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sundrop-writes · 23 days

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BRAINWASHED

Virgin!Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

Everything’s clean - except for my thoughts. (Thinking about me getting you off.)

Can’t stop thinking you got me B R A I N W A S H E D .

Summary:

Stiles likes you. He really, really, really likes you. It's bordering on obsession, but he likes to believe that he has it under control.

So when you accidentally leave a pair of your panties in his presence, ripe for the taking, and they're in his backpack faster than he can blink - he realizes that he might not have it as under control as he would like to think. But he can't find it to be too much of a problem when he has those panties wrapped around his cock.

Virgin!Stiles Stilinski x Best Friend!Fem!Reader. Pining!Stiles/One Sided Fantasies. Panty Stealing. Smut/PWP.

Word Count: 8,000

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: the reader uses she/her pronouns and is described as having a vagina; Stiles and the reader have been best friends since childhood and they are in high school now (they are both the same age) (for argument's sake, they are both 18, but the horny parts were motivated by the hotness of a 20-something actor so idc what age you interpret the characters as); the reader's looks are mostly undescribed and left neutral in terms of race, hair texture/colour, height, etc. however the reader is implied to be fat/plus sized; mentions of the reader wearing dresses and tights (things that the other characters on the show would typically wear); mentions of the reader having a cat - I did not give the cat a name so you can imagine it's the same as your cat's name/what you would want your cat to be called if you had one; use of Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); brief mention that the reader would like wearing bikinis; the reader calls Stiles 'good boy' in non-sexual contexts and it turns him on; mentions of Stiles looking up the reader's skirt when she doesn't know it; some slight dubious consent because Stiles steals the reader's underwear without her consent and uses them in a sexual act (his masturbation); masturbation (Stiles touching himself); this is a one-sided/pining fic - all the sexual acts take place inside Stiles's mind as sexual fantasies while he masturbates; the reader character is described in these sexual acts as they play out in his mind, so that's why she is included heavily in the warnings; Stiles is submissive (even in his own fantasies) and he fantasies about the reader being dominant toward him; Stiles becoming aroused by the idea of the reader not shaving her pussy; technically there is edging - because Stiles edges himself to make his fantasies last longer; panty sniffing (though the panties Stiles took are freshly launder and not used ones); scent kink/sweat kink - Stiles likes the way you smell, including your sweat; kinks and sexual acts mentioned only in Stiles's fantasies (taking place only in his mind in this fic): car sex (in the back of the Jeep (typical, I know)), fingering (reader receiving), degradation kink (Stiles receiving - he likes the idea of the reader insulting him and being mean to him); pussy eating (Stiles fantasizes in depth about this); Reader makes a joke about spanking Stiles and Stiles has a small fantasy about being spanked by her; I think that's finally it.

A/N: Title for the fic comes from the song Brainwashed by Waterparks. Warning - Stiles might be a bit OOC in this because I wrote it before I started re-watching Teen Wolf again (and before I started watching Season 1 for the first time, because previously I had only seen 3B and beyond). In this, I have said that he's flunking classes and he's not really great with studying, while in the show, he's really smart and bookish and really well studied - but it could just be chalked up to the fact that he has a huge crush on the Reader that is distracting him from studying. So, interpret it how you want. I hope that you enjoy it, and please read through to my end notes to find out about a potential sequel to the fic!!

...

Stiles was hopeless.

That was the only way to describe his current state of being. Completely, utterly hopeless.

He was a complete and total loser, hopelessly in love with his best friend. And he was getting more stupidly caught up in that crush every single day. And of course, he didn’t even have the courage to admit his feelings for you so that it could be awkwardly out in the open. So that the two of you could get the rejection part over with, at least.

Basically - his feelings for you were slowly ruining his life.

Stiles had been in love with you for as long as he could remember. Well, maybe not that long.

See, you, him, and Scott had all been friends since the beginning of kindergarten, and naturally, Stiles always liked you as a person. He always thought of you as a good friend, even if he gravitated toward Scott more.

