#i had to cut it short or i'd just keep rambling

[gotaksboyfie]

Hi! I hope you’re doing good.

Could you do a Baku fic where gender neutral reader and him get into a argument because Baku joined the union, and in the end Baku apologizes and it’s an emotional moment, (sorry if it’s too much!)

soft apologies

gif creds: @slytherinshua

pairing baku x gn reader

summary when baku went to the bathroom for a short while, you couldn't help but peek at his phone notifications. you stared in shock at what you found, and can't help but question baku why

word count 1.2k

warnings/tags hurt/comfort

all night, baku's phone was blowing up. you were curious why but you didn't want to be pushy about it, since baku was deadset on ignoring the notifications.

you both sat on your couch cuddled up, watching a random kdrama you found. baku gently nudged you off of him, standing up and stretching.

"gotta go babe, the bathroom calls for me," he walked away, probably needing to shit. you laughed at the thought. baku's phone buzzed again, and this time you were in the perfect position to view what it was.

a scam caller? a toxic ex? the options were endless. you flipped his phone over to see multiple notifications from.. na baekjin?

na baekjin: xxx street. [image attached]

na baekjin: get it back by 7:00pm tomorrow.

na baekjin: [image attached]

na baekjin: this one too. xxx street.

you dropped the phone back on the table in shock. you had heard about the union and na baekjin from juntae's ramblings, but you could've never imagined that baku took part in it too.

"reader? what are you–" baku cut himself off with a gasp. he looked at your shocked expression, and his phone face up on the table.

"you.. you joined the union?" you asked with disgust evident in your voice. you looked at baku, waiting for a response.

baku flinched, staying silent for a moment. you knew what that silence meant. you knew the answer to your question, so why were you still waiting for baku's response?

"you joined the fucking union and you never told me?" your voice was sharp, and your breathing was getting heavier. you couldn't believe it. this wasn't the baku you knew—he would never do this.

"it's not like that," baku forces out. his voice is stilted, as if he's barely gathering his words together.

"then tell me what it's like. because to me, it looks like you just joined forces with the same people that hurt everyone you promised to protect!" your voice gets louder and louder, until you're borderline yelling at him. you stand up from where you were sitting, turning your body to face him fully.

"you don't know anything reader," a familiar fire lights up in his eyes, and he clenches his fist. "you don't get to make all these assumptions when you have no clue what i'm going through."

"assumptions?" you let out an airy laugh, "these aren't assumptions, it's the fucking truth. you're well aware of everything they've done and will continue to do, and you go ahead and do this."

baku grits his teeth, clearly holding back from doing something. "you don't get it. i.. i did it to protect you, and everyone else, okay?" baku admits, swallowing hard.

"protect me? you think this is going to protect me? this paints the biggest target on my back, on juntae's and sieun's and even hyuntak's back! they'll do anything to get you to stay, even if it means crippling someone again," tears form in your eyes, you really couldn't understand baku's reasoning.

"they were going to hurt you regardless, i had no fucking choice!" baku shouts, "if it means i get to control when you're safe, of course i'd join the union!"

"but why would you keep it from me?" your voice is quiet, "this isn't keeping me safe in the slightest, baku."

"i didn't want you to worry, i only wanted to protect you." baku's gaze lands on the floor, suddenly too ashamed to meet your eyes.

"how am i supposed to trust you?" you confess. your voice breaks a little, and suddenly you feel too small for this conversation.

"i didn't.." baku pauses, letting your words sink in fully. "i didn't want to break your trust, not on purpose. i just couldn't find when to tell you,"

"so you were going to hide this from me forever? when were you ever going to tell me, be honest."

baku opens his mouth to speak, but lets out only a sigh in response. a long silence stretches out, and you let out a small sob.

"you were never going to tell me, weren't you?" you already knew the answer but you wanted to get confirmation from baku himself.

baku stays silent again, his face looked like he was holding back from crying. there was a slight tremor in his jaw and his expression isn't angry anymore. it was defeated, like baku had given up on fighting back with you.

you wait for his response. multiple minutes pass, and baku takes in a sharp breath.

"i didn't know how to tell you," his voice cracks, and you can sense the vulnerability in it. "i knew you'd be hurt, and i wanted to delay the inevitable."

"you knew joining the union would cause.. this," you motioned around with your hands, "and you still did it?"

"you don't understand. they were going after everyone i love, reader." baku breathes in a shuddery breath, "my dad, my friends, you."

you stay quiet to encourage baku to continue despite every part of you fighting to yell at him. but you hold back to hear his perspective.

"i was powerless against it. what am i supposed to do against an entire organized gang? i couldn't protect anyone," his voice was thick with frustration.

"so this is the best solution? throw everything you've fought for away, and join them?" you laugh sarcastically, "becoming exactly what you hate?"

baku slams his fist against the wall, "why do you think i wanted this? do you think i wanted to join? please, reader, understand where i'm coming from."

your face crumples, and you let go of your angry facade. you were just hurt and confused—you couldn't stay mad at him anymore.

"you should've just told me," you start to cry, "you don't have to shoulder everything alone. i just wish you wouldn't shut me out," your hands wipe at your eyes, embarrassed that you're crying over this.

"i.." baku looks at you crying softly, and hesitantly walks over, "i never meant to shut you out. i know i fucked up, and i'm sorry. i'm sorry for making it feel like i don't trust you, and i'm sorry for joining the union."

baku pulls you into a hug, and he rubs your back soothingly. your arms reach to hug him back, and you sniffle into his shirt.

"i wasn't planning on staying for long, reader. i wanted to join briefly, then betray baekjin," baku admits.

"you should've said that from the beginning, you dumbass," you cry into baku's chest while holding him closer, "i was seriously hurt."

"i know. park humin really is a dumbass, huh?" baku jokes softly, stroking your head.

"the biggest one to exist," you mutter. baku kisses your head, and you look up at him. "i'm still mad that you hid this from me, and that you joined the union participating in whatever illegal activites they do."

"i'm sorry, reader. i won't keep anything from you again, and i'll be more honest about what i do. i'll tell baekjin off soon, and i'll tell everyone else about this." baku apologizes again, tenderly cupping your cheek with his hand. his voice is stable and firm, and you can tell he's being honest.

you nod, silently accepting his apology. "never again, okay?"

"i promise, reader."

fin

[evie-sturns]

period - 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗦𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗼

summary: you unexpectedly get your period after spending the night with chris, he does everything he can to make you feel better.

contains: mentions of blood, fluff, crying, swearing.

----------------┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐------------———

chris and i have been dating for almost two months, i sleep over at his house often though, including last night.

9:46am

i'm rudely awakened by frantic tapping on my shoulder, i rub my eyes and roll over where i'm met with chris's distraught face. "hm..?" i groan out.

"y/n, are you okay" chris rambles, his vision flicks between my eyes and the matress.

"what..?" i mumble, my vision is still partially blurred from the sudden wake up.

"you're bleeding" chris says quietly, swallowing harshly.

i sit up, the matress is dotted with blood, along with the small pyjama set i wore last night.

my period has always been irregular, ever since i was about 12. i'd never know when it would come but i would just deal with it when it did.

my stomach sinks, my cheeks instantly flush from embarrassment, this is the kind of thing thats meant to happen 2 years into your relationship, not 2 months.

my eyes start to burn, im already an emotional person but now that this has just happened i don't think i can physically be okay.

"im so sorry chris." i say, my voice breaking.

chris clears his throat, i can tell he's slightly awkward about this.

the silence in the room grows, but is quickly cut short by a sob coming from me. chris's head snaps round to look at me, "oh fuck-.. no its okay!"

he gets out of bed, without a second thought he leans over the matress and picks me up in a bridal position. he speed walks to the bathroom, "look at me." chris says calmly as i cry into his shoulder, i tilt my head up and lock eyes with him. "don't cry sweetheart, it doesn't matter to me."

i nod with a sniffle, he places me down on two feet. "you wanna get in the bath?" chris says gently.

"yeah.." i say, my voice still wobbling.

i stand still with my hands by my side vulnerably. "you want me to.." chris whispers, keeping his eyes locked on mine. "if you dont mind.." i reply.

he reaches his hand out and peels my tank top off of my body, along with my shorts. he does it so nonchalantly its impressive.

chris has only seen me naked once, which was only a week or so ago after our first hookup.

he flicks the bath on, putting his finger under the stream to check the temperature before lifting me up and placing me down.

chris bends over and picks up the pyjamas, before leaving the bathroom, closing the door behind him. i throw my head back as soon as he goes "how did this happen." i groan to myself.

-

about 10 minutes has passed, the whole time i've just been trying to calm myself, crying about this isn't gonna make it any less embarrassing for me.

my head snaps to the side as i hear 2 soft knocks on the wooden door, "come in" i say with a forced smile, chris peeks his head round the corner with a sympathetic look. hes got a freshly folded pair of sweatpants and a hoodie in his arms, which he places down on the sink. "you okay?" he asks casually, sitting down on the side of the tub.

"i mean, i'm okay as i can be right now!" i smile warmly up at chris,

he reaches into his pocket and clears his throat "i found this downstairs, i think one of nick's friends left it here-..uh" chris murmmers, pulling a tampon out of his pocket.

"thank you chris, honestly i'm sorry about being a pain." i sigh, chris shakes his head "no you're good, promise."

"just gonna go make the bed, yeah?" chris sits up off the tub and walks out of the bathroom.

-

after getting myself together i open the door to the bedroom, chris is sitting on the bed, laying the pillows out strategically. i feel like a kid thats just thrown up, staring at my parent who just had to bathe me and clean the sheets.

he stands up and runs over to me full force, grabbing me around my waist and picking me up, earning a high pitched squeal from me. "chris!!" i screech as he flops down on the bed with me still in his arms.

"what can i actually do to repay you." i whisper into chris's chest.

"give me some awesome head next week."

"christopher."

----------------┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐------------———

[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.

[thebearer]

PLEASEEEE write about carmy trying to put a baby in reader 🙏🙏🙏

minors dni 18+ also i'm doing two versions of this, this is just the first one since i had another ask for this lol

Carmen barely looked up, seeing you walk through the swinging doors back into the restaurant. Normally, he'd be worried that you were here, coming in unannounced before the dinner rush, his mind would race and tell him something was wrong. Today he knew better, he knew exactly why you were here.

"Hey, Sydney." Carmen muttered, scraping the prepped vegetables into the container, his eyes locking with yours. "I need you to cover for me, Chef."

"Ok..." Sydney muttered, looking from you and Carmen. "Are you good, Chef?"

"What? Yeah, no, yeah. I-I'm good. I just... Gotta order some stuff, and-and I just got a lot of office stuff I need to do." Carmen rambled, cheeks heating with each stammered word.

Sydney was suspect, especially with the way you were looking at each other, but she shrugged it off. "I got it, Chef." She nodded, checking off his prep on her clipboard.

"Good. Uh, if you need me just uh, knock and I'll come out." Carmen nodded, ignoring how her face contorted into disgust, practically sprinting to his office.

You were already waiting inside, dropping your purse on the couch, eyeing Carmen hungrily when he shut the door, twisting the lock behind him. "We don't have long." Carmen muttered, tearing off his apron.

"I don't need long." You hummed, pushing your shorts to the ground, letting them puddle around your ankles.

"You gotta be quiet, baby." Carmen looked at you, eyes glued on your puffy lips, drooling and teasing him when you bent over the couch, nose practically touching the wall.

"I can't promise that." You grinned, looking over your shoulder at him. "Hurry up, Berzatto. Before they need you. I need you."

Carmen snorted, palming himself through his boxers, shuffled steps over towards you with one last look over his shoulder. "I got ya, honey." He muttered, pulling himself out and stroking his length. "You sure this is supposed to work?"

"They said as much as possible when you're ovulating." You huffed, wiggling impatiently. You and Carmen had decided to try for a baby, ditching your birth control only last month. Truthfully, you were using the baby making as an excuse to fuck as much as possible, not that you needed much of one when you were ovulating.

"Never thought I'd hear you complain about having sex." You grinned.

Carmen snorted lightly, letting the head of his cock glide between your folds. "Not complaining." He muttered, teasing your entrance gently. "Never complain, baby."

You started to reply, a sharp, witty reply on the tip of your tongue, cut short by him sinking inside you, pushing into you with one long stroke, stretching you out for him. You gasped, pushing your head into your hands, hopeful to muffle the sound coming out of you.

Carmen's hand sunk into your waist, gripping the fat of your hip to bring you back to him, hips rocking slow and steady against yours, the sound of skin slapping skin one he hoped was muffled through the thick walls.

"Fuck, baby, you feel good. So fuckin' good." Carmen grunted lowly, fingers curling around your hip, jaw clenched to keep himself from groaning.

"Oh! That's the spot, Carm, fuck." You whined, back arching further at one particularly hard thrust, jamming that sweet spot inside of you that had your vision blurring, mind blanking in pleasure.

"Shh, be quiet, baby." Carmen hushed, leaning forward, one hand propped on the wall beside you. "Gotta be quiet. Can't let them- shit- can't let them know what we're doin'."

Carmen's hands curled around your waist, cradling your lower belly, feeling the way it flexed when you clenched around him. He could see it, see you all swollen and big with the baby- his baby. The baby he put inside you. It made Carmen's teeth grit, fucking you harder and harder with a new found vigor, a free hand covering your mouth to muffle your cries.

"Can't let them know I'm fuckin' a baby into you." Carmen rasped, hot breath tickling your ear, leaving you shivering. "Gonna put a baby right in here, hm? That's what you want right?"

"Yes." You whined, tears pricking your eyes. He was making you feel so good.

"You want a baby? Want me to give you a baby, huh?" Carmen growled, his hips snapping further and further, pinning you against the couch.

"Please, Carm. Please gimme a baby." You cried, letting your head fall back against his.

"Since you asked so nicely." Carmen smirked, hips snapping up into yours. "Shit, I- you close? You close, baby?"

You nodded, reaching to move his hand, pushing it further until it was cupping your mound. Carmen got the hint, pinching and rolling your clit until you were gasping and writhing in pleasure, his free hand cupping your mouth while his thrusts got sloppier around you.

Carmen pulled you back, pressing on your spine so you were face first into the couch, ass up and high for him while he pounded into you, chest pressed to your spine, until he was spilling inside of you. Pressed so he was flush to your ass, Carmen emptied his load, hot and filling deep inside of you.

"Hang on, hold on," Carmen muttered when you started to move, hands pressing softly to your side. "I didn't... Fuck, we didn't think this one through. You gotta put your legs up, right?"

You nodded, eyes still glossy, skin still flushed and glowing. Carmen snatched the pillow from the other side, setting it in front of you. "Ok, I'm gonna pull out, and I'm gonna catch it, ok? You just, you lay down. Hips on the pillow."

