#Quarter century trip

[littlenim]

Osaka, 021724

[girlkisser13]

going on your first date with the tvdu men would include

damon salvatore

• damon would likely choose a secluded and romantic location, perhaps the mystic grill for a drink, followed by a surprise trip to a hidden spot in the woods or a beautiful clearing with a view of the stars.

• he would pick you up in his blue convertible, making the journey to your date part of the experience, complete with playful banter and a perfectly curated playlist.

• expect witty and flirty conversation. we all know damon LOVES to tease, but he’d also be surprisingly attentive, showing genuine interest in getting to know you better.

• he’d most likely choose your drink for you, something you’d end up loving, showcasing his impeccable taste. if the date involves food, he’d make sure it’s something special, perhaps even cooking for you at his house.

• if the moment felt right, damon will suggest dancing. whether it’s a slow dance in the woods under the stars or a playful dance at the grill, he’d make it unforgettable.

• at the end of the date, damon would walk you to your door. his goodbye would be lingering, leaving you eager for the next time you see him. he’d probably leave you with a teasing comment or a promise of more to come.

elijah mikaelson

• elijah would choose an elegant and sophisticated location, a high-end restaurant with a stunning view or a private, luxurious setting that exudes old school harm.

• he’d OBVIOUSLY show up dressed impeccably in a tailored suit, reflecting his refined and timeless style. every detail of his appearance would be perfect, from his cufflinks to his neatly styled hair.

• elijah would send a classic car to pick you up, or he would arrive himself, ready to escort you to your date with utmost courtesy.

• elijah would be genuinely interested in your thoughts, opinions, and experiences. he’d share fascinating stories from his centuries-long life, offering glimpses into his past while keeping an air of mystery.

• elijah is the epitome of a gentleman. he’d hold doors open for you, help you with your coat, and ensure you feel cherished and respected throughout the evening.

• he would bring you a thoughtful gift, such as a bouquet of rare flowers or a book that he thinks you’d love, showing his attention to detail and consideration.

• elijah would choose the finest cuisine and wine, making sure everything is of the highest quality. he’d ensure the meal is a culinary experience, with each course carefully selected to delight your palate.

• he would engage you in conversations about art, history, literature, and culture, revealing his vast knowledge and passion for these subjects.

• while elijah is a perfect gentleman, there’s always an underlying sense of his power and ability to protect you. you’d feel safe and secure in his presence, knowing he’d go to great lengths to ensure your well-being.

• at the end of the date, elijah would walk you to your door, ensuring you’re safely home. his goodbye would be tender and sincere, perhaps with a gentle kiss on your hand or a soft brush of his lips against your cheek, leaving you enchanted and eager for the next time you meet.

kol mikaelson

• kol would choose a fun and unpredictable location for your date. this could range from a vibrant bar in the french quarter, to a late-night carnival, or even a spontaneous adventure like breaking into an abandoned mansion for some exploring.

• kol would either show up in a flashy car or decide to take you for a walk through the lively streets of new orleans, there’s no in between.

• kol is all about living in the moment. he might suggest impromptu activities, like dancing in the street to a nearby musician’s tunes or trying some exotic food from a street vendor.

• there’s always a touch of mischief with kol. he might pull a harmless prank or engage in a bit of friendly competition, such as challenging you to a game of pool or darts at a local bar.

• kol wouldn’t hide his vampire nature; instead, he’d use it to impress you. he’d show off his speed, strength, and compel the bartender to give you both free drinks.

• the date would be filled with energy and excitement. kol’s enthusiasm is contagious, and he’d ensure you’re constantly entertained and engaged, never a dull moment.

• at the end of the date, kol would walk you home, making sure you’re safely inside. his goodbye would be flirty and full of promise, perhaps with a lingering kiss or a playful comment about your next adventure together.

jeremy gilbert

• jeremy would choose a casual and comfortable location, like a cozy café, a local diner, or a peaceful spot by the lake for a picnic.

• jeremy is a good listener and would be interested in learning about your passions, dreams, and experiences.

• jeremy would suggest doing something fun and interactive, like visiting an arcade, going for a hike, or even attending a local concert. he’d want to create a memorable experience that’s enjoyable for both of you.

• jeremy’s an artist so he might even take you to a local art gallery, or he could even bring his sketchbook and show you some of his sketches (they’re honestly probably all sketches of you).

• jeremy would choose a place with good, hearty food— nothing too fancy, but something that feels comforting and satisfying. if you’re having a picnic, he’d pack a basket with some of his favorite snacks and drinks.

• he also loves being outdoors, so he might take you to a beautiful, secluded spot in nature.

• at the end of the date, jeremy would walk you to your door and make sure you’re safely inside. his goodbye would be sweet and sincere, leaving you feeling cared for and excited for the next time you see him.

malachai "kai" parker

• kai would choose an unconventional and adventurous location. this could range from exploring an old, abandoned building to a spontaneous road trip to a nearby town. he loves to keep things exciting and unpredictable.

• there’s always a sense of mischief with kai. he would definitely suggest something dangerous or illegal, like sneaking into a restricted area or trying out a thrilling activity. he enjoys pushing boundaries and seeing how far you’re willing to go.

• kai wouldn’t shy away from using his magic. he might perform small, impressive spells to amuse you or use his powers to enhance the date, like creating a magical light show or conjuring up something special.

• kai would take you to a unique, offbeat restaurant or café, somewhere with a cool vibe and interesting menu. he’d make sure the experience is memorable and out of the ordinary.

• at the end of the date, kai would walk you to your door with a mix of playful charm and genuine interest. his goodbye would be intriguing and magnetic, perhaps with a lingering touch or a cryptic comment that leaves you wanting more.

niklaus "klaus" mikaelson

• klaus would choose a sophisticated and exclusive location, like a private rooftop dinner with a stunning view of the city, a hidden garden, or a historic site. he loves grandeur and would want to impress you with a memorable setting.

• klaus would pick you up in a luxurious car, ensuring you travel in comfort and style. the journey would be smooth and filled with engaging conversation, making you feel at ease and intrigued.

• klaus is well-read and knowledgeable, and he’d be genuinely interested in your thoughts and experiences. he’d share fascinating stories from his long life, providing glimpses into his complex personality.

• klaus is a master of romantic gestures. he’d bring you a bouquet of rare flowers, arrange for a talented musician to play a private concert, or surprise you with a beautifully handwritten note expressing his admiration.

• klaus has a deep appreciation for art and culture. he might take you to an art gallery, a classical music concert, or even show you some of his own artwork. he’d love to share his passions with you and see your reactions.

• klaus has a penetrating gaze that can make you feel like the only person in the world. throughout the date, he’d often lock eyes with you, never looking away until you do.

• his protective nature would be evident. he’d ensure you feel safe and cared for at all times, subtly asserting his strength and willingness to defend you if needed.

• klaus is a gentleman at heart. he’d open doors for you, pull out your chair, and be attentive to your needs, ensuring you feel respected and cherished.

• at the end of the date, klaus would walk you to your door. his goodbye would be lingering and filled with promise, perhaps with a gentle kiss on your hand or a soft brush of his lips against yours, leaving you yearning for more.

stefan salvatore

• stefan would choose a charming, low-key location for your first date. this might be a quaint café, a scenic park, or a cozy restaurant with a relaxed atmosphere where you can talk and connect.

• he’d pick you up in his car, making sure the ride is pleasant and comfortable. he might even play a soft playlist to set a relaxed mood.

• stefan is thoughtful and would likely bring a small, meaningful gift, like a single flower or a favorite book he thinks you’d enjoy. he values the little things that show he’s paying attention.

• stefan would plan a thoughtful activity, such as a stroll through a picturesque park, a visit to a local art exhibit, or a casual outing to a farmers' market, where you can explore and talk.

• he’d pay close attention to your preferences and needs, ensuring you’re comfortable and having a good time. if you mention a favorite food or drink, he’d remember and include it in the date.

• stefan’s demeanor is kind and respectful. he’d open doors for you, offer his arm while walking, and be attentive without being overwhelming, showing his genuine respect and care.

• rather than grand gestures, stefan plan a quiet moment to watch the sunset together or find a peaceful spot where you can talk privately.

• at the end of the date, stefan would walk you to your doorstep. his goodbye would be heartfelt, leaving you with a feeling of warmth and anticipation for the next time you see him.

[darkintothedawn]

ORDER UP? || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x Gender Neutral reader

Summary — Stiles finally gets a chance at a job part time and you have to help through that process.

Memo— IGNORE how long this took and how I literally fell asleep at my computer trying to edit this (I have no time management)(I didn't even know I was tired)(I know I missed things while editing this). This was inspired by a single tiktok edit so if anyone wants to see that just ask. Also, turns out there's a 1k block limit so this is blocked out really weirdly here and there, I apologise. Oh, also, I did write some of this scenes out originally with a gendered reader so if I left anything in please just comment the line or something, I'd appreciate it!!!

Warnings — Smut. Lots of fluff though. Buzz cut Stiles. Idk how to describe this lmao. This does include cannon divergent headcanons. Yes I did also continuously bring up cheap soap/detergent. My boy does not have any life skills and I didn't know what else to put :(

Word Count — 30k~

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

The first time Stiles bursts through your bedroom door that week, he’s vibrating with so much nervous energy it feels like he’s about to physically lift off the floor.

He’s still got his Converse on (muddy, of course), hoodie half-zipped, hair an absolute disaster even though it’s buzzed short now—like somehow the universe decided that even if there was less hair, it would still find a way to look chaotic—and his eyes, wide and sparkling, instantly lock on yours like he’s about to drop the most important news of the century. His backpack falls off his shoulder and hits the floor with a thump loud enough to make you jump a little.

"Guess who just nailed a preliminary interview at McDonald’s?" he blurts out without even saying hello, voice high-pitched with excitement.

You blink up at him from where you’re sprawled on the bed, textbook open across your chest, headphones around your neck. You grin. "Uh, President of the United States?"

He snorts, practically bouncing in place, legs jittering like he’s vibrating at a molecular level. "Close! Me! Me, babe! I’m the President! Of—of like, Quarter Pounders and french fries and Happy Meals!"

He’s pacing now, wild hands moving as he talks, his body too full of restless energy to stay still, rambling so fast his words trip over each other like they’re racing to get out first. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his skinny forearms, and he's tugging them up further with jerky movements every time they slip down, like even his clothes can't keep up with him.

"I went in just to grab a Coke, right? And the manager was there—like, the manager, not just some shift lead who’s like seventeen and already dead inside, but the guy who wears the tie and has a clipboard and everything—and he saw me looking at the Help Wanted sign and we started talking and he was like, 'Hey, you seem like a personable kid,' and I am personable, right, you think I’m personable—?"

"You're the most personable person alive," you say without missing a beat, biting back a laugh as he whirls around to beam at you like you just handed him the Nobel Prize.

"Right?! Right, exactly! Anyway, he said they were short-staffed and he could squeeze me in for an interview next week, and like, I’ve never had a real interview before, not unless you count Scott’s mom asking me if I could babysit Scott, which doesn’t count because she literally knew I’d already snuck beers into the house twice—like, twice, and she still trusted me, can you believe that—?"

He finally pauses to breathe, chest heaving slightly, cheeks pink, buzzed hair sticking up in tiny tufts like static shock got him. You sit up fully, setting your book aside, and open your arms wordlessly. Stiles practically dives onto the bed without hesitation, collapsing into your chest with a dramatic oof like you’re the softest thing he’s ever touched. His hoodie smells faintly like fries, Coca-Cola syrup, and fresh laundry detergent—the cheap kind his dad buys in bulk. You wrap your arms around his back, feeling the way his whole body buzzes under your hands, a livewire of pent-up excitement and nerves.

"Hey," you murmur into his hair, smiling against the soft bristles of his buzzcut, "I’m proud of you."

He makes a small, pleased noise against your chest, burrowing closer like a cat finally settling after climbing the curtains. His fingers fidget restlessly against your side, drumming little random rhythms, and you can feel the way his brain is still moving a thousand miles an hour even if his body’s trying to stay still.

"You really think I’ll get it?" he mumbles after a minute, quieter now, voice a little rougher, like he's admitting something he doesn’t quite know how to say out loud. "I mean… I know it’s not like… a career career. But it'd be cool to have my own money for once. I could help my dad with groceries. Buy you stuff. Not be the guy who always shows up with lint and IOUs in his wallet like some kind of sad Dickensian orphan—"

You squeeze him tighter, running your fingers slowly up and down his spine in long, calming strokes until you feel his muscles finally start to melt under your hands. His breathing evens out a little, less frantic.

"Baby," you say, kissing the crown of his head, "they’re gonna be lucky to have you. Seriously. You’re like… pure human serotonin. Plus you’re cute as hell. You’ll charm the pants off them."

He snickers, tilting his head up just enough to give you one of those lopsided, slightly crooked smiles that make your heart ache in the best way. His buzzcut looks ridiculous and perfect at the same time, little whorls of hair you want to rub your face into like some lovesick idiot. You lean in and kiss the tip of his nose, making him wrinkle it adorably.

"I love you," you admit softly against his skin, heart thudding a little harder because he’s so him, so alive and twitchy and perfect. "Guess you'll have to get the job and find out."

He hums happily, finally still in your arms, his heartbeat slow and steady against your chest now. You card your fingers gently through the short buzzed hair, untangling the imaginary knots, feeling the way he relaxes completely under your touch like you flipped a switch labeled Safe.

"Interview’s Monday after school," he says into your hoodie, voice muffled but somehow clearer than anything else in the whole world. "Will you help me pick out what to wear? I know it’s just McDonald’s, but I don’t wanna look like I just rolled out of bed. Even though, let’s be real, that’s kinda my brand." You chuckle and squeeze his hip lightly, thumb brushing over the waistband of his jeans where his hoodie had ridden up a little.

"Yeah, babe. I'll help you. We’ll make you look devastatingly hireable."

Stiles lets out a deep, long-suffering sigh like the weight of the world has finally been lifted off his scrawny, restless shoulders, and he melts even further into you, his entire body draped over you like a too-warm, buzzing blanket. You hold him there for as long as he wants, your fingers still gently stroking the back of his neck, whispering stupid sweet nothings into the fading golden light leaking through your window, the two of you tangled up in each other in the easiest, softest way imaginable.

You shift a little under him, feeling your legs start to go numb, but there’s no way in hell you’re moving him off you. Not when he’s finally calmed down, weight pressed against you like he’s trying to merge the two of you together at a cellular level. Stiles hums contentedly, nuzzling his face against your chest, the short bristle of his buzzcut scraping lightly through your hoodie. It’s clumsy and awkward and somehow still the sweetest thing you've ever felt.

You press a kiss to the top of his head and whisper, "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

He lets out a muffled noise that sounds suspiciously like, "Takes one to know one," but it’s mostly just him breathing you in like you’re his oxygen tank.

The room is heavy with the golden kind of quiet — the type that feels full, not empty. Your fingers find the hem of his hoodie and start tracing random patterns along the exposed skin of his lower back, drawing lazy shapes like invisible constellations. Every now and then, he shivers slightly but doesn’t move away, just burrows closer, if that’s even physically possible.

Minutes pass like that, warm and tangled and safe. Then, because it’s Stiles and he can't let a single second of peace pass without filling it, he stirs and lifts his head just enough to meet your eyes. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips are kiss-bitten pink from where he’d been pressing them against your hoodie.

"So uh," he starts, and you can already hear the wheels in his head spinning out of control, "think you could, y'know, help me practice answering questions?"

You blink down at him. "Interview questions?"

"No, Jeopardy questions," he deadpans, eyes wide and innocent for about two seconds before he dissolves into a little snorting laugh against your chest. "Yes, interview questions, genius."

You grin and play along, tapping your chin like you're thinking very hard. "I don't know, Mr. Stilinski. What’s in it for me?"

He narrows his eyes dramatically, propping himself up on his elbows now, body hovering over yours awkwardly because he’s not sure how to balance himself without crushing you. His knees dig into the mattress on either side of your hips, and you get a very distracting view of the way his oversized hoodie bunches around his waist, exposing the smallest sliver of pale, freckled skin above his jeans.

"I'll pay you," he says seriously, like he’s negotiating a hostage situation.

"You don't have any money," you remind him, poking his side and making him squirm and laugh.

"Fine," he grumbles, cheeks pink, but there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. "I'll pay you in… unlimited Stiles cuddles. Lifetime subscription. You can cash 'em in whenever you want."

You make a show of pretending to consider it, tapping your chin again, while he wiggles impatiently above you.

"Throw in a forehead kiss," you say finally, "and you’ve got a deal."

Without hesitation, Stiles leans down and plants the sloppiest, most obnoxious kiss right in the middle of your forehead, complete with an exaggerated mwah sound that has you dissolving into helpless laughter beneath him. "Sealed with a kiss," he says smugly.

"Alright, alright," you say once you manage to catch your breath, "you ready?"

He sits up a little straighter, doing his best impression of Serious Adult Stiles, folding his hands primly in his lap like he's about to sit for a Harvard admissions panel.

"So, Mr. Stilinski," you say in your best fake-interviewer voice, trying not to laugh at how seriously he’s taking this, "why do you want to work for McDonald's?"

He opens his mouth immediately, panic flashing across his face because apparently he hadn't thought that far ahead. "Uh—uh, because—because I believe in providing people with delicious food at reasonable prices, and also I need to fund my insatiable addiction to Nerds Rope and energy drinks?"

You burst out laughing, grabbing at his sides to pull him back down on top of you. He lets out a dramatic, wounded noise but collapses willingly, landing half-off center across your body in a tangle of elbows and knees.

"Terrible answer," you tease, carding your fingers through the soft buzz of his hair.

"Hey!" he protests, voice muffled against your shoulder. "It's honest! Don't they want honesty?"

"Maybe leave out the Nerds Rope part," you advise, laughing so hard now that your ribs ache. "Go with something like, 'I want to build valuable work experience and learn about customer service.' Y'know. Boring adult words." He groans loudly, rolling his face into your hoodie like he can somehow disappear into it.

"Boring adult words are hard," he whines dramatically, kicking his feet behind him like a toddler.

You’re still laughing when he lifts his head again, brown eyes huge and stupidly fond, looking at you like you hung the damn moon. He shifts so he’s straddling your waist fully now, legs on either side, leaning down until his forehead bumps yours. And he just… stays there.

Forehead to forehead, nose to nose, your breaths mingling in the tiny space between you. His eyes flutter shut, and he rubs your noses together in a soft, clumsy little eskimo kiss, the tip of his nose brushing yours back and forth like he’s memorizing you through touch alone.

You close your eyes too, heart thudding so loud you’re sure he can feel it through your chest. He smells like cheap soap and detergent and something distinctly Stiles — sharp and sweet and a little bit wild, like he’s never stood still long enough for the world to catch up to him until now.

You stay like that for a long, long time, barely breathing, barely moving, wrapped up in the kind of warm, stupid, dizzy feeling that makes your hands ache to hold him tighter and never, ever let go. And somewhere, deep down, you think: if he asked you to spend the rest of your life doing stupid mock interviews and getting bribed with forehead kisses, you'd say yes without even thinking.

And then, with a soft, shuddering little breath, Stiles leans down and kisses you.

It’s not rushed or desperate, not messy or hungry the way some kisses get when he’s vibrating with too much energy. No, this one is slow and tender, his mouth brushing yours like he’s scared you might disappear if he presses too hard. His lips are a little dry, a little chapped, but he tastes like soda and the faint lingering sugar of something sweet (probably candy), and the way he sighs against your mouth makes your chest ache in the best, most stupidly overwhelming way.

You kiss him back just as softly, hands sliding up the sides of his face, thumbs brushing over his freckled cheeks, holding him there like you could anchor him with just your touch. Stiles hums low in his throat, content, tilting his head to deepen the kiss slightly, nose bumping yours as he shifts again.

Except when he shifts, he rocks forward a little too much, grinding his hips down against yours just by accident, and he immediately lets out this tiny, wounded whine, pulling back just enough that his forehead stays pressed to yours but your mouths part. He’s breathing a little harder now, cheeks flushed red, and he mutters in a rapid, slightly panicked tumble, "Sorry, sorry, sorry, I swear, I'm not trying to — like, I'm not— I mean, I am, I want to—God, I really want to, but I’m not, like, ready-ready yet and I know you’re being super patient and amazing and literally the best person to ever exist on the planet, maybe the galaxy, maybe the universe, but I promise I’ll get there, I swear, it’s just my brain is like, you know, kinda stupid sometimes and—"

You cut him off by squeezing his hips gently, grounding him, giving him the softest, most adoring smile you can manage. "I know, baby," you whisper, brushing your thumb over his flushed cheek. "You’re perfect. No rush. We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be."

But Stiles is still frowning, his whole face scrunching up like he’s deeply offended by his own body’s betrayal. His eyebrows knit together and his mouth twists downward, and he looks about two seconds away from either punching a pillow or launching into another thousand-word apology that would only tangle him up more.

You can't help yourself. You lean up and start peppering kisses all over his face, little quick ones like you're trying to cover every single freckle. One on his forehead, one on his temple, one on each cheekbone, a bunch right across the bridge of his nose. He jerks in surprise, letting out a startled bark of laughter that melts the scowl right off his face.

You kiss both corners of his mouth, feeling the way he starts smiling underneath the touch, soft and helpless, and then kiss his actual lips properly — once, twice, three times — until he’s giggling breathlessly against you, the tension draining out of him like a popped balloon.

"There’s my boyfriend," you murmur against his skin, kissing the dimple that appears when he grins. "There’s my Stiles Stilinski."

You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes sparkling, before adding with a wicked little grin, "My cutie with a buzz." Stiles groans, rolling his eyes like he’s too cool to be called cute, but the way he’s blushing all the way to his ears says otherwise. And because you can never resist when he looks like that — all red-cheeked and soft and pretending to be annoyed — you lean forward, open your mouth slightly, and bite the tip of his nose, gently but firmly.

"Ah—hey!" he yelps, scrunching up his face, but he's laughing now, breathless and loose and so beautifully alive.

You grin, wicked, and without giving him a second to recover, you drag your tongue up the length of his nose in one long, slow, ridiculous lick. Stiles makes a noise that’s somewhere between a shriek and a moan, jerking back a little and then just staring at you, eyes wide and blown and full of disbelief and something else that’s hot and sweet and so much.

"You are," he says, voice low and a little wrecked, "the worst. The absolute worst."

You just shrug, smirking up at him, fingers curling into the waistband of his jeans again to keep him close.

"And you love it," you say simply.

Stiles opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but then he just slumps forward until he’s lying fully on top of you again, wrapping his arms around you like a starfish, burying his face against your neck.

"Yeah," he mumbles, words muffled but clear enough. "I really, really do."

~~

The afternoon sunlight spills lazy and golden across Stiles' room, painting warm streaks over the mess he’s creating as he rifles through his closet. You’re sat cross-legged on his bed, the mattress squeaking every time you shift, idly plucking at a loose thread on the hem of his comforter, just watching him with a dopey smile you’re not even trying to hide anymore.

Clothes are flying out of the closet at random — a wrinkled plaid shirt, a hoodie that might’ve once been white but now looks vaguely gray, a pair of jeans that hit the floor with a defeated plop. Every few seconds, Stiles lets out an annoyed grunt, muttering to himself under his breath as he digs deeper into the disaster zone that is his side of the closet.

"I have nothing," he whines dramatically, tugging a random sweatshirt off a hanger and holding it up, only to scowl at it before tossing it into a growing pile. "I can't show up looking like some degenerate who just rolled out of a dumpster."

You snort. "You'd still be the hottest dumpster rat in the whole world."

Stiles freezes for a second, like the words hit him straight between the shoulder blades, then whips his head around to glare at you — but he’s blushing already, the tips of his ears turning a deep, furious red. "You are legally obligated to say that," he says weakly, pointing an accusing finger at you.

"Nope," you say casually, leaning back on your hands, grinning at him like you’ve got all the time in the world to admire the way his buzzcut catches the sunlight, the way his cheeks pink up so easily for you. "I just speak the truth, baby. You're stupid hot. Even buried under half your wardrobe." Stiles grumbles something unintelligible, his face so red now you’re actually concerned he might combust. He turns back to the closet in a huff, arms flailing as he yanks a pair of khakis off a hanger and tosses them over his shoulder.

"You are objectively wrong," he declares, voice high and cracking just a little, and you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing because he’s just — he’s so stupidly cute when he’s flustered like this. "I am a mess. A chaotic, anxious, hopeless mess. You’re just — you’re biased! You’ve got the Stiles-tinted glasses on."

You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider that, tapping a finger against your chin. "Or," you say slowly, dragging the word out, "maybe you're just insanely attractive, and you don't even know it yet. Maybe you're a whole-ass snack and I’m the only one smart enough to have noticed."

Stiles lets out a strangled sound, half laugh, half horrified whimper, as he throws another hoodie into the air like it personally offended him. "Stop! You're literally gonna give me an aneurysm before my interview!"

You laugh softly, heart squeezing painfully tight with how much you love him. "Just saying, if you show up in, like, a potato sack, they'd still hire you. 'Cause you’re charming. And smart. And so damn handsome it’s honestly unfair to the rest of the applicant pool."

He mutters something about "biased lovers" and "rampant slander" under his breath, still facing the closet because he clearly can't deal with you looking at him while he’s this pink and flustered and adorable. You watch him with nothing but awe, feeling like you’re seeing something secret and sacred — the way he fidgets, the way he talks to himself under his breath when he’s overwhelmed, the way he still doesn't seem to realize how magnetic he is. You could watch him like this forever and never get bored.

Another shirt flies out — this one a faded Batman tee that you know he secretly loves but would never wear to a job interview. "No Batman shirt?" you tease gently.

He spins to face you, wide-eyed. "It’s McDonald's, not Comic-Con! I have to look, y'know, professional! Adult! Hireable!"

"You are hireable," you say immediately, voice softening because you can see the way his shoulders are starting to creep up around his ears, the way he's working himself up again. "You’re smart and funny and you work hard. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Seriously, babe."

Stiles looks down at his feet like maybe if he doesn't make eye contact, he won’t spontaneously combust from the praise. His fingers fidget with the hem of the Batman shirt, twisting it up, and you swear you see the tiniest hint of a proud, shy little smile twitching at the corner of his mouth before he quickly hides it.

"You're such a sap," he mumbles, kicking at a hoodie on the floor.

"And you're not?" You fire back instantly. He huffs out a laugh, still not meeting your eyes, rummaging blindly into the back of his closet now like he might find a magic outfit back there if he digs hard enough.

More clothes get flung into the air, a pair of khakis hitting the side of your leg. You don’t even flinch, too busy watching him with your heart practically glowing out of your chest. Watching the way he bites his lip when he’s thinking, the way he pushes up on the balls of his feet and back down again like his body just can’t stay still. Every movement is so Stiles — chaotic and beautiful and real.

He doesn't find anything yet, but honestly? You wouldn't trade this moment — this stupid, messy, hilarious moment of him throwing half his wardrobe around while blushing like mad — for anything else in the world. Then another shirt — something nondescript and beige — flies through the air and hits the lamp on his nightstand with a dull whump. You watch with a lazy, fond grin as Stiles curses under his breath and digs even deeper into the abyss of his closet, muttering nonsense about "business casual" and "life or death situations" like the stakes couldn't be any higher.

You’re about to make another teasing comment when something different flutters out of the closet — a flash of maroon and white — and lands in a soft heap right by your feet. Curious, you reach down and grab it, the familiar weight and smell of it hitting you instantly. It’s Stiles’ old lacrosse jersey — the one from when he was still trying to figure out how to run without tripping over his own feet. His last name, STILINSKI, is bold across the back in thick white lettering paired with a large nupber 24, and the fabric is worn thin in places, soft from so many washes.

You glance over at Stiles, but he’s completely oblivious, still buried halfway in the closet, arms stretched overhead as he tries to wrestle a rogue pair of khakis off a hanger. His back is to you, totally vulnerable, totally unaware. You smirk to yourself, a wicked little idea sparking in your brain. Quickly — quietly — you peel off your own shirt, tossing it into the chaos on the floor without a second thought. The room’s a little chilly, goosebumps pebbling your skin, but you barely notice because you’re too busy pulling Stiles’ jersey over your head.

It’s way too big on you — hangs off one shoulder, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs — but it smells like him, like detergent and grass and something sharp and boyish and Stiles, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched. You pad across the room, silent on your bare feet, and come up right behind him, wrapping your arms loosely around his waist. He stiffens for a second, startled, before relaxing into the touch with a little hum, one of his hands instinctively coming up to rest over yours.

"Find anything yet?" you murmur against the nape of his neck, smiling into his skin.

"Nooope," he says miserably, leaning his weight back against you a little. "I’m a lost cause. Just bury me in a hoodie and call it a day."

You laugh, and he turns around to face you — and freezes. Like, completely freezes. Eyes wide, mouth falling open slightly, his entire body going rigid as he stares at you like he’s seeing a ghost or maybe the hottest thing his teenage brain has ever processed. You blink up at him innocently, trying — and failing — to suppress the smug little tilt of your mouth. "What?" you ask sweetly, tugging lightly on the hem of the jersey. "This old thing?"

Stiles makes a noise that sounds like he’s choking on air, his hands flailing uselessly in front of him like he doesn’t know whether to touch you or not. His eyes are glued to the sight of his name stretched across your chest, the way the loose fabric hangs off your bare skin, the peek of your hip where the hem rides up. He visibly swallows. His hands twitch.

"I — you — holy — what are you doing?" he sputters, voice climbing about three octaves.

You bat your lashes at him, playing it up. "What, you don’t like it?" Stiles looks like he’s about to die on the spot. His cheeks go crimson almost instantly, his ears burning bright pink, and when you shift your weight slightly — the jersey riding a little higher on your thighs — he actually whimpers under his breath.

"I — it's not — I mean, yes, but — fuck," he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut like that’ll somehow make the image of you in his jersey disappear. It doesn't. It only makes it worse. When he opens his eyes again, they drop instinctively to the way the fabric clings to you, the way his name looks against your body, and you see it happen in real-time: the way his breath catches, the way his hips shift forward just a little without meaning to.

And then? The telltale bulge tenting the front of his jeans. Stiles makes a panicked, horrified noise, hands flying down to cover himself instinctively, as if you hadn’t already noticed. His face is a whole new shade of red now, somewhere between embarrassed and ready to fake his own death and start a new life in Alaska.

"Stiles," you say, voice low and fond, stepping even closer. He stumbles back a step, bumping into the edge of the bed, his hands still hovering awkwardly in front of his crotch like that’ll do anything to hide the very obvious way his dick is straining against his jeans now.

"I swear to God, you're evil," he gasps out, eyes wide and panicked and impossibly turned on. "You’re, like, a demon. A hot demon. A sex demon. Sent to destroy me."

You can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you, wild and bright and so full of affection it makes your chest ache. You close the distance again, hands sliding up the sides of his waist, feeling the way he shivers under your touch, his whole body buzzing with nervous, giddy energy.

"You’re so cute when you’re flustered," you murmur, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his.

Stiles lets out another helpless little whimper, frozen in place, heart pounding so hard you can practically feel it against your own chest.

"You're evil," he repeats weakly, but he's already leaning into you, already chasing your warmth without even thinking about it.

You just smile, brushing your lips lightly over his jaw, feeling the way he shudders under you, his hands finally coming up to grab at your hips like he can't not touch you anymore.

And God, if this is what happens just from you wearing his jersey, you can't wait to see what happens when you show up to one of his lacrosse practices in it.

You chuckle low in your throat, feeling the way Stiles grips your hips a little tighter, like he’s grounding himself — or maybe like he’s trying to stop himself from completely losing control. His forehead drops onto your shoulder, and he lets out this soft, desperate whine when you run your hands up under the jersey, dragging your fingers lightly across the bare skin of his sides.

You tilt your head so you can press a kiss to the crown of his buzzed head, breathing him in. He smells like cheap detergent and boy and sweat and Stiles, and it’s perfect, and you’re so head over heels stupid for him it actually aches a little.

"You still need clothes for your interview, baby," you remind him sweetly, dragging your nails lightly down his spine. "Can't have you showing up in just your boner."

He lets out a strangled noise — half-laugh, half-moan — and rocks his hips against you without thinking. The hard press of his cock against your hip is so obvious now, and he doesn’t even try to hide it, just lets himself rut into you slow and helpless, like he can’t even help himself.

It’s so Stiles. It’s so stupidly adorable you might actually combust.

"M' working on it," he mumbles, voice muffled against your shoulder. His hips rock again, a slow, desperate little grind, like maybe if he moves slow enough it won’t count.

You smirk, sliding one hand up to tangle in the soft baby fuzz at the back of his head, gently scratching at his scalp the way you know he loves.

"You won't fuck me," you tease, voice low and fond, "but you'll hump me like you’re in heat?"

Stiles lets out the most wounded, scandalized little noise and lifts his head just enough to glare at you — his cheeks red, his mouth a little open, his whole body practically vibrating with how overwhelmed he is.

"It’s different," he huffs indignantly, grinding against you again like he can’t help himself even while he’s trying to argue. "This is — this is safe! This is, like, non-penetrative! No fluids crossing borders! It’s basically the sexual equivalent of a handshake."

You bark out a startled laugh, leaning back enough to catch his flushed, wrecked face in your hands. You kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, anywhere you can reach, worshipping him with soft, silly affection until he’s whining and squirming and smiling despite himself.

"You're insane," you tell him, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "My beautiful, genius, absolutely insane boyfriend."

He pouts, grinding into you harder now, a little desperate, a little frantic. His cock is leaking precome already, dampening the front of his jeans, and the friction must be just this side of painful, but he’s chasing it anyway, burying his face against your neck and whimpering softly under his breath.

"You feel so good," he mumbles, like he can’t help himself. "You're so warm — smells so good — fuck."

You keep running your hands all over him, up and down his back, squeezing his waist, praising him in low, soft murmurs that have him shivering against you.

"So good for me, Stiles," you whisper, letting your lips brush his ear. "So handsome. So smart. Gonna kill your interview. Gonna blow them all away."

