#This movie needed Stiles | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sourwulf · 4 months ago

Note

i beg of you to do a plus size reader (who's got a lot of shame around her body and stuff) fic with stiles where he takes her virginity after they start dating but he's not super experienced, but it's still really good for her

༄ word count — 3.6k

፨ characters — stiles stilinski

☓ tw — none

⊹ cw — smut & oral, losing of virginity, mentions of body insecurity

☼ a/n — i'm plus size and the first person i ever dated wasn't so i love this idea. also this is a bit longer than most of my other stories, so enjoy :)

✎ masterlist

─

if you could've seen the way stiles looked at you when you had your back turned, you would melt. such adoration, such attraction, it was hard to find. at least, for you it was.

you'd always been bigger, since the second you were born. you were a chunky baby, and despite hoping it was just baby fat you'd grow out of, it stayed. you spent your entire life doing your darndest to hide it, wearing baggy clothes and adjusting them every chance you got.

so when stiles, a lanky skinny guy on the lacrosse team, asked you out, all you could think of was the weight difference.

but stiles didn't really notice. in fact, the only thing he saw when he looked at you was beauty. he thought you had a body that would've been immortalized in a statue back in ancient greece, give or take a few pounds.

you didn't see it but the first time he laid eyes on you, he couldn't take them off for a good thirty seconds. just watching you at lunch, wondering what you were looking at on your phone that made you smile.

there was one day you were at your locker, absentmindedly messing with your books and binders. you weren't far from where stiles was standing with his friend scott, who was also getting what he needed out of his locker.

the immersion was only broken when scott pulled his attention away.

"dude, if you think she's pretty go ask her out," scott insisted, finding you in his eyesight after a few seconds. "you've been pining over her for weeks."

stiles shook his head. "no, man, she's out of my league."

"yeah, so is every girl here." stiles rolled his eyes at the quip. "just go talk to her. she seems nice."

it was just then that you closed your locker and walked toward them, and stiles turned away from you and tried to act casual, like he wasn't just staring intensely at you. you passed them, not even noticing that they were there. once you were out of earshot, stiles leaned against the lockers.

"she's gone now, so..."

scott sighed. "if you wanna date you're gonna have to get over your fear of talking to girls."

"i'm not afraid of talking to girls. i'm awkward. you and i both know that."

"some girls like that."

"what if she doesn't?"

"you'll never know if you don't try."

the bell rang, and stiles stepped away from the lockers. "i'll see you at practice?"

"yep, see you then."

a couple of hours went by before your study hall period. you were in the library, skimming the books in the social studies section, attempting to find one about women's fashion in the 1700s for a book report.

as soon as you pulled a book off the shelf, just like a scene out of a movie, you revealed stiles' face on the other side. he came into the library because he'd seen you enter a few moments before. he didn't know you were right there only feet away from him, but the movement made him look up from the book in his hands. his eyes went wide at your lack of noticing him, reading the description of the book instead.

he studied your face, this being the closest he'd been to you thus far. he noticed the streaks of unnatural colors in your hair, the slight smile on your lips as you realized this was exactly the book you needed. you didn't look back up, instead walking away to check out the book.

he could see you at the register from where he was standing, and when you felt eyes on you, you looked over. his lips were slightly parted, his posture slumped a bit. he had kind eyes, which locked onto you for a moment.

you gave him a small wave, which he didn't return out of panicked awkwardness. when he realized how creepy it might look for him to be staring intently at you, he instead looked away and walked to the end of the aisle, hiding himself from your vision.

you were slightly confused, wondering what that was about.

after about fifteen minutes and you sitting down at a table tucked away in a corner away from other people, the same boy caught your attention. he was looking around to find somewhere to also sit, every other table full of people.

but when he found your table, he stopped in front of it. he didn't speak for a second, just looking at you.

"can i help you?" you asked, not really knowing what else to say.

"oh, uh... sorry. i didn't mean to stare. i didn't mean to stare earlier, either, i just saw you checking out books and didn't realize i was staring until you waved." he realized he was rambling. "do you mind if i sit here?" he motioned toward the chair across from you.

"sure."

once he was seated, his backpack in the chair next to him, he looked at you again.

"stiles." he held his hand out to shake. you took it and shook a couple of times.

"y/n."

"nice to meet you." you gave a small, awkward but friendly smile. "whatcha reading?"

you hesitated, not used to engaging in conversation with strangers. "i'm doing a book report on fashion evolution in the last few centuries. this one is specifically about women's fashion."

"oh, cool."

you looked down at the books he'd laid down in front of him, noticing that they were all different subjects.

"what about you? very different topics there."

"uh..." he thought for a moment. "can i be honest?" you raised your eyebrows in a 'go ahead' manner. "i kind of came in here as an excuse to talk to you."

now your eyebrows dipped down in confusion.

"what?"

"i... i noticed you a little while back. in the cafeteria. i was too chicken to say anything then, but i've been looking for an opportunity to say hi."

"oh."

he nodded. "i hope that's not too weird. i just... thought you were pretty."

you almost chuckled. "pretty?"

"yeah."

"you think i'm pretty?"

he was the one confused now.

"yeah...? why? what's wrong?"

"nothing's wrong, i just... i've never had anyone tell me that before."

"seriously?" you nodded. "you really caught my eye the first time i saw you."

"what exactly was it about me that caught your eye?"

"you were smiling at something on your phone, a text or something. you just had a really warm smile. you looked really pretty."

you could feel butterflies flapping quickly in your stomach, not used to this.

the two of you talked for what felt like hours. you learned that he was on the lacrosse team, and he geeked out talking about his jeep. it was easy to connect with him, conversation coming naturally to you, as if you'd known each other for your whole lives.

eventually, he asked you out on a date, to which you agreed. one date turned into two, then three, then six. movies, dinner, stargazing, double dates. on the sixth date, he invited you over to his house for the first time.

his car was the only one parked in the driveway, his dad at work that night. it was a nice house, nicer than you expected them to be able to afford.

he cooked for you, a simple plate of spaghetti being infinitely better than the food you'd gone out to eat with him. you sat side by side at the round dining room table, the lack of space between you two palpable.

"you're a really good cook, stiles."

with a mouthful of noodles he said, "thank you."

"i don't cook a lot, i need to learn how to. i really like baking, though."

"oh yeah, i remember you talking about that. next time it's your turn to supply the food, then."

you chuckled. "will do."

he watched you eat, distracted from his own food. there was something almost seductive about the way you ate pasta, intentional or not. the way you slurped the noodles past your lips, the sauce that stained them, he wasn't sure. it was like he was watching you in slow motion, like some cheesy eighties movie that zoomed in on your lips.

something came over him. he waited until you swallowed that bite, and he gently grabbed your face and pulled you in for a kiss. it was so gentle it was like he was afraid to do it. it caught you off guard but you melted into his lips, your entire body tensing up.

when he pulled away, you looked at each other, your eyes wide.

"oh," you whispered, not knowing what else to say.

"i-i'm sorry. i shouldn't have-"

"it's okay. that was... that was good."

"yeah?"

"yeah."

"probably not the best kiss you've ever had."

"stiles, that was the only kiss i've ever had."

you'd already told him your lack of past relationships, and he couldn't help but think how blessed he was that he got to be your first experience dating. he was truly lucky.

"oh, right."

"i don't really have anything to compare it to, but it was good."

"yeah?"

"mhm. just... next time don't be so afraid to kiss me."

as if that was his cue, he immediately pulled you back in for another one. you dropped your fork and gripped the edge of the table, kissing him back as if you knew how.

the next thing you knew, you were standing at the side of his bed, his hands gripping your ribs and him continuing to kiss you. with his lips still against yours, he unzipped your jacket and gently pushed it off your shoulders. it dropped to the floor around your feet, and he broke the kiss to look down at your body.

you had on a simple knit sweater, one that was a bit more fitted than most of your clothes.

as his hands slowly slipped under the material, you stopped them.

"what's wrong?" he whispered.

"uh... it's just... i don't want you to be disappointed by what you see."

"what do you mean?"

"i mean... i don't look like the other girls at school."

"in what way?"

you furrowed your brows. "c'mon, stiles, i know you know what i'm talking about."

"elaborate."

"i'm not... thin. i don't have that great of a body."

"seriously? that's what you think?"

"well, yeah. i have a mirror, stiles. i know what i look like."

"not from my perspective."

"i mean, i guess so. but you have to admit, i'm different from them." as you spoke, he unbuttoned your jeans while maintaining eye contact. "i'm serious."

"i know. i get that you feel that way but i don't think that when i look at you."

"what do you think?"

"i think you're out of my league." this made you chuckle. "i'm serious. i told scott the exact same thing the day we met."

"did you now?"

"you can ask him yourself." your pants were now undone, but he stopped before he went any further. "let me show you how beautiful i think you are."

