#with the scooby doo label slapped over it

[dizzying-faust]

I'm not into Hazbin Hotel and I'm a casual viewer of Helluva Boss, but I would rather watch those over the new Velma show.

[ri-ahhh]

hi can you write about spending a valentine’s day with gray pls?

valentine’s day smut w/ gray? + more haha sorry couldn’t put them all in

A/N: I’m sorry this is a day late. It was supposed to be 90% smut but somehow it took on a mind of its own and turned into this monster.

warnings: smut, extremely cheesy, way too long

***

It should be a given understanding that Valentine’s Day is the dumbest, most antiquated, overrated holiday that’s ever existed. That had always been your take on it, even as a little kid — the worry of spelling your classmates’ names correctly on cards imprinted with cheesy Scooby Doo and Spongebob puns; the expectation to dress up nice in the hopes you would get asked to be someone’s Valentine in the hallways of middle school; the potential embarrassment of being the only person in class who didn’t get bought one of those stupid roses from a ‘secret admirer’ in high school.

There’s simply too much pressure surrounding the idea of professing your love or even your mere fondness for anyone and everyone in your life. The fear of rejection if you do, and the judgement if you don’t. It had always made you anxious, whether you had someone to share the day with or not.

But this Valentine’s Day, as a young twenty-something, you were actually (secretly) looking forward to it. Conner was your first adult relationship, with the title of ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend’ and labels and commitment. He’s cute and smart and charming and yours. So, sue you if you were quietly anticipating wearing that SavageXFenty set beneath a brand new dress while you went to dinner after being greeted at the door with roses and a box of chocolates.

And yet here you are, on February 14th, hood of your sweater drawn over your head as you rummage through your freezer with a clear target in your mind. Your eyes are blurry and swollen, but you find the pint of birthday cake Nada Moo with ease, and you slam the freezer door closed a little harder than you really mean to as soon as it’s in your grasp.

You’ve just popped the lid off when your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where you’ve plopped down to eat your depression snack in a more acceptable place than your bed or the couch.

You see Grayson’s name accompanied by a goofy, up-close picture of him smiling filling the screen, and hesitate. He’s one of your best friends, and clearly done nothing wrong, but you’re not sure you’re capable of handling anyone of the male species right now after...everything.

At the end of the day, though, it’s Grayson. He knows heartbreak almost better than anyone, and you’ve coached him through it on more than one occasion. Maybe he can spew back some of your own advice if it comes to that.

You swipe the bar at the bottom of the screen, and your ceiling suddenly replaces the image of his silly, handsome face. “Sup?”

“Yo. Am I interrupting anything? Sorry, just remembered what day it is.”

You swallow. “Uh no, you’re not.”

“What’s wrong?”

You bite your lip hard, digging your spoon into the softened ice cream. Was it that obvious just from your voice that you had been upset? Or does he just know you that well?

“Nothing.”

“You sound like you’ve been crying.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t lie. Let me see your face.”

There’s a beat of silence, and you concede. “No. I’ve been crying.”

He’s quiet, and you can’t bring yourself to look at his own face in the corner of the screen. You shove the chunk of ice cream past your lips, and after a moment he says with a softer tone, “Crying on Valentine’s Day is never a good sign.”

You’re glad that you’ve gotten so much of your tears out already, because you feel the inevitable prickle behind your eyes that would have been full-blown waterworks a few hours ago. You scoop another bite. “Conner cheated on me — has been, cheating on me. I found out last night.”

Grayson sighs your name, and something about the genuine sympathy in his voice makes you even more emotional. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. What a piece of shit.”

You shrug even though he can’t see, and sniffle past the lump in your throat. “It’s whatever. I’m still in shock more than anything. Hurts like hell, though, still. I let him have it when I saw the texts and he hasn’t tried to call me once. No texts. Nothing.”

He’s silent, but it’s that raging silence you know oh so well from him. It doesn’t happen often, but anyone who knows Grayson Dolan knows that when his volume comes down, he means business. A loud and obnoxious Grayson is a happy one, but a brooding and quiet one means serious business.

“Do you want me to go beat his ass? I’ll do it.”

A smile cracks your scowl before you know it, and you shake your head. “No thanks, Gray. As much as I’d love to see that happen, I like your face the way it is. And not on a mugshot.”

He chuckles a little, and you feel your chest lift some just hearing the familiar depth of it. “Well, do you at least want me to come over later? I totally get if you need to be alone, but I know from experience sometimes what helps the most is having good friends around.”

You’re a little surprised. “You don’t have a date?”

“Nope.”

“No one from the roster hitting you up?”

“I don’t have a roster,” he argues playfully, but you both know that’s a lie, if not at least a stretch of the truth. “And even if I did, you’re more important. Always.”

You sigh and take another bite. His words make your neck tingle and your toes wiggle, but you ignore it; your brain is full of confusion as it is. “That makes one man in my life who thinks so, I guess.”

You finally prop your phone up against the fruit basket sitting in the middle of your bar so he can see you. Grayson takes in your image, which admittedly must look kind of pathetic, and you watch his jaw clench and release in a way that you can’t deny is utterly sexy.

“Is an hour okay? Tell Vanessa to come, too.”

“Benito took her to Tulum for the weekend,” you say, referring to your best friend and her boyfriend. “She did threaten to get on a plane and come home early for me, though.”

