him, still sitting on the bed, heart pounding against your ribs. He is looking at you differently now. “You’re seriously enjoying this,” you say with a shaky voice. “Enjoying what?” he asks, acting oblivious. “Teasing me,” you say, and his smile widens.

“Of course I do.” You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re insufferable,” you say. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But you still want to kiss me.” You open your mouth, probably to deny it - or argue - or make some sarcastic remark, but nothing comes out. Because he’s already leaning down. And then, finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s barely there at first, but the moment you kiss him back, everything shifts.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone as his mouth moves against yours. You let out a quiet sound you don’t mean to, fingers curling into his shirt, and that’s all it takes for the kiss to deepen. Spencer’s other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer against him and the heat between you is impossible to ignore now.

His lips part slightly against yours, breath hitching when your hand slides up to his neck. The kiss turns messier then, hungrier. Like all the months of silence snap at once, and now there’s no holding back. He exhales against your lips. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do this,” he admits. “Try me,” you whisper, and he kisses you again, harder this time.

You gasp softly as he guides you back onto the bed, one hand bracing beside your head, the other trailing along your waist. His body hovers over yours. His lips ghost down to your jaw, then just below your ear. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, desperate to keep him close, to make this real.

“Spencer,” you breathe out while his hand is sliding under the hem of your shirt, your legs brushing against his. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough and low, “tell me you want me to fuck you.” You look up at him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in sync with his. “Please Spencer,” you whisper, “I - I need you to fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard. Now.“

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you — like he can’t quite believe this is real. Then he leans down and kisses you again. "If at any point it gets too much for you, just let me know. I don't want to hurt you," he says with a worried look when he pulls back again.

A feeling of warmth and security spreads through you. "You look cute when you're worried," you tease him. "but I don't break easily,“ you say and wink. Then his hands are back on your waist, your back, your skin — everywhere at once. You can’t stop touching him, can’t get close enough to him.

The tension between you, held back for so long, finally melts into heat, passion, pleasure and love. His fingers hook around the hem of your pants and he pulls them off in one quick motion. Your top comes off next, then your bra and panties, that are already soaked through. His eyes trail over your body hungrily and he starts to kiss down your neck slowly.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers in your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. His words and all the kisses make you even more desperate and you can’t help but buck your hips against him. You can feel his erection and want more but he pushes your hips back down. “Someone’s needy,” he says, not giving you what you want yet. “Spencer, please. Don’t make me wait,” you whimper and he chuckles.

He keeps kissing down your body - your breasts first, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. You observe his actions and seeing his big, slender hand around your breasts is a sight you didn’t expect to enjoy this much. You moan his name and he looks up and follows your gaze. “Like what you see, angel?” he asks and you nod. His hands continue to roam over your body, down to your stomach and between your thighs.

He keeps his eyes on you, observing every little reaction before he finally runs his fingers through your folds. “So wet, is this all for me?” he asks and you nod. “Words, angel. Tell me how good I make you feel,” he says, stopping for a moment. “Y-yes. All for you,” you breath out and he looks satisfied.

With one finger he starts to trail circles around your clit, slowly applying more and more pressure before slipping a finger in. It feels so good and you cover your mouth with your hand in order to stop meaning out loudly. Spencer however doesn’t like it, he immediately reaches for your hand and pulls it off. “No, don’t do that. I want to hear you moan for me for me angel.”

He adds another finger and starts to pump them in and out faster, keeping one finger on your clit the whole time. You can’t help but lean forward to watch his hand again, knuckles buried deep inside you. “Looks like my hands are quite a distraction to you,” he says and chuckles again before his other hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just perfectly.

You don’t respond, too focused on the pleasure and how good his hand looks buried inside you. With the sight in front of you, the feeling of his fingers inside you and his hand wrapped around your throat it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build up. Your legs start to shake slightly and you clench around Spencers fingers. You’re almost there when he suddenly pulls out. You whine. “Spencer, what the hell are you doing? I was so close!” you curse.

“I know. But I to feel you come around my cock,” he says before he starts to take his clothes off. When he unbuttons his pants your eyes widen. He’s certainly bigger than you expected. He starts to stroke his cock and you can’t help but watch him. Even though you can’t wait to feel him inside you, you enjoy watching him. Then he leans down and spreads your legs further apart.

He lines himself up at your entrance, sliding through your wet folds and teasing your clit again before he finally pushes inside you. “So tight and wet for me, angel. You’re all mine now,” he says. He gives you some time to adjust before he starts to pound into you. He leans down next, sucking on your neck and breasts, leaving hickeys everywhere and claiming you as his.

The room is filled with your moans and whimpers and when Spencer looks down and sees his cock sliding in and out of you he groans. You wouldn't have thought that something could turn you on even more, but hearing him groan certainly did. “Oh god, so good. Pl - please, don’t stop,” you manage to breath out, your mind already lost in all the pleasure.

His grip on your hips tightens and he increases his pace. He can feel you clench around him and almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. He applies pressure on your clit again, playing close attention to your reactions and when your close again he pulls out of you. “A- Again? Are you fucking serious?” you ask furiously. You can tell he enjoys the control he has over you. “I hate you so much right now,” you say but he just grins.

“Say it like you mean it,” he says before he suddenly grabs you and flips you over. You’re on all fours now, ass up in the air facing him. He immediately slides back into you, pounding into you hard from behind and hitting new angles and reaching spots you never could. One of his hand slides up your back and into your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail and pulling hard.

Your back arches up and you can feel your body pressed against his. His other hand suddenly comes down on your ass, spanking you. You moan out his name so loud that you’re afraid your neighbours know now what you’re doing in here, but you don’t really care. “That’s what you wanted, am I right? For me to fuck you? To spank you?” Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you’re too overwhelmed to answer him.

Spencer how ever doesn‘t like that. The hand he just hand in your hair goes down to your throat again while he gives you an another spank. “Answer me,” he says and slows down, pressing you against his body and leaning down next to your ear. “Tell me how much you love this,” he whispers in your ear. “I- I love this. I love it when you fuck me hard, Spencer,” you say quickly, afraid that he’ll not let you come at all if you don’t.

“Good girl,” he says and kisses the spot behind your ear gently before he picks up his pace again. You can feel him twitch inside you, telling you that he’s getting close now too. “I’m gonna tell you when you’re allowed to come. I want us to come together, do you understand?” he asks as if he’s read your thoughts. “Yes,” you breath out quickly before you get too lost in the pleasure again.

He thrusts into you again a few times before he slides his hand forward, teasing your clit with his fingers again. “Come for me, angel. Now,” he says and you let go. Your orgasm crashes over you and you never had one this intense before. You can feel him twitch inside you before he finishes too. For a second you see stars. When you finally come down, he lets go of you and slides out.

You lay down together, completely out of breath and he pulls you in his arms. Neither of you say a word but he holds you close to him, gently stroking your hair. It’s a quiet, peaceful moment but after a while Spencer speaks up. “You should go to the toilet now. I don’t want you to get UTIs,” he says and you groan. “You know how to ruin a moment, don’t you Dr. Reid?” you joke and he laughs.

“I’m just worried about your health, angel,” he says and leans down to kiss your head. “We can still cuddle when you come back, okay?” he says and you smile. “Definitely. You don’t get rid of me that easily,” you tease him. “Good. Because I don’t want to. Now hurry, I want you back in my arms.”

[bellaxgiornata]

What Did You Expect?

Pairing: Matt Murdock x nurse!fem!Reader Word Count: 2.2k [Matt Murdock Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; mentions of sex, injured and snarky Matt, little jealousy, exes after a breakup, angst, hopeful ending

Summary: In need of medical assistance, Matt interrupts your evening–but you hadn't been alone.

Prompt: "Are you jealous?"

a/n: This is a short one shot for @mattmurdocksscars 2.5k Follower Celebration Writing Challenge event! I've never written Matt as an ex before (quite like this), so this was a lot of fun! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

A sharp hiss of pain flew from between Matt’s lips, the noise harsh as it broke through the silence of your apartment. Eyes shifting up from the bloody, six inch gash along his left bicep, you briefly paused your stitching to glance at his face. Matt’s mouth was twisted up in discomfort, his features pinched tight in a grimace as you worked. He hated getting stitches, you’d always known that, but tonight he seemed determined to bear the pain as quietly as possible.

“You’re enjoying this far too much,” he bit out dryly.

Rolling your eyes at his comment, you returned your attention to your fingers as you resumed your work. He really did not have room to talk when he'd shown up unannounced on your fire escape asking for a favor at such an absurd hour. Especially after everything that had happened between you both only a few months ago. 

“Considering it’s almost one in the morning and you interrupted my evening?” you replied tersely. “I think I’m enjoying your discomfort the proper amount, Matthew.”

A bitter huff of air fell from him, his head turning over his other shoulder as you continued to work. Out of the corner of your eye, you knew where his attention had focused right now–towards your bedroom. Again. You’d caught him repeatedly shifting his head just slightly in the direction of it as you’d been stitching him for the past few minutes. As you pulled the needle through his skin once more, you could see the way he tensed in your dining chair. Except this time you could tell the tension in his body had nothing to do with the needle.

“Yeah, well,” he added quietly, a bitter edge to his words, “it seemed like your evening had already come to its conclusion by the time I'd shown up.”

“And what a satisfying conclusion it was,” you shot back.

Matt shook his head at you, his attention shifting away from your bedroom as he focused on a spot straight in front of himself. His lips were drawn into a thin line as he sat there shirtless, still drenched in sweat and blood from his time running around the city tonight. 

“Wasn't that satisfying,” he remarked.

Your hands stopped what they were doing, your gloved fingers resting against his bare and bloodied arm. Slowly, your eyes traveled from his injury upwards to his face. Matt was sitting there, the faintest hint of a pleased smirk on his mouth as if he was satisfied with himself for that jab. 

“Were you listening that closely, Matthew?” you chastised. “Finding new hobbies while you're out there surfing rooftops now? Is eavesdropping on women having sex the new thing for The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?”

Matt's smirk faltered before slipping off of his face entirely. A frown took its place instead, his hazel eyes narrowing at the blank screen of your television across the room. He'd long since discarded the black mask on your kitchen table, pulling it off after he'd stepped inside your apartment–just like he used to do when he stopped over during patrols in the past–making it impossible for him to hide his expression. It wasn't like he needed the mask around you anymore, though. You'd known all about the Devil when the pair of you had been dating.

“I wasn't intentionally listening,” he countered bitterly. “I came here looking for help. It's not that easy for me to stitch something one-handed while also blind.” His lips twitched in distaste as his voice lowered. “Not my fault you weren't alone when I stopped by.”

Pursing your lips as you worked, you felt a flash of frustration run through you. You didn't like that he'd come by tonight of all nights. You had just finally started to move forward after the breakup, trying to at least let guys into your bed even if you weren’t ready to let them into your heart. But you liked it even less that he'd overheard something so personal on top of it. Especially because it wasn't that he'd just overheard you having sex, it was that Matt’s heightened senses could invade your privacy enough to know the truth–that the guy you'd been with tonight couldn't play your body the same way Matt could.

“And it's not my fault that you did stop by. You could have gone to Claire,” you pointed out, trying to finish the last few stitches.

Matt scoffed at the comment. “Yeah, alright. Next time I'm bleeding from a deep laceration, I'll go the extra few blocks to Claire's place instead,” he shot back. “I wasn't exactly expecting you to be entertaining company quite so late, sweetheart.”

Your teeth grit together at the way he'd called you that again. It used to be spoken with such soft tenderness when you two had been together. Tonight? The condescension and anger was clear each time. 

“What did you expect, Matt?” you asked, finishing the final stitch. “It's been over four months since we broke up–since you ended things and shoved me away. I'm not a damn nun.”

He huffed out a sharp breath at your nun comment, a sarcastic smile on his lips. “Hilarious.”

You turned and set your supplies back on the dining table, digging around in your medical bag for a bandage to cover his stitches with. Pulling one out, you began to open the packaging before focusing back on Matt.

“What?” you asked, arching a brow at him as he sat in front of you. “Are you jealous? Is that it, Matthew?”

A loud scoff fell out of him before he pulled an exaggerated face.“Of course I’m not jealous,” he snapped. 

As you began covering his stitches with the bandage in your hands, you once again rolled your eyes. “You certainly sound jealous to me, Matt,” you argued. “You haven’t stopped focusing on my bedroom since you’ve been here. I can tell what you’re doing, I’ve known you long enough.”

“It’s not jealousy,” he countered. “I just figured you'd at least pick a guy who doesn't douse himself in cologne. Someone with a less irritating voice and who actually knew how to get you to properly finish when he’s–ahh!”

Eyes narrowed, you dropped your gloved hands away from his arm where you'd purposefully pressed a bit rougher than necessary against his wound while applying the bandage. He was far too comfortable discussing what he’d overheard considering the breakup and his four month long silence with you. 

“Not everyone has the same unfair advantages you have,” you retorted. “You probably wouldn't be quite so successful at cunninglingus yourself if it wasn't for your heightened senses, Matthew.” You paused, shooting him a glare that you hoped he could at least feel the heat from. “Not that my sex life is any of your damn business, nor is it up for discussion. You should be sitting here thanking me for even helping you right now instead of intentionally irritating me.” 

Matt's lips twitched again at the corners as you rose to your feet, beginning to clean up the mess you'd made trying to help him. Peeling off your gloves that were coated in his blood–not an unfamiliar sight to you in the past–you stepped into your kitchen and tossed them in the garbage.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, voice still tight.