"mm, how are you gonna do that exactly?"

"i may have to just make you wait and see."

you thought for a second before reaching down and pulling your sweater over your head. you felt like your heart was going to pound out of your chest, or stop entirely. you'd never taken your shirt off in front of a boy before, and you were a bit scared about what his reaction would be.

but the look in his eyes as he looked at you made you feel like the prettiest girl in the entire world. your anxiety melted away when you saw the look in his eyes. it was a look of true love, one no one had ever given you.

"wow," he whispered, studying your body.

"okay?"

instead of answering, he planted another kiss on your lips. he wrapped one arm around your back to pull you against him, his other hand cupping your face to hold you close.

he reached around you and gripped the hooks of your bra.

"can i take this off?" he asked into your mouth, to which he received a nod.

this level of vulnerability and openness wasn't something you were used to giving. not one soul had seen your boobs since you went shopping for training bras with your mom and she had to teach you how to use them. that was around the time you'd become truly aware of your weight and body, and decided that you weren't going to show it to anyone for a long, long time.

he continued kissing you as he struggled to unhook it, eventually getting it. to be fair, it was a bit of a difficult one to unhook.

he didn't look down at first, wanting to continue kissing you. his palm laid flat against your back where your bra band previously was, and you let the straps fall off your shoulders and it fell to the floor.

when he did finally take the opportunity to look at your bare chest, he took in a deep breath.

"wow," he said for a second time.

the urge to cover yourself was overwhelming, almost burning. so when your arms gave in and wrapped around your stomach, he pulled them away.

"why're you doin' that?" he whispered.

"just... not used to anyone seeing me."

"well, get used to it. you're so beautiful."

"you really think so?"

"i don't see how you don't."

"you know, just constant years of bullying." you were slightly joking but also not, that being the main reason for your insecurity. a slightly sad expression formed on his face. you looked down and shook your head. "sorry, i didn't mean to kill the mood."

he hooked his finger under your chin and made you look back up at him.

"don't apologize. it's okay." you nodded. "but i promise i'm gonna make you feel like the prettiest girl in the world. because you are."

you smiled and kissed him, pulling his hand up to cup your breast. he took in a sharp breath at this, his thumb gliding over your nipple.

"your turn to take something off."

he obeyed, pulling his shirt up and over his head. he had a patch of chest hair and a couple of moles here and there, but you noticed the scars on his stomach and ribs too. you ran your thumb over one of them and he looked down at it.

"what are these from?"

he sighed. "long stories. they're old, though."

you decided not to pry, realizing he didn't want to talk about old injuries before having sex with you for the first time.

a moment later, you were on your back in his bed, your head on his pillow. he slowly pulled your already undone pants down your legs and kissed the skin as they came off. he decided to go ahead and strip himself of his, leaving both of you in only your underwear. there were only two layers of thin clothing separating you, and as he leaned back down to kiss you, you could feel the tent in his pants growing.

he pressed a kiss to your neck, then your collarbone, then your chest, before engulfing your right nipple in his mouth. he circled it with his tongue for a moment before continuing down your body, leaving a trail of wet kisses on your stomach.

to have someone love your body instead of shame it made you tremble, not used to the pure affection bursting from his body, leaking from his pores.

he hooked his fingers under your panties, looking at you for permission, which you granted with a hesitant nod. you kept your thighs together for a moment before he kissed your knees, resting his chin on them after a few seconds.

"you don't have to hide anything from me, y/n." he ran his hands up and down your outer thighs and gave a soft smile. "you look so beautiful right now."

this boy was love drunk, his eyes soft and watery. you didn't think it was possible so see an expression so full of love, so desperate to show amore.

you spread your legs, bracing yourself to show all of you to him, to expose your most private areas. but he looked at you like he was an addict, like he needed you just to function.

he'd fallen for you fast, and he'd fallen hard.

after a few seconds he was on his belly, licking and lapping at you like you were a pot of honey. you couldn't hold back the sounds that escaped your throat, unable to describe how good he was making you feel.

you'd masturbated plenty, unsure when it would be someone else pleasuring you. all you'd had was your hand and fingers, and this was way different. it was much warmer, much wetter.

his much stronger than expected hands holding you exactly where he needed you meant all you could do was arch your back. him forcing your hips to still almost made it better, more intense.

because this was the first time you'd been eaten out, you felt your orgasm coming quickly, and when you finally reached your climax, the only sound that came out was a loud and long gasp. you couldn't keep your hips from leaving the mattress as much as he tried to control your movements.

he'd told you before that he wasn't super experienced, only having had sex with one person before you. but you couldn't help but wonder how many times he did this in the past to get him this good at it.

once he was back at your lips to kiss you, he was rock hard, and him grinding against you gave you an idea of what you were in store for.

once his underwear were off and he was sliding a condom on, you got a good look. he was bigger than you expected him to be, but it looked like something you could handle. he was thick too, and you knew you'd be getting stretched out.

"are you still okay with this?" he whispered, kissing your jaw.

"yes, stiles. please." you didn't know why you were begging, it's not like he wasn't going to fuck you if you didn't. but you were antsy, desperate, horny.

he looked into your eyes. "i... shit, i might not last long. it's been a minute."

"that's okay."

"i still want it to be good for you."

"i know it will be. it's okay if you don't. it's my first time, i don't want it to be a marathon."

he nodded. "okay. ready?"

"so ready."

he kissed you as he slid into you, the feeling different than you expected. better than you expected.

once he was fully seated in you, you both let out a soft moan.

"okay?" he asked.

"mhm. i just need to get used to it."

he was gentle, tender with you. he was going slowly as to not hurt you, but it was too slow. you needed more motion and he picked up on that.

"stiles, please, go faster."

he adjusted his position, bending his knees a bit more and pushing your thighs closer to your stomach. he picked up his speed and your moans were already becoming more desperate, more whiny.

"shit, you feel so good," he grunted, trying not to go too fast.

"you do too."

his lips latched onto your neck and his hands balled the sheets under you. the sounds of your wanton moans bounced off the walls and were like music to his ears. he was starting to have to control himself, making sure not to cum too early.

but you could tell he was getting there closer than he expected to. his grunts were becoming more frantic, chasing his orgasm.

after a couple of minutes, it was becoming more and more difficult to hold it off.

"stiles, stop holding back." your commands were gentle and sweet, you wanted him to feel as good as possible too. "i know you're close."

"it hasn't been that long."

"it's okay." that last one was cut off by an uncontrollable moan. "cum for me, stiles." you weren't used to using language like this, so you couldn't help but cringe internally, but those words drove him over the edge. he was thrusting much rougher than he meant to, holding back his orgasm making it even more intense for him.

he busted into the condom, filling it quickly. he slowed his movements, stopping a few thrusts later. he gently kissed you, your hands landing on his ribcage.

it took a few minutes for either of you to catch your breath, and he pulled out of you, tossing the condom in his trash can, and laying beside you. he covered both of you with his comforter, noticing how cold it was in his room.

neither of you spoke for a moment before he reached down and pulled your hand to his lips, kissing the back of your palm.

you laughed silently, looking over at him.

"was that okay? for your first time?"

you nodded. "it was."

"good. i promise next time it'll be better."

"i'm gonna hold you to that, stilinski."

"challenge accepted."

it wasn't long before you drifted to sleep, stiles watching you snore softly with nothing but love in his heart.

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darkintothedawn · 2 months ago

Text

HAPPY VALENTINES || Stiles Stilinski 'Teen Wolf'

Pairing — Stiles Stilinski x female reader

Summary — It's Valentines day and you and Stiles are going to make the most of the day.

Memo — This was rushed because I kinda forgot about this and then I started something else and that took up a bunch of my time. Sorry!!! Hopefully this is enjoyable enough.

Word Count — 11K~

Warnings — Fluff. Smut. Slightly jealous Stiles. Slightly insecure Stiles. Lots of love. Soft, loving sex. Vanilla sex. Unprotected p/v. Mentions of birth control.

Masterlist | Stiles' Adventures

The soft chime of your alarm barely had time to finish before you silenced it with a sleepy hand, blinking against the pink-tinged sunlight streaming through your curtains. Valentine’s Day. The thought sent a quiet flutter through your chest.

You stretched lazily, the warm fabric of Stiles’ hoodie bunching around your arms. You had stolen it months ago, and despite his dramatic protests, he never actually tried to take it back.

Sliding out of bed, you padded over to your dresser, scanning for something to wear. Something cute, but not too obvious. Stiles would be expecting some kind of themed outfit, probably hoping you’d go full rom-com heroine. You smirked, grabbing a simple red sweater—festive but subtle.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Stiles: Wakey wakey, love of my life, light of my world, my beautiful, brilliant, better half.

You rolled your eyes, grinning.