Grayson grins crookedly, but his jaw is still tight. “Well, tell her you’re in good hands. See you in an hour?”

You give it one last quick consideration; you already feel this much better just talking to him on the phone. Nothing bad could come from him being in your apartment, and you trust him. “Yeah, that’s fine. But just so you know, I’m already at the stage of eating ice cream at 10:30 AM.”

“Did you forget you’re talking to the emotional ice cream eating champion? No judgement here.”

You finally let out a giggle, your spirits officially lifted. “I’ll see you soon.”

**

True to his word, Grayson arrives at your door about an hour later, his arms laden with milkshakes from Monty’s, a gift bag decorated all over with sparkly hearts, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.

You’re stunned. The only thing you’d managed to do in the time it took him to get here was take a quick shower in attempts to rid your face of some of the puffiness, throw on some shorts this time with a fresh hoodie, and toss the used tissues scattered around your place into the garbage.

Before you can say anything, he holds out the flowers. “They were out of roses. But I know you like pink.”

You reach out for them slowly, eyes wide, your fingers brushing his when you grasp the plastic wrapping. His cheeks are a similar color to the petals, and it makes both your heart and your lips smile.

“Peonies are my favorite,” you say truthfully. “And yes, especially pink ones. Thank you, Gray.”

“You’re welcome,” he says, sounding relieved.

As he crosses the threshold of your door, he leans down to kiss your cheek, and you can’t help but hum quietly and pull him in for a hug. “That gift better not be for me, either,” you mumble into his chest.

Grayson pulls back, his eyes sparkling, but keeps you close with an arm wrapped loosely around your shoulders. “Oh, this? No, this is for my other best friend I’m trying to cheer up on Valentine’s Day.”

You slap his arm playfully, and lead him into your kitchen, pulling out a vase from the cabinet beneath your sink for the flowers.

The bag has a few gifts in it: a new Comfy (“I remembered you ruined yours when that ketchup bottle exploded all over you the other day”); a huge bag of watermelon sour patch kids (“I know they’re your favorite. Also ice cream gives you brain freeze after the first pint or so, trust me”); and a heart shaped box of your favorite chocolates (“you can eat them or burn them, I wasn’t sure which you’d appreciate more but either is fine with me.”)

You appreciated all of it, more than he would ever understand. All you can do is fling yourself at him weakly, completely overwhelmed. “Fuck you, you’re gonna make me cry all over again.”

Grayson envelops you in those huge, muscular arms, cooing behind that laugh you love so much. “Is that a really backwards way of saying thank you?”

You grunt in affirmation, and with you still wrapped up in his arms, he starts waddling the two of you back the short distance into your living room.

“Here,” he says, coaxing you down into the blanket nest you had created on the couch. “You chill and find a movie. I’ll make popcorn.”

You do, and he does, and the next few hours are spent lounging about in your apartment. Having him here with you is doing wonders from keeping your mind from going down the paths you’d been spiraling towards ever since you saw the messages between Conner and no less than four other girls on Snapchat. You don’t believe in snooping, but finding the first one had been an accident when he received the snap while you had his phone, and your finger happened to press the icon at just the right moment. 

In your eyes, though, the image of one pair of tits that weren’t your own was enough justification to see what else you could find. 

“I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of relieved,” you told Grayson a while later, Shrek playing on the TV quietly. He’s sitting next to you, far enough apart for there to be couch space between the two of you, but close enough to share the oversized blanket thrown over your laps. “Obviously what he did is so fucking shitty and I’m not justifying it in any way, but I can be honest with myself now and realize I wasn’t in that relationship for the right reasons. There wasn’t anything there emotionally at the end of the day.”

“You still have every right to feel hurt by what he did, though. It’s a huge violation of trust,” Grayson assures, reaching out and squeezing your hand gently.  

You squeeze back and grimace at him. “Yeah.” You let out a little mirthless laugh and shake your head, heat flooding your cheeks. “It’s so embarrassing, too. And finding out the day before Valentine’s, no less. Like, I just wanted to look cute, have a nice dinner, have some nice sex, and just... I don’t know. Have an actual Valentine’s day for once. No pressure or anxiety or anything.”

Grayson stares at you in that way he does — so intense and almost intimidating if there wasn’t a genuine warmth behind it. You’re suddenly aware of his thumb brushing the back of your hand slowly. He squeezes your fingers again. 

“So, let’s do it, then. You and me.”

You arch a brow at him, smiling at the rosiness in his cheeks when he realizes what he might have implied. “The dinner part, I mean. And the dressing up. Even though I think you look plenty cute right now.”

You roll your eyes, but for the countless time that day, your heart flutters happily. Looking back, you can’t remember the last time Conner had complimented your appearance, let alone after hours of crying and lazing around in sweats, sugar crystals stuck to the corner of your lip. 

“That would be great, except there’s no way we’re getting into any restaurant at this point,” you remind him. “Probably no delivery, either.”

“I’ll cook for you,” he counters, throwing the blanket off his legs and standing up with a groan. He stops to stretch, and the way his arms go over his head makes his shirt ride up at the bottom, exposing a chunk of hard muscles and golden skin. 

You swallow, eyes trailing up the rest of his torso appreciatively. “I don’t have much.”

He’s already rummaging through your pantry, though, and pulls out a half-full box of pasta, a jar of marinara sauce, and a leftover chunk of sourdough bread. “You got salad stuff?”

