#and I wanted to feel included in their conversations

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you both always find your way back to each other

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

You didn’t want to be here.

You didn’t want to be wearing four inches of makeup, a dress someone else picked out, smiling for endless cameras, forced to network with people you barely knew. You’d much rather be in your Barcelona kit, cleats on your feet, running drills at training.

But tonight wasn’t about what you wanted — it was about being a face for Nike, about showing up at one of their biggest global athlete events, standing next to gold medals and championship rings and MVP trophies. You adjusted the neckline of your dress and took another sip of champagne, counting the hours until you could go back to your hotel room.

And that’s when your manager nudged you, murmuring in your ear, “There's someone you should meet.”

You blinked the exhaustion away and turned — and for the first time that night, you actually woke up.

Standing there, in a clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, hands tucked coolly into her pockets, was Paige Bueckers.

You knew who she was immediately. Everyone did.

Paige Bueckers, WNBA’s next superstar, the heart of the Dallas Wings. Ice in her veins, clutch under pressure. America's sweetheart with a killer crossover. She was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered in a way cameras didn’t quite capture. She wasn’t smiling. She was just... looking at you. Like she knew you too.

You smoothed your dress automatically and offered your hand. “Hi,” you said, and hated that your voice came out a little breathless.

Paige’s lips curved into a smirk as she shook your hand — firm, a little rough, calloused fingers from years of handling a basketball.

“I know who you are," she said, voice low and casual. "Big fan.”

You laughed under your breath, a little shy, and teased, “Guess I’m a fan too. You’re kinda hard to miss.”

Her grin widened, and for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about escaping. You were thinking about staying.

The conversation flowed easily.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been standing there until you felt a tap on your shoulder — someone from Nike needing you for a photo. You apologized, promising Paige you'd be right back.

Five minutes later, you found her again. She was standing by the bar, scrolling her phone, a drink in her free hand. As if she was waiting for you.

You slipped into the empty space next to her and nudged her arm lightly. “Miss me?” you teased.

She didn’t answer right away, just looked at you from under her lashes with a grin that made your stomach flip. “Maybe.”

The whole night was like that.

You’d get pulled away — to talk to a sponsor, to take a picture with a fan, to do a quick interview — and every time, somehow, you found your way back to Paige. And every time you did, it felt easier. Like slipping into a conversation you didn’t want to leave.

You found out she hated dressing up just as much as you did. That she loved watching football, especially Barça matches. That she hated flying but did it almost every week now. That she missed snow sometimes — real Minnesota snow — but loved the Texas sun more than she ever thought she would.

She asked you about Barcelona. About your favorite stadiums to play in, about the nerves before a Champions League final, about what it felt like to wear your country’s badge. And you asked her about Dallas. About the pressure, about the critics, about what it was like carrying so much on her shoulders and still making it look easy.

“It’s not easy,” she admitted quietly once, when you caught her off guard between topics. You nodded, understanding more than you could say.

There was something about her — something solid. Unshakable.

Even when she was teasing you, even when she was pretending not to be shy (but you could tell she was, a little), there was a strength to her that made you feel like you could lean against it.

And when she looked at you — really looked at you — it felt like you were the only two people in the room.

Eventually, late into the night, you ended up outside on the terrace together. The city buzzed around you — flashing lights, car horns, the dull throb of a DJ's bass line from inside — but you barely noticed. Paige had taken off her jacket and slung it over your shoulders without thinking when she noticed you shivering. The scent of her cologne clung to the fabric, something sharp and clean and a little addictive.

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye.

She was leaning against the railing, hands braced behind her, looking relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The moonlight cut across her jawline, catching the chain she wore under her shirt.

God, she was beautiful.

“So,” she said, without looking at you, “you think I’m hard to miss, huh?”

You laughed, ducking your head, cheeks burning. "I said what I said."

Paige chuckled lowly and finally turned to face you fully. And for a second — just a second — the air changed.

The way she was looking at you... it made your heart skip.

Like she was thinking about saying something.

Like she wanted to step closer.

Like maybe she wanted to kiss you.

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t know — but the terrace door swung open behind you, a flood of people spilling out, breaking the spell. Paige straightened up, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. You blinked, trying to catch your breath.

She jerked her chin toward the door. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You smiled — soft, genuine, sure.

“Lead the way.”

The car ride was quiet but thick—every glance, every slight shift of her body brushing against yours making your skin hum.

By the time you reached her hotel, your palms were damp.

She didn’t lead you by the hand, didn't rush. Just walked a step ahead, glancing back once to make sure you were following.

You were.

God, you were.

The hotel was nice, of course—Nike athletes didn’t exactly get thrown into cheap motels—but you barely registered anything except her.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Paige moved.

No hesitation now.

She was on you in two long strides, backing you up against the wall, her mouth crashing into yours.

You gasped, the suddenness of it knocking the air from your lungs—but you clutched at her blazer, pulling her closer, needing her just as badly.

Her hands were rougher than you expected—not careless, but desperate—skimming down your sides, gripping your hips so tightly you whimpered into her mouth.

“Been thinking about this all night,” she muttered against your lips, her voice low, hoarse.

You barely had time to nod before she kissed you again, deeper this time. Her hands slid under the hem of your dress, bunching the soft fabric up around your waist.

You were already aching for her, shifting on your toes to get closer. Paige caught your movement, growling softly in the back of her throat as she pulled back just enough to look at you.

Her pupils were blown wide, jaw tight.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” she rasped, almost like it hurt to say.

You flushed under the intensity of her gaze, hips rolling toward her without thinking.

“Paige—” you breathed, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.

“I got you,” she promised, her hands skimming your thighs before lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around her waist instinctively, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

She carried you to the bed and dropped you onto the mattress with a soft bounce, standing over you for a second to just look.

You watched her shed her blazer and toss it to the floor, leaving her in a plain white tank top tucked into those fitted slacks. Her arms flexed as she leaned down, bracing herself on either side of your body.

"You don’t even know," she murmured, nuzzling along your jawline, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "How bad I wanna take my time with you.”

You whimpered, tugging at her tank top, needing more, needing everything.

She kissed you again—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth like she owned you. And maybe she did, in that moment.

Her hands dragged your dress up higher, fingers hooking into your underwear, pulling them down slow enough to make you squirm.

When she finally touched you—fingers running through your folds with a reverent kind of hunger—you gasped, hips arching off the bed.

“So wet for me already,” Paige whispered, pressing her forehead against yours like she needed the contact just as badly as you did. “Fuck.”

You could barely respond, too overwhelmed by the way her fingers circled your clit with maddening, precise pressure.

“You’re mine tonight,” she said, more to herself than you. “Say it.”

You whined, clutching at her shoulders. “Yours. Paige, I’m yours.”

The growl she let out was low and rough, and then she was sinking two fingers into you, stretching you deliciously, setting a rhythm that had you panting almost immediately.

It wasn’t hard exactly—but there was a roughness to it. A need she couldn't hide.

Every thrust of her fingers was firm, deliberate.

Every brush of her thumb against your clit was savoring, like she didn’t want to miss a single sound you made.

You clung to her, nails digging into her arms, thighs trembling.

“That’s it,” she murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You couldn’t have held back if you tried.

Every moan, every gasp—you gave it all to her.

When your orgasm finally broke over you, it was devastating, ripping through you so hard you sobbed her name against her throat.

Paige didn’t stop. She slowed, sure, coaxing you through it, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead. Her free hand cradled your head like something precious.

You realized then, even through the roughness, even through the hunger—

She was savoring you.

Holding you like you were the best thing she'd ever touched.

When you finally blinked your eyes open, she was looking down at you, chest heaving, blonde hair sticking to her forehead.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered, like she still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pulled her down to you, slotting your mouth over hers in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Stay,” you whispered against her lips.

Her answer was a low, broken sound as she kicked off her shoes and climbed fully into the bed with you, wrapping you in her arms like she had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

And God—you didn’t want her to.

The first thing you felt was warmth.

Not the filtered sunlight pooling through the hotel curtains, not the heavy comforter tangled around your legs — but Paige.

Her arm was slung low over your waist, her face tucked into the crook of your neck, her steady breaths brushing your skin in a way that made you shiver even though you weren’t cold.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake her, but her grip only tightened.

“Mmm, don't move,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep.

You smiled, the curve of it hidden against the pillow. “Sorry,” you whispered back, not sorry at all.

You let yourself relax into her, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns across the bare skin of her forearm. She was all long limbs and quiet strength, wrapped around you like you belonged there. Like you always had.

For a few minutes, you just stayed like that, breathing in the scent of her—a mix of clean soap, her cologne, and something purely Paige.

Eventually, Paige stirred, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder. “Morning,” she rasped.

You hummed, turning your head slightly to look at her.

Her blonde hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and there was a faint imprint of the pillowcase across her cheek.

She was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

“Morning,” you whispered back, unable to stop the way your hand reached up to smooth her hair down.

She caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before nuzzling your hand. The gesture made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

Neither of you moved to get up.

There was no rush, no pressure.

Just the slow, steady unfurling of something that felt a lot like home.

After a while, Paige stretched, groaning low in her throat. "I'm starving."

You laughed softly. “Big athlete like you? No way.”

She opened one eye to glare at you playfully, then buried her face in your neck again. “Gimme five more minutes to be a clingy loser, then I'll order us something.”

Your heart squeezed.

You tilted your head, letting her have more access to your skin, feeling her grin against you.

True to her word, a few minutes later she finally reached over, fumbling for the room phone. You stayed curled against her side, tracing the line of her hipbone under the sheets.

She ordered with a raspy, just-woke-up voice that made you smile into the mattress.

“Yeah, can we get... pancakes, eggs, bacon... orange juice... coffee—lots of coffee…” She glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. "Anything you want?"

You shook your head, too content to even think about food.

"Make it double,” she said into the phone before hanging up and tossing it back onto the nightstand.

She turned back to you, resting her chin on your shoulder. “How you feeling?” she asked, her voice low and careful now, like she didn’t want to scare you off.

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “Like I don't wanna move.”

Paige chuckled, her fingers skimming your side under the sheets. “Good.”

For a while, you just talked.

About anything.

Everything.

Football. Basketball. Travel.

How you missed your mom's cooking. How she missed Minnesota/Connecticut winters even though she’d never admit it.

“You think you’ll like Dallas?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Paige shrugged, playing with a loose thread on the pillowcase. “It’s different. But... I dunno. It feels like a start, y’know?”

You nodded, understanding more than she probably realized. “Yeah. A new chapter.”

She met your eyes then, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“I wish we had more time,” she said quietly.

You reached up, cupping her cheek. “We have this.” You let your thumb brush the soft skin under her eye. “And we have phones. Planes. Barcelona’s just a plane ride away. Same with Texas”

Paige smiled, a little sad but mostly soft.

“I’m not good at this kinda thing,” she admitted. “Relationships. Feelings.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth, lingering there. “You’re doing fine.”

Her arms tightened around you, like she needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

When room service finally knocked, Paige groaned dramatically, burying her face in your neck again. “Don't wanna get up.”

You laughed, shoving at her gently. “Go. I'm not about to starve just because you turned into a koala.”

She grumbled under her breath but finally rolled out of bed, grabbing a robe and tossing you a sheepish grin before disappearing toward the door.

You watched her go, heart full and aching all at once.

You both knew this bubble would have to pop soon.

She had Dallas.

You had Barcelona.

Different continents. Different time zones.

But right now— right now, she was laughing in the doorway, balancing two trays of food like a clumsy waiter, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

You spent the morning tangled up in bed, eating pancakes with sticky fingers, passing bites back and forth, sipping coffee from the same cup.

You learned Paige liked her bacon extra crispy. She learned you had a weird obsession with mixing your syrup with butter first.

You talked about bucket lists.

Dreams.

What you were scared of.

She kissed you between bites, lazy and unhurried, like she was memorizing the taste of you.

And when it was finally time to get dressed, to face the real world again, Paige stood in front of you, holding your hands in hers, her thumbs tracing slow circles over your knuckles.

“No matter where we are,” she said, voice steady, “I’m gonna make this work.”

You believed her.

Because looking into her eyes, you realized something.

The world could pull you to opposite sides of it—but somehow, somehow, you would always find your way back.

Just like you had at the party.

Just like you would again.

You were back in Barcelona now.

Back to the grind—training, media, travel, matches—your calendar packed so tightly that your head spun most days.

But somehow, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter how many time zones separated you and Paige, you always made time.

Even if it was stupidly early for you.

And it was painfully late for her.

Even if it meant falling asleep with your phone still clutched in your hand because neither of you wanted to hang up first.

Tonight—or technically, this morning for you—you were curled up under your blanket, hair messy, voice thick with sleep as you blinked at your phone screen.

Paige’s face filled it.

Her hair was damp from a shower, loose over her shoulders, and she was sprawled on her bed in Dallas, wearing a baggy Wings hoodie that swallowed her whole.

It was just after 10PM for her.

It was 7AM for you.

Sunlight already spilled into your room, birds chirping outside your window.

And still—you stayed in bed just to have these few stolen moments.

“You look so cozy,” Paige teased, smiling softly.

You yawned, hiding it behind your hand. “I am. Or... I was. Before someone FaceTimed me at the crack of dawn.”

Her smirk widened. “Miss me that much, huh?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “You're the one who called me, Bueckers.”

“Details,” she said, waving her hand lazily. “Minor details.”

You laughed, pulling your blanket tighter around you, letting yourself just look at her.

God, you missed her.

Missed the weight of her body pressed against yours.

Missed the way she smelled, the way she mumbled half-asleep, the way she kissed you like you were air.

“You have no idea how many times I almost booked a flight this week,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Paige’s smile faltered, softening into something achingly tender.

“I thought about it too,” she said. “Like... what if I just showed up at your match? Sat in the front row like a stalker.”

You laughed, your chest tightening painfully. “I’d probably cry.”

Paige shifted, propping her chin on her hand. “You’d cry?”

You nodded, cheeks heating. “Yeah. And then I’d probably kiss you in front of thousands of people and destroy both of our PR teams.”

Paige chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “Worth it.”

Silence stretched for a moment—not awkward, but heavy.

You bit your lip. “I miss you.”

Her face crumpled just a little, like she was trying not to let it show. “I miss you too.”

You both sat with it.

Letting it sink in.

Letting yourselves feel it.

After a long moment, Paige spoke again, her voice low and rough:

"Maybe we can figure something out.”

You blinked, heart hammering. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then shrugged, pretending to be casual even though her eyes betrayed her.