Carmen pulled out slow, pointer and middle finger catching any dribbling release, pushing them back inside you. You whimpered at the sensation, still sensitive, while you moved to lie on the pillow, his fingers still inside you, propping your legs up on the edge of the couch.

"Shit, I forgot a towel. Fuck, let me just, uh, let me go grab one-"

"-'s alright, Carmen." You hummed, looking at him through fluttering lashes that made his heart skip. "I'll just keep it in. The longer the better."

Carmen tried not to gawk, but he knew he was given away by the rise in his cheeks, heat flushing his skin. His groin ached, a dull throb that had him twitching with heat at the idea. "O-Ok." Carmen muttered, pulling his pants up fastening his jeans.

"Let me grab your clothes, baby, I'll put them on for you." Carmen muttered sweetly, gently putting your panties and shorts on, trying to keep your body as still as possible.

Later, the two of you were walking hand in hand into family, giggly and touchy- you could feel him leaking out of you with every step. It made your tummy trill with heat.

"This smells good." You grinned, eyes batting up at Carmen.

"Yeah? I'll get you a plate. Don't worry 'bout it." Carmen muttered, nodding towards a seat for you.

The room had stilled, eyes on the two of you, suspicious and a little questioning. Carmen looked around, blue eyes darting furiously.

"Oh no fuckin' way." Richie cackled, breaking the silence in the room. "Cousin, no way-"

"What? What are you-"

"-Look at you! Both of you!" Richie leaned back, clapping his hands in laughter. "You're sick, cousin. Sick!"

You blushed, the snickers from Fak and Sweeps, the knowing glances from the others. Carmen blushed furiously, glaring at Richie fiercely. Tina smirked, shrugging when she looked at you.

"I'm sure this building's seen worse with Mikey." She muttered.

"That obvious?" You mumbled, looking around the room, shrinking into your seat.

"A little. You got the glow, honey. At least that's a good thing." Tina grinned, nudging you gently.

When you announced your pregnancy three months later, the entire staff swore baby Berzatto was conceived in the office. "Right there, on that fuckin' couch, cousin!"

[omaano]

SW Hades AU January Update

Woohoo, look at that we have a header for the monthly updates now!

Some links and previous updates: May - June - July - August - September - October/November - December - everything else in this AU

I finally got around to not only finish Quinlan's character illustration, but also add a background, glow effect and text box to him.

I've got to say, I am very very proud and more than a little surprised at how well he turned out! Green is my nemesis of a color (that's partly why I decided to tackle Quinlan and Kit in one go - bite the bullet in one go and all that) but funnily enough all his greens are rather desaturated dark yellows (including his skin tone). Gosh, initially I'd picked those colours off of Ares, and up until I added the warmer red to the edges of the shadows on his skin I was very very terrified that I'd made a huge mistake here. (It's part of my art process, spending a significant amount of it being terrified that I messed up my colours beyond saving TT^TT) But he turned out amazing and super shiny!

Adding those snakebite piercings was also such a big brained idea (can you tell that I'm really really happy with him? XD) and this illustration is defnitely up there among my top faves with Shaak Ti.

Kit in comparison was a lot more straightforward (hah).

The foreshortening and positioning of his arms was... well. Not Fun, let's just stick with that, but I'm very good at dying on very small hills, and I'd got it in my head that I'm gonna push this pose A Bit. In the end it wasn't as much as I'd hoped for, but I did try for some exaggeration in the posing and anatomy as well. (Have you seen Ares's hands and forearms and Dionysos's thighs??)

Further SHOUTOUT and a million thanks to @hastalavistabyebye for their enthusiastic tags under all my Hades posts, and for being the genius mind behind these additional trinkets for this AU:

Fizzroot Shake for Nectar (we gotta be safe with teenagers around), and Tiingilar for Ambrosia ❤️❤️

Additional extra ramblings below the cut to save space on your dashboards:

Let's move from the trinkets back towards Kit and Quinlan last, yeah?

Fizzroot Shake and Tiingilar

It isn't as obvious with the big character illustrations as with the smaller images, but I really do have some trouble with keeping things - colours and shapes - simple. It's more obvious on small things that really cannot pack or fit in all those details, so I had to do a lot of repainting (like with the fizz fuzz foam of the shake, or the bowl of the tiingilar), and truth be told I'm still not happy. Might be that the drawing is still too detailed - but in my defense this was a wind-down project for me these past few weeks.

I have collected a few references for shapes and materials and colours from both Hades and Hades2 as you can see on the margins. I am still obsessed with the glow of Hestia's keepsake, it just glows, I love it! If I were to change a few things on these I think it would be to add some more orange/yellow to the Fizzroot Shake to offset the purple a little more (like how the purple bow balances out the very bright yellow/orange of the nectar/ambrosia), and work more black into the bowl of the tiingilar. I was thinking about adding more of that blue to it, but I wonder if even at this level there is too much of it...

Anyway, I will surely be forced to learn a lot more of this when I sit down to finish all my keepsake versions. Some of those are certainly still too detailed in their current design D:

Kit and Quinlan

I took a lot of inspiration for both Kit and Quinlan's clothing from concept art and character models from TCW. Especially for the pistols and the holsters for Quinlan's black getup that he would have worn if the Dark Acolyte storyline made it into the show, I believe.

I was also very very tempted to draw Kit wearing a really high cut swimming suit without the shorts/leggings. The ones that are cut so high they display the entirety of the hips and most of the ass as well probably? But I chickened out in the end, and stuck with a semi-see-through layer on his thighs too smh

I also try to be more intentional with my shapes in these designs. I'm not sure how I'm doing with that, but I tried for a lot of triangles with Kit. And lots of greens and orange, of course. To prove that I'm learning from those Hades style breakdown videos that I'd watched last year. So I made some notes on dominant shapes with the both of them (it was mostly triangles, and Kit also got a rectangle note as well), and to pick one bright, highlight colour while I keep the others desaturated to support that colour.

I think I did better on that front with Quinlan than with Kit. The yellow and gold of all his markings and jewelry pop real nice (and even the little "jewel" highlights of green and torqois worked so well in support of each other! I was really surprised, I generally hate adding them at the end...) and with his dark clothes, skin and hair they really support that metallic brightness even with the warmer tones worked in at the edges of shadows.

Kit on the other hand, I feel he turned out too bright and warm green, and so the orange in his vambraces and clothes don't pop that much. It lacks a bit of balance maybe. There was a time when he seemed to be too dark and desaturated a green, and that was likely the step when I got too scared to trust the process and turned up my saturation a bit too much. So I tried to work a bit of light yellow into him with that bottom lighting, and it did what it could but... oh well. I still quite like it, don't misunderstand me!

I know I sound a bit nitpicky here, but in truth I'm trying to work out what I could learn from these pieces that I might use in the next one! I'm trying to be more intentional with my work, but it doesn't come very easy to me, so working through these things in these posts do help a little. And who knows, maybe it will help someone else too :)

*

Taglist of anyone who wants to be pinged once a month for these updates <3 If you want to be added to the list send me a message, or just reply to this post (a 👀 would do, nothing fancy required ;))

@elwinged @yeehawgeek @velsayshi @lionsaint

If you want to be taken off the list just message me and I’ll take you off, no hard feelings :)

[assassin-artist]

Realizing I post so little Cecil/Akari on my blog (bc i am scared to draw cecil) so here's my first attempt to remedy that. Akari lore and info below the cut for those interested (:

so just as a quick rundown of Akari lore/powers for those who aren't familiar with her: she was originally a Chainsaw Man OC, in which she was a devil hunter who had a contract with the devil of time. It gave her time manipulation powers, but every time she used her abilities, she would lose some of her memories as payment for her powers. Although I've moved a few things around to make her story fit in the Invincible world, that stuff largely stayed the same - she still has some kind of time manipulation powers (but I still have yet to flesh out exactly how it works), and using her powers causes her to lose some memories of random moments in her life. Since she manipulates time, I imagine she's "stuck in time" physically, so she hasn't been aging ever since she first got her powers - or maybe she does age, but every time she uses her powers, she's turning back her own clock? Either way, she's nearly 100 years old by now but still looks like she's in her early 30s.

She was born in Denmark, then moved to Japan where she changed her name and joined a Japanese government hero agency. She worked there as an agent for roughly 20 years or so, then long-story-short she wound up killing her boss (for a good reason dw about it). She gets arrested because, while she may have saved people for ending that threat, she still turned against her agency and killed a high ranking government official. They don't wanna kill her bc how many people in the world can turn back time? c'mon that's way too OP to get rid of, but she's still a criminal. But Radcliffe is known to make use of powerful individuals even if they have a criminal background, so he's like "you did good work there, now come do good work over here" and she moves to America and starts working for the GDA 👍 works for Radcliffe for a good 25 years or so, then starts working for Cecil when he takes over for the next 20 years. so that makes her like…. roughly in her late 90s by the start of the show

She's a competent, trustworthy Agent who's been in the GDA for ~45 years now, she takes her job seriously and is very dedicated to her role, but she has a relaxed and humorous personality that brings a lot of levity to the GDA. Got with Cecil when he was a field agent, and they've been on and off ever since. Not because they have a rocky relationship, but because both of them are very dedicated to their jobs and know that, if ever there was a need for it, they would both choose to sacrifice their love for the good of the world. So they keep things unofficial in the hopes that it won't hurt as bad when that day comes.

Cecil's "I'd make a deal with the devil to save this planet" vs Akari's "I already have." By design she is a very tragic OC, I joke she's the most doomed woman in any narrative she exists in, but she has a silly fun personality where she takes everything in stride anyway :3 we cope with the trauma via humor over here

and just a handful of cekari ramblings i've tormented my discord friends with (:

[peachypine]

the roomies!!! i originally designed this ososan oc trio in full about a year ago to write on an rp blog. it's not really active rn, but i still want to talk and post about 'em, so here they are! just basic rundowns, but i'd be curious to hear which one (if any) is your fav of the three (feel free to leave it in the tags?? if u want!)

bonus transparent of them all together:

aaand some rambling under the cut about their designs

anzu:

i wanted to use orange as a character colour bc it's one that wasn't already used in the matsu rainbow, and i had a concept of a gyaru character named anzu kicking around in my head for a long time as well, so here we are. miwa from the mixer ep inspired the eyeshadow (orange rather than miwa's blue obv, to keep with her colour theme) and delinquent totoko's design inspired her ombre dyejob! i went with a blonde-to-orange look as a nod to anzu's namesake fruit (apricot).

the strands framing her face are split into 3 sections at the end (2/3 are grouped together and 1/3 flips in the other direction) which is a little nod to her being one of 3 siblings (eldest), as well as the "三" character used in her surname (mikado) meaning 3. the rest of her hairstyle is just because i thought it looked cute, though.

ososan's style is more simplified, but i wanted to convey makeup that was a little bold, but cute (long false lashes, eyeshadow, & and a soft pink or nude glossy lip). clothing-wise, she mixes and matches a few different substyles (agejo and onee are prominent, with some ane, tsuyome, and general old school gal influences as well?), with a particular fondness for animal prints, esp. tiger print. (that said, orange tiger print doesn't seem all that common in gyaru clothes, so in-universe i like to think that the top pictured above was originally a black-and-white zebra(?) stripe print she thrifted and dyed at home--close enough!)

her nails day to day are usually medium length since she has a lot of hobbies that involve her hands and anything longer makes those things a bit more cumbersome. sometimes they're decoden/bedazzled, sometimes they're just painted a cute colour/pattern, depends on the day! and i think she opts for press-ons over extensions for longer nails, since it's cheaper.

ran:

i'm just a bitch who loves purple, that's the reason for this one. i think the hime cut with shorter bangs is nice because you can showcase the eyebrows (i think eyebrows can really elevate a character design so i gave all 3 their own brow shape) without worrying about the lines for the eyebrows and bangs intersecting in an annoying way when you draw it. i like shorter, slightly sharp eyebrows like these because they're easy to draw, lol. i think they're usually furrowed like she's displeased with something, but that may just be her resting face. i also thought this blunter, sharper-looking cut (bold, standoffish) was a fun contrast to anzu's flippy half-updo (bright, bouncy) and yuzu's short, wavy hair (languid, relaxed).

5 piercings on each ear (2 spiked helix & 3 lobe) = 5 siblings including ran (4 older brothers). the other reason for this number of piercings was that her namesake flower (orchid) had--i thought--5 petals, but as it turns out i'm a fool, it's actually 3 petals (including the lip) and 3 sepals??? ah, well.

clothing-wise, influences from various punk/vkei styles alongside some rokku gyaru. (maybe anzu introduced her to this one?) this brash style is the total inverse of how she was expected to dress growing up. (when she and anzu first met, she was an OL with no piercings, undyed hair, and positively miserable, but that was a number of years ago now.) i'm really not reinventing the wheel with "small and angry", but y'know, we have fun here.

yuzu:

is teal distinct enough from blue to count as its own colour? i think so. for yuzu, i really loved the concept of a deadpan-looking character who is very much not the straightman, who in fact wants very badly to be the funnyman 99% of the time. that kind of straight-faced but silly comedic character is always really fun to me.

half-lidded/heavy-lidded eyes paired with thick brows are always a winner to me fsr, and i wanted to give her a more "handsome" looking face with a bit more of a defined jaw than you typically see on women in ososan. as a treat. i wanted her to look a bit like a mysterious prettyboy, but she's not actually mysterious, she's just a space cadet. (and very straightforward about her thoughts and feelings, saying them with little fuss or thought.) expectation vs reality, people deciding what you're like based on their own perception vs what you're actually like, etc. etc.

i don't have anything deep to say about her hairstyle, but maybe that's how yuzu would like it, what you see is what you get. (again, eyebrows vs hair... let that eyebrow scar that i gave her for no reason shine.) as for clothing, she prefers things that are easy to move around in, so her style is the most "matsuno"-like (t-shirts, hoodies, basketball shorts, sweats, etc.). in particular, she likes shirts with phrases, usually in english, that are funny or almost make sense but not quite ("for background visual gags" and "for the english speakers in the audience").

[nowimjustastranger]

I love the Ghost of You au so much, I'd love to hear more of those two! Obsessive and Someone Who Needs to be Obsessed Over is one of my fav dynamics 🥺

What are the first couple of days like after STCMO!Ford leaves traumatized Stan with Obsessive Ford? ❤️

Stanley is… quiet.

The silence presses down on Ford like a physical weight, suffocating and wrong. There’s this niggling in the back of his mind that insists that the filthy man currently sitting in his bathtub should never be quiet, that quiet is bad. Ford agrees on that much, at least. Ford hasn’t liked silence for as long as he could remember, so he had gotten good at pretending it wasn’t there by holding entirely one-sided conversations.

