𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐞

it's the upstairs neighbors who bother you more. riya is nice, but you think they're too hot and too cool for their boyfriend nate. of course, that's not the problem, nor is it any of your business. for the record, though, sam agrees. it's more so about the middle of the night sex and the poor quality of whatever bed frame they made the awful choice of purchasing.

the first time they woke you up, it had been less than a week since you'd moved in, and none of the paranoia from your previous life had even begun to wear off for you or sam.

your heart is thundering at the first loud bump that wakes you. sam's hand finds yours just as yours looks for his. your other hand is searching blindly for a gun on your beside table that isn't there. it's in the drawer, still nearby, but hidden now and less accessible than you used to have it. you and sam sit up, eyes quickly adjusting to the dark and ears tuned for any other noises that might be out of place.

another thump nearly makes you open that drawer, but your now sharpened senses register that it's coming from the apartment above you. the next realization is that the sounds are rhythmic, and you just barely catch the sound of a muffled moan.

with that, you collapse back onto your pillow with a light laugh, eyes still bleary with sleep.

"goodness," you say through a breathy laugh, the headboard of their bed banging against the wall with complete insistence. it sounds unstable, honestly. "i think they're actually going to break the bed."

sam laughs with you, laying back down as well and turning on his side. his arm wraps around your waist and he buries his face into the side of your neck, nuzzling your warm skin with the tip of his perfect nose. this is followed with a soft kiss, as usual. you grin. sam can't see or feel it, but he knows it's there. that smile of yours and another soft laugh when the wall receives a particularly harsh bang.

"think this'll happen often?" you lament. "will we have to tell them to get a new bed frame? or have quieter sex?" it's sam's turn to laugh, a sleepy sound that suits him much better than anything loud or bloody.

"might," he murmurs into your skin, all soft and tired now that he knows there's no threat. for a few awful seconds, he thought some monster or hunter or whatever possible enemy had come to ruin your attempt at normalcy together before you'd even finished setting up all the furniture. he's happy that it's just the neighbors with a wobbly bed frame.

almost abruptly, the noise stops. you wait in quiet for a few moments to be sure that you're really being granted silence.

"they're done already?" you tease with a whispery laugh. it's not that sam doesn't have the skill to get you off quickly, or you him, but you tend to last much longer together. quickies aren't your go-to, even if they're required sometimes. now that you have your own place and are starting to settle down, you don't imagine things starting and ending that fast. as for last night, it felt like forever, in the best of ways.

you and sam are courteous enough to have a sturdy, quiet bed, though.

꩜｡⋆

you sleep light when you're feeling poorly. little things like the soreness of your throat or the movements of your upstairs neighbors wake you easily. so a sharp gasp from sam and the tensing of his muscles certainly pulls you out of your sleep. your eyelids seem to stick shut for a moment before fluttering open, and you shift in his arms. his slightly labored breathing goes silence as if he's holding his breath, likely worried that he's woken you and hoping that if he's quiet enough now you'll fall right back asleep.

"nightmare?" you whisper, voice course and barely audible. you resist curling your arm around his middle in case it's one of those dreams that makes touch difficult for him.

"sorry," he murmurs, answering your question with the tone of his voice rather than his words. he sounds tense and tired, and you know definitively now that his dreams have been unkind to him. you wish he'd never apologize for accidentally waking you. it's not as if you don't do the same sometimes.

"don't be sorry," you insist, as usual. his arms tighten around you, and you take it as a sign that you can do the same if you like. instead of slipping around his waist, your hand reaches up to settle into the soft hairs at the base of his neck. you pull his head close, pressing a kiss to his forehead, lingering long. he's still all tense and closed off. "you don't have to talk about it if you don't want. but talking about it won't… it won't make everything come back. talking about it won't change what we have now, you know that. we're allowed to talk about it. any of it."

"i know," he says, sounding like he doesn't really know it. you give a soft sigh, but don't push it. maybe you'll talk about it later, when he's ready. it's hard to focus on learning to live again when you're still haunted by the past. sometimes it's easier to just let the past be, to know that there are monsters in the closet, but keep the doors shut anyway. the understanding you have of each other has to be enough, and you've found so far that it is.

"you okay?" you decide to ask instead, voice as soft as it can be while your throat hurts like this.

he nods, then tilts his head up. "i'm okay." his lips find your chin as a reassurance, a promise. "it wasn't… as bad as it could've been." he's calming slowly, melting into your hold, so you suppose he's not lying. it's true that you've seen him worse.

"doesn't mean it wasn't bad at all," you murmur in protest, but not with any force. you follow it with another kiss to his hairline. "think you'll be able to fall back asleep?"

he hums in confirmation. "i'll be fine. but what about you? your throat still bothering you? do you need some tea?"

you give him a hum of your own, but it's not really an answer, just a little noise in response to how sweet he is, always more concerned for you than anyone else. your voice comes out as a grumble, "i think it's getting worse," you admit, "some tea might be a good idea, since i'm awake. i'll get it myself though, you go back to sleep. i'll be quiet."

a huff of air leaves his nose, tickling your neck. "you're funny," is all he says, like it's preposterous to suggest that he go to bed while you make yourself tea. he's too much of a gentleman to let you do that, but you also feel his hold on you tighten, just a bit. he doesn't want to be alone, even just for a few minutes. there is no comfort in being alone in the dark.

you retort with a gentle, "you're right, i'm hilarious. c'mon. since i'm letting you make me tea, it had better be good." he sits up with you, one of his hands still on your waist. his fingers slide to your lower back as you untangle yourself from him and the sheets, and he follows suit right after. he pads through the hallway behind you, overtaking you in the doorway into the kitchen with his hand brushing over the small of your back again before opening the cupboards for a mug.

he doesn't need to flip on a light because the blinds are open and the moon is bright tonight. so you watch him move through the shadowy room, preparing the tea that he knows you'll like the most right now. he makes a cup for himself too, liking the feeling on your eyes on him, never leaving.

the tea does a fine job of soothing your throat for the time being, and calms sweet sam's frayed nerves. he's had awful nightmares for as long as he can remember, but sometimes they're even more haunting now that his days are full of nice things. last week, you took a free ceramics class at the community center together. there's a few plant pots with herbs on the tiny fire escape balcony, and when you're not busy working to get better jobs, you sit and read novels that have nothing to do with hunting monsters.

your pinkies are linked across the little dining room table as steam rises from your mismatched mugs. the table is only outfitted for two, because you could only afford two chairs. that's alright, though, because you don't have anyone to invite over besides maybe the downstairs neighbors. but sam's starting to make friends with someone he volunteers at the library with, and unbeknownst to you, your bright friendliness is making your coworker want to hang out with you after your shared shifts. maybe you'll get a set of plastic chairs to use when there's guests.

꩜｡⋆

sometimes, loads of tea and vitamin supplements aren't enough to keep a nasty cold at bay. despite how nicely sam makes you several cups of tea a day, you're truly and fully ill now.

you're woken in a fit of fever, head fuzzy and cream-colored sheets sticking to you with sweat. for once, your body heat permeates more thickly than sam's, who always runs warm. an achy sigh leaves your parted lips, and your clumsy hands fight to push the plush comforter off your tired limbs.

your restless stirring wakes sam after a few moments, who props himself up on one elbow and runs a hand through his hair, immediately searching for the reason you're awake. his eyes adjust to the dark quickly to catch sight of the light, involuntary pout on your lips. before that even, his hand brushes over your upper arm and he feels the heightened heat of your skin.

