#and he basically lives with stiles

[stereksimp]

Derek hated the mouthy, sarcastic, asshole that stuck his nose in business that had nothing to do with him. Like when he was looking for Scott because he got shot but couldn't find him, and Stiles found him first.

He did convince Scott to actually help him, which kinda kept him alive. He was still an asshole the whole time.

Stiles also stuck his nose in the Kanima business. So when he got in the way when the Kanima was attacking them, protecting the kid got him paralyzed in 8 ft of water.

He did hold him up for over 2 hours, and even when they were going under the last time, he didn't let him go. The kid would have drowned right along with him, but Stiles would have died without him, so it had to be self-preservation.

After when they were all talking the in parking lot and he said that the Kanima was a werewolf that went wrong and Stiles called that an abomination over a werewolf, he started seeing the loyalty in him.

Then Scott betrayed him. He worked with Gerard, and that kid is not smart enough to come up with that plan himself. Stiles had to have been in on it. He betrayed him as well.

He was still paralyzed, grapling with what just happened when that damned jeep crashed through the wall and smashed into the Kamina. Stiles figured out how to save Jackson, and when everything was settled, Derek started to leave but overheard Stiles talking to Chris about Erica and Boyd. He left before the conversation finished.

When he got back to the train station, Boyd and Erica were there curled up together. When they saw him, they whimpered, and Erica rushed him.

Erica: Where's Stiles? What happened to him? *tears running down her face*

Derek: *a low growl in his voice* he's fine. What happened to you guys.

Erica tries to speak, but she's crying too hard to get words out, so he looks over to Boyd for answers.

Boyd: Gerard and Allison took 5 when we were in the basement, Stiles was thrown down the stairs. They tortured him, but he didn't say anything.

Derek: *stunned* What.

Derek: Boyd, take her and stay here. I'll be back.

Derek peals out of the lot and makes his way to Stiles' house in record time. The Sheriff is gone, so he slips into Stiles' room to find him wrapping his ribs. A growl rips its way out of him as he crowds Stiles.

Derek: *running his hands all over Stiles* You... didn't know. Scott. Gerard. You. Safe.

Stiles: woah woah woah slow down, big guy. What is going on? I need you to use full sentences here.

Derek's growl tappers off into a whine.

Derek: You protected Erica and Boyd. You got hurt protecting us. You didn't know what Scott planned. You...

Stiles: *Anger laces his voice* I would never do that to you. We may not always get along but to take away your choice like it is unacceptable. Are Erica and Boyd all right. Chris said that he released them when he found out.

Derek just silently grabs the first aid kit and goes about patching Stiles up .

[dunsbar]

the season 5 sciles angst was bad tv to YOU. to me it was incredible and ardently romantic.

[silouvertongues]

one thing about jeff davis is that he's so good at consistently being the most hateable man alive

[butchxenomorph]

my brother decided to start taking film classes cus i'm going into the film industry um excuse me thats my thing

[murdrdocs]

torn at the seams

description. "and if we don't lose our virginities by seventeen, let's just lose them to each other, okay?" you were serious when you told STILES STILINSKI that in middle school, and now that you're both adults, and both still virgins, you intend to hold up your end of the bargain.

includes. SMUT MDNI 18+, loser! stiles (that's just canon), virginity loss for both parties, fingering, protected sex (hallelujah!), typical nervous stiles, teaching, lots of kissing, childhood friends

wc. 5.7k+

a/n: started this a yr ago and found it and finished it. for my bsf, happy (early) birthday! artwork is the kiss by edvard munch. title from cherry by lana del rey

From below, there was a soft thump of music, upbeat song after upbeat song following each other as whatever playlist your friends decided on played throughout the house. The floors and walls vibrate occasionally, giving you a faint idea of the beat. 

You would’ve focused more on it, maybe tried to figure out if it’s a song you’d pressured them into putting into the rotation, if you weren’t so distracted by the body steadily moving around your bedroom. 

You watch Stiles Stilinski, eyes trailing from the back of his faded shirt to the hand holding a red solo cup that you were 80 percent sure was half full of diet Coke. He walks around your bedroom, eyeing the pictures and collectible items you’d acquired over the years. 

Your own solo cup sat on your nightstand, temporarily living with more trinkets. A photo of you and friends, a few rings you didn’t intend to wear tonight, a tube of chapstick that usually sat on your lips in place of the lipgloss you wore tonight, a hand cream. The items you intended to use shortly were stashed under your pillow, purposefully put there for easy access. 

You had the urge to slide your hand under there and check their location, suddenly fearful that something had happened to them between the time you sat them there and went downstairs to join the party. 

But doing so would’ve been too obvious, so instead you sit still on your bed, shoes discarded and your feet folded under you. 

You continue to watch Stiles observe, your lips tugged into a small smile, remembering just how hyperactive Stiles could be. 

“And this picture. When was this?” he asks you. 

You lean forward a little, looking around his body whenever he steps off to the side. The photo in question is of you standing at an amusement park, just a year or so younger, a grin on your face as you stood in front of a popular attraction. 

“Early last year, my family trip.”

Stiles nods, understanding without details that every year your family went on a trip together, extended and immediate meeting at one location for at least a week. There were times when you were younger when you had to ditch plans with Stiles for your family. 

He doesn’t point out another picture. He rocks on his feet, amber eyes looking up at the ceiling. Suddenly, it occurs to you that Stiles is nervous. 

It’s different from how he used to behave when he was nervous as a kid. Then, he would stammer, gnaw on his bottom lip, tap his hands on the desk or his knee. Now his fingers subtly tap against the rim of his cup, his other hand stuffed in his pocket. He’s silent. He licks his lips instead of gnawing on them and the action directs your gaze right to them. 

You try not to stare, averting your eyes elsewhere. 

Scooting over to make room, you let your feet dangle off of the edge of the bed and pat the newly created space beside you. Stiles falters, glancing at your hand and then at you. It takes him a second but he eventually places his solo cup on your desk and skitters towards you.

The bed dips with his weight. He sits a little far from you, basically on the other end of the bed. It’s silent again. You both stare straight ahead. You wonder if he’ll speak first, so you remain quiet, waiting for him to make a move. When he doesn’t, you take a breath. 

“Do you remember when we were in middle school? And we made that pact?” 

You look over at Stiles in time to catch him thinking for a second, his eyes squinted and his lips parted. You see it come to him when he turns to face you. 

“You mean the whole virginity thing. If we didn’t lose our virginities by a certain age—” 17. If neither of you lost your virginities by seventeen. “Then we would …” he trails off, leaving the last bit in the air. 

You finish for him. “Lose it to each other.” 

“Yeah.” A beat, a moment where Stiles doesn’t say anything and neither do you. It’s then that you hear his fingers drum against the bed. “But … but that was just a stupid little pact. We were kids, y’know?” 

You shrug, turning your head to look over at him, fingers starting to twiddle in your lap. “Well, yeah. But I was serious. Were you not serious?” You don’t mean to sound as dejected as you do, but it comes out naturally, an accompanying pout forming on your lips. 

It feels a little manipulative, and you’re trying to get rid of it as quick as it appears, but Stiles already sees. 

Not expecting the effect on him, you’re slightly shocked when you see him start to worry a bit, nerves pushed to the side as he instantly attempts to soothe you. “Wha—Yeah. I mean, yeah. Of course, I was serious. ‘Were you serious?’ D-” He can’t continue his rambling when your lips are pressed against his, gloss finally ending up where you wanted it to. 

He hesitates and you start to worry that you overstepped a boundary. Before tonight, you and Stiles haven’t hung out since freshmen year. Lots of things have changed with you since then, and who knows what could’ve changed with him. Maybe he has a girlfriend, or maybe he was serious about the pact in middle school, but he isn’t serious now. Maybe he already lost his virginity and you’re just the late bloomer. 

You make the first moves to pull back, already planning to scoot to the edge of the bed, apologize, and down the rest of your liquor before going back downstairs. 

But then he kisses you back. Tentatively at first, nothing but a small press of his lips against yours, mimicry of a peck. It’s a tiny movement, but it’s all you need. 

You push yourself closer to him, your duvet rustling under your body. You place your hands in his flannel, fisting the fabric as his hands find your back, his palms resting flat along the curve. 

Eventually, the two of you peel apart, lips separating slowly, leaving both of you to look into the eyes of the other. 

“Was … is this okay?” Your voice is soft, but not because you’re shy. Your voice is soft because that’s how this moment feels—gently, soft, delicate. You feel comfortable in Stikes’ presence, and any timidness dissolves from your body. 

He takes a second, pretty brown eyes scanning your face with a look you’re not used to seeing on his face. His lips pulled into the hint of a smile at the corners, his eyes soft, a little lidded like they were the one time you got high freshman year. He looks relaxed in the way that he is in the morning right before he wakes up, with no stress present in his body at all. Knowing that he’s like this because of you makes you feel giddy inside. 

Stiles blinks and cups the back of your head with one large hand. He pulls you closer and places his lips back on yours. 

Kissing Stiles is nice, to put it simply. 

