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kiwriteswords · 2 days ago

Note

oh oh i have a fluff v day request! maybe reader is jacks teacher and they have a class valentine’s day party, when hotch picks him up after school, jack is trying to set them up by planting one of those silly cartoon cards in either of their pockets 🤭

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Match [Aaron Hotchner x Teacher!Reader]

Ki2k Masterlist||MainMasterlist (not updated, sorry!)|| Ao3||Word Count: 1k|| AN: Happy Valentine's Day! Thank you for this request, lovely! I had so much fun writing it--I never usually write Jack-related fics, but when I do, I wonder why I don't more often because they're so sweet! ||Requests are still open for Ki2k!!

Tags/Warnings: female reader, Valentine’s Day, non-bau!Reader, teacher!reader, Jack's teacher!Reader, Jack Hotchner is present (for those who do not like kid fics, lol), sadly had to use Y/N Y/L/N :P--sorrry!!!

Summary: Jack comes home beaming about his pretty teacher to Hotch everyday, so when Valentine's comes around, he finds the perfect reason to get the two of them together.

Jack's little feet pounded on the pavement as he bounded towards the car where Hotch was waiting, his face lit up with the day's excitements. Throwing open the car door, he barely waited for the buckle to click before he started.

"Dad! Did I tell you what Miss. Y/L/N did today? She showed us how to make volcanoes with baking soda and vinegar! It was awesome!"

Hotch smiled, driving off as he listened. "Sounds like you had fun. Miss. Y/L/N seems very creative."

"She is!" Jack's voice was earnest, eyes wide. "And she's really pretty, too. She wears these nice dresses, and her hair is always perfect."

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping him. "Is that so?"

"Yeah! And she's super smart. She knows everything about science and books and... um, maybe you should ask her about the Civil War? You like that stuff, right?" Jack's attempt at casualness was comically transparent.

"I do," Hotch replied, his interest piqued both by the mention of history and the subtle undertone of matchmaking in his son's voice. "Sounds like you think she'd be good company."

Jack nodded vigorously. "She'd be the best! You always say you want someone smart and kind. And she's the best teacher ever. Everyone thinks so."

As they pulled into their driveway, Hotch ruffled Jack's hair, considering the little seeds his son was planting. "Maybe I'll have to meet Miss. Y/L/N at the next parent-teacher conference."

"Yeah! And maybe you can ask her about her favorite book or something," Jack added, hopeful.

Hotch laughed softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement at his son's not-so-subtle matchmaking. "Maybe I will, buddy."

Jack grinned, satisfied, his mission for the day accomplished.

The next time Jack came bursting into the car after school, his backpack swinging wildly as he clambered into the passenger seat.

"Dad!" He held up a piece of folded paper, waving it excitedly. "Miss. Y/L/N gave you a note!"

Hotch glanced over as he pulled away from the school parking lot, one hand steady on the wheel. "Oh? What’s it about?"

Jack grinned like he was holding the world's greatest secret. "I think she likes you."

Hotch blinked. "What?"

Jack wiggled in his seat, practically vibrating with excitement. "She sent you a note! Teachers don’t just send notes unless it’s important. And I heard my friend Olivia say that when someone writes you a note, it’s because they like you."

Suppressing a laugh, Hotch reached for the paper at a red light, unfolding it with careful fingers. His eyes skimmed over the words--just a standard, typed letter about an upcoming parent-teacher night and some classroom updates.

"Jack," he said, amusement coloring his voice, "this is just a general note. Every parent got one."

Jack frowned, his enthusiasm faltering for the first time. "Oh." He thought for a second, then brightened again. "But maybe she really wanted you to see it!"

Hotch sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. "I’m sure Miss. Y/L/N is a wonderful teacher, but she’s just doing her job. It’s not a secret message, buddy."

Jack crossed his arms, unconvinced. "I don’t know…she does walk me to pick-up.”

"Because she walks all the students to parent pick-up," Hotch countered.

Jack sat in contemplative silence for a few moments before mumbling, "Still think you’d be a good couple."

Hotch chuckled. "Noted."

The school hallways were quieter than usual, the loud bustle of daytime replaced by a hushed, anticipatory energy as parents trickled in for the evening's parent-teacher conferences. Hotch adjusted his tie as he approached your classroom, Jack's enthusiastic endorsements echoing in his mind.

He paused at the doorway, spotting you as you animatedly discussed a student's progress with a couple before him. Even from a distance, your passion was palpable, your gestures animated and your smile bright. When it was finally his turn, you looked up, recognition and warmth lighting up your features.

"Mr. Hotchner, it's great to finally meet you," you greeted, extending a hand. "Jack speaks so highly of you."

"The feeling is mutual," Hotch replied, taking your hand. "He hasn’t stopped talking about you since school started."

As you both sat down, the conversation flowed effortlessly. You shared insights about Jack's strengths and areas for improvement, your words thoughtful and encouraging. Hotch was struck not only by your understanding of his son but also by your genuine care for all your students.

"I strive to create an environment where they can all feel supported and challenged," you explained, your eyes lighting up with a fervor that resonated deeply with Hotch. It was clear teaching was not just a job for you but a calling.

The conversation shifted from academic achievements to personal interests, and Hotch found himself discussing topics he rarely explored with strangers. Your interest in classical literature and your hobbies sparked a shared enthusiasm. Hotch was pleasantly surprised by how much he enjoyed talking about his own rare escapes.

which he seldom shared due to his demanding job.

As the meeting concluded, Hotch stood up, feeling an unexpected reluctance to end the conversation. "Thank you for everything you’re doing for Jack," he said sincerely. "And not just for him--for all the kids."

"It’s truly my pleasure," you replied with a smile. "They make it easy."

There was a brief pause, a moment of shared understanding, and an unspoken acknowledgment of a connection neither expected.

"If you ever need help with any class activities or if you organize any field trips," Hotch added on impulse, "I’d be happy to contribute."

Your smile widened, pleased and surprised. "I'll definitely take you up on that."

As Hotch walked away, he couldn’t shake the warmth that filled his chest. Jack might have had childlike motives for wanting him to meet you, but Hotch couldn’t deny the genuine interest he felt--a spark ignited, perhaps, by the passion and beauty you exuded, both inside and out.

The door clicked shut behind Hotch, and the familiar sound of home was a welcome relief after the draining hours of a difficult case. As he shrugged off his coat, the sight that greeted him was anything but the quiet he had expected.

Jack was in the midst of chaos, surrounded by a whirlwind of craft supplies--glue sticks, construction paper, crayons--all spread out like a tornado had swept through their living room.

Jack had just begun staying home for short periods of time by himself--something Hotch didn’t take lightly, but this was not a sight that he ever expected to see.

"Jack, what's going on?" Hotch aske, his tone a mixture of amusement and concern as he stepped carefully over a stray roll of tape.

"Dad!" Jack looked up, his expression frantic but determined. "I need to make the perfect Valentine's card, but nothing looks right!"

Hotch knelt down, picking up a half-finished card that was more glue than paper. "Isn’t tomorrow just the school Valentine's party? What about the box of cartoon Valentines we bought last week?"

Jack shook his head vigorously, sending his hair into disarray. "Those are for my classmates! This one has to be special--it’s for Miss. Y/L/N. I want it to be perfect because I want her to come over for dinner and have a romance like in the movies. Like the Disney ones!" His eyes shone with the earnestness only a child could muster. "And you have the right hair to be like Prince Charming!"

Hotch couldn’t help but laugh softly, touched by his son's intentions yet aware of the need to tread carefully. "Jack, it’s very sweet that you want to do this for Miss. Y/L/N, but inviting her over for dinner and trying to set up a romance--that’s something she and I would have to talk about. It's not on you to worry about."

"But Dad, I just want you to be happy, and Miss. Y/L/N could make you smile," Jack protested, his lower lip trembling just a bit.

Sitting down beside his son, Hotch put an arm around him, pulling him close. "I know, buddy, and that means a lot to me. It’s okay to make her a card, but we should keep it about thanking her for being a great teacher, okay? As for dinner, how about we invite her over as a thank you from both of us, just to enjoy a meal, not as a date? We can see where things go from there."

Jack seemed to consider this for a moment before nodding, a small smile creeping back onto his face. "Can we still make it the best card ever?"

"Absolutely," Hotch agreed, his heart lightening at his son’s quick recovery. "Let’s see what we can create with less glue this time."

Together, they spent the evening crafting a more modest but heartfelt Valentine's card, Hotch guiding Jack’s enthusiastic efforts. As they worked, Hotch couldn’t help but think about your reaction, the warmth of your smile in his mind giving him more hope than he wanted to admit.

Maybe Jack’s little plan wasn’t so far-fetched after all, just premature. As they set the finished card aside to dry, Hotch found himself looking forward to handing it over, curious and slightly hopeful about where a simple dinner invitation might lead.

Valentine's Day had brought its usual flurry of excitement, and amidst it, Hotch received an email that made him pause. It was from you, thanking him for the generous card and his contributions to the classroom Valentine's Day party. Reading between the lines, Hotch assumed it was also a nod to the dinner invitation Jack had ambitiously included. Buttoning his coat, he headed to the school, curious and admittedly a bit nervous about the meeting.

As he entered the classroom, the scene was vibrant with kids laughing and trading candies and cards. Jack spotted him immediately and with a grin wide enough to split his face, dashed over and grabbed his hand, tugging him through the clusters of giggling children.

"There’s my dad!" Jack announced proudly, pulling Hotch towards you.

You laughed as Jack nearly yanked Hotch off his feet. "Easy there, Jack, don’t break your dad’s arm off!"

Jack paused, gave Hotch a comically exaggerated wink, and said, "I’ll leave the romance to you two--it is Valentine’s Day, after all!"

You chuckled, shaking your head at Jack's antics. "Hotch, you’ve raised quite the little charmer."

Hotch, a bit flushed but smiling, replied, "I’m not sure where he gets that from. I’m currently at a loss for words.

"That’s alright," you said with a gentle smile. "I don’t mind coming up with the words, as long as that dinner is still on the table."

"It definitely is," Hotch assured you, his tone warm and more confident.

From the corner of his eye, Hotch saw Jack giving a not-so-subtle thumbs up before darting off to join his friends, leaving Hotch and you to chat amidst the joyful chaos of the classroom party.

As the children continued their celebrations around you, the two of you discussed logistics for the dinner, the conversation easy and flowing naturally. It was clear that what started as a child’s innocent matchmaking might just turn into something truly special, much to Jack's delight--and perhaps to his credit.

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a-scary-lack-of-common-sense · 1 day ago

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Hello again wonderful person of the Internet!

Thank you for answering my previous question! But I have came to you for another one.

