Stuart Twombly Exchanges Lots And Lots Of Sassy, Bratty Remarks With His Girlfriend Until They Inevitably

YES. This is everything I want in life. 10/10. I'm reading this again tonight and tomorrow and probably every single day of the rest of my life 💜

𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞 | 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢

The Jeep’s windows were fogging up, the scent of old leather and Stiles’s cologne mixing in the heated air between you. You were straddling his lap in the driver’s seat, your fingers tangled in his hair, and Stiles—oh, Stiles—was a mess beneath you.

You kissed him again, slow and deep, dragging your nails lightly down the back of his neck. He whined.

You grinned against his lips. “Was that a whimper, Stilinski?”

He huffed, breathless. “No—shut up—”

You rolled your hips experimentally.

Stiles let out a choked guhhh sound, his head thunking back against the seat.

You giggled, thoroughly enjoying the way he was coming undone beneath you. “You really don’t have a filter, do you?”

“It’s—not—my fault,” he panted, gripping your waist like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re—you’re doing things, and my body is just—reacting, okay?”

You kissed his jaw, letting your lips brush over the sensitive spot just beneath his ear. Stiles yelped.

“Oh my God,” you laughed. “I love the noises you make.”

His hands spasmed on your hips. “I hate that I make noises.”

“Well, I don’t.” You nipped at his earlobe, delighted when he let out a full-body shudder and another strangled groan. “It means you like this.”

Stiles let out a weak, breathy laugh. “No, yeah, I hate making out with my ridiculously attractive girlfriend in my Jeep. Terrible experience.”

You hummed, pressing your forehead against his. “Want me to stop then?”

His eyes snapped open, panicked. “Do not test me.”

You grinned, tilting his chin up to kiss him again. This time, he met you with desperation, his fingers gripping your waist so tightly you knew you’d feel it later.

Then—

THUD.

The sound of a fist knocking on the Jeep’s window made you both freeze.

“…Stiles,” came Scott’s unimpressed voice from outside. “I can hear you from the parking lot.”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Stiles groaned, dropping his head onto your shoulder.

“Scott,” he whined, voice muffled. “Can I please make out with my girlfriend in peace?”

A pause. Then:

“Not when you sound like a dying cat, man.”

You lost it, shaking with laughter as Stiles muttered every curse he knew into your neck.

▸ Everything

@alexxavicry

Hi, friends! I hope everyone is doing well.

If I have time this week, I'd like to write some fluff for the twins (Stiles and Stuart) trope, but I don't have any ideas or inspiration. If anyone does, please let me know! I absolutely love hearing from you all! Thank you! 💜

Sorry to ruin everyone's day, but Stiles holds hands when he cries, without a doubt.

Maybe he holds his love's soft palm against his own cheek while he speaks with a tremble, using it as a tether to help him work through his emotions. Their hands are practically soaked from all of his tears, but he doesn't even notice. He's only focused on her and all the love he feels radiating from her touch.

Or maybe she's sitting with him while he waits for his appointment with his therapist after a long, hard day. He squeezes her hand, trying to take deep breaths and ignore how much his leg is shaking. He wipes his face of the tears that escape with a bit of annoyance at his vulnerability in a public space. Sure, there's only a few other people in there with them, and they're all there for the same reason - to get help - but Stiles has always been good at bottling his emotions up. Why couldn't he do it now?

And especially during his panic attacks, when every muscle in his body feels like it's on fire and when his lungs can't grasp the air he's reaching for, he uses both of his hands to hold onto hers, so tightly that they shake. Sometimes he presses their hold against his chest or his forehead, needing to know that it's real, she's real, she's there with him.

Also, just imagine little Scott holding little Stiles' hand as they walk home from their elementary school after getting into another fight with the biggest bully in the second grade. Maybe boys aren't "supposed to" hold hands, like everyone says when they're eight years old and clueless. Stiles doesn't care, though, he knows he needs this (yes, he waited until they were in his neighborhood, away from any curious gazes).

The moral of the story is that sweet, sweet Stiles needs physical touch to survive. Everything becomes easier when he has a hand to hold, and this goes far beyond just crying.

Dylan O’Brien working out at Queens Park Waverley in Australia. (February 3, 2025)

📷©: jaydenseyfarth Instagram Story

To His Left

Word count: 938

It was Dylan's first day at his new school, the one he was transferring to in the middle of October during junior year. It wasn't very convenient timing, but his old school was a headache and a half. He was hopeful for his future in the new environment, regardless of the shy feelings creeping up on him.

He took a deep breath as he walked into his new English classroom a few minutes early, not wanting dozens of eyes on him in an instant. He immediately saw the bright smile of Mrs. Nixon, a young (mid-twenties), short, brunette, and cheerful woman who would be teaching him from now on. Her expression seemed to quickly ease his nerves, and he smiled back at her as he began to walk up to her desk.