“Don't tear those open on your way home, either,” you muttered, referring to the stitches. “I'm not staying up until three in the morning doing them over again.”

Stepping back around where he sat in your dining chair, you focused on putting the rest of your medical supplies back into your bag. Next to you, Matt leaned over towards your table with a grunt and grabbed his torn and bloodied black shirt from off of it. Out of the corner of your eye, you were aware of him pulling it carefully back on.

“I can hear your heart, you know,” he pointed out.

Your jaw tensed at the unexpected softness laced with something else. Something like satisfaction.

“And maybe you should stop listening to it,” you warned him.

A heavy silence filled your apartment as he continued to slip his shirt on over his head, slowly putting his arms through the torn sleeves. Finished putting the supplies back into your bag, you began to zip it up, but now you were far too aware of your traitorous body after his comment. Of course Matt could still hear the way you reacted around him even if you didn’t want to feel that way. It wasn’t as if you had any control over your body when it came to him.

Matt rose to his feet beside you, leaning past you to grab his mask from your kitchen table next. As he did, you caught the face he made. His nose scrunched up and his eyes narrowed, the corner of his lips curling back in disgust, just as it had done when he’d focused on your bedroom. 

“What?” you asked.

With a deep frown on his face, he straightened beside you. “You smell like him. Awful cologne and…”

His voice trailed off, not finishing his sentence. You could guess what else you smelled like from the guy you’d had over to Matt’s senses. Sweat, pheromones, and the aftermath of sex. You'd have felt bad for him if it wasn't for the fact that he'd been nothing but a jerk since he showed up asking you for help in the middle of the night.

“I'm sorry I didn't have a chance to shower before I gave you free medical treatment,” you replied stiffly.

Picking up your bag, you turned and began heading down the hall towards your bathroom. But as you walked, your hand tightened around the bag in outward anger. Despite that anger, your heart ached at this painful, unexpected interaction tonight. It was the last thing you’d wanted to deal with when you’d been trying to move forward.

You’d just barely gotten halfway down the hall when Matt spoke up again. He’d spoken so quietly that you’d had to strain to be able to hear him.

“A shower wouldn't have done enough,” he murmured, pain coating his words. “The smell goes…deeper than that.”

Stopping in the doorway of your little bathroom, you glanced down the short hallway back towards him. He was pulling the black mask over his face, but you caught the expression on it before half of it was obscured by the fabric. Hurt. But not the physical kind from the knife wound you'd just helped him with, a different sort of hurt. The kind you knew he hid behind with the physical pain he endured when he went out on nights like this.

Which had been the main problem between you both. Matt often struggled to communicate his feelings with you, but he also never took care of himself. He preferred to run around the city at night instead, even after you'd just brought him back from what felt like the brink of death some nights. Sometimes it felt like he was doing it to punish himself and not the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen. While you respected what he did, you hated how he pushed himself without a care for his own well-being over and over. It had been hard to watch, eventually becoming the topic of far too many fights–until it led to Matt taking the easy route and ending things. 

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. 

Expression falling as you stood just outside your bathroom, you felt that ache in your chest grow. Those two words carried so much weight as they hung heavy in your apartment, the distance between you both incredibly palpable. That apology was meant for more than just his attitude tonight. 

“Yeah,” you said just as quietly. “Me too.”

Matt hesitated for a moment, his focus still on you before he nodded slowly, acknowledging your words. Turning, he easily navigated his way around your living room despite the four months since he'd last been in it. Taking a step back into the hallway and away from your bathroom, you turned towards him and watched his retreating form. He looked so worn now that he wasn't throwing biting comments at you–his shoulders were slightly hunched and his head hanging. 

“I'm glad you're alright,” you called after him, catching the way your voice had caused him to stop. “And I'd rather you come here for help than bleed out on the streets. Just for…future reference.”

Matt paused by your window, one gloved hand on the bottom of it. His masked head shifted over his shoulder in your direction again, and you saw the small, sad smile on his lips. 

“I appreciate that, sweetheart,” he replied.

Matt turned back to your window, pushing it up and slipping back out onto your fire escape. As he closed it after himself, you noticed how he'd called you that without the condescension he'd been using most of the night. Rather, the sound of it felt like it carried a different meaning now. 

One that said ‘I miss you.’ 

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[berryz-writes]

Hooked

Azriel x reader

Summary: You teach Azriel how to crotchet after his hands become stiff due to old scars /fluff

Note: Hi my lovelies I got an extra boost to write this after going through my drafts and some of yalls encouragement. Ily all <33

The living room was quiet except for the sound of yarn brushing softly between fingers and the occasional sigh from the brooding male next to me.

Afternoon sunlight poured through the wide windows, spilling golden light across the floor and the deep blue yarn sitting in Azriel’s lap. His wings were relaxed behind him, stretching wide across the back of the couch like a warm, dark curtain. The way the light hit his face made the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones look softer, and a lock of his dark hair had fallen over his brow.

I watched him try to loop the yarn with the small silver crochet hook, his scarred fingers slow and unsure. It was oddly sweet, seeing the deadly Spymaster focus so hard on something so small and soft.

“You’re twisting the hook too much,” I said gently. “Let me show you again.”

“I’m not twisting it” Azriel muttered. “It’s... resisting me.”

“It’s yarn” I said, grinning. “Not an enemy soldier.”

That made him glance at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “It’s more stubborn than most enemies I’ve faced.”

I laughed, moving closer on the couch. He was trying, at least. That meant a lot. His hands had been stiff lately—more than usual. The old scars from his childhood, the ones that never quite healed right, made it harder for him to do small, careful things like this. So when I suggested crocheting—something that could help his fingers stay flexible—I didn’t expect him to say yes.

But he did. Without hesitation.

“Come here” he said suddenly, voice low. “It’s easier if you show me from here.”

“From where?”

He looked at me like I was slow. Then patted his thigh.

“In my lap.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He gave a casual shrug. “Unless you want me to stab myself with this thing.”

I snorted. “Crochet hooks aren’t sharp, Az.”

“Still might manage it.”

Shaking my head, I stood and climbed carefully into his lap. His hands settled naturally at my hips, helping me balance. His body was all hard muscle and heat—like sitting on a furnace made of shadows. I leaned back against his chest, letting him wrap one arm around me while the other held the hook.

“Comfy?” he asked, his voice right in my ear.

“Very.”

“Good. Because I plan to hold you hostage until I finish this row.”

I laughed again and reached for his hand, guiding it carefully with mine. His fingers were warm, rough with scars and years of training, but they moved with surprising gentleness when I showed him where to pull, how to loop, how to keep the yarn from getting too tight.

“Like this,” I said, shifting slightly to get a better angle. “Pull the hook through… then yarn over… yep, like that.”

Azriel hummed low in his throat. “I think I’m starting to get it.”

“You’re doing great,” I said softly, twisting my head just enough to catch his eye.

His hazel eyes met mine, golden-brown and steady. “You’re a good teacher” he said, quiet and honest. “But it might just be that I like having you in my lap.”

I rolled my eyes trying not to smile but before I could respond the peace shattered with a bang as the door swung open to the living room.

Cassian’s voice rang out. “What in the name of the Cauldron—?”

Cassian stood there, staring at us. Shirtless, of course, his chest and arms still sweaty from training.

He came to a halt, mouth parting slightly as he took in the image of the feared Shadowsinger… hunched over a growing patch of crocheted yarn, my hand steadying his wrist.

I could see it building behind Cassian’s hazel eyes—wicked amusement mixing with something softer beneath.

“Oh no,” he said at last, a grin slowly stretching across his face. “Has the Spymaster been domesticated?”

Azriel didn’t look up too focussed on his work “If I had a dagger right now…”

“You’d crochet me to death?” Cassian shot back, flopping dramatically into the chair across from us. He reached down and picked up a spare ball of yarn, turning it over in his massive, calloused hands. “This is it. This is my favorite day ever.”

“It’s for his fingers,” I said, pointedly ignoring the smirk he shot me. “The scarring gives him stiffness. This helps keep the dexterity.”

Cassian’s face did something then—softened, just slightly. His gaze dropped to Azriel’s hands, and for a second, a beat of silence passed between them. An understanding. One brother to another.

Then, of course, he ruined it.

“So,” Cassian said with mock-seriousness, tossing the yarn from hand to hand. “What’s he making? Wing warmers?"

Azriel finally looked up, his expression almost bored “You know, I could just stab you.”

“I knew there’d be a threat,” Cassian said brightly. “But it loses its edge when you’re holding… that.” He pointed at the hook Azriel was attempting to loop through the hole.

Azriel didn’t even look up. “You’re jealous because I can make things with my hands that don’t involve punching.”

“I am a little jealous, actually,” Cassian admitted with a mock pout, throwing the ball of yarn into the basket by my feet “Does this come in a colour that screams Commander of the Night Court?”

“It screams something,” Azriel muttered, finally looking up with a smirk. “Mostly that you talk too much.”

I laughed then, the sound escaping before I could stop it. Cassian gave me an exaggerated wink.

“Don’t encourage him,” Azriel said dryly, though his lips found the top of my head and pressed a kiss there “Next he’ll want a crochet battle.”

Cassian perked up. “Wait, is that a thing?”

“It is not a thing,” I said, exasperated.

Azriel shook his head, but even he couldn’t suppress the amusement in his expression.

Cassian’s teasing faded into a fond smile as he watched Azriel fumble another loop, my hands steadying his, voice soft and patient.

Cassian stood up and stretched, cracking his back with a grunt. “Alright, before I start crying or worse, crocheting, I’m leaving"

He was halfway out the room when I lobbed a yarn ball at his head. He caught it with a grin and vanished down the hall, still laughing.

Azriel let out a long breath and relaxed into further into the sofa taking me with him.

“He’s never going to let this go,” he murmured.

“No,” I agreed. “But he’s happy for you.”

Azriel was quiet for a moment, then turned to press a kiss another kiss to my hair. “So am I.”

[gf2bellamy]

part four: manifestation synchronicity

— ★ he didn’t speak it into existence—but he dreamed it, wished it, and somehow, the universe listened

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three

A lot of time had passed.

The dream clung to Spencer like a second skin, refusing to fade, even weeks later.

It clung to him so much that Spencer had started writing down speeches. Whole scenarios, practiced confessions of love—scripts he rehearsed late at night, sometimes whispering them under his breath, sometimes mouthing them silently while brushing his teeth. Each one ended up crumpled and tossed in the trash.

Too much. Too rehearsed. Too… not enough.

The wastebasket beside his desk overflowed with failed declarations, balled-up like the knot in his chest.

This morning, the aftermath of another sleepless night found him stepping into the elevator at 8:17 AM—late by his standards.

Morgan's car already parked in the lot. Hotch's office light already on.

The universe's meticulous order disrupted.

He sighed again as the elevator doors opened and stepped out into the bullpen, mind already racing. He hadn’t even had time to grab coffee. All he could think about was you. The way your voice sounded in the mornings, the way you said his name, the way—

"Spencer!"Your voice cut through the fog like sunlight.

He sat down at his desk just as you emerged from the breakroom, a steaming cup in each hand.

"You're late," you teased, hip-checking his desk as you approached.

Spencer's half-formed greeting died in his throat.

There you stood, dressed in a pink sweater that mirrored the sweater from his dream—same cable-knit pattern, same way it slipped off one shoulder. And the hair clip. The ladybug hair clip from your first day, winking at him like a shared secret.

The coincidence was too precise, too cruel.

"I overslept," he managed, his voice rough with sleep and something far more dangerous.

His gaze traced the curve of your neck where the sweater met skin, the way your fingers drummed against the ceramic mug—his mug, the one you always claimed was "accidentally" filled with his preferred brew.

You leaned further over his desk, close enough that he caught the vanilla-citrus scent of your shampoo.

"Well, lucky for you," you said, sliding the coffee toward him, "I come prepared."

The steam curled between you like the ghost of all his unsaid words.

“Thank you.” Spencer immediately took a sip, the warmth of the coffee on his tongue not even comparing to the warmth that was spreading throughout his entire body at the sight of you.

The conversation wandered—case files, Garcia's latest tech obsession, the questionable quality of precinct coffee—until the observation slipped out unbidden:

"I like your sweater." Spencer finally let the words fall out.

You nudged him lightly with the toe of your shoe, the contact buzzing through his thigh like a live wire. "Thanks, Spence," you said, plucking at the fabric. "Found it buried in my drawer. Haven't worn it in years, but today it just... called to me, you know?"

Spencer's fingers stilled on his desk.

Called to you.

The scarf around his neck—your scarf—suddenly felt heavier, the wool scratching at his skin in a way that had nothing to do with texture and everything to do with the way his pulse rabbited beneath it. He'd gone from treating it like museum glass to needing it like oxygen, as if the fibers had woven themselves into his DNA. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left home without it.

"Yeah," he murmured, watching the morning light catch in your lashes. "I get that."

Your smile lingered like sunlight as you stood, fingers brushing his shoulder—a fleeting touch that burned through the fabric of his dress shirt. 

"Enjoy your coffee," you murmured before weaving through the bullpen toward Garcia's office, your familiar morning ritual. Spencer tracked your movement until you disappeared around the corner, the ghost of your touch still warm on his skin.

The next hour passed in a haze. 

Files blurred together and words lost meaning until the scrape of your chair drew his attention back to earth. When you returned, settling into the desk across from him, the bullpen seemed to brighten by several lumens.

It was only when he shifted a stack of paperwork that he saw it—a glint of silver nestled against his keyboard.

Your ring.

The delicate band with its tiny engraved stars—the one he'd given you last Christmas after you'd admired it in a museum gift shop.