So I’ve seen a little bit of dialogue from Ford, but how does he speak? Like what is his speaking mannerisms? Is it all gibberish? Does he stutter? Does he repeat words?

Keep on making your art and being awesome! :)

~ Question asked from the Tiniest Cyclops ~

Hello, hello again, tiny cyclops in my inbox!

As I mentioned in this post where I go a bit more in depth on Ford's brain injury, Ford suffers from aphasia! Which is basically the loss of one's ability to express language and communicate, while not losing the ability to understand it. But I'm sure you already knew this; and if not, the more you know!

How does he speak? It really depends when you were to go up and talk to him in the timeline. His speech mannerisms the few following years right after his head trauma is very different from how he speaks now in canon! He's had 30 years to recover, after all.

Ford's speech right after his injury was practically non-exitstent. He was smacked in the face with all of the textbook definition symptoms of aphasia, ramped up to 100.

Speaking in short or incomplete sentences.

Speaking in sentences that don't make sense.

Substituting one word for another or one sound for another.

Speak unrecognizable words.

Have difficulty finding words.

Conversations with him back then were not "gibberish" per se, but more so just... slow. And frustrating for everyone involved, although no one could ever be more frustrated than Ford himself. I mean, can you imagine? He could barely say anything without monumental effort, and whatever meager words he managed to squeeze out of his throat were lackluster, to say the least. Every part of his speech were hindered: grammar, pronunciation, heck, even the tone, volume and rythm of his speech didn't always come out correctly.

Due to how recent his brain injury was, there was also the added physical impairments to his speech. The muscles involved in producing speech were weakened, affecting Ford's control and clarity of his words (this is also called: dysarthria).

From an outsider's perspective, listening to him would have felt a little like listening to an extremely corrupted audio file, or a faulty record player. He would often take long pauses in the middle of his words; his words sometimes blended into one another; and his sentences were short, and simple. I think this quote from this website explains it best.

"Speech may be 'telegraphic' omitting small words such as 'the'. So, 'tomorrow I'm going to the pub with my wife for our anniversary', may be expressed as 'tomorrow...pub... wife... anniversary'. This requires the listener to accurately piece the message together."

So, yeah! As you can imagine, speaking for him was extremely hard. Often times, the townfolk he tried to speak to didn't have the patience to stick around while he finished a sentence, and gradually even Ford lost patience with himself, so he just. Gave up. Which was why he used to be much quieter in the beginning, lurking around town wordlessly, not even really bothering even when someone tried to initiate conversation with him. For a genius who once prided himself so much of his eloquence, losing that ability was a huge blow for him.

How fast one recovers from aphasia really depends on the severity of the injury. It can either take up to a few hours, days, maybe even weeks to fully reover with no long term repercussions, or the symptoms can last months, even years to shake off, and occasionally it's a lifelong condition. Ford, due to the severity of his injury, drew the short end of the stick, and was stuck with the lingering aftereffects of aphasia pretty much forever.

BUT, he evenutally managed to find the will to speak again! At some point during his 30 years of recovery, he decided that he'll figure this shit out himself, goddamnit, he was a scientist. He outsmarted a demon! He didn't have time to be depressed, he needed to relearn how to SPEAK!! (fuck yeah, determination, baby).

And learn he did. Very painfully, very gradually, Ford became basically his own speech therapist for a few decades and relearned everything his body and brain forgot. And although the results aren't perfect- he still stutters, he still gets stuck on words and he still stumbles over them- considering the fact that he had no professional treatment from a clinic or doctor available, it was good enough.

Now he won't shut up! (lovingly)

#I HOPE THIS ANSWERS YOUR QUESTION AKFBWIF #I tend to go off tangent when I try to explain stuff in asks ✨️#long post #I talk too much...#my post #sput chatters #gravity falls #gravity falls au #town kook ford au #stanford pines #ford pines #grunkle ford #tw brain injury #my art

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lonewolflupe · 3 days ago

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I am sobbing this is so beautiful 😭❤️

EOOOOOO, first of all, happy Valentine's Day to you (again, since we were both night owling earlier this night 😂)! Secondly, :

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH

This is absolutely STUNNING and the perfect job for our dear Echo! I'm glad the other Dominoes were able to convince him, because this looks GOOD on him (everything does, actually; he's ARC badass Echo after all 🫠🥰) The pose is great, the armour/attire is awesome and the lighting is *gasp* AMAZING 😳😍 Also the background; wow, just wow..

I agree with the pink and glitter; not really my thing (my complete wardrobe is black for a reason). But it's Valentine's Day today, and this fits it so well <3

Dear Eobe, this art is absolutely amazing, thank you so much for creating this, and for the kindness and wholesomeness you spread through this community. I can't imagine it without you anymore 🥰 And also thank you so much for the kind words ❤️

Happy Valentine's Day to you all 🥰✨ARC trooper Echo CT-1409 is CT-1402 today and he's coming for you 😽 Get SHOT! 😎💘

Big shout-out to @lonewolflupe's wholesome Valentine's event 💘 Spread love, send messages, melt and drown in sugar, because you're the most loving and supportive community I've never dared to dream of 🥰

A close up, why it’s Echo, the targets and the inevitable ramble below the cut… 🏹

I always get grumpy and blushing when too much pink, glitter, candy and stuff, but deep inside I can't help myself and yield cuteness overload dopamining 🫠✨

ARC trooper Echo is on duty for this day and he won't do a job without the best and most badass gear! ✨😈 He even borrowed himself a winged sky trooper jetpack and Omega’s bow, but only because he can 😎✨ But Maker, he's allowed, he deserves and it's Echo! 💕

Have a closer look. I never did lighting like this before! 🤩 I don't know if it's accurate – I just thought and tried to imagine of how materials would reflect, how much and where and in which angle 🤯✨

I had fun and some frustration figuring his pose! First, he's with the jetpack, what to do with the legs?

Second, as I'm an archer myself, I wanted to give him a good archer posture, but he has a scomp too! +50 skill, +50 difficulty, +100 badassity. Good thing he can hook in this bow-ring of the Zygerrian design and I'm aware that there are many little inaccurate things to find, but I'm still a drawing Padawan, not a master 😂🫶

Third, angles. Can‘t tell what it is exactly. Something worm's eye view, little mortals on the ground looking up to sweet doom coming down from the aurora skies 🤩✨🧡❤️🩷💜✨

But I‘m actually a proud little drawing Padawan looking at this artwork at all 😱 Echo, you're worth the hours. Fandom, you even more. Get ECHOed, cuties 🫶 And everyone, who sees this! 💘

My headcanon, why it has to be Echo:

(Domino Squad at the Barracks)

Echo: No! NO, I don’t want to! Hevy: Vod, it HAS to be you! Echo: This just... isn’t fair! Droidbait: What‘s your problem, brother – I can’t do it, I‘d manage to get shot with this myself! Cutup: And besides that you‘re not as half as cute as Echo! Echo: (teeth gritted) hrrr… shutup cutup! Fives: Echo, they’re right AND you’re the only one around who has the number CT-140... Echo: (interrupting) YOU are the one who always echoes that were NOT our numbers, not me! Why don't YOU be named "Echo", huh? Fives: (handing Echo the Cupid bow, doing huge puppy eyes) Vod – yes, we‘re not numbers, but being Cupid CT-1402 is actually a good thing and... not matter any numbers, you're just the best of us all. 💕🏹 Cutup: … And you really can’t hand this Droidbait! All: Shut up, Cutup!

Targets, that volunteered 😎💘:

@eclec-tech – Writing owl twin, always having a spicy caf for me, managing to inspire me into colorful dimensions and owling with meee 🧡✨ @clonethirstingisreal – My warmhearted friend, always encouraging 🥰🫶 @vrycurious – One of my most supportive out of the box thinking moots 🤩🫶 Targets, that kind of volunteered 💞👀:

@returnofthepineapple – Sweet Piña 🍍🥰 'STOKED' hehe! @freesia-writes – Cute! 😻 Side eying too loud in the reblog 👀 @crosshairs-dumb-pimp-gf – Hot chick calling me bb 😽🌹💋 @523rdrebel – hehehe 😏 'can't wait' @littletroggo – Cute moot doing cute art and also ‘can't wait' 🥰✨ @cw80831 – Most proper tagging support! 🤩✨ Targets, that are locked in my crosshair 🤪💞✨:

@ghostymarni – Sweet vod 💗 Queen of Chaos, holding my beer 🍺💘 @wings-and-beskargam – Chaos twin vod 💙🫶🩵 endlessly patient and giving, lovely soul 💘 Targets, that won't get away 😎💘✨:

@lonewolflupe – Double tag, double target, double shot 🤩🏹💖💘 Get ECHOed thoroughly 😏💞🦾 Thank you for everything – you KNOW what I'm thanking you for and will never stop being thankful 🥰 🫠

@foxwithadarkside – no words needed but anyway 😎🏹✨ Muse, art collab witch, badass, quality talk, thank you 💘😽

General volunteering targets: @bixlasagna @sunshinesdaydream @covert1ntrovert @general-ida-raven @dystopicjumpsuit @chaicilatte @groguandthebadbatch @ladylucksrogue @spaceyjessa @morerandombullshit

#echo my beloved #tbb echo #arc trooper echo #ct 1402 cupid #clone valentine #valentine's day #others' art

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lo1k-diamonds · 2 days ago

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A woman's best friend 💜 Part 2

PAIRING: Taehyung x (f)reader

SUMMARY: After falling into temptation once, you and Taehyung tried to navigate the aftermath as best as possible. It turns out none of you can handle it, so your friendship is bound to end one way or another.

WORD COUNT: 7,127

GENRE: f2l, smut (uni AU setting)

RATING: R (explicit)

WARNINGS: mutual pining, angst, dirty talk, body worship, nipple play, oral (m receiving), fingering, protected sex

A.N. I know part 1 was bittersweet, and I am a sucker for happy endings, so here is part 2 with a shiny new ending for this couple 😚 I think it has the right vibe for Valentine's Day, enjoy! (Thank you to @eerieedits again for the awesome banner 💜)

Masterlist | Scroll my stories on Tumblr | Schedule and WIPs | AO3 | Wattpad

The rhythmic thud thud on the window made you pull the curtain and look out the window. It was storming outside, and the night lights glistened as cars passed in the roads below and people enjoyed their Saturday night.

Not you, though. Once, you had two types of Saturdays: the ones you’d go out with all your friends and the ones you’d stay home hanging out with Taehyung. Lately, you had neither, and it was all your fault.

You still remembered a night like this one. Turning away from the window, you let your gaze wander your living room. Back then, Physical: 100 kept playing on the TV screen for a long time, serving as background noise as you stayed in Taehyung’s arms. You lost track of time, then, staying awake and worrying about what that night would change.