He tenderly kisses you with attention. His lips, smoother than you thought with the faint taste of cherry, glide over yours with precision. He doesn’t kiss you like he’s starving, but he kisses you like he’s appreciative. Like he’s as thankful for this moment as you are. 

You’ve always imagined yourself in this position. 

During late-night talks with your friends where you discussed crushes each of you would never get over, Stiles was always the first person on your mind. When you lay in your bed at night, sleep just out of reach, you’re only able to get closer to it with the thought of someone—with the thought of this. 

Truth be told, you didn’t expect him to kiss so well. His lips move with a bit of hesitation as if he’s still testing the waters, but his hold on you—large hands on the back of your head and the middle of your back— is secure. He keeps you in place, not like you’d want to be anywhere else. 

You move even closer until your knees knock together. You don’t know if it’s a reaction, but Stiles’ hand moves lower until his pinkie finger is against the small strip of skin left bare by your shirt and your jeans. His touch is warm, and it ignites something low in your belly, making you aware of a feeling you’re suddenly desperate to reach. 

You start to kiss him with a little more fervor, the change instantly picked up by Stiles who matches your energy. He guides both hands onto your back, sliding them lower until they rest at the top of your ass. He circles his grip around solely your hips and digs his fingertips into the meat of your skin. When he tugs you closer to him, there’s nowhere left for you to go. It’s only logical that you straddle his hips instead. 

You throw one leg over both of his, giving him unobstructed access to slide both of his hands down to your ass, the palms cupping the shape through the denim. You want to keep kissing him, but the small inhale of air through your nose isn’t doing much, so you pull away, instantly making it your goal to get as much air as you can as quickly as possible so you can go back to him. 

Stiles, though, wastes no time, his lips latching onto the skin around your jaw, kissing down your neck, reaching your collarbone. You’re incredibly thankful that you decided to wear a revealing shirt tonight, leaving the tops of your tits visible, open to Stiles’ lips. He presses kisses into the tops of your breasts, spurred on by the way you grip the back of his head with both of your hands. You throw your head back and breathe languidly, taking in slow gulps of air and letting them out even slower. 

The straps of your tee shirt fall down and then Stiles stills. You dip your gaze down to look at him, noticing how he’s staring straight at where he’s been pressing his lips. Your shirt still sits over your tits, but barely. If you relaxed and leaned forward a bit, the fabric would fall around your waist. 

Stiles looks up at you, his eyes wider than they have been all night as if all of it is suddenly dawning on him. “Are you sure? Do you want to stop?” 

You shake your head, hands starting to twitch at the back of Stiles’ head with anticipation. You run them up, fingers curling into his hair. Stiles’ eyes flutter shut and the image is breathtaking. It makes you wonder if he likes his hair pulled. Something you’ll have to try out eventually. 

“I’m sure,” you assure him, “but if you want to stop, just tell me, okay?” 

His small smile makes your chest a little tight, a deep breath just barely getting rid of the feeling. 

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” His head tilts and he looks fucking adorable. You want to see Stiles like this as often as you can, even outside of the capacity of fucking around. 

You shrug, hoping you look half as cute as he does. “It can go both ways, can’t it?” 

And you can’t resist him any longer, needing to have your lips back on his. It’s quickly becoming an addiction, kissing Stiles Stilinski. You kiss him with hunger this time, tasting the lingering vanilla Coke on his tongue. Your teeth clack a few times, the sound and feeling both unpleasant. So why do you keep letting it happen? 

It’s definitely because you’ll let Stiles do anything to you. That’s why you’re completely pliant even when he flips you over. 

It’s quick, and a little devoid of grace, but it does the job. 

You end up with you on your back, legs bent at the knees and spread open. The warmth of Stiles kneeling between your legs is comforting. It’s nice to feel crowded like this, but it doesn’t last for long. Stiles is kneeling between your legs for only long enough to kiss you once, and then he stands at the foot of your bed, staring down at you. 

You know you look a little disappointed, a pout probably on your lips, but when he leans down and reconnects your lips one more time, you’re smiling again. As he pulled away the tip of his nose brushed against yours as his eyes opened just enough to stare fondly at you. 

“I’m gonna take your pants off. Is that okay?” He asked you, hands already settling on the fly of your jeans. 

You nodded, your noses playing with each other with the movement. Stiles’ need for consent was driving you crazy in the best possible ways. It’s like you could feel arousal steadily gushing out of you, increasing tenfold when he stood up fully and positioned his hands at the waistband of your jeans. 

His eyes found yours once more, seemingly checking for any indication that you wanted to turn back. There was none deep in your body, and you hoped that your face hadn’t betrayed you and displayed any apprehension. To ease your worries, you gave Stiles a gentle smile, feet digging into the bed beneath you as you lifted your hips just a bit. 

Stiles took your answer in stride, slightly shaky hands peeling the button out of the hole, then sliding your zipper down until you saw the cherry-printed fabric of your panties. Stiles took a manual breath at the sight, hands halting as he just stared for a few seconds. He blinks twice, then hooks his fingers in your waistband and tugs your jeans over your ass, down your thighs and legs, and off around your ankles and feet, leaving you half-bare in front of your lifetime crush. 

You’ve always known that Stiles is one to stare, ogle even. When you were in the same fifth-grade class, he would spend lunch looking across the room at a certain redhead. When you constantly watched a horror movie together the summer before sixth grade, Stiles would shamelessly stare at the main character, even when she had one of the most brutal death scenes you’ve ever seen. 

Ogling is something Stiles is known for in your book. But having that directed towards you feels different. It makes you a little nervous, teenage jitters fluttering low in your belly, making you wring your fingers together and gnaw on your bottom lip. 

Stiles, realizing that he’s staring for once, takes a breath, his hands hovering at your hips before it reoccurs to him that he’s allowed to touch you in a moment like this. You’ve permitted him. 

His hands shake as they approach your hips, but they steady when warm flesh meets warm flesh. 

“You’re so pretty,” he tells you, voice soft and earnest. The moment is tender, it’s vulnerable, and it makes you slightly uncomfortable. 

“I’m not even naked yet.” It’s your attempt at a light joke to ease the heavy tension that’s suddenly painted itself on the walls of your room, surrounding both of you, trapping you in the very thing you’ve wanted since you were young. But having it makes you uneasy, the uncharted territory suddenly a whole lot scarier up close. 

For once, Stiles doesn’t take the bait. He doesn’t crack a joke back, he doesn’t make you double over in laughter with his sarcasm. His amber eyes look at you, his pink lips curl up into a smile, and he tells you, “You don’t have to be naked to be pretty. You’re beautiful.” 

And you’re sure that your friends will tell you that it’s a little cheesy when you tell them every single detail of this moment, but you don’t care about that right now. Right now, your heart is soaring in your chest and your entire body is alight and you need Stiles Stilinski in ways you didn’t even think were possible. 

Your breath hitches. You lick your lips. 

“Stiles,” your voice is softer than you intended, it makes the moment even more tender. His eyebrows lift and you continue. “I need you to touch me. Please.” 

He wants to, you can tell he wants to. But something is holding him back and you think you know what it is. 

“I can teach you how. I can tell you what I like.” Not like you know much, either. Only things you’ve learned from your own explorations. 

He nods, eager, and his hands find the hem of your shirt. “I wanna all of you. Is that okay?” 

Again with the consent. It makes your vision swirl for a second, two blinks bringing Stiles back in focus as you nod and sit up completely, arms over your head so Stiles can take the top off. 

Your bra and panties are the only garments left, and you look down at your frame, a surge of confidence overtaking you as you reach behind you and unclip your bra. 

It falls and the sound Stiles makes would be comical if it weren’t for the situation. Actually, it still is comical, you just stifle your laugh for his own sake. 

His pretty eyes are having some serious tunnel vision, eye line straight at your tits. You sit a little straighter, puffing your chest out just enough to make you question if drool is starting to pool at the corner of Stiles’ lips. 

You know that this is the first pair of tits Stiles has seen in person and the revelation makes you even more proud of the set you sport. 

You eye Stiles’ frame, suddenly all too aware of the stark contrast in clothing. 

You squint at him accusatively. “Are you gonna even the playing field?” 

He blinks at you dumbly once, twice, and then he looks down at his dusty blue shirt. “Oh!” 

He rushes to throw his flannel off and does the same with his shirt off, barely even giving you enough time to do some admiring of your own before his hands fumble with the buckle and zipper of his cargo pants, his legs were suddenly useless as he awkwardly stumbles out of his pants. When he stands up straight, there’s a proud smile on his face that makes you giggle just a little, and just that one moment eases any tension or nerves you are feeling. 

Because this is Stiles. Your Stiles. The kid with the hangout house who would always invite you over after school for movie marathons. The kid who would quickly let you copy his homework before the teacher got to you. The kid who would always wave to you in the hallways, even when your cliques were completely separate and you hadn’t properly spoken for months. 

And now he’s watching you climb further up your bed, following after you, a hungry gaze in his eyes as he trails his eyes over your body from head to toe. 

His hands find your hips once more, his touch light as he trails it down. His fingertips graze over the tops of your thighs, then they find your inner thighs. His touch makes your legs part more, some reference to the Red Sea hidden in there deep beneath all of your all-encompassing hormones. 

