About me:
Hi! I’m Ink (she/her) — emotionally unstable, fictionally unhinged. I write fanfics full of soft heartbreak, slow-burning angst, and the kind of moments that feel a little too personal. I survive on hot coffee, playlists that hurt, and the belief that characters falling apart is a love language.
✧ I mostly write for Marcus Baker — that list will forever be growing ✧ Stiles Stilinski has a special place in my heart ✧ I'm over 20, permanently tired, and aggressively sentimental
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🖤 WHO I WRITE FOR:
• Marcus Baker (Ginny & Georgia) — Masterlist
• Stiles Stilinski (Teen Wolf) — Masterlist
• + future fandoms to be emotionally wrecked by...
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🔮 REQUEST RULES:
• I have the right to skip requests that don’t click for me
• No set word count — most fics live somewhere between 1k and 2k words of emotional damage
• Smut is welcome — but I write it with feelings, not just friction
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📖 craving more words? Wattpad is where the long fics live — slow burns, deep pain, and even deeper feelings.
🥀 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑊𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑇𝑤𝑜 - 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑂𝑛𝑒 𝑁𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝐿𝑒𝑓𝑡 | Marcus Baker
a story about grief, growing up, and the people we lose (and find again) along the way. Dallas, Marcus, and Bridge were once everything — until one of them wasn't.
🌕 𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝐻𝑎𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝐾𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑀𝑒 | Stiles Stilinski
a story about connection, control, and the quiet ache of not knowing what’s real until it’s almost gone.
he’s chaos and loyalty. she’s locked in her own head.
the bond doesn’t ask permission — it just waits.
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✨ TO READ MORE: Just scroll or search #inkedwrites to find everything in one place.
💌 REQUESTS ARE OPEN
Got an idea that’ll emotionally wreck me in the best way? I write for Marcus Baker, Stiles Stilinski, and soft-hearted disasters with too many feelings. If you’ve got angst, fluff, or painfully specific prompts, I want them.
✎ Send a request here — anon is on. Be brave. Be reckless. Break my heart a little.
finally made a cover i actually love.
rowan blake—the last one in her bloodline who can shift into a true wolf. her dad (the alpha) is gone. her mom and cousin derek are alive, but she’s the only one left with the old blood, the full wolf, the kind of wild that doesn’t fade.
in beacon hills, survival is more than claws and fangs—it’s about grief, found family, and what’s left when you run out of places to hide.
rowan x stiles, legacy pain, rareblood, and all the moonlit trouble you’d expect.
Stiles Stilinski x Reader | Void Angst | Hurt/Comfort | First Person
did this one for the pain. | request yours here
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Word Count: ~2.2k
Summary: After everything, he still reaches for her like it’s second nature. But when she flinches, it breaks something in both of them.
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He’s standing in front of me, close but not touching, the air between us taut with something neither of us wants to name. His hoodie hangs loose off one shoulder, sleeves bunched at the elbows, and his hair is still damp, curling slightly where it hasn’t dried. His face is unreadable. I can feel the hesitation radiating off of him—like he’s calculating risk in every move, weighing whether or not he’s allowed to reach for something he used to hold without thinking. I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped tight between my knees, the pressure biting into my knuckles, anchoring me while the air in the room feels like it’s closing in. The lamp behind him flickers, casting soft shadows that shift with every breath, and I can hear the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, the uneven tick of the heating vent, the silence of everything else.
When Stiles raises his hand, it’s slow. Measured. The motion is gentle, open-palmed, fingers slightly curled like he’s offering—not claiming—like he’s asking for permission without needing to speak it. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. He’s not reaching for my hands or my shoulders. He’s reaching for my face. The softest part. The place he used to touch when he wanted to make me laugh, or calm down, or just feel held. But this time, as his hand lifts and crosses that final inch of space between us, something inside me coils. My breath stalls. My throat closes. And before I even know it’s happening, my head jerks back.
The movement is small. Not violent. Not deliberate. But it’s enough.
His hand stops in mid-air, fingers barely an inch from my cheek, and the pause that follows is deafening. My heart drops into my stomach. I stay completely still on the bed, frozen in place as shame burns up the sides of my neck and behind my eyes. I feel it before I see it—the way his entire body stills. Then he lowers his hand slowly, carefully, like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold up. His eyes shift from mine and his shoulders sink as he takes a single step back, and I swear I can feel the cold rush into the space he leaves behind.