You never discussed it further with Taehyung. He had fallen asleep, breathing gently with his arms around you, and you stayed perfectly still, aware of every ticking second. The conflict inside your chest was paralyzing — you didn’t want that night to end, but you also feared it continuing. The more you touched or interacted with him intimately, the harder everything would get.

Those thoughts kept you awake, staring at the ceiling. So you recalled when the TV timed out and switched off, prompting you to go to the bathroom and come back only to find Taehyung exactly where you left him, naked with a blanket partially covering him as he slept. You didn’t regret slipping back into his embrace; you’d never get another chance. He wouldn’t know you had decided to return to his arms or how much you needed his warmth to calm down and fall asleep.

When you woke up, you found out a summer storm had broken out. It rained so much, then, but the same thud thud from the windows was unable to draw you away from his arms. All you could do was linger in his warmth for one second longer while you worried. Dreading and fearing how you’d ever look at him and not remember. How you’d brush each other and fake not having butterflies in your stomach. What if you saw him with someone else? How were you supposed to be his wing-woman again?

Of course, Taehyung had reacted the way you expected him to when he woke up. He chuckled at the pouring rain outside, happy that he had his leather jacket with him, and smiled dazzlingly when he saw you in a robe with your morning hair.

Then, before he left, he reassured you again, “Don’t worry about it.”

But you were yourself, and you had been right to worry. The problem wasn’t that you had slept together but that it had changed something inside your heart. Those feelings you once thought buried refused to vanish, the hope you once thought dead was alive and kicking, and to make things worse, you couldn’t forget.

Taehyung invited you for an ice cream, and you remembered what his eating you out felt like. He told you about this movie he wanted to see, and you knew what his baritone voice teasing you would sound like in the dark. He was excited about the new classes he was taking, even more so because you were there, too, and you shuddered at the memory of him kissing you as he came deep inside you, holding you so close you felt like a treasure. He promised to take you home when your group of friends decided to check out a new club, and you dreaded the whole night, both because he could choose to hook up with someone and because you wished that person could be you. Finally, he invited you to work on a group assignment together, and as you listened to him passionately go on about the topic, you wondered if you’d ever be able to reel your feelings back in.

You screwed yourself up over that one single weak moment. That yes had turned your life upside down, and while Taehyung kept his promise of being your best friend, you couldn’t.

So you did the only logical thing — you started avoiding him. It was inevitable — if his proximity made it impossible for you to get over him, then the only natural solution was not to have him close.

You weren’t sure he noticed, but you knew he was understanding. He never mentioned the situation and treated you like nothing happened. He never pushed to know why you started saying no to night outs or confronted you about being tired every time he invited you over. You were never able to invite him to come over and be alone again in that very same living room, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out why, so it didn’t surprise you never asked about it.

In the end, it hurt you more than anyone. You were frustrated with yourself; you asked for this, it was all your doing. But you were helpless. Sometimes, you could act normal, and your interactions were playful and warm, as always. He poked you under the table? You knew there was a joke coming. Or he’d lean into your ear to whisper something, and your heart wouldn’t somersault and expect a caress. However, other times, you couldn’t help but withdraw your hand or avoid sitting next to him and letting such interactions bloom. Because you’d read into them or remember or wish for things to be different, and you hated it. Hated it all.

You were about to turn on the TV and search for something that could take your mind off him when the doorbell rang. You wondered if the neighbor had put the wrong door number on the food delivery again, but Taehyung was outside your door like an apparition.

Despite his black leather jacket, he looked drenched and dejected. He raised his dark eyes to yours. “Hi, can I come in?”

You didn’t hesitate to reach out to pull him inside. “Of course, let me grab a towel!”

You let him enter your place first and close the door behind him, then rushed to your bathroom to get a towel. Only when you came back to the living room did you realize it was odd that he was there.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with the others tonight?” you asked as you threw the towel over his head to dry his dripping hair. “How come you’re here?”

He grabbed your hands and pulled the towel away so he could face you. “I can’t take this anymore. We need to talk.”

“Alright! Who wants to drink what?”

Taehyung barely heard Jimin's question as your group of friends sat around on the couches and loveseats. That was their corner; they always sat there, and as he waited for everyone to settle down, his heart dropped. The loveseat you always shared with him was empty. You weren’t there again.

Taehyung asked about you quietly, trying to conceal the way his heart was squeezing inside his chest.

“She’s not coming,” Jimin answered, then shrugged. “Something about being tired.”

“She’s always tired lately!” Hoseok huffed as he sat next to Jungkook, who hummed.

“Maybe she’s sick?”

“When’s the last time we’ve seen her?” Jin wondered, and Namjoon sat on a beige pouf.

“Couple of weeks? Anyway, why are you asking?”

“You would know better than us,” Yoongi croaked with a quirk of his eyebrow. “Don’t you have classes with her?”

“Aren’t you best friends?”

Taehyung nodded absentmindedly as they resumed choosing their drinks, and the weight inside his chest didn’t relent. Yes, he saw you; he should know about you. He should be able to understand, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t. You were slipping between his fingers, and he just couldn’t sit idly by and watch it happen anymore.

“I gotta go.”

He rushed outside without hearing their protests, and the pouring rain greeted him. It wasn’t enough to dissuade him; he raised his leather jacket’s lapel to cover his neck and made his way in between the people trying to reach the nightbars and get cover from the rain. You lived fifteen minutes away; you were just within reach.

It was all his fault. He should have thought twice about crossing the line with you, even when you said yes. Not just for you, but for his own sake. That night was branded in his memory, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move on from it. And he tried. He tried doing everything right. He tried pretending nothing happened, that he didn’t want anything more than friendship with you, that it wasn’t a big deal. He tried looking at you as purely as a friend would, and he tried looking at other people the way he knew he shouldn’t look at you. Yet, even in the few moments he was able to entertain the thought of someone else or get engrossed in a conversation with them, it was always the same. The moment you crossed his mind, he was reminded why it wouldn’t work. He’d be talking with someone clearly interested in him and instantly thinking about your kiss, your smile, your gaze as you kneeled before him, your teases. The person in front of him would touch his thigh, hinting at something more, and he’d instantly raise a wall. You were on his mind, and even if being friends was the only thing you wanted, it didn’t mean his heart or body wanted anyone else.

He craved you. That night wasn't just a dream or a type of heaven he wished had become permanent. It was a risk in every sense. He knew he wasn't just fucking you. He didn’t want just to leave you a slobbering mess, he wanted more. He wanted to look into your eyes and see it — the moment you'd realize how good you felt together. How perfect it was and could be. He wanted to look into your eyes and see the moment you'd fall in love with him.

And that was his biggest mistake. That one moment of pure greed — it wouldn't happen, he knew that. Even if you were curious about him, that wouldn't just happen. Best case scenario, you'd scratch the itch, be it for sex or curiosity, and move on. Worst case scenario, you'd regret it and never look at him the same way again.

He suspected the latter was happening despite his efforts. The whole night he had you in his arms, he struggled to enjoy it after the way you revealed your worries. His heart burned with a discomfort he couldn’t voice while he prayed that he wouldn’t lose you. That, no matter what happened, you'd stay in his life.

But he should have known. It was worse than a drunk one-night stand with someone from your friend group. You were best friends; of course, it was hard for you.

You started pulling away, and he instantly noticed. At first, it was the little things. You'd withdraw your hand from his or flinch ever so slightly when he leaned in closer. You didn’t invite him to spend time or the night in your apartment, just the two of you, and he understood why. The worst was that you withdrew from your typical antics and cut your smiles short. You’d be sitting next to him and not even look his way, and it withered his heart. Of course, when you did turn to him, he always had a smile for you. He wanted to be a comforting presence no matter how fleeting your interactions were, but still, it only got worse.

It hurt when you avoided sitting next to him or dancing, and then you started disappearing. You didn't show up to all classes anymore, and you didn't hang out with your group of friends, at least not when he showed up. Then he'd text you to ask about it and notice that even through messages, things had changed. You texted less and less, and the distance was breaking his heart.

He kept running through the stormy weather with his hair dripping down his forehead. He didn't care; nothing mattered at this point. It had been two weeks since he last saw you, and there were only three or four texts in between. What he feared was happening, it was undeniable, but he wouldn't go down without a fight. He needed to see you and try one last time. It would be his dying breath, but at least he'd try. For once, he'd bare his soul and hope you'd do the same and forgive him. He just didn't want to lose you. He loved you so much.

He crossed a delivery boy at your apartment building entrance and ran upstairs to consume some of that nervous energy. Then, he rang the doorbell, and you opened the door for him, and his heart convulsed. God, he missed you so desperately.

“Hi, can I come in?” he mumbled, lost in the sight of you in your robe that brought him such bittersweet memories.

You pulled him inside without hesitating. “Of course, let me grab a towel!”

You closed the door behind him, and he took his shoes off so he wouldn’t make a puddle in your living room. Yet that was the last thought he had before where he was hit. That couch, that place. His heart ached again as he turned to you, and you threw a towel over his head.

“Weren’t you supposed to go out with the others tonight?” you asked as you patted the towel to dry his dripping hair. “How come you’re here?”

He grabbed your hands and pulled the towel away to face you. “I can’t take this anymore. We need to talk.”

He saw the second you tensed as the towel fell to the floor, but you didn't withdraw your hands, and he was not holding back.

“You said you didn't want things to change, and I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to hold onto you,” he said, pain lacing his voice. “But I can't if you keep pushing me away like this.”

He paused, looking at your startled and tense expression, waiting for you to say something, but you were frozen.

He lowered his hands but kept holding onto yours. “I'm sorry if I ever hurt you. If I pushed you to do something that made you uncomfortable with me. It's my fault, I got carried away with my own selfish feelings,” he confessed, tearing up with a sad smile. “I promise I won't ever touch you again or bring up anything inappropriate, so please.” He let go of your hands gently. “Please forgive me. Please say we can still do something about this because I can't— I don't want to lose you.”

His voice wobbled, and you frowned, shaking your head.

“I’m the one who is sorry,” you managed to say despite the tears pushing to get out. “Because it’s my fault. My selfish feelings, not yours. I'm the one who said yes and then couldn’t handle it. I'm so sorry, I— I should have told you, but I— I’m so sorry—”

You stammered, rubbing your face in embarrassment, distraught. You needed to tell him; you couldn’t let him think he did something wrong. But what if he thought staying friends would worsen things and decided to end everything?

“Told me what?” he asked, anxiously stepping closer to you. “Please, tell me,” he requested softly, but you kept hiding your face. “Please.”

Your hands started shaking over your face, and he suddenly realized you were holding back your cry as you trembled.

His heart sank. “Did I hurt you? Fuck, I’m so sorry!”

You uncovered your face to look at him. “No, you didn't.”