"oh, baby," he whispers, reaching over to drape his palm carefully over your forehead. he doesn't have to say anything cliche, like 'you're burning up.' it's quite obvious on its own. he just pulls the thicker blanket from your body, but settles the sheet over you to prevent any chills. his thumb lightly brushes over your cheek. "that any better? i'm gonna get you some tylenol."

you only give a noncommittal hum, but he takes it as permission to leave you for just a moment. if you weren't so uncomfortable, you'd fall back asleep before he even got back. instead, you lay there, senselessly missing him and too exhausted to move.

he returns with tylenol as promised, along with a glass of water and a cool, damp rag. he sets the pills and glass down and carefully settles the rag over your forehead, earning a soft sigh of satisfaction from you. underneath the fabric, the furrow between your brows lessens just a bit. with all the gentleness in the world, he slips his hands under your head to tilt it up and brings the lip of the glass to your mouth. you drink as wordlessly instructed. he sets the water down for a moment and replaces it with one of the two pills. your lips part when he brings it to your mouth, then the cool glass is touching your skin again. both pills go down just fine, and he's settling your head back onto the pillows.

you fail to notice that he's brought the thermometer with him too until he asks you to open your mouth again. "just gonna take your temperature, honey," he murmurs softly. you give him no hassle, letting him tuck it underneath your tongue. when he pulls it out, he gives a little sigh. "definitely a fever, but it's not so bad," he tells you, taking your hand in his before pulling it up to his lips for a kiss to your knuckles.

"come back to bed," you grumble, giving him a weak tug.

"i think you'll get too warm," he protests kindly, "i'll just sit with you."

"there's no chair," you tell him, as if he doesn't know, "and i want you in bed with me. please?" you manage a little smile to try and convince him, looking sweet and tired and a little pitiful too, in the way that's so endearing it makes his heart hurt.

"i'm sorry, but i don't want to make your fever worse," he insists, voice still as gentle as it ever gets. "i'll bring a chair from the kitchen, okay?"

"but it's the middle of the night," you sigh, your smile slipping. it's too much effort to keep it there. "sleep with me."

"honey. it's already five in the morning. you know that's not too early for me," he says. it's true. in the past, sleeping until five would be a luxury for him. but you don't really care, and it's not the past anymore.

"you're crazy," you tell him, a little furrow settling between your brows.

"i know," he murmurs sympathetically, unfazed by your feverish accusation.

"it's too early for me," you complain. "won't you come back to bed with me? please?" of course, sam has known this entire time that he'd never beat you. it's just a matter of how many times he can deny you before he inevitably caves to your pretty eyes and hoarse voice. your soft 'please' has him ready to wave the white flag for peace; you're going to tear out his heart at this rate. but then your voice quiets even further, like you don't quite want to be heard despite the fact that you need to be understood. "i want you to hold me."

in the blink of an eye, he's kissing your cheek with a soft sort of determination. he doesn't even move a full inch away before he's whispering, "okay. alright, it's alright. i'll hold you. don't worry." then, his long limbs are slipping back under the covers and curling around you until you're settled on his chest, one hand still holding the cool rag over your forehead and your head carefully tilted so you can breathe easier.

he soaks up your heat, and the bottom sheet grows practically damp with your combined sweat. but he doesn't mind one bit, because you fall back asleep, looking far more comfortable and contented than before, for a while.

eventually, he does have to untangle himself from you because a frown settles on your lips and you turn restless in his arms again. he refreshes the cool compress to dab away your sweat and press to your hot skin. after a moment, he decides to prepare a second one for the back of your neck, and maneuvers everything so gently that you never wake until your body decides it must have water.

you wake with a little moan that he'd find sweet were it not an indication of your discomfort. he gets you more water, then lulls you back to sleep with his touch until it's time for another dose of tylenol.

꩜｡⋆

this moan is sweet, still hoarse and quiet, but only from sleep rather than sickness. your sounds start as little huffs of breath, a sigh here or there as his hands trace down your body and tug at your underwear, soft and quiet as to not wake you right away. he wants you to wake to the feeling on his lips on your hot, wet skin.

you most certainly do wake to that, a soft moan escaping your lips as your body gains awareness and your mind catches up to it. sam hums into your sensitive pussy as he feels you rouse, his hands gently holding your legs apart. he gives your thighs a sweet squeeze, then wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, softly at first to pull another noise from your lips.

he's easily successful, a quiet grunt leaving your lips as your tired arms reach down for some sort of contact with him. aside from his face buried in your cunt, of course. one hand finds purchase in his hair and the other curls around three of his fingers, holding his hand there against your thigh. your hips squirm as his tongue laves over you, your movements sluggish with sleep.

"sam," you sigh, out extra sensitive after just waking up and too tired to have complete control of your body. you're not loud, but you're noisy, letting out sweet and unfiltered sounds almost every time you breathe out. he gets more insistent the longer you're awake, letting his hunger and desperation show. his grip on you tightens, and his nose bumps relentlessly against your clit as he eats you out like he'd swallow you whole if he could.

the pleasure is overwhelming, overpowering, and you can't seem to keep a steady grip on him. your hands are still weak with sleep, so you continuously tangle and untangle your fingers in his hair, torn between pushing him away so you can breathe and pulling him closer so that the feeling will never stop.

"jesus," you groan, "please!"

"i got you," he mumbles, quickly so he doesn't have to stray from his task for long at all. "so good. so good for me, you taste so good."

"y-you couldn't.. hahh, help yourself, could you?" you pant out, eyes squeezed shut.

"never," he agrees before giving your clit a suck that tugs your back from the bed and pulls an extra pretty whine out of you.

"fuck," you sigh, "mmm, feels so good. please, sammy." really, you're not begging for anything other than for him to keep going exactly as he is, and and you know he has no plans to do anything but that. he loves this just as much as you do, possibly more. he's a damn addict, so much so that it wakes him up in the middle of the night.

the way he sweetly strokes the inside of your thigh with his fingertips is an easy contrast to the way his mouth moves against you, shameless and ravishing. your hips buck up into his face and your feet scramble for purchase on his hips to try and stay grounded. your thighs tremble with the effort, and sam moans right into you, beyond obsessed with the way you sound when you're sleepy and desperate and overwhelmed like this. it's no wonder he can't help but wake you like this sometimes, you sound like heaven, look like heaven as his eyes adjust to the dark and a sliver of moonlight finds its way into the room.

he gives you everything you need and takes everything he wants all at once, sending you over the edge with a sweet hum and relentless tongue. you clutch him close for a moment of hot ecstasy that may have lasted forever, then sag like a rag doll into the sheets. like always, he can't resist breathing you in, deep and long, and giving one last swipe of his tongue that sends a shudder up your spine.

your eyes flutter open and closed, exhausted by the pleasure and an already tired body. you swear you're still half-asleep, but in the way that you feel like you're floating, mind and body all fuzzy, soft, and satisfied. he stays tucked between your legs, sleepy too, despite being the one who was so ravenous in the first place. his head rests on your thigh, one hand still holding yours, and the other drawing stars over your hip bone.

he presses a kiss to your sweaty skin, his soft as ever and wet with your slick. "i love you," he whispers, "sorry for waking you up in the middle of the night." it's not the first time he's woken you like this, and you certainly hope it's not the last.