But he distinctly remembered the first moment when he had started to develop a crush on you. It was a very special memory to him - the day when you shifted in his eyes from annoying, slightly nagging friend to a beautiful, fierce woman.

It was the day when the three of you were out on Halloween night during the third grade - and that was around the time people started whispering about crushes in school, when people would have playground girlfriends and boyfriends that they broke up with every other week. That night, a group of eighth grade bullies began chasing the three of you, trying to take your candy.

Without hesitation, you picked up the largest rock in sight and threw it at one of them, causing a large cut across his forehead - and you loudly told them to ‘fuck off’ (the first time Stiles had ever heard such a word when it wasn’t coming from his dad). They had run away, somehow terrified of a girl a foot shorter than them.

That night, you had become his hero.

And since then, you had been the only object of his affections.

Of course, over the years, Stiles had plenty of opportunities to tell you about his feelings for you. He just… always felt too cowardly to do so.

In seventh grade, he had come very close to asking you out to the winter dance - only to have Scott beat him to the punch. When he pulled Scott aside to ask him about it, Scott confessed to him that he also had a crush on you. This resulted in their first ever fistfight. The first ever true rift in their otherwise close, brotherly friendship.

The boys didn’t speak to each other for days. Which, naturally, annoyed the hell out of you. Especially because, of course, neither of them told you why they were fighting, not wanting you to know that you were the source of the rift in their friendship. And to you, this only made the fight seem more stupid and immature.

So finally, when you demanded it, they called a truce. They agreed that they didn’t want to lose their friendship or lose you. They didn’t want to make you choose between them when it wouldn’t make any of you happy.

So Stiles proposed that the three of you should go to the dance as friends, which you loved, and they both got you a corsage, one for each wrist - and the three of you still laughed at the pictures of you holding each of their arms.

Eventually, Scott grew out of his crush on you and moved onto other girls, and he loved that he got to keep you as a close best friend, someone he could go to for dating advice if needed. Scott kept trying to convince Stiles to simply ‘man up’ and tell you about his feelings, but Stiles kept that same sentiment they had concluded upon years ago. Telling you about his feelings would only ruin the friendship. Not just between you, but between the entire group - it would fuck up the pack.

Though it felt like the more he tried to ignore his feelings for you, the more they festered like a tumor. While Scott was able to mature past his crush on you, Stiles only grew more intense, and more insane when it came to his ‘crush’ on you.

Over the years, his crush on you had grown from something sweet and childish into something much more. When puberty truly took over and lust was added into the mix, he now had to deal with the fact that you had grown into a gorgeous woman. He could barely control his arousal when looking at you, hearing your voice, smelling you, talking to you, thinking about you - even simply being in your presence made something in his mind melt. And it was growing much worse with each passing day. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t wake up with a raging boner fueled by sexual dreams of you.

And naturally, he would say that not telling you about his feelings for you was ultimately the best thing for him. He would steadfastly refuse to admit that him being distracted by all these fantasies of you was slowly eroding your friendship from the inside out. Slowly, bit by bit, his worst fears were coming true - your friendship was being ruined by his crush anyway.

But he tried to ignore that. Even if you were the most gorgeous, perfect being ever put on the planet, he tried his hardest to simply enjoy the platonic version of you. He tried to act like he wasn’t stupidly, head over heels in love with you.

He tried not to act like it.

But on nights like this, it was just so hard.

Tonight, the two of you were studying for an upcoming English mid-term that would be worth a decent portion of your final grade.

Logically, Stiles knew that he should have locked himself in his room and forced himself to study independently. Or he should have taken up Scott on his offer to study with him and Allison.

But no, he just had to ask you for your ‘help’.

And you pitied him and said yes, because he was doing poorly in the class. The only reason for that being because it was one of the classes that he shared with you, and he spent all of his damn time staring at you across the room during it. He had tried to tell himself that he really would study tonight, that he would really take advantage of your intelligence here and now to get his shit together in order to up his grade.