You nod, and he opens the fridge to find some lettuce, peppers, and other salad fixings before setting them with the pasta ingredients on the counter. “Go get dressed, look as cute or not cute as you want. I’ll take care of this.”

He’s absolutely unreal. “Gray-”

Grayson holds up his hand. “Ah, no, I’m doing this. You deserve it. Also, I’m hungry. It’s a win-win.”

Your stomach growls as well, and that’s all the convincing you need. While he gets busy in the kitchen, you tidy up the living area some before heading to your room. You feel a little silly, making your third outfit change of the day, but you also like the giddiness in the pit of your belly at the thought of Grayson doing all of this for you. You might as well take advantage of having someone like him in your life. Show him some Valentine’s appreciation of your own.

You forgo the slinky red number you had planned to wear to the restaurant with Conner, and opt instead for a rather unsuspecting blouse-jeans combo, which happen to both respectively frame your tits and ass perfectly.

The lacy, bright pink set in the back of your closet might have made it beneath your clothes, though. The prettiness of it made you feel that much better, even if no one else was going to see it.

Maybe.

Padding back into your kitchen after running a flat iron through your hair and throwing on some concealer, mascara, and lip gloss, you find Grayson draining the pasta into a colander in the sink. 

Grayson does a double-take when he sees you standing there admiring the flex of his bicep as he holds the pot. “Hey! You look amazing.”

“If you say so,” you joke, bumping his hip with yours as. You pass him to pull plates and bowls out of the cabinet.

“I do,” he insists quietly.

Arm outstretched mid-reach, you look over at him, locking eyes with his hazel ones. He looks a little surprised by the words that left his mouth, like he meant for them to stay inside his head. There must be some kind of challenge in your gaze, daring him to elaborate.

He busies himself with the pasta again hastily, his voice low. “Conner is a fucking idiot. To do that to you. To let you go. You don’t deserve that. Especially not today.”

Plates in hand, you rest them gently on the counter with your lower lip caught between your teeth, and peer over at this handsome man you’re so proud and lucky to call your best friend. He’s everything you thought Conner was — cute and smart and charming — but so much more — beautiful and good and kind.

And he’s been right here in front of you the whole time.

You reach out and touch his elbow softly. The hairs on his forearm are crisp but soft, and you follow them down to that gleaming watch on his wrist.

“You know,” you start quietly, fingers tracing the links of the band before flipping his hand over to trace the lines of his palm, “you keep talking about what I deserve today. But you deserve all that and more. You deserve someone’s love that matches your own.”

He watches your delicate fingers on his large, calloused palm, then trails his eyes up to yours when he feels their attention on his face. A piece of hair flops into his eyes, and you reach up without thinking or any hesitation to push it away again with a little smile playing on your glossy lips.

You look down and lay your palm flat against his, admiring the difference in size between your hands for a moment before interlocking your fingers with his.

“I love you.”

Your eyes flit up to his in surprise; he beat you to the words.

“In case that wasn’t obvious,” Grayson continues, turning towards you. “And I hope that’s not too much for you to handle, with everything you’ve had hap-”

“I love you too, Gray,” you interrupt, stepping that much closer to him so you’re nearly chest-to-chest with him.

“Yeah?” He sounds almost boyish in his astonishment, and it makes you want to hold him tight and never let go.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “A lot. I’m sorry it took me getting dumped to realize it.”

He shakes his head, his hand resting on your cheek gently. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod once before he’s swiftly ducking down to claim your lips with his. They’re soft and pliable, and you feel their effects from the nerves in your scalp all the way down to your bare toes.

“Grayson,” you breathe, lashes fluttering open as he pulls back just enough to look at you concernedly.

You smile, bigger and brighter than you have all day, and cup his stubbled cheeks with your hands, scratching your nails gently against his jaw. “I just wanted to say your name.”

Grayson grins now, too. He kisses you more insistently now that he’s got the taste of you on his tongue, which he flicks against the underside of your top lip as he breaks the kiss. “Say it again.”

“Make me,” you challenege, voice breathy and excited, eyes closed as you savor his sweet breath against your lips. “In my room.” You feel him tense up a bit, and you open your eyes to meet his questioning gaze, biting back a smile at the inevitable hope also shining there. “I’m sure.”

With that, Grayson hauls you up into his arms, and you wrap your legs around his waist with a squeal as he buries his face into your neck. He starts making the way to your bedroom, cooked food left long forgotten in the kitchen behind you.

“Are you wearing my signature scent?” he asks, inhaling your skin deeply.

“Mmhm,” you hum, threading your fingers through the back of his thick hair. It’s so long again, and you give the dark strands a sharp tug that makes him grunt. “Part one of my gift to you. Since you got so many for me today.”

“Part one, huh?” he says, crossing the threshold of your room. “What’s part two?”

“What I’m wearing underneath this,” you whisper in his ear, giggling loudly when he lies you down on the bed with more of a toss than he might have intended. “If you want it, that is.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost your mind at the mere suggestion that he wouldn’t, and you take that as enough encouragement to tug at the bow tying your forest green silk wrap blouse together.

The folds part open and expose your chest, clad in that pink lace demi-cup bra with the cage detailing over the tops of your breasts. Grayson moans and dips down to nuzzle your cleavage, breathing in the scent of your warm skin. His hands trail up your sides, from your hips to your rib cage, until they settle in the dips of your waist. His touch ignites you, makes your back arch and your hips grind up against his thigh between your legs, just from the sensation of his hands on these new parts of your body.

