#dylan angst

[soulofapatrick]

Falling Into You - Stiles Stilinski x Female Reader 

Summary: you and stiles finally give into your unknown crush on each other

Words: 2.6K

Warning: Heated makeout session; if you squint there's dry humping

Y/N’s POV

Living with Stiles has been far from boring. Ever since my dad was killed and my younger brother - Isaac - went to live with Derek, Sheriff Noah Stilinski graciously opened his home to me. That meant living with Stiles too, and let me tell you, it has been anything but dull. Stiles has this knack for turning even the most mundane day into a storytelling session filled with the antics he and Scott get up to. 

I’ve grown to love it here. The Stilinski house is like a second home, and the sheriff is like a second dad to me. He’s been incredibly supportive, especially during the tough times. And then there’s Stiles. He’s… well, he’s Stiles. Quirky, witty and always wearing that mischievous grin. 

Lately, though, something’s shifted. I’ve caught myself stealing glances at Stiles when he’s not looking. His passion for solving mysteries, his loyalty to his friends—there’s something undeniably endearing about him. Maybe it’s the way he cares for everyone around him, or the way he throws himself into every insane situation without hesitation. But it's more than that. There's a warmth in his laughter, a genuineness in his concern, that makes my heart flutter a bit faster. And as much as I try to ignore it, I can't deny that a crush has been slowly blossoming. 

Living under the same roof, it’s hard to keep these feelings under wraps. I find myself wanting to spend more time around him, hoping for moments where it’s just the two of us, away from the chaotic everyday that is Beacon Hills. Yet, I’m also terrified. What if he doesn’t feel the same way? What if it ruins our friendship or makes things awkward while living with him? 

Stiles is currently sat cross legged on my bed, looking so engrossed in whatever supernatural mystery he's delving into. His dedication is admirable, even if it means sacrificing proper posture for the sake of research. I can't help but steal glances at him every now and then, admiring the furrow in his brow as he concentrates. 

I wish I could tell him how I feel. But the fear of ruining what we currently have, the fear of changing the dynamic between us, it’s suffocating. So instead, I go back to focusing on my assignment, the words blurring on the page as my thought drift back to him. 

The room is quiet except for the clicking of keys and the occasional muttered comment from Stiles. As I sit at my desk, trying to concentrate on the assignment in front of me, my mind wandering again—this time an entirely different scenario and it’s one that feels both exhilarating and terrifying. 

I can’t help but imagine what it would be like to set aside the fear and uncertainty, to sit next to Stiles and lean in, closing the distance between us. What would it be like to press my lips against Stiles’? Would they be as soft as they look, as warm as his laugh? My heart races at the mere thought, a flurry of emotions dancing within me. 

I picture the moment vividly: closing the space between us, feeling the warmth of his breath mingling with mine, and the anticipation before our lips meet. I imagine his hands, tentative yet steady, finding their place on my skin, maybe on the curve of my cheek or the small of my back. How would it feel to have his touch ignite a thousand sparks, to feel the electricity between us? 

There’s a mix of longing and hesitation, the desire to experience that connection, yet the fear of disrupting the comfortable equilibrium we've found in our friendship. But in my mind's eye, it's a beautiful chaos—a leap into the unknown, a chance to explore something deeper, something that might exist beyond our late-night conversations and shared moments.

Before I can continue imagining me and Stiles the said boy breaks my thoughts, “Hey Y/N! Come here,” He speaks, excitement in his voice but his eyes never once leaving the screen. 

I force myself out of the reverie, blinking away the vivid daydreams as Stiles called out to me. His excitement is palpable, contagious even, and I push aside the rush of emotions to focus on the present. 

I rise from my chair, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and nervousness as I make my way to where Stiles is seated. He’s still hunched over the laptop, his attention entirely captured by the screen. With a careful step, I settle on the bed behind him, leaning over him enough to rest my chin on his shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s got him so intrigued. 

His warmth seeps through the fabric of his shirt, radiating against my chest, a sensation I try desperately to ignore. The scent that envelopes me—a blend of old books, faint traces of motor oil and a lingering hint of coffee—should be distracting, but it’s oddly comforting. It’s quintessentially Stiles, a unique combination that feels inexplicably familiar and reassuring. 

I glance at the screen, feigning interest in whatever supernatural phenomenon has grabbed his attention. But truthfully, my focus wavers between trying to understand what he’s showing me and the proximity between us. His presence feels magnetic, drawing me in, yet I fight the urge to let my thoughts drift into forbidden territory. 

“Look at this,” He exclaims, pointing to a section on the screen. His enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I forget the inner turmoil, getting lost in his excitement. 

Stiles is engrossed in explaining something on the screen, his energy palpable. I try my best to keep up, nodding along as he talks, but the proximity between us amplifies every emotion within me. 

Suddenly, he turns his head, excitement lighting up his russet eyes as he tries to make a point. His words trail off mid-sentence, and in that suspended moment, our faces are unexpected close. I feel his breath, warm against my skin, a sensation that sends a shiver down my spine. 

As if in slow motion, I notice every tiny detail—the freckles scattered across his pale skin, the way his eyes dart down to my lips for the briefest moment before meeting my gaze again. My breath catches in my throat, and I’m sure he can heart the erratic beat of my heart. There's a shift in the air, an unspoken tension that crackles between us. His cheeks flush with colour, a shade of red that matches the intensity of my own emotions. I can't tear my gaze away from him, from the way his eyes flicker between mine and the way his lips part, as if searching for words that elude him. 

For a moment, time seems suspended, our silent exchange speaking volumes. I feel a surge of courage and vulnerability intertwine within me, a silent plea for something more, a leap into the unknown. 

But just as quickly as the moment arrives, it slips away. Stiles blinks, breaking the trance, and clears his throat, shifting slightly away. "Um, sorry, got carried away there," he stammers, his voice a tad higher than usual.

The air feels charged with an awkward tension, heavy with the weight of unspoken words. I try to ease the discomfort by standing up, intending to head back to my desk and salvage what’s left of our usual camaraderie. But before I can even take a step, Stiles’ hand shoots out, wrapped around my wrist in a swift motion that catches me off guard. 

Caught off guard by the sudden proximity, I stumble and practically find myself in Stiles's lap. His warmth envelopes me, and for a moment, our heartbeats synchronise in a chaotic rhythm that seems to echo the unspoken emotions between us. 

Stiles’ eyes lock onto mine, a mixture of anticipation and vulnerability swirling within their depths. His tongue darts out to wet his pretty pink lips, a nervous gesture that betrays the intensity of the moment. Before I can fully comprehend what’s happening, his hand finds the back of my neck, drawing me closer. 

In that heartbeat before our lips meet, the world around us seems to still. His touch sends a surge of electricity through me, igniting a fire that I didn’t know was simmering within. And then, finally, our lips touch in a kiss that feels both anticipated and inevitable. 

As our embrace intensifies, the laptop becomes a mere afterthought, pushed aside to make way for the burgeoning heat between us. Stiles's movements are deliberate, his hands finding my hips with a confident touch, guiding me to straddle his lap as our bodies mold together. 

The kiss deepens, the connection between us sparking a newfound intensity. Stiles’ hands, warm against my skin, slip under the fabric of my teeshirt, sending shivers cascading down my spine. His touch is electric, fingers tracing patterns along my hips, a gentle yet possessive hold that ignites a fire within me. I tangle my fingers in his messy hair, feeling the soft strands between my fingertips as I tilt his head back slightly, deepening the kiss. There’s a dominance in his action, a confidence that surprises me but also excites me in ways I hadn’t anticipated. 

His lips move with purpose, fervent and seeking, a silent demand for more as our breaths mingle in the shared space between us. Each movement, each touch, feels like an unspoken confession of desires long kept hidden. 

My heart races as I lean into him, relishing the sensation of his lips against mine, the way his body responds to my touch. And as I lose myself in the passion of the moment, it becomes clear that Stiles, despite his usual playful demeanour, possesses a commanding presence that takes my breath away. 

As the intensity of the moment heightens, Stiles’ touch remains both from and reassuring, his hands guiding me with a tenderness that contrasts his newfound dominance. With a gentle yet firm pressure, his long, nimble fingers press against my back, coaxing me to lower myself onto him. There’s an undeniable pull in his touch, drawing me closer until I’m lying atop him, our chests pressing together in a shared rhythm. Our breaths mingle in the small space between y=us, the heat of the moment making the air around us feel charged. 

His chest rises and falls with each breath, syncing with mine, creating an unspoken harmony. The sensation of our bodies pressed together sends jolt through me, an electric current that ignites every nerve ending. 

As I rest against him, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat against mine, a rush of emotions floods over me—desire mingled with a newfound intimacy, vulnerability meshed with a sense of comfort in this uncharted territory. 

Stiles's gaze holds a mixture of passion and tenderness, a silent understanding passing between us in the shared silence. His fingers trace gentle patterns along my back, a gesture that speaks volumes, conveying a reassurance amidst the fervour of the moment. His lips part as if to speak but instead, in a very Stiles fashion, a torrent of words spill out in a hurried stream. 

“I-I've wanted to do this for so long, and I'm sorry, I should've asked, I mean, I wanted to ask, but then this moment happened, and I just... I didn't want to ruin it, but I should’ve—" He babbles, the words tumbling out faster than I can comprehend. His apology mixes with an admission that he’s wanted this as much as I have, and amidst his rambling, I can’t help but laugh softly, finding the sudden flood of words endearing. 

Before his apologies and explanations can continue, I decide to silence him the best way I know how. With a gentle yet decisive motion, I cup his face in both hands, capturing his lips in a kiss that speaks volumes, stealing away his words and replacing them with the silent language of our shared desires. 

The kiss is deliberate interruption, a way to convey everything I’ve been feeling in a single moment. It’s a tender yet firm assertion, an assurance that words are unnecessary amidst the eloquence of our connection. 

As our lips meet, I feel a shift in the air, the nervous energy dissipating into something more serene. Stiles’ initial surprise melts into a reciprocated warmth, and soon, the kiss becomes a dance of shared affection and unspoken apologies. In that suspended moment, the kiss becomes a story of its own—a narrative of unspoken emotions conveyed through the gentle meeting of our lips. Stiles's initial surprise gives way to a newfound ease, his lips molding against mine with a familiarity that feels surprisingly natural yet exhilaratingly new.

His touch, tender yet assured, ignites a cascade of sensations. His hands explore, tracing the contours of my back, sending tingles racing along my skin. There’s a delicate balance in his touch, a mix of reverence and longing that speaks volumes about the dept of his emotions. 

As our kiss deepens, I’m enveloped in a whirlwind of emotions. Stiles’ lips against mine feel like a discovery—a blend of softness and fervour, an unspoken language that surpasses any verbal communication. Each movement of our lips is a revelation, a testament to the unspoken connection between us. His closeness has a gravitational pull, drawing me in and enveloping me in a sense of security and desire. In this moment, I feel cherished, desired, and seen in a way that goes beyond mere words. 

The intensity of our kiss, a universe of emotions contained within, is abruptly interrupted by the jarring ring of Stiles’ phone. Startled, we break apart, a shared groan escaping both of us as the moment fractures, replacing by the intrusion of reality. Stiles fumbles for his phone, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. With a sigh, he answers and puts it on speaker, revealing Scott’s urgent voice on the other end, asking if Stiles had found any leads. 

As Stiles responds to Scott’s inquiries, I take the opportunity to sit back up, adjusting my position so that I’m straddling his waist. The shift seems to catch Stiles of guard, his breath hitching slightly, and I can feel the bulge pressing against my ass. I watch as Stiles bites his lip, a subtle attempt to suppress any involuntary sounds, his focus divided between the phone call and me, shifting on his lap. His eyes meet mine for a fleeting moment, and I can see a hint of frustration at the interruption, mixed with a smouldering intensity that sends a thrill through me. 

Leaning closer, I offer an apologetic smile, silently acknowledging the disruption but unable to resist teasing him but grinding my hips against his, pretending to get more comfortable on his lap. I notice the way his breath catches again and his hands dart for my hips unsure if they want to stop my hips or help me roll them against that growing bulge. 

“Sh-shit,” A moan escapes him and Scott falls silent as Stiles’ cheeks bloom a pretty shade of red, “Fuck, I gotta go, talk later.” And with that Stiles is hanging up, practically throwing his phone on the floor and in one quick moment has us flipped over so I’m laying underneath him. 

“Hi.” I breathe quietly, an ache between my legs. 

“Don’t you ‘hi’ me you little tease.” He grumbles, leaning on his elbows either side of my head. 

“What you gonna do about it?” I challenge, loving the gleam in his eyes. 

Stiles chuckles softly, his eyes dancing with mischief as he leans closer, his breath brushing against my lips. 

"Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea what you've started."

Teen Wolf Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

[willowrites]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞. ✮ 𝐝𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. after dylan finished his show you were feeling extra needy.. and so was he.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. quickie, dom!dylan, sub!reader, needy!reader, begging, fingering, p in v sex, names (pretty girl..)

𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒. first dylan fic he’s so bahddd!! sorry if the ending seemed rushed

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. to be counted.

dylan’s concert just ended and you were waiting patiently in his dressing room backstage for him to arrive. you knew he was saying hi to people and making his rounds but you had been so impatient all day.

what made matters even more irritating was that at the concert today dylan was extra interactive with the crowd. now you didn’t want to be misunderstood when you said that because you loved when dylan interacted with his audience but this time he was looking sweaty and hot and all the pretty girls were just pawing at him and touching him. you wanted to be the one doing that.

you sat on the couch staring into the wall across from you, awaiting his arrival. you heard footsteps outside every second but somehow some way you knew when he’d walk through the door. when he opened the door he looked happy and excited to see you.

“hey pretty girl.” he greeted before setting his water bottle on the counter of the dressing room. “how’d you enjoy the show?” you saw how his shirt was sweaty and clung to his body showing off his biceps in the best way.

“it was good.” you said nonchalantly, trying not to pounce on his good looking ass.

“just good?” he turned toward you surveying how you were sitting on the futon with your legs and arms crossed. “what’s up?” he wiped his head with a towel and turned on the ac unit.

“mm, nothing? why do you ask?” i questioned busying myself by looking at the outlines of his abs through the shirt.

“you look upset.” he walked closer sitting beside you on the futon. “and you usually give me the biggest hug afterward.. not in here but you wait for me out there.” his voice was soft and sultry. you couldn’t help but clench your thighs as impure thoughts made their way to your mind.

dylan noticed your action and smiled lightly. he went ahead and teased you by placing a kiss on your shoulder “just missed my girl out there…” your neck reluctantly moved further from him to encourage him to trail those kissed elsewhere.

“figured you had enough people waiting for you.” your breathing quickened as you felt his lips trailing more toward your ear.

“you’re all that matters..” he whispered before bringing his hand up and placing it on your chin before moving your face to look at him. you guys made eye contact before his eyes went to your lips and finally, like you waited for years, he connected them in a passionate kiss.

your lips molded with his, eagerly moving and wanting more. his hands immediately went to your waist pulling you closer while yours went to his face. you laid back against the futon as dylan explored your body with his hands. he was eager, kissing your neck and sucking love bites to show everyone who you belonged to.

two of his fingers went into your skirt ready to slide them down your legs. “this okay?” he murmured whilst continuing to mark your neck.

“mhmm.” you nodded threading a hand in his hair enjoying how he took his time. he went ahead and slid your skirt down and nudging it off the futon. he then put his hand inside your panties immediately navigating his way toward your center.

he moved his fingers all over spreading your arousal after he dipped his hands in your leaky hole. “so wet and perfect for me already.” he groaned before bringing his hand up to your mouth. “wet them for me, yeah?”

you obliged opening your mouth for him. his fingers entered and you let out a moan as you swirled your tongue around him tasting yourself on his skin. he pulled them out connecting your lips once before you felt his fingers enter you. your mouth fell open against his as he immediately started to thrust them in and out of your entrance.

you gripped his shoulders as he nudged that spot inside you that had you go feral. your tiny whimpers shot straight to his dick. “feels so good.” you whispered, opening up your thighs more to allow dylan to place himself in between them.

“gotta be inside you, right now.” he groaned in pain. you looked down and saw his boner struggling behind his jeans. you quickly removed your hands from his shoulder and reached down to unbotton and unzip his pants. you then pushed them down with your feet so that all that was separating you was the fabric of his boxers.

you felt his manhood poking your inner thigh. “hurry..” you whined reaching down, removing his boxers as well relieving his cock, and causing it to spring up. he grinned loving how eager you were to be filled up.

he lined himself up with you before pushing in all at once knocking the wind out of you. “that needy for my cock?” he questioned, immediately pulling your legs around his waist and pounding into you. “fuck, look at my pretty girl.” he moved your hair out of your face. your eyes were squinted shut as you felt him hit your sweet spot over and over. “looking so pretty and taking me so good.” he moaned with his head back.

you bit your lip as you made eye contact with yourself in front of the full body mirror that was behind dylan. you saw how fucked out you looked and made eye contact with dylan who was watching you watch yourself. “see how pretty you look, baby?” he grunted, out of breath as his thrusts were staring to falter. “fuck — !”

you felt that rubber band in your lower belly about to snap. your nails dug into dylan’s back as he quickened his pace to speed up your release. “gonna cum for me pretty girl? need it. need you tight around me. wanna fill you up so good” echoes of your skin slapping against each other filled up the room as you nodded to his proposal. “m’gonna fill you up so fucking good that you’ll milk that shit.” his grunts and moans were the push you needed to clench around him and ascend to the euphoric state of your orgasm.

your body seized involuntarily as the wave of pleasure hit you. your legs tightened around dylan’s waist keeping him still which he didn’t notice because he had reached his peak as well, shooting his load of cum into your tight hole. his moans were staggered but so angelic, truly music to your ears.

you both came down from your high panting in heavy breaths. “always so good for me.” he kissed you.

© willowrites

[nereevio]

- Spirited -

As @electricdecades once requested, I read Particles & Waves on ao3 and I loved it 🥹 might’ve pussied out halfway cuz it made me so sad (ofc i went back for it) but there you go, I couldn’t not draw them!

[reggieslocket]

[ruewrote]

𝑢𝑛𝑓𝑎𝑖𝑟.

PAIRING: stiles stilinski x gn!reader WARNINGS: none? GENRE: angst, fluff SONG INSPIRATION: latch by disclosure & sam smith WORD COUNT: 490 NOTE: he deserves all the love in the world, plus i just wanna give him a hug

Your week was long, everytime you looked at the clock it felt that the minutes grew even longer or it felt like you had no time at all, there was no inbetween.

The constant loud chatter of your classmates gives you headaches, which turn into migraines as the days progress, recently you had been keeping to yourself. Your words had been coming out alot snappier than you intended so you decided to stay quiet. Well turns out you learn alot about others when you don't speak all that much for a prolonged amount of time.

That sadly meant picking up on the little snide comments that people were making about stiles, at first it upset you. Of course it would, Why wouldn’t it? But then it just angered you right down to your core, he was the sweetest person you knew, always making sure the people around him were okay, cheering people up when they were clearly down. God, he even entertained Lydia's idiocy.

Yeah he was a klutz and he slipped up sometimes, but he didn’t deserve that. No one did, but especially not him. For what? Just being himself?