"I mean... it's not like we can't visit. Off days, breaks, whatever. I can fly to you. You can fly to me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You're serious?”

Paige smiled crookedly. “I’m serious about you.”

You couldn’t speak for a second, throat tight.

Instead, you reached toward the camera, fingertips brushing the screen like you could touch her through it.

“Me too,” you whispered.

Paige shifted again, leaning closer to the camera until all you could see was her face—so open, so unguarded.

"I don’t want this to be just some... one-time thing,” she said, almost fiercely. "You’re not just a night in New York to me.”

You blinked rapidly, willing the sudden sting in your eyes to go away.

You weren’t about to cry on FaceTime.

You sniffed once, laughing shakily. “Good. Because you're stuck with me now.”

Paige grinned, triumphant. “Damn right I am.”

You ended up talking for another hour—Paige lying sideways on her bed, you curled up with your pillow.

Making stupid plans.

Dreaming about meeting halfway in places like Miami or London.

Imagining what it would be like when one of you finally showed up unannounced.

When your eyes finally started to flutter shut, Paige noticed.

“Go back to sleep, pretty girl,” she whispered.

You mumbled something incoherent, already half gone.

"I'll text you when you wake up," she promised.

And you knew she would.

Because distance didn’t feel so scary when it was her.

Because somehow, despite everything, you could feel it in your bones.

This was only the beginning.

It’s been a few weeks.

Paige leaned her head against the plane window, watching the sunrise stretch itself lazily across the horizon, bleeding gold and pink over the Atlantic. She barely slept the whole flight. The anticipation made it impossible.

Barcelona.

God, she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this.

It was crazy, it was impulsive—but it felt right.

She missed you more than she even wanted to admit.

FaceTime was good. Hearing your voice, seeing your sleepy smile. It was enough to keep her breathing when the distance pressed down too hard.

But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn't even close.

And when she saw that Barcelona was playing Real Madrid—El Clásico—at home, she couldn’t stop herself.

She bought the ticket before she even texted her manager to clear the days off.

She hadn’t told you she was coming.

If she was being honest with herself, she needed to see you in your element.

On your pitch.

Where you were fearless, untouchable.

She wanted to be there. For you.

The stadium was massive.

Even pulling up in the taxi, Paige could hear the roar of the fans—Barcelona chants, drums pounding, scarves waving out of car windows.

She pulled the hoodie of her Wings sweatshirt up over her head, tugging a hat low over her eyes. Not exactly subtle, but she wasn’t trying to be seen.

A few people double-taked as she made her way through the crowd—some even pointed—but most were too focused on the match energy to recognize her. She got inside, climbed the steep stairs to her seat, and settled into the electric buzz of it all.

And then— there you were.

Down on the field, in that beautiful crimson-and-blue kit, jogging across the pitch like you owned it.

Paige’s heart damn near stopped.

You were warming up with your teammates, tying your hair back into a messy ponytail, a grin flashing across your face when one of the other players bumped your shoulder.

You looked radiant.

Alive.

She couldn’t take her eyes off you.

The anthem blared, the crowd roared, and the game started with an intensity that made her sit up straight immediately.

This wasn’t just a match.

It was a battle.

And you were right in the middle of it—sharp, ruthless, brilliant.

Every touch you took was confident.

Every sprint, every pass, every challenge—you played like you had something to prove.

Paige caught it—the extra fire in your movement.

Like maybe, just maybe, you could feel her there, even if you hadn’t seen her yet.

You didn’t score, not at first.

You spent the first half orchestrating play, bossing the midfield, weaving around defenders like they were standing still.

When halftime hit, Paige found herself breathless, her hands gripping her knees, adrenaline racing through her like she was the one on the pitch.

She grinned to herself.

God, she was so damn proud of you.

Second half.

The tension ratcheted higher. Madrid pressed harder. Barcelona pushed back.

And then—it happened.

A long ball over the top.

You sprinted onto it, faster than anyone else, body cutting through defenders like a blade.

One touch.

Two.

You faked the goalkeeper, shifted the ball to your weaker foot, and buried it into the far corner.

The stadium erupted.

Paige shot to her feet before she even realized it, cheering, clapping her hands above her head.

You wheeled away from the goal, arms outstretched, head tilted back in pure joy as your teammates mobbed you.

And for a second—just a second—you scanned the crowd.

Paige froze.

She knew you were looking. Searching.

Maybe hoping.

But with 60,000 people screaming, it was impossible.

You didn’t see her.

Still, she smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

By the time the final whistle blew—Barcelona victorious—Paige felt like she’d lived a lifetime.

She stayed back as the crowd started to spill out, letting the chaos thin before she moved.

No one stopped her.

A few teenagers gawked, whispering excitedly, but she kept her head down, slipping into the private player’s entrance with the access pass she’d begged your manager to get her.

Her heart pounded harder now than it had during the whole damn game.

Down the hall.

Past security.

Closer.

And then, she saw you.

Turning the corner in your training jacket, hair damp from the post-match shower, cleats clutched in one hand.

You were laughing at something a teammate said—and then you saw her.

Everything in you stuttered to a halt.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth parted like you were about to say something, but no sound came out.

Paige couldn’t move either.

Couldn’t breathe.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at each other across the hallway.

Crowds milling around you.

Noise blurring into nothing.

And then—slowly, carefully—you walked toward her.

Not running.

Not rushing.

Like if you moved too fast, this would shatter.

When you finally reached her, you didn’t throw yourself into her arms.

You stood there, breathing the same air, your hand finding hers in a quiet, aching link.

You squeezed first.

She squeezed back.

“You’re here,” you whispered, like you still didn’t believe it.

Paige smiled, eyes shining. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Your thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, reverent.

Your forehead tilted forward, bumping gently into hers.

Still no kiss.

Not yet.

Just the press of your hands.

The warmth of your bodies so close but not fully touching.

The electric hum between you.

“I played harder because of you,” you said, your voice breaking a little on the edges.

Paige’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t even know I was here,” she said softly, teasing, but her heart cracked open at the way you looked at her.

“I knew," you whispered. "I always know.”

Paige squeezed your hand again, fighting the urge to pull you into her arms in front of everyone.

Instead, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek for just a second too long.

“Come on,” you murmured, glancing around, the corner of your mouth lifting in a secret, knowing smile. “Let’s get outta here.”

Paige nodded, letting you lead her away, down quieter corridors, away from the cameras, the fans, the noise.

The next few days felt like stolen time.

Like Paige had somehow found a loophole in the universe—a pause button, just for the two of you.

Barcelona bloomed around them, sun-drenched and endless, and Paige drank in every second like she was dying of thirst.

You took her everywhere.

La Sagrada Familia, towering and unfinished and aching toward the sky. The colorful chaos of La Boqueria Market, where you shoved a slice of fresh mango into her mouth, laughing when the juice dribbled down her chin.

The winding streets of El Born, where Paige bought you a tiny silver bracelet from a street vendor without a second thought.

“For luck,” she said, fastening it around your wrist, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

You taught her how to order tapas without butchering the pronunciation too badly.

She taught you how to shoot paper straws into a cup from across the café table.

You won… barely.

At night, you sat on your apartment balcony with cheap wine and a shared blanket, pointing out constellations neither of you really knew the names of.

You talked about everything.

And sometimes, nothing at all.

You laughed so much Paige’s ribs hurt.

You touched without thinking—hands brushing, knees knocking, shoulders bumping.

It was easy.

It was dangerous.

Because the more time Paige spent with you, the harder it became to imagine leaving.

Two nights before her flight—Paige caught you staring at her across the table at some tiny candlelit restaurant, your gaze soft and heavy.

“What?” she said, teasing, nudging your foot under the table.

You shook your head slowly, smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing. Just... you.”

Paige’s heart clenched painfully.

She didn’t know how to survive this—how to let herself have you for only a few days at a time.

She reached across the table, weaving her fingers through yours without thinking.

You squeezed back.

No cameras.

No crowds.

Just you and her.

The last day crept up on them like a thief.

The morning was hazy, the city wrapped in a golden kind of melancholy.

Paige helped you pack a bag for your away match—pretending not to notice how your hands shook a little when you zipped it closed.

She didn’t say anything about it.

Neither did you.

Because if you said it—if you named the thing clawing at your chests—it might break you.

Instead, you walked to the small café down the street one last time.

Paige ordered for both of you now, stumbling over her Spanish but grinning proudly when you laughed and kissed her cheek.

You sat in the corner, sipping coffee, trying to memorize the exact way you looked bathed in Barcelona morning light.

The exact way you smiled at her when you thought she wasn’t looking.

The exact way your thumb kept running over the bracelet she gave you.

When it was finally time to go—when her car was idling at the curb—Paige stood in your doorway, bag slung over her shoulder, heart breaking so loudly she was sure you could hear it.

You looked up at her, standing barefoot in the tiny living room, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

God.

She didn’t want to leave.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked to her slowly, wrapping your arms around her waist and burying your face in her chest.

Paige dropped her bag instantly, pulling you in tighter.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that, breathing each other in, memorizing the way you fit together.

Finally, you tipped your head up, blinking fast, trying to smile.

“I’m really bad at goodbyes,” you said hoarsely.

Paige cupped your jaw gently, her thumb brushing your cheek.

“Then don’t say goodbye,” she whispered. “Say ‘see you soon.’”

You laughed wetly, nodding, your forehead dropping against hers.

“See you soon,” you echoed, voice breaking.

She kissed your forehead.

Your nose.

The corner of your mouth.

Not a real kiss.

Not yet.

Because if she kissed you properly, she might not leave at all.

She stepped back slowly, hands lingering on your hips until the very last second.

You picked up her bag and shoved it into her hands with a trembling smile. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Paige laughed, watery and wrecked.

She turned toward the door, paused.

Looked back.

You were standing there, framed by the morning light, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I’ll call you the second I land,” she promised.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“And I’ll be back," she added. “Whenever you’ll have me.”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Always,” she echoed.

And then she was gone.

In the taxi, Paige leaned her head back against the seat, clutching her phone to her chest.

Already counting the days until she could see you again.

Already planning the next flight.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t temporary.

It wasn’t borrowed time.

It was the start of something real.

Something worth every mile.

Every ache.

Every single second apart.

Paige wiped sweat from her forehead with the hem of her jersey, trying to catch her breath as the buzzer blared for a timeout.

Dallas was up by six, the energy in the arena electric, the fans on their feet, the court buzzing with heat and noise.

She jogged toward the huddle, grabbing a bottle of water off the scorer's table, her muscles burning, adrenaline still pumping.

The world narrowed—play calls, quick hands slapping her back, coaches barking adjustments.

Paige squeezed water into her mouth, letting it drip down her chin, tuning into the chaos around her.

Until…

A shift.

A roar of the crowd.

The sound of the fans changing—lifting—roaring for something that wasn’t happening on the court.

Confused, Paige glanced up at the Jumbotron out of instinct.

And then she saw you.

Framed perfectly on the massive screen, sitting up in one of the private suites, laughing, waving shyly as the camera zoomed in.

You were wearing one of her Wings jerseys—her jersey—the #5 stretched across your chest, your hair pulled back, cheeks pink from the attention.

Paige’s breath caught in her chest.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

The world blurred out, the timeout noise fading into static.

Just you.

God, just you.

You were here.

You were here.

The biggest, stupidest grin split across Paige’s face before she could stop it—pure, wide-open joy.

Next to her, Dijonai Carrington leaned in, bumping her shoulder playfully.

"Yo, Bueckers," she teased, laughing. "Why you cheesin’ like that, huh?"

Paige ducked her head, biting back a bigger smile, shaking her head like it was nothing.

But her heart was thundering.

Her hands were shaking.

She took another quick sip of water to hide her face, stealing another glance up at the screen where you were still sitting, waving shyly, mouthing something only she could understand.

“Proud of you.”

Paige felt like she could float out of her sneakers.

She played the rest of the quarter wired—lighter on her feet, sharper, hungrier.

Every bucket, every steal, every assist—it all crackled with the knowledge that you were somewhere up there, watching her.

For her.

And when the final buzzer sounded, sealing the win, Paige barely heard the crowd.

She barely felt the high fives, the backslaps, the chaos around her.

All she could think about was getting to you.

She threw on her warmups, tucked her hair into a low messy bun, and all but sprinted down the tunnel.

She weaved through the media scrum, ignoring the questions and the flashing cameras, heart hammering so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

And then—at the end of the hallway—you.

Waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, your grin tugging at the corners of your mouth the second you spotted her.

Paige slowed to a stop in front of you, chest heaving, pulse rattling in her ears.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The tension stretched, taut and humming.

You dropped your arms, stepping forward.

Paige grabbed your face in her hands, pulling you down into her with a soft, breathless laugh.

And finally, she kissed you.

Full.

Fierce.

Desperate.

All the missed days and FaceTimes and whispered "I miss you’s" crashing into that kiss, spilling out between your mouths like something too big to hold back anymore.

You kissed her back just as hard, hands fisting in the front of her hoodie, anchoring yourself to her like you might float away otherwise.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, gasping slightly, Paige let out a shaky laugh.

“You’re actually here,” she whispered, thumb brushing your jaw.

You smiled, eyes bright. “I told you I was bad at goodbyes.”

Paige kissed you again—softer this time, lingering.

“I’m not letting you leave next time,” she murmured against your lips.

You smiled against her mouth. “Then don’t.”

And even though the world waited outside—cameras, fans, teammates—Paige didn’t care.

She had you.

And she wasn't about to let you go.

Not now.

Not ever.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

A symptom of this I often see is that a great many Americans also feel the need to highlight to the entire world around them when something they encounter is Other, or outside of their wheelhouse, and this applies even to the most mundane of things. I have two examples of this:

First, back in 2020, a lost walrus visited the Welsh town of Tenby for many weeks and menaced its lifeboats by sleeping on the slipway. I wrote a lengthy post about this, and included the fact that the good folks of West Wales named the walrus Wally, after the children's book franchise Where's Wally.

I was inundated with Americans reacting with everything from astonishment to derision that the character is not called Waldo outside of America. It was constant. Everything from "Wait you guys call him Wally??? Not Waldo???" all the way to "Are you guys fucking stupid his name is Waldo omg"

Which is very interesting, because Where's Wally is a British franchise. He was called 'Wally' first. His name was translated into over 30 other languages, including Charlie and Jonas, depending on region. Nonetheless, I did not get one single solitary note about the name from anyone else; it was exclusively Americans, unable to keep their amazement to themselves, unable to not highlight and point out that SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT FROM US.