He held his breath as he observed you cleaning your cheeks. “But you’re crying,” he pointed out, desolation tearing his chest. “I'm so sorry! I promise I won’t ever do it again!”

You wiped your cheek annoyedly and reached to grab his jacket. “Stop!”

“I never wanted to hurt you, I—”

“Stop it!”

“I won't ever touch you again, I just—”

“Stop saying that!”

He stayed put, no matter how angrily you held onto his jacket. “I’ll never forgive myself if—”

“STOP!” You had to shout and pull him to you so firmly that he stumbled in your direction. Desperation was taking hold of you as sobs shook you, but his disheartened eyes kept you focused. “You never hurt me, I don't want you to think that for a second!”

“But… you've distanced yourself from me.”

“I know,” you croaked, looking down at his lips curved sadly.

“You said you didn't want things to change.”

“I know…”

“You said you didn't want it to ruin our friendship.”

“I did…”

Taehyung waited for you to say something or look into his eyes again, but you didn't.

So he asked, “Did it?”

“Yes.” Your eyes finally rose from his lips, and you had to be truthful. “I can't be your friend anymore.”

Taehyung paled and stared at you, speechless, livid. His heart broke; his worst nightmare was—

“I look at you, and friendship doesn't begin to cover how I feel.”

“What?” He blinked, befuddled as his thought process stumbled on itself.

“I should have told you, but I never thought you’d— I knew it would be risky, but—” You licked your lips, having a hard time ordering your thoughts. “At that moment, when you asked, I just— Of course, I said yes, I— I’ve wanted you for so long, I— I should have known it would mess me up— I begged you not to let things change because I knew— I knew they would change for me, and—”

You were struggling to breathe and say everything you wanted, and he supported your arms as you held onto his jacket.

“You wanted me?” he asked softly, and you nodded. “What changed? Please… Please tell me.”

His gentle expression and supporting hands gave you the courage you needed. “Everything— everything changed,” you confessed. “I can’t look at you the same way. I can’t look at you without wanting to touch you or kiss you. I’m sorry, I—”

He cradled your cheeks suddenly and crashed his mouth to yours, and you whimpered ever so softly. You gripped him closer by his leather jacket and kissed him back, not hesitating for a second to meet his tongue with yours. You wanted to lick that taste back into your life, that warmth, that comfort you missed terribly.

You thought he felt the same way when he halted your kiss to a simple press of your mouths as though he needed to feel it. When he pulled away, his eyes were red and glistening, eying you with such emotion your heart trembled.

“You wanted to kiss me?” he asked, still cradling your cheeks.

“Yes.”

“To touch me?”

You nodded anxiously. “Yes.”

“That's what changed?”

“No.” You looked at his lips again before facing him. “I've always wanted to, but we were friends. Now, I just can't pretend anymore.”

“You mean… you don't see me as a friend?”

You shook your head still in his grasp.

“So you don't regret it?”

You could see him relaxing, his features soothing as you two talked, so you shook your head again. “I don't. Do you?”

“No,” he replied instantly, smiling. “I did when I thought you pulled away from me because I hurt you, but—”

“You didn't,” you assured again, pulling him closer. “Do you… Could you see us as more than friends?”

“Fuck yes,” he rasped, brushing your cheeks gently. “I want to be yours. I’ve wanted it for so long. There’s nothing else I want.”

“Really?”

Your eyes watered as you looked into his. Was this a dream?

He smirked. “Really. You better start believing it because if you let me into your bed again, I’m not leaving. Like ever.”

You chuckled and bit your lip. “If I invite you, I expect you to never leave. We cross the line and get rid of it. We say things that make us feel like more than just friends because we are more than—”

He crashed his lips into yours again, letting go of your jaw to pull you closer by the waist until your chests were glued. His leather jacket was still dripping from the rain, but you didn't care. If he kept kissing you like that, he wouldn't have it on for much longer anyway.

“Say it, then,” he mumbled between kisses. “You know the drill.”

You chuckled. “Do I?”

He hummed, chasing your lips.

“I only know the one to give you the green light to fuck me into a slobbering mess—”

His groan as he dragged his lips to your neck made you clench around nothing, and you bit your lip.

“But what if I don't want just to fuck?”

He pulled away to face you, with blown pupils and wet lips, held in check.

“What if I want to be yours?”

“I'll make you mine,” he promised, grabbing your hair on the back of your head so you'd face his dark eyes. “I'll make you forget ever not being mine.”

“In one of those five ways you thought of?”

Your whisper was not simply a tease, and you suspected he knew it when he groaned and leaned in to peck your lips.

“I've since thought of many more.”

He licked and nibbled your lips, and you had to close your eyes with the shudders.

“You thought about fucking me?”

“I haven't thought of fucking anyone else ever since I met you.”

Your cheeks burned as you snapped your eyes open. “What?”

“You heard me,” he murmured against your chin.

“But— I helped you— with that other guy—”

He shrugged. “Nothing happened. We got outside the bar and went our separate ways.”

“You never told me that!”

“Well, what could I say?” he said, speaking close enough to you that you could feel his breath on your lips. “That I wasn't really interested and went home to fuck my fist while I thought of you? I didn't think you'd appreciate that—”

It was your turn to grab his hair and pull him down to kiss you again, consuming just a little bit more. Your tongue darted out to lick, tease, and take, and he fought you with a low groan. Whatever you wanted, he wanted it too if it meant you were going to kiss him like that.

“You have— no idea— how much— that drives me crazy,” you managed to say between kisses. “The thought of you— thinking of me— fuck—”

He seemed to get an idea because his hands lowered to your ass to squeeze it, catching you when you jumped into his arms. You never stopped kissing, even as he walked with you in his hands, until your back hit a wall.

You didn't care how or where he fucked you as long as he did. Of course, your mouth was busy as you opened it more so he could deepen the kiss, so you couldn’t tell him. But you could show him in the way your legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close. Your heavy breathing matched his as your hands explored and tried touching him everywhere you could, but his jacket was in the way. He likely felt the same, seeing the way he fought to open your robe and tried getting it out of the way so he could kiss down your neck into the cleavage of your pajama top.

You chuckled; the two of you were making things harder by trying to undress each other at the same time. His eyes crinkled as he matched your smile and gave you the lead. His lips trailed your jaw as you pulled your robe open and shrugged it back to give him access to your neck and collarbone. Your skin instantly drew his lips, allowing you to push his jacket off him while he was happily distracted.

You tried to get rid of his sweater, too, but couldn't. As soon as his jacket hit the floor, he wrapped his arms around you again and buried his face between your tits, squeezing you to him so firmly you couldn’t breathe. However, you could feel the way he was rutting into you and it drew a quiet moan as you fisted his hair.

Goosebumps ran over you as he licked your cleavage, dragging his tongue over every inch of skin he could reach, and you needed more. You released one hand to reach in between your bodies with the single goal of touching him, and it wasn't easy. His ruts were unpredictable, not leaving any space between you, but you needed to grasp his desire for you, feel it in the palm of your hand.

When he raised his lips to kiss you again, it gave you the opportunity to unbutton his jeans. His tongue pushed through your lips, deepening his kiss so much you moaned quietly, muffled. Yet it just complemented and amplified your urge to grab him, and you did.

Your hand finally reached inside his boxers to grab his dick and pull it out, and he groaned. Your hand clamped shut around him, fisting him unapologetically, and he had to break your lips apart to moan softly. You adored the way he held his breath, letting his forehead fall to yours as he closed his eyes, taking in everything you gave him. His sweet expression sparked your desire even further, so you kept pumping him, delighted with the precum dripping around your fingers and his knitted eyebrows.

You'd go to the last consequences of this with pleasure, but he suddenly grabbed your hand away and pressed himself to you. You were squished between the wall and his body, but you had zero reservations about it, especially when he kissed you like that. His mouth crushed yours as his hips thrust into you, jumpstarting a carnal hunger that consumed you. His hand dug under your pajama top, scratching your skin up to squeeze your tits, and you moaned, bucking your hips to match his. His tongue was so deep in your mouth that you were drooling, both desperate to moan and feel the tip of his cock rubbing against your unfortunately still-covered cunt. You were fucking desperate to have him, and you'd gladly cum right here and now if he filled you up.

“Tae,” you tried, barely able to part your lips from his. “I need you inside me, please.”

He moved in a flash, checking his pants were open enough to give him space before letting you stand to pull your pants down your legs.

You gripped his shoulders for support, then sighed when he leaned in to nip just under your ear. His fingers skimmed your wet folds before pushing two fingers in roughly, unleashing your moans as he touched all the right spots inside you.

You were so ready to blow you could feel the enthralling pleasure tingling in your nerve ends.

But somehow, you had a discerning thought. “Condom… Tae… Grab a condom.”

He stopped suckling on the skin of your neck to eye you with a lustful gaze.

“I'm not on the pill,” you whispered, brushing his luscious hair off his eyes. He looked absolutely dazzling, and you wanted him to fuck you till you couldn’t even stand, but you did not want accidents. Not yet, anyway.

He blinked, his hand pulling out of you to feel his pockets. “I… I don't have one. The last time… I never got another one.”

You chuckled and he pouted, and you could read his thoughts.

“Not like I planned for this to—”

You kissed him, then pushed him back to have space to move away from his hold. “I know, I'll get one.” He tried to catch you, but you jumped over your clothes gracefully, only turning back to tell him, “Bed. In my bed.’

You got to your roommate's room to search for condoms. Hopefully, she had some, even though she spent more time at her boyfriend’s than there.

It wasn't hard to find them on her nightstand, and you took the whole box with you. It was not like she'd need them tonight.

You wondered how Taehyung would greet you but still staggered at your bedroom's entrance. He was lying on his back, arms spread over your bed sheets as he stared at the ceiling. Having heard you come in, he raised his head and promptly sat up.

Even though his pants were unbuttoned and his clothes drenched, nothing would have given away what you were doing just minutes before. Except perhaps his dark glistening eyes running up and down your figure before they set back on yours.

You were naked from the waist down, yet suddenly, it wasn't enough. His eyes were curious and electrifying, and you wanted to keep going. Your heart was thumping loudly inside your chest, the thrill of that moment making you tremble, but you waited.

He raised his hand for you to grab, and your heart finally settled as you took it. Your fingers fit in his perfectly, and as he hugged you to him, resting his head on your chest, you finally stopped trembling. On the contrary, you caressed his head calmly as he held you. It felt like reaching home at long last. It was the first time you were touching each other like that, with such vulnerability and with all the cards on the table, and yet it was the best type of feeling.

He pulled away to look up at you, and you caressed his face gently, letting that ease echo between the two of you. It was real — his hands on your waist, his sparkling eyes, and the adoration in them. You knew then that it was as validating and fulfilling for him as it was for you that you were finally in each other's arms.