Stiles doesn’t speak as he turns from me. He just moves toward the chair in the corner of the room and sits down without ceremony, elbows braced on his knees, one hand scrubbing over his mouth. His shoulders stay hunched, his head bowed, and he doesn’t look at me. The way he settles into the chair—like he’s trying to make himself smaller—guts me. I stay seated on the bed, staring at him like maybe I can will this into a misunderstanding. My throat is thick. My legs won’t move. Every part of me is screaming to reach for him, to close the distance and make it better, but I’m stuck in the wreckage of my own reaction.
“It’s okay,” Stiles says quietly, his voice worn at the edges, almost too calm, and I hate how easily the lie comes out of him, like he’s trying to protect me from what I already know I did. I whisper, “I didn’t mean to do that,” and my voice cracks as it leaves my throat. “It just… happened.” He nods, barely, eyes locked on the floor like it might absorb some of the weight we’ve both been carrying, and I feel my chest tighten with something worse than guilt. “Stiles—” I try again, but he cuts in softly, not unkind, just tired. “It’s okay,” he says again, and this time it sounds thinner, stretched too far over something fragile. “Your body remembers. It’s not your fault.”
The softness in his voice doesn’t soothe me. It shatters me. Because it’s not forgiveness—it’s surrender. He’s letting me off the hook before I even ask, like he’s already decided he deserves this. Like he’s already decided I don’t trust him. I shake my head, fast, desperate, and I say, “I’m not scared of you.” The words land hard in the quiet, and for a second he doesn’t respond. But then he finally looks at me. When our eyes meet, the breath leaves my body. He doesn’t look angry or wounded or distant. He looks hollow. Like something inside him just folded in half.
“You pulled away,” he says, and he doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like a confirmation. A quiet acknowledgment that the thing he was terrified of happening just did. I nod, because I can’t lie to him. “Do you think I’d ever hurt you?” he asks, and I swear the question breaks me clean in two. “No,” I say immediately, because it’s true. “Never.” But then he says, “But your body does,” and the floor tilts under me. That’s what this is. That’s what he’s been afraid of. That some piece of me—some deep, buried part I can’t control—doesn’t see him when he gets too close. It sees what used to live in his place.
I force myself to stand. My limbs feel wrong, heavy and uncertain, like they don’t trust me to carry this. I walk toward him slowly, afraid that if I move too fast I’ll startle both of us back into silence. He watches me with tired eyes, the kind of look that says he’s bracing for whatever comes next, even if it’s goodbye. I stop at the edge of the chair and crouch down until I’m level with him. “I stayed,” I tell him. “When it was him. When you were gone. When I didn’t know if you’d ever come back—I stayed. Because I knew you were still in there. Because I never gave up on you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He exhales, slow and shaky, his hands loosely clasped, his knuckles pale. I reach out and touch his knee, tentative, light, like I’m not sure if I’m still allowed. He doesn’t move. “I didn’t flinch because I’m scared of you,” I say. “I flinched because I forgot how to stop remembering.” His eyes meet mine, and I see it then—the pain, the grief, the exhaustion of trying to be someone I’m not afraid of. He blinks and says, “You don’t owe me comfort. Not after what I did. Not after what he did with my face.”
I shake my head and move closer. “But you’re not him,” I say, and I raise my hand slowly, praying my body doesn’t betray me again, and this time it doesn’t. I press my palm to his cheek, and he closes his eyes like it physically hurts to feel that much. He leans into my touch. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays there, like that moment is the only thing holding him together.
We don’t speak again. But the silence between us is different now. It’s not fixed. Not healed. Not gone. But it’s something we’re both still choosing to stay inside. And even though that flinch still lives in the air between us—between my skin and his memory—I know he’s still here.
Stiles Stilinski x Reader | Void Angst | Hurt/Comfort | First Person
did this one for the pain. | request yours here
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Word Count: ~2.2k
Summary: After everything, he still reaches for her like it’s second nature. But when she flinches, it breaks something in both of them.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
He’s standing in front of me, close but not touching, the air between us taut with something neither of us wants to name. His hoodie hangs loose off one shoulder, sleeves bunched at the elbows, and his hair is still damp, curling slightly where it hasn’t dried. His face is unreadable. I can feel the hesitation radiating off of him—like he’s calculating risk in every move, weighing whether or not he’s allowed to reach for something he used to hold without thinking. I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped tight between my knees, the pressure biting into my knuckles, anchoring me while the air in the room feels like it’s closing in. The lamp behind him flickers, casting soft shadows that shift with every breath, and I can hear the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, the uneven tick of the heating vent, the silence of everything else.