“Grayson,” you sigh, and he smirks up at you with his chin on your tits when he realizes that’s all it took for you to say his name again.

You grab his cheeks and kiss that smugness away, shifting your legs so they’re wrapped around his waist once again, pushing down on the small of his back to get your centers to meet.

Both of you gasp into each other’s mouths when his erection rubs against your pussy, even through all the layers of clothing still on your bodies. You reach down blindly, still attacking his mouth with yours, and feel around for his belt.

His pants come off, followed by yours, and he sits you up enough to push your blouse off your shoulders rather gently considering the intensity of everything. Once the garment is tossed over his shoulder, you’re down to nothing but that pretty lingerie and he in his boxer briefs.

There’s a moment of pause and clarity for the two of you, staring into one another’s eyes as the reality hits of what you’re about to do. What it means to both of you. Grayson stares down at you, and places a hand over your rapidly thumping heart.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly, dragging his hand up your chest, over your throat, until he’s cupping you’re cheek and stroking your lip with his thumb.

You smile in return, then part your lips with your eyes locked on his, encouraging him silently to slip that digit in your mouth.

Grayson’s eyes darken, and he offers you his pointer finger instead, swallowing hard when you suck and swirl your soft, wet tongue around it.

Suddenly, he’s rolling the two of you over, switching positions so he’s on his back and you straddle him. You smile happily, taking your turn to duck down and attach your lips to the pulse point his neck, grinding down on his cock with a slow, steady rhythm.

“You’re so amazing, Gray,” you tell him, nipping at the lobe of his ear before kissing the underside of his chin. “Can’t believe you’re all mine now.”

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he growls back, cursing when you trail your kisses down the center of his body, giving each one of those moon’s their own special attention before continuing down.

When you get to the waistband of his underwear, you trail your tongue on the edge of the elastic and watch his abs contract with each shaky breath he takes. One little move of your hands, and you’ll finally get to see what he’s really packing.

But before you can even hook your fingers there to pull down, he’s tugging on your hair. “Fuck, fuck, c’mere. Please.”

You pout, but follow his lead, licking back up his muscular torso until he’s able to drag you to him for a deep, wet kiss.

“Sit on my face,” he demands, shuffling down on the pillow to make more room for you.

That takes you off guard. “But—”

“Do it. Please. I fucking have to taste you.”

Your body must be working ahead of your brain, because before you know it, you’re straddling Grayson’s face, his tongue is sweeping through the wetness in your slit, and his dark eyes are peering up at you from between your thighs.

“Oh... oh!” you cry out when his tongue starts flicking against your clit. He goes back to swiping up all your arousal, then suctions his lips around your clit. He’s using one hand to hold the lace of your thong aside, and the other dips first one finger, then two inside of you. “Oh, fuck, that’s so good...”

Grayson moans, the vibrations erupting around your clit and sending you right to the edge already. You reach back and palm his cock, rock hard in his underwear still, and squeeze as he makes you cum all over his mouth.

He gets his fill of your cum as he groans and keeps up the motion of his fingers, the pressure of his lips, the softness of his tongue as your pussy pulses with each contraction of your orgasm. You wait for him to start letting up, but something about the way he’s working you just makes those waves stay steady rather than die down again. Maybe that’s his intention, because when you drop your head down to look at him with your mouth wet and agape, there’s a sparkling mischief in his eyes has he eats you out like his last meal.

Your hips grind against his face of their own accord, and you delve one hand in his hair while the other supports you on the headboard. You gasp out a quivering, breathless laugh as it all becomes just too much, and you try to lift off his mouth.

Grayson isn’t having it, though. He wraps his arms around your thighs and holds you down, reveling in the moans and whimpers and squeals as he makes you cum again.

“Oh my god — enough, enough, I can’t...” you whine, shoving on his forehead until he releases you and drops his head to the pillow. You could already see it by the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, but he’s smirking wide, chest heaving as you slink your way down his body.

You collapse next to him in a daze, and he rolls on top of you smoothly, peppering little kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your nose. When you’re back in your right mind, you nudge blindly at his face so his lips find yours. He tastes like your pussy, and you sigh happily as you lift your heavy arms to wrap around his neck while his scoop beneath you, holding you close.

You continue to indulge in each other for a while, in the kisses you hadn’t been allowed to share until now. There’s something exciting about his familiarity and yet also this strange newness that has you absolutely desperate for him in every way.

“This is crazy,” you say when you pull back for air, studying his face hovering right above yours. You push back that stubborn chunk of hair that keeps falling into his eyes with a soft smile. “How did we end up here?”

Grayson turns his head to press his lips to your palm. “I don’t know. Is it too much? Should we stop?”

You shake your head vehemently, and he grins. “No, please. I think I just have to grasp that you’re really... mine now.”

He chuckles. “How do you think I felt watching you with that loser for five months?”

The mention of Conner makes you feel nothing — nothing other than gratitude for Grayson, that is. You slide your hands down his back, over his ribs, across his abs until your hand cups his dick.

His hips thrust into your touch, and you grin up at him demurely as you finally delve your hand past his waistband until you’ve got his length completely in your grasp.