"i love you too," you murmur back, voice still raspy. "it's okay. love it when you wake me up like that. feels so good, every time. you're so pretty." you say that last part for no reason at all, other than it being true.

sam feels like blushing. "you're so pretty," he retorts quietly.

"thanks," you smile softly. to him, you shine like the sun, even in the dead of night. you're such a wonderful accompaniment to the moon, he thinks.

꩜｡⋆

neither the moon nor the sun show themselves much during the winter months. it tends to be quite cloudy here. the cold, on the other hand, is pervasive. and you and sam have discovered the horrors of having a landlord who's doing everything he can to avoid paying to fix your unreliable heating system. since it's not completely dysfunctional, he is most definitely stalling.

until it is completely dysfunctional, an issue that is made known to you at about 3:47 in the morning. the first thing you think is that sam must've accidentally stolen all of the blankets like he does sometimes. they'll get wrapped around his long legs, he'll roll over, and the whole plush comforter will go with him, leaving you exposed to the night air. but when you blindly reach for the blanket, you find that it's still snugly laid over you. that's when you begrudgingly open your eyes in confusion. your fingers are cold. the tip of your nose is honest-to-god freezing. and your feet. your poor, poor feet that have slipped out from the blankets and been left for dead in the cold air.

you're not the type to get grumpy. but you are now. you tuck your feet in and curl up against sam's back, seeking out his warmth. but it's too cold to ignore, so you shake sam's shoulder.

"sam, wake up," you groan, cursing his inconsistent sleeping style. sometimes he's the lightest, worst sleeper out there. other nights, he's impossible to wake. as he grows more accustomed to living a safer life, he gets more of those nights where he sleeps like a fallen log. you shake him again and he wakes with a grumble.

"what is it?" he asks as soon as he's awake enough to speak, voice gravelly. "god, it's freezing." he sits up groggily and immediately regrets it. you regret it too, because it leaves more of you exposed too. you chase after him, tucking yourself under his arm and against his chest.

"i think the heating gave out, like really gave out," you complain, trying to steal his body heat. he wraps his arms around you without any qualm, rubbing up and down your arms in attempts to warm you. he knows you get colder than he does most of the time.

"no kidding," he mumbles, pressing an absentminded kiss to the top of your head. "i'll get the space heater and hopefully that'll be enough until the morning." the light annoyance in his voice is indicative of what he plans to do in the morning. that is, call the landlord and demand he gets the heating fixed right away. it's not like the two of you have anywhere else to go without traveling farther than you'd like to. it pains you to let sam untangle himself from you, but the promise of more warmth is enough for you suffer without him for just a few minutes.

he returns with the space heater that you keep in the living room. the bedroom is usually warmer when you keep the door shut, but tonight, that makes no difference. he plugs the heater in, as close to the bed as he can at a safe distance, then wraps the blanket from the couch around your shoulders before climbing back onto the mattress.

despite the cold, you smile at him sweetly and contentedly as he gives you the extra blanket. he's so easy to be in love with.

he anticipates the way that you tuck yourself into him the moment he's laying down with you. and it's not as if he doesn't want you in his arms as much as you do, so he most certainly welcomes it. he settles one hand on the back of your head and pulls you close until your nose brushes against the soft skin of his neck. one of your legs sneaks between his, and he hooks his ankle with yours.

"i guess this is what it's like to have normal people problems, huh?" you whisper, your breath fanning over his neck. he'd love to kiss you senseless right now, but he's too tired and he's pretty sure you are too.

"yeah," he sighs, sounding relieved. "yeah. beats… beats the other stuff."

"even though it's really, really cold," you agree, smiling. he can hear the smile in your voice.

"even though it's really, really cold," he echoes. "it'll warm up."

he's right. this sort of thing passes. it gets better. the space heater serves its purpose, eventually warming the little bedroom enough that you can fall back asleep. the tile floor of the kitchen is hell in the morning, of course, and you spend the rest of the day in the library together after convincing the landlord to have everything fixed.

the weather warms too, and the relentless cloudiness fades into bright blue spring mornings. the blinds are always left closed on friday nights so that the rising sun won't wake you early on saturday mornings. it's been a blessing. sam still wakes up early sometimes, but sometimes he sleeps in late with you.

no alarms go off this morning; you and sam were up late last night watching a movie you found at the library. he really prefers vhs movies, but he'll settle pretty easily for cds. vhs is too hard to find these days, which is a shame. after the movie, you stayed up much later than intended, sprawled in bed while discussing the movie in depth. it was the sort of movie that was easy to watch, entertaining and pretty, but thought-provoking all the same. maybe it's because the mundane is something so special to you and sam that you could talk about it forever.

the blinds don't block out all the light, especially when it's so sunny like it is now. but it makes waking gentler and kinder while still letting you love the light of the morning.

gentle really is the right way to describe how you wake this morning. there's nothing particularly special about it, but that's what's so lovely. it's just a breath in, then a breath out and the fluttering of eyelids. it's a moment of peace, but the moment never ends. there's no threat of monsters or a hunt or the end of the world.

there's just sam and his heavy arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you, keeping you near him. there's sunlight on the white wall and a green plant in the corner of the room. pillows and blankets you call your own, a stuffed armchair, and a closet of clothes. sam wears sweaters and tshirts and sometimes even slacks rather than jeans these days. you can't stop telling him how handsome he looks when he's comfortable.

you don't move for a little while, and you let your eyes fall closed again. maybe you fall back asleep, maybe not. it doesn't really matter. nothing really matters, nothing but this. even if there's things like rent and jobs and a leaky sink. they don't have to matter until later.

then, because you're hopelessly in love, you open your eyes when they start to feel less heavy with sleep and turn to look at sam. there's no slight frown on his lips, no furrow to his pretty brows. he's content, he's safe, he's not so afraid anymore. if you were to count your blessings, his happiness would be the first thing to come to mind.

his body lets him rest without worry. staying up to talk about movies for fun is allowed now. it has no consequence, outside of a yawn or two while washing the dishes. but he gets to sleep in for as long as he'd like today.

maybe it's your staring that finally wakes him. the weight of your gaze, heavy with affection. the first thing he does when roused back into consciousness is smile. soft and sleepy and delighted to see you. then he kisses you. it would be without warning if he weren't moving so slowly. but you're ready for him, happy to have him.

this morning, he is insistent on having you close, so the moment his lips are no longer on yours, his arms are wrapping around your middle and holding you tight. he pulls you into him with a quiet grunt.

"good morning, sweetheart," he rumbles softly, lips brushing over the skin of your temple.

"good morning, love," you murmur back, voice just as sweet as his.

"i love you so much," he tells you, hand rubbing up and down the expanse of your back.

of course, you answer, "i love you, too. so much." his hand slips under your shirt, like you'll never be close enough, and touching your skin will make it better. you huff in protest and arch against him just a bit. his fingers are cold, but only for a moment. then you're melting into him and sighing in contentment.

"the weather's supposed to be nice. like yesterday. we could walk to the park," you whisper.

"later," he answers simply, ducking his head to press his nose to yours, then kiss the skin under your eye. "let's just lay here a while.

you can't help but grin. "okay. later." you kiss his cheek and he smiles back, then closes his eyes again. the smile stays on his face and you think that maybe he's never looked more beautiful than he does now.