Second, I once wrote a post in which I, a speaker of British English, used the word 'gaol' - the BE spelling of 'jail'. Again, I was flooded with comments, asks, messages, etc from Americans who simply could not fathom why I had done so. Four of them very literally sent me asks that asked why I had done it (I mean this literally - "Why did you spell jail like that?" was word for word one of the asks), so unable were they to work out on their own that spellings differ between dialects. I responded to one, saying that I was baffled by it, and suggesting that maybe the polite thing would be to google these sorts of things for yourself rather than requesting to have your hand held through the process of learning that other places have different words and spellings than you're used to. I said I did understand, but that this was something I myself fetched up against all the time with American media, and had since I was a child - but I simply used context clues to work out meaning, or google when I couldn't, because I get that American English is a different language.

And then two things happened: the first was that a non-trivial number of Americans lost their entire shit at the very suggestion that there was anything at all rude about this (again, I really don't know what answer they wanted to that beyond "Because that's how it's spelled in my language", information readily available with a single google search), and the second was that I was then inundated with non-Americans sharing stories of how they love writing fanfic but they had to start doing it in American English because when they used their own, they would get flooded with comments from Americans trying to 'correct' them, and it just wasn't worth the hassle.

And it's ultimately a 'dominant culture' sickness, I think. When everything is constantly catering to your understandings and cultural expectations, anything outside of it feels Other, and Must Be Commented Upon. I'm Welsh, and I find absolutely any mention of anything Welsh around most English people gets the same reaction; they absolutely have to comment on the Thing They Think Is Weird. Just last week I was discussing a fieldtrip for my students with an English colleague of mine, and I said I was taking them to the Bannau Brycheiniog. He didn't interrupt, to his credit; but he got the stupid grin that I knew meant he was going to comment. He waited until I finished asking for his risk assessment input, and then rather than answering, his first response was "The Bah Bah Bluh Bluh?"

If I'd said an Anglicised or English name, he'd have just continued the conversation. But he didn't recognise the name Bannau Brycheiniog. So We Must All Flag Up That It's Weird.

And that's dialled up to 11 for a great many Americans.

(Though not all, by a long shot. I do want to stress that. In both examples I've given, I had far more Americans who agreed with me than not. But it is a common behaviour, unfortunately.)

im american and i knew that like in kindergarten so i think some of you are just stupid sorry

[sthilarions]

I’ve seen a few fics wherein, due to various misunderstandings, Charles thinks (wrongly) that Edwin is being/continuing to be touch-averse after they’re together and doesn’t want hugs or kisses. And decides that that’s okay, and he’ll just happily take whatever Edwin wants to give him, and love him however he is. Then, of course, the misunderstanding is resolved, and there are many hugs and kisses.

But I’m kind of interested in the concept of it not being a misunderstanding. Because if 35 years of constant day and night companionship don’t make you completely comfortable with someone’s touch, adding romance to the mix isn’t going to magically change that, you know? Like, for me, I’m touch-averse to at least some extent with everyone on the planet except my brother, and that includes my partner whom I have known for about a decade, whom I love very very much, and whom, on some levels, I love touching.

Because the touch-aversion exceptions don’t really care what label is on your relationship, or even how much you love someone, or even-even how much some parts of your brain like touching them. That’s barely a factor, really, any of those. For me, anyway, if those decades of familiarity and safety and desensitization won’t do it, nothing further will.

So I’m really interested in the idea of an Edwin who’s been kissed, now, but would still answer “Do you miss kissing?” in the negative, just a more informed and confident negative now. Who loves hugging Charles but only sometimes, only when his brain is in the right place and skin and pressure don’t make him feel like electricity’s running painfully through his veins.

And him and Charles learning how to negotiate that. What touches give Charles (and Edwin, because touch-aversion does not necessarily rule out touch-starvation) what he needs without taking from Edwin something it hurts to give. Kisses on each other’s hands, perhaps, instead of the invasive face-to-face sensitive-skin business. Sitting facing opposite directions leaned up against each other, like they’re each other’s backrests.

Two of Edwin’s fingers carefully resting against Charles’s knee, on days when any more would ache, for hours at a time, just that tiny connecting contact but so long and so tender it holds them together as strongly as joined handcuffs. Charles’s head on Edwin’s lap but never the other way around; Edwin’s head on Charles’s shoulder but never the other way around.

Hugs that squeeze hard, never a light half-hug, but also never a trapping one. A hand signal for when Edwin’s brain is willing to do hugs, that tends to lead to Charles diving into his arms no matter the external situation and who’s present, and conversely a signal for when hugs would be too unpleasant to take.

Edwin would be willing to do whatever Charles wanted, of course. If Charles wanted him to spend half his day with Charles’s tongue down his throat and the other half with Charles wrapped around him like an octopus, he would, without hesitation or complaint. He’d probably take the constant ache and electricity under his skin and screaming static inside his head out on clients and Crystal and any bad guy on the wrong end of his casting hand, but he’d not only do it, he’d do his damndest to keep Charles from knowing what it cost.

But Charles knows him far too well, for that. He doesn’t know words like “touch-averse”, sure, but he can certainly notice that a light brush down Edwin’s arm when they’re in a loud room puts more visible pain on Edwin’s face than a high-powered torture hex does, and adjust accordingly.

So they find their little touches, and their big touches, where they can, where they don’t hurt either of them. And Edwin sits on the sofa, with Charles down on the floor leaning back against it, one of Edwin’s hands tangled in Charles’s curls, one-way safe touch, and, fuck. Both of them are pretty sure they’ve never felt anything better in their entire existence.

[eph-em-era]

is it bad writing or are you just sad?

I see a lot of people talking about this episode being bad writing, which it isn't. You are sad and you're angry and you're using the tag of 'bad writing' because you didn't want it to happen. Let's talk.

buck and eddie reunion happened off screen - Yeah. Don't I wish I also saw that? absolutely. does it make logical sense with a) filming budgets, time and episode space and b) the arc of the episode? Yeah. It does. This is an episode about Athena. It's an episode about her dealing with the loss, which is why we get a ton more from her and a ton less from everyone else. the madney and bathena moments were tiny too.

to include a buck and eddie airport scene you have to

get location permission for an airport, and aviation spaces often include more specific permissions than other spaces

get extras for the scene

get security

block out time in the schedule for that filming with your actors

pay for all of those things

aside from those complexities - a scene like that almost certainly would have been cut for time, as they have FORTY TWO MINUTES for an unrelated plot which is why they didn't shoot it

the b-plot - I see a lot of people talking about this b-plot as being something emergency-related just shoved in, or 'mocking the fans'. it's a LIKE STORY. 9-1-1 does them all the dang time, grouping similar stories together on screen. this b-plot was about athena learning to recognise that bobby was actually dead, that even if things seem unfair and seem like they shouldn't have happened, sometimes people just die and it's awful and it makes no sense but they do; alongside having space and compassion for death even many years after the fact.

also, the woman in the b-plot was being held! they were being compassionate to her! they weren't treating her like she was crazy, they were being deeply kind in a moment of terrible tragedy. they weren't mocking her grief.

buck isn't sad enough - you have seen two days two weeks after bobby died. grief is not quantifiable and everyone does it differently. if you do not think that buck's not holding that grief right down at the moment - you could see it in his face at the funeral - you're kidding yourself if you think this is the end of it. athena is coping in her way, eddie in his, hen in hers, chim in his. this is how buck is coping.

they should have started this episode the moment after the last one finished - that's terrible television writing, no they shouldn't have. having people constantly talk AT each other might be useful for fandom, but makes no sense on screen. you need to show these emotions rather than have conversations about emotions, and they absolutely did

eddie should have been there earlier - eddie diaz needed a reason to come home, to break free from the living life day by day that was him living with chris in el paso. he needs to reach out and actively fight for himself now. now that bobby is gone, he feels guilt that he wasn't there, and he's going to spend more time reaching for the things he wants

realism/creative decisions - you read the phrase "real stakes" and took "realism" from it. they're two entirely different things. the show has settled into an isolated system. a death, after eight years, is a very creative decision, actually, because it pulls us free from the entropy. now, we're scared. now the characters are scared. it feels more fleeting, and people are more likely to take risks, to live, to reach for the things they want. why after eight years? cause now you care.

the leaked script - it was april fools day and you were coping. i think doing that thing after doing so much genuine empathy and tragedy would have absolutely cheapened the death

bobby buried in minnesota - his family died not even a decade ago. if you think he would have preferred to have been buried in an LA plot, with no-one that he knows, i think you're kidding yourself

bobby should have been on screen more - he's dead. i'm sorry, but he's dead. the scenes we saw of him? they were of a worthy man, one clearly well loved and important. a man with good principles and a good heart. but he is dead. the story has moved to focus more for those who are living.

the actors were laughing and having fun on set - because they're actors and this is a tv show

I am sad too! I am genuinely sad too! i think this was a beautiful episode and did truly as much as it could with a grief storyline, honoring those who were living as well as the one who has gone. i don't doubt it will continue to do so throughout the rest of the show. bobby is dead. there's no takebacks. it is not bad writing, you are just hollowed out by grief.

this is television. they have 42 minutes to tell a story. you set your expectations for canon based on the bounty we have in fanon, and that will NEVER be possible to achieve.

[thatdammchickennugget]

can you do headcanons for the marauders for their love languages ??

of couse, love! god, I feel like I haven't written headcanons in so long, I hope this doesn't suck. includes james, remus, sirius and peter.

Marauders Love Language Headcanons

James

How he gives love: Words of Affirmation, Physical Touch, Quality Time

James loves like a lightning storm — big, bright, impossible to ignore. He shouts compliments across rooms, ruffles your hair in front of professors, slings an arm around you like it’s your natural place in the world. You won a game of chess? She’s a bloody genius! You sneezed? Even your sneezes are charming! Every achievement, no matter how small, gets full celebration. It’s not performative — he’s just that proud. Of you. All the time. He shows love like he’s worried you’ll forget it unless he keeps reminding you.

He touches constantly — not out of obligation, but because he doesn't see a reason not to. He’ll pull you onto his lap even when there’s room on the bench, press a kiss to your hair mid-sentence, link pinkies when you walk side by side. Physical affection is a default with James — unless you push him away, he’ll always pull you closer.

How he receives love: Quality Time

James wants you to be in it with him. In the stands at Quidditch, in the joke, in the trouble. He feels closest to you when you’re part of his whirlwind — when he says “come on!” and you do. Sit beside him while he’s working on a prank, walk with him to class even when it’s not your way. He’ll grin like he’s won something. It’s not about doing anything special — it’s about choosing to be where he is. That’s what makes him feel loved.

Remus

How he gives love: Acts of Service, Quality Time

Remus doesn’t love loudly. He’s the kind of person who fixes your scarf while you talk, refills your tea without being asked, and quietly leaves a bar of chocolate on your desk when he knows you’ve had a hard day. He won’t say much about it. He might not say anything at all. But the scarf stays in place, the tea is warm, and the chocolate has your favorite kind of filling. That’s Remus. He pays attention, quietly and thoroughly. If he notices you’re cold, you’ll find an extra jumper in your drawer. If you mention offhand that your quill’s been leaking, he’ll swap it out before the next class. He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t want thanks — the helping is the affection.

He prefers quiet proximity to deep conversation. He’d rather be sitting beside you, both reading different books, than spilling emotions out across a table. His “I love you” sounds like, You should go to bed, I’ll finish this for you. Like, You can have the last biscuit. Like, I’m here, if you want me — but never, you have to.

How he receives love: Words of Affirmation (but subtle)

Remus doesn’t know what to do when you look him in the eye and tell him he’s wonderful. He’ll smile tight and change the subject. But if you mutter it, distracted — “You’re so good to me,” while wrapping a blanket around your shoulders — he’ll go very still. He won’t answer. He might pretend he didn’t hear. But he did. That quiet praise? It matters more than you know. Call him “steady” or “clever” in passing, and he’ll hold onto it for weeks. You may forget you ever said it — he won’t.

Sirius

How he gives love: Gift Giving, Physical Touch

Sirius’s gifts don’t always make sense — a leather bracelet with a skull on it, a mug that says Bite Me, a quill he swears belonged to a dark wizard. But they’re all from him, chosen because they reminded him of you. He wraps them in old newspaper and tosses them at you like it’s no big deal. If you like it, he shrugs and goes pink. If you don’t, he shrugs harder and pretends he doesn’t care. But he does. He really, really does.

He’s all over you in public — throws himself dramatically across your lap, head on your stomach, legs over your knees. He’ll braid your hair when he’s bored and lean his full weight against you in the hallway. But when you initiate it — lace your fingers with his, brush his cheek — he freezes. Like he wasn’t expecting it. Like part of him still doesn’t think he’s supposed to be loved back.

How he receives love: Physical Touch (but gently), Words of Affirmation (sincerely)

Sirius wants to be touched, but he doesn’t always know how to ask. Touch him first — gently. Brush his hair behind his ear when he’s reading, wrap an arm around his waist when he’s ranting. He’ll blink, maybe go quiet, but he won’t pull away. He’s listening. He’s taking notes. Tell him he did something right, that he matters — and do it like you mean it. No sarcasm, no jokes. Just: I’m glad you’re here. He won’t believe you right away. Say it again anyway.

Peter

How he gives love: Acts of Service, Gift Giving

Peter is the friend who notices. The one who brings you your favorite snack without asking, who saves you a seat without being told, who stays up late fixing something broken even though he’s not very good at it. His love is practical, understated, deeply felt. He doesn’t grandstand — he supports. He fixes things. He remembers. He watches how you take your tea and starts making it before you even sit down.

He gives gifts that you didn’t even know you needed — a new quill because yours is fraying, a pair of socks because your feet are always cold. He doesn’t make a big deal of it. He just hands it over, a little shy, like he hopes it’s good enough.

How he receives love: Quality Time, Gentle Touch

Peter glows when you ask him to join something — when you say I want you there and mean it. He doesn’t need to be the center of attention. He just wants to be chosen. Sit beside him at lunch. Invite him on your errands. Let him tag along. He’ll smile so wide it hurts. And if you ever initiate touch — lean your head on his shoulder, link arms — he’ll blush and try to act casual. He won’t pull away. He might even lean back. He doesn’t always say thank you with words. But you’ll see it in how he looks at you, like you made his whole day just by noticing him.

[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.