He barely took his first couple steps before Mrs. Nixon spoke exuberantly, "Hi! Are you my new student? Dylan, right?"

He held onto the straps of his backpack tightly as it rested on his shoulders and nodded, his words falling out of his mouth, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, that's me."

"Perfect! I'm Mrs. Nixon, and oh my god. Sorry, I'm just so excited. This is a good class to join, as far as my junior classes go, I'm glad you were put in this period," she spoke rapidly, her ecstasy evident.

Dylan couldn't help but smile at her, appreciating her happiness just because of his presence. It felt good, so he tried to keep the conversation going, "Oh yeah? Do you teach another class?"

She sighed, then rolled her eyes as she spoke, "Yes, unfortunately. Half of my periods are full of freshmen."

Their comfortable chatter continued, and neither of them noticed that the bell had rang until his soon-to-be peers started flowing in. He looked around, realizing that he had no idea where he was supposed to go. Mrs. Nixon noticed his confusion and pointed to an empty desk, "Oh, Dylan, you can sit right over there, desk twelve."

He nodded as he walked over, trying not to let his face heat up when he heard Mrs. Nixon inform the class of his new presence and saw the eyes of everyone on him. He forced a polite smile and nodded as he sat down, and seconds after, his attention was grabbed by the gorgeous girl sitting to his left. His eyes widened a little and he hoped she didn't notice while she introduced herself with the most flattering smile he'd ever seen.

His words left him before he knew he was even speaking. "Nice to meet you, I'm Dylan," he said, feeling his hands get clammy.

"So I've heard," she spoke casually, making him chuckle nervously when he realized that Mrs. Nixon literally just told the entire class his name. "And it's nice to meet you too. If you have any questions about what we're learning about or the school, let me know."

He couldn't stop himself from smiling. She seemed so nice and laid back, as if talking to him was the easiest thing in the world, whereas he was struggling to contain all of his various emotions. She was either really good at this, or really good at pretending to be good at this. Either way, he enjoyed every second of their conversation.

"Sweet, thanks. I'll make sure to do that," he was a little disappointed when his attention was diverted to the lesson, right after he spoke.

As soon as the lesson was finally over, his gaze turned toward the girl to his left again. He really just wanted to talk to her again, the only problem was that he had nothing to say. He searched his scattered brain until she finally spoke and snapped him out of his staring, "You good?"

Dylan's eyebrows raised when he realized how weird he might have seemed, just looking at her without a word. He quickly tried to defend himself with a clearly forced tone of nonchalant, "What? Oh. Yeah, yeah, I'm all good. Just got distracted. But technically, it wasn't my fault."

She gave him a look of suspicion and tested his ability to keep his cool, "Oh really? So it's someone's fault that you got distracted?"

He smirked, hoping with his entire soul that he wouldn't mess this up, "Exactly. See? You're getting it."

Her eyebrows furrowed but she couldn't hide her small smile, "Getting what? What the hell are you talking about?"

He hesitated for a second, looking away. Screw it, he thought, and he shrugged his shoulders as he looked right at her again, "You're distracting me. I mean, come on. How am I supposed to not look at you?"

A bit of blush crept onto her cheeks and her smile unintentionally grew. She paused for a second, letting his words sink in and trying to think of how she could possibly respond to something so bold from someone she just met that day. She collected her wits and responded as confidently as she could make herself seem, "That's interesting, coming from someone who doesn't even know me. Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered, but have you considered the possibility that you just suck at focusing on anything other than girls?"

He suddenly felt his own face heating up, not having expected such a sassy accusation. He chuckled, mostly nervously, "I plead the fifth."

She simply rolled her eyes with a smirk as Dylan kept smiling like a dork. They knew that this seating arrangement was going to be entertaining for both of them, and Dylan was excited to have a pretty girl to look at during English, directly to his left.

Note: I have no idea if this is good or not, but if it somehow is and someone wants me to keep this storyline going, then I happily will. Just let me know :)

 I N S P .

I'm so happy to hear that! I wish you luck with your journey though, I'm sorry that it's still an issue.

And thank you so much! You are far too kind! 💜

Hi! Just wanted to check in and ask how you're doing? I hope all of your illness drama is resolved or will be soon! (Big fan of the queue!) 💜

I love the queue 😩 it's an absolute weapon hahah, still so much more to add on too!! and I'm also much better thank you for asking. I figured out what triggered it (kinda..?) and have made some adjustments but it still comes on sporadically which is so frustrating!

I hope everything is going amazing with you! So proud and amazed to see all the writing pieces and blurbs you've put out 🤗❤️

HAHA! You're so right, I'm on the verge of drooling...