The one you never took off.

His gaze snapped up to find you frantically sifting through files, the crease between your brows deepening with each passing second. "You okay?"

You looked up, distress etching your features. "Spence, I can't find my—"

He lifted the ring between thumb and forefinger.

The words died as you spotted it. "Oh thank God."

He crossed to you in three strides, the metal warm from resting against his paperwork. 

"Must've dropped it when you gave me my mug," he smiled, watching the way your shoulders relaxed.

You extended your hand, palm down, fingers splayed in silent request. The implication wasn't lost on him—the ring finger, outstretched like a question he'd dreamed of answering properly.

Spencer's pulse roared in his ears as he cradled your fingers, the slide of cool metal against your skin far more intimate than it had any right to be. When the band settled at the base of your finger, something primal in his chest purred in satisfaction.

You wiggled it experimentally, then gifted him that small, private smile reserved only for him. 

"You're a savior."

He smiled back. The walk to the break room was automatic, his body moving while his mind reeled. The sweater. The hair clip. The ring. Each coincidence stacked like evidence in a case he could no longer deny—

The universe wasn't just nudging him anymore—it was shoving him toward the inevitable. And Spencer Reid had never been one to ignore empirical evidence.

The day unfolded like a carefully orchestrated symphony of impossibilities.

Lunch with Morgan and Garcia became an exercise in cognitive dissonance—three separate times, you and Spencer spoke the same words simultaneously.

Garcia had squealed into her margarita while Morgan muttered about "spooky genius telepathy."

Then the wishing well.

You'd dragged him to it with that irresistible grin, demanding he make a wish "for fun."

Neither of you knew the other had wished for the same thing—each other—coins glinting as they sank into the water like twin falling stars.

But the photograph was the tipping point.

You'd unearthed it from your desk with a delighted gasp—a candid Garcia had snuck into your drawer months ago, capturing the two of you shoulder-to-shoulder in her apartment. 

There you were, frozen in time: Spencer wearing the sweater from his dream (same cable-knit, just in forest green instead of pink), both of you absorbed in a book with—

"A ladybug," Spencer breathed, tracing the insect perched on the book in the photo. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

Your nose scrunched in that way he'd cataloged under Endearing Expressions, Vol. 3. "Cute right? Garcia must've taken this when we—"

But Spencer was already lost in thoughts.

The ring. How he had found it, the moment you thought about it. The way it felt to put it on your finger. The sweater. His gray cable-knit—the mirror image of your pink one from the dream. And the book in your hands? A weathered copy of a classic with a ladybug perched on the cover.

The coincidence was too precise, too loud to ignore.

Now, sprawled on his couch in that very sweater (dug out from the back of his closet with trembling hands), he stared at the ceiling. He traced the edges of the photo absently, his thumb brushing over your smile in the image.

The universe had handed him every clue, every sign, every cosmic nudge imaginable. Somewhere between probability and destiny, Spencer Reid had stumbled into a love story written in constellations.

All that remained was the courage to say it aloud.

[toraona]

gif by @apparently-artless

THE LOVE LANGUAGES OF:

— Trafalgar Law

Acts of Service

Law’s love is quiet. He doesn’t show off, brag, or even tells you he loves you—because he doesn’t need to. You already know and so does he.

Instead of saying it, he’d show it through simple actions, such as organizing your files and folders without being asked, bringing you tea on ordinary afternoons, or massage your tense muscles.

At first, it felt strange to experience love like this. Law focused more on his actions than words. But as time passed, you learned that he did it with a soft look—his facial features were less tense, a look he only saved for you. His voice was firm, yet carried a gentleness when it was just the two of you.

“Your back sore? Turn around, show me where it’s tender.”

“I cleaned your desk again. You’re welcome.”

Gift Giving

Law isn’t a gifting type of person. The most he’d do was buy you your favorite snack from a vendor in a village or buy you a set of quills and ink or a pouch of pens to keep up with your writing. He doesn’t bother wrapping it or keeping it as a surprise for later. Once he buys it, he automatically gives it to you when he sees you next.

Quality Time

Being a captain, managing the crew, alliances, missions, and training left Law with a limited time to spend time with you. But despite that, he always blocked out a couple hours just for you.

You’re the main person in the crew able to ground him when chaos overpowered calm. You became one of his favorite comforts, and when he needed to unwind he didn’t need words or distractions. He just needed you close.

Quiet moments with you are his favorite ones. You two exist for each other, and that’s all that matters.

Touch

Law isn’t a fan of public displays of affection. It isn’t that he’s shy, he simply doesn’t see the point of flaunting his feelings for you. What matters to him are your feelings for each other and because of that you two have nothing to prove.

Still, when he wants to offer you reassurance or senses tension in your body, he finds quiet ways to reach out: brushing his fingers against yours, or subtly linking your pinky with his.

Behind closed doors is where you’re the only one who gets to see the captain of the Heart Pirates unravel.

Law’s touches in bed are slow, sensual, and intentional. He is a gentle lover, and takes in every moment with you as if it’s your last.

“Let me take my time with you.”

“Kiss me.”

“Let me touch you the way no one else can.”

And every time you say yes, it is unraveled him even more.

Words of Affirmation

Law doesn’t speak much, only unless what he says is practical, helpful, and important. So when he started complimenting you, or praising you for a job well done, you were thrilled.

“You did great out there. Keep it up.”

“Your onigiri is my favorite.”

“Don’t burn yourself out. I need you.”

You felt seen and valued.

What he hasn’t told you yet was how much you mean to him, how much you’ve helped him grow into a man who knows he’s allowed to be cared for and loved.

He’ll tell you eventually, just not now.

BONUS ✨

Keeping You Warm

On cold days and nights, Law would wordlessly give you his coat, or wraps it around you when he sees you shivering.

“You can’t get sick.”

“Next time bring a thicker jacket.”

“This is an excuse to use mine.”

However, in private, that’s when he’d pull you into a warm embrace and wrap his arms around you, his head either resting on yours or if you’re in bed sleeping he’d hold you close, your back against his chest while he had his arms around you as he quietly whispers in your ear:

“I love you.”

Venting to You

When Law started talking to you about his problems, feelings, and concerns, that’s when you knew it was serious between you two.

He had always kept everyone at arm’s length, unwilling to let anyone in. But hearing him speak to you with no filter, with no fear of judgment made you feel closer to him than ever before.

You were someone he trusted with his thoughts and concerns, someone who took the time to truly hear him out which was something he hadn’t experienced for a long time.

“Thank you for listening.”

“Sorry if I said too much.”

To you, there was no such thing as Law telling you too much. Everything he shared mattered. If it was important to him, you always promised him it’s important to you.

[thewritingfairy]

↪ au: Poetic justice

Alternative ending to 04.1 Jason's crime I'll be honest I kept this one short mainly because this is a little bit darker then I usually write and idk if I should use a mature tag, because my original plan for this side story is a lot darker (I turned it down a lot). It might become a multiple part side story, depends if you guys like it. trigger warnings: medical + physical + emotional neglect, guilt, character death (semi-graphic suicide), gn reader (just pretend Reader is out in this au) main m.list          series m.list

‘I’m sorry mama.

It hurts, so much. I can’t take it anymore. It’s all too much, I can’t go on like this, but I know you didn’t me to turn out this way. But I can’t go back. This is the end, and all I do is listen to them.

I am scared of what will happen if I don’t, I’m so terrified mama. I can’t go on like this, but if I do this, isn’t it the easy way out? Especially for them? Wouldn’t I just be giving them what they want? A life without me? Oh, mama, how I wish you were here to guide me, to teach me, to talk me through this. To tell me what I can do.

At least I did what you taught me, I documented everything from the moment I could grab my phone. I took pictures of the injuries he gave me, I did as you taught me, but having these like a card up my sleeve isn’t enough. I want to die, but not just kill myself and leave a note. No, I want to explode this all in Bruce’s face. I want him to feel the hurt I feel.

I want him to burn here on earth and on hell.

That is the justice I want, it’s the justice I need. So I made a plan, you’ll be mad when we meet again. I know it, but you’ll understand. Won’t you, mama? I tried for so long, and this was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Once I am done I hope the find this diary. I hope that they know that I am dead because of them all.’

You sigh, you hadn’t written in your diary for a while, not since the attack. But today your ‘family’ isn’t here.

Today you are doing what you should have done the day your mama died. But you aren’t leaving before pulling the manor down with you, you had created a social media account that quickly garnered followers. Mainly from school, they all wanted to know more about you. They want to know why you aren’t attending classes, and they’ll learn.

It will shatter their hope to know that the Wayne family isn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thinks they are.

You will shatter Gotham’s perspective the moment your timed camera and social media posts hit the decks. You just need to move fast, you had already gotten everything ready, Jason’s clothes are sturdy and make for a good make-shift rope, and won’t it be poetic? Beaten to the point that scars have already began to form, and now you’ll die at the hands of his clothes wrapped around your neck.

Just like his hands were that day.

But this time it won’t be in your room, no, even if your room was now a creepy replica of your original one, you won’t defile it. You’ll do it right here in the living room, the room your family met up in the most and the room you avoided the most.

Your hands shaking as you stand up on the stool, there is no time to turn back.

You close your eyes and as you feel life slip away from you, and when you feel it get closer? You smile.

The Bat Family knows death like it’s their closest friend, Jason specifically, having been in heaven after all. But when he arrives at the manor, waiting for a debrief, he realises he’ll never go there again.

Because here he stands frozen, in front of the sibling he had harmed, they were just hanging there. Oh god, what has he done? Tears roll down his eyes as he walks towards them. Completely unaware of his surroundings, not even noticing that a camera is rolling, that sirens are slowly surrounding the manor. He should consider himself luckily that he had already changed in sweatpants, no sign of his Red Hood gear. Otherwise he had to explain more than just their wounds.

The closer he got to them, the more his surroundings seem to disappear. The more he doesn’t notice, the others had rushed in the room after hearing the sirens and getting an alert from Barbara that (Name) leaked the situation on the internet, with proof. Bruce had lied to her, he said it was just a small situation. Shouting over the comms to demand the truth, is it all true? Did they truly do this her? But it doesn’t matter, Jason did this. He pushed them to their death.

“Oh God,” he chokes out, as he finally reaches his arms out to touch your body. As he finally takes in your expression. You’re smiling, as if you are glad. As if you are finally safe. He did this. He did this to you. “I’m sorry, what have I done….”

He falls to his knees, his head touching the ground as his sobs echo in the room. But his pity party didn’t last for long, no. Before he could reach for your body and beg for forgiveness Tim pushes him away from your body, angry tears streaming down his face. “You don’t get to touch them.” His voice was shaking, his body rigid and tense. He was on the defensive. Tim seems deluded as he shouts, pointing at them all; “None of you get to touch them!”

Tears streaming down his face as he screams once more; “What have we done?!” (Oh, would this have been him if Bruce hadn’t saved him?) His thoughts torture him and all he could do was pull on his hair, almost tearing it out as he swears he can see your body move. Your smile turning sour the longer he looks at your face. As if you’re telling him; ‘Oh, Tim, couldn’t you do this for me when I was alive? Couldn't you have defended me before?’

Then Tim’s eyes widen, what if you can still be saved, what if he can still turn your faith around?

If you were saved, would his complicity be forgiven?

He works quick, taking your body down as he tries to save you. But your body is already getting cold, it’s too late, but he doesn’t care. He needs you to open your eyes, he needs to ask for forgiveness, he needs to turn your faith around.

You needed someone in your corner, he shouldn’t have been complicate, he should have saved you. That's what Red Robin's for, to protect those that couldn't protect themselves. And he had left you behind, the person that saved him, the person that could relate to him the most. And he never let you in.

He didn’t even notice he was hyperventilating until Bruce pulled him away from your body as paramedics rush into the room. Bruce holds Tim in a bruising hug, almost as if he's terrified Tim would die too. His eyes shot up to where his other siblings were, their eyes terrified. Their eyes looking at your body as if it was all a dream.

Then it all became real.

You are pronounced dead.

And a dread settles upon them all.

They, who are Gotham’s protectors, killed a civilian.

They were the cause of a death of someone they vowed to protect. All because of their own ignorance.

as I said before if you guys like this I'll make it in a bigger side story, but it would get a new taglist and it's own masterlist. For this chapter I'll use the taglist for Nobody's child.

taglist (Nobody's child): @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[oscinhaslandito]

Could you please write something with Lando when you’re Bradley Coopers daughter and you met Lando during an Grand Prix and have been dating for a few months and now it’s time for him too meet you’re dad for the first time and as you get ready you sense that he’s nervous you saw it on his face when you told him that you have a dinner at youre fathers house with him and his girlfriend Gigi. You’re dad wanted to meet him as soon as he found out that you dated someone but Lando had some grace period with the season but no that the season came to an end he has no other chance you’re not particularly concerned about you’re dad you told Lando as long as he doesn’t say anything against the Eagles he will be fine. Lando and you got caught up in a little make out session which almost ended in you being late. As it turns out Landos concerns where groundless after some introducings you’re dad gets dinner ready and god bless Gigi for being such an sweetheart for asking him questions about his family and F1 too get him comfortable. Later the evening when you talk with Gigi she tells you that if Lea and Khai get too meet him they will undoubtedly love him and you can’t help but smile you saw him with his nieces and it’s just too easy too imagine him with you’re sister and Gigi’s daughter it would be so much fun you tell her if they ever need an babysitter they know who to call and as you look at her bright grin you know that you probably got yourself in trouble there.Much love❤️

omg anon aaaaahhhhh this request is too good!!!!! omg i haven't had a request in so long also gurl the vision?? omg adorbs i hope this is what you were looking for. even took the day off from uni for ya (priorities💀). anyways hope you like it. i had so much fun writing it. enjoy!!♥♥

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader (y/n cooper, daughter of that bradley cooper) word count: 3.7k

The First Time She Met Him…

The sun was way too bright for someone who'd been up since 7 a.m. on a media tour. Y/N Cooper tugged her cap lower over her sunglasses as she slipped into the chaos of the paddock. Her dad was in Monaco for some actor-y event, and she’d somehow gotten talked into attending a Grand Prix. Alone. With zero idea what Formula One actually was besides “hot guys in fast cars.”