[lampridius]

hihi can you write sunday, anaxa, and/or aventurine with a really bipolar reader? i'm finally manic again after being depressed for months and i missed that feeling so bad (i missed my antipsychotics for like 3 days lol) so maybe you can include reader being off their meds? or maybe smth like they starting taking a new med in particular (my dr recently upped my vyvanse dosage bc i have rlly bad adhd too) and i've js been like pulling all nighters/only sleeping for a few hours and have been writing non stop and hanging out/calling online friends constantly to avoid being alone so take all this as you will

thanks cro :>

𝙃𝙎𝙍 𝙈𝙀𝙉 𝙒𝙄𝙏𝙃 𝘼 𝘽𝙄𝙋𝙊𝙇𝘼𝙍 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍 ᯓ★ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀: sunday, anaxa, aventurine ᯓ★ rules | masterlist | 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 ᯓ★ 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝗮𝗱𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | @aventurinesweetheart ᯓ★ 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀: thanks for the request i hope you'll feel better soon

#𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗��𝗬

on nights when your mind races with unrelenting energy, sunday becomes your anchor. he listens patiently as you speak of dreams and fears, his presence a calming force amidst the storm. you talk about the stars, about death, about love like it's a fever dream you're stuck inside - and he listens. sunday doesn’t try to interrupt you. he just shifts closer, pressing his forehead to yours, grounding you in something steady. “i’m here,” he’ll whisper, over and over, until the weight starts to drain from your chest.

when words fail, he hums a soft melody, the same one he used to play for his sister, letting the gentle notes soothe your restless thoughts.

during your lows, when silence envelops you, he doesn't press for conversation. instead, he sits beside you, holding your hand, offering silent support. his unwavering presence assures you that you're not alone, no matter where your emotions take you. he never tries to fix you. he just stays - and sometimes, that’s everything.

#𝗔𝗡𝗔𝗫𝗔

you confuse him. at first. logic doesn’t map the way your emotions swing from wildfire to ash, and no philosophy can hold all your light and all your dark. but instead of withdrawing, anaxa studies you - not like a subject, but like a sacred text.

anaxa approaches your emotional fluctuations with a blend of logic and empathy. when you're overwhelmed with energy, he gently guides you through grounding exercises, helping you channel your thoughts constructively. he might suggest writing down your ideas or engaging in a calming activity together. when you’re up late pacing, voice rising with the rush of energy, he keeps his own movements calm, lets you burn until you’re ready to sleep.

during depressive episodes, he remains close, offering a steady hand and a listening ear. he doesn't claim to have all the answers but provides a safe space for you to express yourself. his consistent support helps you navigate the highs and lows, reminding you of the strength within you. he’ll sit with a hand resting over yours, saying little but offering you presence. you don’t have to explain. not to him. he never demands consistency, only honesty. “it’s alright to be many things,” he murmurs once as you’re drifting. “so long as you let me stay for all of them.”

#𝗔𝗩𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗘

you scare him sometimes - not because he doesn’t love you, but because you remind him that not everything can be calculated. your moods don’t follow odds or strategy, and aventurine is used to predicting people. but you? you're the outlier he doesn't want to predict - just understand. aventurine treats your emotional swings as part of the grand game of life, embracing each moment with enthusiasm.

during manic phases, he matches your energy, engaging in spontaneous adventures or late-night conversations. he ensures that your excitement is met with understanding and shared joy. when you're bouncing off the walls with grand plans at 2am, he’ll laugh, wrap his arms around you and say, “alright, my beautiful chaos, what’s the play tonight?”

when depression sets in, he shifts gears, offering comfort through light-hearted stories or simply being present without demands. he respects your need for space while subtly reminding you of the vibrant moments you've shared. he rides the waves - not trying to steer, just holding you steady when the water rises. his adaptability and unwavering support make him a reliable partner through every emotional turn.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Hey. I want to say Thanks for all the work you do here. My question is nothing biological, it's just something that spawned from a memory about my high school sex ed.

For some context, I went to a private evangelist high school in a semi-well off neighborhood in Buenos Aires. I had scholarship and some subsides that allowed me to go there as a middle class kid. So I did get Sex Ed that I can say honestly was fine.

Like, they didn't tell us to just don't have sex. we had one talk every two months from 3rd year onwards taught by a biology teacher and maybe some TA that got called in as aide if something needed to be demonstrated.

But every now and then we also has a "social sex Ed" class. Usually taught by one of the counselors. The gist was the guy coming in and telling us about interpersonal relantionships. We had a unit on like domestic violence and one on abusive relantionships from what I recall.

So my question is if that's something that exists in the Sex Ed space? Like, I'm on board with teaching teens those stuff a 100%. It's undeniable a good resource. But Idk if that's something that's standard practice or my school was just doing that

hi, thank you for sharing! I'm glad to hear that you had access to so much information :)

what's typical of sex ed varies enormously from place to place; in some places, you're lucky if the teachers are allowed to acknowledge that protected sex exists at all instead of insisting on abstinence until marriage. personally I think that sex education absolutely should include discussions about safely navigating intimate relationships, because leaving that out makes sex seem like something that happens in a void, like it has nothing to do with any other kinds of human interactions, which doesn't improve anyone's communication. a lot of people come away from sex ed with the impression that they're supposed to just Know What To Do instinctively if and when the opportunity to have partnered sex arises, which couldn't be further from the truth and can make early sexual experiences much more stressful and scary than they need to be.

most of the in-person teaching I do is with younger folks, around the aged of 10-12. and we absolutely talk about consent and boundary-setting in addition to basic mechanics of puberty and pregnancy, because that's a really important part of the equation. teaching the kids how a sperm meets an egg is useless if we don't also teach them how to decide if they personally feel ready for sexual intimacy and how to talk that through with a potential partner, as well as how to say no if they find themselves in situations where they're being pressure to do something that they don't want.

I had a conversation once with the father of one of my students - nice guy, really excited for his kiddo to receive a thorough sex education - who told me with very real regret that his high school offered very thorough details on the physical mechanics of sex and contraception but didn't offer students any guidance on how to actually navigate consent with partners. while he never experienced any pregnancy scares of STIs as a teen, he said he was sure that he was nevertheless "not a very good partner" because while he knew about using condoms, he never learned how to actually talk through his feelings with the girls he dated. it seemed really obvious, to me that, having learned a lot since his teen years, he was carrying a lot of remorse for the ways he might have unintentionally hurt his teenage girlfriends, and was eager for his own child to learn the tools to avoid falling into the same behavior.

part of the curriculum is learning to spot inappropriate behavior and potential predation and how to seek help in those scenarios. when learning about sex, especially for young people, I do think it's genuinely really important to model positive, consensual interactions so that there's a clear point of comparison against situations that are unsafe. but in my class also talk about situations where there are questions of consent but no one clearly in the wrong. what if you friend wants to try kissing and you don't know what to say? what if someone you like is getting too touchy and you want them to stop? if you have a crush on a friend but they don't reciprocate, how should you act towards them after that? all of those are important scenarios to talk about, and help the kids build their skills of conflict resolution and communication in all areas of their lives.

so, the short answer is that it's absolutely not a universal practice, but I really wish it was because it would do a tremendous amount of good.

[writingpandagoth]

Hiii!!!! Can you do one sev×fem reader in wich again she is James' little sister, but he truly loves her sis.

So when she arrives to Hogwarts, Severus see her as an opportunity to get revenge over James for being his bully, so he and yn start a secret relationship but he treats her so bad and James doesn't know what is happening with her sis; eventually severus realize that he indeed loves her and it's up to you if it ends up good or bad, pleaseeee

I think that I requested something like this, but I can't remember if I asked it or not. Either way, I love love LOOOVE ur writing

So yeah you did requested it already but no worries!

I had quite mixed feelings about this if I am honest.

I was struggling to see just where this could lead and I couldn't quite get close to Severus being abusive. Even if its not physically. Also I felt like if Severus would have been bad to Reader it would later make the bullying worse.

So I thought about it and suddenly I had this thought:

What if he actually does the opposite?

Well here it is and warning: It's a lot.

I hope you still Like it even if I kind of twisted it around a little.❤️

Safety Net

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual breakfast chaos. Owls swooped overhead, plates clattered, and somewhere down the table, Sirius was hexing Remus's pumpkin juice to leap from his goblet.

You sat beside James, buttering toast with sleepy precision. He watched you struggle for a moment, then laughed and stole the knife from your hand.

“Hopeless,” he said, spreading the marmalade smoothly.

“Bossy,” you shot back.

He grinned and shoved the finished toast back at you. “You’re welcome.”

From across the hall, unseen by either of you, Severus Snape watched.

He sat alone at the Slytherin table, untouched porridge congealing in front of him. His black eyes flicked between you and James—the effortless closeness, the unguarded smiles. Bitterness twisted inside him, familiar and sharp.

James Potter. Always the hero. Always the adored.

Severus’ gaze lingered a moment longer before he forced himself to look away.

Later that day, in the shadowed corridors near the dungeons, Severus found himself face-to-face with the Marauders. Like it had been the past years.

James and Sirius, laughing about some prank, spotted him rounding the corner. Their expressions shifted—wolfish, sharp.

“Morning, Snivellus,” James drawled, stepping directly into his path.

Severus stiffened, grip tightening on the books in his arms.

“Off to another thrilling day of potion-brewing and sulking?” Sirius added, smirking.

James flicked his wand lazily. Severus’ books flew from his grasp, pages scattering across the stone floor. Another flick—his satchel tore open, ink spilling in a dark pool.

Laughter echoed down the hall.

Severus bent down quickly, gathering his things with shaking hands. His face burned—not just from humiliation, but from the sheer helpless rage twisting inside him.

James ruffled his already-messy hair, as if Severus were some misbehaving pet.

“Careful there,” he said cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want you slipping in your own slime.”

They walked away without a second thought, leaving Severus kneeling amidst the wreckage.

He remained there for a long moment, ink staining his fingers, heart hammering against his ribs.

--

That evening, you accompanied James down to the Quidditch pitch. He was gearing up for practice, broom slung over his shoulder.

“You’re not staying,” he warned, eyeing the storm clouds gathering above.

“I’ll watch a little,” you insisted, stubborn.

He sighed but smiled, ruffling your hair affectionately before jogging onto the field.

You found a spot near the stands, scarf wrapped tight around your neck. A few other students lingered, including a Ravenclaw boy you vaguely knew from Charms.

He struck up a conversation—light, harmless. You laughed politely at something he said no longer focused on the practice going on. 

High above, James spotted you. His broom dipped sharply as he veered toward the ground.

Moments later, he landed with a thud and crossed the grass toward you, chest heaving.

“Hey,” he said, too casual. “Ready to head back?”

You blinked. “I was waiting for you to finish.”

James wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulling you to his side while pointedly glaring at the Ravenclaw boy. "I am done now."

The boy made himself small and proceeded to make a polite excuse and wandered off. You narrowed your eyes at James.

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“Better safe than sorry,” he replied, grinning sheepishly.

Despite your exasperation, you fell into step beside him, the argument forgotten before it even began.

From the far edge of the stands, Severus watched, a plan forming in his head.

If he could make you his—if you chose him—James would never dare touch him again.

And thats how it all started.

--

The library was nearly empty by the time Severus spotted you, alone at a back table, a halo of afternoon sun catching in your hair as you flipped through a worn potions text.

He’d been watching, studying you, for days now just observing. Learning your patterns. What you liked and what you didn’t. 

You liked to study in the back corner when the tower light got too warm. You hummed when you concentrated. You sometimes chewed your quill.

 You weren’t like James — loud, smug, always needing attention. You weren’t like the rest of the school who only saw what they were told to see. You were... still. And honest.

You noticed people and that was what made this whole plan dangerous.

If he played this wrong now and you sense something off, everything falls apart. So he didn’t storm in. He waited, breathed, composed.

“That edition’s missing the revised belladonna compound,” he said, calm and even, gesturing to the page you were annotating.

You looked up, startled for only a second not having noticed him walk up to you. Then you blinked, glanced at the book, and back at him. “Really?”

He nodded once. “Page two-thirty-seven. It misstates the interaction with dittany. If you write that on Slughorn’s exam, he’ll dock you.”

You eyed him, not hostile, not flustered.

“You’re Snape, right?” you asked, voice casual.

He didn’t smile — not fully — but there was something in his face that softened.

“Severus.”

You tilted your head. “Severus,” you repeated. Not mocking. Just saying it properly.

He studied you.

“Most people don’t bother,” he said.

“With?”

“Saying my name right.”

You shrugged. “Well most people are idiots.”

He paused. That was new.

She was warmer than he expected.

Good.

This would be easier than he thought.

“You’re James’ sister.” he said. Not accusatory — just observant.

You rolled your eyes. “That obvious?”

He arched a brow. “Not if you ignore the confidence and inability to leave a sentence unsaid.”

You grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Severus hesitated

“Do you mind?” he asked motioning to the empty seats.

You shook your head, intrigued more than anything. “Not at all.”

 He nodded before he sat besides you, just enough distance to seem respectful, just close enough to say: I chose this seat.

The two of you read in silence for a while. Occasionally, he offered a correction. Once, you passed him your notes to compare formulas.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough.

The space between you wasn’t wide, but it felt... safe. He didn’t crowd you. He didn’t stare. After some time of silent studying, he turned slightly toward you, taking’ you in, his posture more open, as if he wanted to be close but wasn’t sure if he could be.

“Rough day?” he asked, noticing the slump of your shoulders.

You exhaled, giving a tired smile. “Charms today was...hard. I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nodded. “Understood.” A pause. “I’m terrible at Charms too.”

You turned, surprised. “Really?”

He gave a half-shrug. “I can do them. But I don’t like people watching me. Or expecting something impressive.”

That landed heavier than expected. Not in a dark way — just honest. Vulnerable.

You offered a soft smile. “I get that.”

He looked down at his parchment, then back at you. “You’re easy to be around.”

That made you blink. “That’s a... weird compliment.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “I just meant... you don’t send me away like most people do.”

He offered a small, almost bashful smile — the first you’d really seen from him.

“I’m not very good at this,” he added. “People. But I like being here. With you.”

It hit something soft in your chest.

You nodded slowly. “You are not so bad. It has been quite nice having you here.“

And just like that, the silence between you changed — not heavy, not awkward. Just full of something new. Something careful. Warm.

Severus leaned in slightly, voice low. “If you ever need someone... to study with. Or not talk to. Or just... sit with... I’d be here.”

That, more than anything else, made your throat tighten. You smiled. Genuinely. “Okay.”

And for the next hour, you went back to your books and parchments side by side in quiet. Every so often, your elbows brushed. And he never once pulled away.

--

The courtyard was unusually still.

You clutched your books tighter as you crossed the stone path, the chill of the autumn air biting at your fingertips. 

You were on your way to the library when voices caught your ear — sharp, mocking, too familiar.

You slowed your steps, your stomach sinking.