He whines again, grinding harder, his breath hot and panting against your throat. His hands flex against your hips, holding you in place like you might disappear if he lets go.

"Gotta — m'gonna —" he stammers helplessly, rutting faster, his whole body trembling.

"You gonna come for me, baby?" you murmur, sweet and coaxing. "Just from humping me like a needy little thing?"

He nods frantically, too far gone for words now, his face flushed and sweaty, his body straining against yours as he chases his orgasm.

You keep whispering to him, nothing but praise and love, telling him how proud you are, how beautiful he is, how good he feels against you.

And when he finally stiffens and gasps and grinds one last desperate time against your hip, coming in his jeans with a soft, wrecked little sob, you hold him through it, kissing his forehead and stroking his back, loving him so much it feels like your heart might actually break from it.

Stiles clings to you, panting, his body trembling with the aftershocks. He doesn't move for a long minute, just lets himself be held, lets himself be loved.

Eventually, he lifts his head, eyes glazed and dopey, a crooked, embarrassed little smile tugging at his mouth.

"You are," he pants, "the worst."

You laugh, kissing his temple. "And you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me."

He groans, hiding his face against your neck again, but you can feel the way he’s smiling, the way he’s still trembling with leftover pleasure, and you know he’s soaking up every word, every touch, every bit of love you pour into him.

You’re never gonna get tired of this — of him — of the way he gives himself to you so completely, even when he’s overwhelmed and messy and a little bit ridiculous.

Especially then.

You press one last kiss into his sweaty hair, breathing him in, before pulling back just enough to catch his eyes. They're big and brown and still a little hazy, all soft edges and vulnerable in a way he only ever lets himself be with you.

"You gotta strip, baby," you say, voice warm and teasing but still soft, coaxing. "Can’t pick out a clean outfit if you're still covered in…" — you smirk, flicking your eyes down pointedly — "…evidence."

Stiles groans like he wants the earth to swallow him whole, his hands clamping protectively over his crotch, his whole body curling inward. His ears are so red they could probably catch fire.

"I — you — you can't just —" he stammers helplessly, voice cracking halfway through.

You smile, all fondness, and nudge him gently toward the bed. "C’mon, babe. Clothes off. Nothing I haven’t seen before."

He grumbles under his breath — something about "emotional terrorism" — but he shuffles a few steps back, still moving like his joints have been replaced with overcooked spaghetti. His fingers twitch nervously at the waistband of his jeans, and you watch him fight an internal battle for a second before he finally, finally undoes the button.

The denim clings stubbornly to his hips, and it takes a ridiculous amount of wiggling and cursing to get them down his thighs and off his legs. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, not wanting to make him more self-conscious than he already is.

Then he's left standing there in nothing but his damp, sticky boxers, looking utterly wrecked and so stupidly beautiful it actually steals your breath for a second.

"Boxers too, Stiles," you say gently, crouching down by the pile of rejected clothes to start sifting through them. "They're dirty. Can't put clean clothes over that."

He lets out this pitiful whine, face scrunching up in embarrassment, but he knows you're right. He hesitates for one agonizing moment longer before yanking them down in one quick, desperate motion, stepping out of them and kicking them behind him without looking.

Immediately, both of his hands fly to cover his dick again, arms crossed awkwardly in front of himself, chest heaving a little from nerves.

You glance up at him from where you're sitting and feel your heart absolutely shatter at the sight.

Bright red chest, trembling thighs, ears so pink they’re practically glowing — and that twitchy, twitchy need to bolt, even though he’s staying right where you asked him to. For you.

You set the clothes down gently and get to your feet, moving slow and careful, like you’re approaching a skittish baby deer.

"Hey, hey," you murmur, stepping close enough that your chest almost brushes his crossed arms. "You’re perfect, Stiles. So good. So handsome."

He ducks his head, a strangled little noise clawing its way out of his throat, but he doesn’t pull away.

"You're — you’re just saying that," he mutters, voice cracking at the edges.

"Nope," you say simply, reaching up to trace your fingers lightly along his jaw. "I mean it. Every inch of you. From your ridiculous brain to your stupidly perfect legs."

He twitches visibly at the praise, his hips jerking slightly like he wants to squirm but won't let himself. His hands tighten over himself, but you can still see the way he’s shaking — this trembling, earnest need to believe you, even though he doesn't know how yet.

You lean in and press a kiss to the center of his forehead, lingering there.

"My gorgeous, brilliant, sweet boy," you whisper against his skin. "My Stiles."

A tiny, broken little sound escapes him, and when you pull back just enough to look at his face, you catch it — the tiny smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, like he’s trying to hold it back and failing miserably.

"There’s my cutie," you tease gently, tapping the tip of his nose with your finger. "Still bashful even after grinding all over me like you're in heat."

He lets out this spluttering, indignant noise — but it’s weak, and you can tell he’s fighting a grin now, his chest still burning red but his whole body vibrating with this silly, overwhelmed happiness.

"You’re—" he starts, but he can’t even get the words out. He just shakes his head, helpless and fond and so stupidly beautiful you could die.

You turn back to the bed, forcing yourself to focus — because otherwise you will just end up kissing him senseless again — and start sorting through the chaos of clothes he threw everywhere.

"Okay," you say, half to yourself, "we’re thinking something casual but clean. Like you didn’t try too hard but you’re still employable."

"That’s… an impossible standard," Stiles mutters from behind you, his voice muffled by his hands and embarrassment.

You laugh, glancing over your shoulder at him.

"Good thing you have me, then, huh?"

And God, the way he looks at you right then — naked, flushed, trembling, but looking at you like you hung the damn moon — it nearly knocks the air right out of your lungs.

Yeah.

You’re so gone for this boy.

You hear him shuffling around behind you while you’re elbow-deep in the explosion of his closet. When you glance back, Stiles is hastily tugging on a pair of clean boxers, nearly falling over in the process because his coordination goes straight out the window when he’s nervous — or naked — or, well, both.

You snort quietly and turn back to your mission, rifling through the mess until you pull out a pair of khaki shorts. They’re a little wrinkled but otherwise clean, and more importantly, they look like something that could pass for trying without looking like he’s been dressed by his dad.

"Found shorts!" you announce triumphantly, waving them over your shoulder. "Now, we need a shirt that doesn’t scream 'help, my dad still dresses me.'"

"That’s a very specific ask," Stiles grumbles from where he’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, tugging his boxers into place with an awkward little hop. He crosses his legs at the ankles and starts fidgeting immediately, picking at a thread on the comforter like it’s personally offended him.

You shoot him a grin over your shoulder. "Good thing I’m a miracle worker."

It takes a minute — and several sarcastic comments from Stiles about the black hole that is his closet — but eventually, you strike gold: a simple navy blue polo that’s still somehow unmistakably Stiles but definitely says "I’m hireable and won’t burn the restaurant down on day one."

You toss it at him and he catches it against his chest with a soft oof, peeking at it like it might explode.

"You’re seriously a genius," he says, awe and relief mixing in his voice like he can’t quite believe you actually found something.

You wipe fake sweat off your brow and shoot him a wink. "All in a day's work, babe."

You’re about to declare the outfit mission complete when you spot something poking out from under his bed — something distinctly familiar. You crouch down and snag it, and sure enough, it’s one of your jackets. One you’d been wondering about for weeks. The one Stiles had definitely "borrowed" and then conveniently "forgotten" to return.

You stand up and hold it out with a smirk. "And look what we have here. You thief."

Stiles flushes immediately, tugging the polo over his head like maybe if he moves fast enough you won’t see how red his ears are turning again.

"I was gonna give it back," he mutters, voice all high-pitched and defensive. "I just — it smells like you, okay? And — and it’s comfy. And —" he waves his hands like he’s trying to physically bat the embarrassment away "— you're not using it! Sharing is caring! You love me!"

You laugh, heart feeling ridiculously full, and step closer, draping the jacket over his shoulders and smoothing it down. It swallows him a little, hangs long on his arms, but he just tucks himself into it like it’s armor, beaming at you from under the too-big collar.

"You’re right," you say, nudging his chin up with a gentle finger. "I do love you."

And it’s so true — so blindingly, obviously true — that it makes him freeze for a second, all wide brown eyes and parted lips like he can’t quite process the enormity of it.

You don’t make him sit in it too long. You just lean in and press a kiss to his forehead, then one to his nose, then another to the corner of his mouth until he’s giggling helplessly, wriggling in his stolen jacket and khaki shorts and looking like the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

"Okay, okay!" he squeaks, batting at you half-heartedly. "Save the mushy stuff for after I nail my interview later!"

"You’re gonna kill it," you promise, pressing one last kiss to his temple. "You’re gonna be the best McDonald's employee they’ve ever seen."

He beams at you, buzzing with that uncontainable energy he always gets when he’s excited, practically vibrating out of his skin.

"You really think so?" he asks, voice cracking just a little with how badly he wants to believe it.

"I know so," you say, tugging him into a hug and squeezing him tight enough that he squeaks again.

He hugs you back immediately, fiercely, burying his face against your chest and swaying you both back and forth like he can’t quite stay still. And you let him, because there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be than right here — holding your boy, wrapped up in the mess and warmth and ridiculousness that is Stiles Stilinski.

Eventually, he pulls back just enough to look up at you, grinning that big, ridiculous grin that shows all his teeth and crinkles the corners of his eyes.

"I’m gonna get the job," he says, full of conviction now, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s ready to charge out the door and start work tonight.

You laugh and kiss him again, quick and breathless.

"You’re gonna get the job," you echo, heart so full it feels like you might actually float away.

And in that moment, watching him buzz and shine and look at you like you’re the whole damn universe — you know that no matter what, you’ll always be right here, cheering for him, loving him, catching him whenever he needs it.

Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And it’s everything.

~~

You sat in the passenger seat of the Jeep, the afternoon sun beating lazily against the windshield. The outfit you picked out yesterday — khaki shorts, navy polo, your borrowed jacket — was folded neatly in a bag on your lap. You were early, of course. You’d gotten out of school a few hours ago for a check-up and figured you’d surprise him, beat the crowd, and maybe calm him down before his big moment. Plus, sitting here in his beloved Jeep, keys jangling against your thigh, it almost felt like you were soaking in a piece of him even while he was still inside.

The keys had been a quiet, shy Christmas gift two years ago, just after you'd confessed to him— and you hadn’t taken the responsibility lightly. Especially not now, watching the doors of the school burst open and a gaggle of students pour out, loud and chaotic and alive.

~~

It was Christmas Eve, and Beacon Hills was cold enough to bite.

The little pop-up ice rink downtown was buzzing with sound — Christmas music blaring tinny through cheap speakers, kids screaming with laughter and occasional terror as they slid on the slick surface, parents huddled at the edges with hot cocoa clutched in gloved hands. String lights arched over the rink, glowing soft yellow against the deepening blue of the sky, casting the whole place in a warm sort of magic that tried to make up for the freezing wind that bit through every layer of your clothes.

You were sitting on a cold bench just outside the rink, bent forward and yanking tight the laces on the rental skates that pinched slightly at your ankles. Your fingers were numb, but the sting didn’t really register — not when you looked up and caught sight of him. Stiles.

Already on the rink with Scott, sliding gracelessly across the ice, arms flailing just a little too wide to be confident. Scott, bless him, was skating backwards like he was born on ice, goading Stiles with bright eyes and loud laughter as he gestured wildly for his best friend to pick up the pace. Stiles was trying, you could see that — teeth bared in concentration, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth, fists clenched in his sleeves like if he just focused hard enough, he could become someone who didn’t look like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time.

He wasn’t bad, though. Not really. He’d been worse the last time you all went skating. He was keeping up now. Wobbling, sure, but moving. There was still that tightness around his shoulders, the faint flicker of worry in his eyes whenever someone passed too close or when he caught you looking and flushed like you’d seen something embarrassing. But then Scott would laugh, shout something dumb over his shoulder, and Stiles would grin wide and too sharp, skating harder like he had something to prove.

And you were just… watching. Watching like you always did when it came to Stiles. Heart full to the brim with him. You’d shown up late, dragging your body through the cold and into a cab you could barely afford because your mom had bailed at the last second. It wasn’t her thing, the holidays — not since the divorce. But Stiles? Stiles was your thing. Had been for a while now.

You’d barely hesitated when you saw the time. The cab ate the last of what you had saved in your wallet. Christmas presents be damned. All you could think about was how he’d light up when he saw you — how his ears would go pink and he’d do that fidgety thing with his hands like he couldn’t decide whether to hug you or punch you in the shoulder. You would’ve walked across the whole damn county barefoot if it meant seeing him smile like that.

And now, sitting there on the bench, lacing up your skates, you were already grinning without meaning to — not just at him on the ice, not just at how Scott caught him by the wrist to steady him when he wobbled — but at everything that shimmered just under your ribs when you looked at Stiles Stilinski and thought this. Him. Always.

You flexed your fingers once to bring some feeling back into them, tugged the laces one last time, and stood. The cold hit you all at once, and the wind cut deep, but you didn’t care. You were already stepping toward the ice. You weren’t late anymore.

Your blades hit the ice with a sharp little scrape, and for a second, you wobbled—just enough to make you stumble forward a step and throw your arms out. The cold shot straight up through the soles of the rentals, settling in your knees, your spine. But then balance returned, muscle memory catching up, and you pushed forward with one foot, gliding out toward the center.

Stiles saw you before you could call out. His head whipped up so fast it was a wonder his neck didn’t snap, and he immediately started flailing his way toward you, half-skating, half-praying to the friction gods that he didn’t go down in front of everyone. His cheeks were already pink from the cold, but they deepened into something bright and blooming the second you met his eyes.

“You made it!” he called, way too loud, like the music and noise and chaos had vanished and he just needed to fill the space between you with his voice.

You grinned. “You sound surprised.”

“I was surprised!” he said as he skidded up next to you, arms wheeling a little before he caught his balance. “I—I thought you weren’t coming. You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought maybe—maybe your mom bailed or like, you got kidnapped on the way here or something or I don’t know, fell into a Christmas tree lot and froze to death because that happens, and—”

“Dude,” Scott’s voice came from somewhere behind him, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “You’ve been doing this for the last twenty minutes. Let 'em' say hi.”

You caught Scott looping around with a smooth turn, skating backwards effortlessly like he was auditioning for the Olympics. He winked at you and then made a face at Stiles, mimicking the nonstop motion of his mouth with one hand. Stiles looked back at him, scowled, then whipped around to face you again.

“I’m just saying, okay?” he huffed, arms crossed now, chin tucked down defensively. “You didn’t answer your phone and I know you said you’d try, but like, you never just not text, and I thought maybe—well. Never mind.” His voice dropped at the end, losing steam.

You softened immediately, reaching out to gently tug on the hem of his sleeve. “Hey. I had to catch a cab last minute. Spent the last of my allowance on it, too.”

Stiles’ eyes went wide. “You did not.”

You shrugged. “You guys are worth it.”

That shut him up. At least, for a beat. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again—but nothing came out.

Scott skated by in a tight circle, doing a ridiculous spin that earned him a loud “Show-off!” from a random teen nearby.

“Let me guess,” you said, watching him skate off with mock suspicion. “He’s been doing that since you got here.”

“Ugh, yes,” Stiles groaned. “The second he realized he was good at skating, he’s been all ‘look at me, I’m a majestic deer’ or whatever.”

You barked a laugh and leaned in slightly, bumping your shoulder into Stiles. “You’re not doing so bad yourself, Stilinski.”

He flushed deeper, and for a second he looked like he was going to say something cocky—but then he caught the slight curve of your smirk, and all the wind left his sails.

“I missed you,” he blurted instead. “Like. A lot.”

You smiled, and it must’ve shown in your eyes, because his ears went red. “I missed you too,” you said, your voice a little quieter now.

He blinked rapidly and then made a weird noise that was probably meant to be a casual laugh but sounded more like he was choking on his own tongue. You giggled, skating around him once in a loose circle, and then held out your hand.

“Come on,” you teased. “Before Scott starts spinning so fast he creates a vortex and takes out a bunch of third graders.”

“You’re assuming that wouldn’t be hilarious,” Stiles muttered, but he took your hand anyway, fingers clumsy in his gloves, grip tight like he was worried he’d fall right through the ice if he didn’t hold on.

You tugged him forward, and he followed without resistance, grinning and unsteady and full of energy like he didn’t know how to hold it all in. He slipped once or twice, cursed loudly, clutched your arm, then laughed so hard he nearly dragged you down with him. And through it all, you just kept your hand in his and skated a little slower, steady and solid, just enough to keep him upright.

Scott whooped somewhere across the rink, executing a wobbly jump that made a kid scream and his mom glare.

“See?” you said, laughing. “Vortex. I warned you.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, cheeks pink and glowing. “Whatever. If we get pulled into a black hole of Christmas-themed ice death, I’m glad it’s with you.”

You tightened your grip on his hand and squeezed. “Same, Stilinski.”

Stiles squeezed back without even realizing it, fingers twitching like he wanted to say more with his hands than he could get out of his mouth. Which tracked — you knew by now that when his brain got too loud, sometimes his body took over, jittery and awkward and honest in all the ways he didn’t know how to be out loud.

You kept skating, slow and easy, letting him find his rhythm beside you. It wasn’t really about the skating, though. Not anymore. Not with the way he kept leaning just a little too hard into your side every time he wobbled, like it was less about losing his balance and more about making sure you didn’t float too far away.

At one point, a particularly sharp turn had him yelping and practically throwing himself into you with both arms, his chest thumping against your side as you laughed and caught him with both hands at his waist. “You good?” you asked, biting back a grin.

“Define ‘good,’” he muttered, eyes wide, clinging to you like a particularly cold and clumsy koala. “Because if ‘good’ means ‘one sneeze away from death,’ then sure, I’m awesome.”

You laughed, heart tripping a little over itself because now you had your hands on him, and he didn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leaned in more.

“I’ve got you,” you said quietly, mostly because it felt true.

And he froze for just a second. Not in the panicked, ‘oh no, I’m about to fall and break every bone in my body’ way, but in a way that felt… smaller. Like something soft had just unfolded inside him, and he didn’t know what to do with it yet. He looked at you then — really looked. Not the usual wild-eyed panic or the half-distracted ADHD tunnel vision that came with everything Stiles did. Just him, here, eyes bright and unguarded under the glow of the string lights, cheeks pink from the cold, and lips slightly parted like you’d surprised him.

“I know,” he said finally.

Your breath hitched, and you weren’t sure if it was from the cold or from the way he said it — so quiet, like a secret. Then, of course, Scott ruined it. He came rocketing past at warp speed, hoodie flapping behind him like a cape, arms outstretched in what could only be described as an attempt at “figure skating Superman,” yelling, “WATCH ME, LOSERS!”

A second later he slipped spectacularly, flailed for balance, and somehow managed to grab a traffic cone from the rink’s edge on his way down — dragging it with him as he skidded twenty feet across the ice like an orange-and-gray torpedo.

Stiles snorted so hard he choked on his own breath, doubling over against you in laughter, the earlier tension melting away instantly. “Oh my god—did he just—was that intentional?!”

“Does anything Scott does ever look intentional?” you said through a wheeze.

“I—” Stiles shook his head, beaming now. “No. No, but like, respect.”

Scott popped up from the ice, grinning like a maniac with wet knees and no dignity left. “That was so cool!”

“Lies!” Stiles called back.

“You’re just jealous,” Scott hollered, spinning in a way that almost worked before his right foot betrayed him and sent him crashing down again. “I’m evolving!” Stiles laughed so hard he had to clutch at your arms for support again, and this time, you let him lean. Fully. His weight was solid against you, warm even through your coats, and he stayed there longer than necessary, his head tilted just enough that you could smell the faint traces of whatever shampoo he used — something clean and sharp, like pine and laundry detergent.

Your heart was doing acrobatics in your chest now. You should’ve said it right then. Hey, Stiles. I like you. Simple. Honest. The words had been sitting on your tongue for weeks now, waiting for a moment like this. But you're young, and your heart was a shaky thing. So instead, you stayed quiet, letting the warmth of him at your side fill in the words you couldn’t say yet.

He pulled back after a second, still grinning. “Okay, okay, one more lap and then I need hot chocolate or I will actually die.”

You nodded, but didn’t let go of his hand. “Deal. But if you fall again, I’m not catching you this time.”

“Rude,” he said, mock-offended, but his fingers tightened on yours all the same. “What happened to ‘I’ve got you’?”

“That was before you tried to use me as a human anchor.”

“You love it.” You didn’t say I love you, because even for you, that felt a little too real, too raw for now. But your smile said enough, and his did too — wide and a little shy and full of something that made your stomach flip.

“Come on,” you said, tugging him gently toward the edge of the rink. “Let’s get you that hot chocolate before Scott starts trying to do triple axels.”

“Too late,” Stiles muttered, glancing over his shoulder at the absolute chaos Scott was currently spinning himself into. “God, I’m gonna have to explain a head injury to his mom again, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” you said.

“But at least I’ll have backup,” he added, voice a little quieter again, eyes on yours.

And you nodded. “Always.”

You squeezed his hand once more, then gently tugged him forward, back into motion. The final lap around the rink wasn’t exactly graceful — Stiles was still more chaos than control, and he kept muttering curses under his breath whenever his skates hit a rough patch — but it was yours. Yours and his, side by side, hand in hand, cheeks red from cold and smiles, and Scott yelling about physics behind you somewhere like the world’s loudest Christmas ghost.

You didn’t rush it. The loop around the rink was slow, unhurried. You both knew the cocoa stand would still be there. That eventually your feet would start to ache and the cold would creep back into your fingers. But for now, the wind bit a little less. The lights twinkled just a little softer. And Stiles didn’t let go. Halfway around the last curve, where the crowd thinned out and the lights arched low enough that everything felt a little more private, Stiles suddenly spoke again.

“I really did miss you,” he said, unprompted, voice gentler this time. “Not just, like… you know, ‘my friend didn’t come to a thing’ kind of missing. I mean, like… it felt weird. You not being here right away.”

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t looking at you this time — just staring straight ahead, brows drawn like he was trying to get the words right before they ran off without him.

“I was gonna wait out front,” he said. “Like, just sit there and see if maybe you showed up. But Scott dragged me onto the ice, said if I didn’t move, I’d freeze my ass to the bench and he’d leave me there till spring.”

You laughed softly.

“But I kept checking,” he went on, kicking at the ice. “Every couple minutes. Looking around like an idiot. Pretending I wasn’t. But I was.”

You didn’t know what to say. Not yet. Your chest felt tight in that warm way — the way it always did when Stiles got a little too real without meaning to, when the things he said hit closer than you expected.

“I just…” He shrugged, still not looking at you. “I dunno. Things feel better when you’re around.”

And there it was. That thump in your chest again. You turned your head slowly, eyes tracing the shape of him — the slope of his shoulders in his oversized coat, the pink curve of his ear poking out from under his beanie, the way his mouth tugged down at the corners like he hated every word he was admitting but couldn’t stop himself anyway.

You let the silence stretch a little longer than you probably should have, then smiled and bumped his arm with yours again.

“I’ll buy your hot chocolate,” you said, light and teasing, like that could somehow contain everything you felt. “Y’know. To make up for missing the start.”

That finally got him to look over, eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Dude, you literally said you spent the last of your money getting here. The cab, remember?”

You shrugged, lips twitching with something just a little too close to guilt. “Yeah. Well. I… made sure I had enough for this, too.”

He narrowed his eyes at you like he didn’t quite believe it. “How?”

You leaned in, close enough that your breath fogged warm between you. Close enough that your noses almost bumped. You could count the freckles on his cheek from here.

“I got some from my mom,” you whispered.

He blinked. “Your mom who doesn’t even like Christmas?”

You didn’t answer. Not really. Just held his gaze and let the question hang there, unanswered. The truth was complicated — a short, sharp fight in the kitchen before you left, voices raised and then dropped into cold, brittle quiet. A slammed door. You asking, Just twenty bucks, please, and her sighing like it was more than she could afford to give, even if it wasn’t.

Stiles stared at you for a beat, like he wanted to press — wanted to ask. But he didn’t. He just gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and something in his expression softened. “…Okay,” he said quietly. “Thanks. For… y’know. Coming. And this.”

You gave him a tiny smile. “What, the skating? The chaos? The part where Scott nearly wiped out a toddler?”

“The part where I didn’t freeze my ass to a bench alone,” he said, mouth twitching like he was trying to be funny but couldn’t quite pull it off. “The part where you held my hand.”

Your stomach flipped again.

You reached out, adjusted his glove where it had slipped slightly at the wrist, and said, “I’d do it again.”

“I hope so,” he said, way too fast, then froze like he regretted it immediately.

You just smiled wider, heartbeat pounding, eyes locked on his like you were braver than you felt. The edge of the rink loomed ahead now — the little opening in the rail where people stepped off the ice, where the real world started up again. You guided him toward it, careful and slow.

He turned his head, a little breathless, a little pink. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get that cocoa. But I’m getting extra marshmallows. Like. A dumb amount. Enough to make it a choking hazard.”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

And you meant it. Every dumb marshmallow. Every weird joke. Every clumsy fall and wide-eyed smile and tangled word that Stiles threw your way. You wanted all of it. And later — maybe after the cocoa, when the wind wasn’t so sharp and your nerves had settled — maybe then, you’d tell him.

Stiles, I like you. Like, really like you.

But for now, you just walked side by side toward the little stand with the peeling paint and the smell of cinnamon sugar in the air, his hand bumping yours like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

Your fingers brushed again as you and Stiles edged your way closer toward the rink’s exit, skates clicking awkwardly on the ice beneath you. You were both flushed — from the cold, from the skating, from the hand-holding and the something that neither of you had said out loud yet. It sat thick and electric in the space between you, quiet but impossible to ignore.

You glanced over at him. He was chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to look like he was watching you out of the corner of his eye, but he totally was. His gloves were still slightly damp at the fingertips, and his scarf was crooked in a way you wanted to fix — gently, like in the movies, with fingers grazing skin and—

“LOOK OUT!” The voice tore through the night air like a cannon blast. You barely had a second to react — a flash of movement in the corner of your eye, the sound of blades carving across ice like a freight train, and then suddenly—

WHAM.

Scott McCall, future Lacrosse captain and current menace, came hurtling toward you like a human snowplow, arms flailing, knees buckling, half-screaming half-laughing as a blur of pink puff — a tiny girl in a sparkly coat — darted past him after tripped him up without even noticing. There was no time to step out of the way.

Scott slammed into the both of you like a meteorite, and all three of you staggered backwards — you, Stiles, Scott, in a tangled knot of limbs, ice, and chaos. Stiles yelped something halfway between “OH MY GOD” and “MY SPLEEN,” while Scott’s foot kicked back and hooked around your shin, nearly taking you down for good. You were sure you were going down. Except — somehow — you didn’t.

You, Stiles, and Scott staggered and shuffled like an uncoordinated circus act, spinning in a desperate half-circle, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders and jackets and whatever else you could grab. Scott had one hand fisted in the collar of your coat, and the other braced against Stiles’ chest. Stiles had his elbow hooked around your neck in a way that felt like a one-armed headlock, and you were clinging to both of them with a death grip around their waists like some kind of three-headed, cold, confused creature.

For a horrifying moment, the world tilted sideways. But then — balance. Somehow, miraculously, you all managed to stay up. Silence fell. Breaths heaved. Arms untangled slowly, cautiously. You all blinked at each other — a foot here, a scarf twisted around a wrist there, Scott’s beanie now sitting askew on top of Stiles’ head, as if it had been transferred in the chaos like a crown of idiocy.

No one said anything for a full five seconds. Then, without a word, you each took a cautious step back. Straightened your coats. Adjusted scarves. Cleared throats. Stiles carefully handed Scott back his beanie like it was a delicate diplomatic exchange.

No one made eye contact. No one mentioned a thing. You all stood there — weirdly still, ridiculously composed now — like three people who had absolutely not just been part of the most awkward three-person crash in the history of winter sports.

Finally, Scott nodded, completely serious. “So. Uh. Cocoa?”

“Yes,” you and Stiles said at the exact same time.

And just like that, you all turned and walked off toward the cocoa stand like nothing had happened.

Except for the fact that Scott’s hair was sticking up at the back, and Stiles had somehow acquired glitter on his jacket (from the sparkly pink puff girl, you were guessing), and your left skate was untied and flapping slightly as you walked — none of which anyone addressed. Because of course you weren’t going to talk about it. You were teenagers. You had dignity. Sort of.

As the three of you approached the little wooden stand tucked near the far corner of the rink, the smell of cinnamon, sugar, and warm chocolate grew stronger, comforting in a way that settled under your ribs. Scott peeled off first, already waving a five-dollar bill and declaring he was buying “the biggest one they had,” like this was some sort of hot beverage competition.

Stiles lingered beside you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice soft and close, still a little breathless from the collision.

“Yeah,” you said, half-smiling. “I think we survived.”

He glanced over his shoulder at Scott, who was currently trying to convince the cocoa vendor to put a fourth scoop of whipped cream on his drink. “I’m not sure he did,” he muttered.

You snorted. Then reached out, brushing some of the glitter off his jacket. Stiles blinked down at you. “I—uh,” he started, but then you just smiled and stepped up to the counter beside him.

“Two hot chocolates,” you told the vendor. Leaning in to whisper, “Extra marshmallows on one.”

Stiles’ ears went red again. But he didn’t argue. He just stood beside you, hands stuffed in his pockets, mouth twitching like he didn’t know whether to grin or hide behind the cocoa stand. He chose the grin. You handed over a crumpled bill from your pocket, the mystery of where it came from still lingering between you both like fog on a winter window. But Stiles didn’t ask. Not yet. And maybe that was the nicest thing about him.

The cocoa stand vendor handed over the two steaming paper cups, both topped with a generous heap of mini marshmallows that had already started to melt at the edges, sticky and soft. One cup had a crooked candy cane poking out of it like a flag of victory. You took both drinks carefully, balancing them like precious artifacts, and turned back toward the matting where Scott had already taken off.

Well—collapsed was probably the more accurate word. He was sprawled across one of the rubber-matted benches just outside the rink, legs still stretched out in his skates, cocoa cup crumpled and empty beside him like the aftermath of a sugar-induced war. “I think he inhaled it,” you muttered to Stiles as the two of you approached.

“Did not,” Scott said from his position, though it sounded garbled—his head was tilted back like he might actually fall asleep right there in the open cold.

“You absolutely did,” Stiles said, plopping down on the bench beside him. “I saw it. There were like, three sips, maximum.”

“That’s a subjective opinion,” Scott mumbled.

“I don’t think that’s how opinions work,” you said, lowering yourself carefully onto the bench beside Stiles, handing him the cocoa without even looking.

“Thank you,” he said automatically, then added, “Wait—extra marshmallows?”

“Of course extra marshmallows,” you replied. “You need to replace all the sugar you burned trying not to die on the ice.”

He huffed out a laugh and nudged your knee with his. “I’m a natural talent, actually. Scott said so.”

“Scott lies all the time,” you said. “Especially when he’s full of sugar and ego.”

“I heard that,” Scott said without moving.

The three of you burst out laughing.

It wasn’t a huge thing—just a quick crack of sound, breath in the cold night air—but it felt good. The kind of laugh that cracked open your ribs a little and let something warm in. The kind you could only have with people who knew you inside and out, who didn’t need to be told when to laugh or when you were joking. The kind that filled all the empty spaces that the holidays left sometimes.

Stiles took a sip of his cocoa and made a face like he’d just touched hot lava.

“Too hot,” he hissed, fanning his tongue like it was on fire.

You grinned into your cup. “You’re supposed to wait.”

“I never wait,” he said dramatically, eyes a little wide and watery from the burn. “I live on the edge.”

“You nearly fell off the edge earlier,” Scott muttered.

“I was pushed,” Stiles said, glaring down at him.

“By a child.”

“A very fast child!” You were giggling so hard your drink almost sloshed over the rim.

“Anyway,” Stiles said, turning back to you, trying to look dignified and not like he’d just been tackled by a kindergartener and then lost a fight to cocoa, “you made it.”

You looked at him, really looked—his eyes a little brighter now, cheeks red from the cold, scarf still not sitting right. And you thought: he has no idea. No idea how many times you’d imagined this. Sitting here. Right here. With him. Just like this.

“I did,” you said softly, sipping your drink. “Worth it.”

He stared at you for a second, like he wanted to say something else—but then Scott groaned loudly and sat up like a zombie rising from the grave.

“My spine is frozen,” he announced. “I think I need surgery.”

“Or a blanket,” you offered.

“Or a less dramatic personality,” Stiles added.

Scott waved a hand, unconcerned. “Nope. Definitely surgery.” You all laughed again. The cold didn’t seem so sharp anymore.

Around you, the rink sparkled with lights strung between poles, kids still shrieking with joy as they slipped across the ice, parents chatting and sipping drinks of their own. It was warm and golden here, in your little circle on the bench, even if your toes were going numb. Stiles shifted slightly closer to you, shoulders brushing. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Scott stood up dramatically, swaying like he’d just returned from war. “I’m going back in,” he declared. “For glory. For honor.”

“For more glitter to attach itself to you,” Stiles mumbled under his breath.

“I heard that,” Scott said again, but he was already wobbling back toward the rink.

You and Stiles watched him go, sipping cocoa side by side.

“You think he’s gonna fall again?” you asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Stiles said. “Like, within minutes.”

You clinked your paper cups together gently. “To gravity.”

Stiles grinned. “To gravity.”

The cocoa steamed steadily between your gloved hands, warming the space between your palms like a tiny furnace, and beside you, Stiles was still blowing cautiously at his cup, squinting down into it like he was trying to solve a physics problem with marshmallows. Scott, meanwhile, had become an entire event on the ice.

At first, he was doing those smooth backward glides again, one hand behind his back like he was posing for a skating magazine cover, hair bouncing, eyes focused, just so full of himself. It was honestly a little majestic—like, if deer could have egos and wear sneakers and be fifteen-year-old boys.