Stiles watches between your legs while he brings two fingers to your center. They trail down, separating your lips, letting the tips of his fingers add pressure that already has you wanting more. You gasp, just a small sound that’s accidental, and Stiles licks his lips, a determined look in his eyes. 

It’s a sudden movement when he pulls your panties down and off, tossing them at the foot of the bed where the rest of your clothes sit. There’s not even a moment for you to even imagine being insecure or uncomfortable with your bare skin. Stiles is already positioning his hand at your bare cunt, fingertips just millimeters away from connecting with your skin. 

He wants to act, you can see it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he waits, he hovers, and he glances up at you. “I … I don’t,” he takes a second to breathe, and you let him finish. “What do I do?.” 

There’s just the smallest amount of shame hidden beneath his words, but you don’t let it exist much longer when you soften your eyes. 

You sit up, reaching out for him. “Stiles,” his eyes lift to connect with yours, the furrow between his eyebrows starting to relax. “There’s nothing to worry about. Okay? I want you, like really bad, if you can’t tell.” There’s just enough amusement in your tone to ease the tension, Stiles’ lips turning up into a satisfied smile. 

He leans forward, presses his lips to yours once, and then slides his middle finger into you, slow and steady, met with just enough resistance to showcase your inexperience. His pace is slow, almost tortuous as Stiles slides the single finger in and out. 

The depth that his slender finger reaches is enough to have you begging for more. You lift your hips from the bed and push your pelvis out toward his hand, with a plea for another digit leaving your lips. 

Stiles easily complies, sliding his ring finger in to join his middle. The stretch burns for a second, but you’re fucking dripping at this point, and the haze in your mind combined with the lubrication prevents any possible discomfort. Instead, you’re focused on directing Stiles, directions filling the air along with your moans. 

He listens easily, something you’re more than thankful for, especially whenever his fingertips brush against a spot that sends a tingle up your spine, and he’s finding the spot to abuse over and over again as soon as you tell him where it is. 

When your eyes peel away from the ceiling, and you’re able to keep them open enough, you connect with a set of warm brown that lights your body. Stiles’ eyes are so attentive. You don’t think he’s been looking anywhere but at your face this entire time, despite your sheer nudeness. His lips are parted, still glistening with your gloss and saliva. His eyes are wide, never straying from you, eyebrows raised just enough to give the look of innocence. 

But nothing is innocent about the way his free hand is palming his dick through his briefs. 

Your eyes find the tent accidentally, a blink that sends your gaze downward for just enough time for you to pick up on the bulge beneath checkered boxer briefs. You can’t make out the size from here, especially not with the slight blur in your vision, your eyesight unsteady even as you try to blink it away. 

You start to speak, to ask Stiles for what you really want, when he does, too. 

“I wanna feel you.” 

“I wanna taste you.” 

Both of you sit still, Stiles’ fingers stopping, too. He stares at you as if he’s shocked that the words came from his mouth, and there are three blinks shared from each of you before your hips move again, chasing a high you had briefly forgotten about. 

“Can we do that next time?” The words leave your mouth surrounded by gasps, little breaths that prove how worked up you already are. 

“N…Next time?” His stutter is cute, a little flattering, and you’d spend more time thinking about it if you weren’t on the cusp of an orgasm. Stiles has started moving his fingers again, pace just a little faster, fingers starting to curl at an angle that has your hands fisting the sheets. 

You nod, muscles starting to tense. “Yeah. Next time. Just need you so bad right now, Stiles.” 

“Yeah.” He nods, stares at you, and then nods once more. “Okay. Yeah.” You’re close, so very close, and then Stiles—overeager, enthusiastic, about to blow his pants Stiles—pulls his fingers out.

The noise that spills past your lips is completely accidental, almost guttural. It’s deep, and comes from the part of you that’s so obviously frustrated (the part of you that’s purely hormones and no logic). Stiles looks startled for a second, a string of curses coming past his pink lips as he fumbles off the bed and towards his pants. 

“Shit. Were you about to cum? I’m sorry, fuck, that’s totally my bad.” He’s speaking to you, but his eyes are watching his hands which ransack his pockets. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, the thud of jeans and a leather wallet hitting the floor alerting you. 

“What is it?” Your tone is a little more bitter than intended, but you’re disastrously horny and Stiles is under too much duress to notice. 

“I don’t have a condom,” he tells you, voice wobbling like it’s the worst news in the world. Like he’s telling you about the impending doom that’ll fall onto this plane of existence. His face is the most serious you’ve ever seen, and it’s a look you don’t really like on Stiles’ usually happy-go-lucky face. 

You don’t bother replying as you dig your hand under the pillow, ignoring how Stiles stares at you like you’ve lost your mind. 

It’s not until you whip out the two condoms you have, pinched between your middle and pointer finger like you’ve seen in countless movies, that Stiles’ face relaxes. 

“I came prepared.” You’re proud when you say it, happy that your anxiety-ridden over planning paid off in the end. 

Stiles looks relieved, too, quickly resuming his previous spot with one of his hands reaching out towards the aluminum packet between your fingers, except this time without his boxers. 

You try not to stare, truly, but it’s hard to keep your eyes from tilting down to look at his hard dick between you both. You're trying to calculate the length-to-girth ratio, making educated guesses on just how much pain and how much pleasure you’ll be in, but you’re just too busy taking it all in. 

Looking at the thick happy trail that leads down to the patch of pubic hair resting above his dick. His abdomen is tight, something you’ve known from the times he’s changed in front of you, too busy ranting about Coach Finstock to notice the way you’d stared at him. Now, you don’t care if he notices. Because Stiles is fucking hot, even more so in his position. 

His eyebrows politely furrow when you pull the aluminum out of his reach, his lips starting to form a question that you already started to answer. 

“Let me put it on. Please?” 

Stiles short circuits, you can see it with the way he dumbly blinks at you. It takes some prompting from you—a simple raise of your eyebrows—for him to nod, retracting his hand and sitting back on his heels.

“Go right ahead,” he confirms, his hands resting on his thighs. 

 You rip the packet open and pull the condom out, throwing the aluminum in the general direction of your nightstand, leaving it there for you to deal with afterward. Placing your fingers over the condom in a mimicking shape, you press it onto the tip of Stiles’ dick, instantly cataloging the way it’s just barely flushed the same color of his lips with a bead of nearly translucent pre cum drooling off to the side. 

The pre smears over his skin as you glide the condom down, allowing yourself to feel the warmth of Stiles’ dick in your hand as you go down. You don’t see it, not when your eyes are staring intently at the cock in front of you, but Stiles’ eyes have fluttered closed above you. His lips have parted, his nostrils flaring just a bit with the exhale he lets out. He’s getting off to you putting a condom on him, and you only catch the tail end of it when you throw a curious glance up at him once the condom is seated completely over him. 

“Good?” 

He nods, opening his eyes to stare down at you. “Fucking great.”

You lay back, spread your legs, and let Stiles back in. 

He hovers, asks you if you’re okay, and as soon as you nod, he presses the tip of his cock against your entrance. 

When your friends ask you about it later, when they press you for details and inevitably come to the question that everyone wonders about, you’ll tell them that it hurt. Because it did. More uncomfortable than anything, a feeling that you had to breathe through. Luckily, Stiles was there coaching you through it. 

Demonstrating breaths that he repeated with you, gently nodding even when his face screwed up. You could see the way he was holding himself back, the veins in his arms prominent as he held your hip with one hand, the other pressed into the pillow beneath your head. 

“Keep going?” he eventually asked you. Excitement clearly flooded his eyes when you nodded. 

He gave you slow thrusts, deep and meticulous as if he were terrified of hurting you, and he was. He kept glancing from the sight of where the two of you were connected up to your eyes, watching attentively for any sign that you wanted to stop. 

But it never came. After the initial discomfort, you hooked a leg over Stiles’ back. It’s like a switch flipped, telling you that you needed as much Stiles as you could get. He was in you, yes, and he had his hands over your body, but it wasn’t enough. 

Stiles could give you his all and it still would never be too much. 

“More?” 

You nodded. “More, please.”

Stiles was eager to obey your request. He didn’t give it his all, you could still feel the restraint in each of his thrusts, but he gave you more. He drove into you with a little more power, holding his punches towards the end. The drag-out happened faster, as did the slide-in. 

It was a steady pace, rhythmic enough to provide stimulation. You won’t cum from just this, it’s obvious to you, but this is good. It puts a tickle in your lower belly. One that flutters around your insides, twisting them every so often. 

You feel so good, euphoric, even. At this moment, you understand the claims of post-sex glow. How could you not glow after this? It’s like Stiles is a fucking natural. There are a few moments where he’s a little off, but he picks up where he left off. He seems confident, and undoubting of his abilities, and it only makes everything better. 

Stiles groans and you’re brought back. You stare up at him, taking in as much as you can. The freckles and moles dotting his face and shoulders, the slight sunburn he has over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, how his hair falls over his forehead, a few strands sticking to his pale skin. 

He’s so pretty. You don’t know how you ever thought you would have gotten over him. After this, you don’t think you ever will get over him. 

