luvhrrt

i write fics 🪽

[luvhrrt]

Mechanic Madness

Dean Winchester X Fem!Reader

WC: 4.3k

WARNING: age gap (20 & 30), sexual content , 18+ MDNI

PSA: I also didn't fully prof read, so if there is grammar mistakes or something doesn't make sense lmk and ill fix it. Ill prob re read it later i'm just lazy...

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The garage smelled like oil and old rubber, the kind of scent that clung to your clothes for days. Dean Winchester wiped his greasy hands on his jeans for the third time in the last five minutes, glaring at the Impala’s popped hood like it had personally betrayed him.

"You sure this is the only shop in town?" Sam asked, leaning against the passenger door, already scanning the horizon for alternatives.

Dean shot him a look. "Unless you want to hitchhike fifty miles to the next one, yeah, this is it."

The screen door of the garage creaked open before Sam could reply. A girl stepped out—no older than twenty, with grease smudged on her cheek and a wrench dangling from her fingers like it was an extension of her hand. You squinted against the sun, then jerked your chin toward the car. "You boys need help or are just going to stand there looking tragic?"

Dean blinked, momentarily thrown by the girl’s bluntness. He recovered fast, flashing your kind of grin that usually got him free drinks or phone numbers—or both. "Tragic’s a strong word," he said, leaning against the Impala’s fender. "More like... artistically frustrated."

You snorted, rolling your eyes as you stepped closer. "Uh-huh. Let me guess—alternator’s shot, and you’ve been pretending you know how to fix it for the last hour." Your boots scuffed against the gravel as you circled the car, your gaze sharp, assessing. Dean watched her, intrigued. Most people didn’t look at cars like they were puzzles to solve.

Sam cleared his throat, pushing off the door. "I’m going to scout for food," he said, already backing away with a knowing smirk. "Or a motel. Or both. Take your time." He tossed Dean a look that said, "Don't screw this up," before vanishing down the dusty road.

The girl didn’t even glance after him. youjust ducked under the hood, yourfingers tracing wires and hoses with a familiarity that made Dean’s pulse kick up a notch. "Name’s y/n," you said after a beat, your voice muffled by the engine.

Dean watched you work with a kind of fascination he usually reserved for classic car shows and diner pie. There was something about the way your fingers moved—quick, sure, like she'd done this a thousand times before. "Y/n, huh?" he said, leaning closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of motor oil and something sweet underneath, maybe vanilla. "Dean. And that’s Baby," he added, nodding toward the Impala.

y/n smirked without looking up. "You name your car and still treat it like this? "Shameful." You tapped a hose with your wrench, then shot him a sidelong glance. "You’re lucky I’m here. Another hour of your ‘artistic frustration,' and she’d have stranded you in the middle of nowhere."

Dean chuckled, shifting his weight against the car. "So you’re saying you’re my guardian angel?"

"More like the only mechanic dumb enough to work a Saturday shift in this town," you fired back, but there was a lightness to it, a teasing edge that had Dean grinning wider.

Y/n's hands moved with practiced ease, twisting bolts and adjusting connections like you were conducting an orchestra under the hood. Dean watched, half-amused, half-impressed, as you muttered something under your breath about "idiot drivers who don’t know their ass from a spark plug." He should’ve been offended, but the way your nose scrunched when you got pissed was weirdly endearing.

"You’re not from around here," y/n said suddenly, not looking up. It wasn’t a question.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away? The Kansas plates or the fact that I’m not wearing overalls?"

Y/n snorted, wiping your hands on a rag tucked into your back pocket. "The fact that you didn’t argue when I called your car ‘she.’ Most guys around here get real touchy about that." You leaned back, tilting your head to study him. "So, Dean-from-not-around-here, what’s your deal? Running from something? Or just passing through?"

Dean's grin didn’t waver, but something flickered behind his eyes—something sharp and guarded. "Little bit of both," he admitted, shifting his weight against the Impala’s fender. "But mostly just trying to keep Baby running long enough to get where we’re going." He watched y/n’s fingers tighten around the wrench, your knuckles whitening for just a second before you exhaled, shaking your head like she’d decided not to press further. Smart girl.

Y/n ducked back under the hood, your voice muffled again. "Well, lucky for you, your ‘little bit of both’ ends here. Give me twenty minutes and she’ll purr like a kitten." There was a pause, then you added, quieter, "Assuming you don’t fuck it up again."

Dean barked a laugh, pushing off the car to lean over yourshoulder, close enough that his chest almost brushed yourback. "You've got a real way with words, you know that?"

y/n stiffened for half a second before forcing a shrug. "Comes with the job. You’d be surprised how many idiots try to ‘help’ by handing me the wrong tool." You twisted something deep in the engine with a satisfying click, then straightened, wiping your hands on your jeans. The movement brought your face-to-face with Dean, closer than she’d probably intended. Your breath hitched—just once—before you sidestepped him with a smirk. "Twenty minutes," you repeated, tossing the wrench into a nearby toolbox with a clatter. "You might as well make yourself useful. Grab me a beer from the fridge inside."