When Stiles raises his hand, it’s slow. Measured. The motion is gentle, open-palmed, fingers slightly curled like he’s offering—not claiming—like he’s asking for permission without needing to speak it. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. He’s not reaching for my hands or my shoulders. He’s reaching for my face. The softest part. The place he used to touch when he wanted to make me laugh, or calm down, or just feel held. But this time, as his hand lifts and crosses that final inch of space between us, something inside me coils. My breath stalls. My throat closes. And before I even know it’s happening, my head jerks back.
The movement is small. Not violent. Not deliberate. But it’s enough.
His hand stops in mid-air, fingers barely an inch from my cheek, and the pause that follows is deafening. My heart drops into my stomach. I stay completely still on the bed, frozen in place as shame burns up the sides of my neck and behind my eyes. I feel it before I see it—the way his entire body stills. Then he lowers his hand slowly, carefully, like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold up. His eyes shift from mine and his shoulders sink as he takes a single step back, and I swear I can feel the cold rush into the space he leaves behind.
Stiles doesn’t speak as he turns from me. He just moves toward the chair in the corner of the room and sits down without ceremony, elbows braced on his knees, one hand scrubbing over his mouth. His shoulders stay hunched, his head bowed, and he doesn’t look at me. The way he settles into the chair—like he’s trying to make himself smaller—guts me. I stay seated on the bed, staring at him like maybe I can will this into a misunderstanding. My throat is thick. My legs won’t move. Every part of me is screaming to reach for him, to close the distance and make it better, but I’m stuck in the wreckage of my own reaction.
“It’s okay,” Stiles says quietly, his voice worn at the edges, almost too calm, and I hate how easily the lie comes out of him, like he’s trying to protect me from what I already know I did. I whisper, “I didn’t mean to do that,” and my voice cracks as it leaves my throat. “It just… happened.” He nods, barely, eyes locked on the floor like it might absorb some of the weight we’ve both been carrying, and I feel my chest tighten with something worse than guilt. “Stiles—” I try again, but he cuts in softly, not unkind, just tired. “It’s okay,” he says again, and this time it sounds thinner, stretched too far over something fragile. “Your body remembers. It’s not your fault.”
The softness in his voice doesn’t soothe me. It shatters me. Because it’s not forgiveness—it’s surrender. He’s letting me off the hook before I even ask, like he’s already decided he deserves this. Like he’s already decided I don’t trust him. I shake my head, fast, desperate, and I say, “I’m not scared of you.” The words land hard in the quiet, and for a second he doesn’t respond. But then he finally looks at me. When our eyes meet, the breath leaves my body. He doesn’t look angry or wounded or distant. He looks hollow. Like something inside him just folded in half.
“You pulled away,” he says, and he doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like a confirmation. A quiet acknowledgment that the thing he was terrified of happening just did. I nod, because I can’t lie to him. “Do you think I’d ever hurt you?” he asks, and I swear the question breaks me clean in two. “No,” I say immediately, because it’s true. “Never.” But then he says, “But your body does,” and the floor tilts under me. That’s what this is. That’s what he’s been afraid of. That some piece of me—some deep, buried part I can’t control—doesn’t see him when he gets too close. It sees what used to live in his place.
I force myself to stand. My limbs feel wrong, heavy and uncertain, like they don’t trust me to carry this. I walk toward him slowly, afraid that if I move too fast I’ll startle both of us back into silence. He watches me with tired eyes, the kind of look that says he’s bracing for whatever comes next, even if it’s goodbye. I stop at the edge of the chair and crouch down until I’m level with him. “I stayed,” I tell him. “When it was him. When you were gone. When I didn’t know if you’d ever come back—I stayed. Because I knew you were still in there. Because I never gave up on you.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He exhales, slow and shaky, his hands loosely clasped, his knuckles pale. I reach out and touch his knee, tentative, light, like I’m not sure if I’m still allowed. He doesn’t move. “I didn’t flinch because I’m scared of you,” I say. “I flinched because I forgot how to stop remembering.” His eyes meet mine, and I see it then—the pain, the grief, the exhaustion of trying to be someone I’m not afraid of. He blinks and says, “You don’t owe me comfort. Not after what I did. Not after what he did with my face.”