She wasn’t expecting the loud engines, the way the air buzzed with electricity, the sea of orange-clad fans holding up weird signs like “MCLANDO 4EVER” and “MARRY ME, NORRIS 😘.”

She definitely wasn’t expecting him.

Lando Norris — sweaty, grinning, race suit tied around his waist, curls an actual crime against humanity — nearly crashed into her while jogging toward the garage.

“Oh, sorry—! Didn’t see you there.”

She looked up, caught the breathless smile, blinked like a confused deer, and blurted, “You look like you’ve just finished running from the law.”

He laughed. Actually I laughed. “I mean… kinda. These engineers are scarier than Interpol.”

She had no clue what that meant, but his voice was warm and his eyes sparkled and—okay, damn it, she was interested.

“You’re American, huh?” he asked, tugging at the towel slung over his shoulder.

“You’re British, right?” she shot back. “We can both identify accents. Yay us.”

“Feisty. I like it.”

She tilted her head, clearly amused. “I’m not flirting with you. Just so we’re clear.”

“Shame,” he replied with a grin, “because I totally am.”

Weeks Later…

He DM’d her that same night. 

| didn’t get your name. not very gentlemanly of me.

She couldn’t believe the text he just sent.

| you’re literally dming me and you didn’t catch my name?real smooth dude.🙄 

Even with Lando’s rocky start, they started texting. Just casually. Memes turned into late-night calls. Her face lit up on his screen more often than not. It didn’t take long before she was sneaking into races just to see him. No paddock passes. No press. Just her in the background, always in a hoodie two sizes too big and a smirk that drove him insane.

It happened in Silverstone.

Not on the podium. Not in front of the fans. But in a back hallway behind the garage, just after he’d come P3. His race suit was zipped up to his waist, curls damp, energy buzzing through him like a live wire. She was waiting, leaned against a wall, arms crossed like she hadn’t been holding her breath the entire final lap.

He reached her in three strides and pulled her into a hug before she could even say hi.

“You were amazing,” she murmured into his shoulder.

“You came.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Even if I’m still figuring out what different color flags mean.”

He chuckled, pulled back, looked at her like he was thinking too hard. She raised a brow. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he started.

“Dangerous.”

“I want to call you my girlfriend.”

She blinked.

He panicked.

“I mean—not just call you that. I want you to be that. Like—would you be okay with that? With me? And the whole circus that comes with it? Because I don’t want this to be some casual, stupid thing. Not with you.”

Y/N stared at him. Long enough for him to shift uncomfortably and almost take it back.

But then she smiled. Soft, real, Hollywood-girl-in-love kind of smile.

“Lando Norris, are you asking me to go official behind the McLaren garage in a sweaty race suit?”

He flushed. “Yes?”

She pulled him in by the collar and kissed him.

“Good. Because I was getting very tired of calling you my ‘friend’ when my dad asks who I’m texting at 3 a.m.”

Cut to the present day…

Lando had known this day was coming — like a slow-approaching DRS zone you couldn’t avoid even if you slammed the brakes. Ever since Bradley Cooper had found out his daughter was dating someone, the clock had been ticking. Not loudly, not in an aggressive "I’m gonna kill him" kind of way — no, Bradley was too smooth for that. It was subtler. An arched brow when Y/N laughed at her phone. A pointed, “Is that him?” whenever Lando’s name popped up on the screen. The kind of tone that said I’m not mad. I just have questions. And maybe a shotgun.

Lando had been given a temporary grace period, courtesy of the relentless F1 calendar. Races, press, simulator work — all valid, all real, all conveniently spread out across continents that made meeting your girlfriend’s Oscar-nominated father logistically... complicated. But now, with the season over and the last trophy handed out, Lando had run out of places to hide.

“You’ll be fine,” Y/N had said, curled up next to him on the couch, legs tangled with his like it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’s chill. I swear. Just don’t say anything bad about the Eagles, and you’ll survive.”

Lando had blinked at her. “The band?”

She laughed so hard she almost fell off the couch. “The football team, Norris. Philadelphia Eagles. You slander them, you die.”

So, here they were, getting ready for potentially the most important dinner of Lando’s life.

The bathroom mirror reflected Y/N’s focus as she adjusted her dress for the fifth time, a leopard print that hugged her figure in all the right ways, falling just below the knee. She was so casually stunning that it was borderline unfair. Her hair was in soft waves, effortless like she didn’t care that every strand seemed to fall exactly how it should. It wasn’t even the dress that had Lando’s blood rushing; it was the way she moved — the little twirl of her fingers as she checked her lipstick in the mirror, the way her eyes fluttered as she brushed a stray hair behind her ear.

Lando, who was just in the other room pulling on his jacket, couldn’t help but watch. He knew he was being a little obvious, but honestly, at this point, he was beyond trying to hide it. He was looking at her like she was some kind of magic. Like the universe decided to throw all its best creations into one person, and she was standing there in front of him.

She turned, catching him staring, and gave him a playful raise of her eyebrow.

"What?" she asked, her voice low, teasing.

He blinked rapidly like he’d been caught in some forbidden act. "Nothing, just... you look..." He paused. Couldn’t quite get the words out. "Incredible."

Her lips curled into a smile. “You think so?”

His eyes darted down to her lips before snapping back up to her eyes. “I think... I think I’m gonna have a hard time leaving this room.”

Her smile faltered for a second, a flash of mischief dancing behind her gaze. “Oh? How come?”

He stepped closer, his lips twitching like he was trying not to smile himself. “Because this,” he gestured to her, his hand hovering like it wanted to reach out but was fighting the urge, “is pretty much everything I’ve ever wanted in front of me.”

Y/N’s breath hitched just a little. Lando, the world-famous race car driver, was standing in front of her, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered, and... God, did it make her heart skip.

Before she could respond, he closed the distance between them, his hand brushing against her waist, and suddenly the air felt thick, like a storm was brewing but neither of them was willing to acknowledge it.

“Baby... we’re gonna be late,” she murmured, her voice thick with something else.

But it was too late.

He kissed her. Just one simple, gentle kiss that felt like an electric jolt to the chest. No more words, no more hesitation — just a soft brush of lips that made everything else feel unimportant. But it didn’t stop there. His hand slid around her waist, pulling her closer, his lips pressing a little harder against hers, and God, he couldn’t stop himself. The tension, that irresistible, magnetic pull between them was too much.

Y/N didn’t try to pull away either. In fact, she melted into him, her fingers trailing up his chest as she deepened the kiss, a slight hum of pleasure escaping her throat. It was just a kiss, just one... but it felt like so much more.

Her hand slid up to his neck, her nails lightly grazing the skin beneath his shirt, sending a shiver down his spine. He gripped her tighter, his lips moving against hers with urgency, the sound of their kissing soft in the otherwise quiet room. They weren’t thinking about the dinner, or Gigi Hadid waiting, or Bradley Cooper being possibly the most intimidating man to meet — all they cared about was the magnetic connection they couldn’t pull away from.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing heavy, faces flushed, eyes wide.

"Okay," she said between breaths, “I guess we really can’t be late now, can we?”

Lando let out a breathy laugh. “That was your fault,” he said, his voice low and teasing.

“Me? You’re the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me!” she shot back with a grin.

Y/N stood at the bathroom mirror again, now less goddess and more hot mess — her lipstick was thoroughly smudged, her gloss gone rogue, and her once-perfect curls? One side was doing some tragic post-make-out limp thing. She gasped when she caught sight of herself.

“Lando Norris, look what you did to me!”

From behind her, he leaned in, arms circling her waist, chin resting on her shoulder like he hadn’t just spent the last five minutes being an absolute menace to society. His smile was shameless.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, lips brushing her neck.

She slapped his hand away with a huff, trying to stay focused as she reached for her makeup bag. “No. No. I’m not showing up to dinner with Gigi Hadid looking like I just rolled out of your bed.”

“I mean... we could just go back to bed,” he offered, nuzzling into her neck again, the audacity of this man. “Reschedule. Rain check. I’ll email Gigi. Or DM. Something professional.”

Y/N groaned, dabbing at her mouth with a makeup wipe. “You’re lucky you’re hot.”

He grinned. “So are you. Devastatingly.”

She tried to reapply her lipstick with trembling fingers, his hands now casually wandering — purely innocent, totally coincidental contact, obviously. She looked at him through the mirror.

“You touch my hips one more time and I swear we’re going to be fashionably late in a way that involves me fake texting my dad ‘Sorry, food poisoning.’”

He looked unbothered. “He’d probably understand. We can tell him it was shellfish. Or my fault.”

“It is your fault!”

“Exactly. And wouldn’t it be tragic,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of her ear, “if you ruined that beautiful dress... in bed?”

She froze mid-mascara.

“Lando Norris, we’re meeting my father in twenty minutes!”

He leaned in, smirking, voice low and cocky, “I can work fast.”

She groaned again, turning around and pushing him back toward the bedroom door, palm on his chest. “Out. Out. Out. I need ten uninterrupted minutes to de-sexify myself.”

“Impossible,” he said with a wink, holding his hands up in surrender but walking backward out of the bathroom like he was being dragged away by security. “You can’t turn off that kind of hot.”

She shut the door in his face. “Go iron your shirt, menace.”

They were a little late, but they didn’t care. Lando kissed her one more time, just a quick peck, before taking her hand, leading her to the door. Because no matter how much time they lost to their tension, they knew they’d never regret that stolen moment.

Lando was driving, hands suspiciously steady on the wheel considering the absolute chaos they’d just escaped from. Y/N sat beside him, legs crossed tightly, trying not to spiral. Her lipstick had been fixed, her hair re-curled in record time, and she’d even managed to touch up her highlighter like a pro. But her neck still had that faint heat to it, and every time she glanced in the mirror, she swore she could see kiss aftermath energy radiating off her.

And Lando? This man was way too smug for someone about to meet Bradley freaking Cooper.

“You good?” he asked, not looking at her, but with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You nearly made us an hour late,” she hissed, smoothing down her dress for the third time. “I have setting powder in my cleavage right now, Lando.”

He chuckled, soft and low. “Worth it.”

“You’re impossible,” she muttered, cheeks still warm.

As they turned into the long, absurdly elegant driveway of the Cooper residence — and yes, it had an actual gate code, she entered it like she’d done it a thousand times before — the nerves really hit her. Gigi’s car was already parked outside. There were lights on inside. People were home.

Lando, suddenly a little less cocky, sat up straighter. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at her.

“Okay. Just to confirm — no trash talk about the Eagles. Anything else I should avoid?”

Y/N turned to him, deadpan. “No, just keep talking good about them. And for the love of God, don’t flirt with Gigi accidentally, because she’s genetically engineered to be ethereal and you have no self-control.”

He looked mildly offended. “I have some self-control.”

She arched a brow. “You tried to seduce me with my own lipstick fifteen minutes ago.”

He grinned again, looking out the window. “Okay, fair.”

The car stopped.

Silence.

They sat there for a beat too long. Y/N let out a breath. “Ready?”

Lando nodded, but his voice was soft. “I just really want him to like me.”

And suddenly she wasn’t teasing anymore. She reached over, squeezing his hand.

“He’ll like you,” she said, voice gentler. “Because I love you.”

Their eyes met. He gave a tiny smile — the real kind, the one that didn’t try to be cool or cocky. “Okay. Let’s go meet the legend.”

They stepped out of the car, the night air cool against their skin. Y/N fixed the collar of his shirt like a mom at a school recital and whispered one last thing as they reached the door.

“If he asks why we were late…”

“Traffic,” Lando nodded seriously.

“Heavy traffic.”

“Like, six-car-pileup levels.”

The door swung open to reveal Bradley Cooper in the most Bradley Cooper fit possible — soft grey henley, navy joggers, barefoot, holding a wine glass like he was both the host and the afterparty. Behind him, Gigi Hadid padded into view in what could only be described as a cloud disguised as a cashmere matching set. Her hair was in a bun, she looked like a Pinterest board, and somehow she glowed. Disrespectful.

“You two are late,” Bradley said, raising an eyebrow and a glass in greeting. “Traffic?”

Lando, trying to be on his best behavior, nodded with all the sincerity of a man absolutely not thinking about making out in the hallway mirror ten minutes ago. “Yes, sir. Bad traffic. All the way through Beverly Hills.”

“Brutal,” Bradley said, already turning and walking back into the house like he was just commenting on the weather. “We started without you. Hope you don’t mind.”

Gigi waved. “Hey Y/N. Hey Lando. I opened the merlot. Your dad’s on glass number two, so you’re probably safe for the next hour.”

Y/N laughed, shooting Lando a see? told you so look as they stepped into the house. Lando was taking it all in — the modern decor, the subtle Oscar shelf in the corner (casual), the vintage guitars on the wall. It was the kind of house that said “I’ve made it,” but also “I surf sometimes.”

