Dylan O'Brien Imagines

I'll Be Devastated// Stiles

He was home. Thank god. Thank god he was okay.

You rushed to his house, driving his jeep home from the school.

Sheriff Stilinski let you in, thanking you for bringing the jeep home. You went upstairs, knocking softly on his door.

"Dad, I said I was fine," you heard Stiles say as you knocked again. Suddenly, the door is yanked open. "How many times-oh hi."

"Your dad let me in," you examined his busted up face. "I brought your jeep back."

"Thanks, uh, do you wanna come in? How you doing?" He asked as he closed the door behind you.

"How are you?" You ignored his question.

"Oh, this," he motioned towards his face. "Oh it's nothing. I'm fine, don't worry about it."

"You don't look fine," you said as his phone dinged. "You have 17 new messages from Scott."

"He needs help with Jackson, maybe I should go help." You suggested, changing the subject.

"You'll just get yourself hurt." Stiles said, laying back on the bed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You said defensively, sitting up to face him.

"I didn't mean it like that. I mean, you always put yourself in dangerous situations, and you don't care about getting hurt."

You raised your eyebrows at him, a questioning look plastered across your face.

"You always do that. Throw yourself slam pack in the middle of the danger, and you don't care about getting hurt, but you know how I'll feel? I'll be devastated," he says, standing up in front of you. "You think this was inflicted to hurt me?" he motions toward his face. "It was inflicted to hurt the people around me."

"Death doesn't happen to you, it happens to the people around you," he yells again. "The people standing at your funeral, the people left after you die."

You stepped forward, putting your hands on either side of his face. "Stiles, I'm here, okay? And I'm not going anywhere."

He smiled and leaned forward and pressed his lips against yours. You smiled and kissed back, your lips moving against his.

He pulled back suddenly, his face twisted in a wince.

"What?" you asked. "Did I do something wrong?"

"My lip." He pressed his fingers against it, wincing at the pain.

"I could help clean you up." You smiled before pressing your lips against his cheek.