But then—like the universe remembered Scott had the attention span of a fruit fly and a tragic lack of spacial awareness—he clipped the corner of the rink on a turn and went tumbling sideways into a teen girl trying to take a selfie. The two of them spun in a chaotic, flailing blur before separating, Scott landing flat on his back while the girl stood above him blinking with her phone somehow still upright, still filming.

You snorted into your drink. “Oh my God,” you said through a giggle, “he’s both. He’s like… the Swan Princess and Wile E. Coyote had a baby.”

Stiles burst out laughing beside you, nearly sloshing cocoa all over his jeans. “Why is that so accurate?” he wheezed, clutching his cup like it was the only thing keeping him from full collapse.

Out on the rink, Scott picked himself up with all the dignity of someone who definitely knew he’d just been recorded falling. He brushed off his jacket, gave a thumbs-up to the girl (who was still laughing), and then promptly slid straight into the wall, arms spread like a starfish.

You wheezed. “We should help him.”

“No,” Stiles said immediately, sipping again. “We should absolutely not help him.”

Another burst of laughter passed between you like static—crackling and easy. The cold had settled into your cheeks now, numbing them into a constant tingle, but the sound of Stiles next to you, warm and close and here, melted straight through it. You turned your head slightly to look at him just as he tilted his drink back for another sip—and immediately ended up with a stripe of foam across the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t seem to notice. Still talking. Still going on about how if Scott fell one more time he was going to nominate him for some kind of honorary physics award for redefining “trajectory.” But you didn’t really hear all of it. Not past the way your eyes got stuck on that little line of marshmallow foam just sitting there. Without thinking, you leaned over.

“Hold still,” you said softly.

“What—”

But you were already reaching out, one gloved hand steadying his cheek as the fingers of the other found that smudge of foam and swiped it gently away. It came off easy, but you didn’t move right away. His skin was cold where you touched it, a little pink from the wind. His mouth had gone still. Stiles blinked. Looked at you. His breath was caught halfway in his chest, like he hadn’t decided if he was supposed to inhale or just freeze entirely.

Your thumb hovered for a second longer before you pulled back. “You had… something.”

“Oh,” he said, like he’d forgotten how words worked. “Thanks.”

You gave a tiny nod and returned to your cocoa like nothing had happened, like your heart hadn’t just leapt out of your chest and sprinted halfway to the parking lot. Out on the ice, Scott tripped over his own foot again, let out a strangled yelp, and crashed shoulder-first into a stack of foam barriers. A small child clapped in appreciation.

You and Stiles sat there in silence, watching him. After a beat, Stiles coughed into his drink. “Okay but seriously. If he breaks his nose again, you have to explain it to Melissa.”

You smiled down at your cup. “Deal.”

Your leg brushed his again, and this time neither of you moved away. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. Not really. It was the kind that came with knowing someone so long that you didn’t always need to talk. The kind that filled up with tiny sounds—the scrape of a skate blade nearby, Scott shrieking faintly in the distance as he probably collided with yet another civilian, the crunch of marshmallows melting into cocoa. It was soft. Comfortable.

Which was horrifying. Because you were about to ruin it.

You were about to take this stupid warm thing—this perfectly untouchable, safe friendship—and set it on fire with the words that had been stuck behind your teeth for months. Maybe longer. Words that might make him laugh, or freak out, or go quiet and never look at you the same again. You sipped your cocoa like it might delay your entire future by a few seconds.

He was still beside you, still watching the rink like Scott might spontaneously grow wings and ascend. His knee bumped yours again. He didn’t move it away. Your hands tightened a little on your cup.

“Hey,” you said suddenly, before you could stop yourself.

He turned to look at you, brows raised. “Yeah?” Too late. Too late, abort, abort— You swallowed. Tried to play it casual, like your heart wasn’t rattling in your chest like a pair of dice in a Yahtzee cup.

“Just…” You shrugged. “Thanks. For, y’know. Being here.”

Stiles blinked. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“No, I do,” you insisted, forcing a smile you hoped didn’t look like a grimace. “I kinda showed up last-minute, basically hijacked your Christmas Eve.”

He snorted. “Hijacked? You made my Christmas Eve.” Your heart stuttered.

He looked away then, like he hadn’t realized what he just said, like it slipped out before he could shove it back in. A breeze blew past and fluttered the edge of his scarf into your arm. Neither of you fixed it. He cleared his throat. “I mean, not that Scott’s not fun. But if I had to spend another two hours watching him reenact Swan Lake on ice I might’ve walked into traffic.”

You laughed—really laughed this time, because the image was too strong. Stiles grinned, proud of himself, basking in the glow of making you laugh like he’d just won a prize. And for a second, you almost chickened out again. But then he looked at you, all bright-eyed and ridiculous, cheeks pink from cold and cocoa and something else—and you thought, I can’t keep this a secret anymore.

So you took a breath. Then another. And then, in a voice that felt way too small to carry something this heavy:

“Hey. Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

You looked down at your cup. The marshmallows had mostly melted now, turning the top of the drink into a frothy mess. “I gotta tell you something,” you said. “And if I don’t say it now, I’m never gonna.” He stilled. Just a little. But you felt it. Like he braced for something. Like he knew. You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. “I, um. I like you.” There. You’d said it. Your heart didn’t stop. The world didn’t end. Nobody screamed. The rink didn’t split open and swallow you whole.

But the silence was deafening.

You forced yourself to keep going, to fill the gap before it could echo too loud.

“Not like… just friend-like. I mean—I do like you like that, obviously, because you’re my best friend and you’re the funniest person I know and you always do this weird twitchy thing when you’re trying to lie, and your brain is like, terrifyingly fast but also completely chaotic, and you make me laugh even when I don’t want to, and—and I think I’ve liked you for a while now, like, a while, and—”

“Hey.”

You stopped. His voice was soft. Not shaky. Just… quiet.

You finally looked up.

Stiles was staring at you like you’d just told him the moon belonged to him. Like he couldn’t believe it was real. Like someone had switched the language on his entire life and he was just now learning how to read again.

“Seriously?” he asked.

Your heart dropped. “I—yeah. I mean, unless that’s, like, terrible news to you. In which case—"

“No! No. It’s not. It’s not terrible,” he said quickly, cup forgotten in his lap. “It’s just… wow. Okay. I need a second.”

You winced. “That bad, huh?”

He barked out a laugh—not the reaction you expected.

“No, it’s just—” He ran a hand through his buzzed hair. “You’ve been living rent-free in my brain for months and I thought I was the one being a total disaster about it.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait—what?”

Stiles looked straight at you then, cheeks flaming, mouth twitching with a smile that didn’t quite know where to go. “Yeah. I like you too. A lot. Always kinda have. I just thought… I dunno. That I’d ruin everything if I said something.”

Your laugh came out more like a breath of relief. “Oh my God.”

He grinned, leaning a little closer. “So, uh… you wanna ruin everything together?”

You looked at him, cheeks aching from smiling, heart still hammering, but lighter now. Way lighter.

“Yeah,” you said, bumping your knee against his. “Let’s be disasters. Together.”

Just then, a distant “I’M OKAY!” rang out from the rink as Scott collided, once again, with the barrier wall.

Stiles tilted his head. “You think we should tell him?”

You both watched as Scott dramatically rolled over and then gave a double thumbs-up to a nearby toddler.

“Nah,” you said, sipping your cocoa again. “Let’s let him figure it out the hard way.”

It took a few more minutes, and a lot more laughing, before the cold finally crept in enough that sitting still wasn’t really an option. Your fingers were starting to go numb around your cocoa cup, and Stiles had started doing this little bounce in his seat like he was trying to stay warm without actually moving from the comfort of the bench. Scott was back on the rink by now, doing an exaggerated slow-motion routine for the benefit of a group of giggling kids at the other end. One of them threw a snowball at him. It missed, but he dramatically clutched his chest like he’d been shot and went down like a tree.

Stiles elbowed you. “Okay, we can’t leave him out there unsupervised.”

You smirked. “He’s a danger to himself and others.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said, standing up and offering you his hand with mock gallantry. “Come on, partner in crime.”

You took it, grinning as he hauled you up and nearly overbalanced in the process.

“Whoa—easy!” you laughed as you both stumbled forward a step, ice skates catching awkwardly on the mat.

“I have the grace of a gazelle,” he insisted. “A very confused, gangly gazelle.”

“Noted,” you said, still holding his hand as you both made your way back to the rink entrance. “Lead the way, Bambi.”

“Rude.”

But he was smiling. You were both smiling. There was a lot of that happening now.

The cold slapped your cheeks again the second you stepped onto the ice, but it didn’t feel so sharp anymore. Maybe it was the cocoa. Maybe it was the laughter still stuck in your chest. Or maybe it was the way Stiles squeezed your hand once before letting go—only to nearly eat it on his next step and immediately grab for you again.

“Okay, nope, no letting go,” he muttered, clutching your sleeve like his life depended on it.

“You’ve skated before,” you reminded him, already adjusting your stance so you could steady the both of you.

“Yeah, and it went badly. Remember the bruised tailbone of ‘07? I do. It haunts me.”

You were too busy laughing to answer.

Scott spotted you both right away and made a beeline over, which would’ve been fine if he hadn’t decided to zoom toward you like he was reenacting the final scene of an ice-dancing drama. His scarf flapped behind him like a cape. His arms were outstretched.

You saw it coming too late.

“GUYS—CATCH ME—”

“Scott, no—!”

It was like watching a car crash in slow motion.

He hit you both at once, crashing into your side while also managing to trip over Stiles’ skate and somehow launch himself into a half-spin that would’ve been kind of impressive if he hadn’t slammed into you like a human wrecking ball.

But somehow—somehow—nobody fell.

You were tangled. Arms everywhere. Stiles clutching your waist, your hand wrapped around Scott’s elbow, Scott gripping both of your shoulders like he was on a lifeboat and you were the last bit of floating debris in the ocean.

Silence.

Then Scott, very solemnly, said: “I think I saw the face of God.”

Stiles groaned. “Get off me, dude.”

“Hey! I saved us from falling!”

“You caused the near-fall!”

“I added dramatic tension!”

You snorted, finally managing to extract your arm from between their shoulders and stand upright. “Okay, okay, reset. Everyone alive? No broken ribs?”

Scott patted himself down. “Only my pride.”

“I think you left that behind five minutes ago when you tried to do a twirl and crashed into that trash can,” you said.

“I was trying to dodge a kid!”

“She was five feet away.”

“She had a look in her eye! She was coming for me!”

You and Stiles both cracked up at that, and then the three of you started skating again—slower this time, more huddled together, like a three-person train of barely-functioning limbs and wheezing laughter. You held onto each other shamelessly, drifting around the rink in ungraceful loops, feet sliding out at odd angles, scarves flapping, cheeks pink and sore from smiling too hard.

Scott kept breaking off to attempt weird spins or finger-gun the other skaters, and each time he slipped, he’d flail wildly until one of you caught him. At one point, he accidentally pulled Stiles into a clumsy spin and then tripped over his own feet, dragging Stiles with him into what could only be described as a tangle of limbs and swear words.

You skated over, breathless from laughing. “You guys good?”

“Define good,” Stiles groaned from where he was half-sprawled on Scott’s back.

“We’re excellent,” Scott mumbled into the ice.

Eventually, you all got moving again, more careful this time, more about sticking close and bumping shoulders and being together than actually skating. The lights above glowed golden against the navy sky, and every now and then a puff of snow would catch the breeze and swirl past like glitter. Someone’s Bluetooth speaker crackled, switching to some poppy remix of a Christmas song none of you liked, and yet Stiles started singing under his breath anyway—off-key and dramatic—and Scott joined in with harmonies that almost worked.

And you?

You just skated beside them, cheeks aching, chest full, one hand occasionally brushing against Stiles’ as you looped around the rink again and again, like maybe if you just stayed in motion long enough, you could hold onto this night forever.

You didn’t realize how many laps you'd done until your legs started to ache in that warm, satisfying kind of way that meant you'd used muscles that hadn't been awake in weeks. Your cheeks hurt from grinning, and your throat was a little raw from laughing. Stiles had been at your side almost the whole time—sometimes clinging, sometimes gliding, always making some comment that bordered on brilliant or deeply dumb with no in-between.

Scott had finally gone off to test his “aerodynamic technique” one last time (which meant he was probably going to fall flat on his back again), so it was just the two of you coasting in a slow, lazy circle, close enough to bump shoulders every so often, not quite speaking.

You liked the silence. It wasn’t awkward. It was easy. It was warm.

And then—like a well-timed holiday movie cliché—someone cleared their throat nearby.

You turned just as one of the employees—a teenage girl in a puffer vest and a beanie that had seen better days—skated slowly past, holding a dangling piece of mistletoe above her head. She was grinning like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Merry Christmas,” she sang, and then, with all the enthusiasm of someone getting paid minimum wage but absolutely living for teen drama, she added, “Rink’s closing, lovebirds. Last lap.”

You opened your mouth to correct her—lovebirds? Please—only to realize the mistletoe was hanging right over your heads.

Stiles noticed it at the same time you did.

He froze.

Actually, you froze too.

The music had dipped into something softer now, bells chiming under strings, that slow orchestral swell that felt like a quiet end rather than a loud finish. Around you, the other skaters were slowly making their way toward the exits, a murmur of chatter and tired laughter following them. But for just a second, it was like the rink had stilled around the two of you.

You looked at Stiles.

He looked at you.

The employee, watching from a safe distance now, covered her mouth and giggled.

“I mean—” Stiles started.

You beat him to it. “It’s tradition,” you said, breath coming a little faster now. “Right?”

His voice cracked just slightly when he said, “Yeah. It—it totally is.”

You didn’t know who leaned in first.

It might’ve been both of you.

The kiss wasn’t perfect. Your noses bumped a little. His breath was cold against your cheek. One of your skates slipped just slightly and he had to steady you with a hand at your waist. But when your lips met, everything else—the cold, the awkwardness, the crowd—went quiet.

It was soft. Careful.

Warm in a way that had nothing to do with the cocoa or the bundled-up coats or the string lights still twinkling overhead.

It only lasted a second. Maybe two.

But it was enough.

You both pulled back slowly, eyes still locked. Stiles' cheeks were flaming, and your heart was pounding, but neither of you moved away. Not really. Not even when you heard the unmistakable sound of someone gliding toward you at full, uncoordinated speed.

Scott.

“Merry Christmas, suckers!” he announced at full volume, slamming to a stop and throwing one arm around each of your shoulders in a dramatic half-hug.

Before either of you could react, he leaned in and kissed both your cheeks—yours first, then Stiles’—and then grinned like he’d just delivered a diplomatic victory.

“What just happened?” he asked brightly. “Do I need to pretend I didn’t see anything, or are we already naming your future kids?”

“Scott,” Stiles said, voice strangled.

You groaned, covering your face.

“Wait, wait, let me guess,” Scott added, pulling back with a mock-thoughtful expression. “Merry Crisp-mas, right? Because the tension was crispy as hell.”

Stiles made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a slow collapse of all his social defenses.

You bumped Scott with your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

He beamed. “And yet you love me.”

But Stiles turned back to you then, still a little pink, eyes soft in the glow of the lights. He wasn’t smiling now—not the way he usually did when he was trying to cover how big his emotions could get.

He just looked at you like you’d knocked the wind out of him in the best way.

“Merry Christmas,” he said quietly.

You smiled back, heart full and breathless. “Merry Christmas, Stilinski.”

And even as Scott started singing off-key next to you and the rink lights began to dim, that warm, fluttery feeling stayed tucked behind your ribs, steady and real.

Because this? This was yours.

~~

You spotted Scott first, predictably a mess of flailing limbs and big energy, backpack sliding off one shoulder. Stiles wasn’t far behind, chasing after him with wild, exaggerated steps, his voice carrying across the parking lot even though you couldn’t make out the words.

They were laughing, tripping over each other like puppies, Scott tossing something (a crumpled piece of paper?) at Stiles and Stiles catching it against his chest with a dramatic stumble. He fired back with a wad of notebook paper so hard Scott yelped and ducked behind a very confused girl. You could hear Stiles' cackling even from the car.

You leaned your head against the back of the seat, a dopey grin pulling at your mouth. God, he was so him — ridiculous, chaotic, pure Stiles Stilinski energy. It filled the whole parking lot, the way he lit up any room without even trying.

Like he felt you watching — because he always did — his head snapped toward the Jeep mid-giggle. The second his eyes found you through the windshield, he froze like a deer in headlights.

You could see it happen: the realization creeping in, the way his face went from bright and open to pink and startled in less than a second. His laughter stuttered to a halt, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to run but couldn’t decide whether it should be toward you or the other way.

You just smiled wider, soft and patient and warm in a way reserved only for him.

His ears turned a violent shade of red.

Scott, oblivious as always, threw an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and tried to tug him along toward the parking lot, still babbling about something you couldn’t hear. Stiles stumbled after him, but his gaze kept flickering back to you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile and hide at the same time.

He nudged Scott with his elbow a little harder than necessary, muttering something that made Scott peel away with a loud groan and an exaggerated gagging sound, waving his arms like he was being attacked by secondhand embarrassment.

Stiles jogged awkwardly toward the Jeep after that, still pink in the face, still fiddling with the hem of his shirt like it might save him from combusting.

You didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just watched him with that same stupid, smitten grin.

By the time he yanked the door open and slid into the driver's seat beside you, his blush had reached critical levels. He couldn't meet your eyes, staring determinedly at the steering wheel instead.

"Hey, babe," you said softly, still smiling so much it hurt.

He made a noise — something between a huff and a whimper — and finally risked a glance at you, biting his lower lip hard enough to turn it white.

"Hi," he said, voice cracking, wrecked and breathless like just looking at you had fried all his brain cells at once.

And you swear to God, you’d never been more in love with anything in your life.

Stiles sits there for a second, all awkward limbs and red ears, gripping the steering wheel like it might help him hold onto the moment. His mouth is twitching at the corners, like he’s trying really hard not to smile too much, but failing miserably.

“Hi,” he repeats, quieter this time, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye.

You lean a little closer across the console, resting your chin in your palm. “Hi.”

He huffs out a laugh, finally letting himself look at you full-on. His whole face softens, like the tension in his shoulders just gives up the fight the second your eyes meet his.

“You’ve been waiting long?” he asks, fiddling with a loose thread on his sleeve.

You shake your head. “Nah. Figured I’d get comfy while I had the Jeep all to myself. Smells like you in here. Kinda miss it sometimes.”

Stiles snorts. “It’s probably just a mix of Axe, fast food fries, and my dad’s coffee spill from last week.”

“Still smells like you,” you say with a soft shrug, your voice going all gooey, and his face practically combusts again.

He laughs, flustered, and rubs the back of his buzzed head with one hand, cheeks glowing. “You are literally the worst. And by worst, I mean the best, which is so unfair.”

You lean in and steal a quick kiss, just a soft press of lips, lingering for half a second longer than necessary. When you pull back, he’s blinking at you like his brain has short-circuited.

“Hi again,” you whisper, and he giggles helplessly.

“You are such a menace,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. He looks like he could float right out of his seat.

You reach down into your lap and lift the bag up. “Here, Stiles. Your lucky outfit. You’re gonna crush it.”

He takes it reverently, holding the handles like it might disintegrate if he’s not gentle enough. “You brought it,” he says, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You nod, smiling. “Told you I’d help. You’re gonna look sharp. Hirable. Like the charming, competent, adorably chaotic employee of the month you’re destined to be.”

He barks out a laugh. “Adorably chaotic, huh?”

“Like a golden retriever in khaki shorts.”

“You’re so lucky I’m into you,” he mumbles, shaking his head as he unzips the bag and peeks inside. “God, this is perfect.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek, lingering just a moment too long before nudging his shoulder. “Go get changed, Stilinski. Interviewer awaits.”

He clutches the bag tighter, nodding with a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, yeah. I’ve got this. I have got this.”

“Damn right you do.”

He opens the door, then pauses, turning back with that look — the one that’s half soft panic, half warm affection. “Wait here?”

You smile like it’s the easiest answer in the world. “Always.”

He beams at you, full teeth, eyes crinkling at the corners, and then he’s off — all long legs and awkward enthusiasm, jogging back toward the school doors with the bag bouncing against his hip, calling something at Scott as he vanishes inside.

And all you can do is watch him go, heart full to bursting.

You watch the doors like you’ve got tunnel vision, elbows resting on the open window, fingers curled just under your chin as the sun starts to shift. It casts long, soft shadows across the dashboard, and you catch yourself tracing little patterns in the dust on the glove compartment—absently, aimlessly, in that warm, fizzy sort of headspace that only ever seems to hit when you’re thinking about him.

It’s not even five minutes before Stiles bursts back out of the building, practically skipping steps down the front stairs with the outfit you picked clinging to him in the best way possible. The khaki shorts are a little wrinkled from the bag, but he’s tugged the polo shirt into place like it matters, and he’s even wearing your jacket — a little big on him in the shoulders, the sleeves tugged over his hands, the hem swishing as he jogs.

He looks nervous and shiny with effort, his backpack bouncing on one shoulder like he didn’t take the time to shove it into a locker, which tracks. His face is pink again — probably from rushing, but maybe also from the fact that you’re still sitting there, exactly where he left you, smiling at him like he’s the whole damn sun.

He doesn’t even stop to greet you. Just throws the driver’s side door open, tosses his backpack into the backseat, and slides in with a breathless, “Okay, okay, let’s go, let’s go.”

You blink, brows raising. “Wow. That was fast. You break land-speed records getting changed?”

“I didn’t even fully button the fly until I was halfway down the hallway,” he mutters, fumbling with the keys. “I can’t be late. They’ll think I’m irresponsible. What if I’m late and they’re like ‘Wow, classic, look at this clown, total liability, can’t even show up on time, hope he doesn’t burn the fries’—”

“Stiles,” you say, laughing as the Jeep jerks into motion and he throws it into reverse with more aggression than necessary. “Deep breaths. You’re fine. We’re early. Like, extra early.”

“Which means we won’t get stuck behind a tractor or a school bus or a pack of angry geese or whatever Beacon Hills decides to throw at us today, thankfully,” he says, eyes darting between mirrors.

You reach over without thinking, smoothing down the edge of his collar. “You look good,” you murmur, fingers brushing under the collarbone seam and fixing where it folded awkwardly at the dip of his neck. “Really good.”

He makes a strangled sound. “No, I don’t. I look like I’m cosplaying ‘acceptable teenage employee number four.’”

You shift a little closer in your seat, hand drifting down to press flat against his chest for a second. “Stiles, you’re literally the cutest thing on the road right now. If you got pulled over, it’d be for excessive handsomeness.”

He snorts, cheeks flushing red again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re adorable.”

“That’s not gonna help me grill nuggets.”

“Grill nuggets?”

“I’m stressed, don’t correct me.”

You laugh again and gently tug his sleeve, straightening the edge of your jacket where it’s bunched at his elbow. “You’re gonna do great. You’re gonna be charming and fidgety and enthusiastic and they’ll see how much you wanna do a good job and they’ll love you for it.”

He goes quiet for a second, hands tightening on the wheel. The streets are calm, the sun low enough now that it’s turning everything gold. You glance at his profile — the way his buzzed hair still manages to stick up in the wrong places, how the tip of his tongue pokes out when he’s trying not to smile.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he mumbles after a beat, so quiet it’s nearly lost under the hum of the engine.

You reach over and lace your fingers through his, guiding one hand off the wheel just for a second. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” He squeezes your hand and, for a second, he stops fidgeting.

As the Jeep rumbles down the quiet street, the tires humming over the asphalt, Stiles finally settles into a more consistent rhythm. His shoulders are still high with tension, though, and you can practically feel the little storms of anxious energy swirling in his head. He drums his thumbs on the steering wheel, bouncing his knee and glancing between the rearview and side mirrors like they're going to start whispering judgments at him.

"Okay, okay, okay,” he mutters under his breath, barely audible. “What if they ask me why I want to work there and I freeze? What if I forget the name of the manager? What if I—"

“Stiles,” you say gently, your voice soft as you lean against the passenger-side door, watching him with warm amusement, “you’ve rehearsed this interview in the mirror, like, seventeen times. I watched you rehearse it. Twice. In accents.”

“I blacked out for both of those,” he replies, half-serious, glancing at you with wide eyes. “You ever watch your own reflection and feel like it’s judging you in real time?”

“Only when I'm not with you.”

He snorts, finally cracking a smile, and his fingers twitch against the steering wheel like maybe he wants to reach for your hand again.

“You don’t have to be perfect, babe,” you say, tone light but sincere. “They just wanna see you. And you’re—y’know—you. You’re energetic, and smart, and you care. You’re gonna do great. And if you trip over your words a little? You’ll still be the most lovable thing in that whole building.”

Stiles makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. “You’re gonna make me crash.”

“You won’t. Your panic reflexes are too strong.”

“Okay, yeah, fair,” he admits, breathing out hard through his nose. “I once dodged a deer with my dad’s cruiser going forty.”

“Exactly. A job interview’s nothing compared to a rogue woodland creature.”

The golden arches come into view up ahead, glowing faintly against the late afternoon sky. You watch as Stiles swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he pulls into the parking lot. He parks with a little too much force—braking too fast—and then stares out through the windshield like he’s contemplating the meaning of life. You lean over, reaching for his jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble-dotted edge of it before guiding him to face you. His eyes flick to yours, and they’re wide and nervous, but still sparkling with that light only he seems to carry.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Come here.”

He leans across the console and you meet him halfway, pressing a kiss to his lips. It’s slow and warm and grounding. Not rushed, not too deep. Just the kind that says: I see you. I’m proud of you. I’ve got you. When you pull back, his eyes are half-lidded and glassy, like you just knocked every anxious thought out of him in one go.

“You’ve got this,” you murmur. “No matter what happens in there, whether they offer you the job or not, I’m proud of you. So proud.”

He nods, lips twitching. “Yeah?”

“Always.”

He huffs a breath, pushing the car door open with one hand and holding the bag with the other. “Okay. Okay, cool. I’m gonna go. I’m going. Right now.”

“I believe in you, cutie with a buzz.”

He groans under his breath and throws one last look over his shoulder as he closes the door. “You suck.”

You grin. “Love you too.”

He disappears inside, and you’re left alone in the Jeep with the echo of your kiss and the smell of his cologne clinging to the seatbelt, heart full and already counting down the seconds until he comes back out.

The hum of passing cars fades into the background as you sit there, still angled in your seat like he might walk right back out any second. The golden arches above the restaurant cast that familiar neon haze over the lot, and inside the Jeep it’s warm with late sun and the lingering scent of him—fabric softener and cheap shampoo and something sharper, something that's just Stiles. It feels a little like summer, even though it’s barely spring. The kind of day that makes your skin buzz a little, even if nothing’s happening.

You rest your cheek against the seat, watching the front doors where he vanished, and your mind drifts. You think about how far you’ve both come. How, a couple years ago, Stiles couldn’t even make eye contact with a cashier without stammering through six filler words and a small breakdown, and now he’s in there trying to land a job, trying to grow up—choosing to take a step forward. Even if it’s just flipping burgers and wearing a visor, it’s still something he chose.

And that’s kind of the beautiful thing about Stiles. For all the noise, the chaos, the impulsive tangents and nervous energy that feels like it could spark something on fire, underneath all that is someone who cares. So much. Maybe too much. He tries so hard, sometimes he runs himself ragged doing it. He overthinks because he wants to get things right. He spirals because he’s afraid of messing up what matters.

You know, deep down, that he’s probably in there right now talking at warp speed, tripping over his own enthusiasm, voice pitching up with every third sentence, hands moving like he’s explaining a math equation in midair. And yet, despite all that, he’s probably winning them over without even realizing it. Because there’s something impossible not to love about someone who just feels everything that much.

Your fingers toy absentmindedly with the strap of your bag, and you smile softly to yourself. He’ll come out flushed and wired, buzzing from adrenaline and second-guessing every single answer he gave. You’ll talk him down, like always. Tell him he did great. Kiss his forehead or ruffle his hair until he cracks a grin and groans, “You’re so annoying,” like it’s the highest compliment he can give.

It’s strange, how something as small as waiting for him in his car can make you feel so full—like your chest isn’t big enough to hold it all. You love him. You love this. The simplicity of being trusted enough to have a spare key, to sit here and wait, to see him run off into the unknown and know that he’ll come back looking for you.

Your gaze drifts up to the McDonald’s window, wondering if he’s sitting in a hard plastic chair, legs bouncing, fingers knotting together in his lap, doing that thing where he bites his lip until it’s redder than it should be. And maybe he’s thinking about you too. Maybe knowing you’re out here makes it easier.

You rest your head against the window with a small sigh and close your eyes for a second. The world hums on. The sun keeps dipping. And still, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here—waiting for Stiles Stilinski to come back out, heart full of hope and hands ready to hold his.

Time drips by slowly, like honey from the edge of a spoon. The kind of waiting that feels stretched thin, but not in a bad way—just soft around the edges, tinted golden by the sinking sun and heavy with expectation. A breeze rattles the few wrappers in the parking lot, and you adjust your position in the seat, stretching your legs a little as you glance at the dashboard clock again.

It’s been… longer than you expected. Maybe twenty minutes? Twenty-five? You lose count somewhere between checking your phone and daydreaming about the way Stiles' face lights up when he gets excited about things like space documentaries or really obscure facts about wild mushrooms. You’re not worried—just curious. Curious about how he’s doing, what he’s saying, whether he remembered to breathe between sentences.

A kid walks out with a milkshake and slams the door behind him. An older guy in uniform shouts something back at someone inside. You watch it all pass like a quiet movie, until—

There he is.

Stiles bursts out of the doors like a spring wound too tight, full of nervous energy and flushed cheeks and the kind of restless momentum that screams adrenaline. He’s halfway jogging, his arms a little too animated, his mouth already moving even though no one’s with him to hear what he’s saying. His backpack bounces against his side and his shirt is rumpled like he’s been fidgeting with it the whole time.

You’re out of the car before he even makes it to the Jeep, heart tugging you forward because he just looks so Stiles. So alive. So him.

He sees you and immediately lifts his hands like he’s about to start explaining the chemical makeup of nerves themselves.

“I don’t even remember what I said in there, oh my god, I think I blacked out for a minute, again—like, legit blackout, like the kind where you come back and your mouth is still moving but your brain’s playing elevator music—and I definitely used the word ‘synergy’ unironically, and then I tried to make a joke and I don’t even know if it landed, and—”

“Stiles.”

You step in, close the distance, and kiss him. Just once, quick and grounding, your hands coming up to cup his face as you do. He melts instantly, shutting up with a soft “mmf” sound and blinking rapidly as he looks at you like you just stopped time with your mouth.

“Breathe,” you say gently, grinning as you slide your hands to the sides of his neck. “Start with that.”

He does, dragging in a huge inhale like he hasn’t taken one since walking in.

You ruffle his buzzed hair with affection, thumb sweeping across the curve of his warm cheek. “You did it, baby. I’m proud of you.”

He bites his lip, hands fluttering at his sides for a second before he finally lets them land on your waist, gripping tight like he needs to anchor himself. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze, tucking your chin over his shoulder. He’s trembling just a little.

“I—okay, so, like, not to be dramatic or anything,” he starts, muffled into your neck, “but I think I almost puked on the floor in there.”

You laugh softly, rubbing his back. “Sounds about right.”

“But I didn’t! I kept it together. Kinda. I think. And—okay, this is the part I don’t believe myself yet—I got it.”

You pull back.

“What?”

His ears are red. His grin is crooked and sheepish and so insanely proud, like he’s not sure if he should be proud yet but is doing it anyway.

“They offered me the job,” he says, voice half-wheeze, half-laugh. “Like, actual hired me. I start next week. They’re gonna send me the training schedule tonight.”

You blink at him for a beat, stunned—then your face splits into the kind of smile that hurts your cheeks.

“Stiles Stilinski, you beautiful, brilliant, disastrously handsome disaster, you did it!”

He squeaks out something between a laugh and a breathless noise of disbelief as you throw your arms around him again, this time lifting him a little as you hug him tightly. He clutches you back like a lifeline, his grin pressed against your shoulder, and when you let him go just enough to look at him again, he’s glowing.

“I got a job,” he says, like he needs to hear it out loud to believe it. “I actually got a freaking job.”

You kiss his nose. “You deserve that job.”

“And they said they liked how enthusiastic I was, which—what? What? I was literally vibrating. I think I saluted at one point. Oh god, I did, didn’t I—”

“You did great. You’re perfect,” you say, punctuating each word with a peck to his cheek, his forehead, the corner of his mouth.

He’s laughing now, eyes crinkling with joy, and you hold him close again, grounding him with warmth and kisses and soft affirmations. And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in a parking lot under a fading sun—future coworkers and schedules and burgers be damned.

You’re proud of him. You’re in love with him. And right now, the whole world feels like it’s turning in the exact direction it’s supposed to.

~~

He’s got that look again—like he’s going to vibrate straight out of his own skin.

You’re leaning in the doorway of his bedroom, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold like it’s a personal performance just for you. Stiles is moving like a man possessed, frantic energy spilling from every clumsy motion. His black McDonald’s polo is half-tucked, half-wrinkled, like it fought him this morning and almost won. He’s hopping in uneven circles while trying to get one sock over his ankle, breath coming fast, mumbling nonsense to himself.

You’re trying really hard not to smile, but it’s impossible. He’s too much. In the best way.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, not even looking at you, “I have my ID, I have my schedule, I have deodorant, I think. Did I put on deodorant? Shit—smell me real quick—wait, no, that’s weird. Don’t smell me. I’ll reapply. I can reapply. It’s fine. I’ll just—oh my God, I’m going to die in a vat of fryer oil and be buried in a McNugget box.”

“You’re gonna be great, babe.”

He stops mid-rant, finally looking at you. “You have to say that. You’re contractually obligated as my lover to say stuff like that.”

“I’m not under contract. I’m under the influence.” You grin, stepping into the room and catching his face between your hands. “Of how cute you look in that ridiculous uniform.”

Stiles flushes immediately, the buzzcut doing nothing to hide the red creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “Don’t do that. Don’t do that. I already feel like an overcooked mozzarella stick, you can’t just flirt at me like that.”