He leans down and knocks his forehead against yours. 

“You feel so good,” he admits. He sounds so honest and it turns you on. 

You curl your fingers in Stiles’ hair, pulling only a bit, but the reaction is still there. The sound he makes resembles a whine. It’s addicting. You want to hear it again. 

So you pull Stiles further down and suck on his jaw, combining it with another gentle pull of his hair. He doesn’t make the same sound, not immediately. At first, he moans, clean and simple, and then your cunt flutters around him and he whines again. 

It’s such a pretty sound. 

He starts to fuck into you messily, lacking any of the precision from before. His thrusts become more shallow, and you watch his features relax. 

“Are you close, Stiles?” you ask him, although you think you know the answer. 

He nods. “Yes. Yeah, ‘m so fucking close.” 

He takes his hand off of your thigh and searches. You don’t realize what for until he finds your hand. More fumbling and then your fingers are interlocked. Stiles presses your hand back into the pillow, the secure weight of his own hand keeping it there, and then he presses his lips to yours. 

He kisses you for a second, and you’re able to reciprocate for the sole moment. But you’re close, too. You can barely reciprocate when you’re as focused on your own orgasm, everything else pressed to the back of your mind. 

You use your free hand to tweak your clit, speeding your pace up when you realize that Stiles is just a few thrusts short of cumming. 

When he does cum—shooting into the condom with a final thrust, his forehead resting on your sternum as his grip on your hand tightens—you’re not far behind. Stiles weakly thrusts into you a few times and it’s during the second one that your muscles seize, an orgasm unlike anything else you’ve ever felt taking over your body, your middle finger absentmindedly rubbing against your clit as you let the orgasm wash over you. 

It takes a minute for both of you to come down. Stiles stays hovered over your body, his forearm keeping him up as he relaxes the lower half of his body onto yours. A couple of minutes pass before he even makes an attempt to move, and even when he does, he keeps your hands interlocked. 

He speaks first. “Please tell me that was as good for you as it was for me.”

You nod, unable to do anything other than blink up at the ceiling for a second. Eventually, you tell him, “Yeah.”

It’s not much, which Stiles is quick to comment on. “Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”

“‘m just a little out of it right now, Stiles.” When you turn your head to look at him, he’s smiling like he’s proud of himself. You scoff, weakly kicking his shin. “Don’t be a dick about it.”

“Sorry. I’m just definitely gonna be thinking about this for a while.”

[bamboozledbird]

𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent Pairing(s): Stiles x you, Word Count: 8.9k Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood to friends to lovers Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.

A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.

The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic. 

And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you. 

There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be. 

But they aren’t you. 

A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start. 

So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.

Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car. 

He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue. 

You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow. 

“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something. 

Fuck, what if you know? 

You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense. 

“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”

Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.

He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it. 

“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin. 

You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days. 

“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder. 

Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt. 

“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.” 

Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you. 

You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”

He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love. 

Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life? 

He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing. 

You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you. 

“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment. 

You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen. 

“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”

“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.” 

“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.” 

You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.” 

“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.” 

“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.” 

Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem. 

“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again. 

“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”

Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip. 

He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.” 

You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”

Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats. 

“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”

“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”

“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?” 

“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip. 

Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.

Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture. 

You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.” 

“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”

You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated. 

Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him. 

Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse. 

You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.” 

Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense. 

“Work?”

Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard. 

Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”

“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.” 

That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him. 

Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth. 

Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.

You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply. 

That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face. 

It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have. 

Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles. 

You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you? 

And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter. 

You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”

You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling. 

He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship. 

Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say. 

He remembers falling in love with you. 

The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues. 

Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?” 

Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there. 

He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’

Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead. 

“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. 

You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”

You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”

Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.

“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.  

You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy. 

You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?” 

Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission.  “No gin.” 

You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”

Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.” 

You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. ) 

“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.” 

Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”

“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”

He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?” 

You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.” 

You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.

Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses. 

You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”

Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway. 

You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers. 

Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either. 

“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly. 

You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”

Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”

You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.

Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons. 

All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image. 

So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.

It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something. 

Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”

“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”

He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.” 

There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”

Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”

You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to. 

“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”

He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”

You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”

Good. God.

Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours. 

You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.  

Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”

He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence. 

But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating. 

“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.” 

His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”

You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”

Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk. 

Who’s to say, really?

Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight. 

Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count. 

It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.

Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life. 

For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window. 

“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”

You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.” 

Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts. 

You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?” 

You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything. 

Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake. 

Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless. 

He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long. 

And then, he’d kiss you. 

He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'

'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'

But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.

You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing. 

Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”

“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”

Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.  

You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly. 

There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.

You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”

“Not like this!” 

Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him. 

You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”

Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him. 

“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.

Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.

The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.

Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”

“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand. 

And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.

“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.

“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below. 

Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”

“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.  

You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”

Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass. 

The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously. 

Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.

Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”

Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned. 

It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration. 

Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”

Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”

“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”

“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”

Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there. 

Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.

“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.

It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion. 

You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline. 

Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”

Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand. 

“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”

Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same. 

Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint. 

Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles. 

You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day. 

The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage. 

It doesn’t come. 

You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.  

You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet. 

“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.” 

Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”

The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?

Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.

You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.” 

Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.” 

“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”

Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth. 

Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours. 

“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely. 

Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.” 

“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly. 

Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.” 

“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”

Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends. 

It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.

Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”  

Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek. 

The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow. 

Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?” 

You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever. 

Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.” 

Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth. 

You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”

Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—

You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his. 

Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else. 

He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.

It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe. 

Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs. 

Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”

[lacythoughts]

they're all in the living room at the stilinski-hale residence, derek's sitting on the couch with a book in his lap that he's basically forgotten all about because stiles and a 4 year old eli, who are sitting on the floor around the coffee table, are doing arts and crafts together.

and even though they have plastic toddler safe scissors, there's still a rule that only adults are able to use them. so anything eli needs to have cut, with a 'peeeas!' and 'tank you!', he hands it over to stiles.

this is the 6th time he's needed something cut in less than 15 minutes. their kid is going to be the next picasso.

stiles has his tongue hanging out, one elbow leaning on the table and the other elbow bent, sticking out in the air. he's paying some very serious attention trying to cut the complicated star shaped animal with a thin tail and a butt as round as a full moon that eli drew.

seriously, vincent van gogh.

but then a sharp snap, the scent of blood along with 'oh fuu-Dge sticks!' slices through the air.

eli giggles but derek's automatically on his feet and unfortunately that has eli getting serious pretty quick.

'its ok!!', stiles mumbles with his finger in his mouth, then the alpha's there gently taking it to look at the damage.

'it's just a little scratch!', he smiles at eli. the kid has dropped everything he was doing to come rub at stiles' arm and give him kisses wherever he can reach because that's what they do when they get boo-boos. 'der im ok, I swear.'

the cuts a good one but thankfully not too bad like stiles says. (after having eli the human would rather down play his injuries than admit to being in pain and worry their child. so nothing new really besides them having a child now.) all derek does is sigh in relief and pop the finger in his mouth.

which has eli giggling again. he knows the 'on what scale is tata hurt' drill. this one isn't the lowest but its still down there.

after derek has thoroughly made sure the cut is healed and cleaned he looks at eli and says, 'maybe we need to start keeping an eye on tata during arts and crafts, huh?'

'hey!'

and so very seriously, eli sighs, 'yeah, maybe.'

[writerjayne]

This is a little sterek college AU (are they human are they werewolves who knows) one shot that I wrote on my phone with no beta or editing So apologies for the errors! The premise is a little vauge on purpose in case I want to expand this into a full story later but basically its an "Everyone grew up together" kind of vibe. Made Derek only 3 years older to make him still being in college realistic. Enjoy!

The car slowing to a stop woke Stiles. Blinking around and not fully conscious he asked confused:

"Are we there already?"

Derek glanced over from the driver's seat and chuckled. 

"No we still have like three hours. It's just a traffic jam." 

"Oh," stiles sat up a little straighter and looked around, clearly still half asleep. "We'll still get there early right?" 

"Yeah, gps says we'll arrive at 1, so plenty of time for move in," Derek assured as the traffic began inching forward. 

"Good, I need to talk to the housing department," Stiles pulled out his phone, fingers moving rapidly as he typed. 

Derek smiled indulgently. It was Stiles freshman year of college and Derek had never seen him so excited. 

"To get your key?" Derek prompted when Stiles didn't elaborate. 

"No, I need to see if they have any empty rooms," Stiles tone was almost vague, his attention on his phone. "Or any double rooms with only one occupant. Here look there's an alternative route-" 

"I'm sorry what?" Derek cut Stiles off. "You have to ask about a room? Stiles it's move in day! The day you move in!" 

"Yeah so I have to get a room to move into," Stiles rolled his eyes. "So the earlier the better! Here, take the next exit so we can get around-" 

"Mieczyslaw Genim Stilinski!!" Derek didn't roar, they were in a closed car but it was a close thing. 

"Hey hey hey, why are you middle naming me?" Stiles demanded. "Forget that, why are you first naming me?!"

"Because your father isn't here to do it!" Derek growled. "You don't have a place to live?"