He was sick today, it was weird with him not sitting at the desk in front of you, it was almost eerie even with the talk from your fellow classmates, you missed him. The bell rang, you winced. End of school, end of this god forsaken week. looking around the classroom, students were out of their seats, some already out of the room. That included scott. Ugh. of course. 

packing up your stuff before making a beeline for stiles house, your heart heavy as you shut your car door, thinking over everything you had overheard. slowly making your way up to the stilinski residence. Stopping in front of the door, taking a deep breath before knocking.

You waited, listening for footsteps which soon came, rather quickly actually, an ouch soon followed, the door opened. there he was, with a lopsided goofy smile, he didn’t look sick? Mental health day? “Oh my god, hey! Dude I was literally just about to text you!” 

The way he was staring down at you with those stupid doe eyes, you couldn’t take it anymore. you threw your arms around his neck and pulled him into a surprised hug. He wasted no time in wrapping his arms tightly around your waist, not questioning anything.

 To anyone on the outside this probably looked super weird, two people hugging in the doorway of their house, but times like these weren’t uncommon between the two of you.

“I love you, you know?” you murmur into his shoulder, he was somehow able to pull you closer to him, squeezing you tighter. “I love you too.” 

In that moment you didn’t think about the kids at school or any other silly worries that you had, not when you knew that stiles had you.

The same way that you had him.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

© ruewrote 2024.

[freedomfireflies]

One of Those Days* | Mitch Rapp

Summary: Mitch has returned home from a mission to find that you need a little extra love.

And who is he to deny you?

Word Count: 1.3k

Dedicated to @finelinesss 💞

“Look at me. Look at me.”

Your eyelashes warily flutter open, head falling back against Mitch’s shoulder so you can see him in the reflection.

“That’s it,” he seethes, strong arm tightening around your middle. “Such a good little whore when you wanna be, hm?”

You shiver in his embrace, enamored by the way he speaks to you. The rough edge to his voice. The low, salacious purr as his dark beard brushes your cheek. The way his long fingers toy with your clit as he fucks into you from behind.

You nod to answer his question, knowing how much he hates to be left waiting.

The corner of his mouth dances with the idea of smirking but when his eyes find yours, you watch his expression darken.

At first, you’re unsure why, until you remember what led you to this moment in the first place.

Mitch had returned home from a mission to find you in bed, curled up into a ball, clinging onto one of his shirts as you tried not to cry.

After making his way to your side, he attempted to find out what was wrong. But you didn’t really know. You were just…sad. Pulled down by the weight of your unexplainable grief. To the point where it felt like you couldn’t even breathe.

Maybe it was because you missed him. Maybe it was because you knew he’d be leaving you again not even eight hours after returning home. Maybe it was because all you wanted to do…was have him hold you.

Either way, seeing the concern in his eyes as he crouched down in front of you nearly tipped you over.

But Mitch had made himself more than familiar with you and these bouts of sadness.

And he’d learned only one thing can really help:

A good, hard fucking.

He’d kissed you with so much fervor that it forced your breath to hitch, helping ease the panic in your chest. And you wanted to thank him, but he didn’t want to hear it. He only wanted to hear your soft, needy whimpers of pleasure.

Minutes later, he had you stripped and pressed against the wall as he got down onto his knees to taste you. Of course, it wouldn’t be an afternoon with Mitch if he didn’t edge you a few times first. He kept you there for what felt like hours. Yanking you to the edge of release only to abandon you moments before you fell. It was cruel, and painful…and everything.

And once he was sure these were different tears streaming down your face, he felt satisfied.

Next, he took hold of your wrist and flung you around until your cheek met the wallpaper and his large palm met your ass.

The sharp sound echoed around the room as you groaned and tried not to squirm back into his touch.

“That’s for not telling me how much you needed me,” he hissed, teeth grazing the outer shell of your ear. Then, another spank. “And that’s for being my good little slut.”

He didn’t stop until you finally came. And just when you thought he was through…he led you over to the full-length mirror.

Which is where you’ve been for the past twenty minutes. Mitch’s stamina has always been rather impressive and today is no exception. You already know he’s holding off just so he can keep playing with you. Distracting you. Giving you enough marks and bruises to remind you of him while he’s gone.

Not that you’d really need them to remember him.

“How’s it feel, hm?” he asks, and you let your eyes trail down the veins in his arms as he continues thrusting into you. It makes you smile. “S’this what you wanted? Wanted to be thrown around and abused?”

Again, you nod, unable to answer verbally. Especially not now that his hand has found your throat to give it a good squeeze. 

“I know, baby.” He sounds proud of you. Proud of the way you’re behaving for him, even when this is all about you. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Always. Always so fucking good. Make Daddy so proud, don’t you?”

The nickname makes you gasp as your lashes begin to flutter, overwhelmed by the need for him and the pressure to your neck. 

You know he did it on purpose. Can see the smugness on his face as he reaches up to brush his thumb down your lip.

The droplets of blood that had begun to collect from a previous kiss smear across his finger and your chin as he drags it down…before bringing it to his own mouth.

You watch him suck your blood off his finger. Indulge in the way he groans, and at the way he presses his chest into your back as if to consume you.

That’s what does it for you. Staring at him, and loving him, and feeling him. You come and he’s a half-second behind. Filling you up as your knees just about give out from beneath you.

And you love the sounds he makes. Love the way he groans deeply before burying his face in your neck. As he tries to kiss you through it but can’t quite find the strength to do so as it sweeps him under.

You feel proud of the way you can make him come undone. Feel proud of how easily he loses his self-control for you. How willing he is to wrap himself around your finger.

Missing him breaks your heart.

But having him…makes it all worth it.

When he finally drops his hand from your throat, you move to speak. To thank him or whisper his name, but his head is already shaking.

“No,” he murmurs, turning you around to kiss you before dragging you back to the bed. “None of that. Just gonna hold you, okay?”

“Mitch—” you begin with a teasing smile, but his firm expression remains put.

“I mean it,” he repeats, almost as if to warn you. “Want you to be a good girl and come lay in my arms, okay?” 

“Mitch—”

“Now.”

And you smirk as you allow him to guide you down onto the mattress. His strong arms quickly encircling around your frame as he pulls you into his chest. Your face meets his slightly sweaty skin as you giggle, and he buries his lips into your forehead. 

You breathe him in for a good minute or two as he rubs his palms up and down your spin. Helping to bring you back to this moment. Even though your brain is trying to take you to the next one.

“Mitch?” you whisper, eyes falling shut as you press your mouth to his sternum, feeling the way his heart thumps against your touch. 

“Yes, baby?”

A beat.

“I love you.”

He’s still for a moment before he’s somehow tugging you closer and tangling his legs with yours.

“I love you,” he repeats back, that confident voice of his now a broken rasp. “So fucking much. Hate leaving you like this.”

“I know,” you tell him. “But you have to. I’d never want to get in the way of your job.”

“You are my job,” he tells you, with so much earnest vulnerability that it makes your head spin. “Being here with you is all I want to do. Fuck this other shit. I mean it. Just want to make you happy.”

You smile, head tilting back to see him. “You do. Always.”

He takes hold of your chin, a look of indecision on his face. Almost as if he doesn’t believe you. 

Then…he sighs, and presses his lips to yours. “Did so good for me, baby. So fucking proud of you.”

You flush at his praise, smiling as he trails his kisses down your cheek. “Always, Daddy.”

He grins. “How about I take you to dinner? Wanna just be with you before I have to go.”

The reminder makes your heart lurch but the promise of a meal with him by your side quickly distracts you. Even after everything, he’s still taking care of you.

“I’d like that,” you whisper, nuzzling your face into his palm.

He smiles. 

“That’s my girl.”

~ Other Dylan Blurbs

~ Full Masterlist

[obriengf]

he loves me, he loves me not - w/stiles

it was hard to muster up that much confidence; to intake such a deep breath that you felt dizzy, to ignore the hammering of your heart against the caging of your chest, to fight against the nagging voice in your head chanting 'stop' over and over again. it was hard to find that courage to speak before you think; to take that long leap between two cliffside edges, laying out your cards without the promise of a full sweep, to dip your toes in the cold rage of the ocean waters. the ability to become so incredibly incomposed was something that you wish you could fathom, but it was just so difficult the mere moment you glanced into his eyes. and you knew you were gone. lost. frozen.

"i love you."

it wasn't until you watched his amber eyes grow, bewilderment holding them captive as it was his turn to simply freeze. you didn't even recognise your voice as is slipped involuntarily past your shaky lips - an out of body experience, watching as the scene began to fade to a murky grey to complement the darkened cloud that had suddenly appeared overhead.

stiles gulped. visibly. painfully. conflict danced between the scrunch of his brows and twitch of his jaw - the embodiment of trepidation, eptimome of ambivalence, quintessence of apprehension. he was all of the confusion and indecisiveness that one could muster, and he wore it so well like a badge of honour that he did not want. on the inside, his lengthy fingers would be tearing at his hair and provoking gasps of panic from the look he knew you would be giving him next. the look, that he knew, would break him as much as it was about to break you.

"i-i don't... i'm sorry, but i don't love you. not, not like that."

it was a whisper that could have so easily been carried with the wind. it was quiet, and soft, and shaky as his voice broke. if you weren't standing so goddman close with anticipation, then you would've missed it. it was hard to see those beautiful amber eyes after that - your view disrupted by a glaze of emotion, tears that gathered and clung for dear life until you would allow them to fall. the possibility of his denial was always on the board, but you wished otherwise. you manifested the love he would give you, and how he could have repaired your aching heart, and given you the devotion that you so easily offered him.

words were lost on your tongue as they weighed heavily, preventing any further prying, stopping any further embarrassment.

it was like air as you stepped around him - feet light, floating, the ghost of who you were moving without any thought. you couldn't feel how your heart sunk and screamed for help, how it was drowning. numbness filled the cavity of your empty body, just a shell of a girl who laid everything on the line before losing it all. it was always going to be a gamble.

stiles forgot how to move, himself. as if the second you left his presence, a switch was flicked and his power was drained. what he said was in all truth, but that didn't make it any better; it wouldn't ease his conscious or remove the image of your broken composure from the forefront of his mind. he was convinced that his heart already belonged to another, and even they had no idea just how much of a hold they truly had. would he be able to love more than once? the thoughts were rough as they penetrated his chest, his heart on a skewer, the agony prevalent at the prospect of losing you.

the image of your saddened expression returned and stiles shut his eyes. he could feel you with him, still - seconds had barely passed, everything moving in slow motion. he could smell your perfume as it lingered behind him, and the crack of a stray sob that was choked back. he wanted to reach for you. his hands clenched, momentum building to swing around and just grasp at your wrist, to pull you back to him -

"there you are!" his eyes opened, but there was someone else there. the figure of which he had imagined his heart belonging to, the person he was so surely convinced was for him. but now, he wasn't so sure.

their hold was gentle as they cupped his cheek, asking if something was wrong. stiles shook his head and offered a smile, convincingly enough for the worry to be dropped and forgone. the story that followed from the kind soul before him was lost on deaf ears as he turned around slightly.

he shouldn't have turned. he should not have looked briefly over his shoulder. he should not have let the curiosity get the better of him. stiles should have left it as it was.

because if he did, then he wouldn't have seen you wipe away the tears that you let fall. nor would he have seen the anguish that came with your broken heart.

he wouldn't have wondered, for such a sweet small second, of what would've happened if he just told you that he loved you too.

[connieisthesun]

Chemistry and Cadavers - Conrad fisher x reader

Chapter Summary - You, a bright-eyed sophomore college student majoring in biology stumble upon Conrad fisher, an attractive yet forgetful student who happens to forget his pen on his first day of class...

Warnings - Fluff, teasing, super cute tbh haha

*Authors note* - So I've decided to start a new series due to the nonexistent amount of new tsitp fic's here lmao, if you enjoy a like a repost would be appreciated. Let me know if you have any feedback to improve my writing. Enjoy loves!

Chapter 1: Chemistry and Cadavers

The crisp autumn air on the college campus was invigorating, bringing with it the promise of a new academic year filled with possibilities. The campus was alive with the sounds of students hurrying to their classes, the rustling of leaves in the trees, and the distant hum of chatter from the quad. Among the new faces and returning students was Y/N, a bright and ambitious sophomore majoring in biology.

Y/N had always been passionate about the sciences, and this year, she was especially excited about her anatomy and physiology class. Little did she know that her enthusiasm for the subject would lead to a series of events that would change her college experience in ways she hadn’t anticipated.

As she walked into the lecture hall, she noticed the familiar faces of her classmates and scanned the room for an available seat. She spotted a spot in the middle of the room and made her way over, settling into her chair just as the professor walked in.

“Good morning, everyone,” the professor greeted, his voice carrying a tone of authority and excitement. “Today, we’re diving into the intricacies of human anatomy, and I have a feeling this semester is going to be an exciting journey.”

Y/N smiled to herself, her excitement bubbling over as the professor began the lecture. She took out her notebook, ready to absorb every detail of the day’s lesson. As the lecture progressed, she couldn’t help but notice the student sitting a few rows ahead of her, who seemed to be struggling with his notes and the lecture material. He had tousled brown hair, a laid-back demeanor, and an occasional frustrated glance at his notes.

When the lecture ended, Y/N gathered her things and headed out of the lecture hall, intending to grab a coffee before her next class. As she walked through the bustling hallway, she was approached by a friendly voice.

“Hey, Y/N, wait up!”

She turned to see her friend Lila catching up with her. “Hey, Lila! What’s up?”

“I heard you were in the anatomy lecture this morning. How was it?” Lila asked, a teasing smile on her face.

“It was great,” Y/N replied. “I’m really looking forward to this semester. Anatomy is such a fascinating subject.”

Lila’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “You know, I think you might have a classmate who’s also taking that course. He’s known for being a bit of a mess, especially when it comes to anatomy. His name is Conrad Fisher.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Conrad Fisher? I think I saw him in class today. He seemed to be having a hard time keeping up.”

Lila laughed. “That’s the one. He’s actually a really nice guy, but he’s notorious for needing a little extra help with his studies. If you see him around, you might want to keep an eye out. He’s always borrowing pens or asking for assistance.”

Y/N chuckled. “Noted. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Later that week, Y/N found herself in the anatomy lab for the first time. The lab was a place of intense focus and concentration, with rows of cadaver tables and an array of dissection tools neatly arranged. The room was filled with the quiet murmur of students working together, and the scent of formaldehyde lingered in the air.

Y/N set up her station and began to review the lab manual when she heard a voice nearby.

“Hey, do you have a spare pen?” the voice asked.

Y/N looked up to see Conrad Fisher standing beside her table, his expression a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He held up a pen cap, indicating that he had lost the actual pen.

“Sure, here you go,” Y/N said, handing him a pen with a smile.

“Thanks,” Conrad said, taking the pen and looking visibly relieved. “I seem to have misplaced mine again. I swear, it’s like they disappear into thin air.”

Y/N laughed softly. “It happens. You’ll get used to the lab environment eventually.”

Conrad smiled gratefully. “I hope so. I’m Conrad, by the way. I think we’re going to be lab partners for this course.”

“Y/N,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

As they worked side by side, Y/N found that Conrad’s easygoing nature and good humor made the long hours in the lab more enjoyable. They talked about their classes, shared stories, and found themselves falling into a comfortable rhythm of collaboration. Despite the occasional moments of distraction and light-hearted teasing, they made a great team.

Over the next few weeks, their interactions continued to be marked by playful banter and occasional flirtation. Conrad would often ask Y/N for help with his dissections, and she would gladly oblige, offering guidance and tips with a teasing edge.

One day, as they were working on a particularly challenging dissection, Conrad looked up from his work with a grin. “So, Y/N, do you have any other hidden talents besides being a dissecting wizard?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a mischievous smile. “Well, I can bake a mean batch of cookies, if that counts.”

Conrad’s eyes lit up with interest. “Cookies? Now you’re speaking my language. Maybe I’ll have to take you up on that offer sometime.”

“Only if you promise not to lose any more pens,” Y/N replied playfully.

Conrad laughed, shaking his head. “Deal. I’ll do my best to keep track of my writing instruments from now on.”

Their banter became a regular feature of their interactions, and the chemistry between them was evident to everyone around them. Despite their undeniable connection, they both maintained a façade of casual friendship, much to the amusement of their friends.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling lab session, Conrad and Y/N found themselves sitting on a bench outside the science building, taking a well-deserved break.

“I think that was the most challenging dissection we’ve had yet,” Conrad said, stretching his arms. “I’m glad we made it through.”

Y/N nodded in agreement, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “I have to say, your technique is improving. You’re almost as good as me now.”

Conrad raised an eyebrow. “Almost? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

As they chatted, a group of their friends approached, and one of them, Sarah, gave them a knowing smile. “You two seem to be getting along quite well.”

Y/N and Conrad exchanged a glance, both of them trying to suppress their smiles. “We’re just lab partners,” Y/N said casually.

“Sure, just lab partners,” Sarah said with a teasing grin. “But everyone can see the chemistry between you two.”

Conrad blushed slightly, and Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. “We’re just friends, honestly.”

Sarah and the others laughed and continued on their way, leaving Y/N and Conrad to their conversation.

“You know,” Conrad said, his tone playful, “it’s funny how everyone is always trying to push us together.”

Y/N shrugged, trying to hide her own smile. “It’s probably just because we spend so much time together. It’s hard not to notice the dynamic.”

Conrad’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Well, if they’re right, maybe we should just embrace the idea.”

Y/N gave him a playful nudge. “Oh, really? And what would that look like?”

Conrad leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “It would probably involve a lot more teasing, a few more flirtatious comments, and maybe even some impromptu study dates.”

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “Sounds like a lot of work. I think we’re doing just fine as friends.”

“Agreed,” Conrad said, his smile warm and genuine. “But it’s fun to think about.”

As the weeks passed, Y/N and Conrad’s playful flirtation continued, with their friends often teasing them about their obvious chemistry. Despite their mutual attraction and the flirtatious banter, they remained steadfast in their commitment to being just friends.

Their interactions were filled with laughter and light-hearted teasing, creating a dynamic that was both enjoyable and endearing. Whether it was borrowing pens, helping with dissections, or sharing jokes, their connection grew stronger with each passing day.

As the semester progressed, Y/N and Conrad found themselves increasingly drawn to each other, their friendship evolving into something deeper and more meaningful. Despite their best efforts to deny their feelings, the chemistry between them was undeniable, and their playful banter only served to highlight the growing connection they shared.

Tag list - @conradfisherswifesstuff @cheezbot @grxnde-dwt @itsshayfr @lanivoid @calpurnia2002

Comment or heart to be added.

[pparacxosm]

wounded in

(blue-eyed son part 2: electric boogaloo !!!! ; (hate to be that gal but you may have to read the first bit for context); homeless era!patrick zweig x jaded businesswoman!reader; nonlinear narrative; tw office job; tw coworkers; tw mcdonald’s; the sound of music stuff is for myself; i fucking love sound of music; and i fucking love cats (the animal not the musical, though that's lovely too) so there’s that; pushing a patrick zweig can’t spell agenda; tw new england maybe; i gave new rochelle a better rap this time; kiss scene kindaaaa ??..? ; tashi coaching patrick after new rochelle is canon to me; tw descriptions of emojis; what if i told you there’s a part 3; then what)

You hold in a bout of laughter when Patrick brings the drinks to the table.

His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, which wasn’t that long ago, in scale. In bones, in feels like a while.