But no. That was just one of many daily lies that he told himself. Since the moment he had set foot in your bedroom that afternoon (and it was dark out now, well into the evening) - he hadn’t been able to focus on anything but you.

Sure, sometimes that worked to his benefit. Hearing you recite Shakespeare, the words coming off your sweet lips - it did force him to focus on the material at hand for at least a short period of time. But it wasn’t like he was actually retaining any of it. He was just thinking about how gorgeous your voice sounded and how amazing you would be in an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. One where he played Romeo, of course - and he would get to use someone else’s well-crafted words to romance you, finally getting to kiss you for the first time.

Again - he was hopeless.

Currently, Stiles was laying diagonally on your bed, sitting among a mess of books - the English textbooks, the assigned novels, the published copies of the play, along with binders of your notes and other notebooks, stray papers. He couldn’t pay attention to the notes he was supposed to be writing, not for a moment, not if his life depended on it. Not when you looked this stunningly beautiful while busy writing your own notes.

With the soft lighting from your bedside lamp brushing across your skin, making that skin look even softer, you were a goddess-like vision sitting on the bed across from him. You were wearing the simple dress that you had worn to school earlier that day, your modest tights since shed off in the name of ‘comfort’ (and so that your cat wouldn’t rip holes in them while crawling across your lap, you had remarked to Stiles). When you had stood at your hamper and peeled them off your legs, Stiles had a hard time not letting the drool spill out across his chin.

Your thighs were gorgeous. Thick, wide, spread out like a buffet for his eyes to feast on every single time you sat down. From his angle, laying down the way he was, he was up close and personal with the dimpling cellulite and stretchmarks you had there. The hem of your dress had ridden up when you had adjusted your position to get comfortable, and he felt absolutely spoiled by how much more of your thighs were revealed to him.

A few times throughout the evening, he had to physically clench his fingers, tight, to remind himself not to reach out and touch. To remind himself that he wasn’t allowed to touch. The last thing he wanted to do was to creep you out by randomly reaching out and touching your thigh. But he wanted so badly to touch.

How many times had he imagined what those thighs would look like bouncing and jiggling while you rode his cock? How many times had he imagined those thighs clamped around his head while he licked your pussy? (Far too many times for the good of his own sanity.)

Not to mention the concentration spread across your face - you were so fucking hot when you showed off your intelligence. Hell everything about you was hot - your sweetness, your laughter, your sarcasm, even your bitchy side. But your bookish side had to be one of Stiles’s favorites.

The way you would nibble your own lip when thinking, the way your brows furrowed slightly in thought. Everything about you - from the bra strap sticking out of the neckline of your dress to the chipped edge of your nail polish where you had chewed on it - you were a fucking vision. And Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tried.

It was a wonder that you didn’t notice Stiles staring at you - not as often as he did it.

Stiles felt strangely caught when you put down your pen and looked up from your notebook, then. He quickly scrambled to grab his own pencil and start writing something, to look busy. But of course, he just looked like more of an idiot when the eraser end began scraping across the page in nonsense patterns.

“Stiles,” You scolded him with a sigh, a way he was used to hearing his name come off your lips. “Have you gotten anything done? I told you to copy down at least half my notes-”

Of course. You pegged his blank page as simple laziness, rather than his brain slowly melting out through his ears due to his inability to think about anything but you (especially when he was in the same room as you). At least he hadn’t been caught staring at you in that creepy way yet.

You snatched up his notebook to check his work, and his heart dropped - if you looked too carefully, then he would be caught. In the back of that notebook, there were about three pages of his name and yours in hearts, and a few times he had practiced writing his signature as ‘Mr Stiles L/N’. (He was a feminist, and he liked the idea of starting a new tradition.) There was even a drawing he had made designing your theoretical wedding cake, including a cake topper where he was Superman and you were riding on his back while he was flying.

“Y/N, uh-”

He quickly snatched the notebook back, causing a glare from you while he sighed in defeat.