"Well I did! But then Scott decided to room with Allison instead and I told him not to worry about it but when I called the place we were going to rent from they said I couldn't rent a two bedroom as one person so yes I'm going to talk to housing when we get there!" Stiles waved his hands around as he spoke, getting more agitated. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know, stiles, ask the adults in your life for help?" Derek pointed out.

"Dad has enough on his plate and I had already told him scott and I were set," Stiles sounded embarrassed. 

"Your father is not the only adult in your life," Derek reminded, though not harshly. "What about my parents, hell Laura would have been happy to help or I don't know me??"

"Your parents were busy getting cora all set up," Stiles pointed out. "And I thought about calling Laura but her semester just started too..."

"And me?" Derek prompted. "I'm not exactly new at this!" 

"Honestly I forget you're an adult too," Stiles admitted sheepishly. 

"Stiles!" Derek groaned almost closing his eyes but the traffic began moving again and he focused back on the road. 

"I know I know!! That's why I want to get there early, so I can get this sorted out with the housing department!" Stiles desperately explained again before holding out his phone again. "So can we take the alternate route?" 

"What if you moved in with me?" 

Stiles jaw dropped and he half lowered the phone. Derek wasn't looking at him, the older man's eyes on the road but he was growing in thought. 

"What?"

"Move in with me," Derek repeated. "It's small but you wouldn't have to worry about rent, you could save the money you make at your job. It's technically off campus but it's not far to walk. There's also a bus stop out front-" 

"But you hate having roommates!" Stiles interrupted. "And isn't it a one bedroom?" 

"Yeah it's a little place but we can make it work. And you're not a stranger so I think I'll be fine," Derek smiled slightly. "What do you say?" 

"Okay," Stiles was almost breathless. "If you're really sure..."

"I'm sure Stiles. Now we've still got like two and a half hours to go so go back to sleep. I'll wake you up when we get there." 

"Okay," Stiles said again, smiling this time. "Thanks Der." 

"You're welcome," Derek responded with a smile. 

*****

"I'm sorry I have so many books," stiles frowned apologetic as they hauled the last two boxes up the stairs to the apartment. 

"It's fine, Stiles, I promise," Derek said for what felt like the hundredth time. 

They dropped the boxes by the half full bookshelves in the small living room before pausing to take a break. 

Heading to the kitchen Derek pulled a couple of bottles of water from the fridge, silently greatful he had come the week before to clean and stock the apartment. It hadn't been used in months and had been dusty. Derek had wanted move in day to have as minimal work as possible so he had come to prepare. 

"Are you sure about me not paying rent?" Stiles worried voice pulled Derek from his thoughts. 

"I told you it's fine. I don't pay rent, why would I make you pay rent?" Derek held out a water bottle to Stiles. "My parents own the building, specifically so family can use it without having to worry about paying for accommodations. There's always a few units empty. This one has been mine since I started school." 

"If you're sure," Stiles relented. "Do we need any groceries? I can make a run!" 

"Sure," Derek started but he was interrupted by a knock on the door and it swinging open. 

"Hey nerd, how's unpacking going?" 

Both men turned to see Erica kicking off her shoes by the door. 

"Hey Erica!" Stiles greeted brightly. "It's going pretty good! We got the sleeping arrangements sorted first then hauled everything in!" 

Erica froze for half a second at the sight of stiles before smiling. 

"What are you doing here?" She asked

"Oh I'm living here," stiles glanced between his two friends "did Derek not tell you?" 

"He did not," Erica gave Derek a pointed look and the older man rolled his eyes. 

"Cut me some slack, I didn't even know until like 3 hours ago!" Derek gave Stiles a face. "Someone thought they could show up on move in day and just find a place to stay!"

"Oh?" Erica grinned and Stiles blushed. 

"I'm going to go get some groceries now," he muttered avoiding Erica's eye and she laughed. 

"Whatever Batman," Erica plopped on the couch, pulling out her phone. "Bring me back some chocolate?" 

"Sure," Stiles agreed easily. "I won't be long!" 

"Ok be safe and call me if you get lost!" Derek said sternly. 

"This isn't the preserve Derek, GPS actually works here so I think I'll be fine!" With that stiles left, waving as he pulled the door closed. 

As soon as she hears the door latch Erica jumped up rouding on Derek. 

"This is a terrible idea!!" She exclaimed. "Why would you even suggest it?" 

"If you're gonna lecture at least help me unpack his books," Derek answered, dodging the question. 

"Seriously Derek, what were you thinking?" Erica grabbed a box and began opening it. 

"Well I wasn't gonna let him be homeless!" Derek hissed. "He's my best friend-"

"Who you've been in love with since you were what 8?" Erica crossed her arms. 

"If we're getting technical since I was 3," Derek admitted. 

Erica did the quick mental math before asking:

"God Derek, was he even born??" 

"Um not yet." 

"Derek!" Erica groaned. "What are you going to do if he brings someone home? You'll be in jail for murder!" 

"I'm not that jealous!" Derek said defensively.

"No but you are that protective!" Erica countered. 

"It won't be a problem anyway, Stiles isn't going to bring anyone home," Derek said dismissively. 

"Are we talking about the same stiles?" Erica raised an eyebrow. "Stiles stilinski? The boy who dated Lydia Martin! Stiles stilinski who dated your sister and your cousin not to mention half the lacrosse team! Say what you want but that boy can pull!" 

"Okay so we cross that bridge when we get there!" Derek continued putting books on the shelves, avoiding Erica's eye for a moment. 

"Yeah okay," Erica crossed her arms. "We'll see how that goes." 

"You want a tour or what?" Derek huffed, changing the subject. 

"Obviously," Erica grinned. "Why else do you think I came over?" 

Derek refrained from rolling his eyes and gestured for the young woman to follow him. He gave a quick tour of the living room and kitchen before opening the door to the bedroom. 

"There's only one bed?!" Erica rounded on Derek, her disbelief written across her face. 

"It's a king, we can share," Derek shrugged. "We have before."

"This is going to end so badly. This is a disaster," Erica stood dumbfounded. "Seriously what were you thinking?" 

*****

"I was thinking 'hey one less thing to stress over' Scott I wasn't thinking about how in each other's space it would be!" Stiles nearly threw his hands up in exasperation. "I didn't exactly have another option!" 

"You should have told me! Allison and I could have got a bigger place or you an I could have done this first semester together and she and I could have moved in together next semester!" Scott's worried voice came over the phone and stiles could almost see Scott nervously pacing. 

"It's Derek Scott, it'll be fine!" Stiles tried to sound confident. 

"Who you've been in love with since you were old enough to walk!" Scott pointed out.

Stiles groaned. 

"I know, I know. But honestly, how bad can this be?" 

[fuji09]

People seem to forget that Stiles literally refused to be a message for Scott. Gerard beat him to send a message to Scott, Stiles knew this. So when Scott wordlessly questions the marks on Stiles' face, Stiles, also wordlessly, assures him he's fine and that it's nothing.

Honestly, Scott should have pushed because that was not nothing, that looked incredibly painful. But a lot was going on so it makes sense he didn't push for answers. Still, Stiles never gets any credit for this. He could have easily went to Scott about it but he chose not to. He knew Scott would feel guilty, and even after finding out that Scott basically double crossed Gerard and Derek, Stiles still didn't say a word.

He didn't want Scott to feel guilty for something he couldn't change, he didn't want to be the reason Scott gave in, and he didn't want Scott to be hurt by the fact that Stiles was used to attempt to force Scott to comply with Gerard.

Sounds like a good friend to me. Not saying either of them were never a bad friend to each other at times, but damn, Stiles really took one for the team there.

It seems like he never told anyone, that the only people who knew were Chris, Erica, and Boyd. And only one of them lived throughout the whole series.

Stiles lies to protect his friends and family. Stiles bottles up trauma and feelings to protect his friends and family. Stiles shows he cares in an unhealthy (for himself) way, and yet all some people see is a lying liar who lies.

I feel like Stiles should get a little less hate for lying because it's almost always to protect others.

[beaconfeels]

A little something for @steterweek Doesn’t exactly fit the prompt, but the spirit is there ;)

Stiles looks down at the book in front of him, biting his plush pink lips. His long lashes flutter against his cheeks when he blinks. The thumb and forefinger of one hand caress the corner of the page he’s reading, back and forth, back and forth. 

All these things, Peter can handle. He’s had time to adjust to how maddeningly pretty Stiles is, his big eyes and long lashes and that mouth, the way he can’t keep his hands to himself. 

As tempting as all these things are, what’s caught Peter’s attention right now is Stiles playing with the long hair by his ear, twisting a curl around his finger. Because Stiles’s hair is long enough to do that now. Stiles’s hair is curling gently around his ears and down his neck and it’s driving Peter wild. 

His boy looks even softer, even prettier this way. And there he goes again, thinking about Stiles as “his” when he really has no right to at all. God he wants that right. 

He jerks at a hand on his arm. It’s Derek, grabbing his arm and dragging him out of his seat, down the hallway to the study. 