Dear old New Rochelle. Far enough out that the city is a twinkle on the horizon like a cluster of stars, far enough that there are some actual stars above you, now. It’s odd to see him in New England. It’s odd to see him in jeans. But then it’s September.

There are new lines on his face already. He’s aging quicker now, as if to make a point.

Drinks are on me,

Is the first thing Patrick told you, when you walked in in a juniper parka. Scanned the room, picked out his booth.

Is this the part where you tell me you’ve opened a savings account? you said, trying to seem completely blasé about it. It would have been childish to be thrilled by such meagre chivalry at twentyeight. I feel like I should pay, you’re in my city.

Yeah, but you’ve hosted me enough for now.

That’s what you are, half the time. A host to him.

A museum. Thumbing through a rolodex of all the different shades of blue his eyes could go in one humid night.

You pass on more nights out than you accede to. You got a cat. You’re getting LASIK soon. But what it really looks like is that you’re wearing glasses to show that time has passed.

“What’re you smiling about?” Patrick asks, placing the foamy mug of beer in front of you.

You wipe discreetly under your eyes, spreading the mascara smudge. “Just thinking about how my aweinspiring generosity has rescued you from the misery of total squalor.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, they say to pay it forward.” He sounds pleased as he lifts his own mug with a wink.

You look out the window. There’s a film of dust on it. There’s dust on the faux-chintz curtains too.

You start to wonder if that’s what he really thinks. That this is him going forward.

Patrick picks up the plastic menu. “We ordering sidedishes or do we want a full dinner? What’s good in Wellesley?”

You try to laugh, though the noise has the distinct tender hue of a sob. But you’re sure you feel mostly fine. “What are you doing here?”

“Hm?”

“What are you doing in Wellesley?”

Patrick looks up at you with bright, twinkling eyes. “Challenger in Boston. Thought it’d be a waste not to come see you.”

You clench your jaw to prevent more runny mascara. It’s stupid. You don’t much like waste either. But you’re not going to weep in front of Patrick like a child.

“You hungry?”

You nod, picking up your own menu, hiding your face behind it.

His hand reaches suddenly across the table, trying to touch yours. You pull away, but make it look like you didn’t.

“Bet you had a hard time leaving Tobes for the night,” he says, trying to lift the mood.

“Um yeah. A little. I like to imagine what she gets up to when I’m away.”

“My sister had a cat, when we were young. My sister was, like, seventeen, and I was eight, so pretty big gap.”

Because he has to clarify those sorts of things. Because you don’t know he has a sister. You don’t know anything.

You find it hard to picture him pinned down in any humane way. It’s always his beautiful leg (now sheathed in denim) writhing in a bear trap. Always his papery wings unfurled and pinned against a picture frame like a butterfly. Something metamorphosed. Something capable of a great change, and that must be tortured for it.

“She found the cat in an alleyway. She called it Patrick.”

You lift your eyes. You feel it bubbling in you like magma, the urge to coo. You feel all soft these days. And maybe that’s just open heart season, and the passage of time. But you see a vivid meridian in your life, and it falls right along the night you met this guy. And this back half is all soft, so you sort of want to blame him.

You swallow.

“Well, that’s sweet.”

Patrick lowers the menu. “Nope,” he shakes his head, that huge smirk on his face, like his name is on every ticket of the raffle, like he’s cheating at something. “Let me tell you what she used to do. She used to put the fucker in, like, a blanket, right? And she’d lift it up like a sack, with him inside, and he’d obviously start clawing and making all of these noises—“

He makes the noises. Just starts whipping his head around and making kitten growls, imitating this cat with his name. You get the sense that this is one of those anecdotes that explains a lot about a person.

“—And she’d come into my room, in, like, the middle of the night—this is real psycho shit—and she’d lift my covers and drop the cat. And the shit would fucking claw at me and bite me, just—“

He’s doing the noises again. And now he’s clawing at the air with his hands.

He stops, and the way he closes his mouth around his grin makes his teeth look like they’re trying to escape past his lips. But it looks sort of lovely.

“When the fuck died, Saskia texted me. She was like, oh, he loved you so much, you should’ve said goodbye.” He pauses, widens his eyes, looks at you with the pointed intimacy of sharing in this ludicrousness.

You roll your eyes. But you catch yourself smiling. You like the idea of him being mauled like that, skin deep. You get the sense that life has done to him a lot of that—those growls and scratches. And that sounds a little fucked. But what you like about it is how he seems so unmoved now, by this psycho shit. This flailing animal, this torture device. Pinning him down. He's laughing.

You try to imagine him as a child, but the proportions are all comically bizarre, in your mind’s eye.

“Pork chops,” you say, throwing the menu aside. “I feel like stuffing my face.”

Patrick gets three sausage egg McMuffins on the way to the New Rochelle Country Club—and fries, and a hash, and a soda—and he’s eating the second by the time you pull out of the drivethru.

There is a compelling sense of chaos to how he drives. Like, he’s so bad at driving. Three different people honk at him in a dozenminute window. And you feel content knowing that whatever had had your heart thumping last night has not shrivelled and died with the morningtime. Though now it’s maybe a partial distress for your safety. But you get the sense that, maybe, this is actually the person you are now. The woman who sleeps beside a rugged stranger and buys him breakfast and doesn’t care how he speaks with his mouth open while he’s eating the fries. Doesn’t care about the writhing mire of half chewed potato on his tongue. The way his lips gleam pink with salt.

“I need to listen to really specific music to, like, get in the zone? If you don’t mind?”

He sounds so uncharacteristically shy, for brief a moment. You have to lean forward and look to see he isn’t joking. He isn't.

“Uh— yeah, of course. It’s your car.”

He slides a Sound of Music soundtrack disc into the mouth of the dashboard.

You laugh so hard you fold over.

He’s got one hand on the wheel, and shifts is his seat, peeling the unfamiliarly clean skin of his thighs off the leather before sitting back down. He’s tearing into his third breakfast sandwich with a reckless abandon reserved for death row. He laughs around the bite, glancing, bemused, between you and the road, and, ultimately, spending more time looking at you.

“What?” he laughs around a halfmasticated mouthful. “What?”

There are tears sluicing down your face. You can’t breathe. You think you can, and then you start laughing again, and you can’t.

“How do you solve a problem like Maria?” Patrick hums cheerily as he noshes. It’s a gross and wonderful noise, the food moving between his teeth, circumventing Hammerstein.

You think the large coke is probably no performance enhancer, not only because he all but tumbles out of the car when it’s hardly halfway parked (poorly, you’ll add).

“Fuck, need to piss,” he says frenetically.

When you know the notes to sing…, carols Julie Andrews.

You’re still laughing. Crying. Your tummy fluttering painfully.

Patrick makes you order dessert too, since you’re celebrating.

Celebrating what? you had to ask, though, at the time, you were wearing an impish, knowing, frankly celebratory sort of smile.

Patrick feigned great offense. He said, I’m fucking here, aren’t I?

He wants you to have sundaes together. You spill some ice cream on your skirt. He finds that funny. He’s always got this weasel smile, like he’s constantly ready for amusement. He’s shaved, at some point between now and then. The hairs on his face are sparser. The skin on his face looks milky and organic like a crinite litchifruit.

The frumpy diner was his idea too.

He’s spent some time on the veritable extremes of the economic spectrum—that’s what life tends to be for him; veritable extremes, scratching him meanly—and now he just wants to play at being the average wage earner.

“You really are welcome to stay with me, if you’d like.”

Patrick looks at you like he’d rather shoot himself.

You sort of marvel at his sense of pride, as if it were a rare stone, swallowing light and spewing it out at all angles. The Sociology course you took in uni had a whole two modules on personal pride. It is one of the few emotions that are unique to humans.

Patrick—for his weasel smile and beastly hunger and feline anti—is remarkably proficient in being human. In the real, visceral parts of it. In wielding his emotions like kaleidoscope hues. Dancing freely in confinement.

“When are you leaving?”

“Don’t worry about that. If you have time for breakfast tomorrow, we can—”

“Mm, not tomorrow, I don’t think. But I have no plans this weekend.”

You say it with this weird, bright intonation, like you’re jesting. Which—a lot of things feel like a bit of a joke these days. But he seems to understand you well enough. Delivers a curt, unspurned nod, and even a smile. Not the weasley, chronicling one. The wolfish one that makes his eyes crinkle up.

“Come here then,” he says.

Patrick leans in for a hug. You can’t avoid it. He enfolds you in a fascinatingly soft, burning embrace. He still smells sort of musky and acrid. Like even though he can shower regularly now, he maybe doesn’t as often as he should. But you find a gross comfort that. This pleasantly fetid, human man. His cologne smells like a wine cellar.

He says, “It’s nice to see you again.”

Something churns in your belly. Maybe the pork chops. Maybe the ice cream. This whole fucking day. You accidentally deleted some files and IT spent five hours trying to help you unsheathe them from oblivion. You felt like a failure. And now you’re here and,

“Fuck, you’re still so cool.”

You push away from him with a forceful laugh.

You used to be able to tell your sister all kinds of things. But, lately, you haven’t been able to talk to anyone about anything.

Working so many years for a soulless corporate hive mind has turned you into an expert at short, polite, and meaningless feedback that only varies with inflection.

“Right”, “Sure”, “Got it”, “Whatever you think is best”, “Already on it”.

Half the time you sound illiterate. The other half, you sound like you could have written Prozac Nation.

When your sister asks, how was New Rochelle? she expects you to say something annoyingly vague and ominous in your cool, collected adjunct’s voice, like: Everything is under control.

But, instead, you say, “Do you and Mark still go to mass? I really want to start giving more of myself away.” And you’re wearing this smile that’s utterly sincere.

That’s what spooks your sister.

Of course, you want to tell her more. Because your sister married a Herman Melville character; one of those grizzly, stinky, sacerdotal men who don’t want to work but don’t want to lose either. You know your tale of Linklateresque, serendipitous connection would render her mesmerised and marginally jealous.

But, soft and charitable as you may now be, you keep it all to yourself.

Patrick is still in Massachusetts a fortnight later. You say you’d have loved to come and see him play, but you’re really busy, and he says not to sweat it. Insists really. Maybe even begs. Do not sweat it.

You text him, presumably a day or two afterwards, and ask how it went.

Smahsed it!, he texts, and garlands the (misspelled) notion with eight sunglassfaced emojis. You counted. Dibner? he texts.

Then, a moment later,

*dinner?

You get to see your first New Rochelle sunrise.

You slink out of bed with toothfairy softness, even though Patrick is sleeping the sleep of death—with a deep, miserable snore like a resounding dirge to prove it—beside you. Your pillow wall, in the night, had collapsed like Berlin in 89.

You step outside. You check your phone, first, but you do go outside. You do believe in fresh air in the mornings, even if you don’t have the fortitude for mindfulness and journaling.

The parking lot is a vast open soul. Regretfully resigned and stunningly silent.

The sky looks like a bleeding mouth, but the hard grey edges around it don’t seem to care. The concrete enterprises and litter splay do not want anything to do with this bruise. A tart, sort of sewery smell makes your eyes water.

Cars drive by too fast. 

You think, in some faraway capacity, you can hear the soft, rhythmic thunk of tennis balls hitting asphalt. But it’s only your heart.

You hear things. You see things.

You don’t want to sound like some haunted Victorian heiress with a mystical past, but you do.

In the break room, mostly.

So you hadn’t noticed before. Your coworker, Sam, goes fucking wild for tennis. Sam’s slobbering lewd and voracious over tennis. It’s hard to witness. In fact, you feel dirty witnessing this. You should call HR. Sam’s in the break room doing an onanistic oneman scene play about tennis.

Or maybe he just kind of likes it.

And you hadn’t noticed it before.

There’s a lot, for your part, that you were content not noticing around the office.

But now every errant tenniscentric commentary makes your hands feel sore and weightless without the presence of a gun.

“No, you don’t get it, Deirdre, this is like if LeBron played a game at some random Y, and got dunked on by this fuckin’ nobody, and then just… quit the game.” He sounds tumid with bewilderment. “Just fuckin’ dipped!” Sam’s incredulous. “Forever!”

“LeBron…?”

“Fuck, Deirdre, you’re killing me.”

You slot the mouth of your bottle beneath the spout of the water cooler. You close your eyes—zombieleaden, uneven on the tiles; it’s only 10—and listen to the halting trickle, trickle… stream. The plastic goes cold against your palm as the water rises.

“All because of some… fuckin’,” Sam snaps his fingers, “Fuck, I forget the name.”

Peter Zeppelin, your mind supplies dryly.

It is then that Sam chooses to notice you. Points his finger. Wide smile. “Oh-ho, here’s trouble!” says Sam.

Sam and you have had enough one on one conversations for you to list on your one free hand, and you wouldn’t be spoiled for digits. But, all the same,

“Here’s trouble!” Sam announces, “Big shot boss babe, huh? Back from kickin’ rear in New Rochelle. I know you’re glad to be back.”

You don’t say anything. You feign responsiveness, flash a stilted smile. But you don’t say anything. Because what would you say?

Outside the men’s bathroom of the New Rochelle Country Club, you fidget awkwardly, standing against a wall and trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick’s duffel sits at your heels like a staunch hound.

Your gaze meanders around the venue with an idle sense of inquiry.

You’d expected a certain echelon of grandiosity, anyway. And the country club is nice—you feel silly casting any judgement at all—if a little outdated. All glossy wood-panelling and pea green outdoor carpet.

You can see yourself, warped and bleary, upon the polished floor. The bar flourishes a glassy sheen and cloistered amber rows of lavish whiskeys.

Through glass windows, golf splays unfurl, ceaseless viridescence, beset on all sides by sharpcornered hedges.

People mill about with the air of the lookedafter, and polo shirts as white as the maw of God.

Which is nice—it’s all nice—and all, but your chest seems to enwreathe a stark state of dread. You feel the sort of nausea that would rack you as a child. Floating in the curtains at your dance recitals, like an anxious little poltergeist.

When Patrick emerges from the loo, he is whistling. Fluting finely the swooping tune of ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’.

“You certainly seem unburdened,” you murmur, gaze shadowing him as he draws near. You know you sound unconvinced. For his part, he looks undeterred.

Slings his bag over his shoulder like it is floatable, even as you know it bears the poundage of half a man’s life.

He grins, flashing a canine.

To you, he has just eaten his weight in greasy, leaden carbcloth, and proceeded to piss for twelve minutes straight.

But Patrick seems imbued by morningshine.

He throws a heavy arm around you, squeezes your shoulder. Says, “Look alive!” Says, “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, the breakfast of champions, and I’m about to get paid!”

You wince a bit at his volume, and also because he seems to be emanating a bit of that morningshine. Not to speak of the heat. Searing from his very bones.

If nothing else you admire his buoyancy. In that way, the warmth—even as the sun blooms above you—is a fascinating comfort.

Like something to be shared.

You say yes to dinner.

You keep having dinner. He keeps taking you out for dinner, and to decent places, too, places you haven’t even been to around here.

You’re sitting across from him. You’re eating, as one does. He’s regarding you with something like awe. Though you wouldn’t know it, because he regards, too, his plate, when the waiter rests it before him, with a sort of comical reverence. Even though you’re pretty sure he’s not starving, anymore.

But hunger’s not always about those sorts of things, you suppose. Maybe he's just still hungry.

He’s winning a lot. Must be, if he’s taking you out all the time, and—hey—maybe you can get him to sign something for Sam. That’d be nice of you.

Patrick watches you eat.

You try not to stare back at him. As long as you keep chewing, you won’t have to ask why he’s still here.

“That’s a nice shirt,” he says after a long silence.

You smile. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t text you for months, many months, after New Rochelle. You’d given him your number, because you wanted to put the ball in his court, and—fuck—here’s hoping you didn’t say that.

But you can’t recall.

It’s been months.

So, when you do get the text, you’re pleased to see it’s aptly contrite.

ypu probably think I’msn idiot, it reads, and it’s late at night and you’re already in bed, stewing over NYT Connections.

You eye the ID. Maybe: Patrick Zweig, but that’s implied—so many implicit little shards—because not a lot of people are so tortured by the prospect of your opinion on them so as to text you at 1 AM. So.

Define idiot, you text back.

dictionary defenition is Patrick Rupert Zweih. There’s prpbably even a lil picture of me next to it.

A few moments.

A bad one.

Ten or eleven emojis of abject terror.

You consider this—not a bad picture of him (though he doesn’t quite strike you as wildly photogenic anyway), just... This Whole Wound—and tap the side of your phonecase in tentative thought.

Your full name is Patrick Rupert Zweig? Tough.

Like ypu didnt already look me up.

You blink. Whoa—okay.

Not a humble idiot, I see, you type.

You don’t know where you get the balls. There’s a sweeping litany of long, gorgeous miles between your bed and New Rochelle, but maybe he can smell you thinking as much because,

Im in MA next week

In the registration room, a man with a binder asks his name, and Patrick sheathes his canine in a way that makes him look conspiratorial and amused. You suppose it’s become an inside joke.

The ATP official seems to gleam with recognition when Patrick does give his name—his real name—and he says, “Oh wow, that is you!”

You can’t see his face from this angle, but you can envisage the way his moue has settled in confusion.

Apparently, the ATP official was a line judge at the Junior US Open back in 06.

You try to think back to what you were doing in 2006. Probably populating your microcosm in The Sims. Trapping little imitations of those who had scorned you in swimming pools to drown.

“You were really something back then, huh?” says the ATP official.

Your eyes flicker to Patrick’s profile. He doesn’t quite know how to respond to that.

The official hands Patrick a packet. There’s a little map of the facility in there, in case he gets lost. His first match is against one Gonzalez, on court seven.

Patrick says, marginally halting, “Hey, so, is there any chance of an advance payment on the prize money.”

The official blinks.

“Because I know I’m guaranteed a minimum of four hundred dollars even if I get knocked out today—“

You frown a bit at that. The official frowns a lot at that.

“Well,” he says, “Generally we don’t give out winnings until a player makes his way through the tournament…”

A beat.

Then,

“You could always just lose today. Then we’d have to cut you a check this evening.”

Patrick hardens to bone. You hope he has another lifeaffirming piss in him. He doesn’t meet your eyes when he turns to leave, but flicks you a glance that seems to ask that you spare him the judgement.

You leave New Rochelle today. Good as the night’s sleep may have been, he knows better than anyone that life’s loveliest things are fleeting.

So—fine—you don’t begrudge him. Instead,

“He seems hopeful,” you say wryly.

“Must’ve been thrown off by my pretty caddie,” he says dismissively. Maybe a little bristled.

The warmup courts, deep blue plane, shimmer in the sunheat.

Patrick takes the asphalt, flicks his racket around by its handgrip as though refamiliarising himself with the palmfeel for the first time in a while. Which—well—doesn’t give you confidence, at risk of contesting Julie Andrews.

He practices his serve. Starts to work the ball up and down the court. Hits a few forehands, a few backhands.

Then,

“He was lying,” he yells to the bleachers.

The bleachers are mostly empty. A few errant loiterers. Bored spectators who have finished their lunch earlier than their friends. What have you.

He’s looking at you, though. With a staggering precision from so far away.

“What?”

“That guy. He was lying. Or… bigging it up. Or whatever. I wasn’t really something, I was just decent.”