"i love you," you say again, because you just have to.

he hums softly and his other hand slips under your shirt, his fingertips pushing gently into the plush of your lower back. "i love you," he echoes.

nothing aches, not right now. there's growing pains and old scars and sores that will never really go away. but in this moment, nothing aches save for the kind of ache that love gives. and it's a lovely sort of ache. the kind that could make your eyes all misty in the happy way. like you're so grateful to be where you are that it almost hurts.

FOR THE LONGEST TIME, ALL YOU HAD WANTED WAS TO ESCAPE THE GLADE. You spent countless restless nights sitting under the stars and wondering what the world outside was like. There were times when you truly lost hope. There were times when you didn’t think you would make it out alive - that the only time you would ever get a glimpse of what was beyond the grey, harsh walls would be in your dreams. Or even the afterlife.

Now, as you trekked along the depressing streets, you found yourself wishing for that blissful ignorance again. Ben, Chuck, Gally, Winston. Those names were on repeat in your mind almost every night and every morning. They died so that you could live, and that had to count for something.

You remembered vividly what it was like to see a fellow Glader die right in front of you. Sure, Ben was banished; but he had died long before he was sent out into the Maze. He was dead the moment the infection took hold of his body.

Gally was next. His stubborn nature caused his demise, and Chuck’s too. Clenching your eyes, you blinked away the anger and resentment. Gally had been your friend. He was a hard-headed ass, and too overbearing, but he always took care of you when it mattered. Even if he was grumpy about it while doing so.

There was no place for love in the Glade, but if you had to pinpoint the first and last time you felt it, it would be for Gally. The memory of you begging him to come with you haunted your every waking moment. Tears, blood, and sweat covered your face as you dragged his sleeve - crying, almost falling to your knees to convince him. You’ll never forget the way he looked at you, the way he shook you off his arm like you were some pest.

And you couldn’t forget about Winston. His death was still fresh in everyone’s mind. It was hard to forget the echo of the gunshot that had ended his life - even if it was by his own hands.

A harsh slam woke you from your thoughts. Someone had rammed straight into you, trying to pass you. Looking up, you saw them walk past a cargo truck. A tall man was sat on it - gas mask heavy and tight on his face as he seemingly stared straight through you. You shivered before looking away. The streets were too crowded. Thomas held onto your arm tightly as he maneuvered his way around. Honestly, your search was feeling futile.

If you could go back in time, maybe you would’ve never left the Glade. Maybe Gally was right.

“Over there,” said Thomas, pointing to something in the distance.

You squinted, not quite understanding what he was getting at. In truth, you weren’t even sure how he knew what to look for. The Right Arm hadn’t been heard of in years. That’s what everyone had said. You were looking for ghosts.

“Thomas-“ you started, wanting to reason with him. Words caught in your throat as a bullet wheezed straight past you two.

All hell broke loose as swarms of bodies shoved and pulled - trying to escape the danger of being shot. Newt and Brenda had disappeared. Whipping your head around, you yelled for them, not wanting to lose another friend to the chaos that this world offered.

Before you knew it, a strong grip dragged you away, and everything went black as a strange fabric went over your face.

“Let me go!” you yelled, looking at the familiar mask on the soldier’s face. You quickly recognized them as the ones who were riding around town earlier.

The car ride had been brutally long. Your muscles ached, and your eyes were sore from being in the dark for so long. Frantically looking around, you tried to find your friends. Surprisingly so, your arms weren’t tied. The only thing stopping you was the almost painful hold on your upper arm. Whoever these people were, they didn’t seem like they wanted to hurt you - or else you’d most likely be dead by now.

You huffed as you were manhandled into a room. There was something about the soldier - something about them gave you a sense of deja vu. It was the way they held themselves, the way their breaths came in ragged gasps as you stared at their chest. Each moment felt like a distant memory that you had seen before. Furrowing your brows, you decided it was your memory loss messing with you again. It was common for you to think you remembered something from your past, just for it to be a fluke.

You were quickly let go, and you jogged up to Newt, wrapping him in a hug.

“I was worried sick,” he mumbled. “Where are the others?”

You shrugged as your eyes scanned around. Spotting Brenda, you nodded to her. There were significantly less of you than you’d initially had begun with. Had they taken the rest to a different location? Your heart hammered rapidly against your ribcage as you stepped back. You eyed the familiar soldier, noting the way his shoulders squared back as he stood tall.

You shook your head. I don’t know him. It’s all just fake memories. Get over yourself. Get over yourself-

A shout interrupted the awkward and anxious silence. As Jorge began laying down punch after punch on one of the men, Brenda ran up to him to put a stop to it. All your eyes were looking for was Thomas and Fry.

After everything you had all been through, the thought of losing someone else was unbearable. You couldn’t afford another loss like that. Letting out a deep breath, you watched as Frypan and Thomas stepped up, curiously staring down the soldier at the end of the room.

Words were exchanged, but none of them stuck.

His voice. It sounded like…

“What do you mean same side? Who the hell are you?”

The soldier stopped, his arm flexing as he lowered the gun in his hand. He looked away briefly before slowing pulling off his mask. A buzzed head came into view, and you had almost no time to process before his face turned to look at you.

All you could see was blue. The color of his eyes. The same eyes you had looked into as you pleaded and sobbed. The same ones you had watched the light slowly die out of. The eyes you had so long ago fallen in love with.

Both of your gazes locked onto each other’s, and if it weren’t for Newt’s hands steadying you, you genuinely think you could’ve passed out. It was like seeing a ghost.

All you heard was a loud commotion behind you as you turned to sprint out of the room. Another minute in there and you would lose your mind.

Pushing open the door to the balcony, you panted slightly, trying to get your bearings. The cool breeze pinched your cheeks, causing a slight twinge of pain. It was usually warm during the day, but the nights were freezing. In the Glade it had always been warm - never a dull day. Perhaps once every few months you’d get rain, which was always good for the crops, but it was never necessarily cold.

Shivering, you wrapped your arms around you. Weirdly enough you had never been more glad to feel the chill of air run through your bones. It was the only thing reminding you that you were alive.

Alive. Gally was alive.

Burying your face in your palms, you paced around. You spent almost three weeks grieving him. You saw him die - no, correction, you watched and left him to die.

His face tormented you every time you closed your eyes. The tears he cried as he realized he was being left for dead, the scream that had left your body as you were pulled away from the scene. Gally was the first person you had ever truly opened up to. You had been in the Glade for the brunt of 2 years, and over time you’d like to think you had gotten under his tough exterior.

The nights where you both couldn’t sleep. Your head in his shoulder, and his hand intertwined with yours, precariously tip-toeing the line between friendship and something more.

Then, in a split second, it was all gone.

“Hey, firecracker.”

You winced at the nickname. Gally had given it to you on your first week there. He said you would give him a run for his money with the way you snapped and yelled at everyone. Really, it was just because you were scared - especially being the only girl.

You blinked away tears. “Please, don’t.”

Your voice came out more shaky than you had liked. It wasn’t that you weren’t relieved to see him, it’s just that you didn’t exactly end on good terms. Now, seeing him alive and well - and so, unbelievably tall and handsome - it made you question everything.

He whispered your name, and you felt his body heat burn unbearably against your back as he stepped closer.

“Look at me.”

