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Stiles wakes up to a shooting pain across his wrist. It lasts only for a few seconds —a low, dull burn, like he scraped it on something in his sleep, but it’s sharp enough to jolt him upright and send his blanket flying.
“Move, asshole.”
That’s what fate carved into his wrist. That’s what destiny, the universe, or whatever higher power was out there decided to tattoo on his skin the first Solstice after his eighteenth birthday.
He blinked down at his wrist, rubbing at his eyes just in case he was still dreaming.
But no.
The words were still there.
He brings his wrist closer to his face, squinting at the sharp, clean lettering etched into his skin like it’s been there forever. It’s just dark ink, a little raised on his skin, looking like it feels tender to touch.
And… permanent.
He stares at it for five full minutes. Maybe more. His brain whirred, buffering like a lagging internet connection.
Footsteps thump down the hallway, too alert for this early in the morning, and a moment later his bedroom door creaks open.
John Stilinski peers in, dressed in his uniform and holding a coffee mug, mild concern written all over his face. “Stiles? You okay? Thought I heard you yell.”
“I didn’t yell,” Stiles lies. “I… made a startled exclamation.”
His dad raises an eyebrow. “That startled exclamation sounded a lot like someone getting murdered— Oh wait, it’s Solstice! Lemme see it.”
Stiles holds up his wrist sadly, “Try not to laugh.”
John steps closer, and leans over to squint. The moment he reads the mark, his mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
Stiles lets out a groan and lets his wrist fall into his lap. “Daaaad. I thought soulmarks were supposed to be beautiful. Why does mine just say ‘Move, asshole’ ?” he grumbles.
“I mean, it tracks,” the Sheriff says, hiding a smirk behind his coffee, “I’m just saying, if fate wanted to be accurate, it nailed it. I half expected yours to say something like ‘Wait, I can explain.’ ”
Stiles rubs his face dramatically. “See? That would’ve been better . Fun. Charming. This is just —aggressive.”
“We are Stilinski’s. Subtlety isn’t really our thing,” he laughs, showing off his own faded soulmark on his forearm that says ‘drop the raccoon and back away slowly’.
Stiles peeks through his fingers and mumbles, only with a little shame. “Do you know how many people I’ve called ‘asshole’ in this town? Almost everyone .”
“Yeah, but it’s the first words you ever said to them, right? Not just any old insult,” John raises an eyebrow, albeit a little exasperated.
Stiles sits up, suddenly looking just a bit optimistic. “Right. Right, okay. First words. That narrows it down. Maybe I haven’t even met my soulmate,” he looks up at his dad, chewing on his lower lip. “You think I’ll ever figure out who it belongs to?”
The Sheriff’s face softens, eyes crinkling. “You will. Probably when you least expect it. That’s usually how this kind of thing works.”
Stiles sighs, already running through the list in his head. He has said those words a lot. And not always with hate. Sometimes it’s teasing. Sometimes it’s… flustered.
He remembers the time Heather blocked his view of the whiteboard in Econ. The time Lydia nearly ran him over in the parking lot. The time Danny stole his fries. The time Jackson—
Stiles flails and almost falls off his bed, giving his dad a mini heart attack.
No.
Absolutely not.
Jackson Whittemore might be tall, hot, and have the bone structure of a Greek god someone ordered off the internet, but he’s also a monumental tool . Their entire relationship could be summed up as mutual irritation and forced proximity due to overlapping peer groups.
Plus, Jackson always wears that damn bandage on his wrist to cover his own soul mark. He’s had it since forever. Stiles once asked what it was and got a death glare so intense he nearly combusted on the spot.
Still. The thought keeps coming back .
Jackson. Lacrosse field. Sophomore year. He’d knocked into Stiles after practice, hard enough that Stiles nearly ate turf. He can’t recall what Jackson said but Stiles had shoved him and snapped, “ Move, asshole! ” before storming off.
Stiles is not sure if they were his first words to Jackson. Actually, he’s pretty sure they weren’t. There’s just no way.
“Yeah, but what if it’s someone I hate?”
“Then maybe you don’t hate them as much as you think you do,” John’s voice is quiet, and way too knowing.
Stiles opens his mouth to argue —but thinks of Jackson again. The image slips in uninvited, all sharp edges and intense stares.
⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚
The bonfire crackles high into the air, sending sparks drifting up like lazy fireflies. The whole clearing smells like burning pinewood, melted sugar, and a thousand perfumes trying to outdo one another. Music thumps faintly from someone’s speaker, but most of the crowd just lingers in circles, drinking, laughing, comparing soulmarks.
Stiles doesn’t even bother looking for Scott anymore.
They’d come together —him, Scott, Kira, and Isaac— all fresh-faced and pretending like it wasn’t a big deal. Cheering Stiles on as best as they can. But now they ditched him the second someone offered spiked cider and a distraction.
Stiles leans against a split log, hoodie drawn tight against the chill. Like his body hasn’t adjusted yet to this new thing carved into his skin. He stares into the fire, trying not to feel like it’s laughing at him.
A couple nearby are giggling over their matching soulmarks. One of them still has a bandage on —had gotten theirs only hours ago. The other must have been waiting. They look so certain .
Stiles turns away, suddenly bitter. He doesn’t even know who his soulmate is. Just some asshole. Apparently.
He’s halfway through debating if he should go home when a voice comes behind him.
“Let me guess— you told them to go to hell and they actually did?”
Stiles stiffens. That’s a voice he could identify through a hurricane.
Matt Daehler. The one guy who hasn’t got his soulmate even though a Solstice passed after his birthday. Two, now. He tells everyone that they got the year wrong in the certificates.
Stiles exhales slowly through his nose. “Not interested, Matt.”