He strikes a ball over the net. You can see, from here, the vibration ricochet through the racketstrings with a shudder that has you expecting music to flutter out.

You lean back in your seat, sort of sliding down against the glossy plastic, a tremor of induced electric tickling your bum through your jeans. You cross your arms.

“That’s kind of bullshit,” you call out.

He spares you a glance, sort of doubletakes, and you can see the corner of his mouth tremble with intrigue.

He takes another ball from the basket. Tosses it up. You watch the neon starsphere spin fleetingly in the air before being walloped to oblivion. And what do you know of tennis? But you do think his serve is a thing of beauty. Beauty measured in power and precision, sure (he hits the ball straight and hard and fast and low, just barely clearing the net), but you can also see the way his muscles work beneath his skin. Which—you know.

Patrick walks to the fence that partitions the courts from the stands. He leans over, rests his arms on the palisade, and looks at you.

“This was the whole problem,” he tells you, “Everyone was always telling me how good I was. And it got to my head. And now I’m here.”

It’s a shabby imitation of humility. What it really is, is an attempt to scale down the apogee, so the fall seems less mythic. So the years seem less unkind.

“I didn’t come here to watch you sulk just because some guy was nice to you.”

Patrick grins. His cheeks are flushed with heat, and there are little spots of sweat on the hollows where his skin and bones meet. But he seems to know not to exert himself fully right now.

“You think I’m sulking?”

“I think you seem pretty torn up for a guy who’s going to play a thirty minute match, and walk away a few hundred dollars richer.”

He makes a noise like you’ve wounded him, but he seems elated.

“A few hundred dollars?” he says, raising his brows. “So you’ve lost your faith in me.”

“I have some,” you allow, and you’re not surprised to find that you really do. “Just don’t choke.”

Patrick wears the smile of a newly crowned Miss Universe. He looks touched that you’re being so frank.

“I won’t,” he says, with a sense of finality and what you feel is an incongruous tenderness. “I’m pretty good at dealing with pressure. My parents always used to take me to work with them and tell employees to come to me at random intervals with madeup highstakes scenarios. Like, pretending to have a breakdown, and saying they needed me to help them out and make the final decision. Some of them could cry on command.”

You try and fail to hide a look on your face that divulges how demented you think that anecdote is. But you try to find something neutral to say.

“Well, maybe you’re lucky,” you tell him. “I was horrifically nervous as a child.”

“Not anymore?” he asks, swinging his racket idly, and you get the sense he’s actually very interested in how you will answer.

So it’s hard not to answer him honestly.

“I don’t know,” you say finally, and you look away from his eyes, and instead at the sky. You’re alarmed to find they are precisely the same tincture of aegean. “Mostly not. But if I have to give a presentation or speak up in a meeting, I have to take one of those beta blockers, you know? Propranolol?”

You are stricken, at odd moments, in New Rochelle, in Massachusetts.

You get the sense that he’s trying to be cavalier. But, at the same time, there’s this unmistakable fragility about him. Like it wouldn’t take much to knock him down.

You are stricken by how he’s managed to maintain this cocksure swagger for so long. With such a brittle, aching core.

How easily it all might’ve been shaken by the wrong person, and the wrong word.

You love the smell of your dear kitty’s head right after a bath. The fluff of dandelions and baby bird. You love toweling her, taking her little paws in your hand and prying the toes open.

Toby pretends not to like being fussed over, but she doesn’t put up much of a fight. In fact, most nights, she falls asleep in your arms.

When he pays you the visit, Ms Tobes is breathing evenly in your arms, your thumb caressing the organtender slope of her silky head.

You open the door, and great weeping gales have been jostling your windows all evening. But he is in shorts.

Patrick’s been in New England for nearly a month.

There’s an odd sort of look on his face, and an unlit cigarette behind his ear.

Hands in his pockets, he leans against the door frame, staring down at you. You feel a remarkable heat radiating from the downy flesh of his bare legs.

He doesn’t seem confident, nor does he seem unperturbed. He seems… pensive and maybe even penitent, but he wears it with a fascinating poise. There’s still something wounded and vulnerable about the way of his shoulders, the slant of his mouth. It's the softness that kills you, anyway, you think incoherently. 

You peer up at him, dubious, through the briar of your lashes. He looks down at Toby, at the sweep of your finger over her head. You do not know if it is he or Toby who purrs.

When he speaks, he is whispering very softly, though there’s a frayed, low seep of his voice in his throat. It feels revoltingly intimate.

“When Patrick died,” he says, “The cat. I felt so shitty. I had this weird feeling of—like—I don’t know. Shittiness. Because of how Sassy said what she said. You should’ve said goodbye. What am I supposed to do with that, y’know?”

You swallow. The hallway is so vacant and noiseless you can hear the plush shuffle of his running shoes against the carpet. Dutifully beyond the boundary of your home, even though he’s been here quite a few times now.

“Patr—“ you croak.

“I’m not in Massachusetts for a game,” he tells you, shrugging hopelessly and almost smiling. But failing to. Which you register. “There’s no challenger in Boston. There’s just you. In Wellesley. All these… fucking ponds everywhere. Private schools. Bunch of rich little assholes who need a tennis coach, I bet. All these res—fuck. You know,” he shifts, taking the cigarette from his ear and gesturing with it between the two of you, “We’ve been out, like, twenty times, since I’ve been here, and there’s still, like, fifty restaurants we haven’t been to.”

You stare up at him. Your palms, where they cradle Toby, grow damp. The throbbing organ of your heart takes up residence in your throat. There’s a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the hall.

You lift one trembling finger to your lips.

Please, don’t say anything else, you beg with your eyes. Please, not in front of Toby.

Patrick’s eyes glint ruefully. Almost ominously. He seems insulted by your gesture, but he understands. He always understands. He never holds anything against anyone.

“No need for that,” he says very quietly. “I come in peace.”

He moves closer, breaking the enclave where the carpet of the hall meets the vinyl of your floor, until he is inches away.

A head taller, yet shrinking, as if you were seeing him from across a room.

He smells very good today. He smells like spice and bergamot and the laundered fabric of his navy blue halfzip. You sort of miss the musk. Of course you think of New Rochelle. You think of Bob Dylan and Hello Kitty and thermostats. Fucking Sally.

You lift your chin.

“I’m not asking you to—“

Patrick leans forward, his nose touching your nose.

“I’m gonna do the tennis,” he speaks the words into your mouth, voice like gravel melting in the sun.

You part your lips. A part of you hates him, hates how he’s insinuated himself in your life without warning. Another part, however, is asleep and betrays you.

He shushes you, though you’re sure you haven’t said anything. It’s just that you’re crying now. Completely still and silent. Weeping like the dead, because the dead weep, too.

He shakes his head, his nose brushing over yours, says shhh like you’re a cat, and, even then, Toby only stirs between your fingers.

“It’ll be good,” he says, and you’ve heard him sound convincing. You know that right now he sounds… something else. And he’s still shaking his head as he whispers, “It’ll be good, I’ll be good. I have a coach, I’m not done, I love the tennis.”

You look up at him. Lick your lips, which, when you’re so close, also means sort of licking his. Sort of licking into him. You want to say, fuck your tennis and fuck you too, but you also want to fuck him and you want to fuck his tennis, too.

You think of New Rochelle.

Patrick’s hand meanders upward toward Toby, and, if his cigarette was lit, you’d see sweeping coils of smoke floating heavenward.

It isn’t lit, but still.

You catch him quickly. You hold him by the wrist.

His skin is nauseatingly warm.

“You love it?” You sound unimpressed now. Your mouth moves over and around and against his as you speak.

“I do.”

“You love it, you love the tennis?” You’re sort of spitting it at him, and he tastes it.

And he thinks of Patrick the cat, how he lay there and was mauled. Pinned down. He thinks he’d let you draw blood, now, if you really wanted to.

“Tennis doesn’t love you.”

“Do you?”

There is time enough for you to answer. But when a sound is finally made it is only Toby, who mewls.

Patrick smiles. You feel the seam of his lips touch your lower teeth. “Didn’t think so.”

He straightens, his lips swiping your nose on his way up. He gently removes his arm from your grasp, your nails scraping is skin.

You exhale sharply. You feel stung.

Poor Toby, caught between your beating hearts. Patrick steps away. He places the cigarette between his lips, and then you do not stop him from touching Tobes. He strokes her gently.

“You got a lighter?” he asks around the cig.

There are three aflame candles in your home right now. He can smell the vanilla. You shake your head. He smiles again. Toby purrs. Patrick’s fingers touch yours between the heather fur.

You feel a strange ignition in your bones.

The game begins.

Everything is quick and violent.

You don’t know if tennis is actually quick and violent, or if that’s just him.

You are astounded by just how much a man can sweat. You are spellbound by the visceral implication of being drenched in one’s own exertion.

Gonzalez is younger. A little bit more thrilled to be here. And he’s got the kind of easy, quick thoroughness that means he probably practices with a ball machine at home, but not a lot of real experience.

Patrick makes brutal work of him.

There is a certain way his muscles tense through his forearm and the pulse travels up his bicep when he strikes the ball. His shirt rises as he twists to send it flying over the net. There is so much laboured breath and dripping skin.

He has you sit exactly where you sat during warmups.

Between sets, he extends his arm, taut and sweatsoused, and points to you with the scratched edge of his racket, one eye closed like he’s mapping trajectory. And he does sort of have this bloodhungry precision in his gaze, like a marksman.

You feel it in your neck, the ache of your focus, how your eyes water for lack of blinking as you swivel your head side to side. You do not close your mouth once.

He hits the ball again, and then again. Each with an almost startling accuracy. Each with a deep and fleshsatisfying thwack that makes your very ear canals thrum with the sort of pain that has you expecting the warmth of dripping crimson on your shoulders.

But it’s not just the force that strikes you. It’s that precision. That bulletgleam precision.

He seems to know, with a profound, animalic certainty, exactly where to place each shot.

At times, they will land exactly where the last landed.

And by the time his adversary cottons on, he has set his hungry eyes upon another target.

It’s beautiful.

You start to wonder if you have ever—ever—looked so fucking beautiful doing any single thing in your life. This strange and beautiful violence. Refined and delicate violence. He is violent and graceful.

Patrick groans when he hits the ball. Makes a guttural sound, a pained sort of sound, like he loses something of himself with each forceful departure.

The sun beams down, and you see his beautiful legs flex aglow with the beautiful gleam of his abject labour.

You think, fuck—

New Rochelle is beautiful.

“You know, I could have gone pro.”

Sam leans back in his Herman Miller chair. Takes a deep quaff of his coffee before pointing to Deirdre with his mug.

“You played for two years in middle school,” Deirdre deadpans, her gaze unmoving from her monitor as she populates a spreadsheet with who the fuck knows.

“This is huge, D,” says Sam, unhurt, “This is like if Jamal Mashburn started coaching the fuckin’ nobody that demolished LeBron at the Y.”

Deirdre seems to have forgotten this analogy, which, for her part, Sam first made months ago now.

“But also if Mashburn was married to Lebron,” adds Sam.

Your computer screen casts depressing polygons across your glasses. You slide your AirPods in. You don’t want to know where Bob Dylan will appear on your Spotify Wrapped.

I met one man who was wounded in love. I met another man who was wounded in hatred. And it’s a hard, it’s a hard— It’s a hard, it’s a hard—

It’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.

[soulofapatrick]

They Find Out You're Pregnant: Teen Wolf Boys part one

Summary: How each boy finds out you're pregnant

Words: 4K altogether

warnings: unplanned pregnancy but mostly fluff

As I step into the bedroom, I sense the tension thick in the air, swirling around Stiles like a storm cloud. He’s curled up on the bed, facing away from me, and I can tell he’s not asleep despite the lack of his usual cute little snores. His shoulders rise and fall with a rhythm that betrays a restlessness I’ve come to recognise all too well.

“Sti, baby?” I press, desperation creeping into my voice. I need him to look at me, to see past whatever wall he’s built between us. Cold eyes and a scowl meet my gaze when he finally turns to face me, and it feels like knives piercing my heart.

“Stiles, what did I do?” I press on, desperate for him to look at me, to see those beautiful brown eyes and his cute little nose and his quirky little smile that has me feeling giddy. Instead, I’m met with cold eyes and a scowl as he burrows further into the bed as if he wants to disappear and it breaks my heart. 

“You know what you’ve done, asshole!” His words sting, buried back in the pillow, yet his pain is palpable. It’s then that I realise — he’s found the test. The pregnancy test I took last night, discarded in the bin, not thinking Stiles would see it until I was ready. Dread settles in my stomach as I know what he must think as we haven’t done anything for a few weeks as the full moon happened and now boom, pregnant test. 

“Sti, listen to me.” With resolve, I move closer, needing him to understand. He tries to evade me, but I’m quicker, using my werecoyote strength to turn him onto his back. We wrestle for a few moment, not wanting to make Stiles feel utterly powerless, until the fight in him leaves and I’m straddling his waist, holding his arms down gently but firmly. 

“Mieczyslaw Noah Stilinski,” I use his full name, a last resort to get through to him, and his resistance finally melts away. His tear-filled eyes meet mine, vulnerability shining through the facade of anger. 

“Stiles, baby… Stiles, I’m a coyote,” I start, trying to explain the complexities he may not fully grasp or have thought of. He nods, his expression pained, as if bracing for the worst, “We have heats and ruts. Stiles, that test was mine.” The weight of my words hangs heavy in the air between us. His blush telling me he’s embarrassed, but he’s trying to understand. 

“You’re pregnant?” His voice is quiet, laced with a mixture of hope and disbelief. I just nod, feeling a rush of relief that the truth is finally out. 

“Yes Stiles. I’m pregnant with our child.” I say it plainly letting the enormity of the revelation sink in. His reaction is immediate— he sits up abruptly, catching me off guard with a headbutt that he seems oblivious to in his rush to kiss me.

The kiss is desperate, passionate, a floodgate of emotions breaking open. Stiles’s hands find their way to my waist, pulling me closer as if he's afraid I might disappear. My hands cup his face, fingers trembling slightly with a mix of relief and apprehension. His lips move against mine with a hunger that matches my own, seeking reassurance and connection in the midst of uncertainty. Every touch, every caress speaks volumes—of love, of fear, of hope.

When we finally pull apart, breathless and flushed, our foreheads lean against each other, eyes closed as we try to catch our breath. My fingers thread through his hair, tangling in the messy strands that I’ve come to adore. Stiles’s hands linger on my waist, his touch grounding me in the reality of our shared moment.

The intimacy is interrupted by the sudden creak of the bedroom door opening, a stark reminder of the world outside our bubble of emotions. We break apart reluctantly, turning to see Noah Stilinski standing there, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. His gaze flickers between us, understanding dawning slowly as he takes in the scene before him.

"I... I need to go sit down to wrap my head around this," he says softly, his voice thick with unspoken questions and paternal worry. With a brief nod to us both, he retreats downstairs, leaving Stiles and me staring at each other in a mixture of disbelief and joy.

"Fuck!" Stiles breathes out, a nervous laugh escaping him as he runs a hand through his hair, still trying to process everything. I can’t help but chuckle softly, the tension easing as we share a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion.

Our hands find each other naturally, fingers intertwining as we sit. The weight of what lies ahead hangs heavy in the air, but so does the undeniable bond between us. Stiles turns to me, his eyes searching mine for reassurance, for confirmation that we're in this together.

"Are you okay?" he finally asks, his voice soft yet filled with a myriad of emotions—love, concern, excitement, and a touch of fear.

I squeeze his hand gently, offering him a reassuring smile. "I'm okay. We're okay," I assure him, knowing that while the road ahead won't be easy, we have each other to lean on.

Stiles leans in, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead, a silent promise of his commitment and love. "I love you," he murmurs against my skin, his words a soothing balm to the uncertainties swirling around us.

"I love you too," I reply softly, feeling a surge of warmth and gratitude for the man beside me, the father of our unborn child.

I sit nervously on the edge of Scott's bed, my legs bouncing with restless energy as I clutch onto the small gift box in my lap. Each breath feels strained, the anticipation of his arrival causing my heart to pound relentlessly against my ribs. The room is cloaked in a hushed stillness, broken only by the soft murmur of the night seeping through the open window, casting shadows across the room.

The door creaks open, and Scott steps into the room, his brow furrowing in concern as he takes in my anxious posture. “Baby? What's going on?" His voice is gentle, a beacon of calm in the midst of my swirling emotions as he crosses the room to stand before me.

I inhale deeply, trying to steady my trembling hands as I extend the gift box towards him. "Scott, I... I got you something," I manage to say, my voice wavering with nerves that betray the weight of what lies within.

He accepts the box with a curious tilt of his head, settling beside me on the bed. His fingers trace the edges of the wrapping paper, his expression shifting from curiosity to confusion as he uncovers the smaller box nestled within.

Opening it, his breath catches in his throat as he sees the pregnancy test lying inside. The reality of the situation crashes over us like a tidal wave, and I watch his eyes widen with shock and disbelief.

"Scott, I... I got you something," I manage to say, my voice betraying the turmoil within. He accepts the box with a curious expression, eyebrows quirking as I always call him Scotty not Scott, his fingers careful as he begins to unwrap it.

As he peels back the layers of wrapping paper, confusion clouds his features, replaced by disbelief when he reveals the smaller box inside. His breath catches in his throat as he opens it, revealing the pregnancy test nestled within. The implications hit him like a tidal wave, and I watch as shock ripples through him, his eyes widening with a mix of emotions.

The initial shock gives way to concern, his brows furrowing as he processes the reality before him. A flicker of fear crosses his face, accompanied by a tentative hope that he struggles to grasp amidst the overwhelming news. His gaze shifts from the test to me and back again, searching for words that seem to elude him in the moment.

"Scott," I begin softly, tears welling in my eyes as I reach out to touch his hand, seeking connection in the midst of our shared uncertainty. "I'm pregnant."

The words hang heavy in the air, a palpable silence settling between us as he absorbs the weight of my revelation. His hand tightens around mine, a gesture of both support and seeking solace in the face of the unknown.

"Are you... sure?" he finally manages to ask, his voice a whisper laced with disbelief. He meets my gaze, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and apprehension, struggling to comprehend the enormity of what lies ahead for us.

I nod slowly, my own voice trembling as I reaffirm, "Yes, Scott. It's yours."

He pulls me into his arms, holding me close as if to anchor himself amidst the whirlwind of emotions crashing over us. His touch is gentle yet firm, a testament to his resolve to face this unexpected turn in our lives together.

"I... I don't know what to say," he admits quietly against my hair, his breath warm against my skin. "But we'll figure this out. Together."

I close my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks as I cling to him, overwhelmed by a rush of relief and gratitude for his steadfast presence. In that intimate moment, sitting on his bed with the pregnancy test between us, I find solace in the certainty that no matter the challenges ahead, having Scott by my side fills me with a deep sense of hope and determination. 

“I love you so much.”

I stand by the window in Derek's loft, the city lights twinkling in the distance, but my mind is consumed by a different kind of sparkle—a mixture of hope and fear that knots my stomach. The thought had been creeping in lately, a hunch I couldn't shake off, but anxiety held me back from taking the test. What if it wasn't the right time? What if Derek wasn't ready?

Derek enters the room, his presence a comforting solidity in the midst of my swirling thoughts. His sharp gaze locks onto me, sensing my unease despite my attempt at composure.