I shake my head and move closer. “But you’re not him,” I say, and I raise my hand slowly, praying my body doesn’t betray me again, and this time it doesn’t. I press my palm to his cheek, and he closes his eyes like it physically hurts to feel that much. He leans into my touch. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays there, like that moment is the only thing holding him together.
We don’t speak again. But the silence between us is different now. It’s not fixed. Not healed. Not gone. But it’s something we’re both still choosing to stay inside. And even though that flinch still lives in the air between us—between my skin and his memory—I know he’s still here.
No you are not obnoxious, no you are not annoying, not you are not being a pest, no you are not wasting your time, no you are not leaving a comment in a grave yard
Another reader will see it and comment, the author will read it, love it and it will most likely inspire them to write the next chapter or the next fic
Tell Me You're Still In There | Stiles Stilinski x Reader (Nogitsune Era)
Word Count: 3,118
Plot: He says he could kill you. You look into his eyes and tell him he won’t. Because even with your back against the lockers and his fingers on your jaw, you know Stiles is still inside there—somewhere. And you’re not leaving without him.
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The lights stutter overhead like they’re trying to warn you. That sharp, sick kind of flicker—the kind that always comes before the scream in a horror movie. Each buzz makes your skin crawl a little deeper. You hesitate just inside the threshold of the locker room, heart already trying to claw its way out of your chest. Everything smells like sweat and tile cleaner and something else—something burned beneath the surface. Wrong. Off. Like something in the room is rotting and you can’t see it yet.
You swallow against the weight pressing at your throat. The door closes behind you with a heavy hiss, sealing you in. It sounds like a trap resetting. You whisper his name. Just to see what echoes. Nothing does. Just the soft drip-drip of a pipe somewhere near the showers. Just the hum of the lights, too bright and too cold. Just the silence of a heartache that hasn’t happened yet but already knows how it ends.
You move further into the room, shoes echoing off tile, fingers trembling at your sides. Then—he’s there. Leaning against the far wall like he’s been waiting for you. His arms are relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, his expression unreadable. The air shifts. He looks up slowly, and for one second your breath forgets how to move. But it’s not the look that breaks you. It’s the absence behind it. Empty. Detached. Not even cold—just vacant. Like he’s standing in a room where you’re the ghost.
“Stiles?” you ask, and your voice breaks the second time, but you don’t back down. His stance doesn’t shift. He just watches you like someone studying an animal too dumb to stop walking toward the snare. "You're late," Stiles says, voice low and lazy. “I thought you'd be faster. Love tends to make people impulsive.”
You want to run. Every part of your body screams it. But you take a step closer instead. Because he’s still yours, even if every instinct says he isn’t. “Stiles, I know you're in there,” you say, heart hammering. "You're not just gone. You're fighting. I know you are.” He tilts his head, amused. “You’re boring when you’re hopeful,” Stiles replies. “You used to be mine,” you whisper, voice raw. Almost too quiet to hear.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “He really did love you, didn’t he? So much noise in his head. Always about you. Every flicker of doubt. Every ache. Every time he imagined losing you.” He smiles, too wide. “All yours.” Your chest constricts. You press your nails into your palms. Don’t let him see you break. “You’re not him,” you say.
“Maybe not,” he shrugs. “But I remember what he felt. That little tug in his chest every time you looked at someone else. That thing he did where he traced your name in the margins of his notebook like some desperate sixteen-year-old.” He steps toward you. “That pathetic ache to protect you.”
He stops inches away. You can feel his breath on your lips. It’s not Stiles—it’s something colder, electric, like ozone before a storm. “But I’m not here to protect you,” he adds.
You clench your fists to keep them from shaking. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I know he loved me. I still know it. And if any piece of him is still inside you—I’m not leaving.” His gaze sharpens. You’ve hit a nerve. “I could kill you,” Stiles whispers. You nod once. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t.” You reply.
Silence. Then—he moves.
Your back hits the lockers with a slam that steals the air from your lungs. His hand grabs your jaw, fingers pressing tight but not enough to bruise. Just enough to make it clear you’re not in control. Your palms splay against his chest but you don’t push. Don’t show fear. Don’t look away. His face is too close. You can see the flecks in his eyes, the shadows twitching behind them. You can feel his thumb graze your cheek.
“Say it again,” Stiles murmurs. “Tell me he wouldn’t hurt you. That he’s your anchor.” Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t falter. “He is.” He studies you like he’s dissecting you. “And you love him?” he asks. “Even like this,” you answer.