“Fine.” He shrugged, knowing that he had to admit to a smaller crime in order to cover up the larger one. It was something that he did with his father all too often. “I didn’t get anything done. I was slacking off. You caught me.”

“Stiles!” You scolded him again, reaching out to gently smack his shoulder. “If you keep this shit up, you’re never gonna graduate!”

Sadly, you were probably right. His crush on you was absolutely going to ruin him.

“Well, you could just let me copy off you,” He replied, giving you a wide grin that let you know he was mostly kidding.

You rolled your eyes in reply, and soon your gaze caught sight of the clock on your nightstand.

“Well, it seems like you have wasted enough of my time for tonight.” You scoffed sarcastically.

Stiles knew that you had intended this to be a joke - but he couldn’t help the twinge of pain the words caused in his gut. The idea that he was truly just a waste of time in your life. He pressed his lips tightly together to suppress a frown and didn’t say anything more, and then you continued.

“It’s almost your curfew anyway.” You pointed out, gesturing toward the clock. You were right. Stiles hadn’t even noticed how late it was getting - too busy enjoying his time with you. “We’ll pack it up for the night - but you should meet me at the library tomorrow morning, early, so we can go over everything again before the exam.”

Of course, you were still invested in the idea of him getting a good grade, even if that seemed unlikely to happen.

“You’re gonna make me get up early?” He whined, hating the idea of missing out on even ten extra minutes of sleep.

“Yes.” You stressed. “I want you there at seven o’clock. Sharp.”

Your ultra serious voice ordering him around was undeniably a turn-on for him. No matter what sexual fantasies Stiles cooked up about you in his mind, he could never picture himself having full control over you. In fact, most of the time, he found himself covered in cum at the idea of you having complete control over him. And it was likely because this was how most of your friendship went - you told him what to do, and he did it. And that was a huge part of why he fell for you in the first place.

When he didn’t verbally confirm the time, too caught up in his infatuation yet again, you let out a gentle growl of frustration.

“Stiles!” You called out his name. “You have to be there at seven. So you can’t get out of bed at seven - you have to set your alarm for like six-thirty, got it? Don’t make me come over there and get your ass out of bed like last time.”

This thought caused Stiles’s stomach to clench.

The last time you had come to his house to wake him up for school (because he had agreed to help you with some bakesale project and you were pissed off that he wasn’t there early to help you set up tables and whatnot) - you had charged into his house in a fury. You had your own key, of course, and his dad wasn’t there to busy you with conversation or pleasantries.

And you charged right up the stairs and nearly caught him with a hand around his cock, jerking off to a picture of you in a bikini from the summer before. And he had rushed to shove the picture in his nightstand and cocoon himself in the comforter to hide his body just as you made it to the top of the stairs, shouting at him for being late. Luckily, he had gotten away with the lie that he had slept in, rather than revealing the truth that he had been distracted because he had woken up with morning wood after having a heated dream about you.

When Stiles didn’t respond yet again, you grabbed a smaller decorative pillow from behind you and lightly hit him with it for emphasis, causing him to burst into laughter.

“Promise me you’ll be on time!” You said, smacking him with the pillow again.

“Yes, yes! I promise!” He finally agreed, his face becoming pink from laughter.

You dropped the pillow then, and leaned down, causing his eyes to inadvertently go straight to your cleavage while you gave him a gentle, friendly kiss on the forehead.

“Good boy.” You responded, praising him for agreeing to your terms. Obviously, it was another joke.

But these praising words combined with your lips even slightly brushing against his skin, along with your tits dangling so close to his face, had his cock swelling to hardness nearly instantly. He grabbed the pillow then, trying to look subtle as he put it over his crotch, desperately trying to hide the very obvious bulge that had popped up at the front of his jeans within seconds.

He was lucky when you shifted your attention away from him, now busy with cleaning off the bed, gathering your textbooks in a pile and moving to put them on your desk in the corner. You being distracted gave him a few moments to try and mentally will his dick down, which worked slightly. Only slightly.

“You could help me, you know.” You mocked him lightly - distracting him from his thoughts of baseball, trying to will the blood out of his cock.