"Hey," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm that momentarily eases my nerves.

I turn to face him, trying to hide the turmoil beneath a forced smile. "Hi," I reply, my voice catching slightly.

He takes a step closer, concern etched into the lines of his brow. "Are you okay?" he asks, his tone gentle yet probing.

I hesitate, unsure how to voice the uncertainty gnawing at me. "I... I've been feeling off lately," I finally admit, my gaze flickering away from his intense scrutiny.

His expression softens, understanding dawning in his eyes as he pieces together my unspoken words. "You think..." he begins, his voice trailing off as he seems to catch on to the implications.

I nod slowly, unable to meet his gaze as tears well up in my eyes. "I think I might be pregnant," I confess in a hushed tone, the weight of the admission hanging heavy in the air.

Derek's breath catches, his shoulders stiffening imperceptibly before he takes a deep breath, closing the distance between us in a few long strides. He pulls me into his arms, holding me close as if to shield me from the uncertainties swirling around us.

"I had a feeling," he admits quietly against my hair, his voice a mixture of awe and tenderness. "But I didn't want to push you.” 

Relief floods through me at his understanding, his acceptance offering a lifeline in the sea of doubt. "I've been scared," I confess, burying my face against his chest as tears spill over. "Scared of how you'd react.”

Derek's arms tighten around me, his embrace offering reassurance and warmth. "I'm here," he murmurs, his voice a promise. "Whatever happens, we'll face it together.”

In that vulnerable moment, surrounded by Derek's comforting presence, I feel a surge of courage. Slowly, I pull back, meeting his gaze with a tentative smile. "I think I should take the test," I say softly, my voice wavering with a mix of hope and apprehension.

He nods, his expression unwavering as he brushes a stray tear from my cheek. "Let's find out," he agrees, his voice steady. Moments later, we stand in the bathroom, the air thick with anticipation. I take the test, heart hammering in my chest as I wait for the result. When the faint positive line appears, tears of joy and relief spill down my cheeks.

I emerge from the bathroom, the test in trembling hands, and Derek's eyes lock onto mine. Without a word, he crosses the room in quick strides, falling to his knees before me. His hands gently push my shirt up, his lips pressing tender kisses against my barely-there bump.

Emotion swells within me—tension and uncertainty giving way to a rush of overwhelming love and tenderness. Derek's actions speak volumes, his touch a promise of unwavering support and boundless affection.

"I love you," he murmurs against my stomach, his voice reverent and filled with awe. 

Tears blur my vision as I run my fingers through his hair, overwhelmed by the depth of his emotions. "I love you too," I whisper, feeling the weight of our shared journey settling into a tender certainty.

In that intimate moment, surrounded by love and hope, I know that no matter what lies ahead, Derek and I will face it together, our bond strengthened by the miracle growing within me.

I stand in the hallway of Liam's house, clutching the pregnancy test tightly in my hand. The hallway feels strangely quiet, the air heavy with anticipation and nerves. Liam had just returned from a late-night patrol with Scott, and I knew I had to tell him, but the fear of his reaction kept me rooted in place.

The front door creaks open, and Liam steps inside, his exhaustion evident in the lines of his face and the weariness in his movements. His eyes meet mine, concern flickering across his features as he senses my tension.

"Hey, what's going on?" he asks softly, his voice filled with genuine worry as he approaches me.

I take a deep breath, my heart pounding in my chest as I hold out the pregnancy test towards him. "Liam, we need to talk," I manage to say, my voice trembling with nerves.

He takes the test from me, confusion clouding his expression as he examines it. Recognition dawns slowly, his eyes widening with shock as he realises what it means. The test falls from his hands, forgotten, as he turns to face me, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

"Are... are you serious?" he finally manages to ask, his voice cracking with emotion. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches out to touch my arm, seeking confirmation amidst the whirlwind of thoughts racing through his mind.

I nod slowly, tears welling up in my eyes as I meet his gaze with a mix of fear and hope. "Yes, Liam. I'm pregnant," I admit softly, the weight of the truth hanging heavy in the space between us.

His breath hitches, his eyes never leaving mine as he struggles to process the enormity of the news. "But how...?" he begins, his voice trailing off as he searches for the right words.

“Well, when a man and woman love each other a lot-“ I start to say and he rolls his eyes playfully, punching me in the arm lightly so I continue, joking aside, ”I... I didn't know for sure until now," I explain, tears suddenly welling up in my eyes as I try to convey the intensity of my emotions. "But I had a feeling, and I finally took the test."

Liam wraps his arms around me suddenly, pulling me close as if he's afraid I might slip away. "I... I don't know what to say," he admits against my hair, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and overwhelming love.

Tears of relief mingle with the uncertainty that still lingers between us, but in that moment, held in Liam's embrace, I know that we'll face whatever comes next together. Our journey into parenthood may be unexpected and filled with challenges, but knowing Liam is by my side fills me with a profound sense of strength and hope for our future.

As we stand there in the hallway, wrapped in each other's arms, I feel a wave of gratitude for the love we share and the new life growing within me—a testament to our bond and the possibilities that lie ahead.

The first rays of dawn peek through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over Isaac's bedroom. I wake slowly, cocooned in warmth and the comforting weight of Isaac's arm draped protectively over me. His steady heartbeat beneath my ear lulls me into a serene half-awake state, where for a fleeting moment, everything feels perfect.

"Morning," Isaac murmurs sleepily, his voice husky with sleep as he brushes his nose across my shoulder before pressing a kiss there, loosening his grip on me so I can roll over and face the surly haired werewolf, feeling at peace and oh so in love.

I smile softly, relishing the tranquility of the moment before reality nudges its way into my consciousness. But, of course, as if on cue, a subtle queasiness stirs in my stomach, a sensation I’ve been experiencing the last few days. Panic flares briefly, but I try to dismiss it, not wanting to disturb the peace between us.

Isaac senses my restlessness, his gaze searching mine with concern. "You okay sweetheart?" he asks gently, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheek.

I nod slightly, swallowing down the rising unease. "Just... feeling a bit off," I admit reluctantly, not wanting to worry him unnecessarily.

But before I can say more, a sudden wave of nausea grips me, and I bolt out of bed with startling urgency, breaking free from Isaac's embrace. "I... I'll be right back," I manage to choke out, mouth watering warningly, my voice strained as I hurriedly make my way to the ensuite bathroom.

Isaac's confusion turns to alarm as he watches me go, the sound of my retching echoing through the closed door. He's by my side in an instant, his concern overriding any sense of personal space as he pushes open the door to find me leaning heavily over the toilet.

"What's wrong?" he asks urgently, his hands hovering anxiously over me as he assesses the situation.

I lean over the toilet, gasping for breath as I struggle to regain my composure. "I don’t know, ive been sic every morning for the last week. I can’t stand certain food anymore… I just want ice cream” I’m suddenly crying, my voice barely audible over the rush of emotions.

Isaac's eyes widen in shock, his hand coming to rest gently on my back as he kneels beside me. “Baby, are you… are we pregnant?” he repeats incredulously, the reality of my words sinking in slowly.

Those tears just stream down my cheeks harder, unable to process what Isaac is saying but somewhere deep in my gut knowing he’s right. "I've been feeling off for a while," I explain haltingly, the weight of the confession hanging heavy in the air. “But I thought it was a bug. Didn’t want to worry you.”

He pulls me into his arms, holding me close as if to shield me from the uncertainty that now defines our future. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he murmurs against my hair, his voice thick with a mixture of awe and concern.

"I didn't want to worry you," I repeat softly, my heart aching with the fear of his reaction and the overwhelming rush of emotions coursing through me.

Isaac's embrace tightens around me, his touch a reassuring anchor amidst the whirlwind of uncertainty. "We'll figure this out," he reassures me, his voice steady and filled with determination, “I want to start a family with you.” 

“You do?” 

“I am in love with you. Only you.” 

“I’m in love with you too.”

I lie in bed, tossing and turning, my stomach churning with waves of nausea, sweating and just feeling generally shit. The clock ticks relentlessly, each passing minute feeling like an eternity as I wait for Jordan to return from work. I've been feeling off for days now, a probable stomach bug or stress from all the shit that has been happening in Beacon Hills recently. 

The front door finally creaks open, and I hear Jordan's familiar footsteps padding down the hallway. Relief washes over me as he enters the bedroom, his presence a comforting presence in the dimly lit room. He quickly strips down to his boxers before he slips under the covers beside me, his warmth immediately soothing.

His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me back against his chest, relief washing through me as if he can heal me with just his touch. In my drowsy state, I lean into his touch, seeking solace in his embrace. His hand rests flat against my stomach, and I wince slightly at the sensation but some of the nausea fades and a soft sigh of relief escapes me.

"Jordan," I murmur, my voice thick with sleep and discomfort.

He shifts slightly, making me roll onto my back to face him. His bright eyes search mine, concern etched in his furrowed brow. "When were you going to tell me?" he asks softly, his voice tinged with a hint of worry. His hand cupping my jaw, thumb brushing lovingly over my fever flushed cheek.

Confusion knots my brow as I try to make sense of his question. "Tell you what?" I manage to ask, my voice laced with exhaustion and confusion.

His gaze lingers on me, his expression softening as realisation slowly dawns in his eyes. “Sunshine…” his breath comes out in a soft gasp, “Sunshine, you’re pregnant," he states quietly, his voice filled with a mix of awe and certainty.

My breath catches in my throat, my heart skipping a beat at his words. "What?" I whisper, stunned by the revelation.

Jordan's hand slides from my cheek down to my stomach, his touch gentle yet purposeful. "I can sense it," he explains quietly, his fingers tracing a soothing pattern against my skin. “I… I don’t know how but I can sense it… I can feel the change in you."

Tears well up in my eyes, a rush of emotions overwhelming me—surprise, disbelief, and a flicker of hope. "I... I didn't know," I admit softly, my voice trembling with the weight of his words, “I thought it was the flu.”

He leans closer, his forehead resting against mine. "It's okay," he murmurs, his breath warm against my lips. “I love you baby, we’re gonna have a baby.”

He’s shuffling around until he’s laying on his back, my head resting on his chest as he knows how soothing his heartbeat can be, especially when I can’t sleep and before I know it I’m drifting off to sleep with one thought on my mind. 

“You’re gonna be the best dad ever.” 

Teen Wolf Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@alexxavicry @guacam011y @fandom-princess-forevermore @bellatrixxmarierose

[starsandhughes]

Penalty Box— Cruel Weather (End)

story/original request based off this ask: Reactions to Sissy Getting Hurt

warnings: swearing, accident, mentions of injuries, surgery, mentions of pain medications, crying, anxiety, overall angst

word count: ~7.9k

General Series Masterlist

part one — part two — part three — part four

a/n i did not edit this much at all so excuse all typos!

THERE WILL NOT BE AN EPILOGUE! THIS IS THE HAPPY ENDING! IT’S STILL SAD BUT THIS IS WHAT WE GET!!

————————

You started to hear quiet voices, and then a really pissed off Quinn. You drowned it out, but you couldn’t drown out the pain that shot through you when Trevor was shaken awake. Everybody was suddenly on guard when you cried out in pain. Trevor slowly sat up and smacked Quinn on the arm, “Look what you did!”

“Sissy, I’m–”

“Not your fault,” you grunted out through twinges of pain. You gripped Trevor’s hand with all your might, trying to breathe through it. Your body felt heavy against the pillows when the pain finally dulled. You took deep breaths to relax as Trevor rubbed circles on your hand with his thumb and ran his fingers through your hair in a calming motion. You nodded at him with your eyes closed when you felt better.

“Go back to sleep if you need, sweet girl,” Trevor whispered. “We’ll still be here when you wake up.”

You opened your eyes to look at Quinn, who looked scared out of his mind.

“Come here,” you told him. Quinn carefully stepped towards you, and once he got close, you could see the tears forming in his eyes. “You didn’t know. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Trevor relinquished your hand so Quinn could hold it, “You’re awake.”

“Something like that,” you said drowsily. You turned your head to look at everyone else that was in the room, and you were surprised at how many people were actually here. Your mom, dad, Jack, Luke, Cole, Alex, Jamie, and Matty. “Hi.”

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. No one could believe it. Luke shoved his way through the small crowd to the side where Quinn and Trevor were and sat down on the edge of your bed. You looked at Quinn, and with that one look he knew that your big sister mode was kicking in. He let go of your hand and you reached out to Luke, who gripped on with both of his hands.

“I’m here,” you said softly. “I’m okay. Okay? I’m not leaving you.”

“You–” Luke got too choked up.

“I know, come here,” you said. “Lay your head down on my chest. Trevor did it last night, it doesn’t hurt.”

Luke was taller and lankier than Trevor, but with Trevor and you guiding him, he got settled. You took some deep breaths and told him to feel your heartbeat, just as you did for Trevor.

“See? My heart’s beating now. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered as you ran your fingers through his curls.

“Promise?” Luke squeaked. He was crying and it broke your heart.

“I promise.”

You couldn’t fight being asleep anymore, and everyone could tell.

“Luke, let’s get off of Sissy so that she can sleep,” Jim said.

You shook your head, “He’s fine. Trevor did it last night. I’m okay.”

And with that, the drugs pulled you under.

– – –

Luke was letting silent tears fall, “Trevor?”

“Yeah, bud?”

“You sure she’s okay?”

“She’s okay,” he assured him.

“Then why do you have an IV again?” Jamie asked him.

Of course Jamie would be the first one to notice. Or the first one to call him out at the very least.

“I uh… they made me step out of the room while they were doing tests and the thing attached to her finger that reads her heartbeat got knocked off. I lost it when I heard the flatline again and couldn’t see her, so I got sedated again,” Trevor explained. “It wasn’t real, it was just…”

“You’re going to be going through this a lot, aren’t you?” Jamie asked him. Trevor sighed and nodded, “Probably.”

Jamie walked over and put his arm around his friend, a simple motion that let Trevor know that that was okay. That they’d get through this together. Not just between everyone, but them specifically. They live together. They’ll be the ones majorly helping Y/N when she’s released from the hospital. Jamie will be the one with him when they have to go on their first away game. Jamie and Trevor will be each other’s rocks.

“You doing alright, Lukey?” Jack asked his brother.

“She’s here,” was all he said.

Quinn patted his back in an attempt to comfort him, “She sure is, Lukey.”

“Mom? Can you go talk to a nurse to get some updates?” Jack asked. She smiled and told the pack of boys that she’d be right back.

The weight of the world fell off everybody’s shoulders. Seeing her awake and hearing her speak was a marvel of a sight. Not a soul in the room could believe it. Not a soul in the room didn’t feel relief.

Ellen came back with a nurse who could update the room on Sissy.

“Everything is looking good for her. Her vitals are great, and we’re keeping her on high, but safe, levels of pain medication. That’s why she’s in and out of consciousness. And all of the medication that affected her from waking up from the anesthesia is out of her system, so she’ll be just fine when it’s time for her shoulder surgery,” she said.

“Woah, woah, woah– next surgery?!” Trevor shouted. “She almost died after your last one and you want to put her under again?!”

Trevor felt like he couldn’t breathe again. He almost lost you to a surgery that was supposed to be no big deal, and they wanted to do it to you again?

“Z, breathe,” Jamie said to him, but Trevor yanked his arm away from his touch.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Trevor repeated. He was slowly backing up against the wall.

“Trevor,” Quinn tried. He wanted to calm him down, but him freaking out was freaking him out, too. Everyone almost lost you. Not just him. “I don’t like the idea either, but she needs this surgery. You don’t want her to be in pain, do you?”

Quin was treating him like a child, but Trevor was looking like he was close to another freak out.

“Z, we can’t sedate you every time you’re feeling like this. You need to learn how to get through this so that you can do it at home. Now, look at me, and breathe with me, okay?”

It took a few tries for Trevor to actually get it together, but he was still crying.

“I don’t want her to be in pain. I love her, but I can’t lose her,” Trevor said.

Quinn nodded and brought him into a hug, “I know. Us, too.”

Since Quinn was able to calm Trevor down, he asked for the IV to be removed since it had drained out anyway. Trevor was exhausted and Ellen told him to go lay down again in the recliner. Luke remained attached to Sissy and was slowly drifting off, too.

“Is anyone not scared about Sissy going in for another surgery?” Jack asked, keeping his voice down for Luke and Trevor.

“I’m trying to focus on the fact that she needs it,” Jamie answered.

The consensus was clear, everyone had at least a sliver of concern for the possibility for things to go wrong. Jim and Ellen remained strong and comforted the boys with the fact that the doctors now know what to use for her so that she wakes up safely and in a reasonable amount of time this round. But even they were worried for the girl that has become their only daughter.

“Remember when we first all played against each other when I was in college?” Quinn piped up, looking for any means to distract himself.

“She wore a shirt that said ‘I just hope both teams have fun!’ How could I forget?” Cole laughed.

“I’m just glad she doesn’t do that now,” Jack said. “Although, for once I’d like her to wear my jersey when we play against the Canucks or Ducks!”

“That’s not going to happen and you know it,” Alex teased him.

“She wears your jersey when we play against you,” Cole offered.

“Yeah, but she wears mine whenever we play against any of you,” Matthew smirked. “Except against Quinn or Trevor. Then it’s theirs.”

“What does she wear when we play against the Canucks?” Jamie asked.

“Z and I have to play air hockey to decide it,” Quinn told them, sending everyone into a fit of laughter. “But she might add you into the mix.”

“She’s something else,” Jamie said.

“You have no idea, Jamie. She’ll get worse,” Jack told him. “But it’ll only make you love her more.”

“Now that, I believe.”

– – –

You woke up to the muffled sounds of your friends talking and laughing. It brought a smile to your face that now that you were awake, your friends could relax a bit. You just hope it sticks.

What is sticking, however, is the dull pain. A dull pain that’s growing. You never tell Luke to let go or to go away if he needs you, but it was too much right now. You felt extra guilty because you were pretty sure that he was still asleep.

“Quintin,” you said. Your voice was strained and so quiet that you weren’t sure that he heard you. You tried again, but when you did the dryness of your throat made you cough, which just added to the pain and you cried out. That got everyone’s attention. “Quintin, I need you to get Luke off me, it’s starting to hurt.”

You were visibly in discomfort, and trying to move was not your friend. Ellen stepped in and eased you while Quinn carefully woke up Luke.

“It really hurts, mom,” you whimpered. She gave you a sad smile and brushed back your hair, “I know, Sissy. It’ll pass. Quinn’s waking him up.”

Luke felt tremendously guilty, and it took you multiple times to assure him that he was completely fine before the pain medications slowly started to wear off. And because you were on such high doses, it wasn’t time for you to safely have another round. So you had to wait.

“Can I get you anything, little mouse?”

You looked over and smiled at Matthew over the nickname, “Water?”

Matthew got up to find you some water, and you looked around the room to try and get a gauge of everyone’s emotions. You were pretty good at reading your friends and family, but the one who stuck out the most to you was Alex.

“Turc? Do you need a moment alone?”

“What?” he asked, caught off guard. “No, I’m fine…I’m–”

“Hey, can I get a second with Alex?” you asked the room. You could tell Alex was embarrassed, but no one else said anything as they left. “Come here.”

Alex got up and moved to the chair that was right next to you. You grabbed his hand and smiled at him in an effort to let him know that it was okay.

“You need another surgery,” he blurted out.

“That’s not all of it and you know it,” you said. You knew him too well.