His brow furrows. His eyes search yours. For what, you don’t know. But something shifts. His grip softens. Barely. You press your fingers to his chest—right over where his heart should be. “I see him,” you whisper. “He’s screaming to get out.” The muscle in his jaw tightens. He leans in like he’s going to kiss you—but his lips hover just shy of yours, a breath apart.
“You should be afraid of me,” Stiles murmurs. “I am,” you admit. “But not of you. Of losing him.” There’s a fracture. You see it. A flicker in his eyes—not the monster. Not empty. Just haunted.
His hand slides away from your face like it’s burning him. He stumbles back a step, expression slipping. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched so tight it must hurt.
“...Y/N,” he whispers. It’s him. Stiles.
You reach for him. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” But then his hand flies to his temple, and a low groan escapes his throat like something inside is trying to rip him in half. “No, no, no—” Stiles grits out. “Stiles—!” you call out.
He shoves you back, breath ragged, backing away like you’ve just stabbed him. “I said stop!” His voice warps mid-word, distorted, laced with something inhuman. You stand there, frozen, tears rising like fire. “I don’t want to win,” you say. “I just want you.”
He flinches. One hand hits the locker beside him. The metal caves beneath his palm. He curls the other around his ribs like he’s trying to hold his body together. “I’m not—I can’t—” he gasps. “You’re still in there,” you whisper. “You’re still mine.” He looks up, and this time, it’s all him. His eyes, his voice, his grief.
“I can’t hold him off much longer,” Stiles says. Your heart shatters. You step forward, slow, controlled. You press your forehead to his, breathing in the pieces. “Then don’t. Let me hold you,” you say.
He exhales shakily. His hands drift to your hips, barely resting there. Like if he touches you fully, something will break. You feel it too. “I’m not strong enough,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be. Not with me,” you reply.
He squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing his face into your neck. “You always loved me too much.” “And I always will.”
A beat. Then— “Run,” Stiles says. The word is barely sound. But your heart stops cold. You pull back. “What?” His voice is shaking now, deeper, more distorted. “Run. He’s—he’s coming back—” “Stiles—” you try. “RUN!” he screams, voice no longer his.
You don’t wait. You kiss his cheek—hard, fast, desperate—and bolt for the door. His knees hit the floor behind you with a choked groan, fingers clawing at his chest.
You don’t stop. But before the door slams shut behind you, before the world outside the locker room rushes back in—you hear it. One final breath. One broken word.
“Y/N.”
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End Note: this one clawed its way out of my chest. scream in my inbox if you’re wrecked. 🖤
requests are open - request here!
Word Count: 1.7k
Plot: Y/N and Stiles have always been close—maybe too close. After weeks of weird silences, missed eye contact, and things left unsaid, Y/N shows up at his house in the middle of the night with no real plan—just the kind of ache you can’t sleep through. In the kitchen, everything unravels slowly, quietly. They talk like they’re not terrified of the truth, like neither of them has been thinking about the same thing every night. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.
⸻
Y/N hadn’t planned to come here. Not tonight, not like this, not when everything inside her felt so fragile she could barely speak her own name. But the silence in her bedroom had started to feel like pressure—something sitting on her chest, pressing harder each time she rolled over and tried to convince herself she was fine. Her thoughts had become loops, sharp and breathless, circling around the same four things she didn’t want to admit: she missed him, she needed him, she didn’t know what they were anymore, and it was killing her not to ask. So she didn’t. She just got in the car. The keys were cold in her hand. Her heart was louder than the engine. She didn’t put music on. Didn’t need to. Her brain was already screaming.
She parked across the street from his house, headlights off, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. His porch light was off. But his room was glowing. That soft yellow hue Y/N knew too well—like a nightlight for someone who’d never really felt safe. She watched it flicker behind the curtains and suddenly felt twelve again, like she was back in middle school and thinking he was just the funny boy with bruised knuckles and too many opinions. Y/N didn’t know when it had changed. She just knew it had. Somewhere along the line, her best friend became the only person who could ruin her without even touching her.
She was halfway up the walkway when the door opened. No warning. No sound. Just light spilling out from behind him, and then him—Stiles—standing barefoot in plaid pajama pants and a Beacon Hills lacrosse shirt that hung loose on his frame. His eyes were wide like he hadn’t expected her, but he didn’t look surprised. Not really. He looked tired. Like maybe he’d been waiting for something too. Like maybe this night had been coming for a while, and neither of them wanted to be the one to say it first. He didn’t speak. He just stepped back, left the door open, and let Y/N walk past him like she still belonged there.