“You’ll probably need two baths and a shower before you’re fully clean.” Ford murmured, grabbing his three-in-one shower gel to squeeze a generous amount onto his palm. Ford had been using the same brand since boyhood, the scent was both calming and somehow familiar even if he couldn’t place where he had smelled it before.

Stanley didn’t so much as flinch as Ford worked the gel into a lather in his hair, the man staring down at the steadily browning  water with a vacant expression. Ford shifted with the urge to be closer, though short of climbing into the tub with Stanley, it just wasn’t possible. But that didn’t stop Ford from wanting Stanley here, with him, and not wherever Stanley had wandered off to in that head of his.

“I’ll salvage what I can, but you might want to consider a haircut.” Ford said lowly, his nose scrunching at the poor state Stanley’s hair was in. Ford was as gentle as the knots allowed him to be, patiently untangling the less problematic wads with his fingers. “I could cut it for you. I’m no professional, but I have dabbled. I’m confident that I could do a medium length cut.”

“You… don’t want it long?” Stanley asked, his tone neutral in a way that was clearly intentional. However, Ford was a little preoccupied with recovering from the unexpected shock of getting a response to his mindless rambling, nearly overwhelmed with the inexplicable urge to cry. Stanley’s voice was rough from straining his vocal cords, but the soft rasp was like music to Ford’s ears.

“Do you want it long?” Ford countered as he dipped his hands into the dirty water to rinse the suds off, only slightly choked up. Unfortunately, Stanley only shrugged, which didn’t give Ford much to work with when it came to figuring out what Stanley actually wanted. He had only emerged from his numb haze after Ford had brought up the haircut, so did that mean he wanted to keep his hair long?

“To be completely honest, I’m not sure I can salvage your hair. Getting it cut would take care of the more stubborn knots as well as ensure that your hair is healthy. Then you can grow it out to the length you prefer.” Ford relayed, watching Stanley’s expression closely for any hint that his hunch had been right. Thankfully, confirmation came in the form of Stanley’s tense shoulders easing.

“M’kay.” Stanley mumbled, his eyelids drooping a little as he obediently tilted his head back so Ford could wash the discolored suds out of his hair, making the water in the tub even more murky. It would have to be drained and replenished before Ford addressed Stanley’s body, though most of the dirt and mystery fluids had already been rinsed off due to Stanley splashing himself as soon as he had climbed into the nearly scalding water.

“I remember usin’ this stuff as a teen.” Stanley tentatively commented, squinting at the bottle of shower gel that Ford had set aside. Meanwhile, Ford had paused as another puzzle piece smoothly slotted into place, his arm submerged in the cloudy water to blindly feel for the plug. Ford stored the information in his mental file on Stanley before resuming his current task, watching the dirty water swirl down the drain.

“We can share.” Ford assured, grabbing the bottle in order to pass it to Stanley, who eagerly accepted it so he could pop the cap and sniff it. Ford replugged the tub before fiddling with the knobs until the temperature was just right, letting the tub refill.

“Man, I missed this shit. Good quality for cheap.” Stanley grunted, a note of nostalgia in his voice as he set the bottle back on the lip of the tub with an amount of care that struck Ford as uncharacteristic. He was unsure of how he knew this, which seemed to be a recurring theme ever since that helmeted asshole showed up on his doorstep.

Though, as Ford watched Stanley practically melt into the steaming water, he had to admit that one good thing had come from the otherwise trying interaction.

“I don’t have much by way of groceries, so I’ll have to go shopping.” Ford said with a grimace, he had never enjoyed going into town. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Stanley home alone, but he didn’t want to prematurely expose Stanley to Gravity Falls either. Quite the dilemma. “In the meantime, does sandwiches and soup for lunch sound agreeable?”

“I’m fine with whatever.” Stanley murmured with a lazy shrug, cracking an eye open as Ford squeezed another pile of the shower gel onto a washcloth that Ford had dunked into the tub and wrung. Stanley’s keen eyes tracked Ford’s movements, the washcloth gently running over Stanley’s pale skin. He’d need at least fifteen minutes a day in the sun to get his tan back, and to promote the production of Vitamin D.

“You’ll need to be on a strict diet until we put some padding on you, you’re too skinny.” Ford stated when the silence began to creep up on him, crawling over his skin like thousands of tiny bugs and buzzing in his ears like a swarm. His mind went blissfully quiet when Stanley responded with a noncommittal hum, the skittering insects alleviated as the sound washed over him like a balm.

“We’ll build your muscles back up as well, if you're amenable.” Ford added, subtly aiming a sidelong glance at Stanley as he worked the washcloth up his brother’s arm, and was promptly rewarded with another low grunt of compliance. Ford almost felt light-headed with elation, reeling from the power and control that had been placed into his eager hands.

When Ford touched Stanley, he didn’t flinch away. When Ford spoke, Stanley answered. When Ford made a decision, Stanley agreed.

It was dizzying, the realization that he had sway over another person’s life. Stanley’s life in specific. His brother’s life. Stanley would let Ford take care of him, would let Ford decide what was best. And in return, Stanley would never want for anything ever again, Ford would ensure it. And even if Stanley did decide to be difficult someday, Ford would never dare to reprimand him for expressing his feelings.

“I’ll have to hire the Corduroy family to add another room for your workout equipment.” Ford said with a pleased smile, his free hand brushing Stanley’s hair off his shoulder so Ford could clean his collarbone and neck with the cloth that was in his other hand. Stanley helpfully tilted his head, exposing his vulnerable neck to Ford’s gentle ministrations.

“Could just workout outside.” Stanley drawled, twisting to lean against the lip of the tub so Ford could get to his other arm.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Stanley. What if it’s raining? Or snowing? Or cold? Having an indoor workout area is practical.” Ford tutted, taking the opportunity to scrub Stanley’s back, the man arching into the contact with a low, content sound that had Ford’s chest warming. As far as Ford was concerned if Stanley was happy, then so was he.

“If ya say so, bro.” Stanley sighed and Ford finally gave in to the desire to bump his forehead against Stanley’s temple, the man huffing in amusement but readily accepting the affection. Ford’s insides were writhing in excitement at the acknowledgement, something inside him settling as the title of ‘brother’ was freely given. Ford didn’t yet know if he was older or younger, but he didn’t care either way.

“Can you shift for me, please?” Ford asked softly, mentally adding a shave onto his to-do list for today when Stanley’s stubble scraped against his nose as Ford nuzzled him. Stanley adjusted his position, leaning back and sinking down in the tub until the water lapped at his chin before he offered one of his legs to Ford, correctly anticipating his intentions.

Ford started from the foot and worked his way up the leg, pausing at Stanley’s inner thigh in order to glance at him. They made eye contact and Stanley shifted, legs spreading wider to signal his consent, so Ford carried on. Stanley watched him through half-lidded eyes, struggling to keep them open. Ford couldn’t imagine how tired he must be, with the eventful morning that he’s had.

“Use the shower to rinse, then we’ll eat and you can nap until dinner. Sound good?” Ford chuckled, brushing wet strands of hair out of Stanley’s face, the man nodding with a sluggish blink. Ford unplugged the tub before curling his hands under Stanley’s elbows to help him stand up, pleased when Stanley let Ford support most of his weight for a few moments as he adjusted to being upright.

“I’ll fetch you some clothes. I won’t be far, just call for me if you need anything.” Ford urged, reluctantly relinquishing his grip on Stanley so he could mess with the knobs to get the shower going. Stanley even went as far as to shift in order to shield Ford from the spray, which was sweet but ultimately redundant considering that Ford’s sleeves and knees were already soaked.

“M’kay.” Stanley mumbled, ducking his head under the spray as he roughly ran his hands over his body to help rinse the suds off. Ford backed to the door, keeping his eyes on Stanley for as long as possible before he inevitably had to leave the bathroom, though he kept the door cracked so he could hear Stanley humming some song or another as he moved across the hall to their bedroom to rummage through his closet.

[sailor-artemis]

Template made by Ikara on bluesky! (with a few... edits by me :3c) I'll keep this bit short and sweet and leave the rambling for under a cut: To anyone who's liked, reblogged, commented on or otherwise interacted with my poses; to anyone who sent me an ask, made impromptu art, shared their character's lore with me; to anyone who offered advice, resources, or their time to the community at large, I offer you my deepest gratitude. Without all of you, I wouldn't have the energy or drive to do even a fraction of this, so thank you! Links: Juneuary / February / March / April / May / June / July / August / September / October / November / November 2

Full on ramble time: I cannot believe how far I've come in the last 11 months. I had hardly managed any creative work in the 4 years since I'd graduated university, and as soon as I took the plunge into making poses of and writing about my little blorbos, my creativity just exploded. I chipped away at a couple prompt lists, and I managed to complete the (Count)Down to Dawntrail, XIV Write and (a slightly delayed) Glamtober as well, and between those challenges and a smattering of other writing projects and one-off pose ideas, I now have a treasure trove of material about my lovely wols! I only started posing in February of this year (I checked my PC and I don't have a single screenshot from January, pose or otherwise), so I opted to swap out January for a second pose from June (so I could highlight my favorite (Count)Down to Dawntrail prompt *and* a pose that I did while borrowing @this-is-ris and @zylphiacrowley's lovely WoLs. I also haven't done anything in December yet, so I grabbed two of my favorite belated Glamtober (But It's November) prompts to fill out the end of the template. One more special shout-out left, and I know I never shut up about them, but I gotta give extra thanks to @reversalsun and the rest of the gang for opening the door and really inviting me into the creative space this year. Y'all have supported me immensely in projects both XIV-related and not with advice and encouragement and feedback, and this year would not have been even half as crazy and fun as it would if we hadn't met. I'm eternally grateful to have some of the coolest pals around, and your work inspires me to be a better writer, artist, thinker, crafter, and cosplayer. I cannot say thank you enough.

[mytheoristavenue]

Day 8-

OP Vinsmoke Sanji x Reader - Winter Proposal

Summary: While walking through a snowy farmer's market, Sanji asks you an important question.

Warning: pure fluff, very short/rushed

You smiled to yourself, inhaling the aroma coming off of the disposable cup of hot chocolate in your hands. The foam dish warmed your fingertips as you took a sip, waiting for Sanji to finish up at a fish stand. Just then, he glanced back up to see you waiting, and cut his interaction with the fisherman short, before tucking what he'd ought into a wicker basket.

"Sorry, I just had to," he said sheepishly. "I haven't seen this kinda stuff since I left the East Blue. It was one our signature dishes on the Baratie, you're gonna love it-" You could hardly keep track of him when he got like this, rambling on about food and ingredients and the different was they can be used.

"I'm sure I will," you giggled. "I love anything you make."

Sanji suddenly fell nearly silent as his stare fell downcast. "I know you do..." he muttered under his breath. The truth was, you weren't a very picky eater, he could serve you rotten salad with wilted lettuce and you'd eat it. You were never wasteful or gluttonous like other people he knew. If he ever made something experimental that nobody liked, he could always count on you to give him a five star rating.

"What's the matter?" you asked, tilting your head and stepping in front of him, forcing your face into his line of sight.

"Oh, nothing." he dismissed with a melancholic smile.

"Come on, Sanji," you pressed. "Obviously something's bothering you! You're all quiet now."

"I guess I just have something on my mind is all..." he trailed, brushing passed you to continue on the path again.

"Well, out with it!" you pouted, pulling on his sleeve, making him stop again.

"It's not the right time." he insisted, pulling you along.

"The right time for what?" you whined, beginning to become impatient with him.

"You're not going to let it go, are you?" he finally asked, giving you a glimmer of hope. You shook your head persistently, prompting him to sigh and dig into his pocket. "Just remember, if this isn't perfect, you forced it out of me." he teased, sinking to his left knee. Gazing up at you with that sweet, charming smile of his, he offered you a ring. It was a simple silver band, speckled with tiny diamonds and a teardrop-shaped sapphire as the centerpiece.

Tears immediately began rolling down your cheeks as you slapped your palm to your lips in disbelief. "S-Sanji..."

"You've always been my biggest fan, (Y/N). My taste tester when I'm unsure, my sous chef when I need help, and when nobody else likes my food, I know you do. You're my biggest support and I want you by my side forever."

"S-Sanji..." you sniffled, cheeks blushed and snowflakes catching on your hair. "I don't know what to say..."

"Say yes..." he beamed, tears pricking his eyes as he grabbed your left hand and slid the ring onto your finger. "Please bel amour?"

Finally catching up with the world around you, you quickly nodded your head, sobbing as you fell to your knees with him. "Yes, a million times, yes!" you cried into his chest. "I'd love to!"

"Thank you mon tresor," Sanji sighed, pulling you closer, not caring about the market goers passing you by. "C'mon, let's finish the shopping and get back tot he ship. I'm gonna make you somehting extra special."

[gethoce]

Sending a little ask, as I just happened to see your tournament post...

If you think you don't want to revisit any of that with all the other stressful stuff going on, you can skip this! It's nothing big outside of offering sympathy to you and some commiseration from someone in a similar place! Though I do have a question about including Valfrey in a little piece of tribute art at the end!

-

[Tourney Sympathy Section!]

I know we don't know each other extremely well (though I've seen your comics for a while and always admired how much work you put into each one and also your amazing and unique world building) but I'd like to offer hugs (...or whatever you're most comfortable with in place of those!) and sympathy.

I tried to keep a smile up throughout the tourney but I experienced some of that kind of back-talking too. Someone in the server (who I would like to think I became friends with eventually and really respect as a creator) called me a hypocrite way early on and said straight up that I could never understand what the rest of the competitors were going through because I ran a "popular" blog. It shut me up for a good long while ^^ Not saying this to convince you to forgive anyone, just that I know how upsetting the comments would casually get in that place with little to zero apologies to follow… And that I too felt extremely isolated because regardless of how well my posts on here did, I never -knew- anybody in the fandom or had ever talked to anyone before this event.

Anyway, lots and lots of sympathy. ^^ I'll try not to fill this message with "oooh, me as well!" but...I also saw my OC get fairly flanderized by folks, particularly with everyone in the Discord trying to treat him like a kid which, despite his age being a literal kid, that kind of treatment is something that would immediately rub him the wrong way. For me, I ended up kind of throwing in the towel and going with it eventually, and it took a lot of work to mold him back to something more closely resembling my original vision of him. I actually really admire you for standing strong with your character + lore despite how easy it was for things to get jumbled with everyone trying (or not) to figure everyone out.