Alex sighed and bounced his leg, trying to calm down enough to actually tell you what was on his mind.

“Yesterday when you were still in the coma, I couldn’t come talk to you alone. Everyone else did it days before. Yesterday Cole and Matthew did, but I couldn’t. It felt like I would be saying goodbye to you, and I didn’t want to face that,” he admitted.

“So tell me what you would’ve said.”

Alex took a deep breath, “I would’ve told you how much I miss you. And that you mean the world to me and have ever since high school. I would’ve told you that the first time I met you, and I saw how you and Trevor were acting, I knew you were going to be in my life forever because you two are perfect for each other and I knew it before he admitted his feelings to us. I would’ve told you how much I love you. How much I was trying to keep it together but was slowly failing to. And I think I would’ve told you goodbye just in case you flatlined again in the middle of the night and I wouldn’t get a chance to.”

You squeezed his hand when you noticed his tears, “Good thing you get to say hello then.”

“Hello,” he breathed out a small, forced laugh.

“Hi,” you said right back. “You’ll be okay. I’m okay. We’ll all get through this together, alright? And I love you, too.”

– – –

It wasn’t fun hearing what everyone else told you while you were in a coma, but you felt like it needed to be done. Maybe it shouldn’t be your job to help everyone, but you would get the help you’ll need in return. It broke your heart hearing that Luke couldn’t figure out how to be the strong one like everyone was telling him to. It broke your heart hearing that Jack was trying to hold it together for everyone and that he was terrified of having to go back to Jersey before you woke up. How Jamie felt guilty for being one of the reasons you were in the car in the first place. How Quinn was losing his mind and felt so defeated when you squeezed his hand and he learned it was nothing. How Matty was sent here by his coach because he wasn’t playing well. How Cole told you that his life changed forever when you came into it and that his break was hard because he held it in.

Trevor broke your heart the most. It broke you that he was plagued by nightmares when he was only sleeping because he knew you’d want him to. It broke your heart that he went catatonic for a few hours. It broke your heart that he watched your heart flat line. It broke your heart how guilty he felt. You couldn’t bear the thought of your forever getting cut short with him. Trevor almost had to experience that.

You didn’t get much time to be with everyone as a group before a nurse and a doctor came in and asked for everyone but “your emergency contacts” to leave. That meant that only Trevor and your parents could stay in the room.

The doctor began to go over your next surgery with you for your shoulder. It was a shoulder replacement surgery, and you didn’t really pay attention to any of the details. All you knew was that the fractures were bad enough to need it, and that it was scheduled for tomorrow at 1pm.

You just woke up from a roughly two day coma post a surgery and now they wanted to put you under again? And they were just going to hope that if they used different sedatives and started the treatment they used to wake you up immediately it would be okay?

You felt terrified. But you knew everyone else did, too. Probably more than you were, since they were the ones that had to sit idly by while you were unconscious.

You held all your fears in.

For Ellen.

For Jim.

For Jack.

For Cole.

For Alex.

For Matty.

For Jamie.

For Luke.

For Quinn.

For Trevor.

For Trevor. For Trevor. For Trevor.

You could do anything for Trevor, and this will just have to be one of those things.

“Are you okay?” he asked you. He sat on the edge of your bed and held your hand, rubbing circles with his thumb on it. “Do you need a minute before we let everyone else back in?”

You shook your head, “No, I’m alright.”

Trevor eyed you suspiciously, “Don’t lie to me, sweet girl.”

“I’ll be okay, and having everyone in here will help,” you told him. It wasn’t a lie. You will be okay, eventually. And everyone in this small little room will be a lovely distraction. Your surgery isn’t until tomorrow, so all you had to do was make it through the day.

“Sissy, I got someone who wants to talk to you,” Luke said smiling as he came back in.

“Who?” you asked, smiling back. Luke said nothing and just handed you his phone. “Duker!”

“Hey, Sissy, how are you? I’ve been worried sick,” Dylan said.

“I can definitely say I physically haven’t been worse,” you told him.

“That’s the most Y/N answer I’ve ever heard,” he laughed. “Glad the coma didn’t change you!”

“It’s gonna take a hell of a lot more than that to change me,” you assured him. And the rest of the room. And yourself.

Mainly yourself. Lord knows you needed it.

“I’m coming tomorrow, okay? I know you miss me!”

“I really do,” you laughed. “Be good, Duker.”

“I think I can make that promise for once,” he joked.

You were getting tired again after finally being given more pain medication. You made grabby hands towards Quinn and motioned for him to lay next to you like Trevor did before visiting hours started.

“Are you sure this doesn’t hurt?” Quinn asked as he cautiously laid down next to you.

“You’re just next to me, Quintin. I promise you, it’s okay,” you told him.

You kept motioning for him to come closer to you until you could comfortably lay your head against his shoulder.

“You haven’t called me Quintin in a while,” he said low. “Not much since you left middle school.”

“Middle school was hard,” you mumbled sleepily. “This is hard.”

Quinn turned his head and kissed your temple, “Quintin it is.”

– – –

Jamie cautiously stepped towards the bed when he knew that Y/N was asleep. He slowly sat down in the chair closest to the head of her bed, right next to Quinn.

“Can I?” Jamie asked him. He took her hand in his when he nodded yes. “I know I haven’t known her as long–”

“That doesn’t matter to her,” Quinn cut him off. “The day she met you, she called me and said I should be worried about you taking my place as her best friend. Sissy loves you, and she knows that you love her. She doesn’t care that you met what, three months ago? She loves everyone fiercely, and you’ve been deemed lucky enough to make that list.”

Trevor got up and placed his hands on Jamie’s shoulders, squeezing them supportively, “It was her idea to move you in.”

“Really?”

“She probably would’ve moved your stuff out from Lindholm’s with or without your permission,” he laughed.

“I’ve even heard about you from her,” Matthew told Jamie. “You’re here for her. You’re going to be one half of the two people taking care of her most of the time. And trust me, she cares about you. As long as you never wrong her, she’s going to be there for you for life.”

Jamie looked down and tried to hide a smile as he played with her fingers. He didn’t know what it was about her, but the second she met somebody, they loved her. Her charm, her humor, her boldness. Sissy is something special. And when she lets you in, truly lets you in, she makes sure you know you’re loved and that she would drop everything for you if you need her.

She loves being needed.

She loves being wanted.

Not everyone knew that this was killing her. Not everyone knew that her needing help and barely being able to do a thing for anyone else was going to be detrimental for her. But Jamie does. He hasn’t known her long, but he knows her. He knows that he might need to act like he needs her for something, even if he doesn’t, just to make her happy.

Jamie would do it for her. He will do it for her. Because everyone was right, once you know her, she’d drop anything for you, and he intends to do the same thing for her.

“Is she scared, Z?” Cole asked. Trevor pursed his lips. He didn’t want to expose her, but he was a terrible liar.

“She won’t tell me, but I saw the look in her eyes. I could feel her fear. I asked if she needed a moment and she told me that she’s fine and everyone back in the room would be a good distraction, but I know she’s petrified.”

“That’s a big word, Mr. Boston,” Quinn teased him. Trevor rolled his eyes and flicked him, not being able to do anything else since Y/N was laying against his shoulder. “She has you, Z. You’ll get her through it.”

“She has you, too. She has all of us,” Trevor added.

“And we have her,” Luke said. He still looked scared.

Jack threw his arm around his little brother, “And we have her.”

— — —

Today’s the day.

Today’s the day you have to go under for another surgery.

And everyone had the same fear. For some, it was slight. For others it was more than slight, but they know she needs the surgery. But the rest? The fear had taken over their entire being. And who are they? Trevor, Quinn, Jack, Luke, and you. They were internally losing their minds. They felt sick. And every tick of the clock made their chests feel tighter and tighter.

Trevor hasn’t done well with you out of his sight and he knows it’s going to be worse this time. He’s determined to not have to be sedated. He’s going to have away games. He’s going to have roadies. He’s going to have to learn how to cope. He can’t be eased into it. You’re going to be gone for hours, and he’ll have to sit by your bedside and wait for you to wake up again. He knows you’ll wake up, but that quiet voice deep inside his head telling him that you won’t is eating him alive.

Quinn had taken over the “Sissy” role. Jack had practically snapped, Luke was a mess and was dead silent when he wasn’t, Trevor couldn’t breathe half the time, and you need him, too. He’s the oldest. He feels like it’s his job. He’s always stepped up. He’s always been the big brother. He’s always done whatever he can and more for you. There’s just no one helping him.

Jack feels like he’s useless. He can’t do anything for you, and he’s going to have to go back to Jersey eventually. Scratch that— he’s going to have to go back soon and he won’t get to help you. He feels like you don’t need him when you have Quinn. You always need him. He’s your best friend, your better half, you’re everything to each other. You won’t need him when you have Trevor. Your boyfriend, your entire world. The person you live with. The person who needs you just as bad as you need him. The person you’ll get through this with. The person who’ll be there for you the entire time. Hell, you won’t need him when you have Jamie. You love him, and you barely know him. And he’s going to be with you the whole time. He doesn’t have to leave.

Luke could barely wrap his head around it. Everything was going too fast and he could barely keep up. He just got you, his sister, back and in a few hours he was going to have to go back to wondering when you’re going to wake up. He couldn’t hold on to your hand. He couldn’t fall asleep on you. He felt like he couldn’t be vulnerable. Not when everyone else is screaming, too. He just told his best friend that you’re going to be okay. He just told his best friend that he’s okay. One of those is a lie. The other one could be, too, only he doesn’t know that answer, yet.

And you? You don’t know that’s how everyone is feeling, because you can’t think of anything else other than your intense fear of not waking up. You couldn’t escape the cage the thought of dying was putting you in. You need this surgery. You need to get better. You know the doctors are prepared this time. You know that your medication has more or less left your system and that everything should be okay. But you don’t want to see everyone’s faces when you wake up again. Full of shock, almost as if they were seeing a ghost. And you know that a couple days after this surgery, you’ll be released. Which means everyone will have to leave you again. You’ve never had to experience anything this traumatic without your brothers. Never. You didn’t want them to go most of all. You’re beyond grateful that you’ll have Trevor, and Jamie told you he won’t be leaving you, but you need your brothers. Facetimes won’t be enough this time.

You were pulled out from your thought prison by a nurse informing you it was almost time for surgery and that everyone will need to clear out so that they can prep you. Everyone said their goodbyes, some longer than others, and Jack was the last one walking out the door. The heart monitor signaled that panic was taking over you and you felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“Jack!” you screamed. Tears were streaming down your face and your free hand was shaking. “Jack don’t–”

Jack pushed aside the nurse in the room and sat on the edge of your bed and gripped onto your hand.

“Sir–”

“She just needs a minute! Please,” Jack begged her. The nurse saw how close you were to a major freakout before Jack got to your side and left to stand outside the door. Jack took your hand in both of his and squeezed it tight, “It’ll be okay, Sissy. It will be. We all asked the surgeon every question possible. He’s done this surgery countless times.”

“Will you be here when I wake up?” you asked shakily. “Right here. Holding my hand. Not Trevor or Quinn. You.”

Jack smiled and leaned over to kiss your forehead, “In the chair, or on the bed?”

“On the bed,” you answered.

“Then on the bed holding your hand is where I’ll be the second you open your eyes, Sissy,” Jack assured you. “I promise. Now you gotta be strong for us. Don’t fight the lovely nurses and doctors and surgeons that are here to help you. Just breathe, and now I’ll be sitting right here when it’s over.”

The nurses that came to wheel you off to the surgery unit told Jack he could walk with you until you reached the double doors, so he did. He held onto your hand and called out once again that he’ll be right next to you when you wake up when the doors came. You held back your tears. You wanted to be able to tell Jack that you were strong.

– – –

“Where did you go?” Luke asked Jack when he finally joined them in the waiting room.

“Sissy called out for me, so I calmed her down and walked with her to the surgical unit,” he explained. “I don’t know why–”

“She loves and needs you, too, Jack,” Ellen interrupted her son. “Just like everyone else.”

Jack smiled slightly, semi hating the fact that his mom knew exactly how he was feeling.

“She asked me to be sitting on her bed holding her hand when she wakes up,” he said softly, still happy that she wanted him. That she needed him.

“I’m only allowing that because she asked,” Trevor teased him.

“Of course you are, bud,” Jack laughed.

Jack sat down between his brothers and leaned back in his chair. All that there was to do now was wait. Something that was way too familiar to everyone here.

– – –

It was a long surgery, over four hours. But Jack was true to his word and parked himself on the edge of your bed and held your hand as he waited for you to come to. Every minute passed was agonizing. The doctors told everyone that you’d be waking up within an hour but that you’ll be very out of it and might not be awake for long. At the forty-six minute mark, everyone let out a breath.

Your groans caused all ten heads to snap towards you. Jack inched closer to you and used his free hand to pet your hair in the same way he used to do when he had to wake you up for school when you were sleeping through your endless alarms.

“Sissy?” he whispered. “Are you with us? Can you open your eyes for me?”

You tried to pull away from him but felt a surge of pain when you did. Jack worked to settle you back down and looked to Trevor for help.

“I normally kiss her to wake her up,” Trevor told him. “She calls it ‘waking up Disney princess style.’”

“Be my guest,” Jack laughed.

Trevor softly placed his hand to cup your face and bent down to softly kiss you, “Good morning, sweet girl. Can you open those pretty little eyes for me?”

You clenched your eyes once more before opening them up.

“Are you a Prince?” you asked dreamily. Luke had to hide into his mom’s shoulder to keep from laughing out loud.

“Sorry, sweet girl. I’m just your boyfriend,” Trevor replied.

You looked down when you noticed a hand was holding your hand. You followed the hand to the owner, and it was not the man who just told you he’s your boyfriend.

“Then who are you?” you asked the hand holder.

“I’m Jack, your brother. You asked me to sit on your bed and hold your hand for when you woke up,” the hand holder told you.

“I don’t have a brother,” you said, shaking your head.

Jack’s grip on your hand tightened and you could feel his fear.

“You– you don’t?” he asked tentatively. He was worried that the drugs had temporarily taken your mind back to before you moved in. Before you were old enough to know that family doesn’t have to be blood.

“No. I’m a cloud, I can’t have any brothers,” you said seriously.

“But you can have a boyfriend?” your boyfriend asked.

“You’re a cloud, too,” you told him. “You have fluffy cloud hair, Prince.”

“Trevor,” he told you with a soft laugh.

“No,” you shook your head. “I’m pretty sure your name is Prince. Prince of the clouds. And I’m Princess of the clouds.”

“Clouds can have brothers,” Jack insisted. “You have three.”

Jack was starting to make sense. As you looked around the room at everyone else in the room, you saw two familiar faces that matched Jack’s story.

“I do have three!” you gasped. “Quintin, Jacky Boy, and Lukey Moosey!”

Jack lifted your hand and leaned his head against it, shaking his head and laughing, “I’m Jacky Boy, Sissy. Look at me.”

You looked at him again and really focused this time, “Jacky Boy! I missed you!”

“I missed you, too,” he laughed.

You looked around the room and your smile grew exponentially at every person you saw. You couldn’t believe your whole world was here.

“Hi Mom, and Dad, and Coley, and Turcs, and Quintin, and Lukey Moosey, and Jamie Baby, and my rat! Matty! You’re here! You’re never here!”

Matthew moved over to the end of your bed and placed both hands on the edge of it, “I was worried about you, Little Mouse. That’s why we’re all here.”

Quinn came over next to Jack and Trevor, “You got hurt, remember? You just had another surgery.”

“No, Quintin,” you argued. “I’m a cloud. I can’t get hurt.”

“Well then you’re a medical marvel,” he said. “Because you got super hurt. Are you in pain?”

“Quintin, listen! I just told you, I’m a cloud. And Prince is a cloud. And Coley. I don’t know what the rest of you are, but we’re clouds.”

“What type of clouds are we?” Cole asked you.

“You and Prince look sad, so you’re nimbostratus clouds. But me? I’m a cumulus,” you told them, full of confidence.

“Did she just… use scientific cloud names?” Alex asked, laughing in disbelief.

“I think she did,” Luke said.

“We look sad because you’re hurt, Ms. Cumulus Cloud,” Trevor said. “But I’m really glad you don’t feel it.”

“I’m just doing my cloud thing,” you said as you yawned.

“Sleepy?” Ellen asked.

“Yeah, I’m a sleepy cloud,” you nodded. “But Jacky Boy needs to lay next to me so I can nap.”

“And why’s that?” Jack asked.

“You’re holding my hand. You need me. So you need to sleep next to me to fix that,” you said matter-of-factly.

Trevor and Quinn stepped out of the way so that Jack could carefully lay beside you.

“I’ll protect you,” you told him. “I need everyone to give me a kiss goodnight! Do you need any, Jacky?”

“I think I’m alright,” he smiled.

Jack leaned over and kissed your cheek. You smiled and nodded your head side to side in a dance-like motion as you made everyone else kiss your cheeks and forehead goodnight.

“And you, my Prince, need to kiss me on the lips four times,” you told him. “Because we say something to each other with four words. I don’t know what, but I know there’s four words.”

“I–” kiss. “Love–” kiss. “You–” kiss. “Forever.” kiss.

“What do I say?”

“You say ‘I love you, always,’” he smiled at you.

“I love you, always, Prince!”

“I love you, forever, Princess.”

– – –

The second time you woke up, you were much more lucid and aware of the situation. You weren’t in agony, but you weren’t exactly having fun. You lifted your head off of whoever’s shoulder you were laying on and groaned at the brightness of the room.

“Somebody needs to turn off the sun or I’m going to shoot it down myself,” you grunted with your eyes squeezed shut.

You didn’t know who, but someone fixed your problem, and you were able to slowly open your eyes. You looked out to see the window’s curtains were open and that it was actually dark outside.

One new face was in the room, Dylan.

You smiled at him, “Hi, baby boy.”

“I was kind of hoping I could see you shoot down the sun, but seeing you awake works, too, Sissy,” Dylan joked.

“Are you still a cloud, Princess?” Trevor asked you.

You turned your head to look at him, also acknowledging the fact that it was Jack next to you by a simple squeeze of his hand, confused.

“Cloud?”

“You were still out of it when you first woke up,” Trevor laughed. “You called me Prince, and you were hellbent on the fact that you were a cloud and that you couldn’t possibly be injured because of it.”

“Were we… all clouds?”

“I wish,” Quinn joked. “Only Z and Cole were clouds. Nimbostratus, to be exact. Not sure why you remembered the types of clouds.”

“Clouds are fucking cool, that’s why,” you sassed him.

“You’re lucky you’re hurt,” Quinn said in a jokingly warning tone.

“Or what? You’d lightly shove me? I’m so scared,” you teased him back. “You’re just jealous because I didn’t deem you a cloud. Suck it.”

It was nice finally feeling calm for the first time since you woke up. No one was terrified about the upcoming surgery now that it’s happened. No one was worried that you wouldn’t wake up again now that you have. It was almost fun being with everyone, it was just calmer than it normally is when you’re all together.

You shoved Jack aside so that Dylan could lay next to you because “you’ve missed your baby boy.”

“I’m your twin!” Jack protested.

“You’ve been laying with me,” you told him. “I’ve gone without seeing Duker longer and he’s my baby boy bestie brother!”

“I’m her alliteration,” Dylan said, smiling cheekily.