There, by the fountain, Remus stood on the side looking somewhat guilty at the scene but not doing anything to stop it.

James and Sirius stood half-circled around a figure you instantly recognized — Severus Snape. His posture was rigid, arms crossed defensively, jaw tight. James twirled Severus' wand between two fingers, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

"Come on, Snivellus, grow a pair and get it back." Sirius was laughing while James kept taunting Severus "Or maybe if you ask nicely on your knees I might have mercy."

Severus said nothing. His silence was heavy, more defiant than fearful.

Your chest twisted.

You had been talking with Severus for a few weeks now. You’d seen the way he listened when you spoke, how his voice softened when it was just you. He wasn’t the villain your brother painted him to be. Not to you.

Without thinking, you marched forward.

"James Potter," you snapped.

The laughter died instantly.

James turned, startled. "Hey, little one—"

"Give it back," you said, your voice sharp as the autumn air.

„But…“

„No but. Give it back this instant or I will not talk to you for a whole week.“

James hesitated, his face shifting between guilt and bravado. Slowly, he threw Severus’ wand back. It hit the ground at Severus’ feet with a dull clatter.

"You’re supposed to be better than this," you said, fixing James with a look that made him shift on his feet. "I am quite disappointed with you. Now apologize and let’s go."

James flushed a deep red. He opened his mouth, closed it again. With a muttered apology under his breath, he turned on his heel.

"Come on," he barked at Sirius and Remus.

They followed without a word. After a couple steps they stopped and looked back at you, expecting to follow them as well.

You stayed behind a little longer checking Severus with your gaze.

He bent to pick up his wand, tucking it carefully into his robes. When he straightened, his dark eyes found yours.

You gave him a small, soft smile.

Then you turned and walked away towards where James was still waiting for you. When you reach him he puts an arm around you, leading you away.

Completely unaware of the smug look that crossed Severus‘s face watching you leave.

It was late when you finally were leaving the library. Severus was leaning against the far wall, half in shadow, his hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets seemingly waiting.

He straightened the second he spotted you, that familiar guarded expression flickering into something softer.

"Fancy meeting you here," you teased lightly, slowing your steps until you stood before him.

"I was hoping to see you actually," he said quietly.

You smiled — a real one, no hesitation.

For a second, he looked like he might bolt. Then, with a sharp breath, he pulled something from his robes — a small, neatly wrapped bundle — and extended it toward you.

"I wanted to... thank you," he said.

You blinked. "Severus, you didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," he interrupted, his voice more certain this time. "You didn’t have to step in. But you did. You didn’t just watch."

Curious, you unwrapped the package carefully.

Inside was a slender piece of parchment — not just any parchment, but a rare brewing chart you recognized immediately: a highly detailed, annotated diagram for advanced potion work. The kind of thing even sixth-years would kill to have.

You looked up at him, stunned.

"I thought you might like it," Severus said, shrugging awkwardly. "You're good at Potions. You deserve better resources than the junk Slughorn hands out."

You swallowed around the sudden tightness in your throat.

"Severus," you said softly, "this is... incredible. Thank you."

He didn’t quite meet your eyes. "It’s nothing."

You folded the chart carefully, tucking it into your satchel like something precious.

"I was just heading back to the common room," you said, a little breathless.

"I’ll walk you," Severus offered immediately.

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You fell into step together, the castle's ancient stones echoing under your feet. Your conversation was softer now, quieter. Little smiles. Glances. A warmth growing between you.

Halfway up the marble staircase when your scarf slipped from your shoulders.

Before you could grab it, Severus’ hand was there, careful, deliberate, catching the edge and gently looping it back around your neck.

His fingers brushed your collarbone, lingering just a second too long.

Your breath caught in your throat.

He was looking at you closely, his hand still lightly against you.

"We wouldn’t want you catch cold," he murmured, so quietly you barely heard him.

You tilted your face up to his, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

"Thank you," you whispered.

For a moment, you just stood there — suspended in something delicate, fragile.

Then Severus pulled away, so carefully it almost hurt.

Neither of you said anything more as you walked the rest of the way. But when you slipped into the common room, scarf clutched tight, you realized:

You hadn’t wanted him to pull away at all.

--

The next day, you found yourself drifting through the library earlier than usual.

Not because you needed to study but because a part of you wondered — hoped — he’d be there.

And he was.

Severus sat tucked against the far wall near the restricted section, one leg crossed over the other, a book on his knee and a quiet intensity in his expression.

You hovered a few feet away, unsure if you should approach. But he looked up the moment you shifted your weight, his expression softening when he saw you.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to find me,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I wasn’t looking.”

He arched one brow, then glanced at the empty seat beside him. “You sure?”

You stared at him for a second — then, without answering, walked over and sat down.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, it hasn’t been for weeks.

You let it stretch, the sound of pages turning and distant footsteps filling the space.

He didn’t speak again until he noticed you eyeing the page he was reading.

“Don’t bother,” he said. “It’s hopelessly dry.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “That your subtle way of saying you’d rather talk?”

“No,” he said. “That was my not-so-subtle way of saying I’d rather hear you talk.”

Your lips twitched, caught off guard.

“You’re not nearly as slick as you think you are.”

“I’m not trying to be slick.”

“Oh? Then what exactly are you trying to be?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, quiet:

“Interesting to you.”

You turned to look at him fully — and found that he was already watching you closely.

“You are.”

He blinked — like that was the last thing he expected you to say.

You dropped your eyes back to your open book, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest.

—

Something has changed between you and Severus after that but even if you could feel it, you told yourself it meant nothing.

It meant nothing the way your stomach flipped when you caught Severus looking at you across the Potions classroom. The way he lowered his eyes a second too late, like he'd been caught.

It meant nothing the way his eyes softened slightly when you passed each other in the hallway between classesand his hand brushed yours.

He wasn’t flirting.

At least… you didn’t think so.

It was after dinner when you saw him, in the corridor outside the Charms classrooms, where the candles floated lower and the shadows moved like they were listening.

You hadn’t been looking for him.

Or maybe you had. You weren’t sure anymore.

He was standing with one shoulder against the stone wall, arms loosely crossed, eyes scanning the few students that passed — until they landed on you.

You stopped, breath catching just slightly in your throat.

“Twice in one day,” you said, voice lighter than it felt.

“Lucky me,” Severus murmured.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward you slowly — not with swagger, not trying to impress — just moving like someone who already knew he had your attention.

Because he did.

You didn’t even pretend to hide it.

“You always lurk in dark corridors?”

“Only for a certain Girl.”

That made you huff a laugh. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”

He stepped close enough for your pulse to trip.

“I don’t hand those out often,” he said, voice lower now. “You should keep it safe.”

You tilted your head, caught off guard by the heat under his tone.

“You’re being bold tonight.”

“Maybe you bring it out of me.”

Your heart was hammering now — not from surprise, but from how calm he was. How intentional.

“You’re really different when no one’s around,” you said, quieter now.

“And how is that?”

You didn’t answer right away. You looked up at him instead — really looked.

Closer than he should’ve been.

Eyes sharp, but soft at the edges.

Mouth relaxed. Breath steady.

Like you were the only thing he saw.

“You’re warm and soft” you said, barely audible.

He didn’t move. But something in his eyes darkened, like he was absorbing the word and filing it away.

Only then did he take another step — enough to close the space.

Not touching you.

Just standing close enough that you could feel it — that gravity he carried when he looked at you like this.

Then, slowly — carefully — he reached up and brushed your hair behind your ear.

Just his fingers.

Just a whisper of skin on skin.

And that was all it took.

Your breath hitched.

“You have no idea just how beautiful you look right now.”

You froze.

Not because it was too much — but because you wanted him to say it again.

And he knew that.

He stepped back before you could answer.

“Walk with me?”

Your throat was dry. “Where to?”

“Anywhere.”

You did.

And by the time you got back to your common room that night, you knew it wasn’t nothing.

Severus was definitely flirting 

And you were already falling.

Hard.

--

It was later that week, you were walking down the corridor after class when you heard his voice behind you.

“Wait up.”

You turned, surprised — and there he was, slinging his satchel over one shoulder, catching up.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you voluntarily speed up for anyone,” you said.

“Consider it a limited exception,” he replied. “I only do it for you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the soft blush creeping up your cheeks “how very charming.”

He didn’t answer right away. But then he looked at you, soft and quiet.

“I’m trying.”

Something flickered in your chest.

You slowed your pace, and he matched it without hesitation.

As you reached the stairwell, the two of you stopped — the space between you thick with something you didn’t quite wanted to say out loud.

“I have free time tomorrow,” he said suddenly. “After dinner.”

You tilted your head. “And?”

“And I think we should use it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “To study?”

“If you want.”

“And if I don’t?”

He shrugged lightly. “Then we’ll do something else.”

You considered him — this strange, sharp, brilliant boy who had gone from a mystery to something more… something magnetic.

Something dangerous, maybe. But not in the way that frightened you.

“All right,” you said finally. “Tomorrow.”

His eyes lit in that way they rarely did.

“Tomorrow, meet me at the Potions Classroom” he said warmly.

And when he walked away this time, it was slower.

Like he didn’t want to leave too much distance behind.

You didn’t know why he asked you to meet him here.

The Potions classroom was quiet this late — all the cauldrons scrubbed clean, the windows still fogged from the day’s heat. The stone floor echoed under your steps as you pushed open the door and stepped inside.

He was already there, standing behind one of the front benches, sleeves rolled to his elbows, two vials resting near his hand and a small, half-used page of parchment at his side.

You paused in the doorway.

“So this is ‘something else,’” you said, your voice echoing slightly.

He looked up — and there it was again. That soft flicker behind his eyes. That look he only gave you.

“Well It isn’t studying,” he said. “Not technically.”

You raised a brow. “So what is it, then?”

He stepped aside, gesturing to the bench.

“A demonstration.”

You eyed the setup warily, but curiosity tugged stronger.

You stepped closer.

“What are we making?”

“Nothing explosive,” he said. “Just… watch.”

You did — settling beside him, watching the practiced way he uncorked a vial and poured a thin, silver liquid into the pewter basin in front of you both.

“I remember you mentioned you wanted to see how to brew a Revealing Draught.”

You blinked. “I didn’t think you were actually listening when I said that.”

“I was.”

He said it like it was obvious — like of course he’d remember something small you let slip between conversations.

You glanced away to hide the way your heart tripped.

His hands moved with precision — deliberate and smooth. He showed you how the ingredients were measured. What the best way was to brew it to perfection.

And you listened, taking every word in and watching every single of his movements.

“Here you try” he said. “You have to stir counterclockwise.”

You reached for the ladle, your fingers brushing his.

He stepped back to let you have the space, observing you as you stirred the potion. His gaze made you heart speed up and you stirred a little faster.

The color shifted — faint blue to soft green.

“Too fast,” he murmured. “Like this.”

He stepped up behind you slowly, his hand sliding over yours, not forceful just guiding you with care. 

Your breath hitched as you tilted your head back to look at him over your shoulder.

“Better,” he said, voice low near your ear.

You could feel the warmth of him behind you, the steady pressure of his hand over yours. It wasn’t rushed.

When he finally let go, you missed his touch immediately.

He moved around to the other side of the bench and dropped a powdered herb into the mix. The potion shimmered and turned clear, then began to pulse — slow, steady, like a heartbeat.

You stared.

“That’s…”

“A perfectly balanced brew,” he said, not looking at it.

He was watching you.

You flushed, biting the inside of your cheek.

“You’re dangerous when you’re showing off.”

He tilted his head. “Am I showing off?”

“You planned this.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at the honesty.

“But not because I wanted to show off” he added.

“Then why?”

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because I wanted to be near you.”

It knocked the breath out of you.

The honesty. The calmness of it. The way it felt real.

You stepped back slightly, suddenly fully aware of the way your heart was close to jumping out of your chest.

He didn’t press forward. Didn’t touch you again. He just watched you, steady and patient.

You gathered your voice.

“I want to be near you too,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “That’s good to hear.”

He reached for a cloth and wiped the edge of the bench, then looked back up at you.

“I’m going to ask you something tomorrow,” he said, casual but direct.

You stared at him.

“And I hope you won’t run away screaming.”

Your throat tightened.

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because I want tonight to be just this.”

When you left the classroom a few minutes later — your hand still tingling, your chest too full — you didn’t look back.

But you knew he was still standing there.

Watching you go.

--

You weren’t surprised to find him waiting outside the library for you again.

Not this time.

He stood near the arched window, backlit by soft torchlight, his arms folded loosely. He looked calm, like he hadn’t been standing there thinking about this moment all day.

But you knew he had.

He looked up the moment he saw you, something quiet but sure passing through his eyes.

“Hey,” you said, smiling.

He stepped forward — not awkward, not shy — and stopped just in front of you.

“You remember what I said last night,” he said.

You blinked. “About what?”

“That I was going to ask you something.”

A slow flutter stirred in your chest.

“And?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Go out with me? Saturday.”

You smiled — wide, open, already nodding.

“I’d love to.”

Something almost like relief softened his expression, but it passed quickly.

“I’ll meet you after lunch,” he said. “Clock tower.”

You nodded, your stomach light and full of heat all at once.

As he turned to go, you stood there for a moment longer, still feeling the ghost of his voice in your chest.

On Saturday you found him where he said he’d be.

The clock tower courtyard was still warming in the early afternoon sun, light streaking the stone floor in golden shafts. Severus stood in the center, hands clasped behind his back.

His robes were neater than usual, pressed, clean, dark fabric draping sharply over his shoulders. His boots polished. His hair soft, falling more gently across his face.

He looked…

Beautiful.

“You look nice,” you said before you could stop yourself.

He smiled, a full one, at you.

“So do you but then again, you always do,” he said — easy, quiet, like it was just a fact.

It knocked the breath right out of you.

You walked together down toward the Black Lake, the trees shedding the last of their autumn color. The path was mostly empty. Just you and him and the hush of wind through gold-leafed branches.

Near the shore, he conjured a blanket — elegant and fast, not showy and laid out a small spread: warm cider, pumpkin pasties, and chocolate frogs tucked in a paper bag.

Simple. Perfect.

You sat close.

You told each other things that felt small and strange and real, favorite books, strange dreams, old memories you hadn’t touched in years.

He listened to every word you said. Really listened. When you laughed, his smile was soft and warm. When you looked down, he waited for you to look back.

At some point, the breeze picked up and you shivered without meaning to.

Severus didn’t say anything. He just slipped out of his outer robe and draped it over your shoulders like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. It was the kind of gesture you didn’t expect from him but now, couldn’t imagine from anyone else.