Dean smirked, tipping an imaginary hat. "Your wish is my command, ma’am." The screen door whined as he pushed into the dim garage interior, the scent of stale coffee and motor oil thicker here. He rummaged through a battered fridge, pulling out two beers with a satisfying hiss as he popped the caps off against the counter’s edge.

When he stepped back outside, y/n was sitting on the Impala’s bumper, your boots propped up on the front tire. You took the beer without looking, your fingers brushing his just long enough to make his stomach tighten. "So," you said after a swig, "are you ever going to tell me where you’re really headed, or do I have to guess?"

Dean leaned against the car beside her, their shoulders nearly touching. "Depends. Are you any good at guessing games?"

Y/n rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth twitched. "Try me."

Dean took a slow sip of his beer, the condensation cool against his fingers as he studied y/n’s profile—the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks when you blinked and the smudge of grease just above your eyebrow she’d missed. "Alright," he said, dragging out the word. "Let’s hear your best guess, then."

Y/n tilted your head, tapping your fingers against the bottle. "Military," you said, blunt. "But not currently. Maybe dishonorable discharge, maybe just smart enough to get out early. You’ve got the stance, the way you scan a room like you’re counting exits. You paused, then smirked. "Also, your brother’s got ‘law school’ written all over him, so I’m guessing family drama’s in there somewhere."

Dean choked on his beer, coughing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Damn. Are you psychic or just scarily observant?"

"Neither," y/n said, shrugging. "Just spent too much time around people who lie for a living. Mechanics, cops, truckers—you pick up tells." You kicked your boots off the tire, turning to face him fully. "So? How close was I?"

Dean exhaled through his nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Close enough to be creepy," he admitted, swirling his beer before taking another swig. The liquid was warm now, but he didn’t mind—not with the way y/n was looking at him, sharp and curious, like you were still picking him apart bolt by bolt.

"Family drama’s a given," he added, rubbing his thumb along the bottle’s label. "But no military. Just... a lot of time on the road." He didn’t elaborate, and y/n didn’t push. Instead, you nodded toward the Impala’s open hood.

"Speaking of the road—she's fixed. For now." y/n hopped off the bumper, your boots crunching gravel as you circled to the driver’s side. "Want to test your out, or are you just going to stare at me all day?"

Dean’s grin returned, slow and easy. "Depends. Are you offering a ride-along?"

Y/n arched an eyebrow, tossing your empty beer bottle into a nearby trash bin with a clatter. "Ride-along? "In your car?" you scoffed, but there was a flicker of amusement in your eyes. "Only if you promise not to ‘artistically frustrate' yourself again."

Dean laughed, sliding the keys from his pocket with a jingle. "No promises," he said, twirling them around his finger before catching them. "But I’ll let you drive if you admit you’ve been dying to."

y/n’s lips twitched. "Tempting," you crossed your arms, leaning against the Impala’s side. "But I don’t let strangers take me for joyrides, Winchester."

Dean’s grin turned wolfish. "Strangers?" He stepped closer, close enough that the toe of his boot nudged hers. "After you’ve had your hands all up in Baby’s guts? Feels like we’re past that."

y/n laughed, low and throaty, shaking your head as you pushed off the car. "Oh, so we're intimate now just because I touched your engine?"

Dean shrugged, his grin unrepentant. "Intimate’s a strong word. But I figure if you’re going to finger my car’s wiring, the least you could do is take it for a spin."

Y/n rolled your eyes but didn’t argue, just held out your hand expectantly. Dean dropped the keys into your palm, his fingers lingering against hers just a second too long. You smirked, shaking your head as you rounded the car and slid into the driver’s seat.

The engine roared to life under your touch, the familiar purr of the Impala smoother than Dean had heard in weeks. Y/n adjusted the mirrors with quick, efficient flicks of your wrist, then glanced over at him as he climbed into the passenger side. "Where to, cowboy?"

Dean's fingers drummed against the Impala’s dashboard, his gaze sliding sideways to you as you gripped the wheel like she’d been born behind it. "Just drive," he said, grinning when you shot him a look that could melt steel. "Anywhere. Baby likes a girl who knows how to handle her."

Y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t hesitate, peeling out of the garage’s gravel lot with a spin of tires that kicked up dust. The wind whipped through the open windows, carrying the scent of sunbaked asphalt and y/n’s shampoo—something citrusy, sharp enough to cut through the engine’s oil-slick musk. Dean let his arm dangle out the window, watching your profile as you navigated the backroads with a confidence that made his stomach tighten.

"Not bad," he admitted when you took a curve without braking, the Impala’s tires hugging the road like they were magnetized.

y/n smirked, downshifting smoothly. "Told you I knew what I was doing." Your thumb brushed the gearshift, and Dean’s attention snagged on the way your fingers flexed—strong, capable, a little rough at the knuckles. The kind of hands that could wrench a bolt loose or drag a man closer with equal ease.