“Did you find one?” he asked hoarsely, and you nodded. “Do you want to stop?”

“Hell no.”

You frowned, and he wetted his lips. “I don't want to move too fast and mess this up. I care so much about you.”

You brushed the back of your fingers down his cheeks sweetly. “Me too. But we're not moving too fast. Right? We've been friends forever, and we want to be more than that.”

He nodded, his eyelashes fluttering as he enjoyed your touch. “Please.”

“Then let's,” you whispered, leaning in to nuzzle him. “I don't want to wait.”

“Then we don't.”

He was ready to get up and touch you, but you simply smiled and pecked him before getting on your knees. You could see how his lips parted expectingly as his eyes transfixed on you, making you giddy. You gave him an excited smile and reached for the hem of his pants, and he helped you get them off. Then you bit your lip as you reached and grabbed his erection again.

His head dropped back at the softness of your touch as he mumbled your name, and you nodded. “I want to suck you off.”

You never thought you'd get another chance to grab that juicy cock, let alone delight yourself in its smoothness and taste. You would have admitted to Taehyung how much you thought and fantasized about a moment like that one, but the words evaporated from your mouth. Your only thought was his taste, and as soon as a precum drop glistened over his slit, you dove in.

You sighed as he groaned above your head, instantly grabbing your hair out of the way as you sucked. You didn't even realize how intensely you were doing it, bobbing your head so he'd touch the back of your throat, because you were out. His cock pushing inside your mouth made you anticipate how he'd feel inside your tight walls, and his moans made your mind soar high, elated. Taehyung, only the one you had wanted and had feelings for forever, was right there, losing his mind with you. Because of you. Because he wasn't indifferent to you. He actually wanted you just the same, had feelings for you, thought of you, longed for you—

“Fuck— Wait—”

His voice was strangled, but you weren't listening. You here so dazed, clenching around nothing and high on your desire, that you only realized the reason for his warning too late.

His warm taste invaded your mouth, and you moaned, gushing between your legs at the thought of him losing control. Yet, in a split second, his hand wrapped over yours around the base of his cock so tightly it was almost painful for you.

Only then did you stop blowing him and pulled away, confused, and looked between him and his delicious cock. You had tasted cum for sure, and yet despite the way his dick twitched in front of you, there was no more coming out. He was groaning harshly, almost frustratingly, but you knew by his expression that pleasure was assaulting his nerve ends.

When he finally stopped groaning, his dark eyes opened. “What do you think you're doing?”

His voice was quiet, almost annoyed, and you just blinked up at him.

“You didn't tell me to stop.”

“I told you to wait.”

You simply shrugged. “You did say something like that, I just… I told you I wanted to suck you off.”

“And I told you I'd make you mine.”

“You still can,” you argued as he grabbed your hands to pull you up and get you on the bed.

“Not if I came fully.”

You shrugged and let him pull your legs around him as you leaned back on the sheets. “We have all night.”

“We have forever,” he underlined, making you chuckle as he got on top of you in between your legs. “Starting right now.”

You could only be amused and giddy with his assertiveness about making you his, and he smiled too. He brushed his hands along your naked legs, then leaned in to kiss your neck as his fingers got tantalizingly close. You tensed under him, gripping his shoulders. You waited impatiently, expecting to feel his touch any second and wondering how he'd react when he found out how ready you were.

“Holy shit,” he almost whined when his fingers slid along your slit. You moaned back, shuddering with his touch. You knew you were slippery and dripping, and now he did too. If the pool between your legs wasn't obvious, the sounds surely gave you away. “You're so ready for me.”

You moaned your agreement as you gripped the sheets. His fingers weren't eager like before; this time, he patiently dragged his digits along your folds, pressing gentle circles on your clit now and then. Your whole body trembled every time he did, letting his kisses and nibbles on your neck build you up so intensely that you didn't know what to do anymore. You were hot and trembling, and moaning just wasn't enough.

You gripped his hair in search of something, and his answer was to crash his lips to yours. The kiss turned consuming instantly, and you moaned into his mouth, completely overwhelmed. His fingers entered you and hooked, pressing into your sensitive flesh with lewd sounds, and you couldn’t hold on anymore. You tried whimpering his name in between kisses, and if anything, he firmly kept going with his fingers, both inside and out, over your clit. It drove you to pull his hair harshly back, parting your mouths with strings of saliva between you, yet you didn't notice. Your orgasm burst through you, and you lost sight of yourself, moaning desperately in his hold, gripping his hair so tightly, you surely pulled it painfully.

You noticed this when you came to, blinking at him sluggishly. Your fingers instantly relented their hold, yet absolutely nothing in his expression indicated any pain. On the contrary, he was enticed. He was looking at you as though you had bewitched him.

He raised his hand to brush the hair out of your face, careful not to use the fingers still covered in your slick. “You're so beautiful.”

You would have blushed if you weren't already hot and bothered. Instead, you met his lips with yours, kissing him more calmly than he was able to. You melted a bit more with how he matched your gentleness, careful not to push or impose. He was adorable, and you were not done yet.

“Too hot,” you whined when the kisses picked up steam. “Get rid of it,” you asked, pulling on his sweater.

He firmly pressed his lips to yours before rising to his knees and pulling the sweater off. Then, he saw you struggling with your robe and helped you. Your pajama top met the same fate as his clothes on the floor, and you giggled because before it could even happen, he was already grabbing your tits and licking a nipple wildly.

Moans interrupted your laughter as he licked and pinched, slurping your hardened nipples inside his mouth one at a time. You squirmed under him, trying to both grab him close and escape the onslaught. The more you writhed, the more you felt his hard dick pressed to your thigh, leaking against it as he rutted.

It drove you fucking wild because no matter how much you enjoyed having him eat your chest, you craved him inside you so much more right now. “Make me yours,” you begged, locking your glistening eyes with his when he looked up from the drooling mess he was making on your chest. “Don’t wanna wait, I need you.”

You noticed the red spots his lips were leaving behind on your chest, but you didn’t care because, in an instant, he was kissing you again. He stole your breath, diving in while you relished his hands tracing your curves until they caught your legs, spreading them so he could press his dripping cock and grind against your soaked cunt.

You groaned, unable to control your bucking hips to match him. The quiet moans out of his mouth burned you from the inside out, setting you on a path that could only end in you both consuming that passion sizzling between you.

But he pulled away from your lips, hiding in your neck and panting heavily as you moaned.

“Tell me where the condom is, or I’ll fuck you without it.”

You whimpered, feeling the way he slid across your folds length and rubbed your clit deliciously. “I’m so close.”

He uttered your name in a scold, the warning lingering as you kept bucking your hips. You opened your eyes to face him and bit your lip, so fucking close you could see it. You were tempted to throw all caution out the window and have him raw. To raise your hips so he’d get inside you right as you came around his thick cock, creaming him from tip to base. The very thought was risky; his current expression was already pure lust, holding on by a single thread. If you pushed him, he’d fuck you raw and right, just like you craved.

But you let your hips fall to the mattress and relented. “Right pocket of my robe.”

He felt the robe still under you and ended up raising his hips away from you before you’d both lose it. It made you sigh and feel beneath you as well, finally finding the crumpled part of the robe that had the pocket you both needed.

He tore the wrapper open with his teeth and got the condom on as fast as he could. When his eyes raised back to yours, and he grabbed your legs, pushing them to your sides, you clenched. His expression was dark and unreserved, as though the brakes had come off, and it made you shudder.

Yet when he aligned his dick with your entrance and sank in, he was nothing but respectful and careful, almost solemn. The way your tight embrace left him adrift was evident in the way his eyebrows knitted and his jaw hardened, but he didn’t ram inside you or let that feeling overcome his control. He waited for you to adjust to his size, but you kept clenching around him, prompting him to look at you.

You had felt him before, but it was just as earth-shattering as the first time. You simply shook your head as you sighed. “You feel so good— Don’t hold back!”

He almost growled as he let his hips snap to yours, and you let your head fall back. Your hips matched his, increasing the intensity of each thrust, and it was wild. You got lost in the sounds of skin slapping and moans and the heat overwhelming you from the inside out. He adjusted your legs to bend further, perfecting his angle to one that simply unleashed your voice with every slam and let him guide you to the finish line.

He knew you were close by the way your pussy sucked him in, tightening like a vice that barely let him move away. It made him tremble from head to toe as he groaned in your neck. “Just like last time— I've dreamed of this for so long,” he confessed, trying to kiss you, even as you both heaved and tried keeping that hallucinated rhythm.

“Me too,” you whimpered, searching for his eyes in the midst of it all. His hand wrapped around your hair, keeping your eyes on his as though he needed to look at you, too, and you squirmed with watering eyes. This time, you didn’t need to hide. This time, you could lose yourself because he was yours. “Please.”

You mumbled his name between moans as you begged, and he listened. He was lost in the pleasure, but he was attentive to you, noticing all the little cues he was only once privy to. You moved with him as your eyes rolled back closed and your nails dug into his shoulders, and he felt the shattering orgasm start around his cock before he heard your moans.

Your orgasm started his out of nowhere, but as he grunted and trembled in your arms, he had only exhilaration radiating from every pore. He spilled his cum as deeply as your quivering heat allowed it but quickly and eagerly opened his eyes to look at you. You were still trembling and moaning breathily with your lip between your teeth, but then you looked at him, and he knew.

He’d never catch the moment you fell in love with him, because the truth was, you already had.

107 notes · View notes

dreamersworldduh · 18 hours ago

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Omg hiiii again,i don't know if you've watched Teen Wolf, but can you write of Stiles stilinski. Instead of Stiles liking Lydia since third grade, he's like the male reader instead, and he's finally wanted to make a move on male reader so he tries to show off at lacrosse practice but it failed and he continues until he finally confess to male reader. If it could get a little sexual at the end it would be soo appreciated 🙏🙏. Your works are still sooo good, and I loved my request you did. Thank you so much 🙏🙏🙏

CLUMSY CONFESSIONS

• STILES STILINSKI x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Stiles Stilinski has spent years secretly in love with his best friend but never found the courage to confess. However, after an intense lacrosse practice where he pushed himself to impress you—only to end up in the hospital—he began to realize he couldn't keep his feelings bottled up any longer.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 6.9k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with the sarcastic, witty and dashing, Stiles Stilinski. There’s a easter egg in there from one of my favorite movies—if you catch (you are awesome). This was fun to write—honestly there might be a part 2, but anyway I hope you enjoy ✨

Nine years, six months, and two days. That's exactly how long Stiles Stilinski has been in love with you—not that he's been counting or anything. Not that he lies awake at night, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his bedroom ceiling, replaying every moment, every touch, every stolen glance between you. Not that he marks the time in the way your laughter has changed over the years, from the high-pitched giggles of childhood to the softer, more knowing chuckles of adolescence.