He’s hot and hard and thick, and you start stroking him just to gauge the reaction in his face. He doesn’t disappoint, his jaw gaping open slightly, his breaths picking up, a flush rising to the apples of his cheeks.

Without warning, he reaches down and grasps your wrist. You pout, but he asks hastily. “Are we gonna have sex?”

You smirk. “Hell yeah.”

Grayson grins and shakes his head. “Alright, then you gotta stop.”

“Already?” you tease, letting him sit back and hook his fingers in the tiny string of your thong at your hips.

He gives you a look as he pulls the scrap of lace down your legs, then stands to push down his own underwear. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and you wish he’d let you blow him some before you hit the main event, but he says, “I’ve wanted you for too long to take any chances about screwing up the first time.”

You melt a little, reaching for him as he climbs back on the bed. “There should be some condoms in the drawer there. Just to be safe after... you know.”

He nods and dips down to kiss you before leaning over to riffle through the top drawer of your nightstand. He comes back with a purple square, which you take from him.

“Gotta practice an activity safely,” you wink, tearing open the condom and rolling it down his shaft quickly.

“Shut up.” Grayson rolls his eyes, but smiles softly as he settles between your legs just right. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you whisper, gasping as he starts to sink inside you.

“Oh, fuck,” he whimpers as your walls suck him in and grip him tight.

He goes slow for a couple of minutes, allowing both of you time to adjust to each other. He stretches you out so much better than anyone you’ve ever been with, and you can’t help but clench around him when you see those tattoos and smell his cologne and hear his voice — all things that remind you that this is Grayson fucking you.

He growls the first time you do it, then sits up hastily, pulling his face out of your neck when you do it again. He tucks his knees beneath him, sits on his heels, and hauls your hips into his lap as the speed of his thrusts picks up incrementally. Until he’s fucking you for real, and your tits bounce in your bra with every upstroke.

You shove an arm beneath your pillow, enunciating the curves of your body, and watch his expressions as he fights to hold back. His hair is disheveled, lip caught tight between his teeth and muffling his deep, satisfied sounds that mingle with your open higher-pitched ones. He catches your eye and his hands on your hips grip you so tight for a moment that you’re sure little bruises will be there in the morning — not that you mind.

“Fuck,” he whispers harshly before slowing his hips and shifting down to give you a deep, sloppy kiss. “Turn over.”

You moan into his mouth, then follow his order, rolling onto your front as soon as he pulls out. You expect him to haul your hips up into the air, but he moves your hair off your neck and trails sweet kisses from shoulder to shoulder, his hand sweeping down the subtle curve of your back until he’s gripping your ass.

Grayson’s hand moves down your thigh and pushes it up and out once he’s cupping the back of your knee. The angle encourages you to twist your upper half until you have sight of him once again in all his angled, sweaty, muscular glory.

“Fuck me, baby,” you beg him, already anticipating the fullness inside you again. Needing it.

“Want me to fuck you?” he asks needlessly, pushing into your pussy once again. You moan loudly, either in confirmation or from pure pleasure, it doesn’t matter. The angle is tighter, the tip of his dick hitting a spot so perfectly accurate inside of you that you can’t concentrate on anything other than how good he’s making you feel. “Yeah. So fucking sexy. So beautiful...”

“Gray.. oh fuck yes, right there,” you whimper, catching onto his arm as he leans over you and gives you those hard, steady strokes.

“Open your eyes, baby, lemme see them when you cum,” he growls out.

You open them as much as you can, your vision blurry, but you can still make out those handsome features soaking in the pleasure on your face. Watching and waiting for you to get yours so he can get his.

As soon as you’re clenching like a vice around him, Grayson is letting go into the condom. You can vaguely feel the throb of him as he cums in spurts, the sound of his masculine, drawn-out groans making you shiver and tense up even more on his dick. If it’s possible for anyone to sound as sexy as they look, Grayson achieves that in spades.

He collapses on the bed next to you, and you have just enough strength to roll over until he’s got you gathered in his arms. You nuzzle into his chest and try to process everything. You had been hoping for nice sex today, and instead you got the best sex of your life.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence while you both catch your breath, after he pulls and ties off the condom, you smile into his cooling skin with a satisfied sigh.

“Thank you for making this the best Valentine’s Day of my life. Especially after it was starting to look like the worst.”

“You made this the best day of my life, period,” he says, kissing your forehead. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Gray.”

[mishafrankenstein]

The Black Creek Gang

I met Hawky and Co’ by the rotten old stump behind Old Man Jenkin’s place. We were somewhere around 14 years old that summer, the year I really got to know those two. They waited for me while I arrived late, like I always did.

Hawky, called that since he always hit his mark with his tomahawk, occupied himself by balancing his hatchet on his chin. He and his dad started blacksmithing out of their garage as a hobby, and they managed to make the thing out of some old wrought iron they salvaged. Proud as hell of it, and always learning new tricks.

Co’, short for Commander - she could get anyone to do anything. There was something terrifying about her which made me more afraid of her disapproval than that of my parents. She was wearing a camera around her neck when I arrived, so I knew she was up to something.

Then there was me, Grub. Called that because I was the new kid, even though that was my third summer with the gang. I didn’t have any special talents other than reading far too many ghost stories, but I ain’t no slouch. I just hadn’t found my real calling yet.

“Bout time,” Co’ said, jumping off a big rock.