...And I'm sorry if I was one of the people who mischaracterized Valfrey. I actually went to check out her toybox page VERY early on in the tournament (because I was fascinated + loved how their name came from Morpho's original name + the valkyrie thing) but I admit that some of that might've gotten overwritten or confused with time...

-

[Question Section!]

Lastly, given your experiences were a mixed bag, I wanted to ask... 

I have one more piece of tourney art to post this month as a conclusion to the second-chance finals - it's a very short piece with Noir and Rope MF going to a tug of war convention. Because I thought it would be sweet, I included starstruck and Valfrey in their little group too (Valfrey in their smaller butterfly form.)  

But if you would rather I leave her out of this because it's tourney related, I can do that too! Or if you think they wouldn't travel in that form or...?

Basically, after reading everything you went through, I want to try and get them right! (For clarity's sake, it's currently just a little cameo with her perched atop the human vers of Noir's head. I thought that would be okay since he's a lost soul already in that form!)

I hope I don't ramble too much, putting it under the cut just in case!

[Sympathy Section]

I do appreciate hearing about your similar experiences a lot! Makes me feel a little less alone in that whole thing... <3 I feel like people sometimes forget that we too are people. Like, I know how it's like to not be known at all. I've been there for many many years and only recently found a bit of a niche to enjoy.

I've been online for a good 15 years by now, (and given how you're about a decade older than me you can probably relate), naturally I've had my fair share of soul crushing experiences in which I posted something I worked very hard on and it got absolutely zero interactions. Just straight up nothing. It's not like we came online for the first time and immediately had people flocking to us as though it was a natural talent.

I've only been actively drawing Kirby fanart for about two years, the first time in a decade anything I've done actually managed to get some attention. It's worth noting that I don't even think it's possible to even climb that high within a niche fandom like Kirby. Even the biggest blogs that focus solely on Kirby aren't actually that large. The divide feels all the more unnecessary.

I like to tackle esoteric topics while the largely popular wholesome genre is something I really do not vibe with, naturally I don’t actually build up that much of a following. I'd have to force myself to do it and have a couple of times, but I don't want to make that a habit. I'm in this not for any fame but to have fun and get to talk with others about a franchise I've loved for as long as I can remember. Before the tournament there were only one or two people I could regularly talk to. I think having a friend group within the fandom is not only more rewarding than "fame" but also a lot less lonely.

Anyway, can I just mention how impressive it is to see a human OC like Noir find a footing in all of this? My creativity has been called into question for using a "common species" instead of something "more original". While humans aren't commonly used within the larger Kirby OC side of things, I'd imagine people would think of the species as "uncreative" even though there is much to dabble into in terms of lore just as there is for the orbs. People come here largely for characters that aren't human and yet your amazing writing and art managed to overcome that burden and Noir managed to capture people's attention!

I'd imagine many just looked at his design and made some assumptions and characterised him based on that alone instead of engaging with his lore, just as they looked at Valfrey and came to the conclusion that if she is a butterfly she must be a reaper and nothing else... and thank you so much for actually reading her toyhouse page! I've since rewritten it entirely in hopes of perhaps making her lore more clear in the future. It can be tough properly introducing OCs with a lot of lore. I'm grateful for anyone who actually takes their time to look into it!

[Question Section]

I'D ACTUALLY LOVE THAT OMG it'd be an honour to be included in all that!! Valfrey coming in in the butterfly is just so cute and hilarious. She can sit on top of Noir and be carried around a little LOL. Valfrey does like to observe things a lot in that form, I can totally see this being in character! <3

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

Have a star for that director's cut ask game! ⭐ Alas I don't know your fan fic as well (yet) but I'd love to hear more about it!

Thank you!!! 🥹 and that’s totally okay: I just really, really appreciate the excuse to ramble!

Okay, so I’ve been kinda dying to gush about the different media that has inspired Lift a Sail—i.e. the movies/shows/books (both Star Wars and other). This is particularly coming to mind because my sister and I are rewatching Star Wars in chronological order and I’m rereading my series to keep the story straight and, as I’m going along, I’m seeing and remembering the influence different things have had on the story (as well as gleaning some new things to weave in).

I started Lift a Sail in January 2021. It was hot on the heels of Mandalorian season 2. No Bad Batch yet, no Book of Boba Fett, no Ahsoka, no Andor, no Kenobi. The only live action Star Wars show was Mandalorian (oh, take me back…). We had watched a handful of Clones Wars episodes (particularly the Mandalorian-centric episodes) and we saw Rebels through, start to finish—in-universe, they had the greatest impact on the tone and setting of Lift a Sail there at the beginning.

But when it came to story beats and dialogue, I have to credit the books I was reading along the way: Pride & Prejudice, Jane Eyre, Anne of Green Gables (for about the dozenth time), James Herriot, Sherlock Holmes, No.1 Ladies Detective Agency, Dick Francis, Pax, As Easy As Falling Off the Face of the Earth, The Little Prince, Secret Garden. And then there were the other movies and shows that had a part: Iron Man, HTTYD, Tangled, Mulan, The Sea Beast, Treasure Planet, Titan AE, Lilo & Stitch, Brother Bear, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Secondhand Lions, Fatherhood, Shrek, Quest for Camelot, Tarzan, Anastasia, Lois & Clark, Quantum Leap, Columbo, Murder She Wrote, Diagnosis Murder, maybe a couple of rom-coms… everything contributed something.

I struck out a little on my own when it came to developing Din’s voice and character. I find he’s quite a blank slate in canon: the list of things we know for sure about him is quite short and in the show he’s largely reactive: the further the series goes, the more the plot just happens to and even around him (hence why I tend to refer mainly to the first season for the best study on his character). To flesh him out, I use characters like Sam Beckett (Quantum Leap), James Herriot, Clark Kent, Tarzan, Hiccup, Li Shang, and (I admit this shamelessly) Shrek as references.

In contrast, when it came to writing Sabine, I found her portrayal in SWR was fleshed out so well, I didn’t have to do extra homework. That said, I did realize I would be writing a version of her a decade older than we last see her, so I did take care with that. I do use Natasha Romanov, Elizabeth Bennet, Swan (Fatherhood), Akima, Mulan and Nani as (I don’t know a better way to describe this) vibe references for her.

And, of course, can’t forget little Grogu here. Right at the beginning, I determined not to write him as a mere prop. Two factors here: too often in media, I see child characters portrayed as bratty, incompetent, oblivious, and about as emotionally intelligent as a piece of paper. I don’t like that. I’ve worked with kids for years and I know full-well how complex and sincere humans-in-training can be. Secondly, I saw how even the show itself didn’t really know what to do with this puppet for the most part and it was sadly obvious he was becoming meme-fodder and a quick cash-cow. Yes, okay, he’s cute, but I don’t come for cute; I come for character. I drew inspiration from Lilo, Walter (Secondhand Lions), Matilda, Jim Hawkins, Koda (Brother Bear), and the Little Prince for Grogu.

And then there’s a whole list of inspiration for other characters throughout the story. Even secondary and background characters I try to find vibe references for. I don’t solely use other media. For instance: Chi Drench, an OC I made specifically for the fic, I based on some doctors and nurses I knew in real life. Marida, while not an OC, I based on some of my aunts.

But then, as I was writing the story, other Star Wars shows came along and my sister and I dove a bit deeper into the lore. We’ve never been particularly taken by the trilogies and we tend to give them the least attention, so I’d say they had the lightest influence on the story. But we rewatched Rebels constantly, and I have to credit Rogue One and Bad Batch as having a massive impact on things.

I didn’t expect to enjoy Bad Batch so much (I was biased: at the time, I didn’t particularly care for that whole period of the Star Wars timeline because I thought anything set there would just taste like the Prequels). But the first episode had me hooked! That was the vibe I was going for in Lift a Sail!

I found Hunter to be one of the best references for Din. From character to speech pattern to temperament to mannerisms to motivations to movements, he works exceptionally well as a model for him.

(I also use Rohlan the Questioner from the High Republic comics as a reference for Din.)

You can kinda see at what point Bad Batch started airing because my writing changed with it. Like I said: Rebels had the biggest influence on the start of Lift a Sail, but Bad Batch carried the last part and it’s to credit for the specific tone and aesthetic of Head Above Water.

The Book of Boba Fett came out while I was concluding Head Above Water. I don’t know how to describe the impact it had. I didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t what I expected. I really loved the Boba backstory with the Tuskens and I liked seeing Fennec choose to stay with Boba, it was nice to see Din again, and it was, in general, quite fun, but I didn’t like the Mods and the mangled Mandalorian season 3 they crammed in there at the end was horrendous. It actually made me change my story quite drastically because, originally, I was going to have Din go to Peli after rescuing Grogu but, while I enjoyed her more jovial portrayal in TBoBF, I hated the stupid Starfighter they forced on Din. I also didn’t know how to fix the mess with the Pykes (why even the Pykes? There are so many other things to fix up on Tatooine, did we have to add them?) so I figured, until I can think of how to work that out, I’d better leave it all alone.

So I took them to Lothal instead and I’m glad I did because I had so many ideas I wanted to explore there.

Then came Kenobi and it really helped keep the tone and setting straight. I know a lot have problems with Kenobi but I adore it, through and through! (Okay, admittedly, I really don’t like the look of the Grand Inquisitor and the Fifth Brother but my sister and I have so many jokes about them that I’m kind of fond of it all now.)

Andor came out while I was writing the third part: Anchors. In particular, the prison arc inspired how I wrote Ryder Azadi because I figured he could’ve been in a similar prison likely at the same time as Cassian (though not the exact same one). Also, the more intense focus on character in Andor helped me dive into the more character-driven story of Anchors.

Then Mando season 3 came out and, honestly, the spite fuelled me to continue the story. I seriously thought I would wrap up my story once the next season came out because I figured they’d explore those story threads from season 2 and TBoBF so well that there was no way my story could bring anything interesting to the table and I figured I might want to start something new with the expanded story in canon.

Then they just… dropped those story threads altogether.

No Din dealing with the removal of his helmet. No Darksaber journey. No fleshed-out Mandalorian tribe. No Grogu character arc.

Nothing.

So I pressed on.

Thankfully, TBB season 2 came out at the same time, so I focussed more on that to keep the tone and characterization straight.

For The Lighthouse Keeper, I referred to Treasure Planet and Titan AE. A lot. Because I was having them trek through Wild Space, those movies offered the best material—visually and thematically. There’s also a smidge of Doctor Who influence—in particular, I based older Ezra’s character off the Tenth Doctor.

Unsinkable is a product of all the previous. I’ve got a bit of a groove now: when I want to capture a particular feeling or vibe for a scene, I rewatch something that reminds me of it. I do try to refer back to the original material to keep the characters themselves consistent, and I’ve set which parts of the original media I want to keep as a base (for example: Sabine and Ahsoka in the Ahsoka show just don’t feel like Sabine or Ahsoka at all, so I don’t ever use that as a reference for them. I stick rather to their Rebels’ portrayal. Same with Din and Grogu: their characters are richest and clearest in Mando S1 and parts of S2, so I refer to those episodes).

I’m really looking forward to Andor season 2. New worlds, new storylines, further character arcs—I can’t wait to see it and glean some more inspiration! (I’m still trying to work in a roadside diner made out of one of those Ferrix shuttles… and I don’t know where to bring in Luthen’s antique store, but, man, I want to.)

[brandytusk]

The following thoughts, or maybe confession, contain Arcane spoilers. Please keep that in mind should you continue. It's a long story, I apologize in advance.

Now I will say, I am no LoL player, thus unfamiliar with its lore with the exception of what I search for, or what education I get from others. I had a passing interest in Arcane due to my best friend's insistence, rambling on about its beautiful art style, symbolism, and compelling writing. It was one of those things I did in fact, try and make a habit of to sit and watch at dinner, see what all the rising hubbub was about. I'll admit, I don't know where I stopped in season one, but I didn't finish it. As I recall, the plot felt too grim. To me, it felt like it was a show getting praise for being artistically depressing. When season one's ending was spoiled for me, I was glad I hadn't got as invested as other people I knew. To have developed characters so sincerely in a season's time, just to end it the way it was done…I disapproved, and I shook my head. Forgot it all at the time.

I'm a millennial who has lived through recession, through pandemic, and I am not middle class. I'm anxious, and there are days that feel hopeless and painfully long. I want to escape into the media I consume, let characters take me on a journey with them, far away from the oppressive, hanging air of everyday life in late stage capitalism. I don't want a tragic story, no matter how much it is praised for its art direction. Moving forward every morning can be bleak enough. Maybe others like these kinds of harsh stories for its relatability, and that's fine! I am happy for those that can appreciate it in that way, but I cannot. I'm tired, and perhaps not just as a struggling individual, but as an LGBT+ person with a husband.

Mainstream, popular shows (that get shown to American audiences, at least) don't often get obvious queer representation, or when it does, the show is often cut short. I felt baited in what I did see of season one, and rolled my eyes that fanfiction writers were fed enough to work their magic and fill the holes, as per usual.

Then, the next season of Arcane releases, and my social media feeds became flooded with screenshots and spoilers. I didn't block said spoilers and told myself I was no longer invested in Arcane -- only to see the most alarming screen captures I'd ever seen.

I especially liked what I'd seen of Viktor and Jayce in the past. I enjoyed seeing two intelligent, determined male creatives share screentime and share their story of a growing, deepening friendship. As far as I was aware, Jayce and Viktor were well bonded colleagues, if not each other's 'ride or die', once mutually and deeply invested in a greater outcome to benefit the whole. Compared to the rest of what I'd seen of Arcane's first season, it still hadn't gripped me enough to stick around as I wanted to save myself from heartache. Long story short, season two's spoilers revealed to me Jayce making a frantic, truly desperate effort to revive his fallen, disabled partner Viktor after the explosion. While he's successful, this fuses Viktor with tech Jayce once swore to destroy. Jayce draws close and is just relieved Viktor, in his birthday suit at this moment mind you, is alive, while Viktor is disappointed Jayce didn't keep his promise. They go separate ways, and the scene felt like an intimate argument, a break up. Well, at this point with that much revealed to me, I was relieved to see the two of them alive after the first season's ending. I was curious again, so I continued to look at screen captures and gifsets.

Viktor develops magic skills to heal others, and in his new body things, seem to fall into place for him. He is appreciated, and maybe it's suggested he gets a following. While its unclear how 'good' the arcane is, what he's doing with it seems right for the character. It looks like a victory…until Jayce comes along and puts a hole in Viktor's chest, keeping his promise. Viktor only meant to talk to him. Jayce, who had fought so hard to revive this man, kills him, as far as I'd seen it. It felt like petty shock value. Not knowing there was more episodes to come, I thought that was it. More tragedy, more pain.