Stiles: Roscoe and I are en route soon. Hope you’re ready to be romanced. Hope you’re also ready for my playlist, which I carefully curated for this momentous occasion.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. Knowing him, it would be an unhinged mix of 80s power ballads, dramatic movie scores, and love songs everybody knew.

With a shake of your head, you grabbed your backpack, quickly applying a little mascara in the mirror. Stiles would swear up and down that you didn’t need it, but he’d also get adorably flustered when you batted your lashes at him.

Another buzz.

Stiles: BRING A JACKET, IT’S COLD. Don’t argue. Love you.

You chuckled, grabbing your coat just as the distant rumble of a Jeep engine echoed down your street.

Valentine’s Day with Stiles Stilinski was never going to be normal. And honestly? You wouldn’t want it any other way.

You slung your backpack over one shoulder and made your way downstairs, the scent of coffee lingering in the air from where your parents had already left for work. As you reached the front door, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever chaos Stiles was about to unleash on you.

The second you twisted the doorknob—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEP.

You flinched, groaning as Roscoe’s horn blared aggressively from the driveway. Through the small window in the door, you could see him, one hand dramatically smashing the horn, the other over his heart like he was about to start reciting Shakespeare.

You yanked the door open fully, stepping out onto the porch with an unimpressed look. Stiles, grinning like a maniac, waved both hands in exaggerated excitement.

"Happy Valentine's Day, my love!" he called, as if he hadn’t just assaulted your eardrums. "Did my charming arrival take your breath away?"

"Almost," you deadpanned, stepping down onto the walkway. "But mostly because you scared me half to death."

He gasped, clutching his chest. "I knew I should’ve gone with the full mariachi band. I was this close, babe. This close."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your smile as you reached the Jeep. Before you could even open the door, he was leaning over, flinging it open from the inside with a dramatic flourish. "Your chariot awaits, fair maiden."

You raised a brow. "Are you going to do this all day?"

"Absolutely," he said, with so much certainty it made you laugh.

Shaking your head, you climbed into the passenger seat, the worn seats familiar beneath you. The second your seatbelt clicked, he turned to you with a suspiciously excited grin.

"Okay," he said, reaching for his phone. "Before we go, I need you to emotionally prepare yourself."

You narrowed your eyes. "For what?"

"For the greatest Valentine’s Day playlist ever made."

Oh god.

Before you could protest, he hit play—and sure enough, the first notes of I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston blasted through the speakers at full volume.

You groaned, head falling back against the seat. "Stiles—"

"Shhh," he whispered, eyes on the road but hand dramatically clutching his heart again. "Just let it happen."

And as ridiculous as it was, as over-the-top as everything with Stiles always was—you really wouldn’t have it any other way.

Roscoe rattled down the familiar road toward school, the heater blasting just enough to keep the February chill from seeping into your bones. Outside, the bare trees stretched their limbs against a pale blue sky, their branches trembling in the cold morning air. Patches of frost still clung to the grass, glistening in the sunlight, but inside the Jeep, it was warm—partly from the heater, mostly from Stiles.

Between exaggerated singing and dramatically reaching over to grab your hand every time a love song hit a big note, he kept one hand loosely on the wheel, his fingers occasionally drifting to your knee, your thigh, anywhere he could reach without actually driving off the road. His playlist was as chaotic as expected—Total Eclipse of the Heart followed by Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, then suddenly Kiss Me Thru the Phone by Soulja Boy, which had you dissolving into laughter.

"Stiles, what is this mix?" you giggled, shaking your head as he bopped along.

"This, my darling valentine, is the ultimate romance experience. A perfect balance of longing, passion, and pure, unfiltered bangers."

You rolled your eyes, but when he turned toward you at a red light, his expression softened. His free hand found yours again, fingers playing lazily with your own before he brought them up to his lips, pressing a quick kiss against your knuckles. Your heart stuttered at the small, uncharacteristically quiet moment, warmth spreading through your chest despite the cold morning.

Before you could say anything, the light changed, and he turned back to the road, but not before sneaking a glance at you, a small, lopsided grin tugging at his lips.

By the time you pulled into the school parking lot, Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance with Somebody was playing, and instead of immediately getting out, Stiles leaned in, cupping your cheek. His lips brushed yours, soft and lingering, and even though you were both fully aware that half the student body was milling around outside, neither of you pulled away too quickly.

When he finally did, he sighed dramatically. "Alright, let’s go pretend we’re normal people for the next eight hours."

You laughed, squeezing his hand once more before stepping out into the crisp morning air, already looking forward to the rest of the day with him.

The school was absolutely drenched in Valentine’s Day spirit. From the second you stepped onto school grounds, it was impossible to ignore—the hallways were lined with red and pink streamers, heart-shaped cut outs taped to lockers, and the occasional glittery "Be Mine" sign hastily scribbled in marker. Some students carried around balloons and teddy bears, while others clutched little paper Valentine's cards, the kind that usually came in bulk packs with cartoon characters and cheesy one-liners.

By time lunch rolled around, the air smelled faintly of sugar, thanks to the canteen selling themed treats—heart-shaped cookies with thick pink frosting, red velvet cupcakes, and even a special "Valentine’s Milkshake" that was more whipped cream than actual milkshake. You and Stiles passed a group of students excitedly picking through boxes of chocolate someone’s mom had clearly gone overboard with, and Stiles immediately tried to swipe a piece before you smacked his hand away.

Just as you were about to sit down, a sudden wave of excited gasps and giggles spread across the cafeteria. You turned just in time to see a guy—a junior you vaguely recognized from the drama club—drop to one knee in the middle of the room, a bouquet of bright red roses in his hands. Across from him stood another guy, eyes wide, hands covering his mouth in shock.

"Will you be my valentine?" the kneeling guy asked, loud enough for half the cafeteria to hear.

The whole room held its breath for a second—until the other guy nodded furiously, tugging him up into the biggest, tightest hug imaginable. Cheers and applause erupted around you, some people whistling, others just grinning at the pure sweetness of it all.

You clutched at Stiles' arm, actually swooning. "That is so cute. I can’t handle it."

Stiles, ever dramatic, wiped away an imaginary tear. "That’s it. Love is real. I believe in romance again."

You laughed, but when you turned to him, he was already looking at you, something softer in his expression. He didn’t drop to one knee or pull out roses, but he did lean in, pressing a quick, sweet kiss to your temple before muttering, "Still think my arrival this morning was more romantic, though."

You groaned, pushing him toward your usual table, but you couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your lips.

You and Stiles had barely sat down before he clapped his hands together, standing dramatically on the bench.

"Alright, folks! Important matter at hand!" he announced, waving his arms to get people’s attention.

You groaned, already knowing where this was going. Across from you, Scott and Lydia exchanged a look, Scott sighing like he was already exhausted.

"I propose a vote," Stiles continued, undeterred by the fact that only a handful of people were actually listening. "Which was more romantic—my absolutely heartfelt, cinematic pick-up this morning, or that cute but, let’s be real, predictable public cafeteria proposal?"

Lydia didn’t even look up from her phone. "Cafeteria proposal," she said, popping a bite of salad into her mouth.

Scott nodded. "Yeah, sorry, man. He had flowers. And he got down on one knee. That’s commitment."

Stiles gasped in betrayal. "You traitors." He turned to you, placing a hand over his heart. "Baby, love of my life, you get it, right?"

You pretended to consider it, tilting your head. "Well… the proposal was really sweet."

Stiles’ face fell. "Babe."

"But," you continued, grinning as you leaned forward, "It’s still not better than you."

His mouth snapped shut, surprise flickering across his features before he smirked, leaning in a little closer. "That’s what I thought."

Scott groaned. "You’re enabling him."

"Obviously," you said, bumping Stiles’ knee under the table now that he'd actually sat down. "It’s Valentine’s Day. If I’m not a little biased toward my boyfriend, what’s even the point?"

Stiles, clearly basking in victory, threw an arm around your shoulders and turned to Scott and Lydia. "That, my friends, is what true love looks like."

Lydia just rolled her eyes, while Scott shook his head with a chuckle.

"Yeah, yeah," Scott muttered. "Just don’t expect us to let you gloat about it all day."

"Oh, I absolutely will," Stiles said, beaming. "This is my day now."

You laughed, leaning into his side. Yeah, the proposal had been cute. But honestly? Nothing could ever top Stiles Stilinski in your book.

Which led to Stiles spending the rest of the day in full gloating mode, milking his so-called romantic victory for all it was worth. Every time you passed someone from the cafeteria, he’d make a point of loudly reminding them that his Valentine’s Day gesture had been officially ranked superior in your book.

"Hey, hey, remember when my girlfriend—my incredibly intelligent, stunning girlfriend—said my pick-up this morning was the most romantic thing she’s ever witnessed?" he said to a confused freshman outside math.