Bradley gestured to the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Food’s on the way. I ordered from that Chinese place you like, Y/N. I figured I’d play nice.”

Y/N grinned, flopping onto the couch like she owned the place. Lando sat next to her, just a little too upright.

“So, Lando,” Bradley said, sitting opposite them and crossing one ankle over his knee. “You any good at darts?”

Lando blinked. “Uh, yeah? I mean, I’m decent—"

“Great. Loser does the dishes.”

Y/N cackled as Gigi passed Lando a glass of wine and patted his shoulder.

“Don’t worry. He’s just messing with you. Also, he’s really bad at darts.”

Lando finally exhaled a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and leaned back into the couch, letting his fingers brush against Y/N’s. Okay. He could do this. It wasn’t a formal dinner. No speeches, no glares. Just darts, good Chinese food, and the coolest dad in America casually evaluating if his daughter’s boyfriend was worthy.

“So,” Bradley said, sipping his wine with a smirk, “tell me, Lando. Do you follow the Eagles?”

The conversation flows smoothly. But, turns out Lando’s really bad at hand eye coordination.

Dinner had arrived in sleek, eco-friendly takeout containers, all artfully arranged like a lifestyle blog photo. 

As it turns out, Lando’s nerves were wildly overestimated. His deep-rooted, soul-consuming panic about disappointing Bradley Cooper evaporated somewhere between his even worse skills than himself and the dad jokes that he was cracking.

Y/N was already stealing bites from Lando’s plate like it was her birthright, and Bradley was elbow-deep in Kung Pao chicken, cracking one-liners like he was hosting Hot Ones.

But it was Gigi — ethereal, barefoot, sipping her wine like a goddess — who really set the tone.

“So, Lando,” she began, propping her chin on her hand, “Y/N tells me, you have a brother and two sisters, right? Does your family still live in the UK?”

Lando blinked, slightly stunned by the fact that Gigi Hadid knew about him. “Yeah! Yeah, they’re back in the UK. We moved around a bit when I was a kid, but—uh, yeah.”

Gigi smiled. “I watched Drive to Survive. You’re quite funny.”

Lando flushed slightly, a small grin spreading across his face. “Thank you.”

Bradley glanced at Gigi with a smirk. “She did her homework. She’s been prepping for this dinner like it’s a Vogue cover story.”

“I just don’t want him to feel like he’s being grilled,” Gigi shrugged, passing Lando the bottle of wine like they were old friends. “F1’s intense enough.”

Y/N beamed. She squeezed Lando’s knee under the table, and his hand instinctively found hers, giving it a gentle squeeze back. His shoulders had dropped a full inch since they walked through the door. The tension in his jaw? Gone. The panicked thoughts of “what if he hates me” and “what if I accidentally say Verstappen instead of Eagles” were now replaced with “I think Bradley Cooper just laughed at my joke” and “Gigi Hadid thinks I’m cool.”

By the time dessert — a chocolate cake that had zero business being that good — rolled around, Lando was chatting away about life on the paddock, what team meetings were like, and the chaotic energy of being on the road nine months out of the year.

Bradley was listening. Gigi was sipping. Y/N was glowing.

“You know,” Bradley said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “I get it now.”

Lando raised a brow, fork still mid-air. “Get what?”

“Why she likes you,” Bradley said, totally casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “Takes someone pretty grounded to survive that world and still be this… decent.”

And just like that, Lando’s brain short-circuited.

Y/N smiled into her water glass, pretending she wasn’t melting from how soft Lando looked at that moment.

“Also helps that you didn’t talk crap about the Eagles,” Bradley added with a wink.

The dinner plates were stacked, the wine glasses gathered, and soft jazz floated through the living room as Y/N and Gigi slipped into the kitchen with practiced ease. It was a quiet sort of comfort — the kind that came from shared girlhood and a few glasses of very good red.

Gigi hummed as she rinsed a plate, tossing a grin Y/N’s way.

“So… he’s kind of perfect.”

Y/N snorted, leaning against the counter with a sponge in one hand and a dopey smile on her face. “He’s really not. He leaves socks everywhere and eats spring rolls at 1 a.m. like it’s a religion.”

“Okay, but still,” Gigi said, nudging her hip. “You hit the jackpot. He’s sweet, respectful, clearly obsessed with you — and did you see the way he handled your dad?”

Y/N let out a laugh. “Handled is a strong word. He nearly combusted when Dad brought up the Eagles.”

Gigi smiled, more fond than amused. “He’s a good one, Y/N. If Lea and Khai ever get to meet him… oh, those girls would adore him.”

That stopped Y/N in her tracks — not in a dramatic way, just enough to let it sink in. She had seen it before: Lando crouching down to sign little race flags, letting tiny fans try on his cap, giving his niece piggyback rides around the garden. And now she was picturing it again — this time with her baby sister giggling on his shoulders, and Khai braiding daisies into his curls while he pretended he was being held hostage.

She blinked back the soft rush of warmth.

“They’d love him,” she said, quieter this time. “And honestly… if you ever need a babysitter, you know who to call. Lando’s a total natural.”

Gigi raised a brow. “Not you?”

Y/N laughed, handing her the last plate. “Me too. But you’ve seen that man’s face — if he asked a toddler to do a backflip, they’d try.”

Gigi giggled, flicking water at her. “So true. He’s got the Disney prince effect.”

Out in the living room, Bradley’s voice rang out.

“Norris! You can’t leave until I win one round, man. I don’t care if it takes all night!”

Lando’s laugh followed, warm and boyish and entirely at home.

Y/N and Gigi shared a look. No words. Just one of those girl-to-girl, I-see-you kind of glances.And in that moment, with the sink full of bubbles and their hearts full of something even warmer, Y/N realized… maybe she had hit the jackpot after all.

guys reqs are always open!! please feel free to drop one for your favorite driver. always happy to write♥♥

[inks-writing-space]

Checkmate- Elijah Mikaelson x f!reader

My Masterlist <3

4.1k words: You are a good friend of Rebekah and visit her in the compound. There her older brother Elijah challenges you to a game of chess where you win easily. After time Elijah gets increasingly frustrated with your skills, until one night the tension snaps...

Warnings: smut, dom/sub dynamics, light degradation, praise, rougher sex, blood drinking