My husband knows me well. I very rarely get affected by the shows I watch, and when I do, I am reserved about it. Instead, I sobbed, the kind where you can't see passed the tears and the snot. I felt so betrayed by my curiosity, by my hopeful feelings. I spent days ranting to my friends and my husband, offended and angry. How dare these writers throw around this disabled character and give him no relief, and what was more, develop two men in such a way as to suggest one simply cannot exist without the other only to shoot down one of them, by the hand of their partner? I had let myself be baited again, and I was feeling it. It burned, it hurt, I raged. I gave up.

A day or two ago, my best friend chimed in again: I should check in on Arcane. There had been more episodes, the season had finished. Trusting they knew how sensitive I was about all of it, I did. Again, I was moved to tears, but for different, much better reasons.

What was this?

Fortiche and its writing team had bothered to weave together and tell a story of two men ultimately destined for each other through every timeline, the kind of trope reserved for romantic movies and literature? They held hands, kept each other close, were honest with each other in the starry nothing. Hand to nape, forehead to forehead, and colorfully blinked out of that current existence, together? Such intimacy didn't need a kiss or a sex scene to feel real, there was love there. Their fated, interwoven existence, their deep and complex relationship, saved the world. In the end, there was hope.

You can tell yourself that it wasn't romantic if it makes you feel better, but in all its passionate details it very much was. To this stressed, exhausted LGBT+ person in these real uncertain times, I needed to see it. I felt deep relief, satisfaction, and most of all a need to pursue the Arcane fandom, a desire to enter. To at the very least, gush about my impression of it all, and what it means to me to see two men tenderly portrayed in ways they typically aren't. Fortiche, well done. You did give the Caitvi shippers something to blatantly feast upon, you also gave lesbian characters depth and variation, but this isn't about that.

You let two male characters show dedication, affection, and softness. Thank you. Jayvik folks, I am with you. Arcane, let's start over at the first episode, I can't wait to watch all of you now.

[linka-from-captain-planet]

WIP I'll Probably Never Finish Wednesday

sometime in October, I posted a list of kinktober concepts I'd write if my brain weren't soup. I picked at a couple here and there, but none really went anywhere except "Neve and Rana once got sex pollened while working a case together and that's why they act so weird about each other." I wrote the fun part (the lead-up and Neve in full ಠ_ಠ dying mad mode over her lack of control over the situation) and don't feel like writing the boring part (actually banging) or adapting it to suit canon better (re: Brom and such; I wrote most of this pre-release) but I had fun writing it, so I'm posting what I have for funsies

Fun fact: one of Neve's codex entries about the wisps mentions they avoid her notes on "the Opal Rose case" for an unknown reason and I thought that sounded juicy, so I stole it for this fic

Somehow this managed to be a rambling and barely edited 2800 words and I would issue a warning about dubious consent because of the nature of the trope and Neve finding the arousal variably unwelcome, but there is no sex below the cut

The Opal Rose. Western fringe between Docktown and the lower market district. Well past midnight.

The reputation is good enough—but also bad enough that the rumors already seemed credible even before she began her investigation and found a few people willing to speak up. 

Unusually urgent arousal. Erratic behavior. Reckless spending, of course, in desperation to scratch the itch. Someone—something—has Docktown bewitched, and Neve is no prude, but who or whatever is taking advantage of her neighbors won’t get away with it.

Of course, she’s too well-recognized as a gumshoe to simply waltz in the front door; she wouldn’t make it past the bar before the perp wiped all the evidence. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard to track down a disgruntled former employee, who was more than happy to lead them to the back entrance of a back entrance in exchange for a little coin. 

Them, being herself and Templar Rana Savas.

She doesn’t quite buy that this place is harboring a desire demon, as the most dramatic version of the rumor holds… but she doesn’t quite not buy it, and in that case, it’d be risky for anyone to try and face it alone, let alone a mage. She needed backup, someone she could trust—and specifically, someone she could trust possessed enough self-control to resist enthrallment. 

Tightly wound as she is, as contained and orderly as her pristine braid, Rana fit the bill.

Rana left her heavy Templar plate in the barracks and instead donned her lighter—quieter—leather set; fortunately so, as the back passage of this place is so tight that her well-built shoulders already nearly scrape the walls, and she has to hold onto her sword to keep it from bouncing off her shapely ass and clattering against—

Neve stops short, abruptly aware of a sweet, heady humidity and an unnatural warmth wafting down the corridor.

Magic.

Suddenly close enough for Neve to smell the beeswax and mint of her lip balm, Rana leans in and whispers, “What’s wrong?” In the low red lamplight, the full apples of her cheeks are dusted in a far-too-pretty faux flush, and her lips look plump and rosy, as if freshly bitten and sucked by an eager lover.

Tearing herself away, Neve signals for Rana to be quiet so she can re-focus. With each step she guides them closer to the other end, the hallway only grows warmer and the air within it, more charged.

And, with each step, a small shock reverberates up Neve’s legs and settles between them, setting her lightly abuzz and her teeth on edge.

There have been few times in her life when Neve really resented being a mage, but she’ll surely chalk this up as one before it’s all over. Being attuned to the subtle thrum of magic in the air means she can feel it thrumming, all too well, while Rana remains oblivious and collected just an arm’s length away.

If there’s any luck left in her, they’ll finish soon. 

With the investigation. With luck, they’ll be finished soon, with the investigation.

Teeth grit, Neve continues to lead them forward. It’s hardly a minute before they come to a triple-padlocked door, but by the time they reach it, Neve is almost panting and definitely sweating underneath her ascot and coat.

Whatever this is, whatever’s doing this to her—it’s behind that door.

She nods at Rana, who in turn touches her gently on the waist—despite herself, Neve’s skin screams for the contact even through her thick layers—and guides her aside. She listens through the door for a few moments, then fishes a Templar skeleton key from her pocket. Enchanted to open any lock in Minrathous so long as it’s pursuant to orders, it makes quick work of it.

Rana then wraps one long-fingered, dextrous hand around the doorhandle, and the other around the hilt of her sword; her strong shoulder, she braces against the door, preparing to break through if need be. Neve blinks and readies her staff as well as she can with shaking fingers. But when the door swings in, the hardly-more-than-a-closet room is empty save for a workbench laden with jars, boxes, scales, and distillery equipment.

Alchemy, then.

“Love potions” may be the stuff of fairytale, but aphrodisiacs? Feel-good stuff that keeps the hips pumping and the inhibitions lowered far longer than the flesh—and purse—would ordinarily permit? Certainly not unheard of, and needless to say, an illegal use of magic. Neve knows no such brew offhand, but a handy sheet of paper pinned to the wall illuminates the simplicity of the scheme: the active ingredient is some kind of pollen that can be distilled into a spray. Spritz a bit into a room before the client enters, and it’s practically money in a bottle.

Neve would have preferred the demon. Now they’ll have to track down the suppliers, too.

At least they’ll probably be done here soon, and she’ll be able to abscond to her apartment and, well, blow off some steam.

Sighing, Neve steels her nerves and begins to look for a ledger while Rana barricades the door behind them.

The small room is stuffy and over-warm, far worse than the hallway with its proximity to the cookstation and lack of airflow. Dried bits of caked-on gunk on the workbench reveal the cook to be an amateur or at least a slob, and Neve internally curses their clumsy hand. Within minutes, her clothing comes to feel far too heavy and her skin, far too tight; she longs desperately to shed at least her outer layer and accessories, but she has more than a hunch that if she were to start to undress, it’d be difficult to stop at just one layer.

She resents Rana's freedom from the effect again; finished with the door, she joins Neve at the bench completely unawares, yet her close presence makes the effect even more pronounced. She reaches to examine the supplies, and Neve shivers and curses under her breath as a crystal-clear image of those sword-callused but meticulously-manicured hands gliding over her slick skin flashes across her mind’s eye.

It’s not—entirely new. It’s not that Rana isn’t attractive and Neve has never idly entertained the thought of them, well. But—she shakes her head, turning away, but catches another glimpse of Rana in the reflection of a glass flask, and her whole body shudders—there’s a big difference between checking someone out from time to time, and imagining one of their strong hands holding her down—she’d play at resisting, of course, but Rana is simply so much stronger—while the other—

As if on cue, Rana pulls a fist-sized drawstring pouch from a small chest and rolls it between her hands, hefting its fullness curiously before slipping two fingers into its tight velvet opening, stretching it wide open and—

Far too late, the alchemical symbol for volatile stamped all over the pouch registers through the haze in Neve’s mind. She doesn’t even have time to cover her mouth and nose before Rana, recoiling from the puff of fine pollen that surges out of the pouch and hits her in the face, drops it onto the bench with an ominous thunk and a white-hot, shimmering cloud overtakes the small room.

The wash of it is so intense that Neve reflexively touches her eyebrows and lashes to make sure they hadn’t been burnt off; to her relief, they’re intact, as is her skin even though it feels like it’s prickling with heat like a sunburn. 

But the heat is internal, and Neve swiftly realizes that she’s flushing intensely, and then the effects she’d already been bothered by slam over her like a wave: her skin tingles, her stomach flutters, her skin blooms over with sweat, her heart races…

And a pang of desire hits her like a brick to the gut, so hard it staggers her. 

She scrambles to catch the edge of the workbench to keep from crumpling to the floor, but a jittering hand grabs her by the elbow and steadies her first. Even through layers of leather and silk, the touch is searing; and even though it’s hardly an erogenous zone, the sheer pleasure of being touched at all when she needs so badly makes a humiliating squeak of a moan tumble through her lips before Neve can clap a hand over her mouth and stifle it.

Rana snatches her own hand back like she’d been bitten, the pupils of her wide eyes dilating so fast that they turn her cool green irises nearly black. She may not be brushed up on her alchemical symbols, but she at least seems to understand what she’s done; despite her deep flush—real this time, not a trick of light—she looks absolutely ashen, and scrambles away into the corner farthest as possible from Neve to hastily blow her nose into her sleeve and spit on the floor. 

That’s how Neve knows this job has really, truly gone shit-sideways. In anything even close to resembling her right mind, Templar Rana Savas would absolutely never. 

“It’s well into your system already, I’m afraid,” Neve warns through grit teeth, her grip on the bench white-knuckled. Nothing she’d gleaned from perusing the documentation strewn about indicates this stuff is harmful—nor would it make sense to maim the clientele, anyway—but, in its concentrated and unprocessed state… this experience is guaranteed to be unpleasant, to put it delicately, but precisely how or how much remains to be seen.

“Well, what else can we do?” Rana snaps over her shoulder, and Neve shudders as one explicit, tantalizing answer flashes across her mind immediately.

She should not entertain the thought—will only make it worse, surely—but. Standing just beyond her reach, Rana’s breathing is labored, rushing in and out of Neve’s ears just as it does her lungs, stretching her stiff leather jacket tight across her fit back. Neve can imagine the moment when even this trivial restriction becomes overwhelming, and could hardly blame Rana for clawing at it, her deft fingers working feverishly to free herself. Neve can’t actually see them with Rana’s back turned, but she can imagine them, and in turn, her cunt clenches so hard around nothing—empty, excruciating nothing—that it honest-to-the-Maker hurts.

It properly knocks the wind out of her, and for that Neve’s actually grateful, because it keeps her from even the remote possibility of opening her mouth to suggest…

Distress and arousal alike flood her system, raising her heart rate to a sickly, shallow race and filling her mind with static. With her every nerve peeled raw and her every sense aflame, Neve couldn’t miss the discontent rumble from the other side of the room, despite Rana’s apparent attempt to shrink enough to disappear. Neve risks the glance, and finds Rana nearly doubled-over, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her red face pressed against the cool block walls. Her attempts to cool off by removing her jacket, obviously, failed; she’s already sweated through her linen undershirt such that it clings to the muscles underneath and Neve can watch them roll, one by one, with her every breath and fidget.

Unable to bear it any longer—and besides, Rana started it (both, this mess—why did she have to fondle the damn bag!—and the undressing)—Neve finally lets herself whip off her fascinator, ascot, and leather gauntlets. Her overcoat, she wrenches open with such clumsy urgency that one of its studded buttons pops off and plinks across the floor, a tiny tinny sound that may as well have been a gaatlok explosion to her harried senses.

Rana’s nerves must be fried, too, or at least this situation hasn’t dampened her usual level of vigilance; she turns around briskly at the clatter, hand hovering over her sword, in just enough time to watch Neve also yank open her high collar and top buttons, exposing the slick column of her throat, the notch of her collarbone, and the hint of the swell of her breasts clinging to the plane of her chest.

Her stare is so intense that Neve can feel it needling her skin like a tattoo, following the exact path of a drop of sweat that meanders down from her throat to the underside of her breast with a hawk’s focus. Rana’s full lips lull open, panting; and then she grimaces, and her legs seem to tremble with the effort of holding herself up, or… perhaps. Back. 

It’s enough of a foothold for Neve’s overwhelming need to seize control, overriding her better judgment and shattering the remainder of her hope that she may escape this excursion with her dignity intact.

“Rana,” she breathes cautiously, her voice so thick with desire that she hardly recognizes herself. Perhaps that’s for the better. “We—,” she starts, and grimaces through another painful throb, this one even more urgent than the last, “—I think we can make this more… bearable.” 

“You can reverse it?” Rana asks, through great effort tearing her gaze off Neve’s tits to look her in the eye, her voice raspy but hopeful. She looks on the verge of collapse, leaning heavily into the wall. Fidgeting, seemingly desperate to do anything with her hands but what her own addled mind is undoubtedly suggesting, she pushes her sleeves up to the elbow, rubbing absently at her own skin. From the heat, or perhaps from how hard she’d been clutching them, the muscles and veins or her hands and forearms all have popped under her skin, glowing with a light dew of sweat.

After an embarrassingly long pause, during which Neve realizes she’d been leering—and salivating—rather than answering, Neve manages to reply, “No. Sorry.” 

Rana groans, and it’s no different than her usual complaining, but it sounds so good that Neve fears she might actually be going insane. Rushing ahead of her self-consciousness, she continues, “But, I think if we… It might be over with faster, if we… got it out of our systems.”

The roundabout suggestion isn’t lost on Rana; her jaw drops, scandalized, and crosses her arms defensively. “If we—I’m working!” 

As grave and humiliating as the overall situation feels, Neve can’t help but chuckle and, half-horrified to have said it before she’s even finished saying it, teases, “Oh, and you never think about throwing me up against a wall whenever we work together?”

Quick as a whip, Rana retorts, “Sure, Neve, and you spend half the time investigating my ass because you like my pants.”

Judging by the way her eyes widen in disbelief and her ears turn fully red, the quip slipped past her self-control just like Neve’s did hers. In any ordinary circumstance, Neve would be mortified—maybe she slightly undersold ‘checking someone out from time to time’ mentally, but surely she’s not that careless!—but in this bizarre one, she finds the callout… thrilling. 