"Stiles, they weren’t even there," you pointed out.

"Doesn’t matter," he whispered dramatically, pulling you along. "They need to know."

The real problem, however, came when he refused to sit anywhere but next to you in every class.

"Stilinski, that is not your assigned seat," your history teacher sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah, but it’s Valentine’s Day," Stiles said simply, already setting his books down beside you.

The teacher opened his mouth, then glanced at you, at the way Stiles was already absentmindedly playing with your fingers on the desk, and just sighed. "Fine."

It happened again in English, in chemistry, even in study hall—Stiles sneaking into the seat beside you, getting told off, flashing his best innocent 'but it’s Valentine’s Day' look, and being met with varying degrees of exasperated acceptance.

"How are you getting away with this?" you whispered as he tangled his legs with yours under the desk in your last class of the day.

"Because, sweetheart," he whispered back, intertwining your fingers beneath the table, "This is the one day of the year when even the teachers understand that love conquers all."

You snorted, shaking your head, but you didn’t untangle your fingers from his. Because really, if Stiles wanted to spend the whole day glued to your side, who were you to stop him?

The final bell rang, and before you could even celebrate the end of the school day, Stiles was already tugging you toward the locker rooms, Scott trailing behind with an amused shake of his head.

"Okay, time for you to give me a heartfelt, cinematic goodbye before I heroically go off to battle," Stiles announced, stopping just outside the gym doors.

You raised an eyebrow. "Battle?"

"Have you seen how aggressive Greenberg is during scrimmages? I’m risking my life out there," he said, gripping your hands like he was about to be shipped off to war.

Scott sighed. "Stiles, we’re literally just running drills today."

"That’s what they want you to think," Stiles muttered darkly before turning back to you, his expression immediately softening. "Okay, now, kiss me. Make it good, so if I don’t make it, I’ll die with no regrets."

Scott groaned, already walking inside. "I’ll see you out there."

You rolled your eyes, but when you leaned up to press a soft kiss to Stiles’ lips, his dramatic act faltered just a little. His hands slid down to your waist, fingers curling into your sweater as he deepened the kiss—just enough to make your heart stutter, just enough for you to forget for a second that you were still standing outside the gym.

When you finally pulled away, Stiles looked dazed for a moment, blinking at you like you’d just short-circuited his entire system.

You smirked, patting his chest. "Go fight your battle, soldier."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head like he was trying to clear it. "Jesus, okay—yeah, that was good. That was really good. I think I can actually run laps now."

"Wow, that’s a miracle," you teased, stepping back as he finally turned toward the locker room.

As he disappeared inside, you made your way toward the bleachers, where Lydia was already sitting, lazily scrolling through her phone. She glanced up as you sat down beside her, one perfectly arched brow raising.

"You’re grinning like an idiot," she observed.

"Am I?" you asked, but you didn’t stop smiling.

Lydia hummed knowingly, returning to her phone. "You know, I’d make fun of you, but honestly? It’s kind of cute."

You nudged her shoulder with yours, settling in beside her as the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm glow over the field. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke—just comfortable silence, the distant sound of cleats against grass, the occasional shout from the team.

It was a good day. And it wasn’t over yet.

As the team jogged onto the field, you immediately sat up a little straighter, scanning for a familiar lanky figure. When you finally spotted Stiles—actually in uniform, actually on the field rather than stuck on the bench—you let out an excited cheer.

"Yeah, Stiles! Look at you, athlete of the year!"

Stiles turned toward the bleachers, flashing you a bright, slightly sheepish grin. He raised both arms in the air like he’d just won the championship, despite literally just stepping onto the grass.

"Try not to trip over your own feet this time!" you added, hands cupped around your mouth.

Lydia snorted. "You're only encouraging him, you know."

"Obviously," you said, grinning.

Down on the field, Scott clapped a hand on Stiles' shoulder, clearly trying to hype him up before practice started. Stiles nodded, rolling his shoulders, attempting to look serious and focused—until he stole another glance at you and wiggled his eyebrows. You just shook your head, fighting a laugh.

"Honestly, I think your unwavering support is the only reason he’s still trying," Lydia mused, lazily crossing her legs.

"Hey, he’s got heart."

"He’s also got zero hand-eye coordination."

"Details," you said with a wave of your hand.

As the coach blew the whistle, Stiles actually sprinted into position, and you clapped again, beaming. "Look at him go! My little athlete!"

Lydia sighed, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "You two make me sick."

But there was no real bite in her tone, and when you glanced at her, you swore you caught the tiniest hint of a smile.

You were still watching the field, fully invested in the way Stiles was actually participating when it happened. He was panting, his hands on his knees after what barely counted as a sprint down the field, his uniform clinging to him with sweat. He looked up, running a hand through his hair, his chest still rising and falling—

And before you could stop yourself, the words left your mouth.

"God, why does he look so sexy like that?"

The second it was out, you froze.

Lydia’s head snapped toward you so fast you were surprised she didn’t give herself whiplash. "Oh my god," she breathed, her lips curling into the most delighted smirk.

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. "Shut up, Lydia."

"No, no, no, I absolutely will not be shutting up," she said, leaning forward like she’d just uncovered the best gossip of the century. "Did you really just say that? About Stiles?"

You peeked through your fingers, already regretting everything. "I mean—okay, listen, technically, I just stated a fact—"

Lydia let out a delighted laugh, shaking her head. "He’s literally stumbling around the field like a newborn deer, and you’re sitting here thirsting over him."

"He’s running!" you defended, gesturing wildly. "Well—kind of running."

"He’s running like he just learned what legs are," Lydia quipped, watching as Stiles somehow tripped over nothing and barely managed to recover.

You sighed dramatically. "I don’t know, okay? He just looks good like that. All panting and sweaty and—ugh, I can’t believe I just said that out loud."

Lydia hummed, clearly enjoying your suffering. "So what you’re saying is, if he actually played sports, you’d just be a mess all the time?"

"Absolutely not," you said immediately, then hesitated. "…Okay, maybe a little bit."

Lydia grinned. "God, you’ve got it bad."

You groaned again, turning back to the field, just in time to see Stiles nearly crash into Scott, who barely managed to keep him upright.

And yet, despite the utter lack of coordination, despite the fact that you knew he could move better than this—you’d seen him run at full speed through the woods when he swore a werewolf was after him—you still couldn’t help but watch him a little too closely.

Stupid, clumsy, ridiculous, handsome idiot.

Lydia sighed beside you, still smirking. "You’re so far gone, it’s honestly kind of adorable."

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t argue with her.

Lydia just smirked, clearly enjoying your suffering, but thankfully, she didn’t press any further. Instead, she stretched, tossing her empty water bottle into her bag. "Well, speaking of Stiles, let’s go wait for him before he inevitably gets distracted talking Scott’s ear off about his incredible performance today."

You rolled your eyes but got up, following her down the bleachers. As you both made your way toward the exit of the locker rooms, Lydia nudged you playfully.

"So, about that Freudian slip—"

You groaned. "Lydia."

"What? I’m just saying, you might want to prepare yourself. Stiles is about to come out all sweaty and panting again." She grinned wickedly. "You sure you’ll be able to handle it?"

You turned to glare at her, but she just smirked knowingly, flipping her hair over her shoulder as you reached the entrance.

"Shut up, Lydia," you muttered, leaning against the wall as you waited for Stiles to come out.

Your stupid, clumsy, panting, sweaty boyfriend.

The second Stiles walked out of the locker room, you felt it—the immediate, involuntary reaction that you had to shut down before Lydia noticed and never let you live it down.

Because God help you, he really did look good like this.

His hair was an absolute mess, damp with sweat, sticking up in all directions from where he’d probably run his hands through it. His lacrosse jersey clung to him in places, and even though Stiles wasn’t exactly ripped, there was still something undeniably attractive about him like this—flushed, panting slightly, looking like he’d actually put in work at practice.

Jesus Christ, get it together.

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself to focus on literally anything else as he spotted you and Lydia waiting.

"Ah, my adoring fans," he greeted, grinning as he jogged up. "How’d I do?"

Lydia gave him a look. "You didn’t die. That’s something."

"Wow. High praise from you," Stiles said, clearly taking it as a victory. Then, without hesitation, he stepped right up to you and wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you in effortlessly as you started walking toward Roscoe.

And that? That was almost worse than the sight of him looking all sweaty and hot.

Because it was casual, instinctual, like he didn’t even have to think about it. Like it was just natural for him to have his arm around you, his fingers resting against your hip, his body warm against yours.

Meanwhile, you had to actively remind yourself to breathe.

Lydia, walking a few steps ahead, definitely noticed the way you stiffened for half a second before composing yourself. She threw you the smuggest, most knowing look over her shoulder, but thankfully, she didn’t say anything.

Stiles, ever oblivious, just kept talking. "I mean, did you see me out there? I was practically thriving today."