“Yeah, he’s my alliteration,” you copied his grin.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jack countered.

“You’re just jealous,” Dylan stuck his tongue out at him.

“Alright, alright,” you cut them off. “You’re both my boys, so calm down. You’ve had your turn.”

“Do we all get a turn?” Luke asked jokingly.

“Do we have to reserve times?” Jamie asked, laughing.

“You and Z will get me all season, but the rest of them? Yes. Someone make a list and play rock paper scissors for the order.”

“You’re a mess,” Trevor laughed. “My beautiful mess.”

“Damn right,” you jokingly smirked.

– – –

It wasn’t too long before visiting hours ended and you had to tell everyone goodbye. Trevor now had a bigger blanket for you two in the bed since you’d been cold and he wasted no time crawling in next to you when Quinn (the last one on the list to be next to you) got off the bed.

“Be good!” Quinn called out.

“We physically have to! Otherwise we would not!” you shouted back.

“I didn’t want to know that!”

“You’re welcome! I love you, bubs!”

“I love you, too, Sissy!”

“I’ll never understand you two,” Trevor laughed.

“Quinn and I are something I’ve never seen before. Not even in movies,” you said fondly. “I’m gonna keep it that way.”

“Are we?”

“My love, we’re everything.”

Trevor took your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to it. When he dropped it, you tapped four times on your lips. Trevor smiled and repeated what he did when you first woke up.

“I–” kiss. “Love–” kiss. “You–” kiss. “Forever–” kiss.

“I love you, always,” you whispered to him. “How did you do while I was under?”

“Jamie helped a lot. I don’t know why watching The Hunger Games helps, but it does,” Trevor admitted.

“Because it’s my favorite series, obviously,” you smiled.

“No, I think it’s because there’s a lot of Katniss in you,” he told you. “You’d do anything for those you love, especially your brothers. You stick up for what’s right. You’ve been through hell and you’re still surviving. You’re Katniss.”

You blushed and played with his fingers, unsure of what to say to that.

“Does that make you Peeta?”

“I was thinking I’m more like Finnick,” Trevor laughed.

“Well, he was my first love. So, I guess that’s fitting.”

“Your first love?” Trevor teased you. “Am I nothing to you?”

“Hey! Quinn officiated a wedding for me and Finnick!”

“Then I guess he’ll have to officiate ours,” Trevor smiled.

“Trevor Zegras, are you talking about marriage in a hospital?”

“Not right now, but if this experience has taught me anything, it’s that you’re the one.”

“Sap,” you smiled.

You were beat, and surprised that you’d stayed awake for so long with all the pain medication in you. But now that it was only Trevor with you, you felt safe. You felt at peace. You felt at home. You laid your head on his shoulder and let yourself drift off to the sounds of Catching Fire in the background. You weren’t scared to fall asleep tonight. You weren’t scared that something was going to happen to Trevor. For the first time in three days, you felt good.

– – –

At 9:34am, all of your paperwork was finished and you were free to go home. You, Jamie, Trevor, Ellen, and Jim were all given a breakdown of how to take care of you, pain medication times, and other stuff like that. Jim and Ellen would be staying a little longer with you in the beginning before they’ll have to go back home. Trevor and Jamie would be the ones doing it the most after your parents left, and they needed to be fully prepared to teach Dani when she’d come to help you on roadies. Ellen volunteered, but Dani was quite persistent.

You were sent off with some strong sedatives to help with the car ride home. You were glad, too, because even with them you were still in some major discomfort. You couldn’t imagine what it would be like without them.

Everyone was staying one more night before they had to go back to their own teams. You really didn’t want to have to be moved much, so Trevor and Quinn got you situated in yours and Trevor’s room and everyone would be in there until you decided it was time for bed.

First thing first, however, was a nap. The medication had made you so tired and you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. You had to lay pillows in between you and Trevor, which was terrible, but you could lay directly next to him while you napped since he would be staying awake. Everyone else went to the living room while Trevor gently held your hand and kissed your forehead to send you off to sleep.

– – –

Quinn didn’t wait too long before slipping back into the bedroom, “How’s she doing?”

“She hasn’t had to have the lower pain medications yet, so she's okay,” Trevor told him. “I’m not excited about that.”

“I’m not excited about leaving her,” Quinn said softly.

“Trust me, she isn’t either.”

The two boys talked quietly for a while to distract themselves from the predicament. Trevor couldn’t imagine what Quinn must be feeling. Trevor gets to stay with you; Quinn doesn’t. That’s been a common feeling throughout all of this.

“You’ll take care of her, right?” Quinn asked Trevor with tears threatening to fall out of his eyes.

“I’ll do everything I can and more for her. Always,” Trevor assured him.

“You better,” Quinn said softly.

All Quinn could do was look at you. Your bruised face looked better, but you still looked so frail and small that it hurt him. He had to make tonight and tomorrow count, but he knew that you’d be sleeping through a lot of it.

“Um… listen, if Luke needs her, she will kick you out of this bed. Same if she needs me or Jack or Luke or–”

“You can sleep next to her until you have to leave,” Trevor cut him off. “I know that’s what you really want. I’ll take the floor.”

You roughly heard the last of their conversation as you were slowly waking up, “Did you say Lukey needs me? Trevor, move your ass for him.”

“See?” Quinn laughed. “He doesn’t need you, but I’m sure he’d love to lay with you. Do you want everyone back in here?”

You sleepily nodded and continuously held your arm out until Luke came in.

“Lukey!” you cheered when he entered the room at the end of the herd of your loved ones. Luke laughed as he crawled into the bed and snuggled up close to you, “Good nap, Sissy?”

“Very,” you said.

“Oh! I want in on cuddles!” Dylan shouted. You laughed even more as he settled next to Luke and laid his head on his shoulder.

“You two are a mess,” you shook your head. “I love it.”

“This gonna be us when everyone leaves, Z?” Jamie joked.

“It better be!” you exclaimed.

Because you’d been in a coma for your weekly movie night with Cole and Alex, you decided that you’d watch the movie with everyone in your room. Blankets and pillows were handed out and people were all around the room. Jack and Jamie brought in the two arm chairs from the living room for Jim and Ellen to sit in, and everyone else was roughing it on the floor.

You sent Matty, Quinn, and Cole to get snacks and drinks for everyone, and Alex set the movie up.

“What movie have you deemed worthy enough to watch that’s not The Hunger Games, girly?”

“Top Gun,” you said with a grin.

“Yes! Finally!” Trevor cheered.

You barely watched the movie. You watched your friends and family instead. This experience is just as hard on them as for you, if not more. They deserve peace. They deserve a moment of calm, a moment of happiness. Before they all had to leave and, undoubtedly, worry.

“You okay?” Luke whispered to you.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you whispered back.

And for once, you were.

– – –

The goodbyes were hard, because they lasted all day. First Matty left, then Cole, then Dylan and Luke, then Jack, then Alex. Alex could’ve stayed, and he’ll be back frequently, but Quinn leaving last meant a lot to you. It was needed.

“You’ll call every day, right?” you asked him. Your lip was wobbling and you couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

“Every minute that I can. I promise,” Quinn answered. “Be good to Trevor and Jamie.”

“Now that, I can’t promise,” you tried to joke.

Quinn kissed your forehead and squeezed your hand one last time before he left with your parents to go to the airport. You immediately started to sob when the door closed. You couldn’t hold it in any longer. You’d been crying all day as people left, but Quinn made you lose it. Trevor hated it because he couldn’t pull you into his arms and hold you to comfort you. You hated it for the same reason. You had to settle for leaning against his chest with his hand holding your right, and his other petting your hair.

“It’s alright, sweet girl,” Trevor cooed. “He’ll be back soon. We play against the Canucks the first week of November. I know his coach will let him stay here instead of at the hotel. It’s gonna be alright.”

“Say it,” you cried.

“Say what?” he asked, confused. “I love you?”

“No, my name. Say it,” you choked out.

Trevor felt a pang in his heart. This has never happened. You never needed Quinn so much that you wanted Trevor to call you by your nickname.

“It’s gonna be alright, Sissy. I’ll make sure of it,” Trevor said low. “I promise.”

“Do you need anything?” Jamie asked you warily. He’d never seen you cry this hard.

You rapidly shook your head no as you clung to Trevor as much as you could.

“Some ice water,” Trevor said. “With a straw, please.”

Jamie got up and went to the kitchen while Trevor continued to try and sooth you. Jamie was back quick and Trevor gently guided the straw to your mouth.

“Drink for me, sweet girl. That’s all you gotta do.”

The ice always helps. The sudden coldness triggers some slight pain receptors to pull you out of a panicked state, so it was a quick fix when you weren’t too far gone.

“There’s my girl,” Trevor cooed. “It’s okay.”

You calmed down, but some tears were still falling.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled.

“What for?”

“I need you, too. Not just Quinn. I really need you and I don’t want you to think that I–”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Trevor interrupted. “I know you do. Quinn’s been with you for the hardest parts of your life. You always cry when he leaves. This isn’t any different. I love you, okay? Forever. You needing Quinn isn’t going to change that.”

“I love you, always,” you whispered.

You were worn out and were falling asleep against Trevor’s chest.

“Jamie Baby,” you weakly called out. “Come to bed. It’s nap time.”

Jamie smiled and slowly got into the bed next to Trevor. He leaned over and kissed your forehead, something you once again demanded, before laying against the pillows.

“I love you, Jamie Baby,” you said. “So, so much.”

“I love you, too, Y/N/N,” Jamie said back.

“And I love you, too, Trevy. Always.”

Trevor tilted your head towards him, “I–” kiss. “Love–” kiss. “You–” kiss. “Forever–” kiss.

———

reblogs appreciated! it helps spread the fic <3

[imhershei]

WHERE TH IS ALL THE THOMAS X READER FICS???? I THOUGHT WE ALL LOVED DYLAN IN MAZE RUNNER????????IM SO DEPRIVED IM MAKING A POST ABOUT IT!!!! THERE WAS LIKE ONLY ONE GOOD JUICY FANFIC I NEED MORE!! AND WHILE WE AT IT I NEED MORE STILES STILINSKI FICS TOO WE RUNNING LOW!!!!! IM BEGGING YEWWWW! PLEASEE👹🥹🙏🏾

[willowrites]

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 … you had accompanied dylan to one of his concerts and you didn't really enjoy what you witnessed.

“that was one of the best concerts we’ve done so far, don’t you think?” dylan questioned as he changed into a new pair of shorts after his shower.

you rolled your eyes. probably because every girl there was eye fucking you. you thought to yourself. “mm, could’ve been better.” you shrugged, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a compliment escaping your mouth.

you had to admit the concert was mind-blowing. you loved seeing dylan up on stage, his hot and sweaty body turned you on more than anything, what didn’t though was when you noticed how the crowd was the same as you; turned on and needy.

the words left your mouth, dylan automatically knew something was up. you were always his #1 supporter no matter what so he knew when you had said that, something had to be off.

“how so?” he was combing through his wet hair waiting for you to respond. it purposely took you a while to respond but when you did it was a very sassy remark.

“i don’t know, maybe less eye sex with the crowd?” you picked at your nails. your comment brought a tiny smile to dylan’s face. dylan loved when you got jealous of how the crowd loved him. the way your jaw clenched as you commented about the crowd.

he laughed under his breath. “oh so you were jealous? is that it?” he turned to look at you, his eyes burning into you.

you felt as if you shrunk where you stood. “n-no!” you stuttered immediately defensive. you avoided eye contact trying to look at anything else. “why would i be jealous? just saying, that’s probably why you thought it was your best performance.

he clicked his tongue. “not necessarily, i was more focused on how well we genuinely performed. i don’t know.. you seem jealous though, baby.” he teased, wanting to get a rise out of you.

you finally looked at his face and his beautiful eyes. “doesn’t matter.” you muttered, still bitter. the scene that replayed in your head when dylan was singing directly in front of a group of girls, as they all pawed at his shirt pulling him closer. one girl even grabbed his hair and caressed it; just like how you would. “they can have you.”

of course, you weren’t serious, he knew that. you had always been a brat about these kinda of things and dylan loved putting you in your place. today though, he wanted to take a different approach.

you watched as dylan stood up and set down the shirt he was about to change into. how he then walked toward you slowly looking down at you. your gaze moved down staring at the ground feeling his intimidating gaze he put two fingers under your chin to move your head up to look at him.

his damn smile, it practically killed you. “d’ya need me to show you how i’m yours and only yours?” his thumb moved to your bottom lip pulling it down slightly to reveal your bottom teeth. you were in a trance as he bent down, head centimeters away from yours. “hmm?” he was waiting for a response. like always, you didn’t know what to say or respond with.

he kneeled down on both knees. “why’d you go all quiet on me now, huh?” his hands trailed over your thighs, meeting in the middle multiple times before trialing back to the side and up again. the connection sending you chills that followed its path. “i can show you, baby. you just gotta say the words. go on don’t be shy, say em’”

your breathing had begun to increase at a more rapid pace. his touch always had this effect on you. you leaned back letting the tickling sensation of his fingertips relax you. he was looking at you through his lashes as he grinned slightly loving how his actions impacted you.

you wouldn’t say you were nervous but… you were nervous. a few seconds later you had gained the courage to speak up. “show me.” you whispered, encouraging him to go further and do what he was going to do to you.

he licked his lower lip before nodding. “yes ma’am.” he began by tapping your hips so you could lift them. he then slowly began to pull your bottoms down, bringing your panties down with them leaving you bare in front of him. his mouth watered as he made eye contact with your pretty glistening pussy. like a starving man, he pulled your knees closer to him causing you to be leaned back at a 110-degree angle trying to keep yourself propped up.

he licked his lips before leaning down stopping right before he touched your center. “m’gonna show you how much you mean to me. gonna make you feel so good.” his breath feathered your pussy causing you to buck your hips up with impatience.

you nodded not speaking up, just wanting him to touch you already. he noticed how desperate you were for him so he went ahead and closed the gap wrapping his lips around your lower ones making the most obnoxious sounds. your hand immediately went to his hair and clutched it in your grasp. “ohh fuck — “ a tiny moan slipped past your lips.

he slurped up your arousal slathering his saliva all over your sex. his hands were smoothing over your thighs before he moved them to your pussy and used his fingers to spread your folds more, stimulating where you needed him the most. he worked his tongue like magic, making you clench your eyes shut as you felt your legs try to close at the sensation.

he tutted before moving them apart. “cmon, keep em’ open.” he groaned against you; the vibrations sending chills throughout your body. your mouth fell agape when you looked down and saw the sight of dylan completely devouring you. he flicked his tongue over and over sending you closer and closer. “God, you’re the only one for me.” he praised, making the most pornographic sounds.

you bit your tongue as you embraced the wave of pleasure that was about to hit you. you pathetically whined to dylan, trying to voice how close you were. “mmnph — m’so close.” you gasped, your thighs shaking around his head.

he smirked at you. he took your words as a sign to act like a starved man. “then give it to me baby, don’t i deserve it? made you feel soo good and showed you how you’re the only one for me. need you to cum on my tongue, please.” he whispered as he pulled you impossibly closer.

it wasn’t much longer until you wailed and whined as your body seized because of the euphoric state you had reached. your hand was clutching dylan’s hair tight as you tried to close your thighs around his head. that didn’t stop his antics. he didn’t falter as he rode you through your orgasm licking up all your juices.

when you came down from your high, you looked exhausted. dylan though, had a lazy smile on his face. “love when you look like that.”

your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “like what?” you questioned. his response only had you rolling your eyes.

“like i’ve just given you the best orgasm of your life.”

© willowrites

[ateotd-izzy]

right where you left me - stiles stilinski x fem!reader

“did you ever hear about the girl who got frozen?”

summary: you weren’t entirely sure you were ready to go on a date, considering your last was when your then boyfriend broke up with you. so imagine the surprise when you see him at the restaurant too.

“time went on for everybody else, she won’t know it”

notes: i feel like i write too many cute and happy fics on here so here’s a change of pace, sadness and angst.

“she’s still 23 inside her fantasy, how it was supposed to be”

☾

you brushed the front of your dress as you exited your car. you could see the restaurant’s front door from the parking lot as you took deep breaths.

agreeing to meet up with a man you barely knew for a fancy dinner date was not something you had exactly expected when you moved to a new city, but it was happening.

a fresh start had been what you needed after everything that happened, but you still weren’t sure if a date with a work colleague was exactly the best idea.

you stepped into the restaurant, the building much warmer than the cold breeze that blew outdoors, and carefully fiddled with a few stray hairs until you were soon being escorted to the table where your date was sitting.

seeing you approach, he slowly stood up with a smile to greet you.

“hi,” you gave a small wave as a waiter pulled your chair out for you. you turned your head to look back at the waiter. “oh, thank you.”

you took your seat and your date, a young man named isaac, just wouldn’t stop smiling.

“what?” you asked, puzzled slightly as you scrunched your eyebrows.

“nothing. i’m just glad you’re here,” he looked down at the menu on the table in front of him, picking it up. “do you want to order?”

your eyes drifted around the restaurant as you answered. “yeah, sounds good.”

then your breath caught in your throat at the sight of a familiar face sitting at a table not too far away.

“stiles, this place is fancy,” you chuckled as the two of you were seated. “this is not our usual kind of restaurant.”

stiles didn’t say anything. he just adjusted his tie and put on a smile.

you and stiles had been together for five years, having began dating back when you were 18. and you were positive the two of you were meant to be.

you looked down at the menu, where some of the meals you could order were things you had never even heard of.

you then looked back up at your boyfriend, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the empty wine glasses sitting on the table before you.

“you’re unusually quiet,” you spoke and he seemed to snap back to reality, meeting your eyes. “you okay?”

“yeah, i’m okay,” stiles then picked up his menu and started looking at the drinks.

soon the two of you had glasses of red wine in front of you and were waiting for your food to arrive.

stiles was still acting a little strange, giving mostly short, curt answers to your questions and seemingly zoning out every so often.

“so, what’s with the fancy restaurant, stilinski?” you asked curiously, a part of you hoping that he was going to propose to you that night.

stiles shrugged a little. “i just thought a change of pace would be nice.”

you reached out and put your hand on top of his. “well i think it’s great. we should do this more often.”

“uh, yeah,” stiles cleared his throat. “um… about that-”

before he could start talking, a waiter appeared beside your table.

“your meals.” two plates were placed down before you.

“so, what are you thinking about getting?” isaac asked you and you turned to look at him again, tearing your eyes away from the man just a few feet away.

“i’m not too sure,” you forced out a small, breathy laugh. “there’s a lot to chose from.”

“i’m thinking maybe steak,” isaac told you, still looking down at his menu, and your eyes flickered over to that other table again. “you can never go wrong with steak.”

“some of these pastas sound good,” you forced yourself to talk to isaac and not be distracted by him.

“oh, i love pasta,” isaac lowered his menu to look at you. “i can make great spaghetti and meatballs.”

you smiled and looked back to your menu when a waitress approached your table.

“hi,” she smiled brightly. “are the two of you ready to order anything? otherwise i can come back around.”

“oh, drinks would be great.” isaac nodded and turned his head to you. “uh, you good with red w-”

“i’ll just have water.” you cut in, before slinking back into your chair a little. “sorry. i don’t really drink wine.”

“oh, well, we have other drink options if you’d like,” the waitress spoke but you shook your head.