It all started in third grade, in Mrs. Carter's classroom, where you plopped down beside him without hesitation, your pencil poised over wide-ruled paper, the scent of bubblegum lingering in the air between you. You were the first person to truly see him—not just as the hyperactive kid with too many thoughts and too little filter, but as Stiles. You noticed things, like how he bit his lip when he was nervous or how he tapped his fingers against his desk in a pattern only he understood. You laughed at his jokes, even the really bad ones, and when he forgot his fruit snacks, you always—always—slid half of yours across the desk without a second thought.

At first, it was admiration, a simple fondness for the way you scrunched your nose when you concentrated, the way your hair caught the sunlight just right, the way you somehow made even the most ordinary moments feel special. But admiration turned into something deeper, something heavier, something that settled in his chest like an immovable weight. It was in the way his pulse stuttered when you linked your pinky with his during a scary movie, the way his stomach flipped when you ruffled his hair absentmindedly, the way he memorized the exact shade of your eyes even though he'd never had the courage to hold your gaze for too long.

Through the years, there have been countless moments—late-night talks where your voices dipped into whispers, study sessions where your knees knocked together beneath the table, inside jokes that no one else could possibly understand. But through it all, Stiles has never let himself say the words that burn at the back of his throat.

Because as much as he aches for you to look at him the way he looks at you, as much as he dreams of your fingers lingering just a second longer when they brush against his, he's terrified. Terrified that if he speaks the truth, if he lets the love that has woven itself into his very being spill from his lips, he'll lose you. And losing you? That would be the one thing he could never recover from.

The connection between you and Stiles is so natural, so effortless, that his friends can't begin to comprehend the idea of you ever walking away from him. To them, you and Stiles are an inevitability, a force of nature, like the tide meeting the shore—constant, unwavering, and undeniable. If anyone is blind to the reality of the situation, it's him. Because to everyone else, what you share isn't just friendship. It's something deeper, something unspoken yet impossible to ignore, woven into the very fabric of your interactions.

Scott has lost count of how many times he's watched the two of you exchange nothing more than a glance before dissolving into laughter, as if carrying on an entire conversation without a single word. It's almost eerie how in sync you are, how seamlessly you anticipate each other's thoughts and reactions. He's seen it happen mid-battle, mid-study session, mid-sentence—you don't even have to try. It just happens.

Lydia barely suppresses an eye roll every time Stiles insists, "We're just friends." Because to her—and to everyone else—there is no just about it. She's analyzed every interaction, every lingering look, every moment Stiles gets that dreamy, faraway expression when you aren't paying attention. She's seen the way his hand twitches, like he wants to reach for yours but doesn't, and the way his entire body relaxes the second you're beside him, like you're the one thing in the world that makes sense.

Even Malia, who isn't exactly known for her emotional awareness, has taken notice. More than once, she's tilted her head and narrowed her eyes at the way Stiles instinctively moves toward you, how his body seems to orient itself in your direction even when you're across the room. Once, she even asked, completely deadpan, "Are you sure you're not mates?" Stiles choked on his drink, of course, but it didn't escape anyone's notice that he didn't actually deny it.

To them, it's not a matter of if you and Stiles will finally admit what's been obvious for years—it's a matter of when. Hell, half the pack already assumes you're together. And if they didn't know any better, they'd think you and Stiles were just keeping it a secret for the fun of it, stringing everyone along in some kind of elaborate inside joke. Because a connection like yours? It doesn't go unnoticed. It doesn't just exist without meaning something.

While your friends—and most of the pack—were convinced that you and Stiles were already a couple, the rest of the student body had their own interpretations. Sure, some people noticed how often the two of you were together, how your steps naturally fell in sync, how Stiles' entire demeanor shifted the second you entered a room. They saw the way he leaned in when you spoke, like every word that left your lips was something precious. But others? They didn't pick up on the unspoken language between you, the lingering glances that stretched just a beat too long, the way Stiles seemed to breathe easier when you were near.

No, they only saw what wasn't there—no hand-holding between classes, no kisses stolen by lockers, no official title to confirm what everyone else assumed. And because of that, they came to one simple conclusion: You were single.

Technically, they weren't wrong. But Stiles sure as hell didn't see it that way.

He stood beside his locker, fingers curled tightly around the strap of his backpack, jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfolding just a few feet away. One of his fellow lacrosse teammates—Jake something, because honestly, Stiles couldn't be bothered to remember—was leaning far too close to you, his forearm braced against your locker like some kind of wannabe heartthrob in a bad teen movie.

Stiles knew that posture. That smirk. That tone. He'd seen it a hundred times before, heard the fake charm laced in every word. And right now, every muscle in his body screamed that Jake wasn't just making conversation—he was flirting.

And worse? You were smiling. Not the dazzling, full-wattage grin that Stiles had practically built his entire emotional stability around, but a small, amused curve of your lips. A polite, entertained smile. But still, a smile.

Stiles' stomach twisted in frustration.

With an exasperated sigh, he turned to Scott and Isaac, his eyes darting back to you every few seconds, like he couldn't quite tear himself away. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, voice low and clipped. "He's not even funny. Or interesting. Or good at lacrosse, for that matter."

Scott, ever the reasonable one, placed a steadying hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Relax, man. If anything was really happening, you'd know. You two have a connection. Just talk to him."

But Isaac? Isaac had no intention of easing his suffering. With his usual smug grin, he leaned lazily against the lockers, arms crossed. "Look, I hate to break it to you, Stilinski, but your boy over there?" He nodded toward Jake, who was still talking to you, still way too close. "He's one of the hottest guys in school. Aside from me, obviously."

Stiles scowled as Isaac flicked a piece of lint off his sleeve, completely unfazed by the death glare he was receiving.

"It's only a matter of time before someone snatches him up," Isaac added, his smirk widening.

Stiles groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "Wow. Super helpful, Isaac. Really appreciate it."

Scott shot Isaac a look, but the damage was already done. Because as much as Stiles wanted to brush it off, those words lodged themselves into his brain like a splinter. What if someone else got to you first?

That single thought sent a jolt of determination straight through him.

No. Not happening.

If there was ever a time for Stiles Stilinski to stop hesitating, to quit hiding behind fear and excuses, it was now. Because if he didn't make a move soon, someone else would. And there was no way in hell he was about to let that happen.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, spilling gold and amber hues across the lacrosse field, you settled onto the bleachers, the cool metal beneath you warmed by the lingering heat of the day. The air was thick with the sounds of practice—the rhythmic thud of lacrosse balls meeting sticks, the sharp calls of the coach barking orders, the occasional grunt of exertion as the team wove through their drills. Your eyes, however, were locked onto one player in particular.

Stiles Stilinski.

Despite his usual chaotic, slightly uncoordinated energy, there was something different about him tonight. He was focused. Determined. Almost... competitive?

From across the field, he spotted you, and it was like a switch flipped inside him. His face lit up instantly, a grin stretching from ear to ear. With one hand gripping his lacrosse stick, he lifted the other in an enthusiastic wave—so enthusiastic that he nearly lost his grip on his stick in the process. You chuckled, returning the gesture with a playful wiggle of your fingers, amusement dancing in your eyes.

Unfortunately, your little moment didn't go unnoticed.

"Trying to impress someone, Stilinski?"

The voice came from beside Stiles—Jake Matthews, one of the more arrogant players on the team. The same Jake who had been leaning against your locker earlier that day, trying to charm his way into your good graces. His tone was casual, laced with teasing, but there was an unmistakable challenge woven beneath it, a smirk tugging at his lips as he glanced between Stiles and you.

Stiles' grin vanished instantly, replaced by a scowl as he turned to face Jake. Oh, this guy again.

"I don't need to try," Stiles shot back, tightening his grip on his stick. "Some of us have natural charm. You wouldn't understand."

Jake scoffed, twirling his lacrosse stick with an easy confidence. "Right. We'll see about that."

And just like that, the game was on.

What should have been a standard practice turned into something else entirely—an all-out competition. Every drill, every pass, every shot suddenly became a battleground. Jake, fueled by his own arrogance, made a show of his skill, dodging past defenders with ease and landing shots with near-perfect precision. But Stiles—fueled by sheer stubbornness and the undeniable need to win—was playing with an intensity no one had ever seen before.

He ran harder, passed sharper, and somehow—somehow—even managed to score a few impressive goals. The kind that made both Scott and Isaac stop mid-conversation and exchange stunned glances.

"When did that happen?" Isaac muttered, arms crossed as he watched Stiles maneuver around a defender with surprising finesse.

Scott shook his head, equally baffled. "I have no idea. But I think we just found his greatest motivation."

It wasn't just effort. It wasn't just determination.

Stiles was playing for you.

And honestly? It was kind of working.

Until it wasn't.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the overwhelming urge to one-up Jake. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that he could still see you sitting on the bleachers, eyes trained on him, an almost amused little smile playing on your lips.

Whatever the reason, Stiles got cocky.

Going for what was supposed to be his grand finale, he sprinted across the field, angling himself for an epic shot—one that, in his head, would be flawless, the kind of goal that would leave you thoroughly impressed. But instead of landing his cinematic moment of triumph, disaster struck.

His foot caught in the turf.

Time seemed to slow as he realized—far too late—that there was no saving himself from what was about to happen.

With a graceless flail and a yelp of pure panic, Stiles went down. Hard. His lacrosse stick tumbled from his grip, skidding across the grass, and a collective wince rippled through the field as he landed in a heap, the sharp crack of impact echoing through the air.

A second later, a low groan escaped his lips.

Scott was the first to reach him, dropping to his knees. "Stiles, you okay?"

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, mentally assessing the damage before attempting to sit up. "Yeah, yeah—I'm fine," he grumbled, only to immediately suck in a sharp breath and clutch his ankle. "Okay, nope. Not fine. Definitely not fine."

Isaac, standing over him with a smirk, tilted his head. "Hate to say it, Stilinski, but I think your charm just backfired."

Despite the pain radiating from his ankle, Stiles still found the strength to glare up at him. "Wow. So helpful, Isaac. Truly."

Scott sighed, already prepared to help him off the field, but Stiles barely registered it. Because even as his pride (and his ankle) throbbed in agony, his gaze flickered toward the bleachers—toward you.

Your expression was a mix of amusement and concern, but the fact that you were concerned at all sent a different kind of ache through Stiles' chest—one that had nothing to do with the fall.

Because twisted ankle or not, humiliating wipeout or not, one thing was crystal clear.

He wasn't going to stop fighting for your attention.

Not now. Not ever.