Shaking your head, you clenched your eyes shut, letting a few stray tears fall. “I’m can’t. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

The last time you let yourself cry was that exact fateful day. Every single tear in your body had been used up to the point that you weren’t sure you were even capable of crying anymore.

Your back hit something hard, and you soon realized that two familiar arms were holding you to his chest. He breathed in and out, his inhales pressing against your back, indicating and proving that this was real. That he was real.

“How?” You sobbed, leaning into his arm.

Really, you didn’t care how. All that mattered was that he was here. And bit by bit, you would hopefully fix what was broken - regain what was lost.

Shifting around, you collapsed against him, wrapping your arms around his torso and gripping at his shirt desperately. You felt that if you let go, he would disappear. Just as he did the first time - when you let go of his sleeve, and he slipped away from your grasp, like he was never even there.

The only words that you were able to conjure were feeble apologies as you let yourself sob against his shirt. Inhaling his scent again for what felt like a lifetime, you finally felt like things were piecing together. Like you were whole again. Taking a quivering deep breath in, you finally lifted your head to look at him. He was just as beautiful as the day he left you.

He cupped your face as he rested his forehead against yours. You must have stayed like that for hours - or maybe it was only a few minutes.

All you knew was that no words had to be spoken for you both to understand. You were never going to leave each other again.

In the early morning light, dew clung to the grass like a thousand tiny crystals. The air was crisp and cool, carrying the faint scent of pine and earth. You stepped outside the homestead, savoring the quiet solitude before the day's activities began. The sun had not yet fully risen, but the sky was a canvas of soft pastels that promised a beautiful day ahead. You stretched, feeling the tension from the previous day's...activities with Gally.

Gally emerged from the nearby barracks, the iconic rebellion gas mask hanging around his neck. He noticed you immediately and his eyes crinkled into a knowing smile. You couldn't help but feel your cheeks warm up at the sight of him. It had become a sort of game between you two, ever since you had accidentally admitted that the mask had an oddly alluring effect on you.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted, his voice teasing. He knew exactly what was going to happen next. He reached up and slowly pulled the mask over his head, the leather strap creaking as he tightened it. The mask was a stark reminder of the battles he had fought, the lives he had saved, and the world that had shaped him into the leader he was today.

You watched, your heart racing, as he took a deep breath, the mask molding to his face. His eyes searched yours, and you knew he was waiting for your reaction. "What? Why do you always act weird when I have my mask on?" he asked, his voice muffled yet still full of mischief. You bit your lower lip, trying to maintain composure, but it was a futile effort. The way the mask framed his face, highlighting his strong jaw and piercing gaze, had always sent your thoughts spiraling into a whirlwind of confusion and attraction.

"It's just…it's different, that's all," you murmured, hoping he wouldn't press the issue further. But Gally wasn't one to let things go easily. He stepped closer, the early morning shadow playing across his features.

"Different how?" His proximity made it even harder to think straight. You stuttered, trying to find the right words, but they eluded you.

"It's like…you look more," you pause, squinting your eyes and looking for the words. "Hot." you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

A chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating against your own as he stepped closer, the mask seemingly amplifying his presence. "Hot, huh?" His eyes danced with amusement, and you could feel the heat from his body. "Is that what gets you blushing like that?"

You nodded, unable to find the words to explain the tumult of emotions that the mask brought out in you. The way it made him seem both more dangerous and more vulnerable at the same time was an intoxicating paradox. He leaned in, the cool metal of the mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered, "You wanna see what other secrets it holds?"

Gripping the edges of the mask, he slowly lifted it off, revealing his smirking face. The moment the mask was removed, it was as if a weight had been lifted from the atmosphere. The tension between you dissipated like morning fog, leaving behind only the warmth of his smile and the closeness of his body.

"Gally, you're such an asshole," you said, trying to lighten the mood with a playful punch to his shoulder. But the impact was lost as your knuckles connected with the hard material of the gear. He just grinned wider, clearly enjoying your flustered state.

"Maybe," he conceded, setting the mask aside. "But you love it."

Your eyes narrowed playfully. "Do not."

"You don't?" He stepped closer, his arms encircling your waist. "I've seen that look before. It was on your face when you first met me."

You felt a blush spreading across your cheeks, but this time, it was from his touch rather than his teasing. "You're just full of yourself."

He leaned in, his breath warm against your skin. "Is that a no, then?"

You pushed him away gently, trying to regain your composure. "It's not funny, Gally."

"I know it's not," he said, his voice dropping serious. He reached up to stroke your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. "You don't like when I talk about how you blush when we-"

You hit him, understanding what he meant. "We're in public!" You exclaimed, trying to pull away, but his grip was firm and warm, anchoring you to the spot. The early morning light cast a soft glow on his face, making him look less like a warrior and more like the boy you had grown to love amidst the chaos of the Glade.

Gally's eyes searched yours, the playfulness replaced with a gentle concern. "You're right," he said, his voice sincere. He leaned in closer, his forehead touching yours. "But I can't help it. You're just so…cute when you're embarrassed."

You felt your heart race even more at his words, your palms growing sweaty. You didn't know how to respond, so you just leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart. The moment was intimate, a brief respite from the harsh realities of their world

"Don't you have a meeting to get to?" you mumble into his chest.

Gally's grip tightens for a brief moment before he sighs and nods. "Yeah," he says, pulling back slightly. "But I'll make it quick. For you." He winks, the action making you roll your eyes even as you can't help the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

This work belongs to me, lucky-punk-lemonade (Minte_Condition on AO3). I do not give anyone permission to distribute or share my work without consent.

You’ve always trusted Stiles to know his limits. Never badgered him if he wanted to stay up into the early morning hours researching niche supernatural events or when he’d say he survived off of microwave dinners and PB&J's and hasn’t drank water in a few days. Of course, he loved it when you sternly told him that wasn’t healthy, that he should get more sleep or get up to get a cup of water. He loved that about you. Seeing you cared when it mattered.

It started when you took his hand in yours and brought it up to your mouth. Pressing small kisses to each of his knuckles, punctuating words he wasn’t listening to. “Stiles?” You frowned, giving up on the conversation.

“Hm?” He’d blink as if his eyelids were sticking together; slow, fazed and distracted.

“You’re not listening,” you’d said, kissing his fingertips.

“M’listening. I was…” he tested bending his fingers, smiling when your lips followed. “I was…”

You could hear the thought die in his throat, the remnants leaving in the form of a small moan as you take his ring finger between your lips.

“Let me make it up to you.”

Then he was resting his cheek against your inner thigh, eyes already glazing over and eyebrows knitted dramatically. An overwhelmed and weak expression. When you had told him you liked it when he looked like that, you suspected he started looking at you with those half-lidded eyes and slightly-parted mouth more often. Whatever makes you happy.

When he spoke in a needy whisper, his voice took on a gravelly static. His ‘M’s and ‘S’s slurring and spilling over into the next word after it. He lost the sense to enunciate words or put much work into the praises and instead focused his efforts into watching your face and sliding his fingers between your legs and letting out a deep exhale, something about how wet you are leaving with it.

It’s been a while for sure. Since you’ve had time for each other. Since you got time alone, really. Consumed by school, work, and helping the pack. You’d joked that the pack couldn’t survive without two humans, he laughed, and you both went back to work. It was comfortable. You hadn’t realized how badly you needed to just be with him until he’d coincidentally sat next to you in the bed for a small break. Reading through the notes you’d both taken, switching the notebook between backpacks every research session, you leaned into him.