“Right. Because you must be real popular with the cosmic forces right now,” Matt says, stepping up beside him. “Heard yours came in this morning.”
Stiles doesn’t answer.
“I gotta say,” Matt continues, a smug smile curling. “It’s so fitting. ‘Move, asshole’? Kind of on the nose, don’t you think?”
Stiles clenches his jaw and counts backward from ten.
“I mean, not even something romantic or meaningful. Classic Stilinski. Maybe your soulmate’s already petitioning for a cosmic refund.”
“Back off,” Stiles mutters.
But Matt doesn’t. “What’s next? You gonna call your soulmate a dumb bitch and propose right after? Or maybe it’s someone who’s got a degradation kink.”
That does it.
Stiles turns, sharp and fast. “You don’t know anything , Matt. Just because yours hasn’t shown up doesn’t mean you get to piss on everyone else’s.”
Matt’s smile disappears in an instant. “What did you just say to me?”
“You heard me,” Stiles snaps, stepping forward now. “At least I have a soulmark.”
It’s stupid. He knows it the second the words leave his mouth. But he’s just done.
Matt’s fist connects before he can even register the movement.
Pain blooms in his cheekbone, sharp and sudden. The world lurches sideways for a second. He stumbles back a step, hand flying to his face.
People are watching now.
Whispers cut through the haze.
Stiles straightens. Breathes in through his nose. Eyes wild and glinting.
He steps forward.
And draws his fist back.
⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚
The night air bites at his skin, but Stiles doesn’t pull his hoodie up.
He just walks.
The festival fades behind him —music, firelight and all shrinking into background noise. His cheek throbs with each heartbeat, and the blood in his mouth tastes like pennies and shame. He’d texted Scott, said leave me alone , and Scott had listened for once.
Now it’s just him and the dark road ahead.
He doesn’t hear the footsteps until they’re jogging up behind him.
“Stilinski!”
Stiles winces, eyes closing in exhausted frustration. “Not now.”
“Stiles, stop.”
He turns sharply. “What, Jackson? Come to rub it in too? Or did someone else share a video of me getting clocked?”
“What the fuck?” Jackson slows to a halt, barely winded. He’s in a black hoodie and jeans, hands tucked in the pockets, looking like something out of a Nike ad and an action movie had a beautiful, rage-filled baby. His eyes flick to Stiles’ cheek, and whatever snark he had dies instantly.
His expression sharpens. Jaw clenches. The muscle ticks.
“Who did that?” Jackson’s voice is low and furious.
Stiles blinks. “You… you seriously don’t— No one,” he lies automatically.
“Stiles.”
“It’s not—” he stops himself, trying to step around the asshole . “It’s none of your business.”
Jackson grabs his elbow, forcing him to stop. “Tell me who it was.”
Stiles yanks his arm back. “Matt, okay? God, why do you even care ? You don’t even like me.”
Jackson’s jaw tightens. He takes a step back toward the preserve, eyes already blazing with intent.
Stiles doesn’t think—he just reaches. Grabs his wrist before he can take another.
“Don’t. It’s done. And you getting into a fight about it isn’t going to—”
The bandage comes off in his hand.
It happens so fast he barely registers it, but suddenly the white cloth is fluttering to the dirt road, and Jackson is frozen, eyes wide and unreadable.
Stiles stares.
“Watch it, nerd.”
His brain short-circuits. All the noise around them disappears.
Because he remembers .
"Watch it, nerd!" “Move, asshole.”
It hadn’t felt like anything then.
It hadn’t felt like fate.
But it was .
His hand is still holding Jackson’s wrist. The mark is real. Ink-dark and raised just like his own. Burned into skin, undeniable.
“Oh,” Stiles breathes. “Oh my god.”
Jackson doesn’t say anything.
He just stares at him, chest rising and falling like he’s still trying to breathe through all of it.
Stiles blinks up at him. His voice cracks when he whispers, “It’s you.”
Jackson stays unnervingly quiet. Too quiet.
“You knew,” Stiles says in disbelief.
Jackson exhales through his nose and looks down at their wrists —at what they are — then back up at Stiles. “I’ve known for a year.
“A year ?!” Stiles yells. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Jackson tilts his head. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey Stiles, you know that time you called me an asshole two years ago? It’s now inked on my skin permanently’?”
Stiles stares. “A— You— Are you kidding me right now? You’re allergic to being nice to me!”
“I’m not!” Jackson shoots back. “Okay, maybe I’m not nice to you, but that’s because you drive me insane , Stiles! You talk constantly, you’re always in everyone’s business, you have no idea how to shut up—”
“Gee, thanks for the glowing review—”
Jackson’s expression tightens, frustration flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t want to act different just because I knew it first. You would’ve freaked out. Told me it wasn’t real, or that it was a mistake. Hell, you’re barely not doing that right now .”
Stiles opens his mouth to argue. And then closes it. Because… okay. Fair. But only because it feels surreal.
“I wanted it to be mutual. Real. So yeah, I still snapped at you. Still rolled my eyes when you said something stupid. Besides, you drive me crazy. You talk too much. You interrupt me constantly. You’re infuriating. You’re chaotic. You get under my skin and in my head and you never leave . You’re—”
Stiles grabs his shirt and kisses him.
It’s not graceful. It’s messy and rough and tilted, all breath and heat and way too much emotion pressed between their mouths. But Jackson doesn’t hesitate. His hands find Stiles’ hips like they’ve always belonged there.
When they finally break apart, their foreheads touch. The air between them is sharp with cold and something else—something warm and sweet and dizzying.
Jackson breathes, “You didn’t let me finish. God, you’re so fucking annoying.”
Stiles grins against his mouth. “You can’t get enough of me.”
Jackson huffs but relents. “Yeah.”
⋆.˚ ☾ .⭒˚