“I can and I will,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his jaw. It’s smooth—baby soft, freshly shaven, still carrying the faint scent of the generic foam he insists on using. You lean in a little, close enough to feel his breath stutter against your lips.

“Oh God, do you think they’ll make me do drive-thru on my first day? I don’t even know how to work a headset. What if I mess up someone’s order and they throw hot coffee at me through the window? What if I drop a McFlurry and slip on it and fall directly into the fryer like some tragic fast-food final destination moment? What if I get arrested for involuntary food manslaughter?!”

You blink. “That’s not a real thing.”

“It could be!”

“Stiles.”

His name in your voice quiets him a little. Just a little. He stops and meets your eyes, hairline damp with nerves and his chest rising too fast. His lips part like he’s going to start again, another tumble of fear and overthinking about fryer grease and minimum wage and what the hell a Filet-O-Fish even is, but you just gently frame his face in your hands.

His skin’s warm. You can feel his heartbeat jumping under your fingers, fast and uncertain.

“Hey,” you say, quiet. “You’re okay.”

He tries to scoff, but it comes out more like a breathy wheeze. “I’m a wreck.”

“You’re adorable.”

“You’re biased.”

“Of course I am. I have taste.”

He groans and tilts his head back like he’s praying for patience. “You are impossibly unhelpful.”

“I’m helping you chill out. With my charm. And my devastating good looks.”

“You are a menace.” But his lips twitch—fighting a smile, always fighting the smile when you do this to him. It’s like he wants to stay panicked, like it gives him structure. But then you’re this—soft and steady and smirking at him like he’s already won—and the panic slips sideways into something warmer, something gentler.

You slide your thumbs across his cheekbones, grounding him. “You’re gonna go in there, clock in, and prove everyone wrong. You’re smart, you’re quick, and you care way too much about doing everything perfectly.”

“I’m also clumsy, awkward, and prone to catastrophic thought spirals about dipping sauces.”

You kiss him. Not hard. Just soft, slow, lips pressing into his until he stops talking. Until he exhales against you. He always melts like this when you kiss him first—like his brain short-circuits and everything in his head hushes for one goddamn second. You feel his hands curl into the hem of your shirt, not gripping, just holding, like he needs something to keep him grounded.

You pull back just far enough to whisper against his lips, “You’re gonna do amazing.”

He breathes you in like oxygen, and when he opens his eyes again, they’re a little glassy.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. “And if anyone gives you shit, just remember you’ve got a personal cutie who’s more than willing to show up at 10 p.m. and commit a light felony on your behalf.”

That gets a real laugh out of him. Quick and embarrassed and full of fondness. He steps back with a shake of his head and drags a hand over his buzzed hair. “God, you’re ridiculous.”

You shrug. “You love me.”

“I do. Unfortunately.”

You watch him double-check his bag for the fifth time, patting pockets, muttering about gum and his schedule and wondering if it’s weird to bring his own pen. And then he stands there in the doorway, still and awkward, like he’s not sure what comes next.

So you step forward, wrap your arms around his middle, and hold him close.

He exhales into your shoulder, all the tension in his body pulling tight and then slowly unraveling, piece by piece.

“I’m proud of you,” you murmur into his ear. “For real.”

He squeezes you back. Quietly. No more rambling, no more jokes. Just him, holding on a second longer than necessary, until he finally pulls back.

“Okay,” he says softly, voice steadier now. “Okay. I’m gonna go.”

“You’ve got this.”

“I do.” A breath. “I do, right?”

You give him a smile he can hang on to. “You do.”

And then he’s gone, jogging down the stairs, fumbling with his keys, and yelling something to his dad that you can’t quite make out. And you stand there in the empty doorway, listening to the door shut, heart full and warm and already counting down the hours until he calls you again—nervous and breathless and needing you all over again.

Just the way you like him.

Honestly, The house felt hollow without him.

You hadn't realized how much noise Stiles carried until it was gone—like a trail of clutter and muttering and half-baked theories that usually followed him around. Now the silence was oppressive. You’d tried to distract yourself. Laundry. Scrolling. A game on mute. Even watched half an episode of some random show you'd already seen before just to fill the space. But the whole time, your mind kept drifting back to him—wondering if he was okay, if the headset finally stayed on, if his manager was being cool or if that new-kid awkwardness was clinging to him like fryer grease.

You checked your phone too many times. You typed out a couple “how’s it going?” texts and deleted them. You figured he’d let you know if something was wrong.

It turned out you didn’t have to wait long.

Your phone buzzed hard against the arm of the couch around 5:47pm—just late enough into his shift that something had clearly snapped. His name lit up your screen, and you answered before the second ring even hit.

“Hey—”

“Oh my God, I spilled two milkshakes, I slipped—like, full-on slipped—on a wet floor sign next to the wet floor sign, and I think I accidentally rang in fifteen McChickens instead of one and then had to void the whole order but the system froze so I had to get Terri to come over and un-jam it and she gave me this look, like I’d just pissed on the register. I think the new guy saw me trip, and also the headset keeps, like, echoing my own voice into my ear so I sound like a stammering idiot every time I try to say ‘Welcome to McDonald’s,’ and the ice cream machine started beeping and I don’t even know why because I swear I didn’t touch it, and I—I’m so bad at this. I’m—this is the worst idea I’ve ever had, and I once tried to wax my own chest with duct tape—”

“Stiles.”

“—and I burned my wrist because the fry basket thing slipped when I was—”

“Stiles.”

“—and I forgot to punch out for break and then tried to retroactively do it, but apparently you’re not supposed to do that? I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I—”

“Baby.”

He fell silent.

You exhaled softly and sat up straighter on the couch. “First of all, you’re not dying. Second, you didn’t accidentally launch a nuke, you just had a normal shift at a shitty fast-food job. Everyone spills stuff. Everyone trips. Everyone screws up the POS system, and if your manager's not giving you clear training, that’s on them, not you.”

A shaky breath filtered through the line. You could hear the dull, muted chaos behind him—orders being called, grease crackling, the beep-beep-beep of some back timer going off.

“I feel like I’m… I don’t know. Drowning?” he said, his voice smaller now. Not the frantic rant from before, but raw. Close. “Like I’m just—flailing in this ocean of soda syrup and mustard packets and everyone else is just swimming laps around me.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words settle in your chest. “You’re not flailing. You’re learning. That’s what this is. And I promise you, no one there has it all together. They’re just better at faking it.”

There was a pause.

“…I got ketchup on my shoe,” he whispered miserably.

“Tragic.”

“And the floor’s sticky in the breakroom.”

“Call the police.”

He let out a choked laugh that turned into a soft, pathetic sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. “I’m not cut out for this, babe.”

“You’re cut out for everything. You just weren’t born knowing how to operate a headset and scoop fries and decode corporate fast food nonsense all at once. Nobody is. You just need to get through tonight.”

Another pause.

“I kind of want you to come here.”

“I kind of already have my keys in my hand.”

“You—wait, really?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m kinda on my way.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Kinda already locking the door.”

He was quiet for a second. You could picture him there in the tiny backroom, curled in on himself, hoodie bunched up under his stupid uniform, hair flattened under that dumb visor, mouth red from chewing his lip.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. “You’re… I mean. You’re kind of everything.”

“I know,” you teased, shouldering your hoodie and stepping out into the night.

And when you climbed into the car and started the engine, there was already a plan forming in the back of your mind—a slow burn of want curling through your gut. He’d sounded so fragile, so wound up, so wreckable. And if he thought you were just coming there to talk him down…

Well, he was in for a hell of a comfort shift.

The drive felt longer than it actually was.

Beacon Hills wasn’t big, but when someone you loved sounded like they were hanging on by a thread—frantic, flushed, tangled up in his own nerves—every red light was a personal insult. You drummed your fingers against the wheel, headlights bouncing over familiar signs and sleepy storefronts, your chest buzzing with a mix of protectiveness and low-simmering heat.

Stiles always wore his anxiety on the surface. He didn't hide it; he couldn't. It lived in his fingers, the way they twitched or drummed or curled into sleeves. It lived in his breath—fast, shallow, rushed like it might forget how to come back in. You’d seen it a hundred times: when he was late to class, when his dad got called out on a tough case, when his shoelace snapped and he thought it meant the whole day was cursed.

But this was different.

This wasn’t school nerves. This wasn’t test-taking panic or awkward social tension. This was him trying to step into something new, trying to be an adult, trying to not mess it all up—and every little bump was hitting harder because he cared. Because he wanted to do well. Because he wanted someone—anyone—to look at him and say, you’re doing okay, kid. You’ve got this.

And tonight, that someone was going to be you.

You reached over and turned the heat up a notch, like it might hold you over until you got your hands on him.You were going to wrap your arms around him, hold him against your chest until he remembered how to breathe, kiss his stupid little visor right off his head if that’s what it took.

The McDonald’s lights were visible before you even turned into the parking lot—neon yellows and reds casting long, tired shadows across the asphalt. It wasn’t busy anymore. Just a few cars in the drive-thru. Most of the windows were dark except for the glow behind the counter and the dull blue light leaking out from the back hallway where staff came and went.

You pulled in slow, parking just off to the side where employees usually stood during breaks. The air smelled like fryer oil and half-burnt coffee, and it clung to everything. Even from here, you could see someone mopping through the front—a blur of motion and yellow “CAUTION” signs—and your stomach tugged.

Because you knew he was in there.

You knew he was somewhere in that building, buzzing out of his skin, twisting his fingers into his hoodie sleeves, probably pacing a line into the tile, telling himself he was messing everything up.

And you were about to walk in and make him feel like the most wanted, seen, safe person on Earth.

Your phone buzzed in the cupholder. One new message from Stiles:

Backroom. Please don’t laugh when you see me. I look like a gremlin.

You stared at the screen for a second, smiling gently.

Then you sent back:

You’re my favorite gremlin. On my way in. Don’t melt.

You grabbed your hoodie from the passenger seat, tugged it on over your tee, and stepped into the night.

You were about to give him the only kind of relief that actually mattered—more than touching, more than teasing.

Love that wraps around you and doesn’t let go. Love that whispers: You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re enough.

And you were going to remind him of that until he believed it. Until every last crack in him had been kissed quiet.

The moment you stepped through the double doors, the greasy hum of fluorescent lights and the low hiss of fryer oil hit you like a wave. It smelled like salt and stress and plastic-wrapped baked apple pies, and the tile squeaked under your shoes like it didn’t want you there.

You didn’t care.

You made a beeline for the counter, eyes scanning the inside with practiced calm, like you belonged there. And technically? You did. Your boyfriend was in the back losing his mind, and you were here to fix it.

There was a girl wiping down the milkshake station, blonde braid hanging over one shoulder, her visor crooked at a charming angle of not-giving-a-damn. She glanced up when she saw you, blinking at first—then pausing, looking you up and down like she was trying to place something. Her eyes widened slightly, and she let out this soft little, ohhh, under her breath.

“I’m here to see Stiles,” you said, not even bothering to lower your voice, your hands planted casually in your hoodie pocket. “He called me.”

Her whole face lit up like a rom-com meet-cute just exploded in her brain. “Oh, you’re his?”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

She grinned, eyes sparkling now, tossing her cleaning rag on the counter like it no longer mattered. “Dude’s been pacing in the backroom like it’s a damn telenovela. Full-on muttering, pulling at his sleeves, acting like he just set fire to the kitchen or something. I figured he was talking to someone important, but this is cute.”

She didn’t wait for you to respond—just jerked her thumb toward the back like she was already halfway invested in your love story. “Come on. He’s all freaked out and pink in the face. It’s either endearing or tragic, I haven’t decided.”

You followed her past the registers, the overhead menu screens still glowing like hollow billboards in the dark. The kitchen smelled stronger back here—more oil, more cleaner, more burnt starch—and the sound of timers ticking down and headset chatter fuzzing in the background wrapped around everything.

“Just back here,” she said, pushing open the swinging door labeled “STAFF ONLY.” “Try not to break him.”

You huffed a laugh. “I’ll do my best.”

As soon as you stepped through the backroom door, the difference was immediate. It was quieter—still buzzing faintly with the building’s hum, the occasional ding from a timer—but otherwise dim, cramped, and a little too warm. Boxes stacked along the walls. Wire shelves full of paper cups and ketchup packets. A narrow bench pressed up under a mounted coat rack, someone’s half-finished soda sweating onto the floor.

And there—curled into himself like a stormcloud in human form—was Stiles.

He was standing in the far corner, hoodie sleeves shoved halfway up his forearms and his McDonald’s polo bunching awkwardly around his waist like it didn’t quite know how to sit on his frame. His head was down, visor casting a shadow across his buzzed hair, one hand raking through the stubble like he was trying to find an escape hatch in his own scalp. His mouth was moving—talking to himself, still going—and you could catch the faint edges of it:

“Okay. Okay, it’s fine. It’s just a job, it’s just a job, nobody died—unless I gave someone the wrong order and now they’re allergic to pickles and—fuck, no, no, Stiles, stop—just breathe, just—okay but the fries were overcooked and now they think I don’t care—God, I probably look like I’m high or something—”

You stepped into the room, quiet but deliberate.

“Hey.”

He spun so fast he nearly knocked over a crate of straws. His eyes were wide, frantic, and when they landed on you—real, present, warm and solid—his whole expression cracked.

“You came.”

You stepped forward slowly, hands still in your hoodie pocket, voice gentle like you were trying not to spook a wild animal. “Of course I came. You sounded like you were about to collapse in on yourself like a dying star.”

“I—okay, yes, that’s probably accurate,” he said in a half-laugh, half-wheeze. “I just—I didn’t expect you to actually—like, you had your night. You were doing your stuff. And now you’re in here, and I look like the end of a stress PSA.”

You tilted your head and smiled, soft and full of something warmer than just affection. You stepped closer, close enough that he had to tilt his head back a little to keep eye contact.

“You’re the best part of my night, Stiles,” you said, voice low. “Of course I came.”

He looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. Like his brain short-circuited on kindness alone. His hands twitched like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t think he was allowed.

So you closed the space yourself.

One hand reached up, curled around the back of his neck, thumb brushing gently under the edge of his dumb drive-thru headset. The other slid to his waist, fingers hooking into the hem of his polo like it was a lifeline. His breath caught. His shoulders dropped, just a little.

And then, finally, he exhaled. Like your presence was permission to let go.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “I got you. You’re okay. I’m here.”

He nodded once, just barely.

Then he leaned into your chest and whispered, voice breaking, “I missed you so bad.”

You held him tighter.

“Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”

He sank into you like he’d been waiting to fall.

Every muscle in his body let go the second your arms wrapped around him—like all the tension that had been knotting up in his chest since his shift started suddenly had somewhere to go. His breath hitched again, not like panic this time, but like relief—like he was holding back a sound he didn’t know if he was allowed to make.

You pressed your face into his hair, the faintest whiff of fryer grease clinging to the buzzed strands, and held him closer.

“Deep breath, baby,” you whispered against his temple. “Come on. Just one. In through your nose.”

He followed you, a shaky inhale filling his chest where it was pressed against yours.

“Good. Now out.”

Another breath, this one steadier. His hands finally unclenched from the bottom hem of his hoodie and crept around your back, squeezing tightly like he was scared you’d vanish if he let go.

“You’ve been doing so good,” you murmured, peppering soft, featherlight kisses along the top of his head, his temple, the curve of his cheekbone. “You’ve only been working here a few hours and you already care this much. That’s not failure, Stiles. That’s you giving a shit. And it’s beautiful.”

He let out a choked little laugh. “It’s a literal minimum wage job. I shouldn’t be this stressed about deep-frying potato product.”

“That doesn’t make your feelings less real,” you said, pressing a kiss under his ear. “You can be overwhelmed and still be doing amazing.”

You felt him shiver.

Maybe it was the kisses. Maybe it was your voice low and soft and warm in his ear. Maybe it was the pressure of your hands sliding slow and firm up his back, grounding him.

Or maybe—just maybe—it was the way he’d been shaking apart in private for hours, alone in this shitty, overlit fast-food hellscape, and now here you were: solid, warm, steady. A break in the noise. A safe place to land.

Your fingers trailed down his arms, thumbs sweeping softly along his wrists. He’d rolled his hoodie sleeves halfway up, and there was a red mark blooming near the inside of one. You kissed it gently.

“This the burn?” you murmured against his skin.

He nodded sheepishly. “Yeah. Fryer tray. It hissed like a demon.”

You kissed the mark again, even softer. “Well, you survived. My brave little grease warrior.”

He let out another breath, this one a little more laugh than sigh. He tilted his head up, and you finally got a good look at his face.

Cheeks still flushed. Mouth bitten pink. Eyes wide and glassy, lashes clumped slightly from the heat in the backroom. The black visor was tilted too far forward again, casting a shadow over his buzzed head, and for a brief second—just a flicker—you had the thought again:

He looks so goddamn good like this.

Tense. Overworked. Pink in the face from stress and stubbornness. That ugly polo stretched tight over his chest. The fabric of his khaki pants tugged in all the wrong places. And that visor, crooked and dumb and so Stiles, sitting low over those big, frantic eyes.

God, he wore chaos like no one else.

You pressed your forehead to his, nose brushing his, breath warm between you.

“You’ve done nothing wrong tonight, okay?” you said softly. “Spilling milkshakes? That’s human. Frying things too long? Literally everyone does that. You didn’t burn the place down. You didn’t punch the headset. You’re still standing. You’re doing great.”

His lips trembled like he was trying not to cry—not really out of sadness, but just relief.

“I kept thinking I was gonna get fired,” he whispered, voice raw. “Like they were gonna realize I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know what you’re doing. No one does in their first week. That’s why training exists. You’re not failing, baby. You’re learning.”

Another kiss, this time to the center of his forehead.

“And even if you were failing—newsflash, you’re not—but if you were? I’d still be right here. I'd still show up the second you call. I’d still wrap you up like this and tell you how proud I am of you.”

His breath hitched again, and his grip on you tightened like he was worried he might float away otherwise.

You let the silence sit between you for a beat, thick and full of held emotion. You brushed your knuckles over his cheek, catching the tiniest sheen of sweat. He must’ve been running around for hours.

“You need a drink?” you asked gently. “Water? Or like… four gallons of Sprite?”

He sniffed a little and laughed, small but real. “I think I just need you.”

“Good,” you said, kissing the tip of his nose. “Because you’ve got me.”

You hugged him tighter, slow and full-bodied, and he melted again—like your chest was the only place he could breathe right.

You didn’t mind staying there a while.

You were going to hold him until every shaky inhale evened out. Until he remembered what it felt like to be steady. Until that dumb little visor wasn’t a symbol of failure, but something you could tease him about later, probably while pulling it off his head and kissing him breathless on a couch.

But not yet.

Now was for softness. For presence. For steady love in the middle of a fluorescent storm.

You stood there in the backroom, arms looped tight around each other, the low buzz of a distant fryer and the occasional squawk of the drive-thru headset fading into nothing. The moment had narrowed down to just you and him, caught in a quiet little pocket of warmth tucked behind crates of ketchup packets and stacks of napkin sleeves. The world didn’t reach here. Not right now.

Stiles was still pressed against you like gravity wasn’t enough. His breath had evened out a little, but you could still feel it—the lingering tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of your hoodie like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to fully relax yet.

You weren’t about to rush him.

You kept your movements slow, soft. One hand rubbed lazy circles at the base of his spine, the other brushing up and down his arm. His skin was warm under your touch, slightly sticky from the heat of the kitchen, and still tinged pink across the cheeks and ears. That dumb visor hadn’t moved—it still sat just a little too low on his forehead, shadowing his buzzed hair and making him look like the overworked, underpaid, stupidly beautiful mess he swore he wasn’t.

“Y’know,” you murmured, brushing your nose just beneath his jawline, “I think the visor’s growing on me.”

He snorted against your chest, the sound muffled. “You are such a liar.”

“No, I’m serious.” You tipped your head just slightly, enough to rest your chin on his shoulder as you nuzzled closer. “I think it really brings out your exhausted, end-of-the-world aesthetic. Like a sexy drive-thru apocalypse survivor.”

He huffed a breath, shoulders jerking with barely-contained laughter. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.” You kissed the curve where his neck met his collar. “I should’ve worn a matching one. We’d be unstoppable. Like, emotionally unavailable but aesthetically devastating.”

He finally looked up at you, blinking through lashes still clumped from sweat, eyes clearer now. Still soft around the edges, still vulnerable, but no longer braced for the world to shatter. Just Stiles—your Stiles—tired and wrung-out and still looking like the best thing you’d ever held.

“I must look like hell,” he murmured, almost shy.

You reached up and gently ran your knuckles along his cheekbone. “You look real. Honest. Hot, actually.”

He flushed immediately, jerking back a little with a disbelieving laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.”

You stepped in again, closing that tiny bit of space, your hands finding his waist, your mouth tugged into a crooked grin. “I don’t lie about what turns me on, babe.”

His breath caught again—but this time, it was with a smile. A real one. Small. Lopsided. But his.

You leaned forward, slowly, deliberately, your forehead brushing against his until you felt the soft press of skin meeting skin. He let out a little sound, barely a noise, like all the air in his lungs had just gone sweet instead of sharp.

You rubbed the tip of your nose against his.

Stiles blinked, confused for half a second—then his face broke into this ridiculous, perfect smile.

“Are you trying to Eskimo kiss me right now?” he whispered, incredulous.

You nodded, noses still pressed, and whispered back, “Maybe.”

His shoulders shook as he laughed, warm and breathy, and he bumped his nose against yours in return.

It was clumsy. Uncoordinated. You both accidentally headbutted each other a little, and Stiles let out a tiny, high-pitched ow, even though it clearly didn’t hurt. And then you both just stood there—foreheads pressed, noses brushing, giggling like idiots in a supply room surrounded by cardboard boxes and the ghost of burned fries.

Your chest shook with laughter, and you watched him through blurry eyes as he tried to get his breath back, still grinning, still flushed.

“God,” he said, leaning into you again, the visor almost bumping you in the face this time, “you’re, like, obscenely good at this.”

“At what?” you teased, rubbing your nose against his again, gently this time.

“This,” he said, voice a little softer now. “Making me feel… safe. Like I’m not screwing everything up just by existing.”

You pulled him in tighter, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of his head. Your lips brushed the corner of his mouth again—tender, quiet, grounding.

“You’re not screwing anything up,” you said. “You’re figuring it out. And I’m right here with you.”

He looked at you, and for a second it was all there in his eyes—everything he couldn’t say without crying again. You saw it. You held it.

And then, still smiling, you bumped his nose with yours again, quick and mischievous.

He squeaked.

You grinned.

And then you were giggling again, together, wrapped in this quiet little hurricane of affection and cheap polyester and the kind of love that makes all the fluorescent hum and grease-slicked chaos feel small.

You could’ve stayed like that forever.

The hum of the freezer, the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, and Stiles’s breathing—still a little shaky, but steadying—are all that fill the space. He’s in your arms, pressed soft and warm against your chest, his stupid little McDonald’s visor tilted askew, cheeks still red from crying and adrenaline and embarrassment, but his smile—God, that smile—is back. Small. Real.

He giggles, just barely, and his nose crinkles in that way that should be illegal.

You should keep things sweet. Just hold him. Tell him again that he’s okay, that he’s good. But something shifts in your chest when he looks up at you through those lashes, smiling like you hung the moon, and you feel it—low, deep, needy. Like gravity pulling you forward, body reacting before your brain has the words for it.

You tilt your head. Your lips brush the corner of his mouth. His breath catches again.

“Can I…?” you whisper, your voice quieter than it’s been all night.

He nods, the barest movement, and that’s all the permission you need.

You lean in, slow, kissing him softly—once, twice—before deepening it just a little. Enough to let him feel the edge under your sweetness. Your hands smooth down his back, fingertips catching on the hem of that ridiculous polo, and he lets out a sound so soft it barely registers.

He melts into it.

When you kiss him harder, you feel him gasp into your mouth, his hands fisting your hoodie again like he needs something to anchor him. You keep it slow, deliberate—your lips sliding over his, teasing, coaxing. You suck his bottom lip gently between yours, letting your teeth graze it before pulling back just enough to see his eyes, heavy-lidded and glassy with something that’s not quite stress anymore.

You’re not letting go.

You guide him gently, one step at a time, until his back bumps the wall. The steel of the shelf rattles faintly behind him. His breath hitches.

“God,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his cheek, “you’re so fucking cute.”

He flushes instantly, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you, like the words don’t fit in his ears right. “Shut up,” he mumbles, biting back a smile, “I look like the damn Hamburglar had a mental breakdown.”

You kiss him again, firmer this time, your hand sliding up into his buzzed hair, tugging just enough to make him shiver.

“No. You look like someone who's mine.”

That stuns him for a second. He just stares at you, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast, and then he grabs your face and kisses you like he means it. Messy, eager, all tongue and heat and teeth bumping because neither of you cares about finesse anymore. You’re holding him against the wall now, one hand gripping his hip, the other cradling the back of his head, and he’s clinging to you like he’s scared the moment will end too soon.

When you finally slow, mouths parting just barely, noses still brushing, he exhales shakily against your lips.

“I’m gonna die if you keep kissing me like that,” he breathes.

You grin. “Then I guess I better keep going. Just to make sure.”

He snorts and buries his face in your neck. “You’re a menace.”

“You love it.”

He nods. “Yeah. I really do.”

Your heart stutters when he says it—Yeah. I really do.

So soft. So honest. It hits you right in the fucking chest.

You pull back just enough to see his face again, still partially hidden in the crook of your neck, and tilt his chin up with two fingers. He looks up at you, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks, and you swear to God he doesn’t even know what he does to you. He’s breathing through parted lips, that messy little visor still cocked sideways, and the way his buzzed hair feels under your hand—it’s dangerous. He’s dangerous. Or maybe you are.

You lean in, kiss him again, slow and purposeful. He melts like warm butter against the wall, fingers still gripping the front of your hoodie, hips just barely twitching toward yours like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“You’re so fucking cute,” you whisper again, lips brushing his as you speak. “You don’t even know, do you?”

He lets out this strangled little noise, half-laugh, half-groan. “I—I don’t. You say stuff like that and my brain just… crashes. Like a Windows 98 shutdown sound.”

You chuckle softly, kissing the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then that little spot right below his ear that makes him shiver. “Yeah? Poor baby. Can’t handle compliments?”

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and it goes straight through you.

Your hands slide down slowly, over the cheap polyester polo that’s clinging to his torso with the faintest sheen of sweat, down to where his khaki shorts sit too snug on his hips. You toy with the waistband, just brushing your knuckles beneath his shirt, and he squirms a little—nervous, but not stopping you.

“You okay?” you murmur, kissing down his jaw, your breath hot against his skin.

He nods quickly, voice barely a breath. “Y-Yeah. Just… no one’s ever…” He swallows. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You smile against his neck, nuzzling there, soft and sweet even as your fingers work the top button of his shorts. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me take care of you.”

He exhales hard, his head thunking softly back against the wall. “Holy shit.”

You pop the button and unzip him slowly, deliberately, your knuckles brushing the soft cotton of his boxers. He’s hard. Not fully—yet—but getting there, thick and warm under your touch, twitching when your fingers graze him through the fabric.

“See?” you murmur against his lips as you kiss him again. “You are turned on. Told you you were hot.”

He groans and tries to hide his face again, but you’re quicker, cupping his jaw and forcing him to look at you.

“Don’t hide from me,” you whisper. “You look so good like this. You’ve been working so hard all night, being so sweet, and now you’re letting me touch you? Letting me make you feel good?” You slip your hand into his boxers, and he gasps, hips jerking.

“You’re so perfect, Stiles. So fucking good.”

He looks wrecked already, just from a hand on his cock. His lashes flutter, mouth hanging open, cheeks impossibly red. “I—I think I’m gonna short circuit,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Like I can hear the dial-up tone in my brain.”

You kiss him again, deep and slow, while your hand strokes him lazily—fingers wrapped around the base, thumb teasing the slit. He twitches in your palm, moaning softly against your mouth. His cock is hot and leaking now, and his boxers are damp with it.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” you murmur. “Look how hard you are. Just from some kissing and a little praise. God, you’re so responsive.”

“Th-that’s a word,” he whimpers, voice going high and sweet. “Jesus. You’re like… you’re like a fucking sex wizard or something.”

You laugh against his mouth, so fond it makes your chest ache. “Just for you, baby.”

And then you kiss him again, because if you don’t, you’re going to say something like I think I might love you—and neither of you is ready for that while your hand’s still down his pants.

You stay like that for a breath—a heartbeat—lips barely apart, your hand wrapped around him warm and slow inside his boxers, his cock twitching with every soft stroke. Stiles is flushed all the way to his ears, breathing like he just ran a mile, his eyes half-lidded and overwhelmed, but still looking at you like you hung the damn stars.

You shift your mouth down, slowly, kissing along his jaw. He tips his head back instinctively, giving you space, trust spilling from him like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You mouth at his skin just under his jaw, just above his collar—soft, wet kisses that make him sigh—and when your teeth scrape lightly across the bend of his throat, he makes a sound. A sharp little gasp that melts into a moan as his hands grab at your hoodie again, grounding himself.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked and wobbly, “I don’t—I don’t think I’m gonna survive this. This might be, like, the best and worst way to die.”

You smile against his neck, lips dragging slowly down. “Not dying, baby. Just feeling good. Just letting me take care of you.”

You nose the collar of his polo aside, biting softly at the edge of his shoulder, your tongue flicking over the spot before you kiss it better. His hips rock against your hand, needy now, his cock growing fully hard beneath your touch. It’s beautiful—the way he responds. Like he doesn’t know how to not give you everything.

“You’re doing so well,” you murmur against his skin. “So perfect. Letting me touch you like this. Letting me see you like this.”

He lets out a breathy little “fuck” and whines when you squeeze him gently, thumb brushing over the tip through his boxers, slick with pre-cum. The fabric's damp now, sticking to him, and you can't help it—you need more. Need him.

You sink slowly to your knees, eyes never leaving his flushed face as you ease his shorts and boxers down in one fluid motion. His cock bobs free, thick and hard and so achingly pretty, flushed deep at the head and leaking steadily. You stare for a second—just breathe him in—then press the softest kiss to the tip.

Stiles gasps, hands flying to your shoulders like he’s not sure whether to pull you closer or push you away.

“Oh my god,” he whispers, voice cracking. “That’s—you’re—fuck.”

You press another kiss to the side of his shaft. Then another. And another. Slow and reverent, like you’re memorizing him with your mouth.

“You’re perfect,” you whisper between kisses. “Look at you. All flushed and sweet and hard for me. You’re so fucking good, baby.”

He makes a wounded little noise like he doesn’t know what to do with the praise, thighs tensing under your hands.

“You don’t even get it, do you?” you murmur, kissing along the vein on the underside of his cock. “How good you are. How much I want you.”

You mouth at the base, nuzzle against his skin, press your lips to the crease of his thigh. He’s trembling now, breath coming in little gasps, hips twitching forward, like he can’t decide if he wants more or if it’s already too much.

His voice is barely a whisper: “I’m gonna—gonna break into, like, pixels if you keep saying stuff like that.”

You laugh softly and kiss the tip again, eyes flicking up to meet his. He’s staring down at you, lips parted, completely wrecked—and you haven’t even really started yet.

“Good,” you breathe. “Fall apart for me, Stiles. I’ll catch you.”

You let the words settle between you—I'll catch you—and for a second, Stiles looks like he might cry again, not from panic this time, but from something soft and terrifyingly big. His fingers tighten on your shoulders, and his thighs tremble beneath your palms, and you don’t rush him. You just stay there, on your knees on the cold backroom tile, mouth near his cock, hands splayed gently on the sides of his hips like you’re holding something delicate.

Like he might shatter if you hold him too hard.

He swallows hard. Looks down at you, dazed and flushed and blinking like he doesn’t understand how he got here. “I, uh…” he starts, voice low, trembling, “I don''t…”

“I know,” you murmur, brushing your lips against his hip, “and you don’t have to. You say the word, I stop. But if you want me to… if you want to feel good, I want to take care of you.”

His breath stutters out of him, shaky and tight, and he nods. Slowly. “Yeah. I—I want. Please.”

You smile and press one more kiss to his inner thigh before you lean in again, kissing the base of his cock with the kind of care people usually reserve for sacred things. You drag your lips along the length, slow and soft, feeling every twitch, every slight tremble. He’s so sensitive already, his hips shifting forward and back, but you don’t take him in yet. You just savor it. Savor him.

When you finally part your lips and wrap them around the head, he shudders like a live wire, a low, strangled sound caught in the back of his throat. His hand flies up—then hesitates—hovering over your head like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to touch.

You pull off slowly, just enough to whisper, “It’s okay. You can guide me. Go slow. Tell me what feels good.”

He nods, shakily, then gently rests his hand on your head—light, careful, like you’re made of glass. You lick the head softly, swirling your tongue around it, and his fingers twitch, not pushing, just holding on.

His other hand slaps over his mouth the second a choked moan slips out.

“F-fuck,” he mumbles against his palm. “We’re in—Jesus—we’re in the backroom. Oh my God. There are—there are, like, fries ten feet from here.”

You hum around him, slow and low, which makes his knees buckle a little. You reach up and grip his hips to keep him steady, then take him in again—deeper this time, just a little. You go slow, wet and warm and gentle, sucking him down a few inches at a time and pulling back just as slowly, letting him feel every inch of it.

Stiles is gasping now, trying desperately to stay silent, his hand gripping your hair like he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on. He’s so responsive, his cock twitching with every pass of your tongue, every soft moan you let out around him. Every time he almost makes a noise, he clamps his other hand harder over his mouth, eyes wide and wild, like he’s afraid he might scream if he lets go.

You glance up and he’s looking down at you, wrecked and shaking, sweat on his brow and his mouth open just enough that you can see the shape of the vowels he’s biting back.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” you whisper when you pull off again, stroking him slowly with one hand. “So sweet. Letting me take care of you like this. You feel so good in my mouth.”

He whimpers, actually whimpers, and you watch the shame and heat war on his face like he doesn’t know whether to melt into it or run.