Y/n took a sharp left onto an abandoned farm road, the Impala’s tires spitting gravel as you gunned the engine. Dean braced a hand against the dash, grinning like a lunatic. "You’re gonna get us killed," he said, though the thrill in his voice betrayed him.

"Relax," y/n shot back, your eyes never leaving the road. " Death’s overrated. You downshifted hard, the car growling in response, then jerked the wheel to avoid a pothole. The sudden swerve threw Dean against her, his thigh pressing into hers. Neither of them moved away.

The road dead-ended at an old barn, its paint peeling under the afternoon sun. y/n killed the engine, leaving only the sound of their breathing and the ticking of cooling metal. Dust swirled in the sunlight streaming through the broken slats. Dean’s fingers itched—to touch the wheel, to touch her—but he kept them curled around his knee. "So," he drawled, "this is your idea of a joyride?"

Y/n unbuckled your seatbelt with a click. "Nah. "This is where I dump the bodies." You shoved open the door, the hinges protesting as you stepped out. Dean followed, his boots crunching on the dry grass. The barn loomed ahead, its doors sagging open like a slack jaw.

Y/n didn’t wait for him, just strode toward the barn like you owned it, your boots kicking up dust. Dean followed, his pulse thrumming in time with the cicadas humming in the tall grass. Inside, the barn smelled of hay and old wood, shafts of sunlight cutting through the gaps in the roof. Y/n ran a hand along the hood of an ancient tractor parked in the corner, your fingers leaving trails in the dust. "I used to come here when I was a kid," you said, voice quieter now, almost nostalgic. "Drove my dad’s truck into a ditch trying to impress some boy. Spent a week fixing it up in secret so he wouldn’t find out."

Dean leaned against a support beam, arms crossed. "Let me guess—you fixed it better than it was before."

y/n snorted, kicking at a loose board. "Obviously," you turned, tilting your head. The sunlight caught the grease smudge on your cheekbone, turning it gold. "You ever done something stupid just to prove you could?"

Dean’s grin was all teeth. "Once or twice." He pushed off the beam, closing the distance between them in three easy strides. Up close, he could see the flecks of amber in your green eyes, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed hers. "You’re trouble, y/n."

Y/n smirked, not backing down as Dean crowded your space. "Takes one to know one, Winchester." Your fingers twitched against his, a challenge lingering in the air between them like the dust motes swirling in the sunlight.

Dean exhaled a slow laugh, his thumb brushing the grease stain on your wrist. "You got me there." His gaze dropped to your mouth and lingered there a beat too long. Y/n didn’t flinch, just tilted your chin up, your breath warm against his jaw.

The tractor’s shadow stretched long across the barn floor as Dean closed the final inch between them. His lips met hers with none of the hesitation he’d faked earlier—just heat and the sharp taste of beer still lingering on your tongue. Y/n made a low sound in your throat, your fingers fisting in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until his back hit the splintered wood of the barn wall.

Somewhere outside, a crow cawed, the sound distant, unimportant. Dean’s hands slid down your hips, lifting you onto the edge of an old workbench with a groan of protesting wood. Y/n wrapped your legs around his waist, your boots knocking against his thighs as you pulled him flush against you. "Been thinking about this since you walked into my shop," you muttered against his mouth, your teeth grazing his lower lip.

Dean's breath hitched as y/n's fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to sting. "Yeah?" he managed, voice rough as gravel. "Thought you were just in it for the car."

Y/n laughed, low and wicked, your thighs tightening around him. "Please. That alternator was child's play. "You rocked your hips forward, the friction drawing a groan from him before you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. "But you—you looked at me like I'd hung the fucking moon when I fixed it."

Dean's hands slid under your thighs, gripping tight as he lifted you off the bench and spun you around, pressing your back against the barn wall with a thud that sent dust drifting from the rafters. "Guilty," he admitted, ducking his head to nip at your jaw. "Smart girls with dirty hands do it for me."

Y/n arched into him, your nails scraping down his back through his shirt. "Good thing I'm filthy, then." You hooked a finger in his belt loop, yanking him closer until there was no space left between them. The wood creaked behind you as Dean kissed you again, deeper this time, all teeth and tongue and the sharp gasp you made when his hand slid under your shirt.

The old barn smelled like sunbaked wood and the faint metallic tang of the tractor’s rusted parts, but Dean barely registered it—not with y/n’s fingers clawing at his belt buckle like you were dismantling an engine. He groaned when you finally got it loose, the leaf sliding free with a hiss. “Damn, woman,” he muttered against your throat, his teeth scraping your pulse point just to feel your shiver. “You’re gonna leave marks.”

Y/n laughed breathlessly, your hips grinding against his. “That’s the point, isn’t it?” You tugged his shirt up, your palms skimming the ridges of his abs before you pushed the fabric over his shoulders. Dean let your strip it off, too busy mapping the curve of your waist under your tank top to care about the fabric hitting the dusty floor.

Your skin was warm under his hands, slick with sweat and the remnants of garage grease. Dean dragged his thumb over the smudge on your collarbone, smearing it further as y/n arched into his touch. “You’re a mess,” he murmured, but the way he said it sounded like worship.