He looked up and saw you standing there with his backpack, putting away his textbooks and notebooks now. He had been so dumbly distracted by his own dick that he hadn’t noticed you taking the kind initiative to clean up his things for him too.

“Right, sorry.” He jumped into action and did so, taking things from your hands and shoving them into his bag with haste.

“You don’t have to rush out, I just need the bed cleared off so I can pick out my clothes for tomorrow.” You told him.

“Wait - you actually pick out your clothes in advance?” He asked, thinking that this was entirely adorable, and explained why you were always so well dressed.

(And it explained why you were always so punctual in the mornings while Stiles was usually a mess - running around his house still half-asleep, shoving his head into a shirt that he had sniffed to see if it was clean, shoving things frantically into his bag in order to get out the door five minutes late.)

“Well you know not all of us are okay with just throwing on last week’s mustard stained tee shirt,” You said, playfully pointing to a mustard stain that he had on his shirt from lunch.

He rolled his eyes in return, trying to ignore the slight twist of embarrassment that wanted to swell up inside of him at the comment.

There had been a point where he used to make a very pointed effort to impress you. Back when his crush on you had first gotten serious - likely around the beginning of high school. He used to get up early every single morning, spending a lot of time being intensely picky about the clothes he wore. He drowned himself in cologne (until you had complained about it), he wore certain colors just because you mentioned liking them. But none of it seemed to garner any more of your attention than usual.

And so, he resigned himself to be the loser best friend who would always just float at the corners of your life, drowning in his secret affection for you until some better, hotter guy came along and swept you off your feet one day.

He was just glad that day hadn’t come yet.

Stiles was hesitant to leave - he wasn’t done being around you for the day yet, too emotionally attached. But he guessed that he would need to get some decent sleep before waking up at the asscrack of dawn in order to see more of you the next morning. (Even if it would include the horrors of studying at the library.)

“So - I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” He posed, ready to take his leave as he swung his backpack over his shoulder.

“Ooh, wait one second.” You said, eagerness twinging through your voice.

His heart pounded hard in his chest for a moment, wondering if this could be the moment he had been waiting so long for - would you stop him there, grab him by the shoulders and kiss him hard, and then tell him that you had been feeling the exact same way as he had for all these years?

“Which one?” You asked, spinning around from your closet to face him, holding up two dresses on hangers.

Oh. You were asking for his opinion about what you should wear to school the next day.

“The blue one.” Stiles said, motioning towards it. “That shade of blue looks beautiful on you - it compliments your skin tone well, and it makes you shine. But ya know, you look gorgeous in everything. You could wear a paper bag to school and everyone would still be jealous of how amazing you look.”

He rambled on for a moment too long, and realized that his genuine fondness for you - something straying too far into romantic territory - was slipping out.

“But - uh, yeah. I’ll see you later.” He quickly added on, now eager to leave before you could make any further comments.

Then he dashed out of your room and down the stairs, getting out the front door so fast that he practically left a poof of cartoon dust behind him.

He got into the Jeep and tossed his bag into the passenger’s seat - which, he hadn’t realized was not even zipped up. (A habit you often scolded him for - going around with his bag unzipped.) Papers and books spilled across the seat and underneath it, and he let out a loud growl of frustration.

“Idiot!” He screamed, scolding himself as he leaned down, trying to clean everything up. “Idiot, idiot, idiot!”

Partially, he was feeling so idiotic because he had just been so vulnerable with you and you probably thought he was weird for it. Actually, that was mostly why.

As he was picking up his things, he realized that - yup, he was missing his English textbook. He had forgotten it in your room. He heaved out a sigh and collapsed back against his seat. He could leave without it - but then he would get an earful from you in the morning about how he was ‘forgetful’ and ‘irresponsible’. Ugh.