You smile gently, licking a stripe up the underside of his cock. “You don’t have to be quiet for me. Just do your best. I know it’s hard.”

“Everything is hard,” he whines under his breath, voice cracking, and you both laugh quietly—because even now, he’s still Stiles—and then he moans again when you take him back into your mouth.

This time, you let him guide the rhythm. Let him roll his hips just a little, slow and hesitant, like he’s scared he’ll hurt you. You keep your hands on his thighs, squeezing gently, encouraging. You hollow your cheeks and moan around him, and he shudders, grip tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle.

He’s shaking now, full-body trembling, holding his breath like that’ll keep the noise in, and you can tell he’s close—but he’s fighting it. Trying to hold back. Trying not to let go too fast, even though it’s his first time, even though he’s barely holding on.

You pull off slowly, kiss the tip one more time, and look up at him with a soft smile, thumb brushing his hip.

“Still with me?”

He nods quickly, chest rising and falling like he’s run a marathon. “Y-yeah. I just. I need a second. Or, like, twenty. You’re gonna kill me.”

You press a kiss to his lower stomach and grin. “Nah, baby. I’m gonna make you feel alive.”

You let that last promise hang in the air for a breath, then you lower your head again—no teasing this time. No slow build. He’s already teetering, already right there, and you want to give it to him. Want to take it from him.

Your lips part and you take him back into your mouth, deeper this time, letting him slide past your tongue inch by inch until he’s pressing against the back of your throat. You breathe slow and steady through your nose, adjusting, eyes fluttering shut for just a second as you savor the feel of him—hot, heavy, pulsing, twitching.

The sound he makes is helpless. Desperate. A strangled, half-choked moan like he doesn’t know whether to sob or scream. His fingers curl hard into your hair now, not to force you down, but to hang on, like he’s barely holding himself together.

You bob your head slowly, rhythm steady, sucking him down and pulling back, letting your tongue work around the head on every upstroke. The taste of him is everywhere—salty, hot, Stiles—and you groan low in your throat just to feel him jump against your tongue. Your hands grip his thighs tight as you feel his muscles strain and shake, and when he gasps again, it’s almost a warning.

“I—fuck, fuck, I’m—” he pants, wild and broken. “I’m gonna—shit—I’m coming—”

And you don’t pull off. You don’t slow down. You suck him deeper, lips sealing tight around him, hand sliding from his thigh to cradle his hip as he jerks, as his whole body locks up and his cock twitches hard once, twice—

Then he’s spilling into your mouth.

He shouts through gritted teeth, trying to muffle it with the back of his hand, but the sound still bursts out of him, rough and wrecked and real. His legs nearly give out, knees buckling under the intensity of it, and you hold him steady as hot spurts of come hit the back of your throat. You swallow immediately—reflexively—your throat working around him as you keep him deep, making sure nothing spills. His cock twitches again and again as he empties himself into you, and you take all of it, not letting up until you feel the pulses start to slow.

Even then, you don’t move right away. You stay there, mouth full of him, holding him safe and snug while he shakes through the aftershocks. His hand is a death grip in your hair now, not rough, just desperate—anchored. You can feel him trembling under your palms, chest heaving, every inch of him overstimulated and twitchy.

Finally, slowly, you ease off him, inch by inch, keeping your lips soft and sealed around him so nothing smears, nothing escapes. He makes a pitiful sound as you pull off, this soft, broken whine like he doesn’t know what to do with himself without your mouth around him.

His cock twitches again when you release him with a soft pop, slick and sensitive and still hard enough that it bobs slightly in the cool air. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking once, too raw to hide how overwhelmed he is.

You press a gentle kiss to the tip—just a soft touch of your lips—and then another to his thigh, and then lower your head to rest it lightly against his hip.

You can feel the way he’s still trembling. See it, too—his fingers shaking where they hover awkwardly in your hair, his knees visibly wobbling, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow gasps like he’s still coming down from the high.

And his face—god, his face.

He’s flushed to the ears, eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth parted and lips swollen from biting back every noise he could. There’s a look there that’s hard to name—part awe, part disbelief, and something else. Something deeper. Like he’s not just undone by the orgasm but by what it meant. By the way you took care of him. Like he doesn’t know how to hold that kind of softness.

You rub slow, soothing circles into his hips with your thumbs, grounding him.

“You okay, baby?” you murmur, voice low and warm.

He nods, fast at first, then slower, like it takes effort. “Yeah. I just—Jesus. I—I died. That was—you killed me.”

You smile, and lean up to press a soft kiss just above his navel. “Nah. Told you, remember? I made you feel alive.”

He laughs—actually laughs—a rough, wrecked little sound that cracks halfway through, and then he sinks down toward you, collapsing half into your lap. You catch him easily, arms sliding around his waist, pulling him close as he curls in.

His breath hitches once. And then he lets it out, long and shaky, as he presses his forehead against your shoulder.

“…I think you broke my knees.”

You laugh quietly and kiss the side of his head. “You loved it.”

“I did,” he groans, voice still hoarse and shaky. “Which is terrifying. Because if your mouth feels that good on me, I don’t even know what the hell’s gonna happen when, uh… when I—y’know… fuck you.”

He winces a little at the last part, cheeks blooming red like he can’t believe he just said that out loud. His eyes widen slightly, flicking away for half a second like he's about to apologize, but when he glances back down at you—on your knees, lips slick, eyes shining—he seems to find something steadier inside himself. Still unsure, still amazed, but holding onto it anyway.

You blink up at him from the floor, hands warm on his thighs, and Stiles swallows thickly like he’s trying to reboot his whole brain just to process you. The look on his face is a jumble of things: shock, awe, deep, unfiltered want—but under it all, this aching kind of gentleness. Like he can’t believe this is happening, and he’s terrified he might mess it up.

His hand’s still hovering near your face, twitching a little like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if it’s okay. You lean into it, your cheek brushing his knuckles, and the soft exhale he lets out is wrecked.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough but quiet, like he’s almost afraid of the answer. “That wasn’t… too much, right? You’re not, like, sore or—God, I didn’t mean to, like, shove myself down your—”

“Hey,” you say softly, and his mouth clamps shut. “I’m fine. More than fine.”

The way relief floods his face—it’s like you flipped a switch. His shoulders sag just a little, like he’d been holding himself tense without realizing, and now he’s trying to come back to earth.

“I just,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. “I’ve never… had anyone do that for me. Ever. And especially not like that. It wasn’t—like, it didn’t feel dirty or fast or… y'know, like one of those locker room fantasy things. It felt…” He swallows again. “It felt like you actually wanted to.”

“I did,” you say.

And oh, God, the look that earns you—his whole face goes soft, like he doesn’t know what to do with that kind of honesty. Like maybe he’s not used to being the one someone else wants first. You shift slightly and press a last, warm kiss to the soft skin just below his belly button before gently helping him tuck himself back into his boxers. He hisses a little when the fabric brushes over his still-sensitive cock, and you immediately kiss the crease of his hip, murmuring a quiet “Sorry.”

Stiles just shakes his head quickly, his hand finding your shoulder this time, steadying himself—not because he needs to, but because he wants the contact.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, a little breathless, a little stunned. “Like, in a good way. A really, really good way.”

You smile as you guide his khaki shorts back up, fingers brushing lightly over his thighs as you do the button. There’s something weirdly intimate in the quiet domesticity of it—like you’re not just helping him get dressed, but grounding him. Letting him stay in this moment. When you glance back up, Stiles is already watching you. Eyes wide, soft, like he doesn’t want to blink in case this all disappears. “You okay to stand?”

“I mean, in theory,” he says with a dazed little laugh. “I can’t feel my knees, so there’s a strong chance I just collapse and die.”

You rise slowly, and the moment you’re up, he pulls you into him—not rough, not demanding, just… close. Like you’re an anchor he’s afraid to lose. His hands settle carefully at your hips, and when your noses bump, you realize he’s leaning in again. The kiss he gives you this time is softer than any of the others. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just real. He lingers there, lips barely moving, like he’s trying to pour every unsaid word into the space between you.

You melt into it, sighing quietly, and slip your hand into the back of his buzzed hair. It’s soft and warm under your fingers, and when you scratch gently at the base of his neck, he exhales against your mouth. He pulls back slowly, his eyes a little clearer now—still wide, still reeling, but more focused. More there. And his expression shifts—like he’s trying to say something important but doesn’t want to scare you with it.

“I—um. I really, really meant what I said,” he mumbles, a bit shy now. “About, like, doing that next time. Being the one who… who gets to—y’know.” He gestures vaguely. “With you. I mean, if you want that. And if it’s not weird. And if I don’t completely mess it up and fall over or hit my head on something.”

You blink, heart stuttering. “You want to top?”

“Y-yeah,” he says quickly. “Not in a, like, ‘alpha male’ way or anything. I just… I wanna take care of you. Like you just took care of me. And I… I want to see you like that. See how you look when I’m—” He stops, turning even redder, then mumbles, “Inside you.”

You stare for a beat. Then: “Stiles…”

“I mean, if you don’t want to—”

“No,” you cut in, smiling. “I do. God, I really do.”

He visibly relaxes, smiling a little—awkward and crooked and impossibly sweet. But there’s a flicker of heat behind it now. A little more grounded. A little more sure.

“I, uh… maybe not here, though,” he says, glancing around sheepishly. “I don’t wanna break your spine over a bag of crinkle fries.”

You laugh, and he beams.

“But like…” He glances down at his hands on your hips, then back up at you. “Later. Somewhere, like, safe. Where I can go slow. Where I can see your face. Take my time.”

Your breath catches, chest suddenly aching in the best way. He leans in again, brushing your nose with his. “Okay?”

You nod. “More than okay.”

“Cool.” He kisses you once more—sweet and lingering—and then rests his forehead against yours, breath warming your skin.

“We should go before someone walks in and I get fired for literally dying happy.” You laugh, heart fluttering. And you both know: this was only the beginning. And next time—when it’s just the two of you, no fry smell, no ticking clock—he’s going to give you everything. Even if he’s still figuring out how.

He’s still holding you close, warm hands settled on your hips like he’s afraid if he lets go, you might disappear. His breath is a little steadier now, brushing soft over your cheek, and the adrenaline’s finally bleeding off, leaving just the afterglow and a fragile sort of awe. You stay quiet for a moment, just breathing together in the back room of a McDonald’s like it’s the most sacred place on earth.

Then, with your lips close to his ear, you murmur, “So. You’re gonna fuck me, huh?”

The sound he makes—it’s somewhere between a gasp and a strangled choke. His face goes from flushed to full-body red, and his eyes shoot wide as he pulls back to look at you, stammering. “I—wh—You—that’s not—I mean, yes, but not like—God.” He scrubs a hand over his face, groaning into his palm. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You grin, leaning in to nip at his jaw. “I think I like you flustered.”

“I’m always flustered,” he mutters helplessly, voice muffled behind his hands.

“Exactly,” you murmur, nuzzling against his cheek. “It’s cute.”

He drops his hands with a sigh and gives you a look—half exasperated, half so stupidly fond it makes your chest ache. “I’m trying to be, like, confident and sexy and a ‘I’m-gonna-fuck-you’ guy. And you’re over here making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” you say, smiling. “I’m appreciating you. There’s a difference.”

Stiles huffs, but he’s fighting back a smile. His hands squeeze your waist a little tighter like he doesn’t want to leave this bubble you’ve built. “You know this is the weirdest, best day of my life, right?”

You lean your forehead against his, humming. “Yeah. Same.”

For a while, you just stand there. Tucked into each other, surrounded by the low hum of the freezer unit, the faint smell of fries and fryer oil lingering in the air. It's cold on the tile, harsh fluorescent lights overhead—but none of it matters. Not with his arms around you. Not with his heart thudding steady and slow against your chest, like it’s syncing to yours. Stiles sighs, that same quiet, dazed kind of sound he made when you first kissed his neck. “I don’t wanna move,” he admits, voice low. “Like, at all.”

“Me neither.”

“But if we stay here too long, someone’s gonna come in looking for ketchup packets or something, and I’ll die. Just, like, spontaneously combust. You’ll have to explain to the coroner why my body’s in a pile of ashes next to the mop sink.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Guess we should get back out there before you turn to dust, then.”

He makes a dramatic groan and buries his face in your shoulder. “Fine. But I’m not letting go.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

Eventually—reluctantly—he straightens, brushing your hair gently back from your face. His eyes are so warm now. Still wide with disbelief, still a little unsure, but there’s a steady thread of something new behind it: hope.

“You’re really okay?” he asks again, one last time. “With all of this? With me?”

You take his face in your hands, brush your thumbs over his cheeks, and nod. “I want you, Stiles. Nervous, rambling, sweet, brilliant you. Whether we’re making out in a supply closet or you’re trying to figure out how to top without imploding—I’m in.”

He stares at you for a second like he’s memorizing the words. Like he’s filing them away for every bad day, every night he doubts himself. Then he kisses you again. Slow. Sweet. With a kind of reverence that makes your knees go weak.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead to yours and whispers, “Okay. Then I’m in, too. All in.”

The two of you straighten your clothes and make your way out of the back room, fingers still brushing, hearts still pounding. And later—when it’s dark and quiet and he’s got you alone in a real bed—he’ll finally get to show you what that means. But for now, in the echoing hum of the McDonald’s kitchen, you’ve got each other.

And it’s more than enough.

[running-with-kn1ves]

Phrogging. Or... Spider-ing?

A/N: Ignore the dumbass title I couldn't think of anything more captivating; Missed my love for driders-- I wish spiders were real 💔

Synopsis: You move into an old, but enticing fixer-upper of a house. While doing your general, you know, fixing-upping, you come face to face with the cause of the bumps in the night you’ve been plagued by. 

CW: Spiders, attempts at intimidation, fear, GN Reader

You know that skittering you hear while laying in bed sometimes? Little 'tic tic tics' behind your headboard as you try to sleep at night, or muffled bumps under the old hardwood floor creating flurries of dust as the thumping moves to another side of the room. Yeah, not always the most comforting feeling, especially when you're busy plastering white paint on old, cobwebbed walls at eleven at night, in a home built decades before you were born. 

Eggshell-colored sludge covered your elbows and cheeks, small speckles crusted over the dust on your ‘new’ floors and painting sheet. The bumps were a constant source of annoyance, especially tonight while you yourself, were making a bit of a ruckus. You didn't dare move while listening to the sound, a large roller still held rigidly in your dominant hand, dripping white onto the floor. Another thump resounded, creating small tornadoes of dust. And then another. They were farther away this time, to the south of your damp, italianate-style home. Ghosts and goblins weren't your forte-- even with the near century-old two-story you've been blessed to snatch off the market in time, you thought the cobwebs and oddly spacious basement were just remnants of the old owners, creaking with age and dim with use-- not the presence of the otherworldly. 

But these little tip-taps and deep grunts from below were by no means just a product of old wood and concrete-- they were... intentional. The roar of the incinerator was recognizable, separate from the sound of disturbing bangs from below.

The thump moved again, this time your paint roller falling into its wet bucket of a home as your legs shake, falling asleep from use; painting around the baseboards of your new suite (a dream bedroom-- even if it was caked in a layer of mouse droppings) was no easy feat, on you or your joints. 

Underneath a box of old sheets the thump went to disrupt the floor again, the box jumping a quarter inch off the ground. 

Your queasy legs rise to investigate. 

Down the hall and to the ground level, you avoid several caved-in steps as you leave the second floor. The shimmer of dust particles in the air makes you sniffle, rubbing your nose raw as you make it down. The basement door, only a few feet on the wall to your left, sat slightly ajar. 

The door bolt lays unused and slightly clanking against the rotting wood. A foul smell wafts from the open crack, a stench you have yet to get rid of even long after scrubbing the stairs with bleach from top to bottom. Perhaps the wood is starting to mold. 

They're damp when you rest on the first basement step with your socked foot, deadbolt still clinking as you watch the darkness. Nothing stirs, besides dust particles mixed with the smell of petrichor. 

Racing to the bottom of the staircase you rapidly search for the lightswitch, nearly tripping in the oncoming darkness.

Flipping one of them on and off again as the musty odor creeps closer, you can sense the movement of unseen creatures; blindly feeling for the second lightswitch, a dreary yellow from above finally bursts in the cavern of decade-old belongings, along with the sound of a whirring ceiling fan on the brink of falling out of the old cement.

Nothing seemed out of place, old dusted boxes lying against one another with wet stuff seeping from their rotten corners. A quiet ‘drip drip’ came from somewhere. 

A small sigh escaped from your dry mouth, corners of your lips sticking together from lack of use in anything other than swallowing your sandpapering tongue.

You scanned the room, all dawned in yellow except the deep corners of the basement. It read as usual, giving off the same historic, uncomfortably wet aura. But your eyes stopped, either out of a disruption in the moldy pattern, or an instinctual fear that was trying to warn you. 

Slender and black, it looked almost frozen, except for some wrongful twitching at its tip; you might’ve ignored it as a large crack in the wall, or perhaps dripping sewage from the upstairs bathroom if it had stayed still. But it curled, just slightly bent and sticking out like an appendage. It was aggregate with notches like a finger, jointed. It seemed to notice your staring, creating a creaking tap before it disappeared into the darkness of the ceiling beams and rotted corner to your right. 

Horror was slow to dawn on your face, exhaustion making your skin droop where wrinkles would show in only a matter of time. You had seen that, right? It wasn’t just your brain making things up because it was way past your self-mandated bed time?

The panic causing your heart to speed three times faster than the original lethargic beats was real, though. And that was enough for you to believe you were more than hallucinating. Blindly you search your back pockets for your phone, not daring to take your eyes away from the now empty, peeling corner. 

You hadn’t noticed the drumming that harassed you while painting had stopped-- until it started again. This time it came from above, dancing on the ceiling beams where you couldn’t see, sounding as if it was coming directly for you. When you were upstairs it was almost aimless, moving around like a cat with its head stuck in a box.

 You pressed a hand in front of your mouth, trying not to scream; it would do no good to wake the elderly neighbors, who already seemed prepared to destroy an outsider like you through the homeowners association. Well, what good would that be if you were dead!

Whatever the leg belonged to, it must have sensed your urgency as you tried to shuffle back up the stairs, your body pressed against the back wall to keep your eyes on the basement. The unclosable door upstairs had gently gone shut, the door bolt swinging against the splintered wood as if it too didn’t understand what had closed the door so simply. 

It had distracted you from your real fear, the thing you took your eyes away from. 

“Hello, there.” 

Wide-eyed and shaking, you drew yourself to look back at the dark corner, but the voice was far too close to come from so far away. 

“Up here, simpleton.”

Your paint-dried fingernails dug into the split wood from behind, begging for some stability besides the wet stairs beneath your soggy feet. 

Stuttering breaths ran throughout the groaning, mildew beast of the basement. You prepped for the worst, for some kind of phrogger or decaying corpse that found a way to haunt you. Burning tears tugged at the sides of your eyes, falling asbestos egging on your terror.

But what you found was a… young man; the kind of man you wouldn’t expect to be living in your basement, nonetheless hanging from the exposed beams of your basement. His eyes glowed with a round, edgeless face, oval and smooth like glass. His features were darkened by the shadows from above, the yellow lightbulb bathing him in a dark black and flaxen.

“What-- who are you,” You swallowed your fear, now that you knew for sure it was just some freak hiding out down here, rather than some supernatural entity. “Why are you in my house?”

Your voice grew stern, angry with the exhaustion this adventure had put you in. 

“Your house?” He scoffed, the thumping following him as a black mass from underneath his face carried him to another beam, this time closer to you and the railing of the stairs. 

You stomped down to the cold last step of the basement stairs, wondering if you should go as far as to find a broom and start pushing him out with it. 

“As far as I was aware, this was free territory, since.. Oh well, I don’t know. But it’s been over a decade since a beast like you had attempted to enter my home.” 

You nearly scoffed back, his home?

But the mockery was taken away from you as the long, slender appendage was made visible again. It slowly lowered itself from between the beams, the man from above moving with it. Another had shown itself, and then another. The man fell to the floor, black limbs and mass breaking his fall. 

The human upper half raised itself far above you, the long, obsidian spindles of his hair a tangled mess as his head nearly touched the beams from above. He barely fit in the ground floor of the basement, the ‘legs’ of his lower half grazing against damp boxes and an old piano shoved at the corner. The softness of his jaw was deceiving; humanly. However the darkness and creasing of his eyes showed his true nature, his antiquity. From the fullness of his flesh to small black freckles and his square nose, he displayed the range of features most humans would have; and yet, he was terrifyingly un-human. 

He towered in a menacing stance, hands to his side and shoulders slightly raised, as if he would come at you with his arms swinging if he sensed threat. 

You looked down to the part that confused your mind, dark legs taping inconsistently, and yet in a calculated pattern as each leg followed one another. Below its torso, where you prayed a pair of cargo pants or torn jeans would be, instead held the teardrop shaped abdomen you would see on one of the many spiders you’ve killed since you’ve been here. The legs were an extension of its beautifully horrific lower-half, black and sheening as a thin layer of shiny, spiked hairs were standing on end. 

You looked back up to see its face, horror engulfing in your own as you waited for the rest of the monster to turn into what it depicted. You almost jumped as the closed black lines you took for wrinkles or dust on its face opened up, a variety of blackened eyes glistening to stare at you. You didn’t have the sense to count, taken aback at what your mind had conjured in front of you. 

“You-- it--” Clutching at your heart you tried to stop the squeezing that held you frozen. “This isn’t real...”

“I suggest if you don’t want a roommate, or rather-- don’t want me to eat you, you abandon this residence, immediately.” 

You sucked in a raspy breath, again pushing yourself against the rotting wall to create distance from the towering, spider-like man.

“It’s my house..” You whispered, waiting for him to open his jaws like a snake and aim for your neck. He looked confused only for a moment, a clear tension of rage bubbling up in his pinched expression. “It’s my house.” You said louder, clearing your throat. 

At this, he just stared. What you took as anger was rather an inability to form a response on his end. 

“And what makes this yours? Your presence, your belongings?”

“My name is on the deed; I forked out thousands, there’s even a loan in my name, if you’d like to see that.” 

“Deed…” He repeated, unsure what to make of it. “I don’t know what the ‘deed’ is that you speak of, or the methods you have taken to try and gain ownership, but I assure you this land is claimed.”

You still clutched at your chest against the stairs, waiting for a move to be made. This was not something you had ever encountered before-- you didn’t even know who to contact, as you were certain the real-estate agent who handed you the keys wouldn’t be of any assistance. Any foreclosed homes’ problems were the new owner’s responsibility to handle, whether it be mold or a seven-foot creature residing in the basement. 

Do you call animal control? That can’t be right, he speaks, he’s even telling you to leave your own home. 

There had to be some kind of compromise to be made. You gather the courage to speak again, taking a deep breath to avoid stuttering.

“Well… no one needs to leave, just yet. Right? We can.. Figure this out somehow. We’re both reasonable here, there can be some arrangement to be made?”

It sounded as if you were asking him for permission, the farthest thing from the truth. All this hard work in renovating and you were going to give it up to some basement-dwelling beast? No way, you’d fight him off if you had to, even if you trembled while doing so. 

The creature was hesitant, bringing a hand up to grab onto the ceiling beam. His eyes cast down in thought, thin eyebrows furrowed in uncertainty. 

“Humans don’t do well for very long here, I assure you.” He gave a grimace, trying to avoid the obviousness of how he stared up, and down at your curled-in form, clearly frightened and trying to keep your distance like a cornered animal. “But I suppose it's the only option, if you don’t intend on leaving.” 

“So…” You swallowed the dryness of your mouth, close to heaving. “You’re not going to try eating me right now, or while I sleep or something?”

He tried to prevent an amused grin from pulling up the right side of his face, but a small dimple couldn’t hide it.

“No. I was bluffing, in the hopes that you’d run away. I’ve never tried human, and don’t plan on it; much too coarse.” He let go of the beam, seeming to shrink down as his attack stance became less of an assurance. “Doesn’t mean I’m unwilling if the opportunity arises, however.” 

“You almost instinctively relaxed as you watched him do so, trying to slow your sporadic heart that was still running at full speed. 

“But, aren’t you-- at least, part-human in some sort?” You wondered if this was the right time to be asking questions seeing as this creature-- who was certainly by no means harmless-- was only a few feet away from you and clearly distrusting.

“Getting into the family history before even knowing my name? That’s not particularly kind of an intruder.” He smiles outwardly this time, a creepy grin showing underneath the heavy hair curtaining around his face; it was starting to appear more gaunt the farther he stepped into the light. “But yes, arachnid’s have some human traits; I just appear less frightening to your eyes than my friends.”

As he speaks he lifts up a thin, lengthy arm, watching as something black crawls from behind him and across his wrist. Squinting your eyes and unconsciously lifting closer you see its a spider, a thick, long-legged creature that looked like the father of all the other spiders you had been killing since you moved in. 

You almost seemed to lower your shoulders at realizing he was part human. That you weren’t witnessing some kind of demon or underworld spawn that could rip you apart with just its mind; he had a fair set of weaknesses, too. 

“Don’t relax just yet, human,” He spat the word like it was derogatory, letting the spider walking across his arm reach the beam to his left as he was growing into something fearful. “Just because I won’t kill you doesn’t mean you are safe.”

Even with the hardened glaze of his eyes, the look of sheer disturbance deadened into his lips and expression-- it was a relief to know you would live to see another day. 

“Why should I be afraid if you’re just going to sit here like an unpaying roommate? I’d rather you not be here, but if you’re going to leave me alive than I can deal with boarding off the basement, Mr. Spider.”

You challenge his shadowed face, watching how he leans back in a reclusive manner and goes still, save for one of his left legs tapping. 

Like clockwork, that creepy, unnervingly toothy smile curls open again as his hands rise forward, claw-like. 

You had gotten the courage to stand straight, ignoring the pounding of your chest as you watched him. But with two steps he was across the stair railing, using his legs to entrap you against the peeling wallpaper. 

His narrow arms shot out to claw against the wall next to your head, digging into it with thick nails as his face got close. 

“It’s Seir; don’t insult me with such an absurd name,” Anger tinged the edge of his tone, looking down at you with the abundance of his eyes; you could see they had a reddish ring around them, a dark crimson you would have never noticed otherwise. “I have seen more history than you have read about in your lifetime, more death and destruction than you will ever witness.” 

He watched your face drain in color, eyes wide at seeing him close; what he saw as fear, was partly fascination that tightened your lips. Not to say you weren’t terrified, of course. 

“I like your fear-- I relish it. It means you aren’t going to be blind and stupid, that you will obey, and be frightened. And for as long as you stay here, you will not know peace.” The wallpaper crumbles as he brings a chalky hand to your jaw, placing a delicate thumb to the curve below your ear. “A night will not go by where I won’t attempt to destroy any sense of safety you have. I will be in every corner, a million eyes watching so that you are never, never left alone.” He grows closer, lowering his elongated neck to see eye to eye with you, close enough to touch your nose with his own if he dared. “Are you prepared for these consequences of staying in my territory, of being utterly feasted on by me in every way besides your vessel?” 

Seir’s finger traces down your jaw to your neck, trying to invoke the fearful goosebumps most humans would have by the touch of a creature by him. Rarely did he take measures to touch a human in order to cause fear, but it was clear you would need more than the occasional hissing and view of his presence to run away and leave him to his solitude.

You look away, almost blinded by the unconventional handsomeness he portrayed if one looked deep enough; with a bath, a sheet above his spidered body, and maybe a haircut-- he would be no different than one of the well-dressed guys in finance who sped-walk past the cafe that you people-watched at, pretending to look for a job on your laptop. Well, the eight eyes decorating his face kind of destroyed the illusion.

The intimidation tactic he carried out was less frightening than when he was standing ominously in the middle of the basement, leaving his attempt almost campy. You huff, a little irritated and tired now that you were no longer in fight or flight mode. 

 “…It was just a nickname, geez. I didn’t know spiders could be so sensitive.” 

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 7

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 7k

Trigger warning; //

notes; Back again haha! In this chapter, you might actually start to understand how much of a workaholic Y/N is. I'm excited for the solstice and the dawn trip (hope you guys are too <3). Well, see you soon! Take care and enjoy <3

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The cold wind of the Illyrian mountains howled against the stone walls of the healer’s quarters, but you barely noticed as you worked, your focus entirely on the pile of scrolls, notes, and herbs spread across your desk. You had been in Illyria for a couple of days now, assisting the local healers with particularly challenging cases and offering guidance where it was needed most. Despite the simplicity of the space, your room was filled with a quiet energy, a testament to the tireless work done within its walls.

Your quill scratched against parchment as you wrote out instructions for one of the Illyrian healers who had sent a message earlier that morning. They had asked about a new technique for treating frostbite—a common issue during the harsh winters in the mountains. You had spent hours referencing old texts and comparing notes from your own experiences, finally coming up with a method that combined traditional herbal salves with a warming spell you’d learned during your time in the Dawn Court.

Just as you finished sealing the parchment with a simple wax stamp, there was a knock at the door. It opened to reveal a young Illyrian healer, her cheeks flushed from the cold.

“Healer Y/N,” the girl began, her voice tinged with nervousness. “I—I’m sorry to disturb you, but we’ve had another incident at one of the northern camps. A training accident. They’ve requested your advice.”

You stood, your boots clicking softly against the stone floor as you crossed the room. Placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder, you said, “No need to apologize. Let’s hear the details.”

The healer explained the situation as you quickly gathered your supplies. A young warrior had fallen during flight training, resulting in a severe dislocation of his wing joint. The healers at the camp had managed to stabilize him, but they were unsure how to proceed with the delicate process of resetting the joint without causing permanent damage.

“Send them this,” you said, handing the girl a scroll you’d prepared weeks ago for just such an occasion. “It details the exact steps for resetting a wing joint. Remind them to use the salve we’ve been distributing to numb the area first. And tell them to send word immediately if there are any complications.”

The girl nodded, clutching the scroll tightly before hurrying off into the cold. You watched her go, a small smile playing on your lips despite the exhaustion tugging at your bones. The Illyrian healers were young and inexperienced, but they were eager to learn, and that gave you hope.

Returning to your desk, your attention shifted to a small, intricately folded note that had arrived earlier in the day. The bird carrying it had been one you recognized immediately—a sleek, golden creature from the Dawn Court. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of your old master, Healer Talyen. 

Y/N, 

Preparations for the upcoming meeting are underway. 

I trust you are faring well in your new role. The tensions in the world weigh heavily on us all, and I fear this gathering will bring more questions than answers. Still, it is necessary. I look forward to hearing your insights, as always. Let us hope this meeting will guide us toward solutions, not further discord. 

Yours in healing,

Talyen 

You sighed, folding the note carefully and setting it aside. The meeting of the head healers was only weeks away, and though you had been preparing for it diligently, the weight of its significance was not lost on you. The healers would be discussing not only advancements in their craft but also the rising tensions across Prythian—tensions that threatened to spill into outright conflict if not addressed. The responsibility of representing the Night Court was a heavy one, but you had never shied away from a challenge.

Your thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of yet another messenger, this time your own bird, Ydle, sleek and golden, hailing from Velaris. Unfolding the note, you read the familiar handwriting of Elira, one of the healers at the Velaris clinic.

Y/N,

We have a critical case on our hands—a rare form of Greyscale has developed in one of our patients. Preparations for the operation are underway, but we need your expertise to supervise. The procedure is scheduled for tomorrow. Please make haste.

Elira

There was no time to waste. After gathering most of your belongings, you prepared to return to Velaris. But before leaving, you knew you needed to address the Illyrian healers. Calling them together, you spent the next hour explaining the different measures to take in your absence, detailing protocols for various emergencies and ensuring they understood the importance of keeping thorough records of any developments.

As you finished outlining the final points, Devlon, the warlord of Windhaven, entered the room. His imposing presence was hard to ignore, and his sharp gaze scanned the gathered healers before settling on you.

“Still as bossy as ever, I see,” Devlon remarked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His tone was meant to provoke, but you were not in the mood for his games.

Fixing him with a steely glare, you replied, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Devlon, but every healer in this court is under my command—not yours. So unless you’ve suddenly developed a talent for healing, I suggest you deal with your own business and let me do mine.”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable as your words hung in the air. Devlon’s smirk faltered, and though he said nothing further, the message was clear: you would not tolerate interference.

With that, you dismissed the healers and made your final preparations. The journey to Velaris awaited, and the clinic needed you now more than ever. Stepping out into the cold mountain air, you took a deep breath, centering yourself for the tasks ahead. 

You summoned your strength, focusing on the urgency awaiting you in Velaris. It wasn’t the first time you had left Illyria in a hurry, but something about this case weighed heavier. Perhaps it was the rarity of the Greyscale affliction, or perhaps it was the sheer responsibility placed upon your shoulders now that you had taken Madja’s place. Either way, the icy winds of the mountain pushed you forward as you winowed back to the city.

Arriving at the Velaris clinic in the quiet hours of the night, you immediately felt the bustling energy within. The faint glow of lanterns lit the hallways, casting long shadows against the walls. Despite the hour, the staff moved with precision, their steps purposeful. Elira met you at the entrance, her expression a mix of relief and urgency.

“Y/N, thank the Mother you’re here,” she said, gripping your arm as if to anchor herself. “The patient is stable, but the situation is precarious. His vitals are erratic, and the infection is spreading faster than we anticipated. We’ve done all we can to prepare for the operation, but…” She trailed off, clearly overwhelmed.

“Take me to him,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the adrenaline beginning to course through you.

Elira led you through the clinic, her hurried footsteps echoing against the polished floors. She briefed you on the patient’s status as you walked. A young male, mid-thirties, with no prior health issues, had developed a peculiar strain of Greyscale that seemed to target not just the skin but also the underlying tissue. The infection had started on his forearm and was now creeping toward his shoulder. If left unchecked, it could spread to his chest, putting his life in immediate danger.

“We’ve kept him isolated,” Elira continued, her voice tight with worry. “The room has been thoroughly sanitized, and only the most experienced healers have been allowed in. We didn’t want to risk contamination or worsening his condition.”