[What would have happened next: 

Having accidentally acknowledged that they ordinarily are attracted to each other, the energy shifts slightly. 

A pang of arousal staggers Rana, and this time Neve catches her. The contact gives them both such relief + a feeling of light euphoria that becomes clear Neve was right, and that it’s the way to stop the agony.

Rana tries to rationalize everything like “they can still be professional after” and blah blah but Neve pushes her against the wall and kisses her to cut her off (classic)

They finger or grind or whatever

As soon as they’re both done, they feel weird about it but Neve can’t quite find it in her to regret it

They agree to pretend it never happened even though it's clear neither of them are quite satisfied with that conclusion (pro move) 

Back in her apartment, Neve can’t help but write up some notes on “the Opal Rose case” in her journal but tells herself it’s just any other case and pretends she doesn’t feel Some Type of Way about it]

[wovenstarlight]

I got an interesting anonymous ask on the SFS Tumblr asking about the reasoning behind a bunch of Yoohyun's decisions that had… less-than-stellar outcomes, let's say? (LMAO.) and I'd like to keep the TL blog clean so I'm answering Anon here. I'm gonna post their ask in full for reference, because the answers to each individual question overlap:

Hi, thank you very much for your time, energy and effort. What you are doing is really amazing and admirable. I know you are busy enough and I shouldn't trouble you, but after reading the manhwa, I had questions about Yoohyun's logic and sentiment, and I became more confused after reading the novel and I don't know who to ask. Please ignore my message if it's to much trouble. 1: Why doesn't Yoohyun spend the last years of his life on earth peacefully with Yoojin, even though he knows that the world will end soon? 2: What did Yoohyun accomplish by leaving and humiliating Yoojin that he was persistent to do it for so many years? 3: Why instead of using his forces and technologies to protect Yoojin, he announces to the world that it is open season on him and he is worthless? (Normaly no one dares to harm the family of an S class but Yoohyun expose Yoojin to danger by abandoning him.) 4: Why does Yoohyun stop protecting Yoojin when the most dangerous part of Yoojin's life as an F class hunter begins? (Using his influence he could easily ban Yoojin from entering dungeons. Or he could have secretly formed a group of the most powerful hunters to go with Yoojin to dungeons. This way he could have provided him with everything he needed and keep him safe. That is, if he had any intention of protecting him.) 5: Why would Yoohyun gain all that resources, power, wealth and connections and he sit around and does nothing so that Yoojin would face death every day and rot in the basement? He gain all that for what, if not for protecting Yoojin? 6: Why doesn't he ever change his procedure or provide new options for Yoojin to stop going to dungeons? (Yoojin has no chance for a peaceful life due to not having a degree and being a notorious person. And he doesn't know about that cult.) Yoojin got to see his 30 years old birthday cause the cult didn't feel like killing him and he took care of himself in dungeons and was lucky that only his legs broke. So why would Yoohyun identify as a doting brother? The more I think about it the less I understand.

(crossposted on AO3, if you'd prefer to read there)

Okay, so, I'm really prone to rambling at length and this is a subject I have strong feelings on, so I'll give you a very short version of my answer in bullet points, and then a longer version with proper chapter-specific references and full explanations of what I think was going on.

Yoohyun wants to repay Yoojin for all the care and love he's given him, but as a 17-year-old, he doesn't have much social power

Yoohyun's Awakening puts himself and anyone he loves (i.e. Yoojin) in a dangerous position, because while he has individual physical power as an S-rank, he still lacks social power and also can't singlehandedly protect Yoojin 24/7

Yoohyun, in all his rash 17-year-old glory, takes the drastic action of cutting off Yoojin, planning to build up enough power to protect Yoojin and then reunite with him. Yoojin, as just your ordinary everyday 22-year-old, faces no risks other than people targeting him in order to hurt Yoohyun (I don't agree that no one would dare to harm the family of an S-rank, for reasons I'll elaborate on later in the long answer), so if Yoohyun's not close to Yoojin, then that cuts it down to "no risks at all", right…? So tell the media, tell the world, that no, Han Yoohyun doesn't give a shit about Han Yoojin. Yoohyun assumes he'll be able to explain it all to Yoojin one day and that he'll understand. (This should answer your Question 2 and Q3.)

But it doesn't work out as expected. Yoohyun thought it'd take much less time to establish his position than it does in reality (the assumed 4-ish years ended up as 6+ years). Also, Yoojin's gone from trying to make up with Yoohyun in a way that'll let them be together again (not going to happen, because Yoohyun's still not ready to bring Yoojin back into the fold) to being in his own terrible situation, so he's started lashing out at Yoohyun. So even if Yoohyun was in a stable enough situation to try reconciling with him, Yoojin might not be open to it by this point

Somewhere along the way, Yoohyun learns from the filial duty addict Diarma the world is going to end. He doesn't drop everything and go to live with Yoojin because even now, there's still the concern that maybe Yoohyun won't be able to protect Yoojin from everything, and maybe Yoojin doesn't want Yoohyun around, anyway. There's no use in going to live with Yoojin if it'll just end up getting Yoojin killed through Yoohyun's inaction (Q1).

So Yoohyun keeps maintaining his guild and his power so he can keep protecting Yoojin from what he thinks are the Real Threats. (Because the worlds of low- and high-rank Hunters are VERY different. Yoohyun probably assumes that because Yoojin's not facing the high-rank Hunter dangers, he's facing no dangers—a stupid but understandable mistake, given that Yoojin also assumed the exact same thing in reverse about Yoohyun! It sucks, it really does, but I really do think Yoohyun just… didn't realize just how bad it was.) (Q5) And the world can end whenever it wants; if there's no challenging it, then at least Yoohyun's kept Yoojin safe in the meantime.

And the one danger they have in common, dungeons—you suggest Yoohyun banning Yoojin from entering any, but Yoohyun's cut himself off from Yoojin entirely, remember. Trying to interfere in his life would be met with (a) STRONG rejection by a deeply hurt Yoojin who doesn't understand why Yoohyun thinks he has any say in Yoojin's life anymore, and (b) interest by Yoohyun's rivals, who'd wonder why he's trying to keep his hyung away from dangers when he says he doesn't care about that hyung's wellbeing, putting Yoojin right back in their crosshairs. (Q4)

Also, the immoral people have been killing Caregivers of S-ranks. Diarma might have told Yoohyun about this. If he did, then Yoohyun's goals would definitely have gone from "stay strong and one day reconcile with hyung" to "NEVER get close to hyung, because there are beings outside this world, much more powerful than anything I can match in a reasonable timespan, who will 100% kill him". At which point, even if Yoohyun had wanted to reconcile with him, or compromise by just adjusting his plan and talking to Yoojin a little more, or literally anything past making a show of total and complete indifference, he couldn't have without knowingly risking Yoojin's life. (Q6)

You and I and all the other S-Ranks readers, removed from this situation as we are, can think of half a dozen ways Yoohyun could probably have gotten around things. But the simple fact is that in that situation, under that much pressure, with that much emotional attachment to his brother and literally everything that mattered to him at stake if he fucked up in the tiniest of ways—forget making perfect decisions, there was absolutely no way Yoohyun was going to do anything other than what seemed least risky. Because to do otherwise would be risking Yoojin’s life and therefore his own. And the choices you’ve already mades, the path you’re already on—no matter how bad it is for you, no matter how bad it is for the people you love, no matter how much it hurts—will always, always be less risky than the unknown path, because at least this way, you know what dangers to expect and brace for. At the core of the matter, it’s just that… the path that was best for Yoojin's happiness wasn't the path that was best for Yoojin's life expectancy, you see? And Yoojin can't be happy if he's dead. Yoohyun can't be alive if Yoojin's dead. That's all it came down to.

……oh my god that was so long actually. And that was supposed to be the TL;DR. The long version is going to be SO long. I hope you like reading 50-page passionate essays. There's a poll at the end, you can look forward to that!!!

(Also, okay, before we jump into the Deep End. Two disclaimers.

Anon, you said you read the manhwa and novel, but I read only the novel, so some of my chapter references might be unfamiliar. I know they shuffled events around a little in the webtoon, too, so I'll try and describe the general events so you can find any webtoon parallels.

Yoojin's a REALLY unreliable narrator and definitely doesn't know a lot of what Yoohyun's gone through. Part of that is because there's things he has no way to pick up on or deduce; part of that is because he wants to not think about Yoohyun going through bad shit; part of that is because Yoohyun doesn't want Yoojin worrying about him and has actively hidden the worse parts of his life from him. So a fair part of what I'm talking about is going to be reading between the lines and extrapolating.

Okay, disclaimers done!) Now on to the long version with references. Let's go point-by-point based on the TL;DR.

#1: Yoohyun wanting to repay Yoojin

I mean, the skill's called Last/Final Repayment! Isn't that enough? Where did you think that came from? There certainly wasn't anything Yoojin wanted to repay Yoohyun for.

Okay, no, more seriously. Yoohyun and Yoojin have grown up with only each other to depend on. Yoohyun has watched Yoojin take care of him alone their whole lives, with no outside support, keeping a roof over their head and their stomachs filled. For Yoohyun's sake, Yoojin has given up:

A complete education, with Yoojin having "dropped out of school to take care of his little brother", as mentioned in chapter 1.

A proper social life. In chapter 25, Yoojin says his friends in his early 20s were "middle-aged factory workers" instead of people his own age.

Hobbies. He says to Yerim and Myeongwoo in chapter 45 that one of his "few hobbies" is taking spam calls, but his character profile from the E-books volume 1 confirms it's his only hobby, and one that's now fading… which leaves him with zero personal interests. (The spam calling thing is almost certainly something that sprouted from loneliness in the years that the brothers were separated, by the way. After all, why would Yoojin waste time listening to some stranger on the phone talk to him about something he doesn’t care about? Most likely because there isn’t—wasn’t—really anyone else who’s willing to talk to him, anymore.)

The sole birthday present of "a 10,000 won bill to buy something tasty to have with his friends" he got from their parents, which "would be used for Han Yoohyun’s birthday. As [it was] every year", as mentioned in chapter 239, during Yoohyun’s flashback to childhood.

And Yoohyun, a helpless child, could only watch as Yoojin gave up all of that, to no real benefit of his own, just to focus all his attention and resources on supporting Yoohyun.

By the time he was in middle school, Yoohyun was already talking about becoming a doctor since it'd be "advantageous in a lot of aspects"; he says he "just wanted to make it so you [Yoojin] could live comfortably" (chapter 258). Yoojin wouldn't have to be the sole earner, and would've been able to pursue his own happiness as well as Yoohyun's. Yoohyun wants very badly for Yoojin to not have to worry about him anymore. It makes sense that that sentiment would remain even after he Awakened.

#2: Yoohyun's Awakening

And boy what an Awakening it was! Straight from a random orphaned kid with zero social life and decent grades to one of the world's most desirable and dangerous individuals, basically overnight. He has none of the social sway that the rich and well-connected Sung Hyunjae or the professional athletes Moon Hyuna and Choi Sukwon do, and he refuses to get the help of big corporations like Choi Sukwon and Bak Mingyu (and Yoon Kyeongsoo? I forget if Soodam was also a corp-backed guild). So he's got no power, but he's also declared his intent to create a guild, and that combined with his nature as a born S-rank makes people perceive him as a threat. Maybe not so much in the early days, when people think he's just an arrogant, stupid kid who's going to crash and burn, but definitely more so as time passed, which Sung Hyunjae confirms in chapter 152:

“Wasn’t [Han Yoohyun] at the age where one faces a lot of problems, starting out living alone?” […] “He wasn’t even alone, strictly speaking. I heard Team Head Seok and the others joined Haeyeon early on.” I heard that Seok Simyeong had visited Yoohyun-ie even before Haeyeon was founded. He was still annoying, but I had to give him his share of the credit for Haeyeon. Sung Hyunjae gave a small nod at my words. “Even so, it isn’t easy for a latecomer to find his place.” “That’s… You’re right.” “For the first year or so, it was easier. Since most of them said Haeyeon wouldn’t be able to properly establish itself.” Sung Hyunjae also said he hadn’t been interested in Haeyeon—in Yoohyun-ie—at the time, either. “The problem arose when it started to become a major guild.”

The second the initial "LOL, this has got to be a joke, right?" blinders come off, he's at risk. And he would've known that this would happen right from the start—Yoohyun's smart enough that he would've understood the lack of attacks was just because they didn't see him as a real threat yet.

So, again: a latecomer on the scene with no power and no experience to his name, and seen as a threat to deal with. No social connections means he has no one to rely on to help him with Yoojin's protection: it's up to him alone. And even S-ranks have to eat and sleep and use the bathroom and do half a dozen other things that would pull him away from Yoojin's side, not to mention the all-important requirement of raiding dungeons, which Yoohyun himself admits in chapter 71 was one of his main concerns:

“Once I start a raid on an S-rank dungeon, I’ll be gone for a week […]. Me… avoiding you… was also largely due to the S-rank dungeon raid time. Since, obviously, I can’t look after you once I go into the dungeon.”

So Yoohyun himself can't just stay by Yoojin's side as his bodyguard 24/7. He'd have to leave him unattended for, at minimum, whole weeks. Which means he doesn't have a reliable, sure way to keep his hyung safe.

#3: Cutting off Yoojin, and the risks to an S-rank's family

And that's not even mentioning his own safety. What happens when Yoohyun's hurt and can't help with guarding Yoojin? And he will be hurt, either by dungeon raids or other people. If you don't think that second one is a concern, as early as chapter 6, when Yoojin and Yoohyun are having their first meal together, Yoojin asks about Yoohyun's ability to cook, and he says he taught himself:

“I’ve got items for detoxification and de-cursing, now, but I didn’t have them before. So making my own food felt safer. Even now, when I enter dungeons, I bring dried rations I made myself. Since it’s most dangerous inside dungeons.” “…Detoxification? De-cursing?” What was I hearing right now? As in, there were bastards who’d poison and curse his food, so he had to make it himself… that sort of thing?

Yoohyun himself, a strong, healthy S-rank with a good constitution and one hell of a temper, was at risk of being poisoned and cursed through something as everyday as food. You said that normally, no one would dare attack the family of an S-rank—but if people are willing to attack the S-rank himself, knowing that he'll kill them for sure if it fails and he learns they're behind it, then what's stopping them from attacking the S-rank's family?

There's two points you could argue:

Yoohyun says in the chapter 6 conversation that "It’s a major crime for an Awakened person to target an Unawakened person, so I made them think it wasn’t worth it to risk going after you." But that'd only last for the 3 years up until Yoojin Awakened, and honestly, there's a real risk that anyone targeting Yoojin before that time would just be rich or socially connected enough that they could make the charges go away.