Inside, the house was warm and still. Not in a comforting way. In a way that made her hyper-aware of everything—the way his footsteps padded behind her, the way her own pulse wouldn’t calm down, the way the quiet between them wasn’t just quiet anymore. It was full of years. Of moments. Of almosts. Y/N found herself in the kitchen before she even thought about it. That same worn chair she always sat in. The fridge still humming. The counter still covered in the random, disorganized mess that was so unmistakably Stiles and his dad—empty mugs, loose change, at least one open notebook filled with what looked like Latin. She used to find it charming. She still did. That was the problem.
He didn’t ask why she was there. Just opened the fridge, pulled out two water bottles, and handed her one like it was habit. Like this had never stopped being their kitchen. Like they hadn’t gone distant and strange and too careful. Y/N stared down at the condensation, blinking hard. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, nodding once. “Yeah. Me either.” That was it. No jokes. No awkward rambling. No distractions. Just two people standing in a kitchen at 2:00 a.m., each one pretending they didn’t know exactly why this hurt. “I don’t know what we’re doing,” Y/N said eventually, her voice soft and a little too honest. “We used to be good at this.”
He ran a hand through his hair—that nervous tic she’d memorized by now—and let out a breath. “I don’t think we ever really talked about it.” “It?” Y/N questioned. “This.” His eyes flicked up, locked on hers for a second too long. “Us.” The word hit her square in the chest. Not because it was a surprise, but because it was the first time either of them had said it out loud. “I didn’t want to ruin it,” Y/N said. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Me neither.”
She pulled her sleeves over her hands, fingers trembling against the fabric. “But we already did, didn’t we?” He didn’t respond at first. Just stared at the floor like it had answers. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was quieter than she’d ever heard it. “Do you remember that night? After the hospital. You fell asleep in my car.” Her heart stuttered. She nodded. “I wasn’t asleep the whole time.” “I figured.” He smiled a little, almost sad. “You leaned your head on my shoulder. I just sat there. For an hour. I didn’t want to move.” Y/N looked at him, her eyes glassy. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because if I said it out loud, I’d never be able to take it back,” Stiles admitted.
Everything ached. Her hands. Her throat. Her heart. She wanted to ask what it was—what exactly he meant. But she already knew. She’d known for a long time. The truth of it sat between them like an open door they were both too scared to walk through. He sat down at the kitchen table, elbows resting on the wood, fingers laced together like a prayer. Y/N followed, not even thinking, just moving. Because this was still him. Still Stiles. The boy who stayed. The boy who overthinks. The boy who once spent two hours decoding an ancient script just to make her laugh. She looked at his hands. At the calluses on his fingers. The scars. The tremble in his wrist he probably didn’t know she noticed. He always looked so steady when he was falling apart.
He glanced at her then, eyes tired and unguarded. “I never knew how to say it.” “Say what?” Y/N asked. “That I think about it all the time. You. Me. Whatever we are. I just... I didn’t want to lose you.” “You didn’t,” Y/N said, and it came out rougher than she meant it to. “But I think I lost you a little.” He reached across the table, not fast, not dramatic. Just enough. Just far enough that his hand found hers, warm and shaking and familiar. She held onto it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
Neither of them said anything after that. They didn’t need to.
Because in the soft pull of his thumb over her knuckles, in the way his shoulders finally dropped, in the way the quiet between them finally stopped hurting—Y/N felt it. He didn’t say it. He didn’t have to.
Plot: Marcus and I hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since that night. The night where he told me he didn’t love me anymore. That he didn’t want to be with me. I knew it was the depression talking — but it still shattered me. Every word lingered like smoke from a house fire: thick, choking, impossible to ignore.
So when I agreed to come over tonight, I didn’t expect to see him. I definitely didn’t expect this.
Marcus comes home drunk. Angry. Empty. Breaking. And he doesn't just fall apart — he unravels. In front of his family. In front of me. And I have to decide… do I walk away this time, or do I stay — even in the mess?
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Word Count: ~3.2k
Warnings:
⤷ emotional breakdown, mental health themes (depression, self-hatred)
⤷ alcohol use (underage drinking)
⤷ intense emotional dialogue
⤷ yelling, crying, family conflict
⤷ strong language Please read responsibly.