Your hands brushed when you reached for a cup of cider. At first, he didn’t move.

Then his fingers turned under yours, slow and careful.

You laced your fingers into his, your heart doing something wild in your chest.

He glanced at your joined hands. Then, without a word, he lifted yours and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Slow. Intentional.

His eyes searching yours, giving you space to stop him as he slowly leaned in, you didn’t hesitate.

You met him halfway.

His lips were warm. Gentle. Just the right amount of unsure.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting.Like you were already his. 

His hand touched your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like you were made of glass.

You melted into it — the kiss, the moment, the quiet between you.

Deep inside, Severus was celebrating.

But on the outside?

He was flawless. The perfect boy.

And you — You never stood a chance.

--

Something about you had changed.

James noticed it almost immediately — the way you floated down the halls, the way your eyes sparkled when you thought no one was watching. The way you couldn’t stop smiling at nothing at all. He knew it

He teased you for it, of course — he was your brother, after all — ruffling your hair when you laughed too easily, bumping his shoulder into yours when you daydreamed through breakfast.

"You’ve got that stupid, love sick look on your face again," he said one morning in the Great Hall, grinning.

You rolled your eyes, biting into your toast. "I’m allowed to be happy, you know."

"Yeah, yeah," James said, nudging you. "Just don’t let it rot your brain."

But inside, he was happy too. You deserved someone good. Someone who made you feel like this.

He just hadn’t realized yet who that someone was. Until he saw you.

James was just heading toward the library, laughing with Sirius about the prank they'd pulled on Filch when he caught sight of you — and stopped cold. His laughter dying in his throat.

You were standing close — too close — to Severus Snape.

You tilted your head back at something Severus said, brushing his arm with yours, The way Severus looked at you angled slightly down, eyes soft, mouth relaxed. 

And when Severus leaned in — not touching, but near enough to kiss if either of you tilted your heads an inch, James swore his heart stopped. 

He watched, frozen, as Severus reached up to tuck your hair behind your ear. while you — his little sister — beamed up at him like he had hung the bloody moon and stars himself. The way he did is so casually, fingers grazing your temple with such calculated softness, like he had done it a thousand times before, made James' fists clench.

Beside James, Sirius noticing how his friend had gone quiet, turned to follow his gaze and immediately swore under his breath.

"Bloody hell," Sirius muttered. "That has to be a joke."

And just as you slowly leaned up to press a soft kiss to Severus lips

 “Oi!” 

James didn’t waste another second and was already moving. You startled at his voice, turning quickly as he stormed up. Sirius trailed behind him, tense and silent, clearly knowing not to get in between what’s gonna happen next.

Severus tensed slightly behind you, but when you turned to look at him, concern flashing across your face, Severus ducked his head — quiet, gentle, even bashful.

James wanted to hex the look right off him.

"What do you think you are doing?" James demanded, voice sharp.

"What do you mean? I just wanted to kiss him" you said, your voice laced with confusion. 

"Are you mental? Why would you kiss that ugly git?" James blurted, immediately regretting it when your face hardened.

"James," you said warningly, "I will not stand here while you insult my boyfriend."

James stared at you like you had grown a second head. "You’re dating Snivellus?"

You crossed your arms. "His name is Severus. I would appreciate if you would call him that and not by that insult. And yes, I am dating him.“

Severus, standing behind you, tilted his head slightly — a barely-there motion — and smirked at James over your shoulder.

"You—he—" James spluttered, jabbing a finger at Severus.

“He’s not who you think he is,” James tried again, lowering his voice. “He’s—”

“I’m happy,” you said, more softly now. „He makes me happy. Isn't that what you should want?“

And just like that, James was undone because that was all it took. He let out a slow breath and stepped back and nodded once.

You turned then, fussing with Severus’ scarf like it was the most natural thing in the world, smoothing it down, murmuring something too low for James to catch. Severus cheeks flushed his gaze dropping like he was embarrassed by the attention.

James could see the truth, though. He could see something like triumph glittering in Severus’ eyes.

It made his stomach churn but he bit his tongue. Because no matter how much he hated it, he knew one thing:

If he pushed too hard, if he hurt Severus now — he’d hurt you.

And he would never, never do that.

James watched Severus look over your shoulder one more time. The smirk was gone but the message was clear.

Checkmate.

From that day on, Severus was always there.

Wherever you were, he wasn’t far behind — your shadow in the best way. You’d gotten used to the feel of his hand finding yours in passing, the low rumble of his voice at your ear, the warmth of him brushing against you when you sat together too close.

And he was always close.

He walked with you between classes. He waited outside the library. He joined you for breakfast when the Great Hall was quiet, slipping into the seat beside you like he belonged there.

You didn’t question it.

He carried your books. He kissed your cheek when you handed him his tea. He brushed his fingers through your hair when you weren’t paying attention, soft and slow, like it was second nature.

It was.

You were sitting on the stone ledge outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts tower, your legs draped over his lap, your hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve while you talked about nothing in particular.

Severus wasn’t really listening.

He was looking past you — across the courtyard where James stood with Sirius and Remus, pretending not to notice.

But he did notice.

He always did.

So Severus leaned in and pressed a kiss to your jaw — slow, warm, deliberate.

You blinked and smiled, tilting your head to meet him. “What was that for?”

“Felt like it,” he murmured, brushing another kiss to your collarbone, just below the line of your scarf.

You laughed, a little breathless. “You’re being sweet today.”

His eyes flicked up, past you.

Straight to James.

And then he smiled.

Just a little.

That night at dinner, you tugged Severus down into the seat beside you at the end of the Gryffindor table — the spot everyone politely pretended not to see anymore.

James watched from further down — quiet, tight-lipped.

You were too busy slipping a Chocolate Frog into Severus’s hand and leaning your head against his shoulder to notice.

He kissed your hair once. Then again.

And then once more — this time brushing his lips lower, to the side of your neck.

You giggled and pulled him closer, murmuring something about how he always got more affectionate when he was tired.

Severus didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Because he could feel James’s stare boring through the side of his head.

He reached under the table, laced his fingers with yours, and pulled your joined hands into his lap.

You smiled against his neck.

James got up and left without finishing his meal.

--

You were sitting together on the low stone wall near the Charms corridor, the last sun of the day casting long shadows behind you. Your legs were tucked to the side, your shoulder against Severus’s chest, his arm around your waist.

You were laughing at something — one of those little observations you made that no one else ever seemed to notice.

Severus wasn’t really listening.

Not at first.

He was watching across the courtyard, where James leaned against the far wall with Sirius, arms crossed, eyes locked on the two of you like it physically pained him.

Severus turned toward you, brushing your hair back behind your ear — soft, deliberate.

“Hold still,” he said.

You blinked, confused, and then laughed when he pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose.

“Sev—what are you doing?” you giggled.

“Kissing you.”

Your smile widened. “Well, carry on, then.”

And he did.

He kissed you again — your cheek, your jaw, the curve just beneath your ear — until you were warm and breathless and burying your face in the crook of his neck, trying not to squeal.

Severus glanced up one more time.

James was gone.

but he didn’t stop.

Later, back in your little hidden classroom, the lamps glowed low, casting golden shadows on the walls. You had Severus’s robes balled up under your head and your legs draped across his lap, twirling his hair between your fingers while you talked softly about absolutely nothing.

He watched you — head tilted, eyes steady — like you were something distant and glowing, like you might vanish if he blinked too hard.

He didn’t mean to reach for you.

But he did.

His fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him — not sharply, not with intent.

Just… need.

You quieted.

His mouth brushed yours — slow, slow, and again. And again.

It wasn’t sharp this time. Not strategic.

It was aching. Sincere.

Your fingers slid into his hair. You kissed him back like he was everything.

And Severus forgot, just for a second, that he wasn’t.

--

The castle was mostly quiet when you stepped into the old classroom.

It had become yours over the past few months — yours and Severus’s. No one else came here. You doubted anyone even remembered it existed.

The lamps flickered low, casting long shadows across the stone floor. The air was warm, and the blanket you’d brought last week still lay folded on the windowsill bench.

Severus was already there.

He didn’t look up at first — just sat at the edge of the desk, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his posture tight in a way you recognized too well.

You dropped your bag without a word and crossed the room.

When you reached him, you touched his sleeve lightly. “Rough day?”

He nodded once.

You didn’t press. You never had to.

You just stepped between his knees and gently peeled his robe from his shoulders, folding it neatly beside him before brushing his hair back from his face.

“You haven’t eaten, have you?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

You huffed softly and reached into your bag, pulling out the small bundle you’d stashed from dinner — a roll, an apple, a bit of chocolate.

You handed it to him and raised your eyebrows.

He didn’t argue.

You sat beside him on the desk, thigh pressed to his, and leaned your head on his shoulder while he took slow bites of the food you’d brought.

“Better,” you said quietly.

He didn’t respond, but you felt the way his shoulder softened beneath you.

You reached for his hand — fingers cold, a little ink-stained — and held it between yours, brushing your thumb over his knuckles.

“You work too hard,” you murmured. “You don’t sleep enough. You forget to eat. Honestly, sometimes I think I’m dating a ghost.”

His lips quirked just barely.

“I mean it,” you said, looking up. “Someone’s got to take care of you.”

He looked at you then — really looked.

And whatever he meant to say never came out.

Because you leaned up and kissed his cheek, then his temple, then the corner of his mouth.

“I love you, you know,” you said.

So casually. So easily. Like it was just true.

Because it was.

Severus didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He just sat still, your warmth pressed against him, your fingers gently brushing through his hair like you didn’t realize you were touching something fragile.

He pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist — not out of panic, but something quieter.

Need.

In a move so smooth it made your breath hitch, he pulled you into his lap.

"You can't just—" you began, laughing quietly.

He silenced you with a kiss.

It was deeper than usual — slower, heavier — his hand splaying across the small of your back, holding you firmly against him.

You melted into him without thinking, one hand finding the nape of his neck, fingers curling into his hair.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far — resting his forehead against yours, breathing you in.

"You always spoil me," he whispered.

You grinned, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face. "You deserve it."

You meant it. With everything you had.

It hit him deeply and all at once:

If you found out…

He wouldn’t just lose the plan. He’d lose this. The quiet. The comfort. The way you looked at him like he mattered.

He didn’t want to be without you.

And the fear of that — of losing you — settled deeper than he liked.

Later, at dinner, you made sure to sit with him in the Great Hall — ignoring the way Sirius arched an eyebrow and Remus coughed awkwardly into his pumpkin juice.

James watched the two of you from across the table, silent, chewing mechanically through his food like it might break in his mouth.

You barely noticed.

You were too busy fussing with Severus — pushing his hair back from his face, slipping a Chocolate Frog into his pocket, murmuring little things only he could hear.

Severus let you.

He basked in it.

He kissed you, slow, lingering kisses that left you dizzy and smiling and clutching at his robes like you couldn’t stand not touching him.

Sometimes, his hand would slide to your waist, pulling you closer. Sometimes it would skim up your back under your robes, fingers splaying against your spine — possessive, sure.

Each time you leaned into it without hesitation, letting yourself drown in him.

Each time James watched with gritted teeth, fists clenched beneath the table.

--

James had lasted longer than anyone expected.

He’d watched you throw your arms around Severus in the corridors. Watched you giggle when Severus whispered something only you could hear. Watched you sit in his lap, touch his hair, press your lips to his like there was no one else in the world.

And James said nothing.

For weeks, he held it in — every instinct screaming at him to drag you away, to hex Snape where he stood — but he didn’t.

Because you were happy.

And James Potter would rather choke on his anger than wipe the smile off your face.

But there were limits.

And tonight — they shattered.

The library was nearly empty. The lamps burned low, casting long shadows between the shelves.

James waited by the main arch — arms crossed, jaw clenched, heart pounding too loud in his ears.

Severus stepped out from a side aisle, his usual smooth precision in every step. Calm. Composed.

James moved into his path.

They stood facing each other in silence — neither blinking.

“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” James asked, voice quietly, dangerously calm.

Severus gave a slow, deliberate blink. "No idea what you mean," he said, voice dripping with false innocence.

"You’re not subtle," James said. "You’re using her. Touching her, parading her around in front of me like some twisted game.“

Severus tilted his head slightly eyes turning harder for a fraction.

"Maybe if you hadn’t spent years making my life miserable, Potter," he said softly, "I wouldn’t have needed a shield."

“So that’s what she is to you? A solution to me?”  James laughed out, humorless.

“She gave me peace,” Severus muttered. “That’s more than you ever did.”

"You’re lying to her," James snapped at him his voice dangerous. “She thinks you love her.”

Severus hesitated, the word catching on his tongue. 

“She was—She made it easy to stop all of it. I didn’t plan for it to go this far.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then — so quiet it barely landed:

“She was just… convenient.”

The words hung in the air like a curse.

And from behind them, a soft sound — a book hitting the floor.

Both boys turned.

You stood frozen in the aisle your fingers trembling.

Your eyes — wide and stunned — locked onto Severus.

"Convenient," you repeated, barely audible.

You swayed slightly where you stood. James moved immediately, crossing to you without hesitation.

You didn't pull away.

You let him catch you, his arms wrapping around you tightly, grounding you.

Severus took a small step forward.

"Y/N—" he said, voice rougher now, almost panicked.

You shook your head fiercely, pressing your face into James’ shoulder.

Severus kept talking, desperate now. "I didn’t mean—"

You lifted your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks, and cut him off.

“Stop,” you said, voice sharp now. “Just… stop.”

He froze.

“I believed you,” you said, voice soft and wrecked. “Every word. Every look. I believed it all.”

Severus stepped forward again.

“Y/N—wait, I didn’t—”

“Don’t” you said — not loud, but it cut clean. “Don’t come near me.”

He faltered. “You don’t understand—”

"Stay away from me," you said, voice shaking but strong. "You got what you wanted. I hope you are happy now.“

The words hit Severus harder than he thought they ever could.

James tightened his grip around you protectively.

„Stay away from us,“ James said, voice low and sharp. „And we will stay away from you.“

Severus opened his mouth — but no words came out.

James turned, guiding you away gently but firmly, one hand between your shoulder blades, keeping you steady.

You didn't look back.

And Severus — Severus stood there, watching you go, the crushing weight of guilt settling heavy in his chest.

--

It was worse than he had expected.

Severus thought he had prepared for it — thought he could stomach the cost of losing you. After all, it had been a game. A plan.

A way to get James to stop tormenting him.

It wasn’t supposed to hurt.

And yet —

Every time you passed him in the corridors, your arm looped through your brother’s, eyes sliding right past him like he’d never existed — it felt like a blade twisting in his ribs.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t acknowledge him at all.