Y/n rolled your eyes, but your breath hitched when Dean’s fingers found the button of your jeans. “Takes one to know one," you shot back, but the retort lost its bite when his hand slid lower, cupping you through the denim. You bite your lip, your thighs tightening around him. “Fuck, Winchester. You going to talk or—”

Dean didn’t let you finish. He crushed his mouth against hers, swallowing your words as his fingers popped the button of your jeans. The denim was rough under his hands, stiff with dried oil and sweat, but y/n didn’t seem to care—you just hooked your thumbs into the waistband and shoved them down your hips with an impatient jerk. The fabric pooled around your boots, and Dean grinned against your mouth. "Eager," he muttered, nipping at your lower lip.

Y/n's answer was to yank his belt the rest of the way loose, your fingers making quick work of his zipper. "Shut up," you breathed, your palm sliding into his boxers and wrapping around him with a confidence that made his knees buckle. Dean groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as you stroked him, your grip firm and sure. "Christ," he managed, his hips jerking into your touch. "You’re—"

"Good at this?" y/n finished for him, your breath hot against his ear. "Yeah, I know." You tightened your grip just enough to make him hiss, your thumb swiping over the head of his cock in a slow, deliberate circle. Dean’s fingers dug into your hips, dragging you closer until the rough fabric of your tank top scratched against his bare chest.

He didn’t waste time. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth trailed down your throat, sucking bruises into your skin while his hand slid between your legs. Y/n gasped when his fingers found her, wet and already clenching around nothing. "Fuck," you muttered, your hips rolling against his hand. "You’re—"

Dean didn’t let you finish. He kissed you hard, swallowing your moan as his fingers worked you with rough precision. Y/n arched against him, your nails biting into his shoulders, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. The scent of hay and motor oil clung to your skin, mixing with the salt-sweet tang of sweat as Dean dragged his thumb in slow circles, coaxing you closer to the edge with each stroke.

"Still think I'm just good at fixing cars?" y/n gasped, your hips bucking against his hand.

Dean chuckled darkly, nipping at your jaw. "Oh, sweetheart, I never doubted you." He curled his fingers just right, and y/n choked on a cry, your thighs trembling around him.

Then suddenly you pushed him back, your eyes blown wide and wild. "My turn," you breathed, dropping to your knees before Dean could protest. Your fingers hooked into his waistband, yanking his jeans and boxers down in one rough pull. The cool barn air hit his skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of y/n’s mouth as you took him in without hesitation.

Dean's fingers tangled in y/n's hair as your mouth enveloped him, warm and slick and perfect. His hips jerked instinctively, but you pinned him back against the barn wall with surprising strength, your palm flat against his stomach. "Stay still," you murmured against his skin, the vibration making him groan.

He obeyed—mostly. His knuckles whitened where they gripped the wooden slats behind him as y/n took him deeper, your tongue swirling in ways that had his thighs trembling. The afternoon sun slanted through the broken roof beams, painting gold stripes across your shoulders where your tank top had slipped down. Dean watched, transfixed, as a bead of sweat traced the curve of your spine before vanishing beneath denim.

"You—Christ—you're going to kill me," he managed, his voice ragged.

Y/n pulled off with a filthy pop, grinning up at him with swollen lips. "Told you I was good with my hands." Your thumb swiped over the head of his cock, smearing precum in slow circles that made his breath hitch. "But you're still wearing too many clothes."

Dean barely had time to blink before y/n was on your feet again, your fingers already tugging at the hem of your tank top. You yanked it over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the tractor seat behind her. The sunlight caught the dust motes swirling around your bare shoulders, the sweat-slick curve of your collarbone glinting like oil on chrome. Dean’s throat went dry. “Damn,” he breathed, reaching for her, but you batted his hands away with a smirk.

“Patience,” y/n chided, unhooking your bra with a flick of your fingers. The fabric slid down your arms, pooling at your wrists before you let it drop. Dean’s gaze dropped with it, tracing the slope of your breasts, your peaked nipples. He swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides.

Y/n stepped into his space, your bare skin brushing his as you reached for his belt again. “You’re overdressed," you murmured, your breath hot against his throat. Dean didn’t argue—just toed off his boots while y/n shoved his jeans down his hips. The denim caught around his thighs, but you didn't seem to care; your fingers were already tracing the line of his hipbone.

Then you pushed him back onto the workbench, the wood groaning under his weight. Dean barely had time to brace himself before y/n climbed into his lap, your knees bracketing his hips. The heat of you seared through him, your wetness slick against his stomach as you rocked forward. Dean’s hands flew to your waist, gripping tight as you ground against him, your nails scraping down his chest.

Dean’s breath hitched as y/n arched above him, your body a perfect curve in the dim barn light. The old wood groaned beneath them, but neither cared—not when y/n rolled your hips again, your slick heat rubbing against his cock in a slow, deliberate drag that had his fingers digging into your thighs. “Fuck,” he growled, his head thudding back against the wall. “You’re gonna—”

Y/n cut him off with a kiss, biting his lower lip hard enough to sting. “I know what I’m doing," you murmured against his mouth, your breath hot. Your hands slid down his chest, nails scraping lightly over his abs before you wrapped your fingers around him, guiding him to your entrance. Dean’s hips jerked instinctively, but y/n held him still with a firm press of yourpalm against his stomach. "Easy," you chided, your smirk wicked. “Let me.”