“Would you just talk to him,” Derek says, once he’s closed the door. His arms are folded across his chest, and he has his most judgmental eyebrows in full play. “I’m sick of watching you pine after him like some lovesick teenager. Either get over it or ask him out already.” 

Peter snorts. “Fine talk coming from  you.” 

“Hey, only one of us has a partner here, and it’s not you,” Derek says smugly. 

“Yes, because she asked you,” Peter says, not willing to give up the fight. 

“Oh so you expect Stiles to ask you? Stiles, the kid who somehow still doesn’t think he’s attractive? The one who regularly jokes about being single forever? The one who still hasn’t figured out after a year that you’re basically courting him? That Stiles?” 

He won’t admit it out loud, but his nephew might have a point. God he hates when Derek’s right. “What if he says no?” Peter asks, and maybe he’s hoping that Derek knows something he doesn’t, will assure him that Stiles wants him. He doesn’t. 

“Then you can deal with it and get on with your life. Do you really want to waste another year pining over him when maybe he could be yours?”

Derek’s made two good points in a row. The universe must be out of alignment. “Fine. I’ll talk to him,” he grits out. 

“See that you do,” Derek says, sounding almost exactly like his mother. Peter’s heart aches, even in the midst of his annoyance. 

“What was that about?” Stiles asks when Peter gets back to the dining room. 

Peter holds out his hand instead of answering. “Come for a walk with me?” 

Stiles tilts his head, looking like an adorable puppy, trying to figure Peter out. Eventually, he takes the offered hand, and doesn’t let go as they walk out of the house, down the steps, and out into the forest. 

Peter lets himself soak in the moment, listening to the sounds of the trees and Stiles’s heartbeat. Stiles’s hand in his feels warm and comfortable. He wants to live this moment a thousand times in the years to come. 

“You’re not like, dying or anything, right?” Stiles asks after some time. “You’re kind of freaking me out dude.” 

Peter can’t help it, he laughs. His intentions being horribly misread is exactly how this would go with Stiles, isn’t it? They’ve been that way since the beginning. 

“No, sweetheart,” he says once his laughter has calmed, “I’m in love with you.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says. His heart speeds up, but he sounds calm when he says, “I thought you might be? But you’re really hard to read.”

Peter’s stomach drops. “You don’t feel the same?” He asks. They’re still walking, still facing forward. Stiles hasn’t let go of his hand at least, so there’s that. 

“Of course I do,” Stiles says. “I’m absolutely crazy about you.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Peter asks.

“Why didn’t you? You’re the one with the super sense of smelling. I figured you knew how I felt, and if you didn’t say anything, you must not want me. I didn’t want to ruin our friendship by bringing it up.” 

“Not want you?” Peter does stop then, touches Stiles’s cheek softly, reverently. “How could I not want you, you gorgeous, brilliant, amazing boy.” 

Stiles’s smile is small but delighted, his eyes dance. “Why now?”

“It’s this goddamn hair,” Peter says, reaching up to tug at a strand. It’s soft. His fingers linger. 

Stiles laughs. “This hair really does it for you, huh?” 

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” 

“What if I told you that I’ve imagined you pulling on it while I…um…you know,” Stiles says, suddenly shy. 

“I’d probably have to kiss you.” 

“You should definitely kiss me then. Because I’ve imagined it. A lot.”

“Oh really?” Peter says, pulling Stiles up against his body. 

“So many times,’ Stiles says, nearly touching their lips together. “Other things too,” he adds, brushing his nose against Peter’s. “Filthy, filthy things. I’ve been a very naughty boy, Peter.” 

Peter kisses him then, a kiss that Stiles quickly turns wet and messy in the best way, the sweetest moans falling from his lips. 

“You’ll be mine?” Peter says, feeling a little drunk on his boy already. 

“I’ve been yours for a very long time,” Stiles says. 

The walk back to the house is slow and meandering, their hearts as intertwined as their hands as they share confessions and secret wishes and hopes. Peter can’t wait to be absolutely insufferable to be around, sickeningly in love. It’s going to be wonderful. 

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

Could you recommend some fics Derek has PTSD and Stiles or the pack help him with coping? If you don’t mind me asking.

Let's see!

take me home. by Anonymous

(1/1 I 3,529 I Mature I No Pairing)

In which Derek Hale is not as okay as he seems (especially after being de-aged by Kate Argent), and Scott and Stiles witnesses it first hand by accident, and tries their best to help.

5 Times Derek Experiences Sensory Overload + 1 Time Derek Experiences Sensory Joy by Warlock_Nerd

(6/6 I 5,604 I General I Sterek)

Derek is Autistic but he hasn’t told anyone in fear of not being taken seriously as an Alpha. Stiles, however, figured it out and made it his mission to help Derek not only for Derek’s Betas but for Derek to finally accept himself.

Regression to the Mean by theroguesgambit

(1/1 I 16,580 I Mature I Sterek)

There aren’t really words for this. “Sure, dude. Let’s hang out sometime and bond over the fact that our lives suck and we’ve both basically killed a bunch of people by accident” doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

Boys of the Wild by MourningDawn

(28/28 I 145,919 I Mature I Sterek)

Derek has had the worse summer of his life. It was suppose to be his big summer before he started college, where he partied and drank his summer away. But a tragic accident changed everything including Derek. The accident takes a toll on him. He doesn't talk much anymore or leaves his room. All his friends have abandoned him. People in town often look at him with hatred and pity. No one will look him in his eyes anymore, not even his father. No longer being able to watch her son suffer, Talia decides Derek needs a new start. She sends Derek to her home town of Beacon Hills to stay with her brother Peter. It's there that Derek be friends free spirited Stiles Stilinski. Derek decides to keep the accident a secret but he isn't the only one hiding something

The Outcry of Wolves by JupiterMelichios

(47/47 I 254,075 I Mature I Sterek)

He's put a lot of time and effort into remaining human. He was invested in his humanity, actually, despite what certain Alpha werewolves might choose to insinuate. And now it's gone, just like that. One minute human, the next minute... Okay, the next several hours, maybe, but still. He'd been human, and then he took a nap, and now he's... something else.

When Stiles is bitten, he wants to believe it's just a random accident. But something is killing innocent people, Lydia's seeing things, Allison keeps having mysterious accidents, and he's got a growing suspicion it might all be connected.

[chloe-skywalker]

Not My Decision - Stiles Stilinski

Stiles x reader sister

Derek x reader-ish

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,085

Requested: TW imagine the reader is Stiles sister and u get into an accident and Derek turns u into a wolf and Stiles goes against ur wishes and u get pissed at him for doing so and Peter actually takes care of u - @cokecola4211

Authors Note: I enjoyed the concept behind this request, it was ajoy to write. Maybe a Part 2?

Masterlist

Teen Wolf Masterlist

******************************************************************

“Help!” Stiles yelled out carrying Y/n into the hospital. She was covered in blood and therefore so was Stiles.

“Stiles what happened?” Melissa asked as she called a team over with a gurney.

“Just please help her.” Stiles pleaded as he placed her on the rolling hospital bed. He had to watch as they rushed into emergency surgery. Scott had come running in after he had parked the Jeep for his friend. They Both sat down in the waiting room. It didn’t take long for the others to hear about what happened and soon pretty much the entire pack were in the waiting room.

Melissa came out a few hours later with a sad expression. “She’s stable for now.”

“For now?” Stiles asked with extremely worried eyes.

“I don’t know how long she’ll stay stable for.” She hated having to tell Stiles that his sister was basically dieing. Two kids she’s known their whole lives and practically considered her own at times.

“Mom?” Scott stood up with eyes that begged his mom to not say what he thought she was going to say.

“Its not looking good, hunny. I’m sorry. We should probably call your dad, Stiles.” Melissa bit her lip in solace that they’d probably all have to say goodbye.

“What if I could help? The bite.” Derek spoke up, he was very close to the female Stilinski. They were really good friends and if he was being honest he had a bit of a crush on her. Maybe he could save her.

“No. That could still kill her.” Scottt shook his head protesting, not liking the idea at all.

Derek shrugged his shoulders, trying not to show how much the possibility of Y/n dying affected him. “I’m just suggesting. It would be better to try then do nothing and lose her anyway.”

“That’s not what she would want.” Scott argued back. Truthfully he didn’t know if Y/n would want it or not but she would make comments about how it'd be hard being one would make life. Wasn’t that enough? “Stiles, you know that.”

“Do it.” Stiles didn’t care at the moment what anyone thought. He just couldn’t lose his sister.

“Stiles-”

“No Scott.” Stiles turned his head to look at his best friend. Stiles glanced down for a second before he continued. “I know it’s not what she’d want but I don’t have a choice. We don’t have a choice. Plus she trust’s Derek…”

Stiles knew Y/n probably wouldn’t want the bite, not without real thought put into it. But there was more of a chance for her to live. If they don’t do it, she dies. If Derek at least tries she might live.

“We have to try. I can’t lose my sister, Scott.” Stiles pleaded with his eyes.

“If the bite doesn’t take, then we still lose Y/n, Stiles.” Scott tried one last time, but truth be told Scott did think it was worth a shot. Y/n was like a little sister to him, he didn’t want to see her die either.