"You tripped over your own feet like, five times," you said, thankful for the distraction.

"Okay, but I didn’t fall," he pointed out proudly. "That’s improvement, babe. You should be proud of me."

You sighed dramatically. "I guess I’m proud of you."

"Good," he said, tugging you in a little closer as you reached the parking lot. "Now, let’s celebrate my athletic success by going to get some food. Because I think I might actually pass out if I don’t eat something."

You laughed, finally relaxing against his side as you reached Roscoe. Even with your momentary internal struggle, being with Stiles like this—wrapped up in his warmth, in his casual affection—was still the best part of your day.

"Well, lucky for you," you said, nudging Stiles’ side as he unlocked Roscoe, "We already have dinner plans, remember?"

Stiles blinked, his hand pausing on the handle. "Wait—oh. Ohhh, right. Our date. At the diner. Where we’re going to eat food. Together. Because it’s Valentine’s Day and I am an excellent boyfriend."

Lydia sighed. "You forgot, didn’t you?"

"No!" Stiles protested immediately. "I mean—yes. Kind of. But only because I was too busy absolutely killing it at practice."

"You tripped six times," you reminded him.

"I thought it was five?"

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind."

Stiles just groaned, knowing he wouldn't win. "Anyway, that’s beside the point," he said, opening the passenger door for you with a grand gesture. "After you, my love."

Rolling your eyes but smiling, you climbed in, and Stiles jogged around to the driver’s side. Lydia waved lazily as she started toward her own car.

"Enjoy your very romantic diner date," she teased, smirking. "Try not to swoon too hard if he starts panting again."

Your face burned as she walked away. You were going to kill her.

Stiles, oblivious as ever, just buckled his seatbelt. "Man, she’s in a weirdly good mood today."

You exhaled slowly, deciding to not explain. Instead, you just leaned back in your seat as Roscoe rumbled to life, watching as Stiles grinned and pulled out of the lot, his fingers already tapping against the wheel in time with whatever song was playing.

You had a date at the diner. A low-key, simple, perfect date with Stiles, where you could sit in a booth, eat greasy fries, and just be together.

Yeah. Tonight was going to be great.

The drive to the diner was comfortable, filled with the hum of Roscoe’s engine and the occasional off-key singing from Stiles as he dramatically drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. You let him have his moment, watching as the neon lights of the diner came into view, casting a soft glow against the evening.

Stiles pulled into the parking lot with a flourish—which, realistically, was just him jerking the wheel a little too aggressively and then pretending it was intentional. You raised an eyebrow at him.

"Smooth," you deadpanned.

He grinned. "You’re impressed, admit it."

"Sure," you said, pushing open the door. "Impressed I’m still alive after a year of you driving me places."

Stiles scoffed but hopped out after you, immediately coming around the front of Roscoe to sling an arm around your shoulder as you walked inside.

The diner was buzzing with life, groups of friends crammed into booths, couples sharing milkshakes, and the smell of burgers and fries lingering in the air. The Valentine’s Day decorations were subtle—some pink and red hearts taped to the windows, a cheap banner over the register that read LOVE IS IN THE AIR!—but it made the whole place feel warm, cosy.

Stiles strode up to the hostess stand like he was somebody, glancing down at the reservation list like it personally offended him.

"Stilinski," he said, leaning against the podium. "The Stilinski reservation. You’ve probably heard of it."

The hostess, a girl who had definitely had a long night, barely looked up as she checked the list. "Mhm. Booth or table?"

"Booth," you answered quickly before Stiles could say something ridiculous like executive seating.

The hostess led you to a booth near the window, and you slid in across from Stiles, watching as he immediately made himself at home—shrugging off his jacket, stretching his legs out until he accidentally kicked you.

"Sorry, babe," he said, not sounding sorry at all as he grinned at you.

You rolled your eyes but let your foot nudge his under the table anyway.

"So, what are we thinking?" he asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Classic burgers and fries? Or do we get fancy tonight?"

You snorted. "Stiles, this is a diner. What would fancy even look like?"

"Extra cheese," he said, eyes glinting. "And bacon."

"You’re really pushing the boat out tonight, huh?"

"For you? Always."

You shook your head, smiling as you handed him a menu, listening as Stiles launched into a very dramatic debate over whether milkshakes counted as a drink or a dessert.

Yeah. This was already perfect.

The conversation between you and Stiles was easy, effortless—filled with teasing and the occasional under-the-table foot nudging—until the waiter walked over.

And Stiles immediately hated him.

Because, of course, the guy wasn’t just some waiter. No, he had to be conventionally attractive, all sharp jawlines and effortless charm, flashing you a grin like he was the star of some rom-com. And worse, he wasn’t being subtle about it.

"Hey there," the guy said, barely sparing Stiles a glance before locking his eyes on you. "Hope you two weren’t waiting too long. We’re pretty packed tonight, but I’ll make sure you’re taken care of."

Stiles clenched his jaw. We’re literally in a diner. What does that even mean?

You, ever polite, just smiled. "No worries, we just got here."

The guy’s grin widened, like he thought that was an invitation to keep talking. "Nice. First time here, or are you regulars?"

Before you could answer, Stiles leaned forward slightly, plastering on his own grin. "Oh, we’re here all the time. Me and my girlfriend. On dates. Just like tonight. Because she’s my girlfriend. Who I’m dating."

You gave him a look. The waiter barely glanced his way before turning his attention back to you, eyes glinting. "Well, you’ve got great taste. In diners and in…"—his gaze flickered over you in a way that made Stiles’ fingers twitch—"Company."

Stiles could feel the muscles in his shoulders locking up. Because what the hell? It wasn’t like the guy didn’t know. Stiles was right here, sitting directly across from you, holding the damn menu. It wasn’t even like he could be mistaken for just a friend—he had his foot nudged against yours under the table, he was wearing the most lovesick expression known to man, and it was Valentine’s Day, for God’s sake.

And yet.

Jealousy crawled into his chest like something toxic, something ugly that he hated feeling, especially tonight of all nights. Because it wasn’t like you were his in some possessive way. But you were his girlfriend, and he was your boyfriend, and that should’ve been enough to shut this guy down.

But, apparently, it wasn’t.

Because Stiles wasn’t some effortlessly cool, conventionally attractive dude who could just flash a smile and make people swoon. He wasn’t that guy—the one who people flirted with even when he was clearly taken.

He was just Stiles. The guy who tripped over his own feet and talked too much and probably didn’t deserve to be sitting across from someone like you.

"Right," he said, before you could answer the guy’s way-too-bold compliment. "So, uh—food? We’re actually starving, so maybe we should get to that, huh? What do you want, babe?"

He put extra emphasis on babe, just in case the guy hadn’t fully grasped the concept yet.

You shot him a slightly amused look, but thankfully, you just turned your attention back to the menu. "Uh, yeah. I’ll just do a cheeseburger and fries."

The waiter scribbled it down, giving you another obnoxiously charming smile before turning to Stiles. "And for you?"

Stiles met his gaze, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Same. Extra cheese. And bacon. For her too."

"Fancy, and yeah, sure," you murmured, and despite everything, Stiles’ lips twitched.

The guy jotted it down, lingering for a second longer than necessary before finally walking away.

The moment he was out of earshot, you turned back to Stiles, raising an eyebrow. "So… you good?"

"Yep. Totally fine. Not at all mildly enraged by our waiter blatantly flirting with my very clearly taken girlfriend." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Nope. Doing great."

You fought back a smirk, tilting your head. "Are you jealous?"

Stiles scoffed. "Pfft. Me? Jealous? No. I mean, do I think it’s a little insane that he was shooting his shot when we’re on a date? Yes. But am I, like, insecure about it? No."

You stared at him.

He sighed, dropping his head back against the booth. "Maybe."

Your smile softened, and before he could overthink it too much, you slid your foot against his under the table again, grounding him. "Stiles," you said, your voice quieter now. "You know you don’t have to be, right?"

He looked at you then, and for a second, the jealousy melted into something else. Something more vulnerable, something more him.

"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

And the worst part? He did know. But sometimes, knowing wasn’t enough.

Dinner should’ve been perfect. And in a way, it was—because it was you and him, together, the way it always was, the way it always should be. But that stupid little voice in the back of his head just wouldn’t shut up.

The food arrived soon enough, and you were quick to take a fry from Stiles’ plate even though you had your own, which normally would’ve earned you some dramatic outrage, but right now? He didn’t even have it in him to care.

"You okay?" you asked after a minute, popping another fry in your mouth as you studied him.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Totally. Why wouldn't I be?"

You gave him the look. The one that always made him feel like you were peering directly into his soul and uncovering all the things he was desperately trying to push down.

"Stiles," you said, soft and knowing.