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Marcus and I hadn’t spoken in weeks. Not since that night. The night where he told me didn’t love me anymore, that he didn’t want to be with me anymore. I knew it was his depression talking, but it still killed me, nonetheless. The kind that leaves a silence louder than any yelling ever could. Every word, every look, had lingered in the air like smoke from a house fire — thick, choking, and impossible to ignore.
So when I agreed to come over tonight, I didn’t expect to see him. And I definitely didn’t expect this.
I was sitting stiffly on the couch between Ellen and Clint. The silence in the house was thin and tense, like stretched wire about to snap. My hands were folded in my lap, nerves biting at my stomach. I could feel the worry in the room like a pulse, but no one said it out loud.
Then the front door creaked open.
There was shuffling, uneven footsteps, and the sound of Max’s voice — breathless and irritated. I turned my head just as she came through the doorway, her arm wrapped around Marcus, struggling to hold him up.
Marcus.
His body slumped against his sister like he barely had control of his own limbs. His shirt was wrinkled, half untucked, his hair a mess like he’d run his fingers through it over and over. He looked... lost. Drunk. Completely and utterly gone.
When his blurry gaze landed on the living room, he tried to straighten up, as if to save some dignity, but failed miserably.
“Good evening,” he mumbled, slurred and lazy. He lifted his hands to sign the same words, but they fumbled through the air like broken pieces of a sentence.
I didn’t move. Not even a breath.
Clint immediately signed, “Go to bed.”
Max signed back: “Okay.” She started guiding him toward the stairs, her arm firm but gentle.
Ellen stepped forward, voice raised, stern and sharp as a blade. She signed at the same time for Clint’s benefit. “Go to bed. Now.”
It was the kind of voice that didn’t leave room for argument. But Marcus wasn’t listening.
He stopped halfway to the stairs, swaying a little as he turned back. His expression curled into something smug — or what he thoughtwas smug, but looked more like a boy trying to act tough in the middle of a storm.
“Oh lighten up,” he said with a loose grin, waving his hand dismissively while trying to sign the same. The motion was slow and exaggerated — like his arms were underwater.
I was still frozen, watching it all unfold. Like a scene in a movie I didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away from.
Marcus kept going, his words tumbling out, slurred but loud.
“I’m so tired,” he said, dragging the words out like they weighed a ton. “Of everyone acting like it’s the worst thing in the world — oh, kids drink — it’s not a big problem!”
He tried to sign along as he spoke, hands jerky and chaotic.
“I’m not selling myself short, okay!”
Max’s eyes shot to me instantly — wide, panicked. Her lips parted like she wanted to scream, but instead she signed, speaking frantic at the same time. “Oh my God, shut up.”
She moved toward him fast, grabbing his shoulders to spin him around and guide him back up the stairs. But Marcus shoved her off with more force than I expected.
There it was — that look.
A darkness behind his eyes, something hollow and sharp. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t the boy I knew.
Clint stepped in again, his presence solid, grounded. He signed, “We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
Marcus laughed — bitter, mocking. “Oh okay,” he mumbled while signing, throwing in a sloppy nod.
Max reached for him again, but he yanked his arm away, then stepped right up to his dad, barely inches from his face, anger rising in his voice.
“Yes sir,” he barked. “Okay. Yes sir.” His hands mimicked the signs, but with exaggerated sarcasm.
My chest tightened. It was too much. Something in me cracked.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked suddenly, my voice loud and shaking. I signed the same words, my hands trembling.
“Do you hate me?”
Everything stopped.
Marcus turned like he was waking up from a dream. His body swayed slightly as he finally noticed me. Like really saw me.
His lips parted, eyes blinking through the haze. “No... no...” he stammered. “I... I—” he fumbled for words, for signs.
“I don’t hate you,” he said again, the words quieter this time, almost like he didn’t believe them himself. He moved toward me — slow, unsteady.
I sat there, stunned, paralyzed.
He stopped in front of me and dropped to his knees. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with red, tears clinging to his lashes like he was too proud to let them fall — but not strong enough to hold them in.
“I don’t hate you.”
He repeated it, this time with both voice and hands.
Then his voice broke — like a dam collapsing.
“I hate me.”
He stared right into my eyes as he signed again. “I hate me.”
A single tear slipped down his cheek. His jaw clenched, but his expression was crumbling, no matter how hard he tried to fight it.
“I hate me, okay?” He beat on his chest with one hand, then both. His voice rising even more, anger seething from his lips. “I hate me. I hate me.” Marcus just kept repeating.