Nodding, you absorbed every detail. By the time you reached the patient’s room, your mind was already calculating the next steps. Pushing open the door, you were met with a grim sight. The man lay on a sterile cot, his arm wrapped in tightly woven bandages that barely concealed the mottled, grayish hue of his skin. His breathing was shallow, his face pale and glistening with sweat.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, your hands glowing faintly as you prepared to assess the extent of the damage. You would need precision, focus, and every ounce of your skill to save him.

But first, you needed a moment to prepare yourself mentally. You turned to Elira. “I’ll need the detailed records of his condition and the herbs prepared for the salve. Have everything brought to my apartment upstairs. I’ll be back shortly.”

Elira nodded, her confidence seemingly bolstered by your presence. As you made your way upstairs to your quarters, you felt the weight of the night settling over you. There would be no rest until this life was out of danger. But as always, you would rise to the challenge—because in this realm, healing was not just a duty, but a promise you had made long ago.

The rest of the night was a blur of meticulous preparation. You reviewed every note, re-checked the herbs, salves, and tools, and consulted ancient texts for anything you might have overlooked. Greyscale spreading internally was an anomaly, something you had never encountered before. The thought gnawed at you as the hours stretched on, but you pushed the worry aside. Dawn was approaching, and with it, the operation that would demand every ounce of your focus.

As the first light of the sun kissed the horizon, you and your team began. The patient had been sedated; the concoction you used was strong enough to keep him under without compromising his vitals. You moved quickly but carefully, beginning the painstaking process of removing the infected tissue.

Layer by layer, you worked, your hands steady even as the sight before you grew grimmer. The infection had spread deeper than you had anticipated, weaving through muscle and sinew like a parasitic vine. Every cut revealed more of the sickly gray tissue that needed to be excised, every moment reminding you of the high stakes of this operation. It was a battle against time, one that felt agonizingly slow yet required precision that couldn’t be rushed.

Hours passed. Your team worked in silence, their breaths shallow, their movements deliberate. The clinic’s usual hum of activity had dimmed to a quiet stillness, as if the entire building held its breath for your success.

You were midway through a particularly challenging section near the patient’s shoulder when one of the younger healers approached you, her voice hesitant. “Healer Y/N, someone is here asking for you.”

Your grip on the scalpel tightened slightly, but you didn’t lift your gaze from your work. “Who is it?” you asked curtly, your focus never wavering.

“The Shadow Singer,” she replied, a hint of nervousness in her tone.

Your heart skipped a beat, though you immediately cursed yourself for the reaction. What was Azriel doing here? You didn’t have time to think about him or the chaos his presence seemed to stir in you. “Unless it’s life or death, tell him to come back later. I’m busy.”

The healer nodded and retreated, leaving you to return to the grueling task before you. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as you continued cutting away the infection, applying salves and cleansing the exposed tissue as you went. Your back ached, your hands began to tremble from the strain, but you didn’t stop.

And then, you heard it: the soft but unmistakable sound of boots returning, followed by a second pair. Your jaw tightened, and without turning, you addressed the presence lingering just outside the room’s perimeter. “Azriel,” you said sharply, your tone edged with frustration. “What is it? And what could possibly be so important that it can’t wait?”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him standing near the doorway, his shadows curling faintly around him like an ever-present cloak. He didn’t step closer, respecting the sanctity of the operating space, but his voice was steady as he answered. “The general meeting has been pushed forward. It’s happening tomorrow instead of after the Dawn Court trip. Rhys needs you to finalize the financial proposal for the healer expansion plan.”

Your hands paused for the briefest moment before resuming their careful work. “Is that all?” you asked, your voice calm but clipped.

“Yes.”

“Then tell Rhys it will be ready.” You didn’t bother turning around, your attention fully on your patient. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a life to save.”

Azriel lingered for a moment longer, his shadows whispering around him as if reluctant to leave. But when he realized you wouldn’t offer more, he gave a curt nod, murmured something to the person who had accompanied him, and left.

You exhaled slowly, forcing your focus back to the task at hand. Whatever the meeting entailed, it would have to wait. For now, this was your battlefield, and you wouldn’t leave it until victory was certain.

The operation was reaching its most perilous stage. You had already spent hours meticulously excising the infected tissue, your hands steady despite the ache setting into your muscles. But now, you were working dangerously close to the patient’s heart. Every movement had to be exact, every cut deliberate, every application of salve perfectly measured. The slightest error could be fatal.

As you worked, time seemed to warp. Each time you pulled back a layer of skin or exposed the infected tissue near the delicate structures of the heart, it felt as though the world held its breath. The sound of your team’s soft murmurs, the clink of tools, even your own heartbeat faded into the background. It was just you, the patient, and the infection you were battling.

You swallowed hard, your focus razor-sharp. The infection had crept dangerously close to the heart, tendrils of the diseased tissue threatening the lifeblood of the body. Using a combination of precise cuts and a steady infusion of healing salve, you carefully removed the last pieces of infection. Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your breath came shallow, but you didn’t falter.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you secured the final section. The tissue was clean, the heart safe, the infection vanquished. The team around you let out a collective sigh of relief, and you allowed yourself a brief moment to close your eyes and inhale deeply. But the battle wasn’t entirely over. The patient would need close observation and care in the coming days to ensure no residual effects.

You stepped back from the operating table, your hands trembling slightly. “He’ll need monitoring,” you instructed the healers around you, your voice hoarse from hours of concentration. “Keep his temperature steady, and ensure he gets a nutrient tonic every four hours. Notify me immediately if there are any changes.”

The healers nodded, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and respect. You had done it. For now, the patient was safe.

As you peeled off your gloves and left the operating room, the adrenaline began to wear off, leaving you feeling as though your legs might give out at any moment. Your body screamed for rest, every muscle aching with fatigue. The thought of your bed—soft, warm, and inviting—was the only thing keeping you upright.

But, of course, the universe had other plans.

Just as you were about to leave the clinic, a younger healer approached you, clutching a large stack of papers bound together with twine. “Healer Y/N,” she began, looking both apologetic and slightly amused. “These just arrived from Madja. She said they were urgent.”

You blinked, your brain struggling to process her words through the haze of exhaustion. “Madja?” you echoed, your voice flat.

The healer nodded and handed you the stack. On top of the papers was a note in Madja’s neat, precise handwriting:

Dearest Y/N,

I trust this finds you well, though likely exhausted. These are the pending cases and research notes that require your attention. You’re more than capable of handling it, but don’t forget to breathe. You’re doing wonderfully, my dear.

With pride and love,

Madja

You stared at the note for a long moment, the sentiment warm and genuine—but utterly unhelpful in your current state. “That bitch,” you muttered under your breath, though the words lacked any real venom. It wasn’t anger you felt, just the bone-deep weariness of someone who had been running on fumes for far too long.

The healer stifled a laugh, and you gave her a half-hearted glare before turning toward the clinic’s staircase. Sleep had been within your grasp, so tantalizingly close, and now it felt like a distant dream. The weight of the stack in your arms was a physical reminder of the responsibility you carried now. You had always been a hard worker, but this—this was different. The stakes were higher, the expectations greater, and the room for error nonexistent.

As you trudged up the stairs to your quarters, you couldn’t help but long for a simpler time when the only thing on your mind was a single patient, not the fate of entire clinics, courts, and armies. But you pushed the thought aside. This was the life you had chosen—the life you were meant to lead.

For now, you allowed yourself one small indulgence: collapsing face-first onto your bed, the stack of papers forgotten on your desk for a precious few moments of peace. Even if the rest wouldn’t last long, you would take what you could get.

The sharp ring of your alarm shattered what little peace your sleep had offered. Groaning softly, you rolled over, willing yourself to ignore the incessant sound. But the meeting wouldn’t wait, and neither would the work you still had to finish. With a resigned sigh, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and rubbed at your eyes, the exhaustion from the previous days still weighing heavily on your shoulders. It was pretty much the same rhythm since you had taken Madja’s place but still you would need more time to be fully used to it.

Bless the Mother that the topics for the healer’s portion of the meeting were ones you had already prepared extensively for. You had been working on these plans for weeks now—financial overviews, resource allocations, and contingency strategies. At least you wouldn’t have to start from scratch.

After throwing on a soft, loose-knit sweater and some comfortable pants, you made your way to the small kitchenette. The rich scent of coffee filled the air as you prepared a steaming cup, its warmth a small comfort against the chill of the early morning. You grabbed a piece of toast, slathered it with a bit of jam, and headed toward the balcony.

Opening the door to the crisp winter air, you immediately regretted your decision. The cold bit at your skin, and your breath fogged in front of you, but the sharpness of the air helped shake the lingering haze of sleep from your mind. Standing there for just a moment, coffee in one hand and toast in the other, you took in the quiet of the morning. Velaris was still, the streets below dusted with a fresh layer of snow that sparkled faintly under the rising sun. The city had a magic of its own, even in moments like this.

The cold quickly seeped through your cozy outfit, and with a shiver, you retreated back inside, shutting the balcony door behind you. The moment had done its job, though—you were awake now, ready to tackle the day.

You set your coffee down on the desk and started sorting through the stack of papers from the night before. Your quill scratched against parchment as you finalized the last details, double-checking your figures and refining your notes. The financial overview was straightforward enough, outlining the current state of healer resources across the courts. Plans for improved training and resource distribution were already drawn up, and now you added the final touches to your strategy for the upcoming year.

Hours blurred together as you worked, pausing only to sip your coffee or glance out the window for a fleeting distraction. The cold air had invigorated you, but the work demanded every ounce of your focus. By the time you finished, the sun was higher in the sky, casting a pale light over the city. The documents sat neatly stacked on your desk, ready for the meeting ahead.

You leaned back in your chair, rubbing at the stiffness in your neck. There was still so much to do, but at least you had cleared this particular hurdle. The meeting would be demanding, no doubt, but for now, you allowed yourself a moment of satisfaction. You were prepared.

As you prepared for the meeting, you chose an outfit that balanced practicality with elegance. Your wide-legged black pants were adorned with a subtle sprinkling of golden star details, shimmering faintly in the light. The fabric was soft yet structured, allowing for ease of movement while still appearing polished.

Your top was a dark teal masterpiece with a high neckline that exuded understated sophistication. The long, flowing sleeves added a graceful touch, billowing slightly as you moved. The bodice of the top was fitted, hugging your form just enough to highlight your figure without sacrificing comfort. The smooth texture of the fabric caught the light, giving it a faint sheen that complemented the gold accents on your pants.

Over it all, you wore a long, thick coat to ward off the winter chill. The coat was a deep charcoal gray, its woolen material lined with plush fur at the collar and cuffs. It hung elegantly around you, the hem brushing against your ankles as you walked. The coat’s design was simple but timeless, a perfect addition to your ensemble and a practical barrier against the icy winds of Velaris.

The morning passed in a blur of preparation. After ensuring every document was meticulously organized and packed into your satchel, you took one last look at your reflection in the mirror. Satisfied, you grabbed your satchel and made your way downstairs just as Cassian arrived to pick you up.

The sound of his boots echoed as he stepped into the clinic’s entryway, his usual grin already plastered across his face. "Ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice tinged with that familiar playful tone.

You gave him a pointed look as you tightened the strap of your satchel. "If you fly too fast and make me lose a single page of my work, Cassian, I will make sure you regret it."

His grin widened, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. "Oh, is that a threat? You’re starting to sound like Nesta."

“Consider it a promise,” you quipped, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a faint smirk. Cassian laughed again, motioning for you to step closer so he could scoop you up.

Despite his teasing, his grip was secure as he took to the skies. The cold wind whipped around you as Velaris stretched out below, its rooftops dusted with snow. The flight was smooth, though Cassian’s occasional playful dips had you clutching your satchel tightly.

When you landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, Cassian set you down with ease. "See? Not a single page out of place," he said with mock pride.

"Yet," you muttered, smoothing your outfit and adjusting the strap of your satchel. The familiar scent of the House of Wind surrounded you as you stepped inside, the crisp winter air left behind.

As you walked through the halls toward the meeting room, Cassian’s tone shifted, his earlier humor giving way to concern. "How were your days in Windhaven?" he asked, his gaze steady as he glanced down at you.

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the satchel on your shoulder. "Busy," you admitted. "The healers there are trying their best, but there’s a lot of work to do. Some of them are very inexperienced. It’s a steep learning curve, especially with the conditions they’re working in."

Cassian nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. "And you? You seemed… tired last time I saw you. I mean, more than usual."

The unexpected sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You glanced at him, surprised by the genuine concern in his expression. "I’m fine," you said after a moment, your tone softer. "It’s just a lot to juggle. But that’s why I’m here, right? To make things better."

He gave you a small, approving nod. "Well, if anyone can handle it, it’s you. But don’t forget to take care of yourself too, Y/N."

The warmth in his words lingered as you reached the doors of the meeting room. Taking a steadying breath, you straightened your shoulders and prepared to step inside. This was what you had been working toward, and you intended to see it through.

The meeting room was quiet as you and Cassian stepped in, the last to arrive. The others were already seated around the polished table: Rhysand at the head, Feyre beside him, Azriel sitting silently to his left, and Amren directly across from him. Their presence, the weight of being the Court’s leaders, filled the room with a palpable authority that made you pause for a moment. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself before moving to your seat.

Cassian offered a light-hearted comment under his breath, but you were too focused to respond. Sliding into your chair, you arranged the documents and notes you’d brought with you, ensuring everything was within reach.

The meeting began with Cassian and Azriel reporting on their respective updates. Cassian delved into the progression of training regimens for Illyrian recruits, discussing efforts to implement more modern strategies despite ongoing resistance from the warlords. Azriel followed, his calm voice outlining intelligence gathered from his network of spies. He detailed movements from Koshiev’s suspected allies and the growing ripple of unease in neighboring territories. Their reports were thorough, efficient, and sobering.

And then it was your turn.

All eyes turned toward you as Rhysand gave you a small nod. You adjusted your papers, though you hardly needed them—you knew your material inside out. Sitting straighter, you began, your voice steady and professional.

“Thank you. As you all know, the healer network within the Night Court has been my primary focus over the past months, particularly in Illyria. After assessing the state of resources and infrastructure, I’ve developed several plans to address the gaps we currently face. First and foremost, I’ve identified key areas where resource exchanges with other courts or territories could benefit us significantly.”

You glanced briefly at Rhysand, noting his attentive expression. “For example, the Dawn Court has an overabundance of specific medicinal herbs that thrive in their climate but are difficult to cultivate here. Conversely, we have access to materials like Illyrian iron, which is rare outside the mountains and could serve as a valuable bargaining tool. Initial outreach has already begun, and I’ve drafted a tentative agreement proposal for review.”

You unfolded a detailed map, laying it out on the table. The map showed trade routes and key locations where resources could be obtained or exchanged. “Here, here, and here,” you said, pointing to the marked spots, “are regions where we could establish beneficial partnerships. I’ve already made initial contact with representatives from these areas and received promising responses. The next step would be finalizing the terms and ensuring transport logistics are accounted for.”

As you spoke, the room grew quieter, a testament to how closely they were listening. You continued without hesitation.

“Beyond external exchanges, I’ve worked on improving the efficiency of our internal supply chain. For instance, in Illyria, I’ve identified several bottlenecks that delay the distribution of vital healing supplies. I’ve proposed solutions to streamline these processes, including localized storage facilities and quicker transport methods between camps.”

You paused to let the information sink in before shifting to a more personal update. “During my recent trip to Windhaven, I worked closely with their healers. They’re skilled, but they lack resources and modern training. I’ve started drafting a plan to integrate some of our Velaris healers into rotations within the Illyrian camps. This would provide hands-on experience for both parties and improve the overall standard of care.”

Amren, leaning back in her chair, raised a brow. “You’ve been busy,” she remarked, her tone dry but laced with a hint of approval.

“I don’t believe in doing things halfway,” you replied, offering her a faint smile. “There’s still much to do, and the situation is constantly evolving. I intend to return to Illyria soon to solidify the plans I’ve set in motion, but my focus remains on creating a system that works seamlessly—whether I’m present or not.”

Feyre looked at you with something akin to awe. “It’s incredible how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time,” she said warmly. “And the level of detail in these plans… it’s exactly what we need.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes studied you for a moment before he spoke. “Your thoroughness is appreciated. These are not small tasks, and the scope of what you’ve already achieved is impressive. But tell me—do you feel confident this can be sustained in the long term?”

You met his gaze, unwavering. “Yes, I do. It’s not about quick fixes; it’s about building a foundation that will last. That means training more healers, establishing reliable trade partnerships, and ensuring every system we put in place is adaptable to changing circumstances.”

Azriel, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. “The Illyrian warlords don’t take well to outsiders imposing change. How have they responded to your involvement?”

You smirked faintly. “With skepticism, of course. But they’re beginning to see the results. Devlon himself has grudgingly admitted that the changes are working, though he’ll never say it outright. Actions speak louder than words, and I intend to keep proving them wrong.”

A quiet chuckle rippled around the table at your comment, and even Azriel’s lips twitched upward slightly. The meeting continued with questions and discussions about your plans, but the overall sentiment was clear: they were impressed. By the time the conversation moved to other topics, you felt a small sense of accomplishment. There was still much to do, but for now, you had their trust—and their support.

As the discussion shifted, the focus turned toward the borders of Prythian. Cassian began outlining the latest updates, detailing concerns about the tenuous balance along the edges of the Spring and Autumn Courts. His expression was serious, the tension in his voice evident as he explained how strained the relationships had become in recent months.

“The Spring Court has been quiet,” he said, glancing around the table. “Too quiet. We know Tamlin’s been trying to rebuild, but it’s hard to tell what kind of leader he’s becoming. And Autumn... well, let’s just say Beron’s court is a perpetual mess.”

Azriel added, his voice calm but laced with an edge of concern, “The situation in Autumn is as unstable as ever. Beron’s sons are still vying for power, and it’s causing fractures within the court. Lucien has been keeping us informed where he can, but even he has his limits.”

The conversation grew heavier as the implications of these reports settled over the group. Feyre frowned, her brow furrowed in thought. “Tamlin’s silence worries me. After everything that happened, I don’t know if he’s capable of rebuilding in a way that brings stability to his court—or even to himself.”

You listened intently, taking in their concerns. When a natural pause came, you cleared your throat softly, drawing their attention. “If I may,” you began, your voice calm but resolute. “I think Tamlin’s situation isn’t as hopeless as it might seem. The last time I spoke with the healer of the Spring Court—one of my former students—she gave me some insight into how things are progressing there.”

Everyone leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued. “Go on,” Rhysand prompted, his violet eyes focused on you.

“At the start, things were as dire as you’ve described,” you said. “She mentioned that Tamlin was wandering his lands in his beast form for months, completely disconnected from his court. It was chaos. His people were scattered, his court nearly in ruins. But...” You hesitated briefly before continuing. “It seems he’s made some changes recently. From what she told me, the Spring Court is stabilizing. Slowly, but noticeably.”

Feyre’s eyes narrowed slightly, her skepticism clear. “Tamlin’s... changing? How?”

“According to her,” you explained, “he’s begun focusing on the people rather than himself. He’s rebuilding villages, replanting forests, and actively seeking to restore what was lost during the war. It’s a stark contrast to the isolation he imposed before. She said he’s been kinder, more deliberate in his actions. It’s been months since he’s shifted into his beast form. He’s even opened the borders slightly, allowing for trade and aid.”

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “That’s... unexpected. I thought Tamlin would continue down the path of self-destruction.”

You shrugged lightly. “Perhaps he reached a breaking point and realized he needed to change. Or perhaps he finally listened to the people who remained loyal to him. Whatever the reason, it seems to be working—for now.”

Cassian folded his arms, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “And what about Autumn? Do you have any insight there?”

You shook your head. “Unfortunately, my connections to the healers there are limited. The last I heard, they’re overwhelmed with injuries and illnesses caused by the internal strife. Beron’s rule is as oppressive as ever, and the constant infighting among his sons doesn’t help. It’s a court teetering on the edge of collapse, but without strong leadership, it’ll only spiral further.”

Azriel’s shadows shifted slightly, a subtle sign of his unease. “If Autumn falls, it could destabilize the entire region. The ripple effects would reach every court.”

“It’s something to monitor closely,” Rhysand agreed. He turned back to you, his expression one of cautious optimism. “Thank you for sharing what you’ve learned. Your connections with the healers of other courts are proving invaluable.”

You inclined your head in acknowledgment. “It’s what we do. Healers talk—we share insights, concerns, and stories. Sometimes, it’s the smallest details that provide the clearest picture.”

Feyre smiled faintly, though her worry for Tamlin remained evident. “It’s good to know that things in Spring might be improving, even if it’s slow. Maybe Tamlin really is trying to move forward.”

The room settled into a contemplative silence as everyone absorbed the information. While the challenges ahead remained daunting, the small glimmer of progress in the Spring Court offered a shred of hope that perhaps change was possible, even in the most unlikely places.

As the meeting began to draw to a close, Rhysand shifted his attention to you, his gaze steady but unreadable. “Y/N,” he began, his tone measured, “in five days, you’ll be heading to the Dawn Court for the healer’s meeting.”

You inclined your head slightly, already expecting this topic to arise. “Yes, I’ve been preparing for it. Most of the groundwork has already been laid, so I’m confident things are on track.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair. “Being the lead for this meeting is no small task, especially considering the current tensions across Prythian. This gathering will likely involve more than discussions about healing techniques.”

You nodded, understanding the underlying weight of his words. “I’ve already worked on plans for resource exchanges and outlined measures to address cross-court needs. I’ll finalize those details in the coming days and ensure everything is in order.”

Rhysand’s lips quirked in approval. “I have no doubt you’ll be more than prepared.”

Before the topic could shift, Rhys turned his gaze toward Azriel. “That said, I’d like Azriel to accompany you to the Dawn Court.”

The statement caught you off guard, and you blinked, momentarily stunned. “That won’t be necessary,” you said, keeping your voice as steady as possible. “I spent years in the Dawn Court. I know the territory, the people. I’ve built relationships with their healers and leadership. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Rhysand’s eyes softened, but his tone was firm. “This isn’t about your ability, Y/N. It’s about the broader situation. With tensions rising, I’d rather not take any chances. Azriel’s presence is precautionary.”

You frowned slightly, frustration flickering beneath the surface. “Rhys, I appreciate the concern, but I’m more than capable of handling myself. The Dawn Court isn’t hostile territory.”

“It’s not up for debate,” Rhysand said gently but decisively, cutting off further protest. “Azriel will accompany you. This is as much about optics as it is about safety. The world is watching, and having one of my most trusted with you is non-negotiable.”

Azriel, seated silently across from you, inclined his head in acknowledgment, though his expression remained inscrutable. You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to nod despite the tightness in your chest. “Very well,” you said finally, your voice calm even if your thoughts churned beneath the surface.

“Thank you,” Rhysand said, his gaze meeting yours with quiet understanding before shifting to the rest of the room. “With that, I believe we’re finished here.”

As the meeting concluded and everyone began to rise, Feyre approached you, her expression warm and welcoming. “Y/N,” she said, her voice gentle, “I just wanted to remind you that tomorrow is the Solstice celebration. You’re more than welcome to join us at the townhouse. It’ll be a relaxed evening with good food, music, and company. It would be lovely to have you there.”

You hesitated for a moment, adjusting the papers in your hands. The offer was genuine, and the warmth in her tone made it hard to refuse. But the weight of your responsibilities loomed in your mind. “Thank you, Feyre,” you said sincerely. “It’s a kind invitation, and I truly appreciate it. But with the meeting in the Dawn Court in just a few days, I have so much to finalize. Plus, I’m handling the clinic alone tomorrow night. I gave the rest of the healers time off to spend the Solstice with their families, and I can’t call them back on such short notice.”

Her brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across her features. “Y/N, you’ve been working tirelessly. Taking one evening to rest and celebrate wouldn’t undo your progress.”

You gave her a faint smile, shaking your head gently. “Perhaps, but the work isn’t going to do itself. And the clinic needs to be open for those who might need care tomorrow night. Besides, this meeting is too important to risk being unprepared. It’s not just about me—it’s about representing the Night Court.”

Feyre sighed, clearly disappointed but understanding. “I had hoped we could convince you to take a break.”

Your gaze softened as you reached into your satchel and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “Even if I can’t make it tomorrow, I wanted to give you this. I know it’s bad luck to celebrate early, but consider it an early birthday gift.”

Feyre blinked in surprise as you handed her the package. “You didn’t have to—” she began, but you cut her off with a small shake of your head.

“It’s nothing extravagant, just a salve I’ve been working on. It’s excellent for healing soreness, bruises, or just general aches. I thought you might find it useful, especially with Nyx keeping you on your toes.”

Her eyes brightened as she unwrapped the gift, a smile spreading across her face. “This is wonderful, Y/N. Thank you.”

You nodded, your smile genuine this time. “I truly hope you enjoy tomorrow. Maybe next year, I’ll be able to join you. For now, though, I’ll have to focus on my duties.”

Feyre reached out, giving your hand a small squeeze. “And when this meeting is over, we’ll have to find time to see you again—hopefully under less stressful circumstances.”

“I’d like that,” you said softly, the warmth in her gesture easing some of the tension that had built throughout the day. With a final nod, you excused yourself, stepping away from the meeting room and back into the rhythm of preparation for the days ahead.

Azriel’s POV

As the door clicked shut behind Y/N, the room fell into a moment of reflective silence. Azriel’s eyes followed the path she had just taken, his mind still lingering on her composure during the meeting. She’d been precise, efficient, and utterly unflinching in her delivery—a stark contrast to the overwhelming workload she seemed to be carrying alone.

Amren, who had remained quiet through much of the meeting, leaned forward and picked up one of the documents Y/N had left on the table. She scanned the contents, her sharp silver eyes narrowing slightly. “Look at this,” she said, her tone even but tinged with intrigue. “These aren’t just good ideas; they’re well-researched, meticulously planned, and already in motion. She’s brokered deals with some of the best suppliers in Prythian and beyond—at prices better than I’ve ever seen.”

Cassian whistled low, leaning over her shoulder to glance at the papers. “She’s been here, what, a few months? And she’s already pulling this off? She’s got connections everywhere. The Dawn Court, the Illyrian camps, even some spots in the mortal lands. It’s... impressive.”

Amren nodded slowly, flipping to another page. “It’s not just impressive—it’s unprecedented. She hasn’t just taken over Madja’s work; she’s expanded it. Madja ran the Night Court’s healing efforts masterfully, but Y/N is managing that and fostering collaborations with other courts and territories. She’s operating on a level where the pressure isn’t just from us—it’s from everyone. Every healer, every kingdom, every place that knows her name has high hopes for what she can achieve.”

Rhysand’s violet eyes gleamed with quiet understanding as he leaned back in his chair. “She’s an amazing healer,” he said, his voice calm yet laced with respect. “But she’s also a force in her own right. The weight she’s carrying isn’t just heavy—it’s enormous.”

Azriel said nothing, but his mind churned with thoughts. He had seen the intensity in her during the meeting, the unrelenting focus in her eyes. It wasn’t just that she was competent—she carried the weight of her responsibilities with a quiet, unyielding strength that was impossible to ignore.

Rhysand turned his gaze to Azriel, pulling him from his thoughts. “Az,” he began, his tone more casual now. “I appreciate you agreeing to accompany her to the Dawn Court, especially on such short notice. I know this wasn’t planned.”

Azriel inclined his head slightly. “It’s fine,” he replied. “And honestly, it’s better to have someone going with her. The Dawn Court might be peaceful, but she’s carrying a lot right now. She shouldn’t have to handle everything alone.”

Rhysand studied him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “I agree. She’s more than capable, but even the strongest among us need support.”

Cassian smirked, breaking the serious moment. “Support? You mean someone to carry her stack of files?”

Azriel shot him a dry look but didn’t rise to the bait. His thoughts drifted back to the sheer amount of effort Y/N had put into her preparations. It wasn’t just the work itself that impressed him—it was the way she seemed to carry it all, as if failure wasn’t even a consideration.

Amren’s voice cut through the moment. “Just make sure she doesn’t burn herself out,” she said bluntly, closing the file she’d been examining. “The world needs her at her best—not pushing herself into an early grave.”

Azriel didn’t respond immediately, but her words settled heavily in his mind. As the conversation shifted, he found himself quietly resolved to ensure that Y/N wasn’t alone in the tasks ahead—not just in the Dawn Court, but wherever her path led.

The memory of Y/N in the operating room lingered in Azriel’s mind, vivid and unshakable. He had watched her, bathed in the sterile glow of moonlight, working with unwavering precision to save a life. The gap between them felt stark in those moments—she was someone who healed, who saved lives, while he was someone who ended them, a hand of darkness in service of his court.

Even now, as he sat in the quiet aftermath of the meeting, her image remained. The way she moved, commanding the room without force, her hands steady despite the chaos around her. There was no doubt that Y/N was brilliant in her craft, but Azriel couldn’t dismiss the lingering doubts Elain had planted. She hadn’t specified why she felt uneasy about Y/N, but the implication that it could be tied to a vision gnawed at him. Elain’s foresight, as rare and erratic as it was, wasn’t something he could simply ignore.

I’ll keep an eye on her, Azriel resolved silently. Her loyalty, her brilliance—it didn’t mean she was above scrutiny. Too much was at stake for him to let his guard down, no matter how impressive she was.

When the others finally left the meeting room, Rhysand lingered behind, and Azriel knew what was coming before a word was spoken. Rhys turned to him, his violet eyes steady.

“Azriel,” Rhys began, his tone laced with the kind of weariness that only came with navigating family matters, “about tomorrow. With Lucien coming—”

Azriel cut him off sharply, rising from his chair in one fluid motion. “You don’t have to remind me every time we speak, High Lord.” The title rolled off his tongue with biting sarcasm, his shadows curling faintly around his frame as his irritation flared. “I know my role, and I’ll play it. As you wish.”

Rhysand’s expression flickered, surprise giving way to something softer—understanding, perhaps, though it did little to soothe Azriel’s temper. “Az,” he began again, his voice gentler this time, “I’m not trying to—”

But Azriel shook his head, unwilling to entertain any further discussion. “It’s fine,” he said curtly, though the tension in his voice betrayed his words. “You’ve made your expectations clear.”

Without waiting for a response, Azriel turned on his heel and strode out of the room, his shadows pooling behind him like a trailing cloak. He needed air, space to think, to untangle the mess of emotions that Rhysand’s reminder had dredged up.

Tomorrow would come, and with it, all the complications Lucien’s presence would bring. But for now, Azriel let himself sink into the quiet comfort of the night, the stars above a distant reminder of a world that moved on, no matter the burdens he carried.

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[wholoveseggs]

~Requests♡~

{<- masterlist}

18+

Smut ~ Violence ~ Fluff ~ Angst

Birthday Lessons {5k} ♡♡ {Elijah x Kol x Reader} --- On your birthday night at Rousseau's, tension fills the air as Kol and Elijah compete for your attention, promising a celebration like no other.

Je t'aime, Je t'adore {3k} ♡♡ --- You and Elijah are enjoying your honeymoon in the south of France, doing what newlyweds do best.

Dinner can wait {2k} ♡ --- Elijah is nervous about you returning home after a trip, so he cooks dinner to calm himself.

Cold Truth {5k} ♡♡ --- You and Klaus are on a mission to turn Elijah's humanity switch back on. The only problem is that you are the reason he turned it off in the first place.

Gentle {3k} ♡♡ --- As movie night with Elijah gets heated, you voice your insecurities and he dispels your fears.

Eyes for you {4k} ♡♡♡ --- Amidst the clinking of glasses and strained smiles, you find yourself feeling jealous of the way Hayley is interacting with your husband... Until he shows you exactly why you shouldn't be feeling that way.

Elijah's Love Letters {2.5k} ♡ --- NSFW Alphabet

Klaus's Love Letters {3k} ♡ --- NSFW Alphabet

Always {3k} ♡♡♡ --- Upon your unexpected appearance at the compound, centuries after being presumed dead, Elijah has to grapple with feelings he long buried and the consequences that come with it.

Between Pages {5k} ♡ --- It's the 1960s, and you are a college student finding solace in the campus library. There, you encounter more than knowledge within its walls.

What did you wish for? {2k} ♡♡ --- On your birthday, Elijah and Rebekah find themselves at odds when it comes to organizing the party.

Tied {2.7k} ♡ --- After days apart, you've crafted the perfect surprise for Elijah to welcome him home.

Reminder {4.5k} ♡♡♡ --- Your relationship with Elijah feels like its unravelling with the arrival of Hayley and a cutting nickname from Klaus. Fortunately, Elijah knows just what to do to make you feel loved.

Strings {6.2k} ♡♡♡ --- You've denied what your heart wants for so long and Elijah is tired of waiting.

Whine {5k} ♡♡ --- You make the mistake of testing Elijah's patience and he puts you in your place.

Devotion {7.7k} ♡♡ --- When you find out you are pregnant you are afraid of how Elijah will react. His anxieties around fatherhood get the best of him and he gives in to his darker impulses.

Crush {6.7k} ♡♡♡ --- You have quite the crush on Rebekah's big brother, and you find yourself lost in the tangled web of unreciprocated feelings, yearning for a love that may never be yours.

Forgiveness {5.5k} ♡♡♡ --- After a tragic event you flip your humanity switch and begin to terrorize the Quarter. You have to be put down for the good of the city, but your husband will stop at nothing to save you.

Stubborn {4.1k} ♡♡ --- You and Elijah get into a fight about his protective nature. He thinks you are too stubborn, and you think he's too controlling. How will you resolve your issues?

Ménage à Quatre {5.3k} ♡ {Elijah x Klaus x Rebekah x Reader} --- Just a quick little ménage à quatre with Rebekah & the boys...

Change {5.8k} ♡♡♡ --- Your marriage causes you to feel trapped and worthless. Until you meet a handsome stranger at a café and he shows you how much more you can be.

Touch {5.6k} ♡♡♡ --- After a dinner party with the Mikaelson family, you try to get Elijah to open up his heart to you.

Teach You {3.6k} ♡♡ --- You are nervous about your first time with Elijah and he makes it an unforgettable experience.