Now, he was looking up at you from between your legs, almost cross-eyed at the slick covering his thumb. And when his head dipped down, ready to coat his mouth in you, he knew your mouth would fall open. He knew it did something to you, the boldness of his eye contact while he did something like this, lapping at you, hands holding your thighs down, and humming into you every so often as if he wanted this as much as you did. As your head lolled back, he smiled against you and reached up to hold your hand. He gently guided your hand to the top of his head, his moan vibrating against you as your nails scratch softly at his scalp. He lifts his head and gives you a crooked grin. His lips are wet and his eyes almost sparkle as his voice comes out cracking in need. “M’listening now, sweetheart.”

Before you could answer, his head dipped back down and sucking softly as your hands tighten in his hair. Stiles was indulgent. In his research, mostly, losing track of time and awareness of his own needs. He was often dehydrated, tired, and hungry, making you out to be his guardian angel every time you came over to remind him. He said his ADHD gave him an addictive personality, or his father’s genes. At the very least, he was obsessive. It was useful in research, but you never imagined how advantageous it’d be if he set his sights on you.

He grinned against you and pulled away again, impatient to get his words out. Your eyes fluttered seeing him lick his lips and the words that come out are barely heard, “Missed you.”

The sight makes your heart flutter. His awkward smile because he’d stopped to tell you. His chin was still shiny, and he licked his lips again, enunciating for the first time since you’d kissed his neck,

“-And it was just.. So wet. Way, way too much spit, y’know? And there was entirely too much tongue on his part considering the fact that his hands, like, never even left his pockets-”

You’re not entirely sure how, nor at what point, the conversation devolved into a mostly one-sided and incredibly detailed analysis of Mark Hagan’s kissing technique, or lack thereof, but by the time your eyes fall to the boy sitting in the driver’s seat, you realize that you’ve been rambling for at least a full minute in the patchy darkness of the parked car.

“-And I’m not saying I wanted to be groped or anything but, I mean, it’s a little awkward when a guy just-”

You falter suddenly, when you notice the awkward slump in Stiles’ posture, and your words taper out without warning. He has one hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel and the other gripped tightly on the back of the seat where he’d turned to face you when he first asked how your date had gone the night before. And- God. That had been minutes ago, now.

“Sorry,” You apologize immediately with a grimace, “Was that, like, way too much information? Sorry.”

“No, I, uh,” He releases the steering wheel and shakes out his hand as if only just realizing how tight his grip had truly been. Your eyes are embarrassingly distracted by the long line of his fingers as he continues, “I guess I just didn’t realize how many things you could do wrong, y’know? I assumed it’d be more straight forward than that. You lean in, press your lips together, kiss, done. Right?”

You laugh softly at his rushed response, “I mean, I guess. I’d like to think there’s a little more skill that goes into it than that.”

“And, uh, Mark..” Stiles has been seemingly overwhelmed with reasons to dislike the other boy since you’d announced your upcoming date the week before, and he nearly spits the name with disdain when he says it now. “No skill, huh? Not quite, uh.. Not up to your standards?” He’s fiddling with the straw from his long-finished milkshake as he speaks, eyes downcast and determinedly focussed on his fingers, “Considering the overabundance of tongue, the lack of groping, and the, uh.. All-around wetness-?”

Another small huff of laugher escapes you as you drop your own empty cup into the greasy paper bag the diner had stuffed your to-go order into a half hour before, your socked feet returning to the Jeep’s dashboard only a moment later.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.” You fight back a cringe at the mere memory of the drool that coated Mark’s chin when you’d finally decided you’d had enough and pulled away.

“What about you?”

His question catches you off guard and your brows furrow as you meet his gaze, “What about me?”

He twists and folds the straw of his drink with more vigor, nose crinkling before he elaborates, “What would you say your, uh.. Your skill level.. is?”

You pitch forward to grab one of the few remaining curly fries from the container perched by your feet on the dash, falling back into your seat and munching slowly as you genuinely ponder the question.

“I think I’m probably alright,” You shrug after a moment, “I mean, it’s hard to say, right? But I’ve never had any complaints. And considering Lydia is, like, the queen of complaining-”

You’re caught off guard by the entirely inhuman squawk of disbelief and surprise that escapes him. He’s scrambling in his seat with no real purpose before he slowly comes back to a standstill, now sitting just a few inches closer to the passenger side than he was before.

“Lydia? You.. You and Lydia have-?”

You shrug again as you wipe your greasy fingertips on the leg of your jeans, “Yeah, like, twice. Maybe three times?”

“Three-?”

“What about you?” You interrupt.

You tip your head against the backrest to look at him in the dim light of the parking lot as you await his response. The Jeep is barely getting hit with the residual light from the windows of the diner, but the bright neon sign on the roof of the building casts a pretty red hue over Stiles’ face. His mole-dotted skin is flushed with it, the only bits safe from the red-tinted glow are the shadows beneath his brows and the tiny divot in the tip of his nose that extends up from his cupid’s bow. You want to trace the darkness on his skin with the tip of your finger — with your lips.

You find yourself getting lost in just how gorgeous he is, not for the first time.

“Huh?” Stiles asks dumbly.

“Skill level,” You elaborate with a grin, lifting one foot from the dash to poke your toes into his knee, “What about you? Are the girls positively swooning? Melting under your touch? ‘Oh, Stiles. You’re the best kisser on this side of the Rockies-’”

Your teasing is silenced when his hand comes out to cover your mouth, long fingers trapping the words beneath your lips. Your knee is squished awkwardly between you, but he’s so warm you can feel the heat of his body seeping into your own, and the scent of his body wash fills your nose now rather than the lingering smell of grease from your shared dinner. You can hardly focus on his words as the smell of teakwood and pine invades your senses.

“No one in their right mind would ever say something like that after being kissed,” He tells you, face pinched in a cringe, “Like, not even something remotely along those lines. Not even in those weird old-timey romance movies you make me w-”

You grab ahold of his fingers to pull his palm from your lips with a small giggle, “Oh, c’mon, the suspense is killing me! Are you a good kisser or not?” Your mind is reeling a bit as you think about it. You can’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Stiles, to feel his lips on your own, his hands on you. “I feel like you probably are. Just the right about of enthusiasm but you’re also a total perfectionist so it’d-”

“I don’t know!”

His exclamation is entirely too loud for the confined space of the car, his voice ricocheting sharply off the metal shell of the vehicle and causing you both to flinch a little. Stiles looks as if he wishes he could stuff the words back into his mouth and try again. You’re simply looking him over with a more critical eye, searching for the reason for his recent outburst as if it might be written plainly on his face, like you might find big emboldened letters of explanation etched across his skin.

“What’d’you mean you don’t know?” You scoff in amusement, “Y’know what? Fine-” You shuffle closer as an idea pops into your head — a brilliant, glorious, heaven-sent idea. His fingertips are still trapped within the palm of your hand and your knee slips over the top of his thigh as you slide closer and move into the center seat, “C’mere. I’ll give you review-”

Your face edges closer and closer to his own until your noses bump and the delicate touch seems to zap Stiles into alertness, sending him jolting back as if he’s been electrocuted.