He got out of the Jeep again and shuffled his way back into your house - your mom was working late, so there was nobody there to question him running out of the house at top speed and then appearing back so soon. All he got was a curious chirp and a head tilt from your cat, who was sitting on the top of the stairs.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Stiles remarked to the animal, stopping for a moment to pet him. “I’m pathetic. But you can’t rat me out, okay? I know she thinks highly of your opinion and I need you to put in a good word for me. Got it?”

The cat purred and pushed his face into Stiles’s hand, so he assumed that was a positive affirmation that he would root for Stiles - or at the very least, keep his secret.

Stiles linger for a moment to scratch the cat’s furry cheek, and then he stepped over the cat and made his way back toward your room. He passed the closed bathroom door and heard the shower running, and he almost cheered. If you were in the shower, then you wouldn’t notice him slipping back in to grab his book, so you couldn’t scold him for being a forgetful idiot.

He went into your room, and the second he made it through the mouth of your open bedroom, his eyes locked onto your bed like a hot target. Your clothes for the following day were spread out so neatly, and right there, on top of the blue dress he had suggested - there was a pair of lacy purple panties that were something right out of one of his fantasies.

Stiles had thought about your underwear before - many times. Too many times to count.

He had even caught small, passing glimpses of your underwear before - when you had worn dresses without tights and bent over in front of him. But he had only seen enough of it to determine the color, not to know if it was lacy or silk or cotton. And even that was enough to send him into a tailspin that had him rushing to the bathroom to relieve his aching cock.

In the back of his mind - or truly, the forefront of his mind whenever he jerked off to thoughts of you - he always wondered what kind of underwear you wore. What kind of decorative wrapping your pretty pussy would come in if he ever got the other-worldly privilege of getting his hands up your skirt.

Would they be simple, practical cotton underwear? Would they be cute? Would they be sinfully sexy? Would they be those underwear with the days of the week written across the front?

But seeing this now - seeing the tangible evidence in front of him that you actually planned to wear purple lacy lingerie to school - it was something that had all sense draining from his mind as blood rushed to his cock once again. He barely had time to think about it - and he didn’t think about it. Because then, they were in his hands, in his pocket, and he was back in the Jeep, hiding his stolen goods in his bag and hastily zipping it up so he could slam his foot on the gas and race home.

He didn’t even have a chance to think about the fact that he left without the textbook that he had gone back into your room looking for. He didn’t have the attention span to notice that said textbook was in a stack along with your own - almost as if purposefully kept there like an excuse to lure him back into your room, rather than clumsily forgotten by him.

…

When Stiles got into his room, he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him, now entirely frantic, and thankful that his father was working a late shift again. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his hands shaking with anticipation as he unzipped his bag and pulled out the thing he had so hastily snagged.

His mind was warring with so many sensations. Guilt for taking the panties, paranoia that he would get caught, shame that he even had the urge to take them in the first place - but all of that was easily toppled over and forgotten in the name of lust. Overwhelming lust and arousal that he felt for you. Greed and joy at knowing that he had something so private of yours in his hands now - something so secret that he shouldn’t have. A perfect little piece of you.

His little secret piece of you.

He still couldn’t believe that this was the kind of underwear you wore on a daily basis.

Just imagining that this was what you wore to school - thinking about the fact that this was what you were wearing under your clothes during your everyday interactions with him: it drove him wild.

He easily pictured this pretty lace sticking to your cunt when you were wet, the lavender colored material getting slick and slightly darker, soaked through and visibly sticky when you spread your legs for him to see. He wondered if your pussy would be shaved or not - but you didn’t have a boyfriend, so currently, you didn’t have anybody to shave for.

He remembered a conversation from a few weeks ago where Scott had wondered if he should shave his pubes for Allison and you had remarked that ‘putting a razor near your junk’ was ‘ill-advised and stupid’ - so you probably didn’t even like shaving your pussy on principle.

This immediately put a picture in his mind of your pussy being covered in soft hair that matched the shade on your head - maybe a bit darker. It would clump together with your juices and become soaked when you got wet. The little hairs would probably stick out cutely from the sides of the bikini cut underwear, peeking at him.

Your pussy would be the prettiest thing he had ever seen, he knew that for certain.