Perfect {2.8k} {he/him pronouns} ♡♡ --- After a date with Elijah, you want to take things to the next level and he makes you feel like the only boy in the world.

Piano Lessons {2.4k} ♡ --- You come home after a long day at work and Elijah helps you unwind with a song.

Misbehavior {8.2k} ♡♡♡♡ --- Elijah Mikaelson is controlling, arrogant and absolutely infuriating, you don't know how anybody can stand him. That is... until he gets you in his bed.

Fantasies {4.8k} ♡ --- You get Elijah to open up about his desires and he discovers a few of yours, leading to a night of fun and exploration.

Worth the wait {7.1k} ♡♡♡ --- You and Elijah are childhood friends, dipping in and out of each others lives for the past one thousand years. You hope that one day you will have a chance to be together and find the love you've always longed for.

Magnificent {8.8k} ♡ {Elijah x Klaus x Kol x Reader} --- Just a quick little ménage à quatre with Elijah, Kol and Klaus... on spring break...

Hold {4.9k} ♡♡ --- You are having drinks with Elijah and you want to tell him about your little problem, in hopes that he will help you with it.

Paperwork {5k} ♡♡ --- You approach a handsome philanthropist at a charity gala, leading to a stress-relieving meeting high above the city lights.

Princess {5.1k} ♡ --- You and Elijah have a night of kinky fun.

Safe {8.2k} ♡♡♡♡ --- In a world where trust is hard to come by, you've learned to keep your guard up, especially around men. But when Elijah enters your life, he's determined to break through your defenses, venturing into a realm of passion, pain, and the search for something real.

Madness {6.4k} ♡♡ --- You bring a date to the Mikaelson party, specifically to attract the attention of your estranged husband. The plan backfires; he's not the type to let you go so easily and makes sure to remind you that no one will ever take his place.

Soft {3.4k} ♡♡ --- You've been dating Elijah for a while, but your insecurities keep you from taking things further. But one night, Elijah finally gets the chance to show you how much he loves your curves.

Forever {6.8k} ♡♡♡ --- Elijah loves you with all his heart, but his commitment to his family and his loyalty to Klaus keeps him from acting on his feelings. But when he almost loses you, he is determined to prove that you are the only woman he has ever truly loved, and wants to make you his, forever.

Three Lessons {6.2k} ♡ --- Elijah finds you in transition and teaches you a few lessons on how to be a vampire.

Control {6k} ♡♡♡ --- Plagued by nightmares of hurting you, Elijah avoids any form of intimacy, but you have had enough. You confront him about his rejection and Elijah finally learns how to let go and lose control.

Wishes {3.1k} {Haylijah} ♡♡♡ --- A smutty extended version of haylijah's first time together.

Respect {2.9k} {Delijah} ♡ --- Elijah puts Damon in his place, and demands he show him a little more than respect.

Cat and Mouse {5.3k} ♡ --- It's your anniversary party, but you are terribly bored, and the one person you actually want to be around isn't playing fair.

Decadence {5.9k} ♡ --- Elijah meets an intriguing woman at the opera, leading to an evening of music, wine and vampiric indulgences.

Bindings {4.9k} ♡ --- You ask Davina for help with creating something to tie up Elijah... only for you to get in way over your head. Luckily, he is in a forgiving mood.

Family Man {4.5k} ♡♡ --- Life at the compound can be chaotic with kids and family running around, but Elijah wouldn't have it any other way.

Gratitude {4.7k} ♡♡ --- It's a warm summer night and Elijah plans a special date for you, hoping to make your dreams come true.

Something Sweet {5.5k} ♡♡ --- It's the day of your wedding, a day you've dreamed about since you were young. Everything is exactly as you imagined it would be, except one thing. Today is not only the day of your wedding, today is also the day you die... And you never wanted anything so badly.

Perfect Messes {5.6k} ♡♡♡ --- After a difficult relationship that left you struggling to rebuild your life, you reconnect with an old friend who helps you rediscover what true love feels like.

Bloodier Bath {2.7k} ♡♡ --- Aunt Flo comes to visit and the noble Elijah once again stands up to the bitch.

Insatiable {3.9k} ♡ --- You are at the club with the Mikaelsons, and your husband Elijah gets a little jealous when someone else hits on you.

Ice Cream and Love Bites {8.2k} ♡♡ --- You are at a playground with your son when you meet Elijah. He is everything you are looking for in a partner, but his life is shrouded in mystery. Can you trust him with your heart?

Please Sir {4.2k} ♡ --- You meet Elijah on a dating app, needing his help to fulfill a fantasy, and he is happy to oblige.

Following Orders {2.7k} ♡ --- You decide to reverse the roles for a day, tying Elijah up and having your way with him...

Springs {2.7k} ♡ {Viking!Elijah} --- You meet your secret lover deep in the woods, and take him to your favorite spot to spend some time together.

Captive {7.1k} ♡♡♡♡ {Elijah x Klaus x Vampire!Reader} --- You are being held captive by a group of nasty witches, being tortured, starved of blood and interrogated night and day... You've lost all hope, until two old enemies show up to save you, and you spend the evening reminiscing and making up for lost time.

Solstice {9k} ♡♡ {Viking!Elijah} --- In a small Viking village, love blooms as Elijah steals your heart. But a winter storm prevents your future plans, forcing secrets to surface and your bond to grow stronger than ever.

Belonging {8.8k} ♡♡♡♡ --- You needed a roommate, and he needed a place to belong...but as secrets unravel and his dark past comes to light, your new housemate might just change your life forever..

Yearning {9k} ♡♡ --- Hired by Rebekah to paint her family’s portrait, you find yourself irresistibly drawn to her eldest brother, Elijah. But with a husband bound by ambition and society’s stifling expectations, surrendering to forbidden desire could change your life forever...

Cedar {3.6k} ♡♡ --- What begins as a night of unrestrained passion shifts when Elijah takes things too far, and he makes sure to show you just how deeply he cares for you in the aftermath...

Adore {3.5k} ♡ --- When Elijah catches you lost in a steamy novel, he’s determined to turn fiction into reality...

Inevitable {6.9k} ♡♡ --- A playful night of banter leads to Elijah's siblings setting him up on a dating app, but the only match he wants is you...

Chaos {7.8k} ♡♡♡ --- A punk-themed night out with the Mikaelsons reveals a side of Elijah you’ve never seen before... and a chance to push boundaries neither of you ever expected.

Anchor {672 wrds} ♡ --- Grief threatens to overwhelm you, but Elijah's calming presence becomes your anchor, reminding you that even in your darkest hours, you are not alone.

Snow Day {6.2k} ♡♡ --- A rare snowstorm blankets New Orleans, and the Mikaelsons revel in the icy chaos. But as Klaus pushes Elijah to confront his feelings for you, the heat between you two threatens to outshine the storm.

Serendipitous {8.4k} ♡♡♡ {Elijah x Klaus x Reader} --- When your new life in New Orleans collides with the past you tried to outrun, you come face to face with the man you never stopped thinking about. And worse? You are sleeping with his brother.

Angel {5k} ♡♡♡ --- Newly turned and overwhelmed, one hunger refuses to be ignored. You need guidance, and who better to teach you than Elijah Mikaelson?

Polaroids {4.8k} ♡♡ --- Hidden in his suits, tucked in his ties. Each scandalous polaroid Elijah finds drives him closer to the edge… until he finally snaps.

Dissolve {4.6k} ♡♡ --- Elijah always puts your pleasure first, never letting himself fully let go. Until you push him over the edge and he falls completely.

Fur-ever {3k} ♡ --- Elijah Mikaelson: Original vampire, refined gentleman, luxurious cat tree.

For Safety Reasons {6k} ♡♡♡ --- A dark legend. A looming threat. And Kol Mikaelson offering a very unconventional solution.

Reverence {6.2k} ♡♡♡♡ --- Elijah protects you from a stranger’s insult, then shows you why it was never true...

Bliss {9.2k} ♡♡♡ --- It’s the day after your third child is born… and the best day of Elijah’s immortal life.

[thatsmzbitchtoyou]

Mon Cher Chapter 1

*Idea found on TikTok by @yaberdat aka Finnley.*

“A modern day writer exploring a vampire’s estate during the day.  Wondering why a random room was locked.  Until…they find a Victorian painting of themself.”

*garer:  shelter, where the word garage originates

Next chapter

Y/N had always been a little…odd.  She always felt like she didn’t belong.  Like she was out of place, or more aptly, a woman out of time.  Her mother called her an old soul.  She loved things that were old, vintage, retro, whatever it was called at the moment, and particularly from the turn of the century and into the 1920s.  She didn’t understand the trends, didn’t relate to the kids her age growing up, and she buried herself in romance stories of characters who yearned and were desperate for one another.  And after a school choir trip to New Orleans when she was 15, she had become obsessed with the city and its history.  She felt more at home and at peace there than she had anywhere else her entire life.

She had purposefully applied to Tulane University just so she could live there, and got a Bachelor of Arts in Design.  When school was finished she integrated herself fully into New Orleans, moving into a little bungalow with two roommates and getting a job working for a self proclaimed witch named Toussaint in his shop along the French Quarter and taking on design clients part time, helping bring their eclectic styles into cohesive designs within their homes.  Her weekends consisted of wandering the streets looking for new discoveries, taking guided tours around the city, bayou tours and parties with her roommates.  The most fun she had was at old dance halls or bars where she and her friends would dress up in old fashioned clothes and makeup and listen to the classic jazz and blues music while dancing the night away.

Then on a bayou tour she spotted something.  “What is that?” she asked the tour guide, pointing to something peeking through the high grass and willow trees.

He squinted at the area she was pointing to then sighed.  “That’s the abandoned Barnes mansion,” he said sadly.  “Beautiful but haunted Queen Anne style home.” She raised her eyebrows and stared at the house hidden amongst the overgrown Louisiana marshland.  “It used to be open for tours, but it flooded during Hurricane Katrina and nobody took the time or money to have it fixed up,” he said.  

“Nobody can reach it now?” she asked.

“I’m sure you could.  But it’s been left to rot, so best to steer clear for your safety,” he said, then turned his attention back to the regular part of the tour.

Y/N knew at that moment that she would be paying a visit to the Barnes mansion, one way or another.

***

Her roommates-turned-friends Yelena and Kate dragged her to a party after the Bacchus parade during Mardi Gras.  They were dressed in flapper dresses this year, and Y/N had pinned her hair to look short and gone full out with the outfit and makeup.  They sipped on their cocktails as they meandered through the party, admiring the old architecture of the building they were in and looking at all the paintings and pictures on the walls.  At one point they found themselves in a quiet alcove where Yelena collapsed on the nearby stairs and kicked her heels off.

“Ugh, get these wretched things off of me,” she whined, massaging her feet as she grimaced in pain.  

Y/N giggled and leaned against the wall opposite of her to wait for her to be ready to go.  Kate leaned against the banister then looked at the wall Y/N was on then gasped.  “Y/N!” she said in shock, staring at the wall.  “Look!”

Y/N frowned and turned to look at the painting on the wall just above her head.  It was a portrait of a woman in an early 1920s evening dress that was close to the same design and color palette Y/N had chosen for her flapper dress, with beaded strands hanging off her sleeves, the dress an emerald green color that had an ombre effect into gold at the bottom, her hair styled just like Y/N’s was now.  What was striking was the fact that the woman in the portrait and Y/N looked almost exactly alike.

“Oh my god,” Yelena gasped, her eyes moving back and forth between Y/N and the portrait.  “It’s you.”

“Very funny,” Y/N chuckled, finishing the last bit of her drink.  

“No, it looks exactly like you,” Kate agreed, pulling out her phone.  “Pose like her.”  Y/N shook her head but did as she said, posing like the woman in the portrait as Kate took a picture.  Kate pulled her phone close to her face then shoved it in Yelena’s face, who raised her eyebrows, then into Y/N’s face.  “It is you!”

“Weird,” Y/N said.  She had to admit, it did look just like her.  She turned back to the portrait and looked at the plaque at the bottom of it.  “‘Lady Barnes:  The Belle of the Vampire Ball,’” she read quietly.  “I haven’t heard of her.”

“Wait, I remember this,” Yelena said with a smile.  “The legend of Lord Barnes, the rumored vampire of the northern bayou.”

“Barnes as in the Barnes mansion?” Y/N asked, her interest piqued.

“Yeah,” Yelena nodded with a knowing look.  “That abandoned one you saw.  He and his wife used to throw a vampire ball every Halloween, and every year someone went missing from it.  The rumors spread that the missing person was like a sacrifice to Barnes and his wife, since they always looked reenergized and refreshed after the ball.  The legend of their youth and beauty, as well as their belief in the occult, made them targets for religious zealots and the local authorities at the time, and Lady Barnes was killed during an altercation with some Catholic vampire hunters.”  Y/N was hanging onto her every word.  “Lord Barnes swore that he’d get his revenge, then killed multiple priests and set fire to the church.  He never came out, so people assumed he died in the fire.  But there’s always been talk of how he would rise again once he found his reincarnated wife.”

“Spooky,” Kate said with a hushed and reverent tone.  “Well, looks like the Belle of the Vampire Ball is back,” she said with a smirk towards Y/N.

Y/N rolled her eyes, making the other two laugh.  “He will find you, and rise again!” Yelena said, wiggling her fingers at her with wide eyes.  “To be together forever!”

“You guys are ridiculous,” Y/N snickered, and they all laughed together then helped Yelena get back in her shoes before moving to return back to the party.  Before they left the alcove Y/N looked back at the painting.   It really was uncanny just how much it looked like her, and she had a strange feeling about the portrait.  She shook her head at herself and quickly took a picture of the portrait before scurrying down the hallway to rejoin them.

***

“Yeah, I can see it,” Toussaint nodded as he looked at the picture on her phone then back at her.  “I thought it the first time I saw you.”

“Really?  Why didn’t you say anything?” Y/N asked in surprise, following him as he walked around the counter towards the backroom.

“Well, that’s cursed history,” Toussaint retorted, giving her an unimpressed look.  “I may do hoodoo but that doesn’t mean I dabble with that stuff.”

“It’s just an old ghost story,” Y/N smiled.

“Not in New Orleans it ain’t,” he replied.  He walked up to her and reached out to the necklace with a small pouch on it that he’d given her when she first started working there.  “I can see you already making plans in that head of yours to go see the mansion,” he said quietly.  “I would caution you not to.  But if you do, make sure you keep this on.”

“Why?” she asked with a frown.

He shrugged.  “Just in case,” he said simply, then walked away to stock more crystals.

[sthilarions]

Very rushed concept but Dead Boy Detectives Renfield/Dracula AU?

Edwin as a century and a quarter old vampire and Charles as his “thrall” - that’s the accurate technical term, though this is the one case where Edwin does not prefer using the accurate technical term; Edwin gives Charles immortality and strength and Charles finds Edwin willing blood donors, and, on a very few very memorable occasions, gifts Edwin his own lifeblood.

Before Charles, Edwin spent the seven decades since his turn starving, most of it against his will as he was held in a dungeon going insane with no blood at all, his immortal body unable to die again but unable to live, either, in continuous unbearable torture - and then some of it after his escape, still starving as he refused to drink from anything but rats

When he was hunting for rodents in an attic he found Charles, dying, and he couldn’t have that, could he? But he wasn’t going to torture someone else with his curse, so he used the only other option available; he gave Charles a different form of immortality. And he was very clear with Charles that this wasn’t a normal thrall situation, Charles wasn’t bound to him. Charles could take his superpowers and go

But Charles wasn’t about to have that, was he? Edwin flatly refuses to drink from Charles but Charles can find other people for him, easy, and it took quite a bit of convincing but finally Edwin agreed, and also, you know, Edwin, if I don’t stay with you, you can’t re-up the immortality and I could just end up dying all over again, and you wouldn’t want to be responsible for that, would you? (Charles feels very guilty about this guilt-trip, but not guilty enough to not do it.)

Other vampires try to order Charles around sometimes, early on. It’s not very long before word gets out to never, ever do that, though.

Edwin only drinks from Charles when the situation is so disastrous (Edwin is so badly injured or drained) that Charles’s strength exceeds Edwin’s and he’s able to all but force-feed him.

Charles is still The Brawn, even though, in less dire circumstances, Edwin is far stronger. Being The Brawn was always only a choice, after all.

So yes. Anyway. Vampire!Edwin and Thrall!Charles (but not really).

[mydearlybeloathed]

𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ²

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐥, 𝐬𝐨 𝐢 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐲 𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥...

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: whispers all around the marine ship warn of a new cadet handpicked by the vice admiral himself, making for fine gossip. meanwhile, the strawhat crew wonders why their captain is so frustrated with a storybook.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: opla!luffy x gn!reader, koby x platonic!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: use of Y/N, gender neutral reader, angst, platonic fluff, koby and reader team up of the century

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤: this is me trying

series masterlist

Koby really wanted Helmeppo to shut up, but didn’t have the heart to say it. So he let his new friend rattle on and on whilst they were meant to be getting important work done mopping the deck.

Though Koby did admit, the hushed whispers around the ship of a new cadet were intriguing. And apparently, Helmeppo knew all about the new recruit.

“New?” Helmeppo laughed. “They’re far from new. Been at this for a matter of months and already they’re at the top.”

“How come?” Koby couldn’t help but ask, leaning slightly on his mop. “Experience?”

“Probably,” Helmeppo considered, turning secretive the next moment. “I hear they grew up with Garp, learned all they know from him and their father, who also happens to be a major.”

No wonder there was so much praise for this cadet. “And they’re really that good?”

Helmeppo nodded through a sigh. “So they say. Apparently, they’ve been assigned to this ship by Garp himself. No big surprise there. If this cadet is as fierce as they claim, we’ve got some competition.”

Koby nodded mindlessly, getting back to swabbing the deck, trying his best to focus, but Helmeppo just moved on to the next topic of his interest. 

“Hey, do you wonder—” Helmeppo stopped short, catching sight of an approaching figure through the dark shrouding the deck. 

Glancing up, Koby saw them too, a puzzled crease forming on his brow. The figure fumbled about the dark, mumbling to themself, two buckets in hand. 

Only after nearly tripping over air and stumbling to a stop did they draw out a sigh and assess their surroundings, finding Koby and Helmeppo watching with equally curious expressions.

“Oh, uhm,” they stammered, stepping into the dim lamplight Koby had set to the side. “Hello. I’m, uh, I was sent me to help.” They set down the buckets and stepped back. “Fresh warm water, and uhm, soap.”

Koby reacted quicker than Helmeppo, who watched this stranger carefully. He went to inspect the first bucket, smiling at the sudsy water. Given that Helmeppo had knocked their bucket over and Koby could only save a quarter of the water, this was a godsend. “Thank you. This helps a lot.”

The words went straight to the stranger’s head, a smile breaking out on their face as they turned to take up a spare mop. “No problem. Anything to stay useful. That’s what my dad always says, at least. A useless soldier's a dead soldier, or something like that.”

Whatever reservations Helmeppo had faded at the prospect of another gossip buddy, prompting an eye roll from Koby as he moved to start cleaning the farther end of the deck.

“Are you new?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“Oh, yeah,” the stranger replied. “I just transferred from that marine base we’re docked at.”

Helmeppo immediately stopped mopping and zeroed in on the stranger, like a disarming fledgling hawk to an unbothered mouse. “You would know about Y/N L/N, then. They’re being transferred to this ship too.”

There was a brief silence after the question, only long enough to have Koby cast a curious glance back at them. The stranger stopped mopping too, a thoughtful look crossing their face, before they nodded. “What about Y/N L/N?”

“So you’ve met them?” Helmeppo wondered, cutting the stranger off before they could answer. “I’m curious to see if they live up to their reputation.”

The stranger folded their hands behind their back, face quite expressionless. “Oh… What’s their reputation? From an outside perspective, I mean?”

“Only that they’re responsible for twenty arrests within the span of three months. That’s bullshit, in my opinion. But that’s just the tip of the iceberg.” The stranger’s undivided attention was now given to Helmeppo, and he was living for it. “Apparently, they were trained up by Vice Admiral Garp himself. I hear they’ve even had a drink with Dracule Mihawk. Can you believe that? Honestly, I’m just waiting to meet this cadet and see if they’re as cold hearted as everyone says.”

Now, Koby was smart. He had to be in order to survive. So of course he’d caught on far before Helmeppo, watching the stranger’s grip on their broom tighten and their gaze tighten into a glare. 

He rushed up behind the stranger and mimed for Helmeppo to shut up. All Koby got in return was a strange sort of look and complete ignorance. Koby ran a palm over his face.

The stranger was quiet for an everlasting moment, before they dipped their mop into a bucket and continued to do their job. “It was twenty-three.”

Helmeppo tilted his head as if to hear them better. “Sorry?”

Quite having enough of hearing what other people thought of you, you swiftly whirled back to face him with a steeled expression. “I said I took part in twenty-three arrests in three months. I was raised in the same town as Garp, so yes he trained me as a child. I’ve never met Dracule Mihawk and I’ve never had a drink with anyone.”

You jutted out your chin. “And yes, I’d say I am cold hearted when the situation requires it. Like when dealing with a ignorant, gossiping pain in my ass!”

Jaw slack, Helmeppo searched out for Koby’s assistance, only receiving a pointed glare from his friend. You mopped some more and moved to go back over the spot Helmeppo had already done. “Put some more elbow grease into it, yeah? These decks outta be spotless by morn.”

Miraculously, the deck was nothing but tranquil after that. The three of you worked in silence till just as you’d said, the deck was spotless to your satisfaction. Helmeppo retreated back to the barracks immediately, seeking to collect his pride off the floor, leaving you and Koby.

Koby was going to apologize on his friend’s behalf when he found you picking up your bucket and mop and trudging off to the afterdeck. Koby followed after you, telling you, “Oh, we don’t have to clean the afterdeck. That’s next shift’s job.”

You didn’t reply, setting the sloshing bucket down and starting to work. Koby paused. “We should sleep. We’re setting off tomorrow—”

“I’m aware,” you said carefully, without too much malice. “I know we don’t have to. I want to. I’m not tired.”

The bags under your eyes begged to differ. Koby watched you work before he hurried off, and half of you was sorry to be alone again. But then the boy came back with his own mop in hand, causing you to halt and observe as he started to join you.

“What’re you…”

“I’m Koby,” he said, holding out a hand with a scant smile. 

Glancing down, you accepted his hand and grinned. “Y/N. But you knew that.”

He grimaced. “Sorry about Helmeppo.”

Shrugging, you said, “Eh, I’m used to it.”

And you set back to mopping the night away, having the occasional laugh with Koby who did the same. Only when there was without a doubt nothing left to clean of the afterdeck, yet you continued to go back over it, did Koby stop and get in your way.

“I can see my reflection in the deck,” he tried to joke. “It’s okay to stop.”

You couldn’t tell him he was wrong. If you stopped, you had time to think. If you had time to think, you’d think of him. If you thought of Luffy, well, you’d be lost to your thoughts for the rest of the night. It was a whole cycle you couldn’t afford to go down. Not as a marine. 

Marine’s don’t have time for trivial affairs such as heartache.

But Koby was insistent, snatching your mop away from you and holding you back when you tried to get it back. He held a soft look as you glared daggers into him. “I think I understand.”

You scoffed, giving up and picking up the buckets to put away. You turned your back and headed to find the supply closet. “What exactly do you understand?”

“I... I was on a pirate ship before this,” he told you, causing you to slow enough for him to fall into step beside you. “I was forced to do things I’m not proud of. Sometimes I feel like I’ve got to make up for it.”

You cast him a glance. “I wasn’t a pirate.”

“But you’ve done something you’re not proud of,” he guessed.

Coming to a halt, you bit down on your cheek as Koby turned to face you, confusion laced in his expression. “You don’t know me, Koby. I’m proud of how I got here. That doesn’t make it easier to sleep at night.”

“Okay,” he nodded. “I understand.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t. But it was nice he tried, you supposed. “Okay.”

So he helped to put away the mops and dump out the buckets, following you back to the barracks. All the lights were off, leaving limited sight to find your way to your bunk, clambering through the dark as quietly as you could.

Koby was having a harder time, tripping over something and nearly waking the whole room. You shot him a glare and hurried to bed, hiding under the covers. The bed was hardly comfortable, and tossing and turning did nothing to provide any comfort. 

Rolling onto your back, you refrained from opening your eyes as long as you could before they pried themselves open, and you came face to face with Monkey D. Luffy. His wanted poster was pinned to the underside of the top bunk, something you had thought was a good idea at the time, but now it offered an unwanted spectator to your sleeplessness.

Still, you didn’t have the heart to take it down, pulling the thin blanket up over your head.

જ⁀➴

Nobody wanted to be the first to approach the captain, not when he was in a mood none of them had ever seen him in. If the crew was honest, it made them nervous.

“Somebody should make sure he’s okay,” said Usopp, looking around the lot of them as if to prompt one of them to step up. 

They all leaned upon the railing around the ship’s helm, eyes locked on Luffy. The boy sat cross legged on the deck, a book of all things in his lap. From the crease in his brow, he was growing increasingly frustrated.

“Not it,” Zoro quipped when he caught Nami giving him that look.

She rolled her eyes and pushed off the rail, glaring as she scathed, “Honestly.”

Taking tentative steps, Nami assessed the situation closer, not meaning to provoke whatever was going on in Luffy’s head. The book lay open to the very first page, his face a little too close to the words as he sighed every few seconds. He flipped to the next page, then the next, before gritting his teeth and going back to the first. 

Kneeling at his side, she bumped his shoulder as she settled down. “Luffy?”

“Hmm?” He barely looked up from the page, and Nami wondered if he even registered what she’d said.

“You okay?” When she didn’t get a response, she ducked forward to see what he was reading. “The Two Birds?”

Luffy snapped the book shut so fast Nami flinched, the sudden smile on his face a little bit of whiplash. “Sorry, what?”

“Luffy, what’s wrong?” she asked, concerned. “You’ve been glaring at that storybook all day.”

“Nothing,” he waved her off and tried to hide the book behind him. “Is it time to eat?”-

Nami wasn’t letting him get away from this, not when his smile was a little too bright to be real. Luffy had never been like this, and it was worrying her more than she liked to admit. “Luffy.”

Gaze flickering from each of her eyes, Luffy’s smile slowly but surely lost its enthusiasm, lips curling downward. He brought the book back to his lap, holding it ever so gently, skimming his fingertips over the cover. “It belongs to my lover.”

“Wait.” She blinked. “Lover?”

Nodding, Luffy almost smiled. “It’s their favorite book. I used to have more, but my ship sank. This is the only one I could save.”

The melancholy in how he said it gave Nami a sick kind of feeling, a million different ideas of this stranger’s fate coming to mind. She almost didn’t even ask. “What happened to them?”

“We got separated a few months ago,” he said, before giving the book a firm nod, “but I’ll find them again.”

“How do we do that?” Nami asked instantly, drawing another half smile out of Luffy as he raised his eyes to meet hers.

“Well,” Luffy laughed breathily, “it’s a bit complicated. They’re with the marines.”

They weren’t dead, which was good, Nami supposed. But this? This wasn’t what she’d expected. “Your lover is a marine?”

“Unfortunately. I couldn’t save them. But they’re strong.” His grin wavered. He thought of that sinking feeling when you remained on land, staring after him with this look he couldn't get out of his head. You'd looked like this was what you planned; him escaping, and you staying. It had been noble of you, he supposed, and he could never hate you for it.

Luffy swallowed thickly and his eyes went all misty. “They’re the strongest, kindest, truest person I know. I’ll find them, and I’ll return their book.”

Nami still couldn’t figure it out. “If they’re so good, why’re you burning a hole into their book?”

“Oh.” Luffy’s cheeks warmed at the question. “Uhm, I was trying to read it but… I got stuck. They usually read it to me.”

She should have left it at that. Really, Nami should have patted him on the back and offered to get a pre-dinner snack to cheer him up. But for some reason, Nami found herself looking at the storybook and hesitantly saying, “Can I?”

“Really?” The shine in Luffy’s eyes nearly made it worth it. 

Nami sighed and forced a smile. Only, she didn’t have to force it too much; Luffy’s quickly brightening expression warmed her from the inside out. “Sure. Hand it over.”

She’d barely laid a hand on the book when Luffy whipped his head around and shouted across the deck, “Guys! Nami’s reading a story!”

“Luffy…” she groaned, pursing her lips as Usopp jumped down the stairs, swiftly followed by Sanji and a more reluctant Zoro. 

Luffy raised a brow. “What?”

Letting out a huff, Nami simply flipped open the book. Usopp plopped down beside her, leaning in to see what book it was. 

“A story?” Zoro asked, ever unamused. Nami shut him up with one glare. 

“I personally am happy to hear Nami’s lovely voice,” Sanji piped in with a wink.

Nami gave the chef a deadpan, her head tilted. “Thanks.”

“C’mon,” Usopp urged her. “Let's see if it beats the tales of Great Captain Usopp.”

“All right, all right,” she laughed, turning to the very first page and starting to read off the story to them. 

Every once in a while Luffy would start frowning again, eyes unfocused, the words Nami read piercing his heart. It never lasted too long though, some commentary from Usopp dragging a snicker out of him. And when the story came to a close, Luffy offered his crew a grin. 

“Y/N would like you guys,” he said, raising some confusion among the men around him.

Nami tried to smile and, half to explain and half to reassure, said, “We’ll get your lover back, at some point.”

Maybe three seconds went by before all heads jolted in Luffy’s direction. 

“Lover?!”

>>

[joyful-enchantress]

Jól Never Be Alone | Loki x Fem!Reader

banner created by the amazing @springdandelixn

A/N: Hello! Enjoy this festive oneshot that I wrote as a gift for @smolvenger for this Secret Santa event facilitated by @fictive-sl0th. I took inspiration from a request submitted by @smolvenger and also from the Old Norse jól (pronounced yule), a midwinter festival which celebrated the passing of the longest days of winter, and fertility in the coming year. Happy Holidays!

Genre/Warnings: Arranged marriage, mild angst in the beginning (with a happy ending, I promise!), hurt/comfort, fluff, thirst, pining, smutty thoughts, language

Word Count: 3k

Three damn days.

That’s it. That’s all the time you had to pull yourself together.

To clean up the mess that you’d become these past weeks and be what the people of Asgard expected you to be. Needed you to be.

The shining star of the upcoming jól feast. You were to be the gem of the midwinter celebration as their newest princess.

That is, after all, what you were. You were married into the Asgardian royal family just over a month ago, joined in holy matrimony with Odin’s youngest son. The dark prince. Loki. A man — no, a god — that, for centuries now, had maidens everywhere falling over themselves just for the chance to spend a night warming his bed. How lucky you were to be his wife, right?

Though it wasn’t exactly a love match. Your marriage had been arranged by those that claimed more of a say in your lives than either of you did. Loki’s father and your own had devised a scheme — years in the making — in which you’d become Loki’s wife to strengthen the alliance between Asgard and your home realm, Vanaheim.

Yes, unfortunately, your love story felt less like a romance and more like a political drama.

It certainly didn't help that Loki has been cold and distant since the betrothal. He was always keeping to his own side of your shared living quarters, the physical walls between you serving as a constant reminder of the figurative one that loomed —towering and unsurmountable — between you. Short, clipped greetings are all that fell from his lips to welcome or acknowledge you when your paths did cross. Roommates with fancy titles... that's all you were. The dark, handsome prince, your husband, was never disrespectful — far from it, actually — but he never showed any true interest in you beyond what has been required during public appearances.

You couldn't blame him, not really. This couldn't possibly be what he had hoped for, when he would daydream about his own future. Trapped in a loveless marriage with you, likely feeling like little more than a pawn in his father's political chess games. No, it was no wonder why he kept his distance as much as the nature of your entanglement allowed.

There was a time, not so long ago, when you had allowed yourself to dream of a future where you sat beside Loki, as his wife. But not this way. Not like this.

Since childhood, you'd had a crush on the younger prince. Once you were old enough to accompany your father on his delegations to Asgard, where he'd speak on behalf of the Vanir at the council meetings, he was sure to bring you along. In hindsight, you realized, he only brought you with him so that you could become acquainted with Asgard before he secured your place there, within the royal court. But oh, how you looked forward to those trips! And a certain mischievous god was to blame...

Loki caught your eye the very first time you met him. How could he not? With those sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw that you swore were sharp enough to slice through your dignity. The silky curtains of raven curls that framed his stupidly handsome face, always looking absolutely perfect, no matter how unkempt and mussed they were. Then there were his eyes, glistening like two polished emeralds against the alabaster planes of his face. You had frequently wondered what it might be like to lock eyes with him during the throes of a passionate night of lovemaking... meeting his gaze as you're writhing in the sheets underneath his lean, sculpted body, appreciating the length of him — of his neck, his limbs, his cock as he buries himself inside you.

Perhaps it was foolish, but you spent those years pining for him from afar, dreaming of what could possibly be someday. Sure, you spent time with him during your visits, enjoying strolls together through the gardens or his personal library, sharing details of your lives and bonding over your joint love of books. He definitely wasn't a stranger to you. In fact, you’d say you knew him well. But you never made your romantic feelings for him known; you never hinted at the desire that scorched through your veins like an untamed fire every time he was near.

You'd tell him someday, you'd tell yourself. You would tell Loki your feelings and with any luck he'd be yours... and it was that thought, that hope, that fueled your daydreams and pushed you through until your next visit to Asgard.

But before you ever got the chance to share the true nature of your feelings with Loki, you were both called into the throne room where your fathers informed you of the arrangements that had been made. You were to be married. In three fortnights.

And your dreams of a fairytale romance with the handsome prince were thwarted in an instant. You wanted him, but not like this. You wanted something real... you wanted Loki to want you.

Now you were homesick and, during a time when you should be feeling surrounded by love and holiday cheer, you had never felt more alone.