A/N: Ahhh I love chess (I suck in it as much as I’d like to suck on Elijah tho). Honestly I love this whole prompt. It‘s so much fun to write frustrated Elijah who loses it. Sooo yes enjoy. Also I have written-finals next week and I will hopfully publish one story between Sunday and Wednesday (I have like 3 Klaus drafts to finish) and then I‘ll probably take a break to enjoy the time after finals. (And before spoken finals) But now enjoy Elijah being a bad loser. Ps: add me on chess.com: Darth_Laeka

~~~~~~~

The storm outside had turned into a slow, steady downpour, drumming softly against the windows of the Mikaelson compound. It was your first time visiting it. You were a friend of Rebekah, you two had only met recently and gotten along immediately. Nevertheless it took her very long to invite you over. Despite you knowing about all the supernatural surrounding her life you had always wanted to be inside the Mikaelson compound.

But now Rebekah had gone upstairs fighting with Kol over shoes he had destroyed ("You did it on purpose!" "Rebekah I didn't even know those were yours") and for safety reasons (you were scared of Rebekah when she was angry) you had decided to stay downstairs. You looked around trying not to intrude, but you couldn’t help and admire the whole building. The entire compound was breathtaking. The furniture seemed ancient and expensive. The Mikaelson‘s were old money and you knew that, but everytime you were shopping with Rebekah you were reminded how rich they truly were.

Suddenly you noticed a chess board set up on a table across the room. Despite the fact that the pieces were all over the place it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. It looked as if every single piece had been done by hand and knowing the Mikaelson’s that wasn’t so unlikely.

You picked up the black queen, your fingers running over the smoothed wood. You smiled as you kept looking at the figures. You were admiring a rook when a voice, smooth and deep, spoke from behind you.

"Do you play?“

You turned, suprised to find Rebekah‘s big brother, Elijah. You didn’t know a lot about Elijah but when you saw him in his suit leaning against the doorway so casual you had to smile a little. There were no need to hide your true abilities or be modest. You loved playing chess and had been quite good at in since your childhood, you loved how able you were to control the pieces while you systematically teared the other side apart.

"Yes I do,“ you said with a smirk setting the pawn down, watching him taking a step forward

“Then we should play,“ he said his voice calm as always as he made his way over to you, inspecting you before sitting down, "I barely have good opponents.“

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? I’d hate to bruise that centuries-old ego,“ you said jokingly before taking your seat across him.

A quiet chuckle tore from Elijah’s throat as he raised an eyebrow, "Darling, I’ve been playing chess longer than you’ve been alive.”

You rolled your eyes at his antics and smirked as he turned the chessboard so you could have white.

You moved your pawn to d4 and Elijah contered with his pawn to d5. Then your knight to f3. Elijah looked at you but didn’t say anything before moving his bishop to b4. He didn’t have to say check but you quickly contered with a pawn to c3. Elijah had obviously only tried to intimidate you because his bishop retreated. You kept playing it safe for a while before you got bolder and took his queen.

"You talk about playing chess for centuries and now you fell for that?,“ you asked with a raised eyebrow. Elijah didn’t respond but you saw his jaw tense.

At first, he had played as if entertaining a guest. He smiled when he took your pawn. He complimented a clever move of yours but he only did that once. But as you took the queen and then his rook something shifted.

He started leaning forward. He studied the board longer. He touched one piece, paused, and withdrew his hand.

"Are you trying to castle me?,“ he mumbled and took another pawn. You tried not to grin, you had him exactly were you had wanted.

Ten more moves in and Elijah’s brows furrowed slightly, the first crack in his flawless composure. His knight was trapped, his bishop pinned, and your queen had just begun to sweep dangerously close.

“You’re… good,” he said quietly, watching your fingers as you moved a piece with practiced ease.

“I told you,” you said, resting your chin in your hand.

Another move, then another. You saw his eyes narrowing as you took his bishop. Then finally it was time for your final attack. He sat back slowly, almost disbelieving. His gaze flicked from the board to your face and back.

“You’re bluffing,” he murmured, but it was more to himself than to you.

“Nope,” you said sweetly, then pushed your queen into place. “Will you resign or do you wish to go through the whole humiliation process were I checkmate you?“

Elijah stared at the board, utterly still. He finally looked up at you, a slow, stunned smile spreading across his face. “I cannot remember the last time someone beat me.”

“You’ll remember this one,” you said, smug.

---

The next times you came over the chessboard was already set. Rebekah was rolling her eyes because Elijah insisted on playing a round of chess with her friend, after everytime her and Rebekah hung out. You wanted to decline, but his gaze held something challenging, his smirk something deceiving.

This went on for weeks. After a especially nasty loss for Elijah it was him who invited you over, not Rebekah. As you entered Elijah was seated in the room, wine poured, blazer off, sleeves rolled. He barely glanced up as you walked in, but you could feel the intensity in the air like static before a storm. You bit your lip but couldn't stop yourself from commenting.

“I see you’ve prepared for defeat,” you teased lightly, slipping into the chair across from him.

His eyes finally met yours, dark and unreadable. “I’d call it preparation for redemption.”

You smiled, slow and amused, already reaching for your first pawn. “That sounds dangerously close to hope."

The match began in silence, save for the gentle clink of glass and the occasional sound of your pieces meeting the board. Elijah played aggressively tonight, starting with The Scotch Game. You were about to make a joke about the name of the opening and the fact that he was drinking wine, but when you looked up you realized how serious he was. Elijah was done with polite openings and careful traps. His knight struck early, cornering your bishop, and his queen started to go on your nerves.

Nevertheless through it all you stayed calm and composed, blocking his attacks deciding to play a safe game, without recklessnes. And it drove him mad.

Each move you made unraveled his careful control. You could see it in the way his jaw clenched, in the flicker of frustration in his eyes when you slid your rook across the board with the confidence of someone who knew the end was already written.

By the time you murmured, “Check,” he was staring at the board like it had betrayed him personally.

He leaned back in his chair, one hand covering his mouth, the other drumming fingers against his thigh. You took a sip of his wine, pretending not to watch him seethe in slow, dignified silence.

Kol passed you two and raised his eyebrows watching the normally completely composed Mikaelson looking disheveled. "Elijah do you want t-," he started but Elijah raised his hand making Kol shut his mouth and left with a shrug.

“You’re toying with me,” Elijah muttered at last.

You raised an eyebrow, “Or I’m just better at chess.”

His gaze snapped to you, sharp and heated. “I haven’t lost this many matches in centuries.” You chuckled slightly, "In a row or in general?“

He didn’t reply immediately. Just watched you, his eyes traveling over your face, down to your lips, your hands on the edge of the board.

“I’m starting to think you’re doing it on purpose,” he said softly, voice low. “Winning?” “No," he leaned in slightly. “Driving me insane.”

Your pulse jumped. You tried to hide it with a shrug, but he saw. Of course he saw.

You moved your final piece, trying to avoid his gaze, "Checkmate.”

Elijah stared at the board, then at you. I took a while and then he laughed quietly and disbelieving, shaking his head, the sound rough at the edges. “You are… impossible.”

“Is that a compliment?”

He stood slowly, coming around the table. You turned in your chair just as he reached you, his hand curling around the back of it. He was imposing your space but you didn't mind as he was hovering above you.

“I’m not sure yet,” he said, low against your ear. “But I know I’m not letting you leave without another game.”

Your breath caught in your throat “And if you lose again?”

His hand brushed your jaw, fingers barely touching. “Then I’ll have to find another way to win.”

Your hands were shivering as you set the figures up again. He took the hint and sat back watching you intensely. "Well let's hope it won't come down to that," you said your voice not sounding as composed as you had hoped.

Elijah jaw was tensed but there was the illusion if a smile on his lips. But you wouldn't let him win just because he was hot (Which he was. Like really, really smoking hot. brother of your best friend this, brother of your best friend that, Elijah was the prettiest man you had seen in a long time), that was why you took his bishops, his rooks, his queen and finally his king again with a sweet smile. Elijah didn’t even wince. As you stood up to head home Elijah speeded towards you, taking your wrist, "Wait," he whispered.

You turned around, heart racing at how close he was. His hand was still around your wrist, not tight, but firm as if he didn't want to let go, even if he would the second you asked.

“Elijah?” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes were already on you, dark and unreadable, flickering between your lips and your eyes. The silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty, it was charged with electricity, as he brushed his knuckles against your cheek.

“Listen, I have lost before. And I keep telling myself it’s just chess,” he murmured, his voice soft but threaded with something rougher underneath. “But I’ve never cared this much about losing a game.”

You blinked, mouth parting, and before you could reply, he was leaning in slowly giving you every second to stop him. Your breath hitched and your heart was racing probably a million times per hour but you didn't.

His lips brushed yours once and then again, a lot firmer like he’d finally allowed himself to fall forward. His free hand rose to cradle your jaw, tilting your head up as he deepened the kiss, and it was all heat and control and the quiet, devastating kind of hunger you’d only seen in glances before now.

His lips moved over yours with a reverence that made your knees weaken, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the softness of your sigh as you leaned into him.

Your fingers found his shirt, clutching it like an anchor, and Elijah deepened the kiss just slightly, just enough to steal your breath and leave you craving more. The hand on your jaw slid back into your hair, his fingers threading through it gently, possessively, like he’d already decided he never wanted to let go.

When he finally pulled back, barely an inch, his forehead rested against yours. His breathing was uneven, his voice husky when he whispered, “Come upstairs with me.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, like he already knew your answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

Your pulse jumped. “And what if I say no?”

He smiled, that perfect, composed Elijah Mikaelson smile, but there was a flicker of something dangerous behind it now. “Then I’ll insist on a rematch.”

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again, and that was all the answer he needed.

In one smooth motion, he picked you up and you let out a startled laugh. His grip was strong, steady, like holding you was the easiest thing he’d done all night.

“I didn’t know vampires carried people to bed like that,” you teased, breathless.

“Only the ones who win,” he said, eyes locked on yours.

He threw you onto his bed and closed the door behind him. His sleeves were still rolled up and he hovered above you.

"You’re infuriating," he said, his voice low and rough with restraint. “And briliant, but you toyed with me," he said kissing your neck. You closed your eyes and smirked as he held himself above you. “And you loved it,“ you whispered.

A smile flickered across his face as he looked down at you again, “I did,” he admitted, hovering so close his breath tickled your skin. “God, I did. You have no idea, what I was thinking every time you wore that smug smile."

He kissed you again, harder this time, with none of the earlier hesitation. There was praise in every touch, every press of his mouth against yours. His lips moved to your jaw, your throat, worshipful and hungry all at once. As if he was trying to communicate through his kisses how much he had enjoyed it

“I can’t stop thinking about the way you play,” he muttered against your neck. “How focused you get. How satisfied that little smile is when you take one of my pieces like it’s inevitable.”

You gasped softly as his fingers slid under your shirt, slow but sure, and he pushed it above your head throwing it to the floor. You arched into him as he pressed kisses down your collarbone, each one slower than the last, until he finally pushed the cups of your bra down taking your nipple into his mouth.

He unhooked the bra, bitting down on your other nipple making you gasp and look at him, "Maybe next time I'll bend you over that table, making you play while I take you from behind," he muttered into your mouth.

You had to laugh. His words were so filthy and so unlike the Elijah you had come to know it was almost funny. He looked at you his eyes betraying his amusement as he licked over your hardened bud one time again before he kissed down your belly.

You felt your arousal and your body heated up as you watched him opening your skirt and pushing it down your thighs, before his fingers slipped between your thighs very slowly and controlled. It was maddening somehow. He watched your reaction closely, the way your lips parted and your hips shifted forward, just barely, as he ran the pad of his finger between your fold.

“Impatient, are we?” he murmured, voice like velvet, mocking you. You huffed. Normally you were the one mocking him while you were playing. A moan escaped you as he slipped a finger inside you, moving it slowly and purposefully. He was still fully clothed, while you were bare beneath him, squirming as he continued stretching you. His finger was a lot thicker and longer then yours and he knew exactly how to angle it to make you enjoy it while his thumb on your clit was igniting a fire inside you.

You met his gaze, lips curling into that same smirk that had cost him three matches in a row, “If I knew you were this good with your hands, I might’ve let you win.”

That made him pause. His hand stilled for just a second, and then he chuckled, low and darkly, it was a side of him you had never seen before but assumed that it was somewhere beneath the layers of his suit.

“You can dominate me on the chessboard,” he said, another finger slipping inside, sliding deeper, making you gasp as he curled them, “but not in bed.”

You were about to throw something cocky back at him, but then his thumb circled just right and the thought shattered like glass as your body started to tremble and you squirmed beneath him.

“Still smug?” he asked softly, watching you unravel.

You dug your nails into his shoulder and whispered, breath hitching, “I can multitask.”

His hand moved faster, expertly precise, like every move on the chessboard had just been practice for this, and now he was winning. It felt as if he was trying to find out how much you were able to take.

“Darling,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, as he slipped in a second finger, “the only game you’re playing right now is mine.”

Your body was trembling, breath ragged, as Elijah held your gaze with that maddening, controlled composure, the kind that only made you want to beat him. But this was his terrain and he knew exactly what to do to make you come undone.

He didn’t look away once as your back arched, as your fingers dug into the sheets. "Elijah," you moaned as he kissed you hard and kept his pace.

Suddenly he pulled out and you whimpered, trying to gain friction back, looking at him panicked as if to ask what had happened. He laughed at how desperately you tried to grind yourself against his hand and stood up watching you while you were still panting, as he undid his belt, took of his shirt and pulled his jeans down. You moved onto your belly, crawling to the end of the bed, your hands pushing his boxers down, revealing his half hard cock.

"Can you take all of me?," he whispered his hand gripping your head and you bit your lips nodding. He really was big and your cheeks heated up at the idea of him inside you.

“Open your mouth,“ he commanded

You did, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound barely restrained. He stroked himself once, then pressed the tip against your parted lips, smearing precum across them before sliding in slowly. His grip in your hair tightened again as he pushed deeper.

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes hooded as he watched your lips stretch around him. “So obedient when I ask nicely.”

He didn’t give you a chance to take control, not that you would have expected it. With both hands in your hair now, he began to move slow, as if he wanted to get you to know the feeling. You moaned around him, the vibrations making him groan again as his hips rolled forward.

“You look so pretty like this,” he said, almost to himself. “Your mouth full off my cock, while your eyes are on me.”

He slid deeper with each thrust, until your throat opened for him, and he let out a hiss of pleasure, his jaw clenching. He held you there for a beat, buried deep, watching you struggle to breath and he loved it. He shifted your hair into a ponytail so he was able to hold it even better.

“Breathe through your nose, darling,” he murmured, a hand brushing the side of your face in a brief, shockingly tender moment. “Good girl.”

He began to move again, setting a pace that left your throat burning and your thighs pressed tightly together. He was relentless but controlled, his hips moving with steady force while his hands kept you exactly where he wanted you. You whimpered as his right hand grabbed your neck to angle you even better.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” he growled, watching his cock disappear between your lips. “Of fucking that smart mouth until you can’t speak and that smug little grin disappears from your face.”

Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes, but the heat coiling low in your belly was unbearable. You moaned again, loving the way he lost just a little more control every time you did. He was in control but you had quickly figured out what was turning him on.

He pulled out with a wet pop, while you gasped for air. He smirked down at you, thumb wiping at the corner of your mouth.

“Still think you’re winning?” he asked, voice full of dark satisfaction.