Stiles imagined getting you in the backseat of the Jeep one night after a game.

He would still be covered in sweat from his efforts, worn out from trying his best. Sure, he wasn’t the best player, but you wanted to ‘reward’ him for his efforts on the winning side, even if he hadn’t directly contributed to the win.

So as soon as the game was over, before he even had time to change out of his pads or shower, you hauled him to the parking lot and shoved him into the car. His gear was only half-off, ditched hastily by your feet, and you were in his lap - a perfect prize after all the hard work he had done, sitting astride his already sore thigh muscles while you kissed him - hard. Your mouth greedily sucked the oxygen out of his lungs while you shoved your tongue past his lips, painting his tongue with your sweet spit - and fuck, it felt like he was made for this.

He got sucked so deep into the fantasy - it felt so damn real.

He imagined having his hands splayed out against your beautiful, plump ass, gripping you tightly, noting wanting you to separate from him for even a section. While you held on tightly to his face, sealing him into the kiss until his lips were sore. And you would only pull back to look into his eyes with glossy desperation and utter out:

“Please, Stiles. I need you. I need you to touch my pussy.”

And what else could he do but obey?

So he would lift up your skirt - a particularly short skirt that you had worn with nothing else but a pair of knee-high socks. Something that you knew he loved to see you cheer for him on the sidelines while wearing. Even though it was a chilly night, you couldn’t feel too cold when you saw him glancing at you every single chance he got. Of course, those distracted stares had gotten him screamed at by Coach more than once. But he loved the way your skirt would flutter up in the nighttime breeze, teasing him. The way the fucking beautiful thick fat of your thighs would jiggle whenever you would jump around in order to cheer him on.

He was a man of simple, divine tastes.

So - he would lift up that perfect skirt to find those purple lacy panties underneath; to find the perfection of your wet cunt waiting for him, growing slicker by the second, more needy for him. You were humping yourself against his athletic cup, which his hard cock was practically dying inside of, bursting to get out of the hard shell of plastic to touch you. But he ignored his own needs for a few minutes longer in favor of yours. Reaching forward, sliding his fingers along the wet spot at the front of your panties, absolutely indulging in the beautiful gasp you let out when his touch grazed across your swollen clit through the fabric.

“Stiles, please.”

He could almost hear it - it was so fucking clear inside his mind. The way your voice would be so pitched with desperation, so perfectly needy curled around his name. He wanted so badly to hear it in real life.

And he would push those panties to the side, pushing his fingers inside of your hot, wet cunt-

Back in the real world, Stiles’s cock gave a needy pulse, leaking into his boxers.

He heaved out a sigh, his cock practically vibrating with blood. He had driven home the whole time trying to ignore that boner, but he simply couldn’t do that anymore. He just had to give in.

He hesitantly put your panties aside - already feeling a strange sense of attachment to them - and reached to his nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lube that he had in the drawer. Shamefully, it was already half empty, mostly due to the fantasies that he had about you. He undid his pants and had them around his ankles in record time, and whipped off his shirt for good measure, knowing that he was quite a ‘splasher’ and not wanting to get cum on it to pair with that ugly mustard stain.

He lubed up his cock more than a healthy amount, knowing that it would contribute to the fantasy of you being so wet around him. It was a distant fantasy that he would never actually get to achieve, but hell - a man can dream. Then he began to slowly pump his cock in hand, wanting to milk it and truly enjoy it, and he let his mind get back to work.

He thought back to your place. A place he was comfortable, spent a lot of time at hanging out with you.

He imagined that early that night when he had forgotten his book, rather than you being in the shower, he went back to your room and found that you had been getting ready for bed. You were rubbing sweet-smelling lotion on your arms, pulling back the covers, wearing nothing but a pair of cute little socks, a tiny camisole - where he could very visibly see that you weren’t wearing a bra, with the natural teardrop shape of your breasts bared to the eye, your nipples poking through the fabric - and those purple lace panties.