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose but obeyed, letting you take control as you sank down onto him inch by torturous inch. The stretch burned, deliciously tight, and y/n threw your head back with a gasp, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. "Christ," you breathed, your thighs trembling around him. “You’re—”

“Big?” Dean supplied, grinning up at you despite the way his own control was fraying. Y/n rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it, just rocked your hips experimentally, your nails digging into his skin. The friction was electric, and Dean’s grip on your hips tightened, urging you faster. y/n obliged, lifting herself almost entirely off him before slamming back down with a force that rattled the workbench.

Dean's groan echoed off the barn walls as y/n rode him with ruthless precision, your thighs flexing with each downward stroke. The workbench creaked dangerously beneath them, but neither of you cared—not when y/n arched your back, your breasts brushing his chest as you quickened your pace. Sweat slicked their skin where they touched, the scent of hay and musk thick in the air.

"You like that?" y/n panted, your voice rough as you gripped his shoulders for leverage. Dean could only nod, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he met your thrust for thrust. The angle was perfect—each snap of your hips dragged him deeper, hitting that spot inside you that made your breath stutter.

Dean watched, mesmerized, as y/n bit your lip, your brows knitting together in pleasure. He knew that look—the one right before you shatter. "Come on, sweetheart," he growled, dragging his thumb between them to circle your clit. "Let go."

Y/n gasped, your rhythm faltering as sensation overwhelmed her. Your thighs clenched around him, your walls fluttering tight as you came with a choked cry, your nails raking down his chest. The sight of your unraveling pushed Dean over the edge. With a sharp thrust, he buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a groan that ripped from his throat.

The barn was quiet except for their ragged breathing. Y/n slumped forward, your forehead resting against Dean’s shoulder as you came down from your high. He could feel your pulse hammering where their skin touched, rapid and uneven like a misfiring engine. Dean’s hands slid up your back, tracing the damp curve of your spine as you shivered against him.

“Damn,” y/n muttered after a long moment, your voice still rough. You lifted your head just enough to meet his gaze, your lashes casting shadows on your flushed cheeks. “You’re full of surprises, Winchester.”

Dean smirked, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your forehead. “Takes one to know one.” 

[luvhrrt]

Study Buddies

Stiles Stilinski X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: Explicit Sexual Content (18+ ONLY)

Stiles Stilinski habituated chewing on the end of his pen when he was thinking too hard—a nervous tic leftover from middle school that never quite went away. You had watched him do it a hundred times before, but tonight, under the warm glow of your bedroom lamp, it was different. The cap was mangled beyond recognition, and his knee bounced under the rickety folding table they’d dragged in from your garage.

“You’re going to choke on that thing one day,” you said, nudging his shin with your bare foot under the table.

He startled, blinking like he’d forgotten you were there. “Huh? Oh. Right.” The pen dropped onto his half-finished calculus worksheet, leaving a small blue smudge. “I just can’t get this problem. It’s like my brain’s misfiring or something.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning over to peer at his work. “That’s because you’re doing it wrong. You're—" Your hand brushed his as you flipped his notebook around, and for some stupid reason, your stomach did a little flip too. Weird.

Stiles exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as your fingers traced over the numbers on his page. There was ink smudged on the side of your pinky, and he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to grab your wrist and lick it off. Which was—yeah. New.

“See, you skipped the distributive property,” you murmured, your breath warm against his ear as you leaned closer. The scent of your shampoo—something fruity, maybe strawberries—hit him like a physical force. His grip on the edge of the table tightened. “You’re supposed to multiply the terms inside the parentheses first, genius.”

“Right,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Obviously.”

Your knee bumped his under the table again, lingering this time. The contact sent a jolt up his thigh. When he glanced up, your lips were quirking in that way they did when you knew you were getting under his skin.

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as the math problem dissolved into static in his brain. Your knee was still pressed against his, the heat of it seeping through his jeans. Your fingers lingered near his, tapping idly against the notebook paper like you were counting beats to a song only you could hear. He couldn’t stop staring at the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth when you concentrated—something you’d done since you were kids, but now it felt like a fucking revelation.

"Distributive property," he muttered, more to himself than you, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. "Yeah, I got it." Except he didn’t. Not even close. The numbers might as well have been hieroglyphics.

You smirked, leaning back in your chair just enough to tilt your head at him. "Liar." The word came out low, teasing, and Stiles felt it curl around his ribs like smoke. Your socked foot slid up his calf, slow and deliberate, and his breath hitched. "You’re staring at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to be solving this."

"Maybe you are," he shot back, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. The air between them thickened, charged with something he couldn’t name—or didn’t want to. Not when your big toe is hooked under the hem of his jeans, skimming bare skin.