You made yourself deaf to the way he sometimes stumbled in your wake, as if drawn after you like a ghost.

You were colder than any hex. And it destroyed him.

The Great Hall was louder now — every scrape of cutlery, every shout, every burst of laughter like a hammer to the skull.

Without you beside him, it was unbearable.

Severus picked at his meals in silence, alone at the end of the Slytherin table, eyes drawn helplessly to the cluster of Gryffindors halfway down the hall.

You sat between James and Lily, laughing at something Sirius said, your smile strained but brave.

James kept a protective arm draped casually across the back of your chair, his eyes always scanning, always watching — daring Severus to come closer.

Severus didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not because of James.

Because of you.

Because every time you smiled through the ache, something inside him cracked — slow, quiet, and bleeding.

You still carried yourself with pride — back straight, chin up but Severus could see the cracks if he looked hard enough.

The moments when you went quiet, staring off into nothing. The way your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of your robes when you thought no one was watching.

The way you blinked fast sometimes, like you were forcing the tears down before they could escape.

He had done that. He had taken your trust — your love — and shattered it.

And he hadn't even realized what he had until it was gone.

One night, he found himself standing outside the Gryffindor Tower entrance — stupid, pathetic, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of you through the open portrait hole.

He didn’t see you.

But he heard your laugh — soft, tired, real — floating down from somewhere inside.

Not for him.

Never for him again.

Severus turned away, his hands shaking in his pockets, guilt rotting inside him like poison.

He’d won.

But it didn’t feel like victory.

It felt like he’d set fire to the only thing that had ever made him feel whole.

Severus hadn’t meant to stop.

He was just passing through, head down, hands shoved deep in his pockets, thoughts tangled with you — like they always were.

And then — there you were.

Sitting on the stone bench by the fountain, the late afternoon sun catching in your hair, laughing — actually laughing — at something the boy beside you said.

Some Ravenclaw — all clean lines and easy charm, the kind of boy who never had to fight to be liked.

You leaned in closer when you laughed, touching the boy’s arm lightly, your smile bright and open and full of something Severus hadn’t seen in weeks.

He froze, the world narrowing to a single, unbearable point.

You looked... happy.

Happy like he had made you in all those weeks of kisses and whispered lies.

Happy in the way you had only ever looked at him.

The Dull ache in his chest got stronger with every heartbeat. 

He missed the way you fussed over him. The warmth of your hands, the soft murmurs, the way you sat pressed against him like you were proud to be his.

He missed all of it.

He missed you.

And in that moment — watching you laugh for someone else — he realized what he’d done. It hadn’t been a game. Not for a long time.

He had loved you. Not with flowers or poetry. But in the way you made him feel human. In the way you saw him — wanted him — before he even wanted himself.

And he had destroyed it.

Because he hadn’t realized until now — until he saw you moving on without him — that what he had with you wasn’t just a shield.

It had been real.

And he had thrown it away for something that didn’t even feel peaceful anymore.

Severus leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, his legs suddenly weak.

He watched you laugh again, tilting your head back, and something inside him cracked so loudly he was sure the whole world could hear it.

It was over.

You weren’t his to love anymore.

--

Severus heard the rumor before he saw it. A whisper over pumpkin juice. A scribbled note passed under the Ravenclaw table.

You’d been asked out. You’d said yes. You were moving on.

It shouldn’t have surprised him. He’d used you.

But somehow — stupidly — part of him had still believed there might be time. Time to fix it. Time to deserve you.

He hoped that he had still time to find a way to make it up to you but that part of him died that morning.

Something hollowed out inside him, sharp and aching.

When he saw James laughing with Sirius outside Defense class, something in him snapped.

He didn’t think.

Didn’t speak.

Just swung — hard — and hit James square in the jaw.

James stumbled back, shocked — then snarled.

“You’re dead.”

The punch came fast. James’s fist cracked against Severus’s jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Severus didn’t move. Didn’t lift a hand. Just stood there, arms loose at his sides, as James hit him again — harder this time — and sent him sprawling.

The corridor filled fast — students pouring in, eager for blood. Some gasped. Some laughed. A few even cheered.

Severus didn’t hear them. Not really.

James didn’t stop. He leaned down and hit him again. And again.

Severus didn’t move. Somewhere in the roaring in his ears, he caught Sirius’s voice — then a kick to the ribs. Pain burst behind his eyes. The floor tilted.

Another fist. Another kick. He took it all. Not because he was numb 

but because this was what he deserved. For lying. For realizing too late that he’d loved you, and that he’d destroyed the one good thing he’d ever had. Let them hurt him. Let it leave a mark.

He wanted it to hurt.

He didn’t notice at all but something shifted — the noise cut off, laughter stilled, tension thickened. Then—

“James!”

Your voice. Raw. Horrified. Real.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran straight to James, grabbing his arm, yanking him back.

His fist froze mid-swing.

He was panting, wild-eyed, hands still shaking.

The silence was thick — heavy and watching.

Severus stayed down, vision swimming, ears ringing, blood warm on his face.

Then you were there. Dropping to your knees. Reaching for him.

“Oh my…”

He flinched before your fingers touched him.

“We need to get you to the infirmary,” you said, your voice breaking. You reached for him — gentle, steady — but he jerked away like your touch burned.

“No.” His voice was raw, wrecked. “Don’t.”

You froze, hand suspended in the air. Hurt flickered across your face, but still — you tried again.

“You’re bleeding. You need—”

“I don’t want your help,” he snapped, sharper this time, bitter and afraid.

The words cut deeper than any bruise.

“Severus—”

“Just go.”

The crowd thinned fast. Laughter faded to uneasy whispers. Eyes darted away. No one wanted to be the last one watching.

James stood off to the side now, fists loose, chest heaving — guilt already setting in like bruises under the skin.

You stayed.

Still on your knees, still reaching for Severus, even after everything.

“I’m not leaving you here,” you said, voice shaking but firm.

He shut his eyes. Your hands touched his arm — soft, insistent — and it nearly broke him.

He didn’t deserve this. Not from you. Not after everything.

And that — that — hurt more than every punch James had thrown.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to stand. Didn’t want you to see him like this — bloody, weak, ruined.

But you were still there.

So he turned his face away, jaw tight, and forced himself upright with a sharp groan — pain lighting up behind his eyes.

You reached for him — not thinking, just moving — your hand slipping under his arm, steadying him as he tried to sit up.

“Let me help—”

He pulled away. Not rough. Not angry. Just... empty.

You froze, watching as he braced one hand against the cold stone floor, struggling to push himself upright. His ribs clearly screamed with pain. His lip was bleeding. His breath came shallow and uneven.

Still, he shoved himself to his feet.

He swayed.

You moved forward again, instinctively, hand outstretched—

“I said don’t.”

His voice was hoarse. Low. Final.

You stopped.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t say anything else.

Just turned — slow, stiff — and limped down the corridor, one arm wrapped around his middle, blood dripping down his jaw.

You stood there.

Watching.

Waiting for him to turn back.

He didn’t.

You’d seen people fall apart before.

Friends crying over exams. Students cracking under pressure.

But this wasn’t stress.

This wasn’t fear.

This was Severus quietly erasing himself.

You noticed it first in Potions.

He stopped arriving on time. Stopped wearing his robes properly. His shirt always wrinkled, his hair unbrushed, hanging in his eyes.

He stopped raising his hand. Stopped taking notes.

He barely seemed to breathe.

And you hated it. Hated that you still noticed. Hated that you still cared. Because you were supposed to hate him. Because he deserved it.

But the ache in your chest kept growing — steady, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Then he stopped showing up at all. One day. Two. Three. Four. No one knew where he’d gone.

The Slytherins stayed silent. The professors frowned, but didn’t say anything about it.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself to stop thinking about him. You tried.

Then you heard it.

Two Hufflepuffs outside Charms — whispering, grinning.

“Did you hear? Snape got into it with Mulciber yesterday. Nearly got knocked out.” “Yeah, and someone said he picked a fight with three Ravenclaws. Because of that rumor — one of them dating (Y/N) Potter.” “Slughorn told McGonagall he’ll get expelled if it keeps up.”

You froze. The blood drained from your face.

Expulsion. Fights. Severus — who had once clung to ambition like a lifeline, who just wanted quiet, who only ever wanted peace — was throwing it all away.

No. You didn’t want to believe it. But the fear clawed up your throat anyway.

You searched the whole castle. The library. Empty classrooms. Dark corners where you used to meet in.

Nothing.

It was like he’d vanished. Like he didn't exist anymore.

And for the first time since he broke your heart— You were scared. Really, truly scared.

It was nearly midnight when a soft tap on your shoulder pulled you out of your thoughts.

You turned.

Lily stood there — red hair loose, eyes tired, holding something close to her chest.

“Hey,” she said quietly.

In her hands was a small box.

“This is for you,” Lily said. Her voice was calm, but her eyes were full of something that looked like regret. “From Severus.”

Your stomach knotted. You couldn’t speak.

She gently pressed the box into your hands. “He asked me to deliver it. That’s all.”

You nodded, wordless.

She lingered for a moment — like there was more she wanted to say. But instead, she stepped back and sank quietly into one of the armchairs across the room.

Not leaving. Just staying close. Respecting a grief she couldn’t name, and couldn’t fix.

You sank into the nearest chair by the fire, the box like a weight in your lap. It was plain. Unmarked. Small.

Inside, wrapped in soft brown paper, was a book. A rare potions text — the one you’d mentioned months ago in passing. You hadn’t even thought he’d heard you.

You didn’t even realize you were crying — not until a tear hit the cover.

You wiped it away fast, almost frustrated.

Your hands were shaking as you opened the first page.

At the bottom of the first page — small, careful, like he didn’t dare write it any bigger:

I love you.

You blinked — once. Twice.

Then turned the page.

There it was again. Just beneath a potion diagram, tucked between the inked lines:

I love you.

Another page. Scribbled faintly in the margin beside a brewing chart:

I love you.

They were everywhere.

Tiny. Hidden. Buried in corners and curves. Like he didn’t know if you’d ever see them. Like he had to say it anyway. Over and over. Because he couldn’t say it out loud.

Each one tore at you.

Each one made it harder to breathe.

By the time you reached the last page, your hands were trembling.

At the bottom of the inside cover, the writing changed — rougher now, uneven. The ink was smudged in one place, like something wet had struck the page and dried there.

A single tear, maybe.

I wasn’t brave enough to say this to your face. Not after everything. Not when I know you don’t want to hear it.

I know you’ve moved on. I know this won’t change anything. Maybe you won’t even read this. But I had to say it somewhere. At least once.

Be happy. That’s what I want for you. That’s all that matters now.

I will be gone soon, I will make sure this is the last time you’ll hear from me. I promise.

I won’t bother you again. I won’t let myself.

just know I never meant to hurt you.

I love you.

You pressed your forehead to the book, holding it to your chest like it could keep you from falling apart.

Your heart broke in quiet, shuddering pieces.

You were still sitting by the fire when James stepped into the common room.

Lily had been watching from the armchair. When she caught James’s eye, she gave the smallest shake of her head — subtle, quick. A silent message only someone who knew her well would understand.

It’s not good.

James didn’t hesitate. He crossed the room in a few long strides and lowered himself beside you, voice soft.

“Hey, little one. What’s going on?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t look at him. Just clung to the book like it was the only thing left keeping you together.

James leaned in, eyes narrowing as he took in the frayed cover and trembling in your grip.

He reached for the book — slow, gentle — and you let him take it.

He opened it. His eyes landed on the first scrawled I love you.

Then another. And another. Written between diagrams, slipped into margins like secrets.

And finally — The last page.

James’s stomach dropped.

You broke.

A sob ripped out of you — low, raw, uncontrollable — and you crumpled into James’s chest like you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore.

He caught you immediately, arms locking tight around you — solid, steady, safe. You buried your face into his shoulder, fingers clutching at his sleeve.

“He said he will be gone soon,” you whispered. “I think… I think he meant it. They said he’s going to be expelled if he keeps fighting.”

James closed his eyes, burying his chin in your hair.

„It will be alright…“

“I don’t want him gone,” you choked out. “I love him. So much.”

Another sob tore through you, louder this time — broken, desperate — as you clung to James like he was the last solid thing in the world.

“I don’t want to lose him like this…”

For all the anger James had ever felt toward Severus Snape — all the hate, all the history — nothing had ever cut deeper than this.

Watching you cry like that. And knowing he couldn’t undo any of it.

But he could do what he’d always done.

He held you close. One arm around you.

The other gripping the book — the one thing Severus had left behind that still held the pieces of your heart.

He couldn't undo it but he sure as hell can fix it.

(Part 2 will be up later)

[princessofghosts-posts]

Another day,another slay occasion to talk about Nico mistreatment. Today we talk about one of my most hated scene in the books.

This is from chapter 17 of BotL: "The Lost God Speaks".

Basically the whole scene where they finally find Pan and he tells each of them something to hold on before dying. Everyone except Nico of course. Pan straight up ignored him even tho he was on the threshold of the cave where he was dying,and was watching what was happening.

Pan doesn't have a connection with all of them,only with Grover since he is a satyr and also the one Pan wanted to be found by,so realistically the speech had an impact only on him. I can see why he spoke to Rachel,since her dad is part of the reason he is dying,so she probably felt guilty. But she is a stretch. Annabeth,Percy and Tyson??? Why them too??? And why ignoring one of them,if you are going to give the group reassuring words????? Rude.

I hate this scene so much for this. Nico did so much for them during BotL,before this chapter he helped Percy and Rachel escape from Kronos putting himself in danger,and still got excluded the first chance someone got. He can't ever catch a break. I saw someone trying to explain this as a Life/Death parallelism,because Pan is the God of the Wild (nature=life) while Nico has an aura of death and is Hades's son: they are opposite forces that cannot interact. It was a good take on this scene and a symbolic explanation,but Pan was fading away/dying when they found him. That invisible border between them broke the moment Pan started dying since he was crossing it.

And it's also extremely fitting because before finding Pan,Nico and Percy were having a conversation about Nico and if he wanted to come back to CHB now that he revealed himself to Kronos,since it was the only safe place for them,and Nico shot this idea down because he was going to be shunned away again. And then this shit happens and Nico was right about it. And that's just....sad–the fact that he knew it was going to happen either way.