“At least we tried, because Scott we’re gonna lose her anyway if we don’t.” Stiles stated before turning his attention back to Derek. With a nod he stated. “Do it.”

“Follow me.” Melissa nodded at Derek and he followed her.

It was around 45 minutes before they came back out of the room. This time their faces looked more relieved.

“She's stable and improving.” Melissa smiled, happy to be sharing good news.

“The bite worked?” Lydia questioned the older wolf. Hoping she didn’t have to bury another friend.

Derek nodded with relieved eyes. “It worked. I can sense it. Feel it.”

After all, she was his beta now.

“Good. Good.” Stiles nodded, running his hands through his hair.

“You know she might be pissed.” Lydia looked to Stiles with a knowing look.

“Oh she’s going to be pissed.” Peter stated tauntingly, although he too was glad the girl was going to live. She didn’t treat him like the others.

“Then at least I made the decision that saved her life.” Stiles knew he made the right decision. But he really just hoped she would eventually forgive him.

Eventually everyone went home to get some sleep. Derek stayed and eventually Mr.Stilinski showed up. He showed up just in time when Y/n woke up. He was in there for a while before he asked Derek to come into the room. Which really made Stiles nervous.

Derek left the room not long before their dad did. The two shook hands and Derek left the hospital. Stiles was finally told by his dad that he could go see his sister. For a while the two siblings just sat in silence. Till Y/n spoke up.

“I’m different now. You made that choice for me.” Y/n stated looking down at her hands placed on her lap.

“I didn’t have any other choice.” Stiles stated back. Y/n nodded in understanding and Stiles was grateful that she did. But he still had a bad feeling.

“I need a break Stiles.” Y/n said looking at him with eyes Stiles couldn’t dechirer.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked, confused, now sitting up in his uncomfortable hospital chair.

“I’m going to stay with Peter and Derek for a while. I already talked to dad about it.” Y/n explained biting her lip. It wasn’t an easy decision for her to have made but she needed space right now, and she needed Derek to help her learn to control her new abilities. Peter too, oddly.

“Y/n-” Stiles tried to interject but Y/n shook her head.

“I need time to adjust Stiles. To get used to my new life, the changes to my body and mind.” Y/n told him hoping he’d get why she was doing this. Why she had to do this. Y/n loved her brother but this? She needed time. “I also need time to understand your choice for my future. To calm down and be able to control myself. I don’t want to get angry at you and hurt you. You're my brother, we’re closer than close Stiles. We alway have been. But right now, I’m afraid I’m gonna hurt you.”

“Ok” Stiles couldn’t say anything else. She was angry at him and was afraid she’d hurt him because of her anger. Anger at him for the choice he made for her. Even though she was pissed, she was still protecting him.

Taglist: @padawancat97

[patolemus]

Sterek fic recs: Time Travel AU Edition

As I promised @oldefashioned here is the start of my unending sterek fic reccing. I’ll go by category because this post will never end otherwise.

1. song of the phoenix by graveltotempo

In a last ditch effort to save Beacon Hills after everyone else has died, Stiles channels all of his energy and magic into cleansing the Nemeton and the magical core of the town. But he is more powerful than he knows, more connected to the Nemeton than anyone can guess, and a group of kids, teenagers and adults wakes up in the middle of the night ten years earlier with a second chance they didn't know they needed and a bond they don't understand. Stiles though? Stiles wakes up with a little more.

Notes: It's just. So good. It's kinda hard to explain but basically no one knows what's going on but at the same time it works. Kinda. They're working on it. Stiles is awesome in this, I especially love his relationship with the Hales, because of course I do. It's ongoing.

2. Twice And For All by novasillies

“Derek,” he said despite himself. The werewolf’s eyes sharpened. Scott gave him a distressed look. “Do I know you?” He asked tensely, and Stiles grinned in return. “Oh, no,” he answered, “Not yet.” - In which a well-timed conflict between the magic of the Ghost Riders and Stiles' spark sends him back to the day Scott got bitten. Stiles pointedly changes nothing and so God complexes, needlessly complex romantic drama, and pure, unbridled silliness ensue. (Updates every Thursday wink wonk)

Notes: This is to date one of my favorite time travel fics of all time, across multiple fandoms. Stiles in this one is just *chef's kiss*. Completely unhinged, I love him. Also, the sterek? Easily one of the best dynamics I've read. It's ongoing, only four chapters left!

3. Fly a Little Faster by mirrorkill

Everyone knows when you go back in time, you shouldn't step on an ant, just in case you accidentally kill your own grandparent or something. But what happens when you go back in time and, uh, accidentally interrupt the one event that apparently made the Grumpiest Alpha in Town into a ball of mindless manpain?  Well, if Marty McFly can do it, so can Stiles Stilinski. All he has to do is get Derek and Paige to fall in love before he gets pulled back to his own time. And before he makes anything worse. That's easy as pie, right? Right?

Notes: I liked this one because it's not the typical Stiles travels back in time after everyone else in the pack dies. It's got a different premise, still somewhat canon compliant (maybe??? canon enough), and it's amazingly done. It's complete.

4. Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them." ----- The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

Notes: So good! Stiles is a traumatized bean and the Hales are just everything! It's complete.

5. The A Spark of Hope and the Butterfly Effect series by Phlinting

It's been eleven years since Scott was bitten by a feral werewolf and, despite his pack's many victories along the way, Gerard Argent's influence lives on. As the knowledge of the supernatural spread to the general population so did the hatred and fear of the unknown. The McCall pack has been picked off one by one and Stiles, Sheriff Stilinski, and Peter Hale are the only three left, on the run and barely surviving. But Stiles has found a spell. He has the magic, the spark, and his belief. He has his dad and Peter to help power it and he has the will and desperation to succeed. He's going back to the Hale fire and this time he's going to stop it ALL before it starts. It's the perfect solution. Too bad things never go quite according to plan...

Notes: The Sheriff and Peter are *chef's kiss* here! I really don't know how to explain all that happens here but it gets a little out of control in the best way. It's complete.

6. The The Long Way Round series by exclamation

A magical accident sends Stiles back in time. Now he's stuck in New York, living with Derek and Laura, and the only way to get back to his own time is to learn to use magic. Meanwhile, he must figure out how much he can tell them about their future. Can he warn them about the dangers they face? Can he change his own past?   And can he trust the creature known as Bookworm, who seems to know him better than he knows himself?

Notes: This series had me in a chokehold, I cried so much but it was absolutely worth it! Stiles doesn't plan to travel back in time on this one, this just... happen, and it all spirals a bit out of control. But don't worry! You may have no idea of what's going to happen, but the author certainly did and they did an amazing work. It's complete.

7. It’s Happening by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella)

Derek stopped listening to him, brain going a mile a minute.   Derek, it’s fucking happening! Derek, please!   He would recognize that fucking voice anywhere. Two years. Two fucking years had passed, and now this little shit was standing in front of him, speaking his name, and grinning like an idiot. “It’s you,” Derek said, earning him a confused look from Stiles. “The phone call. Two years ago. It was you.” (SNYE - January 2nd - Time Travel)

Notes: This is not canon compliant. It's a whole other universe, actually, and it's so good. Good ol' Derek is losing his mind over here, but it's alright! Things work out just fine. It's complete.

These ones are not time travel, but dimensional travel. It’s similar enough so here you go.

8. The play it again series by metisket

In which Stiles goes along with one of Derek’s plans and ends up in an alternate universe as a result. He should’ve known better. He did know better, actually, and that means he has no one to blame but himself. “Laura wants to lure the kid in with food and kindness and make a pet of him, like a feral cat. Derek wants to have him arrested for stalking. They’re at an impasse. (And the rest of the family is staying emphatically out of it in a way that suggests bets have been placed.)”

Notes: I honestly don't know how to show the whole of my appreciation for this series. I think I've read this about five times since I found it last year. Stiles lands himself in a whole other dimension, where the Hale House fire never happened and Scott is human. It goes about as well as you can expect. It's technically not complete, but the main piece is.

9. The Home Across The Universe series by TricksterShi

You can lose your home and spend your whole life looking for it, sometimes you may even find bits of it again. But sometimes home goes out searching and finds you first. ~ The day he loses his father and his pack, Stiles is transported to a parallel world where his counterpart is nine years old and seemingly small changes have had a huge impact on the course of events in Beacon Hills. At first sticking to the shadows as a vigilante to protect his otherworld father and younger self, Stiles is soon drawn out into the light and onto a path that forces him to confront the traumas of his past so that he can make a place for himself in this new world.

Notes: Just. This absolute beast of a universe is seriously so well done, and so good. Imagine play it again, but much more depressing and waaaay longer. The angst is on point! The Stilinskis are the best in this one. And Derek and Laura have my heart, love my pookies. Stiles is not having the best times, but he'll be looked after, don't worry! Also technically not complete, but all the pieces in the series are done.