And ugh, he hated that you knew him so well. Hated that he couldn’t just brush it off and pretend everything was fine, because of course you’d see right through it.

So he sighed, stabbing at his fries with his fork. "It’s just—" He hesitated, then let out a short, humorless laugh. "It’s dumb."

You tilted your head, waiting.

He exhaled, dropping the fork and rubbing the back of his neck. "It’s just—that guy earlier? I know it’s not a big deal, okay? I know that logically, and I know you didn’t care, and I know you’re here with me. But for some reason, I just—" He shook his head. "I don’t know. I can’t stop thinking about it."

You were quiet for a moment, just watching him, and God, he hated feeling like this. Because it wasn’t just about tonight. It was about everything. The nagging voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough—not for you, not for lacrosse, not for anything.

Because the waiter? He was one guy. But he wasn’t the first guy to flirt with you, and he wouldn’t be the last. And Stiles? Stiles knew what he looked like in comparison to them.

He wasn’t classically attractive. He wasn’t built, wasn’t effortlessly cool, wasn’t the kind of guy that people noticed first. He was lanky and awkward and loud, and sometimes he wondered if the only reason you had fallen for him was because he’d been around you so long you had just gotten used to him.

And if one day, when you'd woken up and realized—Oh. I could do better—he doesn't know what he'd do.

You reached across the table, grabbing his hand before he could spiral any further. "Stiles," you said, fingers squeezing his, your thumb running slow, soothing circles against his skin. "You are the only person I want. I don’t care if some random guy flirts with me. I don’t care if someone ‘better looking’ or ‘cooler’ or whatever comes along. You’re it."

He swallowed hard, staring at your hand in his. "Yeah?" he murmured, voice quieter than he wanted it to be.

You smiled, tilting your head. "Yeah."

And somehow, just like that, the nagging voice in his head faded—not completely, but enough that he could take a deep breath again, could squeeze your hand back, could smile at you like he meant it.

Dinner went smoothly after that. You teased him about how dramatic he was, he stole some of your fries as revenge, and by the time you were splitting a milkshake (which was totally a drink, by the way, he refused to believe otherwise), everything felt normal again.

Better.

Easier.

Because yeah, sometimes the insecurities crept in. Sometimes, he felt like he was one wrong move away from losing you.

But then you’d do something like reach across the table and lace your fingers through his like it was the most natural thing in the world, and he’d remember—

You were his. And he was yours.

And that was enough.

Stiles was mid-sip of the milkshake when you tugged his hand closer to you, and he barely had time to process it before you were pressing a soft kiss to the back of it. His brain short-circuited immediately.

"Oh," he said, dumbly, watching as you untangled your fingers only to take his hand in both of yours. His pulse definitely picked up when you lifted it again, brushing a kiss over the pad of his thumb.

"Smart," you murmured, your lips brushing his skin.

Stiles blinked rapidly. "I—huh?"

You smiled, moving to his index finger next, your lips pressing against it lightly. "Brave."

He swallowed hard, mouth suddenly so dry despite the literal milkshake in front of him.

"Funny," you said, kissing the tip of his middle finger next, and holy shit, was it hot in here? Was the diner on fire? Was he dying?

You moved on to the next finger. "Kind."

Stiles made an embarrassingly small noise, his ears burning as he tried so hard to hold it together. He could not look away from you, from the way you were deliberately taking your time, from the way your lips lingered, from the way you were watching him, eyes warm and teasing.

And then, finally, you kissed the tip of his pinky, grinning. "Mine."

Yeah. He was dead. Fully deceased.

Because you weren’t just being sweet—you knew exactly what you were doing. You knew how much you were affecting him. And when you looked up at him like that, all soft and affectionate and smug—

"Oh my god," he groaned, dropping his forehead onto the table for a second. "You cannot just do that to me in public, okay? I almost died."

You laughed, tugging his hand again until he looked back up at you, his face burning, his heart doing that stupid little skip thing that only ever happened because of you.

"You okay there, babe?" you teased.

"No," he deadpanned. "I am in love with you, and it is physically painful sometimes, okay?"

You grinned. "Good." And then, just to be a menace, you leaned across the table and kissed the corner of his mouth.

And Stiles? Yeah, he was so gone for you.

Dinner ended in a blur of lingering glances, the occasional foot nudging under the table, and a tip that Stiles left in a hurry, mostly because he was still recovering from the absolute assault you had launched on his poor, defenceless heart.

The drive home was quiet in that charged kind of way—Roscoe’s engine humming, the occasional streetlamp flashing through the windshield, casting shifting shadows over your face. Stiles kept sneaking glances at you, his fingers drumming against the wheel, trying so hard to act normal.

Because this—this was the part where the reality of the night started settling in.

You were coming back to his house.

And his dad was working late.

And it was Valentine’s Day.

And neither of you had said anything about it, but it was there, sitting between you, a quiet awareness that neither of you wanted to acknowledge too soon, like speaking it out loud would make it too real.

You sighed, leaning your head against the window, a small, content smile on your lips. "That was nice," you murmured.

"Yeah," Stiles said, clearing his throat. "Yeah, it was."

And maybe he was imagining it, but your voice dipped just slightly—just enough for the warmth in his stomach to spread, for his fingers to tighten just a little on the wheel.

When he finally pulled into his driveway, turning off the engine, he sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, trying to breathe through it.

You, completely oblivious to the fact that his brain was currently short-circuiting, just stretched, letting out a quiet, satisfied noise before unbuckling your seatbelt. "C’mon," you murmured, smiling at him as you opened your door. "Let’s go inside."

Stiles swallowed. Nodded. And followed.

The moment the front door shut behind you, something shifted.

The air felt heavier, the silence stretching between you, no longer entirely comfortable but not awkward either. Just… thick.

You kicked off your shoes, stretching again, and God, did you have to do that? Did you know what you were doing to him?

Stiles, meanwhile, was standing there, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie like an absolute loser, trying so hard not to look like a guy who was painfully aware that his very beautiful, very wonderful girlfriend was standing in his house alone with him for the entire night on Valentine’s Day.

You turned to face him, tilting your head slightly, and it took everything in him not to combust when you let your gaze flicker just slightly over him before meeting his eyes again.

"So," you murmured.

Stiles licked his lips. "So."

You took a step closer. Just one. Just enough.

Alarms were going off in his head. Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

Because it wasn’t just that you were alone. It was that you both knew it. It was in the way you looked at him, in the way his heart was hammering, in the way everything felt like it was teetering on a knife’s edge.

And then, softly, teasingly—

"You gonna keep standing there, or are you gonna kiss me?"

Yeah. He was done for.

Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.

The second the words left your mouth, he was closing the distance, one hand reaching for your waist, the other coming up to cup your jaw, fingers sliding into your hair as he finally pressed his lips to yours.

And God.

Kissing you always felt good, always sent a rush of something warm and electric through him, but this—this was different. This wasn’t just a kiss hello, or goodbye, or an absentminded brush of lips in between classes. This was heavier, deeper, wrapped in all the unspoken things neither of you had said yet but could feel crackling between you.

You made a small, satisfied noise against his mouth, tilting your head just slightly, and it sent every single thought straight out of his brain. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you in closer, and you responded by letting your arms loop around his neck, pressing against him like you had no intention of moving away anytime soon.

Which was great. Fantastic, actually. Because Stiles? Yeah, he wasn’t sure he could let you move away at this point. Not when you were kissing him like this, soft but intentional, teasing but needy, like you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

It made something snap in him.

His hands slid down to your hips, fingers digging in just a little, and he was about to say something, something dumb or sweet or both, because it was him, when you suddenly started walking him backward.

He barely had time to process it before—

Thud.

His back hit the wall.

Oh. Oh.

His breath hitched. His hands tightened. And you? You just grinned against his lips like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.

"Whoa," he breathed, voice slightly unsteady, and you just smirked, tilting your head as your fingers played with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

"Something wrong, Stiles?"

"Everything is wrong," he muttered, eyes darting between yours and your mouth. "Everything is so right and also so wrong because you’re doing things to me and I—"

You kissed him again, effectively cutting off whatever rambling mess was about to spill out of his mouth, and God, you were so unfair.

His hands moved without thinking, sliding up your sides, memorizing the warmth of you, the feel of your body pressing just right against his, and shit, he was so gone for you.

And then—

Knock knock knock.

Stiles jumped so hard he nearly hit his head against the wall, breath coming in fast and sharp as his brain screeched to a halt.

You pulled back slightly, dazed, blinking at the front door before looking back at him, eyes wide.

"You expecting someone?" you asked, voice slightly breathless.

"No!" he said, probably a little too fast and loud, still very much reeling from the whiplash of going from that to whatever the hell was happening now.

Another knock.

Stiles groaned, tilting his head back against the wall. "I swear, if this is Scott needing relationship advice again, I’m gonna—"

But you just laughed, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping back, smoothing your hands over his chest playfully.