This scene will forever be in my hate list, because who the fuck ignore a kid when you are giving encouragement to basically everyone in the room??? Grover is the only one that cared about him and actually has a connection with thim,the rest are kids that don't even know him and didn't cared enough. Tyson,a cyclop that doesn't even know who he is??? Rachel is a whole mortal that just got into this madness?? Percy and Annabeth knew and supported Grover's quest but never tried to help him or anything untill then??? And you are telling me,you are giving them attention,but still want to left one of them out? Because???

Pan included the mortal and the cyclop but not the guy that was literally feeling him dying in that moment,understood it was something that was going to happen either way (since Grover was being delusional over it),and that was really due to some advice because he was fucking lost with himself after his sister's dead. GG bro,you sure know how to make a guy feel welcomed.

And Nico was already accustomed to it that didn't even comment on it,it was normal for him being treated this way. And it's just sad watching everyone have their own encouragement while you don't get anything,and are excluded from it even tho the same God acknowledge you are there.

[air--so--sweet]

Okay so I will always enjoy Ryan Guzman with facial hair, it's a shame he plays a firefighter and so has to shave honestly, but that's not the point of this post.

That beard was hella intentional. Because in a TV show where you shoot out of order facial hair has to be kept consistent to prevent continuity errors. I was going to include an example of just how wrong this can go from episode 3x06 of Criminal Minds when David Rossi shaves and then in the very next shot he strokes his magically regrown beard. However, hilariously, when I went to screen record this, the version streaming on Disney had the shaving scene removed! (His beard still disappears and reappears throughout the entire episode though). My point still stands - for Eddie to have facial hair for that scene is very intentional.

It made me think back to his conversation with Father Brian in 8x06, specifically 'You want to know why I grew this? Because LAFD doesn't allow beards, too flammable.' Which, it's true, firefighters aren't allowed beards, but there's also the doble entendre of a beard referring to a fake partner used by a closeted queer person to further hide their sexuality. Eddie also tells the priest he grew facial hair as a disguise, so he doesn't have to see himself in the mirror, because he would see a failure, who doesn't deserve forgiveness or joy.

Eddie is feeling guilty over not being there at the lab with his team and with Bobby, he believes he failed them. He believes he's undeserving of joy once again. The scene with the priest also had Eddie choosing water over juice as part of his self inflicted punishment, with juice signifying joy and water the deprivation of joy (sidenote: Anyone else notice that juice was front and centre twice this episode? First in the scene between Buck and Maddie and secondly when Athena and the kids had breakfast together).

And then next week we have an episode called Don't Drink the Water and a promo with the line 'flaming water in their closets'. flaming water in their closets. FLAMING water in their CLOSETS.

He might not he back with the 118 yet but you cannot convince me we're not getting gay Eddie very very soon.

Especially as we've been told we'll see Maddie giving birth this season and in the same episode as Eddie's discussion with the priest Maddie tells Chim she's pregnant and says to him 'Give this a chance be what it is - joy.' I think either next week or in the finale (probably the finale) seeing the Han's welcome their joy into the world Eddie's going to decide to embrace his in the form of admitting his love for Buck (manifesting him grabbing Buck by the arm in the hospital, dragging him round a corner and kissing him senseless...would also mirror Buck accidentally coming out at the Madney wedding by kissing Tommy and getting soot on his face and this show loves parallels).

There's also an earthquake in there so maybe Buck tells him he loves him in a moment of peril, Eddie (gay) panics and doesn't say it back or he does but Buck thinks it was only because of the danger and Eddie doesn't really feel that way, (because he's a renter straight), but after seeing Madney's joy Eddie decides to make his feelings clear to Buck.

Also, while I'm here might as well throw in another theory, similar to Jee Yun having a name that means good luck which is related to the themes of the episode she was born in, baby boy Han will have a name that means joy. I am calling it now.

[avonne-writes]

Do the HS AU Buckies ever tell the kids about the Buckies' abusive/abuse-enabling/deadbeat parents? Do the kids ever get mistreated by guys/girls, including possible partners? If so, how do the Buckies react to that/comfort the kids?

Thank you for the question! I had a lot to say about this 😅

Bucky and Gale discuss this before the kids are born and mutually agree that they will try to tell them as little as possible about what Gale went through. The biggest reason behind this decision is that Gale doesn’t want to cut his mother out of her grandchildren's life. (Bucky and Gale argue about this, but eventually, Bucky agrees to supervised visits with both of Gale's parents, if his dad doesn’t show up drunk.) They don’t want to alienate the children or ruin what could otherwise be a good, if distant, relationship with their grandparents.

In addition, Gale just simply doesn’t want to share that kind of weight and darkness until the kids are old enough. On the other hand, Bucky talks about his father openly, since the kids won’t ever have a relationship with the man and consider Neil as their other grandpa. They never talk about their near-separation at 30 until the kids are adults.

But, of course, over the years as the kids get older, some things begin to come out. The first time Gale ever shares specific details about his past is after a big fight with Abby when she's 16 or 17 (I'll expand on this in my answer to another ask). Abby is horrified to learn why Gale doesn’t like to cross bridges on foot. After this conversation, Gale and Bucky open up about those things more.

~

John and Gale are very protective of the kids, so they're always alert at any sign of mistreatment. They might even be a bit too protective of Abby in particular, because she's their oldest, she has a more rebellious personality and she's a girl too. This backfires a little and results in a series of fights and in Abby acting out.

In her teens, Abby experiences some heartbreak caused by asshole boys. Bucky's always livid and wants to find those boys, but he usually just ends up having to go cool down in the backyard. Gale's almost always the one sitting with Abby and holding her while she cries. They have a special bond. Abby always seeks out Gale in such situations.

As for Matty, he has a fairly untroubled dating life and just the right amount of friends not to be lonely. But he does struggle with Math and doesn’t like contact sports, so I can see an overzealous Math or P.E. teacher picking on him. Bucky and Gale would demand to talk to that teacher the moment they find out.

Overall, Bucky is good at cheering the kids up, distracting them and making them feel protected. While Gale's also good at the latter, he’s especially good at comforting them and having heart-to-hearts (he’s a great listener).

[ellitx]

More on the pregnant darling thing, I feel like ventis the type to not so subtly hint how much he wants a family with her <3 just comments throughout the day to make sure she knows how much he wants it >;33 like seeing her gently scolding Barbatos and dvalin for play fighting and accidentally getting one or the other hurt like how a mother would? Ventis already taking the opportunity to compliment his muse on how she would be such a caring and firm mother to her (and his) future kids!! Or darlings doing as little as looking at herself in the mirror and brushing her hair?? Ventis sneaking up behind her, one hand resting on her abdomen, the other stroking her waist as he sings her soft praises about her body and how good she would look with that gorgeous mothers glow and how natural she would seem cradling their future child HKFHDKD (*´˘`*)♡ I feel like he would be the type to include mothers or something of the sort maternally related into some of his new songs to sing to darling so she could think about it for the rest of the day ^_^

Yes!! Venti’s really itching to start a family with darling the more they’ve become closer and intimate. At first all the signs were subtle. He praises you and jests you’d be a good mother, but the longer he waits the more he shows more signs that Venti just doesn’t want it. He NEEDS it

While waiting for you to wake up, he’d often see families roaming around the plaza. His gaze would linger on mothers with their babies and he’d gently hum lullabies without realizing it. His mind would often wander on silly delulu scenarios of you and venti being together and starting a family.

But when you finally woke up, it got worse.

The signs get more obvious. He starts mentioning how beautiful darling would look with a baby bump, tracing soft circles over your stomach with adoring look in his eyes. He always talks in "when" not "if".

“When our little winblume starts walking, they are going to be so cute and adorable. I can see them now, running around the plaza and giving everyone hugs and kisses like their mama.”

“When they get older, papa will teach them how to play music and we will perform together as a family.”

It slips into your conversations like it’s already decided.

And not just that, he also dreams about it. He’d wake up in the middle of the night and hug you close to him, his arm over your waist and his hand drawing loving circles over your tummy. He’d murmur and whisper his dream about lullabies and tiny feet and little fingers wrapped around his.

“You’ll be a really good mother, you know,” Venti began. With how soft his voice was, you know he’s being serious. There were no “just kidding” or “I’m just joking”. Few seconds of silence passed by and he just leaned down and pressed his face between your neck and shoulder, pressing soft kisses here and there as he took your hand in his and rubbed your knuckle.

Venti doesn’t just want to see you become a mother. He wants to give you that. He just doesn’t want to merely admire you in the role of mother, but he also wants to be the reason you became one through your bond and love. He’d be by your side through every step and cradle your little baby with full of love and care :>>

[leoneliterary]

So I'm getting that Isam is Aretas's... man servant? personal aide? steward? bodyguard? and apparently not afraid of giving some colorful commentary when they want. Are we allowed to learn some more facts about them or would that be spoilers? Because I find him hilarious, but the position of always being at the beck and call of some spoiled brat (however nice they can be) is not exactly enviable and I can see MC feeling for them. And knowing to bribe them or maybe switch in for some more private duties to give them free time, while simutaneously being able to spend time with Aretas. (which in this case is the RO, obviously) Does Isam have a family of his own? Is he a noble and kinda the equivalent to a ladies maid, or a commoner servant that proofed to just be especially astute? A milk brother maybe? (like the nurse maid's child he would have shared feedings with) How well do they know each other and ....just some more insight into the character maybe, because he's interesting! (and in the asks at least, doesn't seem to mind MC and Aretas being fools in love)

Isam is a fun character because he really is some of everything you describe! He's a mystery to the court, isn't seen anywhere outside the palace, and doesn't speak to the nobles in his own words, only conveying the wishes of the king and queen.

You can probably tell from the snippets posted on here, but Isam isn't an aloof, shadowy figure to Aretas.

I'm including some fun Isam facts, so if you want to be more surprised about him, then don't read below.

He and Aretas were born a year apart. With his mother being Lalia, he is both the blood cousin and milk brother of Aretas.

While he doesn't speak to nobility, he has a large 'gossip' network with the servants of multiple noble houses.

He has no lover and refuses to let Aretas know who he might be interested in, as a way of preventing potential teasing.

Isam takes great pride in his appearance, even using his mother's and Sarai's hair oils.

He loves mischief and eavesdropping.

Professional in public, pouty in private. Not above complaining to auntie when his kingly cousin is being too demanding.

His familial relationship isn't well known in court, but his resemblance to Sarai is a hot topic of conversation.

[beomiracles]

𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝟐𝐊 𝒞𝐸𝐿𝐸𝐵𝑅𝒜𝒯𝐼𝒪𝒩

✎𓂃 hii hii, recently this blog reached 2000 followers — which oh my god, is so huge ! when I started posting here last year, i never in my life thought that my fics would reach this many people and I'm beyond honoured to have received so much love for the things I write — and while there is no way for me to ever repay the kindness I have received, I still would like to try by giving something back <3

💌 you have been invited to... 𝒮𝐸𝑅𝐸𝒩𝐸'𝒮 𝒮𝐿𝒰𝑀𝐵𝐸𝑅 𝒫𝒜𝑅𝒯𝒴

One of the best things I know are sleepovers ! And even though the whole evening is fun, eating popcorn, singing bad karaoke and watching cheap horror movies — my favourite part is undeniably the conversations in the dark, just before you fall asleep. So with that said, I want to recreate that feeling of just, talking, about everything this blog has been so far (and to come)... !

The event will therefore be split up into multiple parts, all of which will hopefully bring a semblance of fun and comfort <3 — inbox me to partake !

COMMENTARY: BEHIND THE FICS

It should come as no surprise that I love to talk — a lot. And what I love just as much as talking, is writing! So see this as an oppurtinty to learn more about the fics I've written so far (or the ones I have yet to write) — Ask about any fic, any scene/character, and I will explain my full thought process behind them !

for example...

"Are there any deleted scenes from any of your fics?"

"Which character has been the hardest/easiest/most fun to write?"

"Do you have any fics with self-insert?" etc.. etc..

(you can also ask me to post a full scene from a wip!)

ASK THE CHARACTERS

Not to be mistaken for the previous section of this event — this part focuses purely on the characters from my fics. See it as a little bit of a one-on-one, if you will.. I would like to think that I'm very much inside the minds of the character's I write — so ask them anything and I'll have them reply :3

example:

"CC Beomgyu, do you actually care about mc?" "I care about a lot of things. One does not exclude the other, I suppose."

MYSTERY BOX : TAKE A CHANCE

I have this, tiny tiny feeling that this might be your guys's favourite — it's pretty much what it says ! Mystery box works the way any other would, you pick a member and get a surprise drabble ! Of course, to make sure that you don't end up with something completely backward from what you might've wanted, the boxes are categorised :3

「 🎀 」 'soft box' — very soft/fluffy drabbles, no dark content and lighthearted vibes all in all, sfw most of the time but if nsfw it's soft smut <3

「🌶️ 」 'spicy box' — nsfw/spicier drabbles, 99% will contain some sort of smut, quite kinky but nothing crazy.

「🩸 」 'blood box' — these include dark content, dubcon/coericon, babytrapping, gore, nasty things.. basically my usual dark thoughts, don't pick this box if you dislike dark/taboo content.

WHAT IF...

Question me! I love being asked about my fics, discussing possible endings and different paths they could've taken — depending on the fic/ask I might be interested in writing an alternate ending to the ask as well!

example:

"What if Yeonjun never redeemed himself in trocyj?"

"What if Beomgyu wasn't a criminal in cc?"

"What if the mc never went out to talk to Beomgyu in amb?"

NOTE THAT A LOT OF THESE WILL CONTAIN HEAVY SPOILERS !

hope you guys are as excited as I am! let's make this sleepover the best one yet <3

[no487]

it's proof that you've lived around us and understand how salem's never been around a single asian person in their life based on how he treats wajin culture. i feel like it's fine for you to discuss this as long as we're able to be included in the conversation, too. /gen :)

something tells me he can't. if i asked him to point out where sri lanka is on a map, i don't think he could LMAO. and the "i sound like an anime girl" shit, too? salem, what the hell did you mean by that? what the fuck does an anime girl sound like? if you're talking about the exaggerated voice acting, seiyuu still have a diverse range regardless of how they're cast. :/

anyways, wowza... wis is truly the kind of european ignorance you'd be baffled by mid-conversation. she doesn't make the effort to improve herself or her views, but clings to them as weapons. snarl words, race science, and all. >_< and salem with his brand of ignorance? oh my godddd, i'd be so happy to point out many of the things he'd do that are Extremely Racist to asians if you want that help.

i'm glad he's not a friend of mine, he won't be able to handle the critique lmao

Okay as I'm working on the document I realized Salem never named any character with non-American sounding names. Even Wis has Łucja. And she's complainig about Sawyer's name being too white???

hitomi, is about it.