10. The Ley Lines series by forestofbabel

Stiles is back in town after many years, angry and bitter and disconnected from anything you might call pack. It might as well be a tradition at this point that he gets drunk and wakes up in the woods. Only, this time, something is different.  The ghosts that have weighed in his heart are alive and well, and Stiles gets to witness a life that could have been his. There is one thing he knows, though. No matter how much he may want to stay, he has to go home.  If the ley lines you should follow, and your dwelling at the end, and find your presence has been hollowed, your hereafter is to amend." *** Stiles is faced in this new world with someone he had been avoiding for a long time. Himself.  The Double Walker cannot survive where the Double Walker dwells *** Derek had an itch under his skin. There was something missing. He knew exactly what it was. Who it was. His regrets paraded themselves in a steady stream, and he had to watch as Stiles left time and time again, knowing it would be the only way to let the ley lines heal. That didn't make it hurt any less. Still, some part of Derek hoped.

Notes: I honestly just read the first part, but I thought I'd add the whole series so people know what they're getting into. The first part can be read as a stand alone, so if anyone wants to stop after that they absolutely can. The fic itself is a bit sad, but it has a happy ending! Stiles travels to another dimension, and shenanigans follow. The series is complete.

[ateotd-izzy]

happy birthday - stiles stilinski x fem!reader

summary: it’s april 8th, which also happens to be the day of your boyfriend’s 18th birthday, so you want to make sure he has the best day ever.

notes: i know, such a creative title!! happy birthday to my totally real boyfriend (it’s just fluffy and cute ig)

☾

6:00 am.

this was the time stiles woke you up that morning.

his lips brushed against your cheek and you stirred, hearing a soft chuckle from the boy beside you.

“stiles, what time is it?” your voice was between a mumble and a groan, and stiles kissed your cheek again.

“uh, like,” he rolled over to check his phone, which was sitting on the table beside his bed. “oh, it’s six.”

“ugh, gross. go back to sleep.” you said, your eyes still shut as you pushed his face away from your own.

“i can’t.” he complained, turning to lie on his back beside you again. “i mean, it’s my birthday, babe.”

“mhm.” you rolled over and stiles wrapped an arm around you, kissing the back of your neck. “and it’ll still be your birthday at 8 am.”

“did you get me a present?” stiles asked, lifting his body to look at you, and you opened one eye to meet his own.

“oh, crap, i forgot.” you watched the smile on his face drop and then put a hand on his cheek. “i’m kidding, i wouldn’t forget that.”

stiles rolled onto his back again, his head leaning against your own. “babe, i really can’t fall asleep, i’m too excited.”

you shook your head with a smile before leaning over the edge of his bed, reaching into your bag to pull out a gift wrapped box.

“happy birthday.” you spoke softly and his lips slowly grew into a smile as you handed him the gift.

he unwrapped it carefully, and once the box was open, he chuckled.

inside the box was a small collection of things you had bought him. a new flannel, some new markers, a pair of socks with little death stars on them, a dvd copy of the film hot rod, some more red string (because he only seemed to run out of that colour), and a photo of the two of you that you framed.

he smiled, and kept looking down, pulling out the picture before lifting his head and meeting your eyes.

“thank you.” he put down the frame and wrapped his arms around you.

“of course, baby.” you hugged him back tightly and he kissed you right on the lips.

when it was finally 8 am, stiles practically flew out of his bed and was downstairs in just seconds, greeted by his father who was making breakfast for the three of you.

and by 10, the two of you were grocery shopping.

not the most fun for a birthday activity, but in order to have a birthday party there needs to be food.

while you were pushing the cart down the aisles, stiles was picking out the different snacks, texting scott for secondary opinions as he did so.

then after putting a bag of chips into the cart, stiles leaned forward and pulled you into a kiss.

his hands held onto your hips, and you let go of the shopping cart to move your hands up to his shoulders.

when you pulled apart, stiles just gave you a smile and started pushing the cart away, leaving you standing in the aisle in the moment before you caught up.

“what was that for?” you asked, following stiles to the checkout counter.

“what was what for?” he asked in response, and you stared at him. “what?”

“you’re a weirdo, stilinski.”

“well aren’t you just the sweetest girlfriend ever.”

that evening, after hours of preparing, the stilinski household was decorated and the guests had arrived.

the guests literally just being the pack and melissa.

but that was all stiles had wanted.

he sat on the living room couch with scott and liam, but his eyes were on you.

you were in the dining room, talking with lydia and laughing at something she had said.

stiles crossed his arms and pulled his shirt, the new one you had bought him, closer to his body.

you had basically planned and executed the entire party, plus your gift for him, and you even made him a cake (which you hadn’t told him about, he just found you in the kitchen earlier in the day).

as stiles stared, all he could think about was just how entirely in love with you he was and how he wanted to stay like that forever.

in his eyes, no matter what, you were perfect. in every single way.

you turned your head, and made eye contact with him.

all you did was look at him, and that was all stiles needed to die happy.

honestly, in order to have a good birthday, all stiles would’ve needed was to see you, just like every other day.

but for you, you wanted to do all of this for him. if you could, you would give the whole world, the moon and the stars to stiles, and that still couldn’t compare to the love you feel for him.

so, the best you could do was to try and give him the best day possible, and you didn’t even know you had succeeded just by existing.

neither one of you could even comprehend how much you loved the other.

“how ‘bout cake, stiles?” noah’s voice caused stiles’ head to shoot up.

���now?” stiles started getting up off the couch before looking back to the dining room, but you had disappeared.

“come on.” noah chuckled and everyone moved from the living room to the dining room, where stiles sat at the table.

then the lights were turned off and stiles turned to watch you slowly walking from the kitchen, carefully holding his cake and bringing it over to the table.

the candles on the top flickered when the cake was sat down in front of him, and stiles grabbed onto your hand the moment it was free.

then everyone started singing for him, for his day.

your hand stiles wasn’t gripping in his own was gently passing through his hair until he leaned forward to blow out the candles.

one candle stayed lit, still flickering in the dark room for a few seconds until he tried blowing it out again.

then the lights were back on and the room was soon full of conversation and the sounds of cutlery against plates as everyone ate.

when stiles finished his cake, he lied his head against his crossed arms that were on the table and looked up at you beside him.

his girl. the most perfect girl in the world.

hours later, after you had showered and changed, you climbed into stiles’ bed beside him, where he was staring up at the ceiling.

“did you have a good day today?” you asked, your voice a soft whisper.

“the best.” he replied, his own tone matching yours.

you pulled the blanket up and leaned against stiles, one arm going over his chest.

“what are you thinking about right now?”

when you asked the question, stiles brought his hand around your body, his fingertips grazing the skin of your hip below your shirt.

“next month we’ll both be 18.” stiles told you.

“yep…” you were a little confused. “your point?”

“i want to marry you.” stiles stated, kissing the top of your head. “obviously not right away, but… eventually.”

you were silent for a moment.

“good.” you spoke. “because i want to marry you too. eventually.”

stiles smiled and you lifted yourself up to kiss him on the lips.

“maybe in june.” you suggested and stiles laughed.

he was the one to kiss you that time.

“i don’t care when it is, i just want it to happen.”

a/n: idk if this is good but i just love him so much like on another level

[nightlark100]

My favourite Teen Wolf fanon

My personal favourite things I've seen reoccur in Teen Wolf fanfics (some might be canon, I didn't get past season 3). A lot of these are Stiles centric

Stiles having keys to everywhere in town. No one knowing how and being reluctant to ask.

Stiles bullying Derek into not living in an abandoned ruin/making him furnish his empty loft

Stiles having spies all over town who report on his dad's eating habits

Stiles being close friends with the Jungle drag queens

Coach Finstock knowing about the supernatural

Greenberg not actually existing and no one commenting on it

Isaac going to Stiles when he has a nightmare

Erica and Boyd going to Stiles for comfort after Gerard

Stiles' window being used constantly by the werewolves and him putting down a joke welcome mat for them

Stiles laying into Derek about him hurting the betas to train them

Stiles mouthing off to the hunters when he's in the Argents basement to keep them distracted from hurting Erica and Boyd

Stiles having magical baking powers

Stiles being a great cook and no one realising

Coach Finstock framing Stiles' circumcision paper

Stiles being secretly terrifying so that even the high school bullies leave him alone but only doing anything when it's in defence of someone else (favourite example is him getting rid of all of the videos of Erica during a seizure).

Stiles upgrading his bat to make it effective against supernaturals

Stiles being the only one who knows where Peter lives

Chris Argent and Peter having some kind of 'history' with one another

Isaac getting over his initial wolf power up behaviour and basically being a cinnamon bun

Peter mocking Derek for his choice of betas and only liking Stiles

Peter being a snob about fashion

[thievinghippo]

Okay, I'm going to change all of your lives. I'm sure you've all heard of the American version of 'Whose Line is it Anyway' which was hosted by Drew Carey

That was based on the British version of 'Whose Line is it Anyway' which was basically the funniest show in existence. This show got me through college

And now it's on tubi for free. The first two seasons are hit and miss, cause they all feature a comedian named John Sessions. But once Ryan Stiles and Colin Mochrie start becoming regular players? The show take itself to another level

It's also hosted by the most British man to ever British, named Clive Anderson. (He's very funny!) There are just a wonderful mix of comedians who are all excellent at improv

Take a look if you get a chance!