Hawky holstered his ‘hawk and crossed his arms, turning his shoulders square to face both Co’ and me.

“What’s up,” I said, greeting the rest of the Black Creek Gang with a nod.

“You’re gonna love this.” Hawky gave me a half grin.

“Oh yeah?” I raised my brows.

“We’re gonna shoot a ghost.” Co’ flashed me a smile and hefted her camera. “Jenkins died last week, right?”

“Yeah,” I said. “You think he’s haunting or something?”

Hawky fidgeted with the button on his hawk holster. “He was a mean sonova bitch. And you was saying last month how angry ghosts stick around.”

“And that big ol’ Scooby Doo mansion of his is sitting vacant,” said Co’. “So we’re gonna do some exploring and a bit of ghost hunting.”

“I’m in,” I stood up straight and broadened my shoulders.

We hiked our way up the goathead-covered hill behind the old man’s house. Co’ was unfazed. Hawky and I did our best to claw our way through behind her, trying not to appear weak.

The house itself was this huge ridiculous gothic thing, like it should be full of Addams’ or maybe a wolfman or a frankenstein. It lorded over us as we crept up to the back door.

Co’ flipped her mom’s credit card out of her pocket and slid it between the door and the frame. With a lot of fiddling and a lot of swearing, she managed to get the door to open, groaning on its rusty hinges as it reluctantly welcomed us in. “Hawky,” she whispered, “you’re first.”

Hawky nodded and carefully unbuttoned the strap on his holster before taking a few timid steps into the darkness.

“Shoulda brought a light,” he hissed as he squinted into the innards. I spotted an old brick half buried in an overgrown planter. I snatched it up and knocked off some of the dirt.

“The hell you doing?” sneered Co’.

“Gonna brick the door open,” I spit back. “He might try and trap us.”

Her face shifted in approval and she followed Hawky without another word, taking the camera from around her neck. The stillness of the air was interrupted by the high pitched whine of the camera flash warming up. I made my way inside after making sure the door was safely propped open.

We picked our way through the house on tiptoes into a large living space. We stopped as soon as we heard humming drift in from the other room. Hawky turned back toward us with his face all twisted up somewhere between confusion and panic. All it took was a few forceful gestures from Co’ to get the gang moving again.

We peeked around the corner like a three headed monster and squinted into the library. In an old wingback chair sat a glowing, transparent figure. The chair was turned away from us, denying a good view of its occupant.

Co’ looked to Hawky and me and gulped. Anyone else might have turned away and escaped but nothing scared Co’ more than being labelled a coward. She crept around the periphery of the library, aiming her camera at the chair. Made it halfway before the figure leapt to his feet, and I swear that old ghost had fangs and claws where most folks would keep their usual teeth and fingers. She yelped, dropped her camera and forced her way past Hawky and me.

Hawky skittered away, losing his hatchet out of his open holster.

“Get out!” bellowed the spirit as I snatched the camera from the ground.

The flash snapped when I released the shutter and the ghost staggered back. I continued to snap photos as I stepped backward toward the open door, slowing the ghost’s pursuit.

I reached the hatchet. With a quick spin, I yanked it off the floor and bolted toward the exit, collapsing on the dry grass at the feet of my companions.

“Jesus,” gasped Hawky. “I didn’t realize you were fearless!”

Co’ slapped me on the back, “you sure are, Mongoose.”

[dragon-temeraire]

Jordan Parrish’s 7 Step Plan for Wooing Stiles Stilinski

I dredged up this old fic in honor of @shippingwithstiles starting up. If you like Stiles rarepairs, you should definitely check it out!

Summary: In which Jordan has a plan and Stiles is suspicious.

It’s been a year since I wrote this, I forgot how silly it was. (On AO3)

“Dude, what is up with Parrish?”

“What do you mean?” Scott asks. “What’s he doing?”

“He said he’s coming to pack night, for one!” Stiles huffs, throwing his hands in the air.

“So? What’s wrong with him coming to pack night?” Scott asks reasonably. “He’s helped us out a lot over the years. I consider him an honorary pack member.”

“That’s not what I meant! He’s a great guy, no doubt. I mean, why is he showing up now?” Stiles says.

“Oh!” Scott says, grinning. “That’s easy. He asked me where you were every Wednesday night, and I told him we had weekly pack get-togethers. So he asked me if he could come.”

“And you said yes,” Stiles cuts in.

“Of course I did. Like you said, Jordan’s a great guy. And I think it’d be good for him to be around people like us, who understand the supernatural. Besides, he looks like he could use a chance to just chill.”

“Yeah, good point. Maybe he’s looking for an excuse to be around Lydia,” Stiles muses.

“Dude, you know he’s been over her for years. And it wouldn’t matter anyway, because she’s dating Malia,” Scott says.

“Trust me, I know,” Stiles says. “Malia likes to call me up and tell me all these sordid details.”

Scott raises his eyebrows. “Can I get in on these phone calls?”

“Dude, no!” Stiles says, giving Scott a playful shove. “Those calls are my burden to bear. Besides, you have a girlfriend. You don’t need any sexy phone calls.”

Scott looks like he wants to argue, but lets it go. “What else has Jordan done?”

“Yesterday, right after he told me he was coming to pack night, he gave me a cupcake. It had a smiley face on it!” He says, outraged.

Scott just laughs. “Was it good?”