Stiles’ breath stuttered as your foot traced him, the rough fabric of his jeans dragging against his skin. The notebook lay forgotten, equations blurring into meaningless scribbles. Your smirk widened, your eyes darkening with something he’d never seen directed at him before—not like this, not when they were alone, not when the air between them crackled with unsaid things.

“You’re distracting me,” he managed, though it came out more like a plea than an accusation.

“Am I?” Your voice was a whisper now, barely audible over the hammering of his pulse in his ears. You shifted in your chair, the legs scraping against the floor, and suddenly your knee wasn’t just brushing his—it was wedged between his thighs, pressing in with deliberate pressure. Stiles choked on his next inhale, fingers twitching against the table’s edge. The pen rolled off the notebook and hit the floor with a quiet clatter.

You didn’t even glance down. Your foot slid under you, your toes curling against the inside of his knee, and his hips jerked involuntarily. “Jesus—,” he hissed, gripping the table so hard the cheap metal groaned under his fingers. Your lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them, and Stiles’ vision tunneled. He’d known you since you were six and had seen you cry over skinned knees and laugh until soda came out your nose—but this? This was uncharted territory.

Your hand moved first, fingers skimming up his forearm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The touch was light, almost tentative, like you were testing the waters. Then, without warning, your palm flattened against his chest, pushing him back into his chair. The motion knocked the breath from his lungs. “Oh my g—”

“Shut up,” you murmured, and then you were climbing onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the fabric of your shorts riding up enough that he could feel the heat of your thighs against him. The folding table wobbled dangerously as you knocked into it, sending papers fluttering to the floor. Neither of them moved to pick them up.

Stiles’ hands hovered uncertainly for half a second before landing on your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sweatshirt. Your weight settled against him, warm and real and impossible—except you were right there, your breath hitching when his thumbs brushed the strip of bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. “You—uh—” His voice cracked again. “You’re really bad at studying.”

You laughed, low and throaty, and the sound went straight to his groin. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t want this.” Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until their foreheads bumped. The scent of you—strawberries and laundry detergent and something uniquely you—filled his lungs, drowning out rational thought.

He didn’t realize he’d leaned in until your mouth crashed against his, messy and uncoordinated and perfect. Your teeth caught his lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and Stiles groaned into the kiss, his grip tightening on your hips. The chair creaked dangerously beneath them as you rocked forward, grinding down against the growing hardness in his jeans, and he swore, breaking the kiss to gasp against your jaw. “Fuck, baby—”

“Yeah,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down his chest before fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “Off. Now.” The command sent a jolt through him, and he yanked the fabric over his head without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your palms flattened against his chest, tracing the planes of his ribs like you were memorizing him, and the intensity in your eyes made his pulse stutter.

Stiles’ breath came in ragged bursts as your fingers traced the ridge of his collarbone; you touch feet that are light but electric. The moment your nails scraped downward, catching on the waistband of his jeans, his hips jerked involuntarily. You let out a breathy laugh against his throat, your lips brushing the frantic pulse there. “Eager,” you murmured, and the teasing lilt in your voice made his stomach flip.

Your hands were everywhere—tugging at his belt, sliding under the fabric to palm the aching length of him through his boxers. Stiles choked on a groan, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your sweatshirt. “You’re—fuck—” His words dissolved into a hiss as you squeezed, your thumb rubbing slow circles over the head. The friction was maddening, just shy of enough, and he bucked into your grip, desperate for more.

With a smirk, you pulled back just enough to yank your own shirt over your head, tossing it aside. The sight of you—skin fluid, lips parted, bra straps slipping off your shoulders—short-circuited his brain. Stiles didn’t think; he just reached for you, dragging you back against him, his mouth crashing into yours. You moaned into the kiss, grinding down onto his thigh, and the heat between your legs burned through the thin fabric of your shorts.

His hands trembled as they slid under you, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra. “Stupid—fucking—” he muttered against your neck when it wouldn’t budge, and you laughed breathlessly, reaching behind yourself to undo it in one swift motion. The second it fell away, Stiles didn’t hesitate—he palmed your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and the way you arched into his touch sent fire licking down his spine.

Your breath hitched when he ducked his head, mouth closing over the peak, tongue swirling in a way that had your fingers tangling in his hair. “God, Stiles—” His name on your lips was a prayer and a curse, and he reveled in it, sucking harder just to hear the broken noise you made in response. Your hips rolled against him, desperate for friction, and he groaned against your skin, teeth grazing the tender flesh.

One of your hands slid between them, popping the button of his jeans with practiced ease. The zipper came down next, your fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and Stiles nearly bit his own tongue when you wrapped your hand around him. “Fuck, fuck—” His hips jerked into your grip, the tight heat of your palm almost too much.

The moment your fingers wrapped around him, Stiles’ vision whited out for a second. His grip on your waist tightened reflexively, fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he gasped against your collarbone. “Jesus Christ,” he choked out, hips stuttering forward into your hand. You weren't gentle—couldn’t be, not with the way his pulse pounded under your touch—and the rough slide of your palm sent sparks shooting up his spine.