"Hold that thought," you murmured, before heading for the door.

And Stiles?

Yeah, he was not surviving tonight.

The interruption didn’t last long. Just a neighbor dropping off a misdelivered package, something that, under any other circumstances, Stiles would’ve handled with his usual charm and mild exasperation.

But tonight?

Tonight, he just stood there, arms crossed, glaring at the poor, unsuspecting civilian like they had personally ruined his entire life, while you politely accepted the package and thanked them, sending them on their way with a smile.

And the second the door was shut again, Stiles groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face. "I hate people," he muttered.

You turned to face him, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. "Yeah?" you teased, stepping closer. "What a shame. I kind of like people."

Stiles huffed, rolling his eyes, but before he could make some ridiculous comeback, you were grabbing his hoodie, tugging him toward you until there was no space left between you.

And just like that, the tension from before snapped right back into place.

His hands found your waist, yours slid up to tangle in his hair, and the moment your lips met his again, he didn’t even try to fight it—he just melted into you, letting you guide him backward until—

Oof.

The back of his knees hit the couch, and he fell, hard, pulling you right down with him.

You laughed against his lips, bracing yourself with a hand on his chest, but before you could say anything, Stiles was already flipping the two of you over, pressing you into the cushions as he hovered above you, eyes dark with something that made your breath catch.

"Okay," he murmured, a little breathless, "this is happening."

You grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, nodding, before promptly burying his face against your neck. "Finally."

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around him, fingers slipping under his hoodie to brush against the warm skin at his waist. He shivered, tilting his head just enough to kiss the underside of your jaw, and oh.

Yeah, that was—yeah.

His hands, still warm from the slight chill outside, traced slow, lazy circles at your sides, his lips finding yours again, kissing you like he had all the time in the world—like nothing else mattered but this.

And for once, neither of you felt the need to rush.

Because there was no one to interrupt. No school in the morning. No monsters to chase or run from.

Just you and Stiles.

Alone.

On Valentine's Day.

Stiles felt like he was dreaming.

Not the kind of dream where he was being chased through the woods by some unholy creature or Scott was making him take a math test in his underwear—no, this was the kind of dream where everything felt too good to be real.

Because you were underneath him, your body warm against his, your fingers tugging at the hem of his hoodie with slow, deliberate intent. And God, if that wasn’t enough to send his brain into overdrive, you were also currently missing your own sweatshirt—his doing—because somewhere between slow kisses and wandering hands, he had managed to pull it over your head, leaving you in just your tank top.

And now, as you dragged his hoodie up, he lifted his arms without hesitation, letting you pull it off and toss it somewhere behind the couch.

The moment it was gone, you took a second to look at him, eyes flickering over his t-shirt, your fingers immediately smoothing over the warm skin of his stomach, bunching his top up for more skin to touch, your touch so soft it sent a shiver down his spine.

"Hi," you murmured, a teasing little smile playing on your lips.

Stiles let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Hi."

His hands slipped under your tank top next, fingers brushing lightly along your sides, dragging the fabric up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

Instead, you lifted your arms, letting him pull it off completely. And that was how he found himself kneeling over you, completely and utterly wrecked, because—

Oh.

It was that bra.

His favorite one.

The one that made his brain short-circuit every single time you wore it.

Stiles swallowed hard, eyes locked on you, his hands resting lightly on your waist as his pulse pounded. "You—" He licked his lips. "That’s not fair."

You grinned, clearly knowing exactly what you were doing to him. "What’s not fair?"

He let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head as his hands traced gentle patterns along your skin. "This. You." His thumbs brushed over your ribs, his eyes trailing over every inch of you, memorizing the way you looked under the soft glow of the living room lamp. "You had to wear this one, huh?"

Your grin softened into something sweeter as you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair again. "Maybe I did it on purpose," you teased, voice quieter now, more intimate.

Stiles let out a slow breath, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Cruel," he murmured, but there was no heat behind it—just warmth, just awe.

You laughed softly, brushing your nose against his. "Hopeless," you countered.

And yeah. Maybe he was.

Hopelessly in love with you.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Stiles took his time.

Not because he was unsure, not because he was nervous—no, this was something different. This was reverence, this was adoration. This was him memorizing every single moment, every shiver under his touch, every soft sigh you let out when his hands brushed over bare skin.

His fingers moved slowly, tracing the straps of your bra, dragging them down your shoulders inch by inch, like he had all the time in the world. And maybe he did. Maybe tonight, it was just about this. About you. About feeling everything without rushing through it.

When your bra finally slipped away, Stiles exhaled slowly, his eyes trailing over you with something so raw, so soft, it made your breath catch.

"God," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "How do you just—"look like this?"

You let out a quiet laugh, warmth spreading through your chest at the way he looked at you—like you were something sacred, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

He kissed you again, slow and lingering, before his hands moved lower, fingers finding the waistband of your sweats. He hesitated for just a second, silently asking, and when you nodded, lifting your hips, he eased them down, peeling them away with the same unhurried intent.

His hands smoothed over your legs as he settled back for a moment, just taking you in. His eyes flickered up to yours, and the way he smiled—soft, awed—made something in your stomach flutter.

"You're so beautiful," he said quietly, like it was a fact he had just realized for the first time. Like it stunned him.

And the way he said it—like he needed you to know, like he ached for you to believe him—made your heart ache in the best way.

There was no urgency in his touch, no rush to get anywhere. Just warmth, just fingertips tracing delicate paths over your skin, just Stiles, looking at you like he would spend forever loving you if you let him.

Stiles took a steady breath, his fingers still trailing along your skin, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you—not yet. Maybe not ever.

But then you reached for him, your hands slipping under the hem of his t-shirt, your touch warm and deliberate, and God, he was so gone for you.

You tugged lightly, and that was all the invitation he needed. He leaned back just enough to grab the fabric and pull it over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought.

Your eyes raked over him, slow and intent, and the way your fingers ghosted down his chest—soft, appreciative—sent a shiver through him. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure, but the look on your face? The way you admired him like he was something worth admiring? Yeah, that was doing things to him.

You bit your lip, your hands resting lightly against his ribs. “You really are unfair sometimes, you know that?”

Stiles let out a quiet, breathless laugh, tilting his head slightly. “Me?” He shook his head, leaning in to press a slow, lingering kiss to your shoulder. “I think we’ve already established who’s being unfair here.”

You just smiled, dragging your hands lower, to the waistband of his sweats. You toyed with the fabric, your fingers dipping just beneath it, teasing, waiting.

Stiles’ breath hitched, his hands tightening on your hips.

And then, with the same unhurried patience he had shown you, you pushed his sweats down, your touch slow and deliberate, as if you wanted to savor this just as much as he did.

He kicked them off the rest of the way, his body pressing back against yours, bare skin against bare skin, warmth melting into warmth.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath coming out just a little unsteady as he tried to process the fact that this was happening. That you were here, with him, looking at him like this.

“You ruin me,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, his fingers tracing gentle circles against your hip.

You smiled, brushing your nose against his. “Good,” you whispered. “Because you ruin me too.”

And then he was kissing you again, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world. Because tonight?

Tonight, he did.

His hips pressed against yours in the slowest, laziest grind, his body moving against you with a quiet, unhurried rhythm. He wasn’t in any rush—he didn’t want to be. Not when he could feel everything like this.

The heat between you was intoxicating, every shift, every press of his body against yours making his breath stutter. His hands traced over your skin, gripping your waist just enough to keep you close, to feel you, to hold you in place as he rolled his hips into yours again—just enough friction to make both of you gasp.

You could feel him through his boxers, hard and aching, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide how much he wanted you. And the way he groaned when he felt the dampness of your underwear against him? God, it sent a shiver through you.

“Jesus,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours, his breathing heavy as he rocked into you again, his fingers tightening on your hips. “You—fuck, you feel so good.”

You bit your lip, a soft, pleased hum slipping from you as you arched into him, pressing even closer, dragging your nails lightly down his back just to feel the way his muscles tensed.

“Stiles,” you breathed, a quiet plea, your voice laced with something needy.

That was all it took.

He let out a shaky breath, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to your jaw before pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were dark, dazed, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to think, trying to focus when all he wanted to do was sink into you completely.

“Yeah?” he whispered, his voice rough, wrecked.

You nodded, your hands sliding up to cradle his face, your thumb brushing over his cheek. "Yeah.”

And that was it.

A slow, unspoken agreement.

Tonight wasn’t about rushing. It wasn’t about urgency or desperation.

It was about this. About the way you felt against him. The way your bodies fit together like they were meant to.

So when his fingers slid down, tracing the last remaining barrier of fabric between you, his touch was slow, careful—reverent.

Because tonight?

Tonight was about taking his time.