The other argument that if they attack an S-rank's beloved family and that fails, now the S-rank is coming after them with a vengeance, and he's not even suffering from the aftermath of poisoning or a curse to weaken him in the slightest, so that might scare them off. But, like… people do stupid things when they're desperate. In that kidnapping where Yoojin met the Krecke Blackie (chapters 46–49), sure, Yoojin had his own special skills that made him valuable, but he also had five major guilds and the Association all dedicated to his protection. That's several times the protection a single S-rank could offer, and some idiots who weren't even in a desperate situation still tried to go after him for benefits similar to what you'd get from having leverage over an S-rank. So I really don't think anything would stop people from threatening Yoojin. If anything, the combined facts of Yoohyun starting out from a weak position, Yoohyun obviously caring about Yoojin, and Yoojin being so much weaker than Yoohyun would make that the best option by far, if you wanted to hurt Yoohyun. After all, it’s not like Unawakened F-rank Yoojin can fight back himself, and again, Yoohyun isn’t going to fight you if it would risk Yoojin’s life.

So, Yoohyun goes "if I distance myself from hyung and make people think it WON'T hurt me for him to be hurt, then people have no reason to target him!" and follows through. I do think this was a stupid move on his part, even if he intended to explain it all to Yoojin eventually, because by not letting him in on the secret right from the start, he guaranteed that Yoojin would be hurt and upset by his sole remaining family member seemingly abandoning him for better prospects. Which leads Yoojin to start making his own stupid moves, which snowballs into a series of bad decisions on both their parts, and so on… but we'll get to that in a minute. The problem, I think, is that this plan could've worked, if only Yoohyun had told Yoojin at the start, so that Yoojin knew not to draw attention to himself. Maybe they could've done regular calls on burner phones or something, to stay in touch, and they'd have been happier that way.

Unfortunately that didn't happen. Why? Because, as Yoohyun states in that same conversation in chapter 6, he "didn’t want to burden" Yoojin. Yoohyun's desire to protect Yoojin is not just physical, but also mental/emotional—he doesn't want Yoojin to know that Yoohyun's going through all this trouble of leaving home and dealing with threats to his life and making big decisions, because he doesn't want Yoojin to worry.

[EDIT: And actually, thinking back over this, do you realize—Yoojin always talks about how Yoohyun was a delight of a child to raise, never complaining, never throwing tantrums, wonderfully behaved and always doing as he was told. Enough so that Moon Hyuna has to tell him, explicitly, in Chapter 43, that that’s not normal, in those exact words:

“He was a good younger brother who never needed to be scolded. Ever since he was little, he listened well and didn’t worry me…….” “You said you were the one to raise him, right? After you lost your parents early. That’s not normal.” She clicked her tongue and continued. “A good, obedient little brother from a poor family without parents. That sort of thing doesn’t even appear in children’s fairy tales these days. Because it’s not realistic.” “I mean, to go that far—” “Kids are kids. They get frustrated and angry if there’s something lacking, they make trouble to get attention, they compare themselves with others, and beyond begging their parents to buy them something they want, they might even resent them. Parents might still think their kids are cute, but brothers? To them, they’re just enemy bastards; I also have a younger sibling, so I know. Of course, there are brothers and sisters who get along. In peaceful households where their parents take good care of them. Even then, it’s not like they never fight. Younger brothers in particular are a type that need to be put in their place; older siblings the world across would probably agree.”

This suggests that Yoohyun and Yoojin have never, ever, EVER experienced conflict on major life decisions. Not once have they argued about Yoohyun making choices that Yoojin wouldn’t like. Which means Yoohyun approached cutting off Yoojin with a very particular mindset, and I have some guesses as to what exactly that mindset was. Do you think he hoped Yoojin would understand that his perennially well-behaved brother would have some reason for leaving home? Do you think he just… didn’t know how to approach telling Yoojin about his choice, knowing it’d upset him so much, so he simply didn’t and hoped for the best? Or was it something else entirely?

Either way: Yoohyun absolutely did not know what would come of this choice. He definitely did not expect just how hard it would be on Yoojin. At the time, he was probably just wanting to spare Yoojin the heartache of their first major argument about Yoohyun’s life choices.] And it's that very desire to not bother him with the knowledge of how much Yoohyun's suffering that eventually makes things go wrong and both of them suffer for it.

#4: Yoohyun's strategy failing

What do we know about Yoohyun's plan going wrong? We know that Yoohyun intended to wipe out his enemies before even thinking about allowing Yoojin into danger. In that conversation in chapter 6, he tells Yoojin to wait "just 1 year" and to basically live in confinement, locked up safe inside Haeyeon, until Yoohyun's done. Combined with the 3 years since the dungeons appearing and Yoohyun Awakening, that means he thought it'd take maybe 4 years in total, with hurrying at the end to accommodate Yoojin already being involved with him again. Yoojin says in narration that pre-regression, it took him 3 years instead of the 1 he's proposing, which puts us at a total of 6 years minimum before Yoohyun could even think about reuniting with Yoojin.

But, of course, a lot can and did happen in those 6 years. Within the first 3, the brothers' relationship had deteriorated enough that Yoojin blocked Yoohyun's number, as mentioned in chapter 32 by Yoohyun to Yoojin during novice Hunter training:

“You got angry and told me not to call, remember? You even blocked my number.”

Why was Yoojin angry? See chapter 158, when Yoohyun was temporarily amnesiac due to Jellyfish's fog:

“I’m certain I told you not to come near me.” …I remembered. When I’d heard that, I’d blocked Yoohyun’s number, telling him not to call me back.

Yoohyun's repeated refusal to tell Yoojin about his plans, just telling him they had to stay apart, only worsened their relationship. And while Yoohyun did attempt to reach out and help Yoojin in ways such as sending him money to cover living expenses (probably hoping to repair their rapidly deteriorating relationship), that also made it worse, with Yoojin rejecting all of those attempts. As he explains in chapter 274, during the flashbacks induced by Jellyfish in their fight:

Gritting my teeth, I sent back the money Yoohyun-ie sent me without even laying a finger on it. To the me of that time, it was horrible money that my young brother had as good as traded his life for. Yoohyun-ie wanted me to accept living expenses and stay safe, but I believed my brother was being sent to his own death and could never accept it.

It isn't like Yoohyun didn't try to reach out. He did. The problem was that all of his attempts were undercut by his continued refusal to tell Yoojin why he had distanced himself, such that all those attempts at staying in touch only rubbed salt in the wound of being abandoned. And as early as 3 years in, by his own admission in chapter 6, Yoohyun starts to think that things have gotten so bad that even if he tries to confess everything now, Yoojin might not "be understanding". He might not be willing to let go of his hurt and resentment to reconcile with him.

So should he stop reaching out, then? Surely there's still hope that they can reconcile in the future. Someday, maybe, when Yoohyun's sure he can protect Yoojin, even if Yoojin doesn't want to be with/near him.

#5: Learning about the world ending

Only, there's a deadline imposed by the end of the world, which Yoohyun learns about from filial duty addict Diarma. Part of the contract with the filial duty addicts, as Sung Hyunjae explains in chapter 102, is not interfering with said end of the world. Actually, the contractors have to give "their word that they’ll eliminate obstacles" i.e. other people fighting against the end of the world, so Yoohyun can't do anything about this deadline. This gives him a limited amount of time in which he can "eventually" reconcile with Yoojin.

So, as you ask, Anon, why not spend that limited time with his brother? Well, just because there's an end of the world approaching—which Yoohyun can't even talk about! L-rank contract, remember—doesn't mean that Yoojin is 🌟magically🌟 going to get any less mad about Yoohyun abandoning him for several years than before. Yoohyun still doesn't want to explain, so that argument is absolutely not getting resolved.

Even if he tries to explain vaguely that there's some threat and that he'd like Yoojin to live with him or at least accept his offers of protection and security, what happens if Yoojin refuses? Yoohyun clearly isn't willing to violate Yoojin's desires too far, since the most certain way to keep him safe would be to lock him up in a vault somewhere inside Haeyeon and never let anyone else see him, but that would trample all over his free will and happiness, not to mention it'd ruin Yoohyun's "live normally and happily with hyung" goals. So he'll have to let Yoojin stay out in the world, while all of Yoohyun's rivals and enemies are still out there, watching the Haeyeon Guild Leader reach out to his brother and wondering if they've reconciled. At that point, it doesn't matter if they actually have made up or not. If someone even suspects that Yoojin is close to Yoohyun, then they'll target him on the off-chance that it's true. And if Yoojin did refuse Yoohyun's offers, which he's almost certain to, then he's defenseless against whatever attacks come. And they will come. In chapter 6, Yoohyun admitted that a single visit to Haeyeon Guild by Yoojin, willing or unwilling, would be enough to get attention on him:

“But if I directly give orders for you to be brought in and allowed to live within Haeyeon Guild, my enemies will start to actively target you. Even with you just being here right now, I’m sure they’ll already have started keeping an eye on you.”

Think of it from Yoohyun's enemies' perspective. If Yoohyun cares about Yoojin, attacking Yoojin gives you leverage over Yoohyun. If Yoohyun doesn't care about Yoojin, then he won't care if you're attacking Yoojin, so you'll face no retaliation from him. Yoohyun's enemies have nothing to lose from this, while Yoohyun has everything to lose. So, in this situation, it'd be better to take the least risky path: just don't engage with Yoojin at all.

And, also, even if he'd decided to take that risk, there's a different one when it comes to actually figuring out a system to guard Yoojin. This point is more speculation, but I do think Yoohyun might have struggled with deciding when he'd done enough for Yoojin's protection. Because the reality is that Yoojin was never, ever going to be 100% safe from all dangers ever. Again, the vault method is the only way Yoohyun could achieve that. Yoohyun could've put together any amount of high-rank Hunters as Yoojin's exclusive security detail, and he'd still have to leave him alone with these potentially corruptible strangers for a full week at a time during every S-rank dungeon raid. I suspect there was a real risk of Yoohyun continuously going "I just need to get a bit stronger and a bit more established" indefinitely, without ever reaching a point where he was actually satisfied. (Which, if this was indeed a risk in canon, would be overridden in the post-regression timeline by Yoojin's keyword usage making Yoohyun's desire to live with him again and uncertainty about Yoojin's response win out over the urge to keep obsessing over safeguards.)

#6: What counts as a "real" threat

When it comes to Yoohyun's need to defend Yoojin against threats, there's also an important aspect you need to consider, which is: what threats? You see, the worlds of low-rank and high-rank Hunters are very different, to the point where Yoohyun seems to completely overlook some aspects of what Yoojin's used to dealing with, while Yoojin explicitly notes on multiple occasions that he didn't even realize Yoohyun faced certain dangers. As always, we come back to the poisoning attempts mentioned in chapter 6, the first time Yoojin realizes Yoohyun was suffering his own ordeals. This sort of sneaky threat gets reiterated in chapter 11, after Yoojin's trip to the Hunter Mall, when Yoohyun tells him he can't even take a simple drink from any public vendor because it might be poisoned (not something that'd work on Yoohyun himself, but it certainly would on those lower-ranked people around him who he cares about). No, not even in a government-sponsored location like the Association, because even these locations are filled with other guilds' spies and informants. Yoojin's internal response is essentially "what sort of underhanded bullshit is this", and out loud he questions Yoohyun about it:

“But would they do that sort of thing in none other than the Association? If they get caught, the backlash will be huge.” And if Awakened people couldn’t trust the Association, it’d end up hurting the guilds, too. “Of course they wouldn’t make trouble inside the Association. But it’s possible to have their target sent away in an ambulance or police car.” “…And then that ambulance or police car goes missing?” “You’re getting it.”

And Yoojin literally thinks, not a paragraph later, that this is maybe too much even for him:

Somehow, the further things went, the more I felt like I should stop being involved with this brat Yoohyun-ie and go off to live on my own.

Better the dangers you know than the ones you don't, but in Yoojin's words.

Everyone in the high-rank sphere is, well, high-rank. Strong and resilient even when they don't have defensive skills, to say nothing of when they do. They face threats, yes, Real Threats that pose danger to them and risk their safety and status, including threats from other people—Song Taewon mentions to Yoojin in chapter 83 that he's investigated Yoohyun for murder multiple times a year—but because they're so strong, those threats come in the form of dungeon monsters or social attacks, not actual physical harm. Especially not physical harm from other people; like, chapter 75 mentions there's laws against S-rank Hunters going into dungeons together for fear that they might hurt or kill each other, so unless they encounter each other in a dungeon break region where combat is expected (or pick fights with Chief Song, an S-rank duty-bound to fight other S-ranks), they're never really going to encounter personal threats from other Hunters.

Take all that through the lens of protecting Yoojin: he's just some guy, he's not involved in the social/political Hunter Hunger Games, so he's probably fine on that front, right? And otherwise, Yoohyun just needs to protect him from dungeons (keep Yoojin out of them when possible, prevent breaks in his area), and maybe just some general watching out for Yoojin getting himself into anything risky, since he's so weak as an F-rank. That's all the threats Yoohyun sees on a daily basis, so that's probably it, right?

Wrong. Low-rank Hunters have their own set of threats they face, and while a part of that is dungeons and monsters, a very large part of that is also just… being easy to kill, in a community of people very ready to kill. Low-rank Hunters murder each other a hell of a lot more than high-rank Hunters get to even hurt, let alone kill, each other. Think about how easily the knowledge of dungeons being good body disposal spots comes to Yoojin (chapter 19, when threatening Yerim's uncle). Think about the way Yoojin talks about being pressured into slave contracts and miner guilds, and how common it seems to be for low-rank Hunters to be maimed and disabled and left in the lurch (chapters 21 and 22, saving Yoo Myeongwoo from Hope Resources Guild). Think about chapter 49, where Yoohyun claims there's strong camaraderie among high-rank Hunters, and Yoojin responds with this:

Comradeship, huh. There was no such concept in low-rank Hunter teams. Of course, it wasn’t like there were no good people around. The problem was that they all died before long. There were fixed low-rank teams united through trust and friendship, but it was very rare that they lasted. With how strongly they banded together, if one of them died, they couldn’t endure the shock and would fall apart; and even if that didn’t happen, if they were doing well for themselves, they’d be attacked from the outside by the many Hunters who’d find them unpleasant. But a high-rank dungeon raiding team that suffered few such accidents could form a sense of comradeship and keep staying together.