Your breath was hot against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe as you murmured, “You like that?” The question was rhetorical; you could feel the way his body answered you, every twitch and shudder betraying him. Stiles didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded dumbly, forehead pressing into your shoulder as you tightened your grip just shy of painful. His hips jerked again, chasing the friction, and you laughed—soft, breathless—before suddenly pulling away.

The loss of contact was agony. Stiles made a noise halfway between a whine and a protest, but you were already sliding off his lap, knees hitting the floor with a quiet thud. His brain short-circuited when your hands landed on his thighs, pushing them apart wider. The look you gave him—dark-eyed, lips swollen from kissing—made his stomach flip. "Jeez—" he started, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, tugging them down just enough to free him fully. The cool air of the room hit his overheated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of your breath as you leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to the inside of his thigh. Stiles’ breath caught, fingers flexing against the arms of the chair. “You’re—fuck—”

Stiles’ words dissolved into a strangled groan the second your tongue traced a slow, torturous stripe up the length of him. Your lips were warm, impossibly soft, and the sight of you—eyes locked onto his, layous fluttering—sent a jolt of heat straight to his gut. You didn’t break eye contact as you took him into your mouth, sinking down until your nose brushed his lower stomach. Stiles swore his heart stopped.

You pressed your tongue flat against the underside of him as you pulled back, then curled around the head in a way that had his thighs trembling. A string of incoherent curses spilled from his lips, his fingers tangling in your hair—not pushing, just holding on for dear life. You hummed around him, the vibration rippling through his body like an electric current, and his hips jerked involuntarily.

“Shit—sorry,” he gasped, but you just smirked, your grip tightening on his hips to keep him still. The next time you took him deep, you swallowed around him, and Stiles saw stars. His back arched off the chair, heels digging into the carpet as pleasure coiled tight in his abdomen.

You set a relentless pace, alternating between slow, teasing licks and quick, desperate bobs of your head that left him gasping. Every so often, you’d pull off just to drag your teeth lightly over his tip, watching the way his stomach muscles jumped in response. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails scraping lightly, and Stiles choked on your name when your fingers burrowed lower, cupping him in a way that made his vision blur.

Stiles’ grip on the chair arms was white-knuckled now, every muscle in his body coiled tight as your mouth worked him over with a practiced rhythm that shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The wet heat of your tongue circling his tip, the suction when you hollowed your cheeks, the way your fingers teased at the base—it was too much and not enough all at once. His hips twitched involuntarily, and you hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to his spine.

He barely registered the sound of his own voice—ragged, pleading—as his fingers tightened in your hair. “I’m not—I can’t—” The warning was slurred and half-formed, but you ignored it, dragging your lips up his length before sinking back down with deliberate slowness. The pressure built low in his gut, hot and inevitable, and when your nails dug into his thighs in silent permission, he came with a broken groan, his head slumping back against the chair.

You didn’t pull away—not fully. you swallowed, lips lingering at the tip until he shuddered, oversensitive. When you finally sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, the smirk you gave him was downright predatory. “You’re welcome,” you murmured, your voice husky.

Stiles blinked dazedly down at you, his pulse still thundering in his ears. His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat cooling on his skin. “That was—” He swallowed, throat dry. “You’ve done that before.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your wrist, still smirking up at him from the floor—your knees pressed into the carpet, your cheeks flushed pink. Stiles could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat, his breath still uneven, but the way you looked at him—like you’d won something—sent a fresh jolt of heat through his veins. “Maybe,” you said, shrugging one shoulder before pushing yourself up onto unsteady legs. The movement made your shorts ride high, revealing the faint red marks where the carpet had pressed into your skin. Stiles couldn’t stop staring.

His hands twitched at his sides, itching to reach for you, but before he could, you were climbing back into his lap, straddling him with a confidence that made his brain short-circuit all over again. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to sting, and he groaned when your teeth scraped against his jaw. “Your turn,” you murmured, your voice rough at the edges, and Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands slid under the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the curve of your hips before dragging the fabric down your thighs. You lifted just enough to help him, kicking them off somewhere behind him, and the second they were gone, his palms were on your bare skin, gripping the backs of your thighs and hauling you closer. The heat of you against him was dizzying, and when you rocked forward, grinding against the rough fabric of his jeans, he cursed under his breath, fingers digging into your flesh.

Everything moved so fast, and Stiles’ fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as you finally seated yourself fully, your thighs trembling against his. The breath punched out of him like he’d been sucker-punched—your warmth, your tightness, the way your nails bit into his shoulders—it was too much. He’d imagined this a hundred times in the dark of his room, but reality obliterated every half-formed fantasy. You were yours, your forehead pressed against his, your breath coming in ragged little puffs against his lips.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then you rolled your hips experimentally, and Stiles swore, his grip on you tightening. “Fuck, fuck—” His voice cracked, the words dissolving into a groan as you rocked again, slower this time, dragging yourself along his length in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving angry red trails in their wake, and the sting only sharpened the pleasure coiling in his gut.