The hospital room at Beacon Hills Memorial was as sterile and dimly lit as ever, the harsh fluorescent lights casting a clinical glow over the walls. The scent of antiseptic and freshly laundered sheets filled the air, but none of that mattered to you. Your arms were crossed as you stood beside Scott, watching Melissa McCall—Beacon Hills' most capable nurse and, more importantly, Scott's ever-reliable mother—wrap Stiles' ankle with practiced efficiency.

Her movements were swift yet careful, the kind of precision that only came from years of experience. She worked as she spoke, her voice both professional and motherly, a perfect blend of authority and care.

"You're lucky," she said, securing the bandage with a firm but gentle touch. "It's just a minor sprain. Stay off it for a few days, maybe use some crutches if it starts hurting too much. And—" she shot Stiles a knowing look before he could so much as open his mouth, "no attempting to run around on it like an idiot."

But Stiles wasn't listening.

His focus wasn't on Melissa. It wasn't even on his ankle.

It was on you.

Scott, ever perceptive, noticed immediately. He caught the way Stiles was staring—completely unaware that he was doing it, his brown eyes locked onto you with an intensity that would've been impossible to miss if you'd only turned your head.

Scott sighed. Here we go.

With an exaggerated stretch, he clapped his hands together and glanced at his mother. "Hey, Mom, why don't we go check on the nurse's station?" His tone was casual, too casual. "Y'know, in case they need you for anything?"

Melissa blinked, confused. "Scott, I work here. If they need me, they'll—"

"Great, let's go." Scott didn't give her a chance to finish, already ushering her toward the door with the determination of someone trying to prevent an impending disaster.

Melissa shot him an unimpressed look as he all but shoved her into the hallway. "Subtle," she muttered before the door swung shut behind them, leaving you and Stiles alone in the quiet hum of the hospital room.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. The distant beeping of machines filled the silence, along with the faint murmur of nurses and doctors just beyond the door. Stiles shifted slightly on the bed, drumming his fingers against the railing, the metal clinking softly under his touch.

Then, finally, he cleared his throat and attempted a casual smile—his signature smile, the one that had always been a little awkward but undeniably charming.

"So," he started, dragging the word out, his voice just a little higher than usual. "You, uh... you saw that, huh? The game. The practice. Me. Doing well for once."

You tilted your head, pretending to think. "Yeah. That was... a first."

Stiles pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. "Wow. Wow. So little faith in me. I'm wounded. Emotionally and physically."

You grinned, shaking your head. "I'm just saying, I've never seen you play like that before. I mean, you were actually keeping up with everyone."

Stiles scoffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. "Okay, that's fair."

The two of you shared a quiet laugh, the tension in the room easing just enough for Stiles to relax against the pillows.

But then, curiosity flickered in your expression as you leaned against the hospital bed's railing. "So... what was that all about, anyway?" You lifted an eyebrow. "I mean, I've seen you play before, but never like that. You were on fire."

Stiles opened his mouth, prepared to toss out some half-hearted excuse—something about adrenaline, maybe sheer dumb luck. But before his brain could catch up, the truth just slipped out.

"Well, yeah. It was because of you."

The second the words left his mouth, his brain short-circuited. His eyes widened, mouth snapping shut like he wanted to reel them back in, as if he could somehow undo what he had just confessed.

You blinked.

Stiles panicked.

"Uh—I mean, not like because of you, you," he rambled, his hands flailing as he scrambled for damage control. "But, like, inspired by you. Or, uh, motivated? Encouraged?" His voice pitched higher with each word, his hands now waving in frantic gestures. "Not that I'm saying you specifically motivate me, but—well, actually, no, that is what I'm saying, but not in a creepy way, just in a totally normal and cool way—"

"Stiles."

He froze.

You had your arms crossed now, watching him with thinly veiled amusement. "So what you're saying is... you were trying to impress me?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, thick with unspoken tension.

Stiles let out a strangled, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as his gaze darted anywhere but at you. "Pfft, no! Of course not! ...Maybe."

A slow smirk spread across your face.

Stiles groaned, immediately flopping back onto the hospital bed with a dramatic sigh, one arm thrown over his face like he couldn't bear to see your reaction.

"Kill me now."

Your laughter rang through the small hospital room, light and effortless, cutting through Stiles' dramatic groan as he buried his face in his hands. His fingers gripped his hair in frustration, as if sheer force could undo the last sixty seconds of his life.

Rolling your eyes, you reached forward, fingers wrapping around his wrists, and gently tugged them away from his face. Stiles resisted for about half a second before relenting, his hands falling limply to his sides, revealing a face that was, without a doubt, very pink.

His expression was a perfect storm of embarrassment and something else—something softer, something hesitant, something that made your stomach flip if you let yourself think about it too hard.

"Come on, don't be so dramatic," you teased, keeping your hold on his wrists as you leaned in slightly. "It was kinda cute, actually."

Stiles blinked. "Cute?" His voice cracked on the word, high-pitched and unfiltered, and the moment he realized it, he immediately cleared his throat, forcing a more neutral expression—one that utterly failed to hide the way his ears had gone red.

You only grinned, giving his hands one last tug to pull him forward.

And that's when it happened.

You had moved without thinking, stepping closer in the process, and suddenly, you were standing between his legs. His knees bracketed your body, the warmth of him radiating through the thin fabric of his hospital shorts.

Stiles definitely noticed.

His breath hitched. His brain stalled. His hands, which had instinctively found their way to your waist to steady himself, froze.

And no matter how hard he tried, he could not not think about the fact that you were right there—closer than you'd ever been, close enough that he could count the flecks of color in your eyes, close enough that if he tilted his head even slightly, your lips would be—

Nope. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Not going there.

Stiles tried to focus on anything else—the distant beeping of machines, the muffled voices of nurses in the hallway, literally any other thought that wouldn't make him combust in real time. But you weren't making it easy. Not with your hands still loosely gripping his wrists, not with your body so close, not with that teasing smile that made his heart do things it had no business doing.

His fingers twitched against your waist before he quickly ripped them away, gripping the edge of the hospital bed instead like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Meanwhile, you seemed completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening in Stiles' head. Instead, you just tilted your head, amusement dancing in your eyes.

"You good?" you asked, watching the way his entire body had gone rigid.

Stiles let out a noise that was supposed to be a casual laugh but came out more like a strangled wheeze.

"Yeah! Yep. Totally fine. Just, uh..." He forced a lopsided grin—one that was more nervous wreck than charming rogue. "Just... sitting here. With a sprained ankle. And my very attractive best friend standing way too close and—"

His mouth snapped shut.

His eyes widened.

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. "What was that?"

Stiles slapped a hand over his face so fast it was almost comical. "Nothing. Didn't say anything. Please disregard."

But you just smirked.

Leaning in ever so slightly, you lowered your voice just enough to make Stiles' stomach flip.

"Stiles," you murmured, tilting your head. "Are you nervous?"

Stiles groaned, flopping back against the pillow like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole. "I hate you."

You just laughed again, and despite his sheer, complete mortification, Stiles was pretty sure that sound alone could heal his ankle faster than any of Melissa McCall's medical expertise.

You then reached forward and nudged his shoulder—not hard, just enough to jolt him out of his spiraling self-destruction. His head lifted slightly, his brown eyes meeting yours again, still wide from his earlier slip-up. You could see the wheels turning, his brain scrambling at full speed, desperately trying to figure out how to recover, how to backtrack, how to un-say the words that had already left his mouth.

But before he could even attempt an escape, you smirked.

"You know," you said casually, tilting your head, "for someone who thinks I'm attractive, you don't seem to realize you are too."

Stiles blinked.

His lips parted slightly, like his entire operating system had just crashed, his brain throwing up an error message in real time. He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—his face flickering between shock, confusion, and sheer disbelief, as if he had just misheard you. As if he needed a full system reboot before he could process those words properly.

"I—wait—what?"

Your smirk softened into something more genuine. "I'm serious, Stiles. You're really attractive." You shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I just figured someone should tell you, since you clearly don't hear it enough."

Stiles made a noise.

A noise.

Something between a strangled laugh and a dying animal, his face turning an impressive shade of pink. His hands twitched at his sides, his fingers fidgeting like he suddenly had no idea what to do with them. He sat up a little straighter—well, tried to—but in doing so, he only ended up shifting closer, his knee brushing against the side of your leg.

And that was when he realized—again—just how close you were.

Oh, God.

His brain was overheating.

Before he could spiral any further, you leaned in.

His breath hitched.

The world tilted.

Your voice softened, something warm and undeniably real threading through it. "And... I'm really proud of you, you know." Your eyes searched his, the words landing in the space between you like something solid, something true. "You played amazing out there."

Stiles swallowed hard.

He wasn't sure which part was making his heart race faster—the fact that you were still standing between his legs, the way your voice sounded so genuine, or the fact that—

Oh.

You were leaning in even closer.

His breath caught entirely when your lips pressed softly against his cheek, warm and lingering for just a second longer than necessary. The heat of the contact sent a shiver down his spine, burning through him, leaving a brand behind.

His entire body locked up.

Every single nerve in his system short-circuited.

By the time you pulled back, Stiles was frozen.

Mouth slightly open. Eyes impossibly wide. Heart definitely no longer beating at a survivable rhythm. If it were anyone else, you would've assumed he had stopped breathing altogether.

You tilted your head, amused. "You okay there, Stiles?"

Stiles slowly blinked.

Then, with absolutely zero control over his own reactions, he squeaked—an actual, audible squeak—before aggressively clearing his throat and scrambling to collect himself.

"Y-Yeah! Yep! Totally fine!" His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and he winced. "Just—just processing. You know. Uh. Normal stuff. Normal processing."

You chuckled, shaking your head fondly. "Glad to hear it."

Stiles, meanwhile, was pretty sure he was never going to recover.

For the rest of the week, Stiles could not stop smiling.

It was actually getting ridiculous.

Every time he so much as thought about that moment in the hospital—the soft press of your lips against his cheek, the warmth of your voice when you told him he was attractive, the way you had stood so close, right between his legs like it was the most natural thing in the world—his face would break out into a stupid, lovesick grin that he couldn't wipe off no matter how hard he tried.

Scott had definitely noticed.

So had Lydia. And Isaac. And literally everyone who interacted with him for more than ten seconds.

"Okay, what is wrong with you?" Lydia had asked at lunch, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as she watched him stare off into space with the goofiest smile she'd ever seen. "You look like a golden retriever that just got praised for doing a trick."

Scott, already knowing exactly what was going on, just smirked and shook his head. "It's about them."

Isaac, biting into an apple, tilted his head. "Ah," he said, nodding in understanding. "Bleachers Kiss Syndrome. Classic case."

Stiles snapped out of his daze immediately, scowling. "Bleachers Kiss Syndrome is not a thing."

Isaac took another bite. "It is now."