“no, thank you. water’s fine.”

“okay,” the waitress smiled after taking both your drink and food orders. “i’ll be back with your drinks in just a moment.”

“thank you,” isaac then looked back to you as the waitress headed in the direction of the kitchen. “oh, hey, did you hear about what happened with james yesterday?”

james was another coworker who isaac was friends with. you kept more to yourself and only really spoke with your best friend, kira.

“no, what happened?” you asked and isaac began to tell a story of some event the day before.

but you could keep your eyes on the man sitting in front of you, and instead kept looking at the man laughing with a red-haired woman just a few tables away.

looking so happy.

as you began to eat, stiles pushed his steak around with his fork.

“are you sure you’re okay, babe?” you asked as you finished your food and wiped your mouth. “you’ve barely said anything all night.”

stiles didn’t reply, or even meet your eyes. you had started to worry something was wrong.

“um, not quite,” stiles lowered his fork, sitting it next to his plate of mostly untouched food. “it’s just…”

you crossed one leg over the other as you brought your glass of wine to your lips. the dim lights reflected off of stiles’ still full glass of wine as he struggled to find the right words.

“stiles?” you spoke and he lifted his eyes to meet yours again.

“i don’t think…” stiles took a deep breath. “y/n, i think we need to break up.”

the entire moment seemed to stop as your wine glass slipped from your hand and dropped onto the table.

the glass shattered and red stained the white cloth on the table. the sudden loud noise drew a silence from the room, a number of heads turning to look.

but you paid no notice, your eyes trained on stiles, who was now struggling to keep eye contact with you.

“what?” you had to choke the word out and the silence that followed was almost deafening.

“we need to break up.” he repeated quietly and that’s when the tears began to brim in your eyes.

you didn’t get it. it had been five years. you loved him more than anything and everything had been seeming fine. what the hell changed?

“so, isaac, we barely know each other outside of work,” you started creating small talk after your food arrived. “what kind of stuff do you do for fun?”

“well, i like reading,” he told you. “books mostly, but i used to love reading, like, superhero comics when i was a kid, and i still do.”

“oh, i love comics too!” you smiled, but it quickly dropped when you heard his laugh from that table.

your head turned and you looked over again.

“something wrong?” isaac asked and you shook your head.

“no, no, don’t worry,” you waved it off and sipped your water. “so you like comics? what about movies?”

you did your best to keep the conversation going, and while some topics actually lasted a while, most conversations fizzled out after a short time.

it was like the two of you couldn’t really connect.

then you glanced back at stiles at his table.

what a coincidence that he would be here of all places. especially after you moved.

then you turned your focus to the woman with him. red-hair and a bright smile.

you could only really see the back of her head, just glimpses of her face when she would turn.

but as she pushed some of her hair back, it felt like a part of you died when something caught your eye.

your heart sunk in your chest at the sight of the shiny engagement ring on her finger.

it had only been two years since you and stiles broke up. two years. and yet she was the one with the ring.

you were with stiles for five whole years and as much as you wanted one, there was never a proposal.

“y/n, are you sure nothing’s bothering you?” isaac asked and that was the moment stiles noticed you.

he had been laughing at something his fiancé had said when his smile slowly dropped and his eyes connected with yours.

that solemn look on his face was enough to transport you back to that restaurant. but a part of you was always there.

“why?” your voice asked softly as the tears threatened to spill.

the wine had began to drip down from the table and onto the carpeted floor beside you.

stiles didn’t say a word, which just started to make you angry.

“stiles, why?” your voice was wavering and stiles squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. he held his hands together in front of his mouth before sighing.

“i met this girl,” he started and you could physically feel your heart break in your chest, snapping into two.

“a different girl,” that’s when you started to cry, but you did your best to keep your voice as steady as possible. “did you cheat on me?”

“no! no, i would never,” stiles’ eyes went wide before his face sank. “i just… whenever i talk to her, ever since we first met, i get this feeling. and it…”

his voice trailed off.

“go on,” you sniffled, feeling the mascara run down your face.

“it was something i hadn’t felt with you in a while.”

you stared at him. you just sat and stared.

“and it’s not that i don’t… look, i love you, y/n,” stiles reached out to grab your hand, and you were too frozen to move. “but i don’t think i’m in love with you anymore.”

those words sent your entire world crashing down. all those plans and dreams you had felt like they were just fading away, the product of your heart being destroyed by the only person you had ever trusted with it.

after almost a minute of dead silence between not only the two of you, but majority of the restaurant, you managed to find your voice again.

“what’s her name?” you asked shakily. you didn’t want to know how they met, or when. you didn’t want to know how long it had been with him thinking about doing this. you just wanted a name.

“uh, her name’s lydia,” stiles mumbled and you forced a smile, your lips trembling.

“pretty name,” you nodded and looked down at the wine-stained tablecloth.

not a word was shared between the two of you until stiles inhaled deeply, slowly standing up.

then he went up to one of the waiters, paid the bill, and left you in the restaurant. alone.

eventually the restaurant fell back into its original chatter, though there were some whispers of “what a sad sight.”

your hands found their way to your face, your elbows sitting on the table as you cried.

you sat at that table until the restaurant closed.

after dessert and then paying, you and isaac started leaving the restaurant.

“i had a nice time tonight,” you told him, holding your bag close to your body. “no matter how distracted i seemed.”

the two of you had stopped on the footpath outside the door, so it wasn’t hard to notice stiles and his fiancé as they left the restaurant too.

you froze again, staring at stiles and his unreadable expression on his face.

“um,” isaac looked from your face, then followed your gaze to see stiles. “i’ll call you tomorrow. goodnight, y/n.”

“bye, isaac.”

as isaac walked away you looked down at your shoes as stiles’ fiancé kissed him.

“hey, lyd, why don’t you go to the car,” he handed her the keys. “i’ll catch up in a minute.”

“no problem,” she smiled, kissing his cheek before walking away, her high heels clicking as she went.

there was a silence as you looked up to watch her.

“hey,” stiles spoke to you, taking a few steps so he was standing beside you. it had been so long since he was this close.

“hi,” you mumbled before sighing. “so that’s lydia.”

“yeah,” stiles nodded. “that’s her.”

“she’s pretty,” you said softly. “really pretty.”

“yeah, she is,” a faint smile ghosted on stiles’ lips and you looked down.

“are you in love with her?” you asked and there was a quiet moment on stiles’ end.

“yeah, i am,” he answered and it was like you were in that restaurant all over again, sitting beneath the dim lights and feeling your heart breaking in your chest.

all those emotions had come back a second time and realizing he would never be able to love you like that made you want to cry.

“congratulations, by the way,” you told him. “when’s the wedding?”

“a few months,” he replied, his hands slipping into the pockets of his pants.

there was a silence between the two of you for a moment.

“i’m sorry, y/n,” stiles spoke and you shrugged.

you were still in that restaurant, the moment constantly played over in your head. the exact moment he told you that after five years, he didn’t want to be with you anymore.

he wasn’t in love with you anymore.

a part of you wished he would take everything back. decide he didn’t actually want to be with lydia. that he would come back to you, and you would gladly fall in love with him all over again, because you never really fell out of love.

then, once again, stiles left you alone at a restaurant.

you watched as he walked down to the parking lot and climbed into the driver’s seat of a car, kissing lydia after he closed the door.

of course in your mind, that was you he was kissing. the two of you were still happily together, the way things were supposed to be.

in your fantasy, stiles had proposed to you that night at the restaurant and the two of you got married, and there was only happiness and love between the two of you.

but as you watched the car pull out of the parking lot, reality hit you in the face again and you were ripped from your delusions as the car disappeared around the corner.

so you took a deep breath and forced one foot in front of the other, finally walking to your car.

a/n: just wrote this whole thing in one sitting in 3 hours (it’s currently 3:38 am)

tags: @brvceyamada

[reggieslocket]

if thiam not endgame then why WHY including this scene where it's clear my boy is in love?? like who tf looks at you this way when you're nerding about history??

[written-beyond-the-grave]

Getting with Mitch Rapp HC's

After an intense who knows how long a bitch finally cracked and decided to write about Mitch Rapp since he’s a sweetie who doesn’t get talked about enough… like I been under the tag and I know writing takes so much time and effort so I decided to step tf in and give it a turn… bare with me

We all know after the death of Katrina this man went completely off grid, quit college, didn’t speak to his brother, went all in on avenging her on his own….. To take down a whole cell and the mastermind… yeah, white boy won’t shoot up a school, but will become an almost martyr (he’s what the govt would deadass hire, and keep on rotation)

ANYWAYS

I dead do feel like Mitch would we cautious, wary, and sus as hell with a civilian s/o

Let’s unpack: this man after Katrina probably wasn’t seeing anyone after that being emotionally scarred and whatnot (maybe he had to fuck someone or a few for the sake of a mission or kiss them, but it was just business). So the likelihood of this man entertaining someone else like with intention and not just some one fuck wonder is gonna be crazy ngl. This man has to look over his shoulder and his trust issues got trust issues, like his energy on a regular basis doesn’t scream “stay away”

But anyway, to catch his attention I feel like would be by constantly meeting him in mundane situations. I’m not doing the whole “you’re partners” trope, my black ass isn’t in this luv

Laundry room in the apartment and y’all get clothes mixed in on accident and you end up with his shirt or something— or the age old tale of him getting your underwear…. Or y’all shifting through the mixed laundry picking out what’s yours lmfaoooo

Mail getting dropped off in the wrong box or something

Bumping into each other at the grocery store and Mitch has the bare necessities in his basket and yours is like girl dinner coded

And the thing is, he’s not necessarily rude in interactions (when him throwing knives and punching his punching bag got loud and the person who owned the building asked Mitch to keep it down, and Mitch was respectful and said sure…. He’s not an asshole) but he might be on edge and try to speed things up

I feel like what might get the ball rolling might be a few different things: him seeing someone following you home that he KNOWS doesn’t live in his building (ik this man recognized everyone who lives in that bitch), being catcalled aggressively while walking home, seeing you stay in your car because a sus ass person is waiting for you to get out your car so he comes up to your window to help you out, or some comment about a terrorist attack “shoutout to terrorists, bc the US when to Afghanistan saw all this oil and snatched their chain. “We” (bc ain’t no WE here) snatch their chain and they retaliate, then we yell “it’s the Muslims” to spark a debate

Ngl he’s gonna have to let you cook with that one bc I feel like the “shoutout to terrosits” would’ve had that man spiraling and attacking you immediately. IK that man would spazz on the spot…. So let’s keep it to the safer options hm?

Soooooo after that it would spark a bit of conversation and solidify the familiarity bc here is your neighbor that you tend to see sparklingly helping you out

And being the person I am, I feel like as a thank you you’d leave him some brownies, cookies, or maybe a whole ass lasagna with instructions on how to best reheat at his doorstep being too shy to outright do it

Mans is confused but I feel like he’d take it to be nice, leave it in the fridge for like 2 days until he’s back late from a meeting and needs something in him and the only in that barren ass fridge is the lasagna…. He indulges and once he finds it’s good as hell he bodies half of it

He probably has it for lunch/dinner next day too. And then like washes it and knocks on your door to like give it back. He tells you thanks and you didn’t need to, but you say otherwise. And at this point with his stubborn ass if you’d invite over for dinner he’d respectfully decline so now there needs to be an event that puts him in your place of residence

Cue you taking a tumble on iced pavement

Mwah, inconvenience 😘

And now Mitch being at the right place wrong time, has to help you up and probably check for a concussion since that fall was nasty. He helped you into the elevator then into your place to help check your head and then like how you’re functioning bc goddamn. Once he figures out your fine, he’ll tell you to get a professional opinion and he makes you an nice ice pack and gives advice for how to take care of it

He thinks he’s good to leave you until he sees you struggling to get your bearings. He hates that he does this, but asks if you need any help since your mind is scrambled. Maybe he gets your some Advil, but then realizes you can’t take it on an empty stomach (he’s done it too many damn times himself) and so he looks into your fridge for something to heat up in the microwave to give you before you take the pill 

This is where the relationship starts and y’all make small talk, and how this is the longest you ever seen this man. He smirks, and snarks back. Once he gives you the food and sees you take the pill he’s off the clock and bids you a goodnight 

Until you see him gain tomorrow since he probably starts to check in on you, not like he’s been getting emotionally fed by having an associate outside of work that isn’t trying to kill him or isn’t Stan or Irene. Just a normie…. But he be lying about his feelings 

Next interaction is him coming back from a semi rough work week, and you catch him before he goes in and since he looks over it. Maybe a home cooked meal could help? You invite him over, no strings attached and go ok your way to get the braised short ribs out the oven for the mashed potatoes. You don’t tell him what’s for dinner tho

Thinking nothing will result of this, you get a knock at your door 30 minutes later with him and his hair still slightly damp. And maybe like a case in his beer bc he was told to never show up empty handed (so cute). Then bam! Y’all have some nice conversation, Mitch making sure to keep the attention off him and his job and do some information digging about you. School you went to, parents, hobbies, etc

He’s also scarfing down the ribs and such, you’re probably going to send him with food home tbh. He looks like he’ll need it 

After that it’s really wraps, like it destined for y’all to be real friends! Once he gets sent home with the plastic tupper (we don’t give guests the glass in case we don’t get shit back) we all know he’ll be back again

Then starts the tradition of Mitch eating at your place for like once a week that later gets bumped up to like 3 times a week. At some point your forgetting ingredients and maybe text Mitch about it, funny thing is he’s at the liquor store getting alcohol you might like since beer isn’t always going to cut it. He texted back what you need, and when he arrives he hands you what you need. This man stopped next door to the Shop Rite to get you the stuff…. Eventually I feel like he just buys your groceries since he eat EATS with all the work he puts in 

Friendship established

Y’all been shooting the shit for a while until there’s an emotional shift…. Lets say he’s having an episode of anger and just shuts down. On top the roof brooding and shit, it’s Katrina in another nightmare, him walk my himself with a panic attack, Stan up his ass, he just cannot right now. You take an elevator up there to see what’s up. You ask him what’s up, what’s wrong but he just ignores you. And by this point you know he can be a tight lipped lil shit…. But it doesn’t stop you from being there. So you do what you know best about which is just being there

So y’all sit in silence. And maybe you start to ramble to fill the silence, talking about the way your parents did a thing about colors when you were super and didn’t feel like talking. They said numbers “1 was green meaning yes, 2 was red so no to whatever they asked, 3 was yellow so a I’m not sure”. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Silence 

“Are you ok to be by yourself?”

Him staring straight ahead

“Do you want me to go?”

A painful hard silence

You respect his wishes and get ready to leave him until you heard a soft “2”, and the. Sit your ass down.

“Ok, so you want silence?”

“…..3”

“Ok, I’ll just sit here and watch the time…. We can get ice cream after….” You were doing your best dammit

Mitch felt a fond feeling some up over him, but didn’t say anything. You guys were up there until it got too damn late and cold. You tell him it’s time to go, and that when he looks at you like LOOKS and it’s just different…. You know he doesn’t want to go, and you understand but you can’t let self sabotage happen

“I get it, life is lifing and shit sucks but even  when you’re not ready for the day, it can’t always be night” 

This man knows you quoted Kanye

He gives you another long look, and you get up and offer your hand to help him up. He stared up at it… then grabs it to get up and y’all get inside. You two end up eating ice cream sandwiches 

Now the seed is planted for feelings to grow… MWAHAHAHAHAAAAA

After that y’all hangout regularly when he’s home, you give him normalcy in his life which he appreciates 

He will die on a hill before he admits or even acknowledges the feelings he has for you, lets be real he probably feels like he’s cheating on Katrina and that he’s not here to make friends since he’s a whole ass assassin and whatever. That’s fine, but when he’s wondering what you’re up to, or what’s for dinner, or reminiscing on a joke you made he feels warm and fuzzy and sometimes not as on edge as he usually is on missions

Stan noticed

I don’t think things will turn until he gets home one day at an odd hour of the night like 3am type shit and is bruised over his face. He just wants to lay in bed after taking a nice shower, but nah there’s you in the hall coming back from the club and having fun. You might be tipsy and say hi to Mitch but all that leaves your system once you see his face.  *giggles like a school girl kicking her feet* 

You’re on him without thinking asking what happened, he’s trying to keep it together and not blow up on you since you’re friends but he really wants to go inside. But you let him and follow him in asking for a first aid kit that he has. And you end up cleaning off his face after he showers, during that time you go to your place and get a first aid kit that is more advanced than his (that spray on band aid shit). Now it's you disinfecting wounds and putting neosporin on them and sealing it. During this time you’re complaining about wtf this man did while he was away, completely ignoring the fact that he’s in a towel. You’re giving him an earful and Mitch is rolling his eyes but not moving much bc when was the last time someone touched him so gently?

He’s probably taking in your clubbing attire while you do this, not in a weird way but like looking at the glitter, the new hair style, etc and putting it to memory 

“What the fuck were you doing? Jesus you look like shit”

Cue eye roll and for that you poke a nasty bruise that has his muscles flexing, he grabs your wrist for that

You give him a glare and don’t back down…. He answers with “The government” after that you don’t ask questions. The FBI agent assigned to your phone is probably already on your ass so you don’t need more enemies 

You fix him up, tell him to chill out, and then go to leave, but not right before him saying “thank you” 

We love a polite man who is in denial about having feelings, and you not acting in them bc Mitch is like a blank slate to read when he really wants to be

So like the way y’all talk about feelings and decide to get together and shit is not my forte, and breaking down his walls to talk about Katrina and the nature of his work to a degree that doesn’t scare you off. And his work on being emotionally available to you since he now cares for you more than he can admit

But we KNOW this man is a complete softie

Once he loves he LOVES, no question about it. And once you gain that, you have him for life

Fuck even if he’s been away for an assignment for months at a time, he’d probably head back to your apartment rather than his…. He knows where home is 

He might not be the type to declare his love for you verbally all the time, but he shows it through actions like remembering the brand of stuff you like. Bringing you dessert or picking up food for you when work has been bullshit. Maybe not a gourmet meal for breakfast in bed (he can cook but like take your expectations, he can throw down for breakfast tho and make good ass sandwiches), but he will give you the rest of the milk for the cereal. Do the dishes, trash duty, put furniture together, wait for you outside till you get off work and drive you home. And even tidy around if he sees you don’t have the time

And when things get more serious put you as an authorized user on his card without telling you. You’ll just find that shit in your Apple Wallet

He’d keep the loving touches at home but he’s a cuddle bug, loyal to a fault, and loves to spend time at home with you. Home dates are a must, but he does love a good date night to see you dressed up

He would grow to love the domestic nature of your relationship and that’s what this man needs besides a copious amount of therapy

You’d also find out that he’s a nerd, but like undercover. I feel like he’d be a Nightwing or Red Hood fan from DC, and other comics from his childhood shows as well

He’s protective, smart, probably would talk to you about getting an air tag or some government tracking thing in case of emergencies. Then maybe take you on a gun date to teach you some self defense which probably goes wrong because you’re a CIVILIAN and that punch came too fast at you and you screamed and ducked while covering your eyes. He feels bad now, but now knows to take it to baby steps 

Your assassin boyfriend has your best interest at heart, promise 

A/N: I do be writing for black readers iykyk, but here is just very general.... Let me get to the tomfoolery next time babes (like Mitch helping you take down the braids)