That bicep though...

Not possible, sorry 💜

Sorry to ruin everyone's day, but Stiles holds hands when he cries, without a doubt.

Maybe he holds his love's soft palm against his own cheek while he speaks with a tremble, using it as a tether to help him work through his emotions. Their hands are practically soaked from all of his tears, but he doesn't even notice. He's only focused on her and all the love he feels radiating from her touch.

Or maybe she's sitting with him while he waits for his appointment with his therapist after a long, hard day. He squeezes her hand, trying to take deep breaths and ignore how much his leg is shaking. He wipes his face of the tears that escape with a bit of annoyance at his vulnerability in a public space. Sure, there's only a few other people in there with them, and they're all there for the same reason - to get help - but Stiles has always been good at bottling his emotions up. Why couldn't he do it now?

And especially during his panic attacks, when every muscle in his body feels like it's on fire and when his lungs can't grasp the air he's reaching for, he uses both of his hands to hold onto hers, so tightly that they shake. Sometimes he presses their hold against his chest or his forehead, needing to know that it's real, she's real, she's there with him.

Also, just imagine little Scott holding little Stiles' hand as they walk home from their elementary school after getting into another fight with the biggest bully in the second grade. Maybe boys aren't "supposed to" hold hands, like everyone says when they're eight years old and clueless. Stiles doesn't care, though, he knows he needs this (yes, he waited until they were in his neighborhood, away from any curious gazes).

The moral of the story is that sweet, sweet Stiles needs physical touch to survive. Everything becomes easier when he has a hand to hold, and this goes far beyond just crying.

Maybe like a cuddle fluff where he’s laying on top of you and playing with your curls?

Wow, it's been a long time since I got this. I'm so incredibly sorry for the wait. I have no excuse other than falling into the rabbit hole of Sebastian Stan... So, yeah, I had no inspiration for anything else. Again, I'm so sorry. I hope this turned out ok...

P.S. This can apply to natural curls or heat curls, whichever works for whoever is reading :)

P.P.S. I just realized that I misread the request. Shit.

The Recoil

Word count: 573

He was mesmerized, to say the least. He always had been. He'd stare at the back of her head as she walked in front of him, watching her luscious curls bounce with every step. He'd constantly be dying to touch them, and he'd try until his fingers were clutched to himself closely, rubbing the ache away after having them get whacked a few too many times. Apparently, some people don't like having their hair meddled with.

Thankfully, that's not the case for his girlfriend anymore. Now that they're happily dating, he gets to touch whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and he's made that very clear. She no longer minds Stiles' insistence because she is officially sure that it's out of affection, not annoyance.

The two snuggle up during any free time they can spare, and for as long as they can get away with, in countless positions and arrangements. They take turns spoiling the other with caresses, paying extra close attention to the other's hair and scalp (Stiles' favorites). There's a certain smirk that appears on his face when it's his turn to get his hands on the precious silk of hers.

Stiles lays on his back with his girlfriend's head placed gently on his chest, and their legs tangled. He brushes all the hair back and over her shoulders, away from her face. His eyes are focused but keep a delicate gaze. One by one, he lightly pulls on each spiral with his calloused fingertips until it extends to its full length, then lets go, watching it constrict again. His smile grows slowly in adoration, not noticing the confusion that grows on her face.

"Stiles...?" she asks softly.

"Hm?" He barely glances up to her face before he continues his attention on her hair, only halfway through her mane.

"What are you doing?"

"Just, you know. Enjoying the recoil."

She tilts her head back to look up at him. "The what?"

"Hey! You moved," he says, scowling.

"Yeah, thanks for noticing," she retorts. "What are you doing?"

His defensive words get a bit jumbled up and a heat spreads across his cheeks. "I'm just, you know. Right? The recoil. The hair, your hair, and the curliness, and the... you know? The recoil."

She can't hide the big, loving smile on her face as she keeps looking up at his.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?" he says, staring right back at her.

"You're very cute, Stiles."

"No." He practically glares at her. "No, I'm not. Absolutely not. Just, just put your head back the way it was and stop worrying about it, ok? Relax."

Stiles' girlfriend chuckles softly and does as he says, resting her eyes again and enjoying the gentle pull of his fingers. There's no point in teasing more than he can take.

Meanwhile, he can't contain the red heat which is traveling down his neck. Stiles doesn't understand and never will understand how she can make him react like this. Usually, he's easily able to keep a cold, sarcastic front, but not with her. Not with that smile. Not with those eyes. Not with her dreamy curls. And certainly not with her laying against him.

In the end, he's still smiling fondly, noticing her thumb that slipped underneath his shirt to brush across his waist. It's the little things that get to him most and drive him absolutely crazy for the love of his life.