Jól was in three days. And the midwinter festival was supposed to be magnificent — a giant feast honoring the gods Odin and Freyr and celebrating a hope for peace, sunshine, and fertility in the coming year. Your place of honor at the celebrations was especially anticipated, not only because you were Asgard's newest princess, but because you were from Vanaheim — you were Vanir, same as Freyr. And, you were one of his descendants; his granddaughter, in fact. Yes — Loki was Odin’s son and you were Freyr’s granddaughter. Your union was a jóltide dream. The people of Asgard were abuzz with excitement, chattering about how special this year’s festivities would be… thanks to you.

You and Loki had been seen in public before, of course. You had endured your wedding and the celebrations that followed and managed fairly well. But that was a formal affair; beyond a few pecks on the lips throughout the day's festivities, you could go through the motions with little more than the occasional formal dance required, as far as physical contact.

The expectations at the jól festival were entirely different. It was to be a wild and sensual affair, with you and Loki performing a dance as the centerpiece of the fertility celebrations. This dance... the sensuality was not something that could easily be fabricated. You couldn't just go through the motions. The two of you would be chest to chest, eyes locked in a passionate stare, hands roaming and exploring each other's bodies. Your performance was meant to inspire not only yourselves, but all in attendance to go forth from the feast and be fruitful.

The thought twisted your stomach in knots and made your heart ache. How were you supposed to make it convincing? And if you did give in to the burning desire you had for Loki to put on the show that the people of Asgard were expecting, how were you supposed to protect your heart? Knowing that it wasn't the same for Loki; it wasn't real for him, too...

You had been training for this dance with an instructor for two weeks now, learning the basic steps. Having grown up in the royal court here, Loki was already familiar with the dance, so he didn't require the same training. But now it was time for rehearsals to begin. With only three days until the festival, you had to practice the dance with your actual performance partner... with Loki. You had to get a feel for each other during the dance; see where it felt natural to add in those caresses of your nose on his cheek, his fans of hot breath on your neck, the wandering touches on each other's bodies that linger just a whisper too long...

And your first rehearsal was in two hours.

You needed to get some air.

As you step outside, the frigid air engulfs you and steals your breath away. It’s a welcome feeling — a cleansing feeling. And it’s exactly what you need to clear your head and collect yourself before this dreaded rehearsal. You make a beeline for the palace gardens without much of a thought, your usual walking route essentially muscle memory at this point.

Your footsteps were nearly silent on the fresh-fallen snow that blanketed the path beneath your feet as you strolled throughout the garden, admiring the pops of color provided by the hardy winter flowers and berries that were currently growing there. As you approached the crocuses, you stopped to appreciate their bright purple blooms and the way the snow clung to the delicate petals.

Despite the harshness of the current environment, the flowers were thriving, refusing to let the cold and the ice dampen their beauty and light. A single tear rolled down your cheek as you resolved to do the same. You wouldn’t let your situation dampen your own light any longer.

“Darling…?” A familiar voice sounded from just behind you, seemingly out of nowhere. The snow must have muffled the sound of Loki’s approach.

What was he doing here?

“Oh, hello, Loki! You startled me; I didn’t expect to run into you out here.”

You quickly made to wipe the tear from your cheek as you turned to face him, but you weren’t quite fast enough; nothing got past Loki’s sharp gaze.

“So sorry to alarm you, I just came to the garden for some calm and quiet. The bustling in the palace as everyone prepares for the festival can get overwhelming.” He paused for just a moment, his brow creasing ever so slightly as if considering whether to continue before asking, “Is there anything troubling you, Y/N?”

Yes. So many things, you have no idea.

“I’m alright, Loki. I… I think the frigid air is just making my eyes water.” You managed a weak smile as you lied to your husband.

His eyes softened at your words; they beheld more warmth than you’d seen from him since before your forced betrothal.

“You know, Y/N… I know this hasn’t been easy. On either of us. But it doesn’t have to be this way between us forever. You don’t have to hide your feelings from me just because you don’t… just because we’re not…”

He struggled to find the right words to finish the sentence, but the implication was a shard of ice to your heart.

“What I’m trying to say is that you can talk to me. Ours may not be a marriage of love, but it still is a partnership. I can tell that something is wrong, that something has been wrong since our fathers broke the news of our arrangement to us. It was like, at that very moment, the light inside you was snuffed out. The woman that walked out of the throne room that day was not the same woman that entered. You’ve been a shell of yourself ever since you learned that you’d been sentenced to spend your life with me. And I’ve tried to give you space… to give you time. I didn’t want to pressure you, or suffocate you, so I’ve kept my distance. Waiting for you to be ready to speak to me again; perhaps even to spend time together again, enjoying our shared interests. But it has been more than 10 weeks now and I don’t think I can wait any longer, darling. Talk to me, please. I… I miss what we were before that day in the throne room.”

You blinked at him, flabbergasted. At a loss for words.

Set aside the sheer wonder of the sight before you: the tall frame, hung with lean muscles that strained against the fabric of the emerald tunic he was wearing. A note of gratitude crossed your mind that his Jotun ancestry allowed him to forgo any bulky outerwear to protect him from the elements, so you could enjoy this view, unobstructed. Even the way the snow clung to his dark, luscious locks and reflected the garden lights like a glittering crown had him looking every bit the winter king.

This man — this god — missed you. He mistook your heartbreak for… disgust.

As if you could ever find any part of him disgusting.

“Loki, I…” Your eyes darted frantically, looking everywhere but at him. Searching the winter blooms, the snow-covered tree branches, the festive garden decorations for a sign… for a whisper of encouragement. A murmur of reassurance. Was this it? Was this your moment?

When you finally met his gaze again, you saw nothing there but patience. Kindness. But also… longing?

“I love you.” You blurted it out, pushing the words from your lips before you could change your mind.

Your heart was pounding loudly in your ears; you actually said it. Nervousness enveloped your body like fresh steam, causing you to sweat despite the cold temperature.

“You…what?”

To say he was taken aback would be an understatement. It was clearly the last thing he expected you to say.

“I love you, Loki. I have for a while now.”

“Then why —?”

“Because I was heartbroken. Shattered. You’re right, Loki, the light inside me was snuffed out that day. Extinguished in an instant. But not because I was appalled or disgusted at the thought of spending forever with you. On the contrary, I had been dreaming of that very notion for years…”

You saw his eyes widen and his breath hitch before you continued.

“The light went out because I lost the hope that carried me forward; I never got to tell you how I truly felt about you — how much I cared about you…how much I wanted you.”

His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly at hearing you confess your desire for him.

You swallowed your own budding lust and pushed forward. “And so the delicate and, perhaps, foolish hope that we might have something real someday crumbled. Then, when I saw how much you withdrew from me, I… I was sure you had no interest in me. And that broke my heart even further, Loki, to know that you didn’t feel the same way about me and yet, we were trapped together in this marriage. I’ve never felt more alone than I have these past 10 weeks.”

“Darling…” he sighed as he closed the distance between you, reaching out his fingertips to softly caress the side of your face before brushing them under your chin and tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

The small gesture stole your breath away. It was the first physical contact you had with Loki since the wedding, and certainly more intimate than any touches you had ever shared. This wasn’t a public appearance; there was no audience. There was only him. And you. And the hammering of your heart.

“It appears that we have both been foolish.” A smile slowly crept across his lips as he muttered, “a pair of hopeless, lovesick fools.”

By now the smile had wholly taken root and a full grin had bloomed on his face, casting a light there that you hadn’t seen in months.

Oh, how you missed that smile.

“Loki…” you gasped. “Are — are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I love you too, wife.”

You couldn’t think straight. You could barely breathe. You had to be dreaming.

Loki could tell that words were beyond you, so he just continued.

“I’ve adored you for years, Y/N. Admired you in secret like an adolescent with an unattainable crush. Because that’s what you were to me: unattainable.”

“Loki, you’re a prince, a literal god… you’ve had a horde of maidens throwing themselves at you for as long as I’ve known you. If one of us was unattainable, it was you.”

“They were only ever interested in my body, in my array of talents between the sheets.”

A warm flood of arousal washed over you, hearing him talk so casually about his own sexual prowess.

“But you, darling… you saw me. You showed interest in my mind, my ideas, my company. You asked me thoughtful questions and you actually listened when I would answer them. I was so convinced that I didn’t deserve someone like that. Someone like you. And so I kept my feelings hidden.”

“Well…” you began with a shy smirk, “I am interested in your body and your carnal talents too, you know.”

“And I don’t know if there’s anything that could delight me more than learning that about you tonight,” he said with a mischievous smile and lust-darkened eyes that lingered on your lips before darting back to your own hooded gaze.

“Kiss me, Loki, please…” you breathed.

Without hesitation, he leaned down toward you, brushing his lips against your own. Featherlight at first, but soon growing more assured and confident, claiming your lips as his. And you were more than willing to let him stake his claim.

When he finally broke the kiss, you opened your eyes to see him staring down at you reverently.

“I love you, my darling wife. And as long as my heart is beating, I promise you’ll never be alone; you’ll never feel alone again. Perhaps things in our relationship have occurred… somewhat out of the preferred order, but by some generous twist of the fates, we’ve been thrust into each other’s arms and allowed to spend the rest of our lives with our one true love.”

Your heart swelled as you stared up at him. You felt that light within you reignite, shining brighter than it ever had.

“I love you too, husband. With my whole heart.”

He bent down and claimed your mouth once again, his tongue sliding against your lips, which you happily parted to allow him entry. All of the love and desire that you’d both been harboring all these years was finally unleashed and it was conveyed in the intensity of your kiss, and in the way his hands now began to explore your body. At least, as best as they could, over the coat you were wearing.

Suddenly, you found yourself looking forward to rehearsal.

And to the jól festival.

And to the rest of your life with Loki.

Below is the request I received from @smolvenger - I hope I did it justice, my lovely! Happiest Holidays! 🎄

Secret Santa 2023 Taglist 🏷️ @mochie85 @muddyorbs @holdmytesseract @sailorholly @lady-rose-moon @superficialdomina @cultofcarter @coldnique @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @smolvenger @loz-3 @catsladen @lokisgoodgirl @acidcasualties @divine-knight-hand @quirkiest-turtle @glitchquake @nyxlaufeyson @fandxmslxt69 @holymultiplefandomsbatman

[bijoumikhawal]

The Beetle and the Moon

(originally written and posted in 2022, posting it again here for fun)

My Dear Mr. Garak,

My prose is better than my poetry as you know, so while it would be fitting for me to write you poetry I am ashamed to say you must settle for prose.

It's strange that when I think about kissing you, I wonder if you would taste like the wind coming across the water in Alexandria, because I have been to the ocean many times and I have only been to Alexandria once. I was born and spent years of my life on an island, but I don't think of there when I think of you. I don't know if it's because apart of me thinks of England as home and Alexandria as a foreign place despite it being on earth, and associates the things that I am unfamiliar with that I wish were familiar together, or if it is simply because England is cold and a minute there would be misery for you.

I cannot bear to speak of Egypt to you the way I do England. It is a shame- I have coaxed you into the arms of many English authors, but never an Egyptian one or a Sudanese one or even an Indian. All four are part of me, but I fear the flaying of your eyes and tongue for three quarters of myself, though they are messy quarters and I am tripping all the time over where one starts and another begins. There are sores my family never let heal and now I have them, and I don't know what to do with them. It is considered deeply rude to speak of such things, deeply strange. We are meant to be 'past' such fumbling, all wounds meant to be only vague memory.

You love me as a Cardassian and you seduce me with Cardassian words, and I wonder, because you hide things, if you are hiding the way I am hiding, but I know not to ask. I love you like an Englishman because I love you like a war waged in backrooms, and I love you like an Egyptian because I wage these battles with words, and supposedly all Egyptians are witty if you believe one of many books I cannot show you because of how it cuts me open, and something possesses me to only want to show my insides if they're pretty. I love you in a way that reminds me of Nadira in the theatrics we both do, and I love you with a stubbornness. I love you though it is impossible, I love you like the beetle loves the moon.

The fact that I met you here reminds me of Calcutta and it reminds me of Bombay and Varmul and it reminds of Alexandria and it reminds of London and it reminds me of Khartoum, because many people here are transients trading and traveling somewhere else, and I came here for my work, which is how my family ended up in all of those cities and left bits of itself in them and those cities left bits of themselves in my family in return. In the case of the very last it shares unfortunate foundations, overcome for hopeful futures.

Miles teases me that I do not know enough history and the truth is I know enough history. If you stuffed any more history inside me I'd burst at the seams. Now perhaps you glimpse the truth behind "Bashir of Earth"- not, as you suggested to me once, Federation propaganda, but the simplest way to sum up 500 years of history in three words. Give or take a century, an eon, a lifetime.

I love you, and for a long time I felt those words either spoken or unspoken would be followed by an apology, but I do not apologize for that.

As I am writing this, I am receiving the news that the resistance has been routed and executions of those that survived the raid and their families have begun. I will most certainly do something stupid soon, likely many somethings, that would make you roll your eyes if you were here, but you are not here. So I am not sorry that I love you. I am perhaps sorry that we were born now, or sorry that I am not with you and Kira and Odo. I am sorry that color has leeched out of us these past two years. I am sorry I never kissed you and sorry I know why I didn't and sorry that the reason why you didn't and the reason why I didn't overlap, and I am sorry that I understand it is a good reason and even sorrier that I no longer care. I am sorry that I want to bring down with me knowing how far down you have fallen and sorry that there is farther still for both of us to fall, and I am sorry that while we are falling we are not by each other to share a bit of warmth and talk. Worst of all I am sorry that I cannot think of something I would do differently and be satisfied with it, because even the thing I keep turning over and over in my mind of my lips on yours and your breath in my mouth, as previously discussed, was avoided for a reason. I am sorry if you have died and I will carry it like a stone in my shoe for the rest of my life and right now I feel like I am walking on knives (I would have given you that story but it felt callous). I am sorry if you are alive because I know you love your people and I who is not one of them feels as though I cannot breathe from the weight of death and the killing is not even over yet, and though your death would break part of me I have managed to keep out of the reoccurring earthquakes in my life I would like to spare you pain. One of the hardest things for me as a doctor has been learning that some pain must be felt, that it is how the body tells you to start the process of repair, and I think that perhaps sounds callous but I haven't the strength to delete it.

If you are alive, of course I would like to kiss you and further I would like to spend the first night where we are in the same place after this with my head pressed to your chest and listening to your heart and lungs. I promise you I am not heavy. I could lay my head on your chest every night until there is no more head and no more chest and I would never be heavy.

That might not make any sense. I've rather a lot to drink and haven't eaten much the past few days out of anxiety.

I am sorry that you bared yourself before me, willingly and unwillingly, and I never had the decency to return the favor. Is a letter a facsimile of exposure? It certainly feels easier to write this than the thought of ever saying any of this, or any of my other insides, felt.

Why do Cardassians associate the liver with emotions the way so many humans do for the heart? Is the idea of filtration so romantic? Or is it the damage, the sacrifice that comes in the pursuit of keeping another healthy when they want to destroy themselves? Live so you can call my suppositions close minded. Live so I can, without a modesty screen, show you my insides without caring if they're pretty or intelligent or fascinating. Live so someone can forgive me after what I am about to do. Forgive me, if you must, for the fact that I am sending this now and refusing to wait for sobriety.

Yours,

Julian S. Bashir

[quitealotofsodapop]

Nezha frowned at the scroll before him. One of the few unedited copies of the Book fo the Dead that had escaped Wukong's graffiti centuries past. Whilst digging through archives in the Diyu on the behest of his father, he'd come across it. It was an unofficial copy, one that held all the information of its official counterpart, but none of the power. A draft copy so to speak.

And right there was his name, listed hundreds of years in the past, with a cause of death being a stray blast of the Samhadi Fire. One that was somehow averted by a certain monkey tripping at exactly the right time. Wukong had inadvertently saved his life during the Samhadi Fire ritual, and he had never known about it.

Connected to this previous idea of Wukong accidentally changing the recorded fates/ends of others.

Nezha has accepted that he's considered... well dead, by most Underworld definitions.

According the the official Book of the Dead; Nezha's death is listed as the very day he sacrificed his body to spare his family from the wrath of Ao Guang. The lotus-root revival by his mentor isn't really mentioned in the official document.

But in the Draft Copy which holds a lot more details and dates...

Nezha: (*picks up his Scroll, sees Projected Dates of Death in one of the headings*) Nezha, curious: "Ok, I'll bite." Nezha's Draft Scroll: "LI NEZHA first death; Self Sacrifice. Revived through Lotus Root by Taiyi Zhenren." Nezha: "No surprises there-" Nezha's Draft Scroll: "Second Death; Accidental Self-Immolation by True Fire." Nezha, pauses reading: "...what." Nezha's Draft Scroll, in bold lettering: "Fate averted."

Nezha reads the second entry carefully and pales when he lines up all the details.

Celestial and Infernal timekeeping isn't entirely accurate to Earth, but if the date mentioned on the scroll is correct then Nezha was supposed to die for good a long time ago.

Namely-

Nezha's mind immediately shoots to that night.

He was the first one hit by the Samadhi Fire when it split into four.

If Nezha had not been prepared mentally and spiritually, no doubt it would have been a serious injury.

But why hadn't he died that night as the Draft Scroll suggests?

Everything had gone mostly according to plan; The Samadhi Fire had been successfully extracted from Red Son, sparing him the chronic pain and early death carrying such a power entails. And the Fire had been sealed in Three-

No, Four Rings.

Ao Lie shouldered a quarter of the True Fire after that night. Even as a dragon, he was still a being of water and air, and the burden took it's toll on him physically in his remaining years.

Nezha's breath catches as he remembers why the Fire was split into Four instead of the intended Three...

Wukong.

Wukong had tripped during the Ritual, accidentally severing his tie to the Fire long enough for it to split once more.

If they had each been hit by a full Third of the True Fire as opposed to a lesser Forth then Nezha's lotus-root body would have...

Nezha rolls up his draft scroll and puts it back in it's place.

He has thanks to give. And an apology long overdue.

[sneepity-snoop-snorpity-sneep]

I gotta blabber for a sec about how much I appreciate how unique and SO not-simple of an antagonist Olrox is.

like he's introduced as the Vampire Who Kills Richter's Mom, and it was a straight-up murder. Like he fully sought her out, she was in the process of sending her kid overseas most likely because she knew he was coming - even before we fully get Olrox's side of the context, we can tell that shit was personal. Right down to the vivid green eyes, he's giving weirdly chill disney villain vibes. But the entire rest of the show? He's the dude in the bad guy car of the villain train just sitting and judging (OH is he judging) every other person there.

Olrox tracking down and killing Julia Belmont is the most confrontational we ever see him get. Every other scene he's in? He's watching, assessing, sometimes philosophizing, and eventually pulling his own chess moves, but fighting? Rarely! And the additional context of his character makes him even more fascinating!!

Olrox is really one of the only vampires in both Castlevania and C: Nocturne that seems to hold onto a connection to a human's life - even after he's no longer one. He reminisces to Mizrak about being a human during the fall of the Aztec Empire, he chooses to spend his time more like a human than any vamp since Lisa sent Dracula traveling like a human way back when.

Homeboy crossed the Atlantic by fucking ship, at a time when the trip took literal weeks and weeks and he can't even leave his quarters except at nighttime (granted, idk if he *has* a faster way to cross the ocean but it kinda seems like he'd do the ship trip anyways) he chooses to rent a room at an inn instead of staying at the chateau (and boink a cute human in said room, cough cough), and really seems to avoid other vampires - although I'm not sure if that's cuz he just doesn't vibe with 'em in general, or because he really doesn't vibe with the current hot vampire philosophy of the century, which seems to be very heavy-handled colonialism + elitism

I kinda wouldn't be surprised if it's both honestly - given that the only other vampire we meet besides him who spent time in the americas/new world was a literal plantation owning slaver (and unless I misremember, Annette says there were multiple vampires among the rich in St. Domingue), it seems pretty likely to me that whoever turned him was probably a vamp who had a direct hand in the downfall of his nation - coming to the New World specifically for conquest and to seize resources seems like it would be hella appealing for vampires. It would make a LOT of sense for Olrox's standoffish behavior around the other vamps to go back to him having been turned by someone very similar to them, who was probably not just an enemy to him, but part of this massive wave of destructive change in his human life.

like he really gives an impression of actively disliking and withdrawing from every other villain's motivation in this show - and it makes a lot of sense if my speculating is even a little bit close. The vampire's goals in Nocturne would be very nearly the same thing that drove the fall of the Aztec Empire - desire for power and control, justified by some """""natural order"""" hierarchy which really just boils down to 'we want all of this and we're going to indulge in making up a dramatic jerk-off reason why we're entitled to it, since you can't stop us taking it anyways and we've got time'

Dude seems to make little effort to be vampire-like - we rarely see him revel in his power like many other vampires do, as well as seeing him nonchalantly rubbing elbows with humans. He speaks fondly of a man he loved, who he fell for while said guy was still human, TO the other human he is currently crushing on! And I do mean crush, like he doesn't react to or treat Mizrak like a plaything, almost every time we get an Olrox lore-drop it's because he's talking to Mizrak sincerely about things that matter to him. He LIKE-likes this human, to the point of jumping directly into a fight to whisk Le Crush to safety in front of a vampire so powerful he won't directly oppose her! Absolutely fascinating behavior all around.

MAN but I want to see some flashbacks from this guy - as far as we know, vampirism is completely an Old World thing - Europe, Asia, Africa, every other vampire we've seen in both Castlevania shows has been from these continents. Were there even any vamps there at all before europeans landed on the shores of the americas???? I mean, I've heard of one of the old religions in mesoamerica having a suspiciously vampirelike god, but how would that connect to Olrox getting vampirized as a 30ish Aztec man?

MAN OH MAN but I am looking forward to seeing what Olrox gets up to in s2 -I'm burning to know if he's gonna survive the series or not, because despite him being the first villain we meet in Nocturne and doing a deed that usually gets villains the 'karmic death' ending, overall he's not really being written like a bad guy the audience wants to see go down. especially since he's not actually in opposition to our protagonists and has a vested interest in keeping one of Team Good Guys newer members alive. My guess is he's either going to get a similar ending to Isaac, a villain that we root for who actually catches a break and doesn't die, ooorrrrrrrr he's gonna get a Highly Tragic sort of death

[only-horse-polls]

TFHT Starter List

The mummified equus lenensis foal - Known for being one of the most well-preserved equine species from BC.

Kasztanka - Known as the trusted companion Marshal Józef Piłsudski.

Marengo - Known for being Napoleon's war horse, believed to have been a whopping 38 years old, he is also the horse in that one painting, you know the one.

Bucephalus - Loved companion of Alexander the Great, believed to be the most famous horse from classical antiquity, and lived to be about 30 years of age.

Staff Sergeant Reckless - Known for holding official rank in the US military, and quickly learning supply routes, so much so that she could make entire trips without a handler. She was given multiple awards and decorations, including two Purple Hearts and the Dickin Medal.

Potoooooooo - Also known as Pot-8-Os, became famous for his silly name.

Docs Keepin Time - Became well known as the actor who played Black Beauty in the 1994 movie. He also played The Black in the TV series The Adventures of the Black Stallion.

Hightower - Became known as Ginger in the Black Beauty movie in 1994, as well as carrying Julia Roberts in Runaway Bride (1999).

Kuporovic - Known as the cell donor for the cloning of the Przewalski horse.

Godolphin Arabian - Also known as Godolphin Barb is known to been one of the founding sires for the modern thoroughbred.

John Simpson's Donkeys - At least five donkeys, known as Duffy No. 1, Duffy No. 2, Murphy, Queen Elizabeth, and Abdul, who were known to carry injured soldiers to safety.

Radar - Was known as the world's tallest living horse between 2006 to 2009 at 202cm tall (6'7.5'').

Charlie - Known as the last shunting horse of the British Railways, who retired in 1967.

Figure - Known as the foundation sire of the Morgan horse.

Clever Hans - Gained fame in the early 20th century. He was believed to be able to read, tell time, understand German, and do math. Later, he gained more fame as he was studied by a psychologist who noticed the horse was actually picking up minor reactions from his trainer and responding to them as cues. His trainer did not even realize he was giving these hidden cues.

Misty of Chincoteague - The real-life inspiration for the novel with the same name.

Charisma - Was a successful eventing horse from New Zealand and is by some considered the greatest eventing horse of all time.

Occident - Famous for being featured in a series of cabinet cards by Eadweard Muybridge, most noteworthy the single frame photograph of the horses at a racing speed trot.

Halla - Became famous for her show jumping career and is the only horse to ever win three Olympic gold medals in the sport.

Lisette - The mare of French general Marcellin Marbot. She was reported to have attacked people she does not like, as well as likely killing two Russian soldiers, if not more (based).

Trigger - Also known as Golden Cloud, became famous for his acting career mid-1900s. He appeared in The Adventures of Robin Hood (1938), Roll on Texas Moon (1946), The Golden Stallion (1949), and many more.

Snowman - Became famous for his success in show jumping as well as his rags-to-riches story, as he was a former plow horse, bought for $80 when on his way to the slaughterhouse, and became a champion show jumper.

Highland Dale - Known for his acting career, starring in movies such as Black Beauty (1946), Fury (1955-1960), and Lassie (1954-1974), and many more, he was considered one of the most sought-after animal actors in the mid-1900s.

Impressive - A famous Appendix Quarter born in 1969 and earning his AQHA reg. in 1971. He was a world champion halter stallion, the first of his breed, and sired over 2000 foals, but also slightly infamous after hyperkalemic periodic paralysis was recognized in the 80s, a genetic disease that he had passed down to many of his offspring.

Sapphire - the chestnut Belgian mare, not the grey Holsteiner, known for having won Olympic show jumping twice as well as having a spot in the show jumping hall of fame.

Totilas - one of the world's most famous horses, becoming known as the first horse to score higher than 90% in grand prix dressage, and later infamous for the abuse he endured once sold to Paul Schockemöhle and Ann-Kathrin Linsenhoff.

Blueskin - One of the horses owned and ridden by George Washington.

Nelson - One of the horses owned and ridden by George Washington.

King - Known for having been a stallion with a large influence on the modern quarter horse in the early to mid-1900s.

Theodore O'Connor - Known as a pony who competed in the highest difficulty of international eventing.

Brooklyn Supreme - Held the record as the world's heaviest horse (1451.5 kg / 3,200 lb). The record has since been beaten.

Old Bob - a driving horse owned by Abraham Lincoln prior to his presidency. He was also a part of Lincoln's funeral.

[yourheart-inmyhands]

Hey so I have a kinda weird request, you have the right to ignore this of course.

How would Beidou, Yae Miko and Jean react to object of their love would say that they see them like their older sister (basicaly friend-zoneing them)

hi hi! sorry it took me so long to get to this, it took me a bit of sitting on it to get a good response formulated! sorry for the wait :3

Warnings: this post contains yandere-themes, including kidnapping, love potions/drugging, mentions of conditioning/brainwashing, mentions of Stockholm syndrome, and other potential topics. Please read at your own risk!

Beidou:

She’s understandably crushed by this, while she encourages the members of her crew to behave like family and considers them as much, she wants you to see her as more. She’s already an older sister figure to others, she wants to finally mean something more to someone.

Beidou takes a few days to collect her thoughts, skilly avoiding you and holing up in her quarters on the Crux as she contemplates her next course of action. She might be crazy and reckless sometimes, her history can speak to that, she isn’t one to rush in without a plan.

She emerges with a new confidence, her usual swagger in her step as she confronts you once more. She tells you that she wants to take you on a trip and to pack your bags, enough for a few weeks. And no, you can’t decline.

“C’mon Doll, go get packing, an adventure awaits us.” A chuckle follows her words, her hands waving you off in the direction of your home. She follows behind you, helping you gather your things and carry them back to the Crux.

Beidou doesn’t tell you where she’s planning to take you, and the crew’s lips are equally as sealed, but the sudden shine in her eyes, the extra bit of stretch to her grin, and the way she can’t seem to keep away from you, all tell you that it’s certainly going to be something interesting.

Beidou decides to take you on a fairly long goose chase. While she claims you’re headed in the direction of one nation, you’re actually headed in the other. It takes a long while before you notice that you don’t really ever seem to reach a destination, just stopping in at small harbors and cities to restock food and supplies before setting off again. 

Her plan was essentially to trap you on the ship with her, have you sleep in the captain’s quarters with her, and spend every moment you physically could with her. She wanted you to become reliant on her presence, to want her around the same way she wanted you around.

It’s a fairly shaky plan that relies mostly on you developing some form of Stockholm syndrome, but she’s insistent it will work. It has to. She needs you.

Yae Miko:

While she can understand where you’re coming from, it also frustrates her greatly. Of course, she’s very good at not letting it show, but she didn’t spend all this time doting on you and loving you like no other just to be seen as a sister.

She doesn’t let the sudden news interrupt your relationship though, if anything she’s just more insistent in the little ways she loves on you. A hand on the small of your back when you two walk together, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear for you, the little things. Little things that she wants to make your heart flutter like how you make hers soar.

The longer it takes to win you over the more frustrated she gets, her centuries alive could not grant her enough patience to put up with this. But she remains cordial, acting as if everything is ok and normal. Until she can’t keep up the act. 

“Just hold still darling, it hurts less that way.” Yae smiles as she watches you struggle against your rope bindings, she knows they aren’t comfortable and don’t feel the greatest, that the rough rope bruises and chaffs your skin, but it would have to do for now. She can’t trust you to be free just yet, after all, you haven’t proven your love and devotion to her.

Yae jumps into the drastic route of kidnapping, keeping you confined in a place that only she and a select few others are aware of. She’s with you all day every day for the first week or so and after that, the hours vary. She does still have duties to uphold at the Grand Sakura Shrine after all.

When she’s with you though, it’s time spent conditioning you into new behaviors and mindsets, making you dependent on her and her love to even function. If you cannot open your eyes and see that you do love her, then she supposes she’ll just have to show you herself.

When she’s not with you, you’re given some freedom to explore the strange area, but nothing too grand. You’re kept confined to a room, a door the only break in the walls, with basic decorations and furniture. Yae didn’t spend too much time decorating, she didn’t want you getting too attached to this place, after all, she plans to take you back home someday.

Jean:

Jean is possibly the most understanding about all of this. Not only is she already an older sister, but she’s also a leader and considered like family to a lot of Mondstat. This isn’t to say she’s not upset by this though, it hurts her deeply.

Deeply enough that she spends a few days burrowed in her office, drowning her aching heart out in mountains of paperwork. Eventually, Lisa lures her out with the promise of helping to change your mind, which Jean is hesitant to do.

She respects your decision and your choices, but she simply can’t imagine life without you. So it’s no surprise that she does accept Lisa’s help, who in turn recruits Albedo.

It doesn’t take long for Lisa and Albedo to come to a solution. Between their combined knowledge and power, creating a love potion was simple. Unorthodox sure, but Lisa was confident it would work, nobody would even know. Albedo was in it merely to see how one responds to being under its effects.

Jean is hesitant to give it to you, her hands turning the bottle over and over in her hands as she considers whether or not she wants to do it. There’s a small part of her that feels guilty about it, about taking such a large part of who you are from you, but the large part of her is dying to hold you in her arms, to leave kisses all over your face, to properly call you hers.

It’s almost startling how easily she finds herself giving it to you, inviting you over for some tea to apologize for her absence and her reaction to your rejection. Everything about it feels so normal, what reason would you have to believe your drink has been spiked.

When you take the first sip and it tastes funny should’ve been the first sign something was wrong, but at Jean’s insistence that she was sure she had made it right, you settle for taking another sip, eventually finishing your whole cup. A smile graced Jean’s face when she saw you set the empty cup down.

It didn’t take long for the effects to set in, after all, you’d consumed quite a bit. Seeing you looking at her like she put the stars in the sky like she was the greatest person you’d ever met, melted all of Jean’s doubts. Screw feeling guilty, Jean was happy you finally loved her back.

[emmyinjapan]

The Old Aburaya Inn in Matsuzaki, Ogori (旧松崎宿旅籠油屋)

The Old Aburaya Inn in Matsuzaki, Ogori, was a fascinating place I recently visited during my trip to explore the area. The owner shared that during the Edo period, there were a total of 26 inns in this region, and this is one of the few that still stand today. Though the building underwent restoration, which was completed around seven years ago, its history dates back over a century to the Edo period. The smaller building was constructed in 1849, while the main building was built between 1861 and 1864.

During the Edo period, this area was a post town, a crucial stop for travellers, including many samurai from Kagoshima making their way to Edo (now Tokyo). The owner explained that the main building was reserved for ordinary travellers, while the smaller building was exclusively for samurai and higher-ranking individuals.

A particularly intriguing tradition involved storing a pot beneath the tatami flooring in the samurai quarters. This pot contained the placenta of a newborn, as it was believed that the presence of samurai walking in the same room would help the child grow strong. Interestingly, a similar tradition exists in Oita, where items are also stored beneath tatami mats, though not exclusively a placenta, making this practice unique to this inn.

Additionally, the inn housed a huge chest that was traditionally used for carrying a woman's belongings during her wedding, offering a fascinating glimpse into the customs of the time. Notably, the inn welcomed many esteemed visitors, including prominent samurai and noblemen. One such figure was Saigo Takamori, a legendary samurai and key figure in the Meiji Restoration, often referred to as the “last true samurai.” His presence, along with other high-ranking officials and warriors, highlights the historical importance of this inn as a resting place for influential travellers. On the second level, high-ranking guests would look down onto the street below, a privilege reserved only for those of esteemed status. Common people were not even allowed to look up, as doing so was considered extremely rude.

I was deeply impressed by the sheer depth of history preserved within this inn and the remarkable architecture that has stood the test of time. The craftsmanship, from the elegant wooden beams to the tatami floors, told stories of a bygone era where every detail had meaning. Walking through the rooms where samurai once stayed and standing where noblemen once gazed upon the streets below was a surreal experience. I learnt a lot here, from the traditions and customs of Edo-period travellers to the importance of social hierarchy in historical Japan. The inn itself was beautiful, rich with history and tradition, and its collection of historical artefacts offers a rare glimpse into Japan’s past. It is truly a remarkable place and well worth a visit.

Almost forgot to mention that the inn has a swallow's nest on the ceiling. 🐦

—Emmy