“It was delicious,” Stiles concedes. “But that’s not the point. The day before that, he’s eating lunch at his desk, and I’m working and minding my own business. He gets up and says ‘the burger place gave me an extra order of fries, do you want them’?”

“You took them, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did! They were curly fries,” Stiles says reverently.

Scott nods, acknowledging the greatness of curly fries. “Wait a minute. Did you have lunch that day?”

“Er, no.” Stiles scratches the back of his neck. “I got distracted working.”

“So Jordan found a way to feed you without insulting your pride.” Scott looks impressed.

“How devious. And just today, he offered to cover my late shift because I looked tired. Seriously, what is going on?”

“Sounds like you’re mad that Jordan’s being nice you,” Scott says.

“I just want to know why. I’m beginning to suspect an ulterior motive.”

Scott looks at him kindly. “I think you can trust him. Maybe he’s just looking for a friend. He seems kind of lonely.”

Stiles shrugs. “Maybe you’re right. I think I’ll wait and see how this plays out. But if he asks me to join his super-secret fight club or something, I’m calling you!”

Scott laughs. “It’s a deal.”

 *

 Jordan arrives at pack night carrying five boxes of pizza. He puts a bag of breadsticks directly into Stiles’ hands and says, “You don’t have to share if you don’t want to.” Then he just casually walks away. Stiles stares after him even as he shoves the first breadstick into his mouth.

It doesn’t take long before the smell of garlic lures Scott to his location. He reaches for the bag, which Stiles snatches away, cradling it against his chest. “No way, dude! He said I didn’t have to share.”

“Who did?”

“Jordan!” He exclaims, throwing himself down on the end of the couch. He curls up his legs, protecting the breadsticks from Scott.

“Oh, did he?” Scott says, smirking.

“Did someone call my name?” Jordan asks, walking out of the kitchen. He hands Stiles a plate of pizza, a root beer, and a stack of napkins. “You looked busy,” he says by way of explanation, and walks back to the kitchen.

“Uh, thanks!” Stiles calls after him. He’s distracted, staring after Jordan, until Scott’s snickering catches his attention. “What’s so funny?”

“I think I solved the mystery,” Scott says.

“Are you Scooby Doo now? What mystery?”

“The mystery of why Jordan is being nice to you,” Scott says smugly.

“Oh. Well, what’s the answer?”

“I’m not telling. You’ll figure it out, Velma,” he says, ruffling Stiles’ hair. “It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Jordan asks, looking at them curiously. He’s leaning against the other end of the couch, plate of pizza in hand.

“You just interrupted Scott being a terrible friend, so no big deal,” Stiles says, waving a hand dismissively in Scott’s direction.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say, Stiles. I’m gonna get some food now.” Stiles watches him go, feeling victorious.

“You mind if I sit here?” Jordan asks, gesturing to the couch.

“No, man, feel free,” Stiles says. Though he can’t help but notice that the other couch and the armchairs are mostly unoccupied. Malia’s the only other person in the living room. Maybe they made seating arrangements while they were all in the kitchen. He’ll roll with it. “So, not that I mind, but why did you bring me my own bag of breadsticks?”

Jordan sat down next to him. “Scott told me the story of one of your first pack nights. He said you brought pasta and breadsticks, but everyone was so hungry that they ate them all, and you didn’t get a single one. It was a deeply moving tragedy,” he says, deadpan.

Stiles can’t help but laugh. “Well, it sucks to have pasta, but no delicious bread to go with it!” He peeks into the breadstick bag, then offers it to Jordan. “Want one?”

“I don’t have any pasta, but sure. Thanks.” He takes one cautiously.

“So answer me this,” Stiles says, just as Jordan’s about to take a bite. “Why did you want to come to pack night?”

“I wanted to get to know you better,” Jordan says promptly.

“Me? But you already know me. We work together!”

“Work isn’t the best place to form friendships,” Jordan says, taking a bite of bread. “Besides we hardly ever get to talk about anything besides cases.”

“That’s a fair point. But why me?”

Jordan shrugs. “You understand the job. You know what it means to have a bad day at work. Despite your sarcasm, you care a lot about people. You always try to do the right thing. And you’re pretty funny.”

Stiles pokes him in the shoulder, grinning. “How can you say that to me? You never laugh at my jokes!”

“I do,” Jordan says, pointing to his stoic face, “on the inside.”

“Well, maybe you should try laughing on the outside occasionally. I always thought my sarcastic commentary annoyed you.”

“No, not at all. Sorry you thought that. I’m just not a very expressive person, as you’ve probably noticed.” He cleared his throat. “I was also going to say that you know what I am, which is pretty important. You won’t freak out if I start to look…”

“Like Johnny Storm?” Stiles finishes.

“Who?”

Slapping his hand dramatically to his forehead, Stiles flops back on the couch as though he’s fainted. “Look, you really need to come to my house sometime. So we can watch Fantastic 4.”

“Sure,” Jordan says easily. “I’m off at three on Friday.”

Stiles pulls his hand away from his face, shocked. “Really?” He sits back up. “Okay, come over around five. I’ll have food and drinks, so you don’t have to bring anything.”

“Sounds good,” Jordan says, just as Scott bursts in from the kitchen at a run, shielding his plate of pizza. Kira follows at a more sedate pace, carrying a large bowl of salad.

“Anybody want some of this before I dump it over Scott’s head?” she asks sweetly.