You tried to respond, but he was already pushing you back onto the bed, crawling over you with the kind of confidence that promised he wanted to fuck more than just your mouth tonight.

You didn’t even get a full breath in before Elijah had you flipped onto your stomach, hands pressing your hips down into the mattress.

“All those games,” he muttered, his voice low and sharp as his body hovered above yours. “All those nights you humiliated me. Smiling. Gloating. Like I was nothing but a pawn.” He bit you slowly drawing some of your blood making you whimper as he drank. You couldn’t see him as he withdrew, but you were sure his mouth was full of your blood and you shivered at the thought.

You gasped as he yanked your hips up, the sheets rough beneath your knees. He didn’t wait or tease anymore. He slid into you in one hard, punishing thrust, and you screamed into the mattress. Your fingers curled around the sheets holding you as you tried to get used to it and the pain mixed with pleasure as he slowly made you lightheaded.

“This,” he growled into your ear, thrusting again, harder this time, his pace becoming punishing. “This is what I’ve been thinking about every time you beat me.”

You clutched the sheets harder, your body shaking as he pounded into you with a fury that bordered on unhinged. His fingers dug into your hip as if he was trying to anchor himself, you knew his fingers would leave bruises bug you didn’t really care. Maybe you even liked the thought.

“I watched you lean over that board, all smug, while drinking my wine,“ he snarled. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you wanted me to snap.”

Your moans were helpless now, high and broken, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. But he didn’t soften. He couldn’t. Not when he finally had you like this.

“Finally,” he hissed, pulling you back onto him, grinding so deep you saw stars. “I get my payback.”

You cried out as his hand slid up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you there, pinned beneath him. You grinded your hips back encouraging him to keep going and he was happy to do so.

“You think you’re so clever,” he growled, teeth grazing your shoulder, again licking the wound he had left, “So untouchable. But look at you now, love, you are moaning like a little whore while being split apart by my cock. But you can handle it, can’t you?“

You couldn’t even answer, only nod. The pace, the intensity, the sheer force of his frustration was unraveling you from the inside out. Your climax built too fast, too sharp, and when it hit you, it stole the sound from your lungs. You screamed and your body trembled and for the second you had your eyes pressed together only seeing a white light. You clenched around him, thighs trembling, and that was it.

He lost it.

He groaned, raw and ragged, as he buried himself deep one last time, coming hard inside you. You felt him pulse, heard the curse fall from his lips as his hand fisted in the sheets beside your head and his fangs buried on the other side of your neck.

After that there was a long silence. He stayed there for a moment, chest heaving against your back, his breath hot against your neck. Then he pulled out slowly, almost reluctantly, and collapsed beside you, hand brushing your thigh, his voice low, "Are you alright? Was it too rough?“

You shook your head and moved into his hug. He pulled the covers over you both before leaning down again. "Checkmate,“ he whispered and you had to laugh shaking your head.

"A draw at best,“ you said. Elijah rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything else before kissing you deeply again.

[darkintothedawn]

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.

[daxisyzz]

hiiii i hope you are well !!! i was wondering if you could maybe do a fic where the reader gets kidnapped and tortured by hydra on a mission or something, and after a while bucky and the team find her and save her but she’s so psychologically damaged that she’s scared of everyone? preferably lots and lots of protective and comforting bucky as he looks after her and he becomes the only person she’s comfortable with, all the angst and hurt/comfort with a happy ending would be amazing!!! thanks 🩷

Heyyy!! Hope you're doing well too. Writing this fic made me cry so I hope it's what you expected. Sorry for answering late🙃

Only safe with you

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst, trauma recovery, Kidnapping, psychological torture (not graphic), PTSD, panic attacks, emotional vulnerability, mentions of touch aversion, recovery

Word count: 1.1k+

You didn’t scream when they took you.

That came later—when your voice cracked raw from begging the shadows for mercy, for death, for something other than the cold numbness pressing in around you like icewater under your skin. But in the beginning, there was only silence. The kind that hollows you out from the inside.

The kind that makes you forget your own name.

You had been captured by Hydra. A mission gone wrong. A corner turned too fast. A shot fired too late. And then it all disappeared beneath the haze of a needle and the slam of a steel door.

No one found you. Not for weeks.

And in that time, you stopped existing.

You curled in on yourself, starved and shaking, while voices you didn't recognize whispered in the dark, breaking you down with every calculated word. They told you you were abandoned. That no one was coming. That you were alone because you were unworthy of being loved.

They never needed to touch you.

They just watched you rot from the inside out.

When the team finally found you, you didn’t recognize them.

You heard the explosion first—the thunder of boots, the sharp bark of Bucky’s voice, the sound of someone screaming your name like it meant something.

But all you saw were more shadows.

You tried to crawl into the wall when they burst into your cell. Your fingernails broke against the concrete, your body instinctively folding into itself, your mouth whispering pleas in a language you didn’t know you remembered.

You didn’t know Bucky was crying until his tears hit your hands.

"Hey," he choked, dropping to his knees, blood on his knuckles and desperation in his eyes. "It’s me. It’s Bucky. I’m here, okay? I’ve got you. You’re safe."

But safety was a concept that no longer made sense to you.

When his hand brushed yours, you screamed.

You screamed like you were dying. Like you were on fire.

And something in Bucky broke that day.

The jet ride back was too bright. Too loud. You were swaddled in a blanket like a child, staring through people who whispered your name with eyes full of quiet sorrow. Natasha sat across from you, tense and silent, her hand clenched in her lap.

Steve paced quietly in the back, eyes heavy with guilt.

Tony said nothing, choosing instead to sit beside you in stillness.

They all felt the ache, but none knew how to hold it.

Because they saw the pieces of you, scattered and bloody, and none of them knew how to put you back together.

Except for Bucky.

He didn’t leave your side. Not once.

You wouldn’t let anyone else near you. The first time Bruce tried to assess your wounds, you had a panic attack so violent your lips turned blue.

But Bucky?

You let him stay.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t see him. But he was there. Sitting on the floor, silent and patient, like he was trying to absorb your pain with every breath.

"You don’t have to talk," he whispered once, voice so low it made your ribs ache. "I’ll just be here. I’m not going anywhere."

And he wasn’t.

Not when you curled into corners, sobbing so hard you threw up.

Not when you tore your own skin in your sleep.

Not when you started to disappear into yourself again.

He stayed.

And the others watched, hurting in their own quiet ways.

Natasha lingered by your door some nights, pacing like she wanted to knock but couldn’t.

Steve brought books you didn’t read.

Tony made sure the lights never flickered in your room again.

They didn’t say much. They didn’t force anything. But they were there.

And Bucky? He just was.

Weeks passed.

You started whispering again. Small things. Words like "water" or "blanket" or "stay."

Always to Bucky.

Only to him.

He was the first person you let touch you again.

A pinky finger. Brushing yours. Barely there.

You sobbed when it happened. Clutched your chest like it hurt. Like it burned to feel something again.

Bucky didn’t cry. Not then.

But that night, Steve found him in the hallway outside your door, fists bruised and bloodied against the wall.

"I can’t lose her again," Bucky whispered, voice shattering. "I can’t."

Recovery wasn’t linear.

Some days you smiled.

Some days you screamed.

Some nights you let Bucky hold your hand.

Some nights you clawed at your own skin, begging him to make it stop.

And he did.

Not with force.

Not with words.

Just with presence.

He’d pull you into his lap, wrap his arms around your shaking body, press his lips to your temple and whisper, "You’re safe. You’re not alone. I’ve got you."

Until you believed him.

Even if only for a moment.

One night, you whispered, "Why did you stay?"

Bucky looked at you, moonlight catching the cracks in him that matched your own.

"Because you matter. Because you didn’t give up. Because you let me find you."

You blinked, tears spilling freely. "I don’t feel like a person anymore."

His voice broke. "Then let me remind you how to be one."

They say healing is like a mosaic, broken pieces coming together to form something beautiful.

You were still cracked. Still healing. Still learning how to exist in a body that had been turned into a prison.

But Bucky loved you through all of it.

With hands that never rushed.

With words that never demanded.

With a heart that only ever whispered, You are safe here.

And for the first time in months, maybe years—You believed him.

One Year Later

The morning sun slipped in through the curtains, painting your room in pale gold. The shadows that once clung to the walls had long since faded, replaced by quiet warmth and slow, steady breaths.

You sat curled on the couch, a book in your lap, half-forgotten, as Bucky entered with two steaming mugs in hand. He paused in the doorway, watching you with that soft look he reserved only for you—a kind of awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

"You’re staring," you said, voice lighter, steadier now.

He grinned. "Can you blame me?"

You set the book aside and took the mug he offered, your fingers brushing his without flinching. That tiny act still felt like magic sometimes.

You leaned into him when he sat beside you, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in without a word.

There were no more nightmares that week.

You’d started laughing again. Dancing in the kitchen. Humming in the shower.

You still had days where the world felt fragile, like it could crack open beneath your feet—but you no longer fell alone.

You looked up at Bucky, your eyes soft. "Thank you for not giving up on me."

His thumb brushed your cheek. "You saved yourself. I just got to love you through it."

And you did. Slowly, then all at once. Day by day, moment by moment, you let the light back in through him.

[angelltheninth]

Back at it again with a request and it’s a Greek god since I still am obsessed with epic the musical, Could you please do a Poseidon x GN reader injury sex after his encounter/stabbing by odysseus? I think that since he’s still hurt even after he got all bandaged up at olympus, he comes to beloved mortal’s home and lets them take the lead and he’s not complaining in the slightest cuz he needed this. (thinking about neal illustrator’s poseidon design and I am foaming at the mouth as I’m writing this)

Neal's Poseidon is one of my favorite Poseidons ngl.

Pairing: Poseidon x Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, injured sex, blowjob, painful sex, kissing, human!Reader, worried!Reader

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A/N: Always been a fan of greek mythology. One of my favorite pantheons really. And the talented artists of the Epic fandom made everyone look so hot.

He would never admit that he's injured or hurting. He's always had too much pride for that, too much pride for many things in fact. But when he showed up at your balcony, bleeding and leaving a trail of water behind him it wasn't the time to lecture him about his choices. All but one?

"Came here because I know you'll take care of me. This bed is nice and soft, you're nice and soft. A God needs that in his life from time to time. Even a stubborn one like me. Oh, that? What? Did you really think that being stabbed by a dumb mortal would do anything to dampen my desire for you, my pretty seashell?"

As he kept groaning very unsexily while trying to strip himself of his clothing you took it upon yourself to strip him and get him comfortable on the bed. With a grin he extended his watery arm and pulled you close, allowing you to feel his erection pressing against your hip. You rolled your eyes at how eager he was, even when injured.

"Persistent and stubborn is what I am. I know I've been... drifting from island to island recently however I'm all yours now. Do with me as you wish, take care of me. I'm here to stay, for as long as you will have me. Days, weeks, months. You have the God of the Seas in your bed, at your disposal."

He relaxed on the bed as he felt your hand on his cock, warm and with a few coulases on your fingers but you knew exactly how to handle him. One of his legs hooked around your shoulder to pull you closer, his sharp teeth and blue eyes shining at you with nothing but lust.

"Move that pretty hand of yours or I'm gonna start moving. You wouldn't want to cause me more pain now would you, seashell? Or maybe this is your punishment for me, for being away from you for so long. You know I would never abandon my favorite human, I just had business that needed taking care of. Now I'm here for you to take care of me."

Poseidon's cock and cum tended to taste bitter and salty, way more than you were used to with any human lover. It took time to get used to such a taste but now you wouldn't any other. His cock was a bit warmer than the rest of him, the broad tip leaving a thick drop of cum on your lips as you kiss it. Any other day he would already be grabbing you and fucking his cum down your throat, today was not one of those days, today you were gonna make him lose his mind as you take his cock inch by slow inch into your mouth and hear him groan and complain that you should move faster.

"I'll be the first to admit that I'm an acquired taste. But it's a taste that, judging by how well you're sucking, you've gotten addicted to. Make sure to get all of my cum, yeah. Lick it up until there's not a drop of of it left on my cock. I know you've missed it as much as I've missed the feeling of your lips and mouth."

Despite him being injured he can't stop himself from pushing his cock deep into you and staying there for several moments. The thrust was sudden, it made him growl, it made him lightheaded from pain, but it was quickly replaced by the pleasure of being inside of you. His hands, both flesh and water, caressed your thighs and hips, with a barely controlled lust. You pushed your hips down against his, not too hard but enough to make the God beneath you let out a sound that you knew he wouldn't let anyone else hear.

"Enjoy this now because as soon as my injuries heal up I'm fucking you in every position known to your kind and then some. You missed this as much as I did, didn't you? The feeling of my cock stretching your hole, this feeling of being complete. I missed it too, I missed you so much. Let me show you, let me... ah... fill you up!"

[mortimerc]

ꜱᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴀᴛ

ᴍᴀʟᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ x ʙʀɪᴀɴ ᴍᴏꜱᴇʀ

ᴛᴡ: ꜱᴘᴏɪʟᴇʀꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱ1 ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴇxᴛᴇʀ, ᴏᴏᴄ ʙʀɪᴀɴ, ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀᴇʀ, ꜱᴜɢɢᴇꜱᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ.

there’s not enough content for this man so I’ll make some AND DONT MIND THE HACKS MINTS, I CANT FIND A PIC OF LOZENGE FROM THE SHOW 😭😭. I’m not gonna make it a smut cuz I haven’t reached the 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 level yet to write a good smut so yuh.

Brian- you meant Rudy, had just came back from his “job” amputating Tucci and seemed to be coughing a whole lot. Rudy

“Something wrong? You seem to be clearing your throat a lot.” You asked Rudy

“Yeah just- *clears throat* just a cold I guess.” He replied

“Well-“ you sat up from the couch and walked to the kitchen “I think I have something that would help.” You said as you took a handful of lozenges mints and putting most of them in your pocket while the rest sat in your palm. You ended up opening one and popping it in your mouth.

“Yeah?” Rudy said as you sat back next to him on the couch. You grabbed him by the face gently and kissed him. The kisses slowly but surely turned sensual and messy as you passed him the mint that was in your mouth. Your tongue slides into Rudy’s mouth and elicited a soft moan from Rudy. Your hand landed on Rudy’s waist and soothingly rubbed his waist.

“You sure know how to take care of me, huh?”

“Sure.” You chuckled at his comment. “Now, finish your food. I’ll go find you some medicine in the fridge.” You said as you pecked his lips and stood back up again to go to the kitchen.

The cold medicine sat on the coffee table as you both went back to cuddling as you both watched a show on the tv and Rudy eating his meal. The living room was silent beside for the tv and the mint clicking against Rudy’s teeth.

“That was hot.” Rudy suddenly said, breaking the silence.

“What?”

“You passing the mint. We should do that often.”

“If you want to do so.”

After a long silence, you soon broke it too. “So Brian, how’s finding your brother going? You close?” You asked

“Found his ‘sister’. I’ll soon get him. I’ll just have to lead him into a present with his sister. I’ll sedate her, and wrap her up on a table with cling wrap like Dexter does.” Brian said with a hint of determination laced in his voice.

“And how will you get his sister into the ‘present’?” You asked with your eyebrow raised.

“She’s like a hooker. She’s easy to sleep with and manipulate. I’ll just get her wrapped around my fingers and boom.” Brian explained, making an explosion effect with his hands.

You nodded slowly with hesitation and Brian noticed your stiff movement. He pulls you into another kiss.

“You know that I only love you. This is just a ruse. Nothing else. She is just an obstacle in the way. I love you and only you, remember that.”

“Love you too.” You said, pulling him into another gentle kiss that again, went passionate.

“Fuck.. you also know how to rile me up..” Brian said as he pulled away but soon captured your lips.

Brian moans into the kiss and his hand finds itself in your hair, pulling your hair slightly, his mouth tasting like the mint you gave him. Brian pulled away to catch his breath, lips red and swollen “let’s go to the bedroom..” Brian whispered against your lips

You nodded and smiled before picking him up, Brian’s legs wrapped around your waist, going in for another kiss with his hands around your shoulder as you carry him to your shared bedroom.

Next morning, you woke up with Brian in your arms. Seeing that it was getting late, you went to wake him up.