The sourness that erupts in your belly at his reaction isn’t wholly unexpected, but a small flicker of shame joins it and burns like acid in your chest.

“Well, shit..” You murmur with an awkward chuckle.

It’s difficult to bite back the nagging feeling of embarrassment that swirls through your veins in response to being shot down by your best friend — your best friend that you’ve desperately been wanting to kiss since middle school.

You swallow harshly before continuing with a self-deprecating laugh, “I didn’t realize the thought of kissing me was quite so.. Horrifying. My bad.. I.. I’m sorry. You don’t- I didn’t think and I just- Sorry.” The last bit comes out quieter, the sound of it buried beneath the sudden tightness in your throat.

You find yourself avoiding his eyes, but that only means that your gaze is drawn to the smooth expanse of his neck — and there’s that glow from the diner’s neon sign again. His skin is cast in that red hue, smooth expanses of scarlet broken up by the speckles of dark moles and beauty marks scattered here, there, everywhere. You can almost make out his jumping pulse beneath the hollow of his throat, the dark crimson shadow twitching nearly imperceptibly with each too-quick beat of his heart.

They’re all spots that you’ve only dreamt of having your lips touch.

On rainy days when he shakes his hair out like a dog with the sole purpose of hearing the way you squeal in surprise, the drops of water finding their way down his temple and filling you with the urge to kiss it away.

When you slip into daydreams from the desk behind him during class, your eyes stuck on the exposed curve of his shoulder where his shirt collar is stretched just a little too loose, your lips tingling with the all-too vivid phantom feeling of his skin beneath them.

Trapped in his embrace, his height just enough that your face is smushed into his collarbones, nose crushed against him and pulling in the woodsy scent of his cologne, your mouth pressed limply to the soft cotton over his chest but aching with the desire to pucker and leave behind a gentle peck.

“No! No, it’s not that!” Stiles denies immediately. He’s already reaching out to drag you closer again, hands curling into your waist the moment you attempt to slip backwards into a bubble of shame in the passenger seat. “Kissing you would be the opposite of horrifying! It would be, like, a dream come true or- Or-”

Your eyebrows creep up your forehead at that, the barely there curve of a nervous smile pulling at the corners of your lips as his words seem to tumble out faster, growing increasingly difficult to understand as he rambles in a way that you’re all-too familiar with.

“-Because if I was going to kiss anyone, I’d want it to be you, but if I do kiss you and I’m horrible at it and you’re, like, repulsed-”

You’re still trying to piece things together despite the jumbled bits you seem to have missed. Your lips part in astonishment and his fingers tighten where they’ve begun to anxiously dig into your hips as he continues.

“-What if I’m worse than Mark? What if.. What if I’m so bad that you kiss me once and then you never, ever want to kiss me again because I was so unbelievably-”

“Stiles!”

You cut him off, already scooting closer until your left thigh is practically in his lap. His words cut off, a sharp inhale tearing past his lips as your hands find his shoulders, your thumb dragging over the freckled skin of his neck. You can feel his pulse jumping wildly against the pad of your finger as you finally voice your question.

“Are you telling me you’ve never kissed anyone before?” You ask the question as delicately as you can manage, but he still winces as an embarrassed flush colors his cheeks further.

“Not.. Not technically.” He admits quietly, big brown eyes still tinted beneath the crimson glow from outside the Jeep.

“Not technically?” You repeat slowly.

“I don’t know why I thought saying it like that would make it sound better,” He says weakly, “It didn’t. It was still just as mortifying. And so, so lame.”

Your heart flutters, cracks, and then ticks up in quick succession as your flooded with a wide array of conflicting emotions. You can’t quite believe what it is you’re hearing.

“You haven’t had your first kiss?” The words come out a bit more heartbroken than you intended.

Stiles looks horrified at the bluntness of your statement for a moment before he’s swallowing harshly, eyes dropping from your own for a fleeting second.

“No,” He says in a quiet voice, nearly a whisper as his eyes flick back up to yours, “But, um, if- If you’re still offering.. I mean-”

Your heart is positively hammering in your chest, so hard you worry he might be able to hear it, but then your thumb drags up and brushes over his own racing pulse again and his nerves seem to somehow calm yours. Your lean forward until the tip of your nose catches on the bridge of his again, eyes not leaving his as you move achingly slow, giving him time in case he decides to change his mind.

“You’re sure?” You ask softly, the whispered question little more than a breath of warm air against the bow of his upper lip.

“Uh huh.” He just manages the quiet sound of affirmation, a small nod of his head has your lips brushing lightly and the barely-there touch pulls a sharp breath of anticipation from him.

“Okay,” You say quietly, dragging one hand to the back of his neck so you can guide the angle of his head just a touch to one side.

His grip on your hips readjusts and tightens further, one of his clammy palms slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, and the warmth of skin on skin has you breathing out harshly in the sliver of space between your lips again. Your eyes flick slow between his, wide pools of scarlet-tinted whiskey watching you with rapt attention. Your mouth curves up with the hint of a smile, a soft breath of laughter falling into his parted lips as your fingers dig into the thick muscle of his neck.

“Close your eyes, weirdo.” You whisper fondly.

“Shit, fuck. Sorry, yeah. Eyes closed.” He rambles off quickly, eyes pinching shut immediately and hands squeezing your hips as if silently promising that he’s ready.

Endeared. You’re so fucking endeared your organs feel as if they’ve gone warm and syrupy beneath your skin.

Despite your admonishment of his eyes being open, you find yourself unable to pull your own away from watching every small tick in his features. Your hand on his shoulder tightens as you brush your nose across his and when the tight pinch of his eyes slackens and he takes a small nervous breath of anticipation, you finally press your lips to his.

It starts with just a small peck as your brain whites out for just a second. His lips are soft and chapped and plush against your own. You linger for a brief moment before you’re separating just enough to slot your mouths back together a little better.

His lower lip finds itself between yours and he gravitates toward you when you make like you’re about to draw back a second time, his mouth blindly searching for yours. He applies more pressure as he seems to become more sure of himself, one of his hands sliding to the base of your spine to drag you closer.

Impressed, you guide the angle of his head to tip just a hair further, your lips parting to exhale a hot breath into the gap between his own. A small sound rumbles from his chest as he tries to replicate the heat of your kiss on the next meeting. His lips fall open just enough that his breath mingles with your own and your brain goes a little heady with it, thighs tensing as blood rushes in your ears and heat pools in your gut.

You draw back and you’re forced to tangle your fingers in his hair to hold him in place when he tries to chase your mouth again. His eyes crack open to meet your own when he finds himself unable to catch you in another kiss and his pupils are blown a little wide, black overtaking brown until only a small ring of rich chocolate remains. You’re sure you don’t look much better, with the way our chest is threatening to heave with excitement, your fingers trembling where they’re gripping onto the muscle of his shoulder and woven into his hair.

“That was.. That was good.” You tell him after a moment, voice embarrassingly shaky, “What.. What’d you think?”

“Good.” He returns just as weak, “Great. That- Mhm. Awesome.”

His eyes are on your lips again and he looks downright hungry, but then, so are you.

“You’re a natural,” You praise breathlessly, eyes flicking between his rapidly as your fingers unconsciously tighten in his hair, “I’d never guess that was your first kiss – It was.. You learn fast.”