“I do,” Jordan says, extending his plate.

“Traitor!” Stiles hisses, snickering. Kira immediately scoops a pile of lettuce onto his last slice of pizza. She then places a neat serving on Jordan’s plate. Stiles picks up his slice, still covered in salad, and takes a bite. “Ooh, its Caesar!” he exclaims, and keeps eating it.

Lydia picks a movie as Kira diligently piles up half of Scott’s plate with salad. Malia tells Lydia they could watch something without dancing this time. Lydia sticks out her tongue and puts Footloose in anyway. Scott’s just leaning against the couch, laughing at Kira’s mock-serious face. She doesn’t crack a grin until the bowl is empty, but then she looks over and starts laughing at Scott.

Their laughter is infectious, and Stiles fights the urge to giggle. He really loves pack night.

Leaning close, Jordan whispers “are they always like this?”

“Sometimes they’re worse,” Stiles says cheerfully. “Welcome to pack night. There’s never a dull moment,” he says, patting Jordan on the back.

 *

 He keeps looking at the clock. He taps his fingers on the counter and checks his phone again. The last message from Jordan is see you at 5. He shouldn’t be nervous. He’s known Jordan for ages, and they work together, so really they’re practically friends. Or something like that.

He startles when the doorbell rings. He takes a running start from the living room and slides across the hardwood floor. Throwing open the front door dramatically, he exclaims “Hi, Jordan!”

“Hello, Stiles,” Jordan says, unflappable as ever. None of Stiles’ antics ever seem to faze him. “I know you said not to bring anything, but…” He holds up a container of ice cream. “I figured you’d appreciate this.”

Stiles accepts the ice cream, tilting the carton to read the label. “Fudge ripple! I knew there was a reason I liked you,” he says, putting it in the freezer.

“Someone told me it was your favorite,” Jordan says, giving him a small smile.

“I gotta stop telling Scotty all my secrets,” Stiles says, grinning. “Let’s get the movie going. Dinner’s in the oven, we can eat in thirty.” He heads into the living room, and presses play once Jordan has joined him on the couch.

The watch The Fantastic Four while enjoying Stiles’ Santa Fe casserole, and even have a little fudge ripple for dessert.

“Well,” Stiles says as the credits roll, “at least now you’ll know what I mean when I yell flame on! at you.”

“Just call me Johnny Storm,” Jordan says boldly, doing his best impersonation.

Stiles laughs. “We’re definitely watching the sequel. You need to develop a repertoire of Johnny Storm quotes. It’ll be a great inside joke.”

“Okay, let’s watch it tonight,” Jordan says, turning toward Stiles on the couch. He looks very serious. “But first. The new Batman movie is coming out next weekend. Would you like to go see it with me?”

Stiles looks at him oddly. “You don’t really like Batman. Wouldn’t you rather see the James Bond flick?”

“I would, that’s true. But since I’m asking you on a date, I want to do something you like,” Jordan says patiently.

Stiles is so startled, he says the first thing that comes to mind. “Is this a joke? Is there a hidden camera somewhere?” He makes a show of looking around suspiciously.

Jordan looks taken aback. “Why would you think that?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m just surprised, is all. You’re a mature, responsible adult, and I’m…kind of a mess, really. Not to mention, you’re way out of my league.”

“Stiles, there are no leagues,” Jordan says softly. “I like you. I like who you are, and I’d like to have a chance to know you better.” He thinks for a moment, then reaches into his wallet and pulls out a piece of paper. “Here, this should prove it,” he says, handing it to Stiles.

Carefully unfolding it, he notices the absurdly long title first: Jordan Parrish’s 7 Step Plan for Wooing Stiles Stilinski. He can’t help but smile. What a dork.

Every number on the list except 7 has a check mark next to it. Each entry is neatly written, but some of them have messily-scribbled notes next to them. He carefully reads the entire thing:

 1.     Listen to him. (This should be easy, he loves to talk)

2.     Pay attention to his interests.

3.     Be honest. (He will doubt you if you lie)

4.     Give him a small gift, something he likes. (He likes food. And “nerd stuff”)

5.     Show him you care.

6.     Spend time with him.

7.     Ask him out!

  “This is a good plan,” Stiles says, trying to keep a straight face. “I like it. My plans usually involve a timeline, but still.” He thinks for a moment. “However, I’m pretty sure your plan is missing something.” He fishes a pen out from under the couch and, in a very secretive manner, adds something to Jordan’s list. He folds it once and hands it back.

Opening it, Jordan finds that Stiles has added a number 8 to the bottom of the list. Next to it, in large block letters, it says KISS HIM!

He grins when Stiles moves pointedly closer on the couch. He reaches out and strokes his fingers along Stiles’ cheek. “Guess that’s a yes to the date, then?” He leans forward and kisses Stiles right as he starts to agree.

Jordan’s caught him by surprise, but he recovers quickly. He lets his tongue brush against Jordan’s, teasing, savoring. It feels amazing, and he curls his fingers into Jordan’s shirt, trying to pull him closer. He kisses him deeper and swears he can actually feel the temperature rising. He pulls back, panting, but leaves his arms looped around Jordan’s shoulders.

Jordan is breathing hard, too. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips look plush and tempting. When he opens his eyes, his irises are nothing but burning flame.

“Wow, that’s really sexy,” Stiles says, and kisses him again.

They can watch the sequel tomorrow.