“Brian.?”

Brian croaks out a sound “my back still fucking hurts..” he complained, not wanting to go to work.

You kissed the back of his ear “cmon, then who will shower with me?” You said with a whiny-like voice.

He stayed silent for a moment before saying “carry me.. I can’t walk.”

You smiled “alright.”

After the shower, you both got ready for work. As you were preparing lunch, Brian limps his way to the kitchen. “Eat your medicine before we go out.” You remind him

Brian complies and after he did, you pulled him into a kiss with a cough drop in your mouth, passing it into Brian’s mouth. Brian pulls your tie in response.

“Good luck at work yeah? I heard they found Tucci already, so you probably have to get a new prosthetic for ‘im” you said.

“Mhm, I’ll see you soon yeah?”

“Alright bye.” You gave him one last peck as you went out the door for your job as Brian prepares to go for his.

ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀᴘᴘʟɪᴄᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ

[dangerpronebuddie]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!!

Tagged by @diazsdimples who shared AMAZING words that hit like a punch in the chest (in the best way) 🩷🩷

I can't even remember the last time I did one of these y'all. This semester really took it out of me holy cow. But! With only three finals remaining, I might get a chance to actually post some words! (And answer the make me write asks I haven't done yet 😅). Anyhoo, I have... started another wip! Danger Prone Diaz in fact! So, have a little calm before the storm:

“I just don't understand why every time I leave, Ravi's here, and every time I come back, he's gone,” Eddie comments, spraying cleaner on the glass of the locker room. He'd been excited to get to work with Ravi again. It was always fun watching his horrified expressions whenever the team got a little too personal, and he fit in seamlessly with A shift. But the day Eddie announced he was coming back, also the day they all discovered Bobby was alive, Ravi filed a transfer request. Buck ducks his head with a bashful smile and a soft laugh. He gives Eddie that squinty lopsided grin that always makes his heart skip and shrugs as he focuses on cleaning the glass. “Well, that… might be my fault.” Eddie raises an eyebrow. “Might? What'd you do, chase him around with another chainsaw?” Buck shoves at his shoulder. “I did not. I just… don't think he likes you, that's all.” Eddie pouts. He's not too proud to deny it. He thought he and Ravi were friends! “No, no, it's not you,” Buck rushes to correct, but it really doesn't help much. “It's… Well, while you were gone, I might've… talked about you. A- a bit.” Eddie raises both eyebrows now, his chin tilted down as if to ask de veras? Because really. De veras? Ravi doesn't like Eddie because Buck talked about Eddie? “Talked about me how?” He sprays the next section and taps the glass, because Buck has abandoned their task in favor of yapping, which Eddie loves, but they really need to get their chores done at the same time. Buck turns to the glass, mutters something Eddie can't hear over the squeak of the squeegee in Buck's hand. Eddie grabs his wrist to stop his movement. “I'm sorry, what was that?”

(Tags under the cut! If y'all want to be added/ removed, let me know!)

@lover-of-mine @tizniz @daffi-990 @kitteneddiediaz

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @inell @exhuastedpigeon

@thekristen999 @monsterrae1 @diazheartsbuckley @wildlife4life @misshiss727 @rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

@spotsandsocks @tidesreach @disasterbuck @lonelychicago @epicbuddieficrecs

@lunarspark-cos @idealuk @slowlyfoggydestiny @mourningeddiesfagstache @playinginthunderstorms @elvensorceress

@lin27 @jshadow01 @sofa-king-lame @thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx @maraskywalkers @joannte

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22 @icebergeddie

@lady-elaine @buckley-diaz-rules @buddiedaydreamer911 @monroemary @pirate-hunter @snowviolettwhite @hermoineindisguise @laurenttheninth

@nonspeakingkiku @eddiedisasterdiaz @drunkandsupportiveeddie @gnoeltop @keynb @cassi-brooks @-syrup-sue @punkrock00 @shannonhutchins @aroqueerfandoms @unlifeira @marissaleec @kissyboytroye

@lyricfulloflight @charlzie-ghost @hypersensitivitywitch @kindlingtotheflames @wallywise @zerokrox-blog @hawaiianlove808 @retromodgirl @allygateobeanz @savlikesbluengreen @penpatronuswhump @lecturedetachee and anyone else who wants to!! 🥰🩷

[z-eel]

please write on the voyer remus watching james and reg from the earlier anon - i'm drooling. i beg of you.

yall only want me for my porn thoughts, i see how it is (i say as if that isn’t my brand atp)...

in Remus defense the door was unlocked, so he thought they knew he was coming over. and to further explain why he continued to enter their apartment when no one was in the living room or in the kitchen, he was listening to music on his headphone and didn't hear the rhythmic banging of a bed hitting a wall or Regulus loud moans begging James to harder, faster.

what he couldn't expain was why he remained there when he took off his headphones and heard the groans from James as he pressed on hand on Regulus back, forcing his face to the mattress while he wildly fucked him using his other to keep a grip on his sharp hip.

he wasn’t even sure why he was looking through the door. a sick fascination if he was forced to confess something, an undeniable desire if he was being honest. to say he wanted Regulus would be an understatement, but for as long as Remus had known Regulus, he had been with James romantically. and he wasn't going to deny there was a physical attraction he held for James as well, but he never acted on them, never voiced them, never even thought about it too long.

Remus should be given the opportunity to enjoy the way Regulus was hiccuping his gasps with every trust James pushed on him. wanted to see how James was slowly pulling out of Regulus before slamming himself in again. watched as James kissed down the spine of his arched back and pulled him back up by the chin so that they were both on their knees. James thrusts faster but shorter, all while Regulus continued moaning softly, as if he no longer had the energy to make noise.

it clearly hadn’t been their first round today.

and it was when he saw Regulus jerk foreword as he came that caused him to take a step further, pushing their creaking door. Regulus as dazed as he might have seemed was quick to turn around, face the door, to face him. James never stopped moving, but his thrusts were getting sloppy. and it was when Regulus and him made eye contact that a look of relief was visible.

lazily, he lifted up a finger and motioned him inside the room. Remus had no choice but to follow his instructions, James jusg gave him a quick glance before he smirked an fucked into Regulus, causing him to squeak.

'that's a good boy.'

[thelastofmel]

No idea You're taking requests but if you are-

a weed smoking sesh with Jesse. That's it. That's the ask.

Blunts and blood

(Jesse x f!reader)

Word count: 2242

Summary: Things get out of hand during a movie and smoking session

Warnings: mentions of weed/marijuana, fluff, friends to more, mentions of blood, kissing

A/n: I’m having so much fun writing these! thanks so much for the prompt! Sorry for it being short, I’m still sick but trying write while I lay around 🫶🏼 gif sets linked below

Just minutes before you came knocking on his door Jesse had decided to relax by partaking in his favorite recreational activity. One second he was relaxing on the couch letting the weed do its thing and the next he was standing up desperately flinging a book in the air to rid the room of its smokey haze before answering.

He thinks he's in the clear until he opens the door and sees you standing with a knowing smile as the marijuana smell hits you in the face, "Are you ready—oh woah–"

His hand grips the door and his face flushes slightly. You have to laugh at the look on his face, like he's been caught with his pants down, "Relax captain wyoming I don't care"

You hold up an old VHS, still standing outside in the snow, "Don't tell me you forget about the movie night you promised me"

"No, of course not—uh come in"

He moves to the side, opening the door wider so you could enter his small home. Movies nights had been a tradition you'd started after finding a box of old VHS tapes on a patrol; setting a goal to watch all of them.

"So you did forget about movie night," You remove your coat and shoes watching as he hurries around the room, trying to clean up until you make stop him in his tracks, "We can always do it another night—"

"No," He says a little too fast before moving the last dirty shirt from the couch so you could sit, "Uh—it just slipped my kind is all, I had a long day"

You glanced at the blunt that he had forgotten on the small table near the couch as you took a seat, "That explains the weed"

"Oh shit—sorry, here let me" He rubbed at the back of his neck, clearly stressed. “I don’t usually—“

"Jesse—calm down," You picked up the blunt and brought it to your lips, taking a hit and blowing the smoke in the direction where he stood. "We all know you're gonna be in charge of Jackson one day, but that day is not today"

He didn’t respond.

"You're dirty little secret is safe with me," When he shifts awkwardly on his feet, you sigh moving your finger over you chest and making an 'x' pattern, "Cross my heart"

He put his hands in his waist nodding once, before grabbing the movie that you left on the table. He fed it into the old machine and the tv switched on.

You're eager to pass him the blunt when he switches the lights off and plops down on the couch next you. He still shakes his head, as if pretending he doesn't smoke until you groan and smack his chest, “Dude, don’t deny me of my dream of getting high with you”

It’s true you always wondered what he was like when he was high. He had a habit of being a rule follower and overall stick in the mud.

He laughed at you, before he takes it and inhales, holding it longer than you thought he would before parting his lips and letting the smoke out. You wouldn't have believed it if you hadn't seen it with your own eyes.

Then he's passing it back to you, eyes trained on the tv glow as the movie began. By the time the movie is about half way through you are both completely stoned, giggling at the screen.

Jesse had just caught his breath when he started laughing again, "Wait—wait, what is this called again?"

"The fast and the furious" You giggled, taking a drink of the beer he had given you to cure the cotton mouth. "Because they are really fast and really furious"

He erupted in laughter again. The joke wasn't funny but in your current states it was the funniest thing you'd ever heard.

At some point during the movie you had ended up sitting with your legs across Jesse's. You didn't mind it and neither did he considering he had dropped his hand and left it sitting on your lower thigh.

It wasn't inherently sexual even when his thumb began to rub absentminded circles on the fabric of your jeans, but it still made your mind wander.

The two of you were friends, meeting first when assigned on patrols and wall shifts together. To pass the time the two of you would get to know each other and become good friends. But you couldn't stop the crush that had grown or the ever present sexual tension that always seemed to linger.

Of course you'd never alluded to any feelings that you might have had for him. Not when you were sure he didn't feel the same way. He was too much of a good guy to make a move, even if he did.

"Man that was unrealistic" He suddenly said, pulling you out of your own head as the credits began to roll.

"What do you mean?" You can't help but smile at him, always curious to know his thoughts on the movies you watched.

"I dunno, I just feel like these street racers got away with a lot of shit," He tried to stifle his laugh, hand still on your thigh only now his palm was flat against you, fingers moving together as he rubbed, "and that Dom guy should have definitely died after getting hit by that truck at the end"

You only hummed, listening to him intently and trying to ignore the tingling that erupted under his touch.

"It reminded me of that movie we watched last month," You yawned, moving slightly so you could look at him better, "uh—I can't remember the name— it was the surfer movie"

"Point break?" He finished your thought, taking a drink of his beer, "How so?"

"Think about it" You pressed, "Undercover cop infiltrates the target group but becomes too involved and has to expose his identity and—"

"Shit, you're right, switch the cars for surfboards–" He interrupts you, grabbing your shoulder and shaking it, "I didn't even think about that"

"It's because I'm smarter than you" You tease, leaning back into the cushions, legs still taking up space on his lap.

"Oh you really think so?" He challenges and you feel his hand start to crawl up your legs.

"Mhmm" You hummed, rolling your eyes at him as the ending song from the movie played in the background. You held your fingers up in between the two of you, counting them as you spoke, "Smarter, funnier, stronger, prettier—"

"All wrong," He suddenly quips, "Except that last one"

You were thankful your red cheeks were hidden by the tv glow, suddenly feeling like a little giddy little girl. It wasn’t the first time he had flirted with you and it wouldn’t be the last.

The moment didn't last long before he began tickling your legs, moving up to your sides. You squirmed uncontrollably as Jesse's fingers danced across you, tickling and teasing every sensitive spot on your body. His touch was playful and relentless, a smirk on his lips as he watched you squirm and gasp for breath.

He continued his assault, his fingers relentlessly tickling your skin. He relished the sound of your squeals and giggles, the way your body squirmed and twisted under him. His eyes filled with amusement.

"Jesse" You squeaked out when your sides began to hurt from the tickling and you could no longer take it. You try to move away from him but in the mess of arms and legs you end up lifting your leg and kneeing him right in the nose.

"Fuck" He groans quietly, suddenly halting the tickling and sitting up. When you open your eyes after catching your breath you realize he's holding his nose.

You immediately start apologizing as he stands from the couch and moves into his kitchen. You jump from the couch following him, the panic sobering you up.

In the kitchen he leans against the counter by the sink with a rag up to his nose. You rush over standing in front of him and touching his arm, "Jesse, I am so sorry, I swear I didn't mean to—"

“Y/n, it’s fine, I’m fine” He touches your shoulder, trying his best to reassure you, “It’s my fault anyways—I was the one tickling you”

You move his hand away, so you could inspect it, "Well it's not broken," You sigh in relief after a minute, moving his hand back to hold it with the rag as you cross his kitchen to the freezer pulling out an ice cube. You stand back in front of him, "This should stop the bleeding"

He gave you a look, but still let you move his hand again and hold the ice cube to his nostril. He winced at the icy feeling on his skin but didn't move knowing you wouldn't let him. He watches you amused at the way you fuss over him.

A silence fell over the room as the VHS ended and the song stopped playing. The only thing you could hear now was Jesse's breathing as you moved the ice and checked the bleeding again.

After a couple of minutes you drop the ice into the sink beside him and take the rag from his hand, patting his now wet nose dry, "–there I think it's done bleeding”

He sniffles, touching the back of his hand against the nostril before giving you a lopsided smile. Now that he was taken care of you realized just how close you were standing in front of him.

"What?" You say, letting out a nervous laugh.

"I guess I was wrong," He says, glancing at your lips before looking back to your eyes. When he sees the confused look on your features he adds, "That was a solid hit, so turns out you are pretty and strong”

"Shut up" You whisper, laughing it off and dropping the bloodied rag next to the now melted ice cube before looking back at him.

His gaze was boring into you. Almost as if he was challenging you. A game of who would be the one to pull away first, "Too late"

Jesse pushed himself off the counter ever so slightly, just enough to lean toward you. He reached out and cupped your chin gently, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. The air between you humming with tension. Then his were lips brushing against yours in a tentative touch, as if asking permission.

Your heart raced as you kissed him back, leaning into him, his touch intoxicating. Your hands found his shoulders, holding yourself steady.

It was soft and uncertain at first, but as the seconds passed and you reciprocated, the kiss deepened, an unspoken desire igniting between you.

You felt like you were ascending out of your body as if every cell in your body was going to erupt, especially when you felt him smile against your lips. If you weren’t already holding yourself up against his body you were sure your knees would’ve buckled.

You parted your lips, sliding your tongue along his bottom lip before he returned the gesture. Within seconds your tongues were tangling together. You gasped as he moved you, switching positions so your back was against the counter without ever leaving your lips.

In a quick motion he had dropped his hands to your waist and lifted you so you were sitting on the cold countertop. You immediately opened your legs so he could stand closer to you.

You kept your eyes closed, enjoying the way he felt on you and against you, feeling like you were dreaming. You pulled back slightly so you could angle your head and when you were back on his lips you were meant with an overwhelming metallic taste.

“Jess” You muttered against him, not wanting to ruin the moment but concerned enough to come to your senses.

He hummed, hands finding their way back to your face, moving into your hair to hold you. He was clearly too distracted to taste the blood.

You sighed, taking your hand and pushing his chest carefully, until he slowed his kissing and pulled back altogether, just enough to look at you.

“What’s wrong?” He moved his hands to your shoulders, moving them up and down in an effort to soothe you, thinking he had done something to upset you. “I’m sorry— I shouldn’t have got carried away like that”

“No—no that was nice,” You corrected, smiling at him before leaning over and grabbing the rag back from the sink, “You’re bleeding again”

You dabbed the skin under his nose and pulled it back to show him the fresh blood.

“Sorry” He sighed, dropping his head against your shoulder in defeat, careful to not drip any blood on you. “—really ruined the mood”

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” You admitted, continuing to hold the rag in place as he lifted his head back to look at you, “–nothing is ruined, just paused until the bleeding stops”

You moved the rag slightly so you could press your lips against his in a quick kiss. The tang of his blood mixing with the sweetness of your own lips in a peculiar union.

He nodded, sporting a goofy smile as he let you tend to him once again, both of you impatiently waiting for the bleeding to stop.