But as much as Stiles tried to brush it off, he knew they weren't wrong. Because no matter how many times he replayed it in his head, he kept circling back to the same conclusion:

He had to tell you how he felt.

He couldn't keep pretending it wasn't there, couldn't keep shoving his feelings down just because he was scared of what might happen. You liked him—maybe not in the exact way he liked you (yet), but you had to like him at least a little, right? No one just casually calls their best friend attractive and kisses them on the cheek like that unless there's something there.

Right?

Oh, God. What if he was reading this all wrong?

What if it was casual for you? What if you just saw him as a best friend, nothing more?

What if he confessed and completely ruined everything?

Stiles groaned, dragging his hands down his face as he sat slumped over his desk at home, staring blankly at his notes for a history test he definitely wasn't studying for.

But then his mind wandered back to the way you had looked at him in that hospital room, the way you had smiled right before kissing him, the way you had stayed by his side, even when you didn't have to.

And that's when he decided—screw it.

He needed to tell you. Because the way his heart had been feeling lately? He wasn't sure it could handle keeping this to himself any longer.

Stiles knew he had to find the right moment to tell you how he felt—really tell you. Not in a half-mumbled, nervous slip-up. Not in an awkward, flustered compliment that he immediately tried to backtrack. No, this had to be something big, something meaningful.

That moment didn't come right away.

In fact, it didn't come until the championship lacrosse game.

Beacon Hills was up against one of the toughest teams in the league—the Cyclones—and to say it was an intense game would be an understatement. The air was thick with tension, the crowd was electric, and every player on the field was running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline.

The game had been brutal—fast breaks, bone-rattling defense, near-impossible shots that somehow found the net. By the final quarter, Beacon Hills was up by just one point. One more goal, and they'd win the championship. But if they missed? If the Cyclones countered?

They'd be going home humiliated.

The pressure was insane.

Scott, Isaac, and Stiles stood tense on the field, eyes locked on the opposing team as they strategized their next move. Sweat dripped down Stiles' temple, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his heartbeat thunderous in his ears.

And then—because the universe was a cruel, cruel place—the ball ended up in his stick.

Everything stopped.

For a split second, it felt like the entire world had gone silent.

The pounding of footsteps, the roaring of the crowd, the whistles and frantic calls from the sidelines—all of it faded into a distant hum as Stiles stared at the lacrosse ball nestled securely in his net.

He swallowed hard.

Oh, no.

Oh, no, no, no.

This was bad.

If he made this shot, he'd be a hero.

But if he missed?

If he missed...?

He would never hear the end of it. Not from his teammates. Not from the school. Not from literally anyone who had ever met him.

Stiles tightened his grip on the stick, fingers clammy, his pulse wild. He could do this. He just had to—

And then, in the midst of the chaos, he heard it.

"You got this, Stiles!"

Your voice.

It cut through everything, ringing loud and clear from the stands.

Without even thinking, Stiles turned his head toward the bleachers, his nerves momentarily forgotten.

And there you were.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, eyes locked on him, wearing a smile so bright, so damn confident, that his stomach flipped. Both of your thumbs were raised in encouragement, your expression screaming, C'mon, Stilinski, don't overthink it. Just take the shot.

For a second, the rest of the crowd seemed to fade, as if everyone else had noticed exactly who he was looking at. A ripple of murmurs passed through the stands, eyes shifting toward you, wondering why you of all people had chosen that exact moment to cheer.

But Stiles?

Stiles didn't care.

Because suddenly, the nerves? Gone.

The weight of the game? Didn't matter.

Because you believed in him.

Time seemed to slow down the moment Stiles swung his lacrosse stick, sending the ball flying through the air.

The crowd held its breath.

Everything—the pounding of his heart, the shouts from the sidelines, the sound of cleats scraping against the turf—faded into a distant hum as the ball spun in a perfect arc. It cut through the air, passing by outstretched sticks of the opposing players who leapt desperately in an attempt to intercept it. But Stiles had aimed it just right—just high enough to avoid their reach.

The goalie's eyes widened. He reacted a second too late, diving forward, his gloved hand stretching toward the ball in a last-ditch effort to swat it away.

For a fraction of a second, it looked like he might block it.

But then—

Swish.

The ball slammed into the net with a resounding thwack.

Silence.

For half a second, no one moved. No one breathed. Even Stiles, still frozen in his follow-through stance, wasn't sure if he had actually seen it happen or if his brain was playing some kind of cruel trick on him.

Then—

The referee's whistle pierced the air.

And just like that, the silence shattered.

The stands erupted. The entire Beacon Hills crowd exploded into cheers, a deafening roar of excitement and disbelief as people jumped to their feet, screaming in celebration.

Stiles barely had time to process it before Scott tackled him from behind, practically lifting him off the ground. Isaac was right behind him, ruffling his hair and shouting something about how he actually pulled it off. Other teammates swarmed in, clapping him on the back, shaking him by the shoulders, shouting in his face like they couldn't believe it either.

But none of that mattered.

None of it even registered.

Because the only thing Stiles saw, the only thing that mattered, was you.

Still standing in the bleachers, still grinning from ear to ear, eyes locked on him like he was the only person on the field.

And that's when he knew.

This was the moment.

The deafening roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline pounding through Stiles' veins. His breath came fast, chest heaving, but he barely registered it. The celebration erupted around him—teammates shouting, hands slapping against his back, coaches cheering his name—but none of it mattered.

Stiles didn't think. He just moved.

He shoved past his teammates, dodging high-fives, ignoring the victorious yells, his feet barely touching the ground as he sprinted toward the bleachers. The crowd was a blur around him, faceless and unimportant, their voices lost to the singular, relentless thought hammering in his skull: Get to you. Get to you. Get to you.

His cleats scraped against the turf as he vaulted over the barrier, weaving through the surge of students rushing onto the field. He hardly noticed the way some clapped him on the shoulder, how a few shouted his name in triumph.

Because you were all that mattered.

The second he reached the bottom of the bleachers, your gaze locked onto his, and in that instant, every hesitation, every excuse, every fear that had kept him silent over the years vanished.

Not anymore.

Stiles took the steps two at a time, pushing through the ache in his muscles, his pulse hammering harder with each step. His entire body was electric, wired with something more powerful than adrenaline, more overwhelming than victory.

And then, finally, he was standing right in front of you.

Your lips parted, a breathless laugh escaping as you opened your mouth to congratulate him—but you never got the chance.

Because Stiles didn't wait.

His hand lifted instinctively, cupping your cheek, his fingers feather-light despite the wild energy thrumming between you both. His thumb brushed gently against your skin, his touch softer than it had any right to be considering the way his heart was slamming against his ribs.

His eyes searched yours for just a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see everything he had been too afraid to say, too scared to show.

And then, finally—finally—he closed the distance.

His lips crashed against yours, the kiss raw, desperate, full of everything— every moment of hesitation, every ounce of longing that had been bottled up for years. His other hand found your waist, pulling you in, molding your body against his as he melted into you, as if this was the only place he was ever meant to be.

The roar of the crowd, the championship, the entire world disappeared.

There was only this.

Only you and him.

And the only thought running through Stiles' head as he kissed you was:

Finally.

Suddenly, something cool and unexpected landed on his cheek. It was subtle at first—just a single drop of water sliding down his skin. He barely registered it, too caught up in you, until another followed. And then another.

He pulled back slightly, his breath mingling with yours as his eyes fluttered open.

And that's when he felt it.

The gentle pitter-patter of rain beginning to fall from the sky.

You both tilted your heads upward, watching as the dark night sky gave way to a soft, steady drizzle. The stadium lights caught the droplets as they descended, making them shimmer like falling stars.

But there was no rush for cover, no panicked scramble from the crowd.

No—if anything, the rain only seemed to heighten the energy. The cheers still echoed across the field, players and students alike embracing the moment, their victorious shouts mixing with the sound of raindrops hitting metal bleachers and dampening the turf.

Stiles, however, wasn't paying attention to any of it.

Because as the rain soaked into his jersey, cooling his flushed skin, his gaze drifted back to you.

You were still watching the sky, droplets catching in your hair, sliding down the curve of your cheek. And then, as if sensing his eyes on you, you turned to face him again.

And you smiled.

A small, soft, knowing smile—one that made his breath hitch all over again.

"Congratulations," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the chaos around you.

Stiles' heart stumbled, his chest tightening in a way that was both overwhelming and perfect.

He returned the smile, unable to help the way his fingers instinctively curled around your waist, pulling you closer.

Then, without hesitation, he kissed you again.

This time, it was slower—less frantic than the first, but just as intense. Rain mixed between your lips, the coolness of it contrasting with the warmth of the moment. His hands tightened their hold on you, as if anchoring himself to this, to you, to the undeniable certainty that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And as the crowd cheered, as the rain continued to fall around you, as everything else faded into the background, Stiles realized something—

Winning the game had been incredible.

But this?

This was the real victory.

As the rain continued to fall around you, soaking into your clothes and sending a pleasant chill down your spine, you pulled back slightly, just enough to meet Stiles' gaze again. His brown eyes were still wide with disbelief, flickering with excitement and something deeper—something that sent a thrill through you.

You leaned in close, your lips barely brushing against his ear as you whispered, "We should get out of here."

Stiles pulled back, blinking at you in surprise before a teasing grin spread across his face. "What? You scared of a little rain?" he teased, shaking his wet hair dramatically, sending tiny droplets flying everywhere. "C'mon, I thought you were tougher than that."

You rolled your eyes, stepping even closer, your hands trailing up his damp jersey until they rested on his chest. You could feel his heart hammering beneath your touch, the steady rhythm growing faster the longer you lingered.

"That's not why we should leave," you murmured, your voice taking on a tone just sultry enough to make Stiles freeze.

His cocky expression faltered slightly. "Oh?"

You smirked, tilting your head as you leaned in, your lips barely grazing the shell of his ear. "I just think... a champion deserves to be properly celebrated," you whispered, letting your voice drip with suggestion.

The effect was instantaneous.

Stiles practically short-circuited.

His breath hitched, his fingers tightening against your waist as he processed what you just said. His face went through a series of rapid changes—shock, realization, then a dawning understanding that sent heat rushing to his face.

"Oh," he managed to breathe out, his voice slightly higher than usual.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes again, watching with amusement as his brain visibly scrambled to catch up.

Then, in a move that surprised even himself, Stiles grabbed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours as he stepped back. "Right. Yes. Leaving. Immediately. Great idea. Fantastic idea."

You chuckled, allowing him to pull you along, both of you ducking through the rain as the cheers from the crowd faded into the background.

Because this night?

It wasn't over yet.

#x male reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski x male reader #dylan o'brien #dylan o’brien x male reader #teen wolf #teen wolf x male reader #gay

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