Low-rank Hunters will get killed by monsters, or survive only to get killed by the loss of their teams, or find good teams only to get killed by other jealous low-ranks, or (in Yoojin's experience) survive multiple team-wide killings only to get ostracized and distrusted for being suspiciously good at surviving (almost like you're the one setting up your teams to fail! really makes you wonder, doesn't it?), or, or, or…

High-rank Hunters just… survive. That's it.

Of course Yoohyun wouldn't know to protect Yoojin from these threats. He's never faced them. To him, fighting other people is a fun, challenging pastime, where no one being allowed to kill each other is an unspoken rule that goes implicitly understood. He wouldn't realize how it was very much not fun for Yoojin; maybe he'd know it intellectually, but I don't think he'd understand, not without getting up close and personal to see Yoojin struggle with it, which he can't do himself. If he tries to send someone to spy on or just generally help out his brother, Yoojin's primed by his experiences to distrust the people around him, so spies won't get anything out of him, and any strong Hunter handpicked by Yoohyun to help his hyung might simply be unable to gain Yoojin's trust. (Picking out a whole team of strong Hunters? Even if Yoojin trusts them, they'd probably end up victimized by jealous Hunters. Rinse and repeat.) You must also take into account that Yoojin's been made enough of a target by society that he's hiding every weakness someone could potentially exploit. Hell, if he's hiding well enough, you might think he's doing just fine.

And in the time period where it would be blatantly obvious that Yoojin was not fine, that early period right when he Awakened and turned into society's scapegoat overnight? That was when Yoohyun and Haeyeon were also being targeted, and wouldn't have been able to spare the kind of attention and help Yoojin would've needed, not with all the scrutiny they were all being subjected to. Actually, when Yoojin's reminiscing about these times in chapter 59, he hypothesizes it might've been Yoohyun's rivals themselves who were behind the scapegoating:

At that time, it would’ve been hard for that guy to look out for me. Public opinion wasn’t good in many ways, and there were too many scrutinizing eyes for him to secretly look after me. Now that I thought about it, I wondered if there wasn’t some sort of operation targeting me. The response was too excessive to have simply been the work of a few trash journalists. It was a matter that could be packaged excitingly, I was an F-rank which made me easy to use, and at that time, it could drag down Haeyeon Guild in the public opinion. Whether it was the government, the Association, or rival guilds, they’d have been fools not to use me.

If it was Yoohyun's rivals behind it, then by fighting on the Haeyeon front, Yoohyun might actually have been keeping Yoojin safe, too. How do we know he didn't actually mitigate the suffering to some degree? We haven't heard from Yoohyun about his side of things during this time, so we don't have a definite answer one way or another.

Certainly, Seok Simyeong didn't help at all by making a public statement denouncing Yoojin, especially not when it was so bad Yoojin admits to almost being suicidal over it (chapter 19)! But, well, it was a busy time. We don't know whether Yoohyun was consulted on that one, or if it was something they rushed in order to get ahead of the situation. It might also be that Yoohyun was consulted and made the choice that they'd publicly denounce Yoojin but privately offer him support, only for Yoojin to reject it as he did before with the money Yoohyun sent. Yoojin's done this before, where he conveniently doesn't mention a detail about a scenario until it becomes immediately relevant!

I cannot emphasize enough that we don't have Yoohyun's perspective on this. We don't know what he was doing or not doing to help. But we know, from his love for Yoojin, from his desperate desire to keep him safe at all costs, that he must've been doing something. Was that something effective? Was it useful to Yoojin's immediate life? Who knows. But he was trying.

#7: Banning Yoojin from dungeons

…Keyword being trying. Because, uh. To be honest, how well do you think any direct attempts at "helping" went over? The very first moment that Yoojin regresses to is when Yoohyun got him out of a meeting with an Awakening broker. And Yoojin himself says that ended so badly that "after listening to Yoohyun-ie’s nagging, I’d become furious and stormed off, shouting that I could take care of myself and to quit bothering me" (chapter 5). So if Yoohyun tries to openly keep Yoojin out of danger, then Yoojin is going to have a screaming fit of anger at his life being controlled by someone who apparently isn't even interested in being in it.

And that's before Yoojin Awakened. Once he had an actual, legal, government-assigned license saying he could go into dungeons? Yoohyun had zero standing. Zero chance he was ever going to be able to stop him from going into dungeons, short of breaking down and crying and begging for him to not do it, which (to successfully convince Yoojin he wasn't just putting on a show or trying to guilt trip him) would also require Yoohyun to admit he still cared about Yoojin and reveal his 3- uh, 4- I mean, 5- 6(!!)-Year Master Plan To Keeping Hyung Safe Forever And Ever.

Yeah. Never gonna happen.

And even that one (1) attempt at keeping Yoojin away from dungeons and Hunters and everything related could've gone really badly, because as Yoohyun himself admits in their chapter 6 conversation, his enemies will "already have started keeping an eye on you [Yoojin]". Just from one single show of apparent concern for Yoojin's wellbeing! Can you imagine what would've happened if Yoohyun kept stopping Yoojin every time he tried to go into a dungeon? Setting Yoojin's own frustration and anger aside, can you picture the kind of attention that would've gotten Yoojin? No, this was one battle Yoohyun had to lose in order to win the overall war.

Anon, you mention providing "new options for Yoojin to stop going to dungeons". Okay, sure, we're starting with Yoojin being society's black sheep and probably rejected out of hand from most positions he applies to, and Yoohyun's only leverage in society being in dungeon- and Hunter-related fields. What options would he have provided for Yoojin? A dungeon- or Hunter-related job, probably at Haeyeon or one of its affiliates? That's precisely what we're trying to avoid, and also visible enough that Yoohyun might as well not have even fucking bothered with the 6-Year Master Plan etc. etc. Okay, so then something at one of Haeyeon's sponsors-? Except Haeyeon famously doesn't have backers, and any connections they have through business deals will be glaringly obvious to Yoohyun's rivals if leveraged. Oh, Han Yoojin, the man who no one wants to hire, got a job at a company whose products Han Yoohyun sponsored just a while ago! Absolutely no one is wondering how this could've happened. Also, funny how Han Yoohyun's helping Han Yoojin find work, it's almost like he cares about him… (And so the end begins.)

Remember, all of Yoohyun's efforts at separating himself from Yoojin require actually being separate from Yoojin and the choices he makes. Yoojin's life is—unfortunately enough for Yoohyun—his own to live… and his own to ruin.

#8: The transcendent threat

And all of that—every single one of these environmental factors that make it so Yoohyun has a billion and one concerns to consider before he can so much as talk to Yoojin—all of that comes before we take into account one more fact:

God Hates Caregivers Personally.

Or, in a non-joking manner, and in the fashion Yoohyun might have learned about it from Diarma, as is strongly suggested in the virtual reality dungeon arc during chapter 246:

There are beings out there, outside your world, stronger than anything you know, and this is acknowledging the fact that you are among the strongest existences humankind will ever produce. These beings rule your entire world, are the children of the very power that created the dungeons terrorizing your planet, are themselves so powerful that they can predict dungeons and manipulate the system in their favor, that they can manipulate the circumstances of individual humans as long as they're inside dungeons. In allying with any one of their number, you make an enemy out of half of the entire population of these transcendental existences. You have already made an enemy of them. And these people, these all-powerful creatures, who you've painted yourself a rival of? These same people have a known track record of killing the loved ones of people like you.

Your brother goes into dungeons every week as part of his job. He's already at immense risk. If you go near him, if you make it seem even slightly like you're interested in him personally, you make him an out-and-out target for these transcendents, and they'll smite him. He dies, and you die, and it's game over.

Option one: You can grow to their level, meet them with equal strength, certainly, but will you get the time to grow that far before they kill your brother? Is his natural lifespan even long enough that he'd survive the time it took for your growth? He dies. You die. Game over.

Option two: Don't pose a threat. It's too late for you to never get on their radar in the first place, but if you can keep from seeming any more dangerous, maybe they won't give him any attention. Secure a favor that will let you help him when he needs it, at most, but otherwise never use your transcendent connections to your own advantage.

Option two, taken to its conclusion: If you die before your brother does—if you die calling in that favor and saving his life—you never have to see him be killed.

(Option two, on the flip side: You will not expect it to be your own ally who set the stage for your loved one to be killed.)

So, basically, every single concern Yoohyun's had about protecting his brother that made him distance himself and not tell him anything so far? All of that is taken and cranked up to difficulty level Maximum. "If I show interest in hyung, one of my rivals or enemies might choose to hurt or kill him!" The transcendents WILL kill him with NO known incentive. Yoohyun might assume it's because he poses a threat to their side, but he can't be absolutely certain that's it. In fact, he doesn't know anything about this opposing transcendent faction, since he was blocked from contacting them by the very fact of having chosen a side in the first place, as Water Droplet explains when discussing the born S-ranks in chapter 106:

“We don’t know for sure either. The filial duty addicts contacted them first, so their information is obscured. We only know that there are five, and about the ones that are in contact with you.”

And while Yoohyun-as-Alpha knows the reasons behind the immoral people killing Caregivers—namely, that they want to remove distractions for S-ranks, so that they focus on combating dungeons and monsters—if Diarma had told Yoohyun about this, and if he'd thought to apply the bare minimum of intelligence to his delivery (a disclaimer that must be made, with this transcendent in particular), I really don't think he would've told him why. No, he would've wanted the immoral people to seem like a dangerous threat, so he would just have said that they might kill Yoohyun's family, without giving him their reasoning.

Which means Yoohyun knew nothing about the immoral people's motives, nothing about their goals, nothing about what they'd see as aggression. Which meant, hypothetically, that any and every action he took could trigger them to smoothly and efficiently eliminate the only person he loved in all the world. It would be so easy, too; Yoojin's entering their turf multiple times a month as part of his daily job, a fact which we've already established Yoohyun couldn't do anything about. The only thing he knew for sure is that they hadn't killed Yoojin so far.

Remember what I said before, about the known path being safer? Because you know the dangers you'll face on it? Yoohyun knows doing what he's doing right now is keeping Yoojin alive. He can't control a single other thing outside of that. And the danger posed by not doing what he's doing just got shifted to a level he is not prepared on any level to respond to. Before, he might've thought Yoojin was safe at least inside dungeons with his chosen teams; from his perspective, "dungeons with only guild members inside are actually safer than the outside world" (chapter 134), while the outside world was more of a risk because of all of Yoohyun's enemies. But now? There is danger all the time and in every location Yoojin goes, even those outside of this world, on an insane, unrivaled level. He is never, never safe, and any single unexpected action Yoohyun takes puts that at risk. If doing anything at all is dangerous, then it's better to do nothing.

So, yeah, that's the crux of it, isn't it. Yoohyun needs to protect Yoojin every day, every single time. Everything else in the whole world only needs to kill Yoojin once. In such a situation, how would Yoohyun ever dare to risk making either of them vulnerable?

…The end! I hope that this explanation, long as it is, has given you at least some additional insight into Why Yoohyun Did All That, and helped serve as a reminder of just how little we actually know about Yoohyun's perspective of the events pre-regression.

By the way, this entire post is pulling only from information we get up to chapter 272; there’s more information revealed up to chapter 350—actually, even just in the next few chapters after that, up to 275—that sheds more light on Yoohyun’s decision-making process in the pre-regression timeline. Maybe I’ll come back and post a part 2 to this analysis someday using the additional information we get as time goes on, but right now, this much will have to be enough.

In any case—thanks for reading this far. And of course, as promised, here's the poll!

[explorerof-theunknown]

annoyingly long rambling post about my nin album opinions under the cut lmao

i dont normally write long blog posts abt music but im unwell with NO ONE to talk abt this with so uhhh

--the fragile is number one because it's the masterpiece. full stop bar none; sorry to the downward spiral (1994) because she's an icon who's stood the test of time but this album is such a perfectly long and soundscapey and ambitious and the emotions are heightened in ways i don't think even tds really hits. 10/10 no skip, yes even starfuckers. ofc it's out of place and silly and a little cringe but its nine inch nails what are yall expecting if i had to pick a favorite song i'd go with la mer. just makes me feel like absolute shit and at peace simultaneously <3 love her.

-the trilogy eps feel very much like they could be played as one album. idk the general consensus on these, but NTAE is by far the superior of the three for me and that's really only because burning bright (field on fire) is perfect and amazing. Bad Witch is close though; it's such a cool sound to me and i want trent to play sax more. and sing like he's doing a bowie impression again. love it. Add Violence is very much great too, but I find myself coming back to it less aside from a couple songs, whereas i tend to keep NTAE and Bad Witch on a constant maddening rotation on my spotify playlist. favorites from each: the aforementioned burning bright (field on fire) the background world and god break down the door

-with teeth <3 <3 my princess <3 i will defend you with my honor. i have seen so many negative takes about wt. not as many as ive seen about hesitation marks (we'll get to her) but enough to fight for the good hand of my lovely maiden with teeth 2005. it's hard to pick a favorite off of this one but it's between sunspots and everyday is exactly the same.

-hesitation marks is on my other arm and i am defending her with as much zeal as i defend wt. i have listened to this one in its entirety maybe in the double digits over the past few months and have tried desperately to understand why people seem to hate this one so much and the only real conclusion i can come to is that i just like enough pop music to enjoy some of the stuff he's trying to do here. there are two tracks im not too fond of, but the rest of her (YES that includes everything) really works for me. a lot of it doesn't sound like the kind of stuff you'd find on any other nin album and i think thats why i love her. yes i ranked her above the downward spiral idk what u want me to say <3 various methods of escape my beloved

-broken and tds could be interchanged easily. they feel very complimentary of one another to me; broken feels less refined than tds but it's such a strong EP in a career full of like really fucking good short albums. i haven't seen the little movie thing yet; i have had the internet archive tab open for weeks. best song off of this one is happiness in slavery EASILYY

-reptile

-i was a little shocked that phm landed so low on my ranking because i wore this bitch OUT from like december-march but it has less to do with it being a lesser album and more that i ended up just really loving everything else more. it's interesting because i've seen a not-insignificant amount of people say they hate this album because of how corny it gets but thats the magic to me. this IS what music made by a weird loner gamer white boy in the mid 90s given access to stage equipment at industrial shows sounds like sin <3

-i forgot i ranked year zero this low. i don't hate her or even really dislike her, but in the grand scheme of things i think this album is made way more interesting if you experience as much of the ARG content as still exists online. the best part of year zero is those terrifying little tidbits of media left for fans like phone calls and creepy videos and shit left in bathrooms. trent pls....u should do this again bestie it's the future now you probably COULD blow up a building and get an hbo show but it would have to get cancelled in one season so maybe never mind. picking a favorite song off of this one is really hard because i don't feel like insanely strong about most of it so im picking capital g because its the most lyrically direct thing on it

-the slip oof...girl. sorry. i really love echoplex though.