You set a merciless pace from the start—no tentative exploration, no coy hesitation. Just you, riding him with single-minded intensity, your hips rolling in smooth, practiced motions that had Stiles seeing stars. His hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in the straps of your bra still clinging to your shoulders, and he yanked you closer, crushing your chests together. The friction of skin on skin was electric, and when your teeth sank into his shoulder, he bucked up instinctively, driving deeper into you with a choked gasp.

“God, you—” Your words broke off into a moan as he hit a spot that made your thighs clench around him. Your fingers fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his scalp burn, and the pain-pleasure mix sent another jolt straight to his groin. “Again,” you demanded, voice rough, and Stiles obeyed without thought, angling his hips to thrust up into you just right.

Stiles’ breath came in ragged bursts as your hips rolled against him, each movement calculated and relentless. The chair groaned beneath them, threatening to buckle under the force of your rhythm, but neither of them cared. His hands slid from your back to your ass, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he helped you move, lifting you just enough to drag you back down with a force that made you gasp. The sound went straight to his already frayed nerves.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Your mouth latched onto the pulse point, teeth scraping over the frantic thrum of his heartbeat. “You’re—fuck—you're going to kill me,” he managed, voice wrecked, and you laughed against his skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through him.

“Good,” you breathed, your lips brushing his ear before you nipped at the lobe. Your hips stuttered when his thumb found the slick heat between your legs, circling just right, and the broken noise you made was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Stiles swallowed it with a messy kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as you ground down against his hand, chasing your own release with a desperation that matched his.

The air between them was thick with sweat and the scent of you—strawberries and salt and something darker, something theirs—and Stiles buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like he could imprint you onto his lungs. Your nails raked down his back, sharp enough to burn, and he groaned, his hips snapping up harder, faster. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breathing.

Stiles' fingers dug into your hips as you rode him with a rhythm that threatened to unravel him completely. The chair beneath them groaned in protest, its hinges squeaking with every desperate thrust, but neither of them cared—not when your nails were scoring red lines down his chest, not when the air between them crackled with heat and sweat and something electric.

Your breath hitched when he shifted his grip, one hand sliding between them to press his thumb against your clit in firm, circling motions. Your entire body tensed, your thighs clamping around his hips as a broken sound tore from your throat. “Stiles—” His name was half-gasp, half-curse, and the way you walls clenched around him nearly sent him over the edge right then.

“Yeah, yeah, come on—” His voice was ragged, barely recognizable, his forehead pressed against yours as he chased the friction, the heat, the way your body moved against his like you were made for it. Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp sting, and the sharp burst of pain-pleasure had him thrusting up harder, deeper, until you gasped and arched back, your spine bowing under the force of it.

The sight of you—head thrown back, lips parted, chest heaving—was enough to burn itself into his brain forever. Stiles couldn’t resist dragging his teeth over the exposed column of your throat, biting down just enough to make you whimper. “You close?” he rasped against your skin, already knowing the answer by the way your hips stuttered and the way your breath came in shallow, uneven pants.

You didn’t answer with words. Your hips rolled forward in a sharp, unsteady jerk, your thighs trembling against his as you ground down onto him with a desperation that stole his breath. Your fingers tightened in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat again, and this time, your teeth sank into the tender skin just below his jaw. The sharp sting of pain-pleasure shot straight to his groin, and Stiles swore, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

“Fuck—yes,” you gasped against his skin, your voice raw and ragged, and then you were coming apart around him—your body tensing, your nails biting into his shoulders, your thighs clamping around his hips like a vise. The sound you made was half-moan, half-sob, and Stiles felt it reverberate through his entire body, tightening the coil in his gut to near-breaking.

He didn’t last much longer. The sight of you—chest fluyid, lips swollen, eyes dark with pleasure—was too much. His grip on your hips tightened, dragging you down onto him one last time as he thrust up hard, his release slamming into him like a freight train. Stars exploded behind his eyelids, his vision whiting out for a dizzying second as pleasure burned through him, leaving him gasping and trembling beneath you.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, your breath was hot and uneven against his skin. Stiles’ hands slid up your back, fingers tracing the damp lines of your spine as he tried to steady his own breathing. The air between them was thick with sweat and the scent of sex; the only sound was the ragged sync of their panting.

The first thing Stiles registered was the way your heartbeat thudded against his chest—fast, erratic, slowing gradually like a storm settling. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, loosened their grip, nails dragging lightly over his scalp in a way that made him shiver. He could feel the dampness of sweat between their bodies, the stickiness of skin pressed too close for too long, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when your breath hitched just slightly as you shifted in his lap, your thighs flexing around him.

“So,” you murmured, your voice rough in a way that sent a fresh pulse of heat through him, even spent as he was. “That happened.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, the sound hoarse and disbelieving. His hands slid down to your hips, thumbs tracing idle circles against the sharp jut of bone below. “Yeah,” he managed, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. “That… definitely happened.”

First ever short fic!! Hope you guys like it, i enjoy a lot of fandoms so i will expand and start a masterlist❤️