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your underwear, tracing the soft skin there, teasing—not to make you impatient, but because he just needed to feel every inch of you. Like if he didn’t take his time, he’d miss something important, something sacred.

Your breath hitched, and he watched your face carefully, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. There was none. Just trust. Just love.

That was all he needed.

He pulled your underwear down slowly, dragging his hands down your legs as he went, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your thigh before tossing them aside. When he settled back over you, bare now, his body against yours, he swore he could feel his heart stutter.

You reached for him next, your fingers slipping into the waistband of his boxers, your hands warm, delicate, careful as you eased them down. Stiles sucked in a quiet breath, shivering as you traced your hands along his thighs before finally sliding the last of his clothing away.

Now there was nothing between you.

Just warmth. Just skin against skin.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his hands tracing slow, loving paths down your sides. He took a deep breath, pressing a lingering kiss to your collarbone before lifting his head to look at you.

You smiled at him, soft and sweet, brushing your fingers through his hair. “Hi,” you whispered again, teasing, affectionate.

Stiles laughed, breathless, shaking his head. “God, you’re unreal,” he murmured, his voice wrecked in the most tender way. He kissed you again, slow and deep, his lips lingering like he never wanted to stop.

You shifted beneath him, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, and he groaned, gripping your hip as he rolled his body against yours again, this time with nothing in between.

A shudder ran through you both at the feeling.

Everything was slow. Gentle.

Loving.

He pressed another kiss to your lips, then your cheek, then your jaw. “I love you,” he whispered, voice quiet but firm, like it was the most certain thing in the world.

Your fingers traced down his spine, grounding him, holding him there. “I love you too,” you murmured back.

And then, together, you moved as one.

No rush. No urgency.

Just love.

Stiles pressed his forehead against yours, his breath coming in slow, steady waves as he positioned himself, his hands framing your face like you were precious. Like you were something he needed to cherish.

His eyes searched yours, making sure��always making sure. And when you nodded, when you whispered his name so softly it made his chest ache, he moved.

The first push of him into you was gentle, careful, like he was afraid of rushing, of missing something. His hands trembled slightly as he held you, his thumbs brushing slow, soothing circles over your cheekbones, grounding himself in you.

He exhaled a shaky breath, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead as he filled you completely, his body melting into yours in a way that made him feel like this was where he belonged.

“God,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, his lips lingering against your skin. “You—Jesus—you feel so good.”

You let out a soft sigh, your fingers tightening in his hair as you pulled him down for another kiss, slow and deep, your body adjusting around him like you were meant for this—meant for him.

Stiles didn’t move right away. He just held you, his nose brushing against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he took in everything—the warmth of you, the way you felt wrapped around him, the way your hands traced slow, delicate patterns down his back, like you wanted him to take his time.

Like you wanted this to last.

He swallowed hard, pressing his lips to your temple as he whispered once more, “I love you.”

No rush. No urgency.

Just love, love, love.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your touch soft, grounding. You tilted your head just enough for your lips to brush against his temple, a whisper of a kiss as you murmured, "I love you too."

Stiles let out a breath—slow, shaky—as if those words unraveled something deep inside him. His grip on you tightened just slightly, like he needed to hold onto this moment, needed to feel you, to know this was real.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and soft all at once, filled with something so tender, so pure, it made your chest ache. His thumb brushed over your cheek, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of you.

And then he moved.

Not rushed, not desperate—just slow. Lazy. Like he had all the time in the world to show you just how much he loved you.

Each roll of his hips was gentle, measured, as if he wanted you to feel everything, as if he wanted to feel everything too. There was no need to chase anything, no urgency—just warmth, just connection, just the two of you wrapped up in each other.

His lips found yours again, a deep, lingering kiss, his body pressing closer, like he never wanted to be anywhere else but here.

And God, neither did you.

Your hands traced down his back, fingers mapping out his skin, holding him there, keeping him close. Every slow thrust sent shivers down your spine, your breaths mingling as you melted into each other.

He whispered your name like it was something sacred, like he needed you to know how much this meant to him.

And in the quiet, in the warmth of him above you, inside you, around you, you knew—without a doubt—that this wasn’t just about desire.

This was love.

This was everything.

Stiles kept moving, slow and deep, his forehead pressed against yours, breath mingling with yours in the soft glow of the room.

Every push, every gentle roll of his hips sent warmth pooling through you, curling in your stomach, spreading like something inevitable. But there was no rush to get there. Not tonight.

Tonight was about feeling everything.

His hands roamed your body in soft, reverent strokes, like he wanted to map you out, like he needed to remember the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips. His lips ghosted over your cheek, your jaw, your neck—kisses adoring, unhurried.

“God, you feel so—” he broke off, exhaling sharply as he pushed just a little deeper, his body shuddering against yours.

You moaned softly in response, your nails dragging lightly down his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. The slow, steady pleasure was building, coiling tighter with every gentle thrust, every whispered name, every shared breath.

Stiles could feel it too. You could tell by the way his movements grew just a little more fluid, a little more desperate—his hands tightening on your hips, his lips lingering longer against your skin, his breaths growing heavier.

But still, he didn’t rush.

He wouldn’t rush.

Because this wasn’t just about chasing the end.

It was about this. The way he made you feel. The way you held him just as tightly, the way you looked at him like he was something worth worshiping as much as he looked at you as if you were.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot, rubbing slow, deliberate circles, coaxing you closer, watching the way your face shifted beneath him, the way your lips parted on a soft, shaky gasp.

That did something to him. God, that did everything to him.

He buried his face in your neck, voice barely above a breath. “I—I’m close, baby.”

You nodded, feeling it too, your body tightening around him, your own release approaching like a slow-burning wave, inevitable, consuming.

“Me too,” you whispered, holding him even closer, wrapping yourself around him.

Stiles was shaking above you, his thrusts still slow but growing sloppier, less controlled. His fingers dug gently into your hips, like he was holding on for dear life, like he needed to ground himself in you.

You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breath was coming out in ragged, uneven gasps, the way he was right there—teetering on the edge, just waiting for you.

But then he slowed, just slightly, and his forehead pressed against yours again. His voice was quiet, breathless, almost uncertain.

“You’re—” he swallowed hard, trying to focus when everything was pulling him under. “You’re still on birth control, right?”

His voice was so soft, so earnest, like he needed to triple-check if needed, to make sure before he let himself fall completely.

Your chest ached at the care in his voice, even now. Even like this.

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek, nodding. “Yeah, baby,” you whispered, kissing him between words, sweet and reassuring. “I am. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Something in him broke at that.

His breath stuttered, his body pressing closer, his lips crashing into yours in something desperate, something messy—a kiss that felt like a thank you, like I love you, like I need you so bad it hurts.

And when you whispered, "Let go for me,” that was all it took.

Stiles let out a shaky moan against your lips, his body pressed so close to yours it felt like there wasn’t an inch of space left between you. His movements stayed slow but deep, each thrust sending pleasure curling through you, pushing you right there, right to the edge where everything blurred into pure sensation.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting more, needing everything.

“Stiles—” His name left your lips on a broken gasp, your whole body tensing beneath him as the wave finally crashed over you. Pleasure rushed through you, warm and overwhelming, making you tremble as you clenched around him, gripping onto him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

That was all it took for him to fall with you.

A deep groan tore from his throat as he pushed into you one last time, his body shuddering, his grip tightening as he let go. His forehead dropped against yours, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts, his whole body melting into yours as warmth spilled inside you, his release hitting him so hard he could barely think.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing together, still tangled, still connected.

And then Stiles let out a soft, breathless laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your cheek before whispering against your skin.

"Holy shit."

Stiles didn’t move right away—he just held you, his body still pressed to yours, like he couldn’t bear to put any distance between you yet. His breath was warm against your skin, his fingers tracing lazy, adoring shapes along your sides, like he was memorizing you all over again.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips pressing a lingering, reverent kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. Soft, sweet, like he had all the time in the world to love you.

“You are…” He exhaled, shaking his head like he couldn’t even find the words, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “God, you’re everything. Do you even know that?”

A smile tugged at your lips, warmth blooming in your chest as you brushed his damp hair back from his forehead. “I think I’ve got an idea.”

Stiles let out a breathless laugh, shifting just enough to press his lips fully to yours, slow and deep, like he wanted you to feel how much he meant it. How much he loved you.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured between kisses, his voice soft, filled with nothing but awe. “Perfect. So perfect.”

You flushed under his praise, your hands sliding up his back, holding him closer. “You’re kind of amazing yourself, you know.”

His lips twitched, but there was something softer behind his usual grin—something vulnerable. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Yeah.”

Stiles let out another soft laugh, his arms wrapping fully around you, cradling you against him as he nuzzled into your neck. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, letting your fingers trace soothing circles against his skin.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Stiles.”

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