“We- You should probably show me more,” He insists, already leaning back in until his forehead finds your own, “That way I won’t end up like Mark, y’know? With pretty girls complaining to their friends about how wet and gross and bad it-”

“You think I’m pretty?”

He blinks at you as his lips curve up at the corners, the tip of his nose catching against yours to shoot sparks down your spine when he replies, “I think you’re beautiful.”

“Oh.” Is all you manage to get out as a smile tugs at your own lips.

“You want to maybe show me how to use tongue without, being completely repulsive and, like, drowning you or whatever?”

“Mhm,” You agree easily through a breathless laugh. You can’t quite help the quick press of your lips to his and you feel the relieved exhale that falls from his nose and fans out in a warm puff against your face. “Just for the record, though-” You feel the need to elaborate, “There is a time and a place for wet. When things are really hot and heavy and you’re in the throes of passion or whatever — a little too much tongue is great. It can be really, really hot. But- Like I said, time and place.”

The information leaves Stiles looking mildly overwhelmed and severely aroused, but he’s nodding dutifully, “Uh huh. Got it. Noted. I’ll remember that.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

His mouth is claiming yours again before the word is even fully out, the sound of it lost in your lips and what remains is smothered by your gasp of surprise. You let him control the pace for a moment before remembering that you’re supposed to be the one guiding him.

You bring one hand up to his face, thumb catching his chin so you can guide his jaw to drop open a bit further as your tongue teases against the inside of his lip. His groan meets your ears, the sound of it sending a shockwave through your body that you’re still reeling from as he repeats your action with truly startling ease. The warm wetness of his tongue has you feeling hot all over, and when it catches against the tip of your own before retreating, you nearly whimper in protest at the loss.

He effortlessly settles into the pattern of give and take, hot brushes of tongues broken up by soft pecks against slick lips. His fingertips dig into your skin like he’s afraid you might slip away into nothing if he doesn’t hold you tight enough and you find your own fingers scraping at his scalp in response.

You’re both making soft little noises between the quiet smack of lips, the leather seats creaking every time your weight shifts in an attempt to get closer.

The lack of oxygen has your head a little fuzzy at the edges when you finally pull back and each of your exhales mingle warmly in the small sliver of space between your mouths as you both fight to catch your breath.

“I, um. I don’t think you have to worry about your kissing technique.” You tell him breathlessly just to break the silence, “You’re all good. A, uh, a great kisser. Eleven out of ten.”

“Cool. Cool. That’s great, I, um-” He coughs quietly, nervously, as he leans back to put a bit more space between you, “Would you maybe want to do it again sometime?”

He’s looking at you with pretty brown eyes blown wide and bleeding earnestness. The hand around your back has fallen to your upper thigh, the grip of it tightening as if punctuating certain words as he speaks. It’s entirely possible that your brain sort-circuits, because a moment of silence passes before he’s barreling on.

“-because I, for one, would really like to do that again sometime. Maybe.. Maybe after a date? Or during a date — that part doesn’t really matter. I just really like you and I have pretty much since forever and now that I’ve kissed you-”

“You like me?” Is all you manage past the heavy thumping of your heart in your chest, your ears — Shit, you’re pretty sure you can feel every pump of it in each trembling twitch of your fingers.

“So much that’s borderline embarrassing, yeah.” He admits, throat bobbing as he swallows nervously.

A breath whooshes past your lips, filled with relief and surprise and elation.

“I like you too.” You say after a beat too long, “Holy shit. Stiles, are you kidding me? I’ve liked you since the fifth grade.”

“Really?” He looks mildly shocked.

A giddy laugh escapes you as you drag him forward again to bring your lips back together. The kiss is chaste, but filled with so much emotion it makes your head swim a bit.

“Damn,” Stiles mutters suddenly, the frustrated curse puffing out against your cheek, “Does that mean we could’ve been doing this the whole time? Like, years of kissing-?”

His words cut off when your lips find his once more and he gives in easily, his train of thought thoroughly derailed.

“I guess we’ve got a lot of time to make up for then, Stilinski.. You up for the challenge?”

the glade

enemies to lovers type shit. i'm talking y'all would go as far as avoiding meal times just to avoid seeing each other.

he'd always be staring at you—from across the glade, through the bonfire, literally all the time.

sooo many interactions would end with y'all being up in each other's faces and throwing petty insults.

you'd slap him if he says anything that borders on sexism. he eventually learns what's what.

'there's a thin line between love and hate'.

other gladers would get so annoyed by how much he talks about you. his favourite excuse: "she just pisses me off so much".

but there's no excuse for jerking off to the thought of you late at night.

honestly, he would probably realise he likes you when you scull his secret recipe drink in front of him.

he'd ignore his feelings until you're the only thing on his mind and it infuriates him so fucking much.

you would be arguing one time and then suddenly he kisses you. the kiss would be aggressive, heated, and most likely up against a tree or hut.

suprisingly, his confession after would be very vulnerable and tender.

everyone is confused the next day when you're practically glued to each other's sides

gally would be very protective and borderline possessive. he'd hate it whenever other guys stare or talk about you.

would probably end up in a fistfight over it.

he'd be a rough/passionate kisser.

he'd be very into thighs. his hands are big and calloused so he'd enjoy wrapping them around the plush of your thighs, kneading the soft warm skin in his hand.

despite his gruff and harsh demeanour, he would always hold/touch you with utmost delicateness, apart from heated moments.

guards you whenever you shower.

would break so many rules for you. reluctantly, of course.

y'all know the term 'sleeper build'? that's gally. he might not seem extremely muscly at first glance, but once he starts heavy-lifting and building, his arms are legit bulging.

your first time together wouldn't be too great, but once you practice more, it gets good. like, really good.

love love loves receiving but also thoroughly enjoys making you come and knowing only he can do it.

his favourite sex position would be holding you up against a wall. he likes feeling strong.

arguments would almost always end with him taking you into the forest and fucking you against a tree.

when he gets stung, he would probably fight through the changing to tell you he loves you one last time before getting speared. oop.

the last city

when y'all reunite, you'd both collapse to the floor in each other's arms kissing and crying which surprises you. the gally you knew was not a crier or favoured public affection.

gally changed a lot since you last saw him, emotionally and physically. he is taller, more muscular, and has a more level-headed and calmer attitude.

he'd be more emotionally available and willing to be open and vulnerable with you.

the first thing y'all do when you're alone is have sex. and he even fucks differently.

the better wording would be 'make love' instead of 'fuck'.

he is much more gentle and loving and focuses on your needs wayyy more than his own. he couldn't believe how aggressive he previously was with you, how selfish he was.

he would worship your body and show you how much you really mean to him.

you would make him leave his mask on one time while y'all fuck. its hot af.

would always be touching you—an arm wrapped around your waist, holding your hand, your thighs, etc.

the hugs, man. he'd literally pick you up and engulf you in his arms. all the time. this mf had a severe epiphany and realised his love language was touch.

would always be complimenting you. "you're beautiful, you know that?", "god, you're a fucking angel.", etc

wouldn't get mad if other guys talked to or stared at you anymore. he would probably joke about it with them instead.

well, maybe he would be a little aggressive.

"yeah, ha-ha, careful or i'll throw you to the cranks".

trusts you to be able to take care of yourself but is still a major worrier, especially during the war within the city.

after arriving at the safe haven, he would build a house for you. you would enjoy watching him because, well... muscles.