My hand flew to my mouth as tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t stop them even if I tried.
Seeing him like this — unraveling, drowning in pain — it shattered something in me.
Marcus kept yelling his voice getting angry every time he said those three words, he kept signing, each word filled with more pain than the last.
“I HATE ME, OKAY? I HATE ME!”
Clint stepped forward again, one hand gently on Marcus’ shoulder, the other resting on mine. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His touch was grounding, even if everything else felt like it was spiraling.
Max stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to keep from falling apart. Ellen had tears rolling down her cheeks.
Everyone was breaking. Because Marcus was breaking.
“Do you understand?” he cried, hands shaking. “I hate me!”
Then his knees gave out. He collapsed fully onto the floor, curling forward, hands gripping his knees as he sobbed into his chest.
The sound of it wrecked me.
Max and Ellen were both crying now. Clint was kneeling beside Marcus, trying to lift him up gently.
And I… I couldn’t breathe.
I stood up and pushed past them, my shoulder purposely hitting Marcus’ making him stumble more. My feet moved before my mind caught up. I shoved the door open, the cold night air hitting me like a slap, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My tears blurred everything as I stepped into the dark.
Then—
“Y/N — wait!”
His voice was raw, full of desperation. The door slammed shut behind him as he ran after me.
I froze in place.
Because even after everything — Even when I knew I should keep walking — Some part of me still wanted to turn around.
——
The cold night air clings to my skin. It feels sharper than it should — like it knows I’m barely holding myself together.
I’m halfway down the driveway when I hear him.
“Y/N — wait!”
His voice is broken, rough like it scraped its way out of his throat.
I stop. Not because I want to. But because I can’t leave. Not like this.
Footsteps stumble behind me, fast and uneven. Then suddenly he’s there, breathless and swaying, chest heaving like he’s been running for miles. His eyes are glossy with fresh tears.
“Please,” Marcus says, stepping closer. “Please don’t go.”
I turn slowly, my own tears falling now, too fast to wipe away. “I can’t do this, Marcus,” I whisper. My voice barely makes it out. “Seeing you like that… it hurts. You’re hurting and I don’t know how to fix it.”
He steps closer. Hesitates. Like he’s afraid he’ll break me if he gets too close.
“You’re not supposed to fix me,” he says. “You’re not supposed to carry it.”
“But I want to,” I snap, voice cracking. “I want to help you, and you keep shutting me out, pushing everyone away until there’s nothing left but this—” I motion toward the house, toward the chaos that still lingers behind us. “—and I don’t know what to do with that.”
Marcus wipes at his face with the back of his hand, but it doesn’t do much. His tears are endless.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he mutters, eyes cast downward. “You were supposed to hate me after the fight. It’d be easier that way.”
My heart shatters all over again. He really thinks he’s unlovable.
I take a step toward him, slowly — carefully — like I’m approaching something fragile.
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I never have.”
Marcus lifts his eyes, and the look in them nearly levels me.
“I don’t even hate the mess,” I add. “I just hate that you won’t let me stand beside you in it.”
He stares at me, lips trembling. Then suddenly, without another word, he collapses into me. His arms wrap around my waist, his forehead pressing to my shoulder, and his body folds like the weight he’s been carrying finally got too heavy.
I catch him, arms immediately locking around his back. His entire body is shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the fabric of my jacket. “I’m so sorry.”
I press my cheek to his hair. “I’m here,” I say softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
We stay like that, in the middle of the cold driveway under the hazy porch light — just holding each other, letting our pain spill out into the space between us.
His breath hitches again. “I don’t know how to stop feeling like this. Like I’m not enough. Like I’ll never be enough.”
I pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. They’re red and glassy, but honest.
“You are enough,” I say firmly. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to let someone in.”
He nods slowly. His face crumples again and he presses his forehead to mine, voice so small it almost disappears.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
“You won’t,” I promise.
We fall silent again, not because there’s nothing left to say — but because we finally don’t have to say everything. Not all at once.
He’s still trembling, but less now. Like being seen, really seen, is starting to steady him.
“I’m scared,” Marcus admits. “That I’ll always feel like this.”
I nod, feeling my own tears drying on my cheeks. “Then let’s be scared together.”
His arms tighten around me again. This time, it’s not desperate. It’s grounding. It’s real.
And maybe we’re still broken. But at least now… we’re not broken alone.