When he would appear in the doorway, you would gawk at him and ask:

“Stiles? What are you doing? Did you… forget something?”

But you would be positioned half leaning over the bed, taking back the covers so it would be comfortable for you to sleep - and your ass would be unintentionally on full display. Your sweet pussy lips peeking at him from behind, the roundness of your ass so fucking inviting, daring him to leave bite marks across the beautifully fat flesh.

And after a few moments of him staring so brazenly, saying nothing, simply drinking in the gorgeous sight of your body bent over, wearing so little clothing, wearing those perfect little lace panties-

(Stiles sped up his hand on his cock, the lube sounding downright sloppy in the silence of the room.)

You would stand up to your full height, come to him in the doorway, put your face so close to his and say:

“If you’re gonna spend so much time staring at me like a gaping idiot, then you should do something about it.”

Stiles had to stop the swift movements of his hand and clutch his grip tightly around the base of his cock, making his entire dick throb hard as he edged off his own orgasm.

He still wasn’t sure why the idea of you calling him an ‘idiot’ in such a brazen tone made him want to cum so hard - but he didn’t have time to unpack all that now.

He grabbed up the panties again with his non-lubed hand. Something in the back of his mind thought that it would be a crime for him to get them dirty. Another part argued that he would absolutely love to get them covered in his cum, not clean them, and then return them to you. That it would be fucking thrilling to have you wear them in that dirtied state.

Though he knew that would never fucking happen.

If he returned the panties to you covered in his cum, then you would slap him, call him a pervert, and likely have Scott beat the shit out of him with his newly harnessed werewolf strength. Stiles pushed this thought to the back of his mind, though.

Out of curiosity, he lifted the fabric to his nose and took a whiff. They smelled like fresh laundry - a nice lemony detergent. Of course they weren’t ones you had previously worn - they were a pair you had been planning on wearing tomorrow.

He distantly wondered if that meant you would not be wearing underwear tomorrow, because he had taken your intended pair. And that could have led his mind down a whole different filthy track, but instead - he began to wonder what a pair of your dirty underwear might smell like.

You should take a pair of used ones. A voice in his mind told him. Snatch them right out of the hamper. Come on, you’re over at her place all the time. She won’t even notice them gone.

Terrible idea. Terrible rabbit hole.

But what would they smell like?

He wasn’t deluded enough to think that pussy smelled like roses. He had never been close enough to one - a real pussy - before to actually know. Yes, he was a virgin. He could have said that he was waiting, ‘saving it’ for you - but every other girl, including you, was smart enough to look past him. There were plenty of other guys who were better looking and more charming than him, and probably better in bed than him, that girls had chosen instead of him.

He wondered if your pussy smelled like that perfect bit of sweat that you gathered at the end of a long day. Sometimes when he went to hug you before the two of you parted ways, he would catch a whiff of the tiniest undertone of musk, a good amount of sweat paired with the berry scented body spray you had put on that morning, and orange tic-tacs you had popped after lunch. It was a delectable combination.

He imagined that your cunt would smell like that bit of sweat, combined with the blueberry body wash you used - the one he knew about and loved because of the time you had insisted he use your shower while stinking up a study session because he had skipped the showers after lacrosse practice when he was late to be with you.

He imagined getting hints of that blueberry body wash smell coming off your thighs when his head was buried between them. What would your cunt taste like? That was a mystery he wanted to solve live.

He could always imagine the other aspects so well.

He could imagine the feeling of the heat under his tongue, the perfect feeling of your wetness mixing with his spit. He imagined getting to bounce your swollen clit against his tongue and while feeling your moans and cries of his name vibrate through your body as he pleasured you so well - the feeling of your pubes brushing against his cheeks as his entire face became soaked with your wetness.

But the taste - that was something he could never conjure up in his mind, no matter how hard he tried.

He knew that eating your pussy would be perfect. Not just because he would be giving you pleasure, serving you. But he so often dreamed of having his head smothered by your thighs, having you grab his head and shove him tighter into your cunt, you purposeful and demanding. You having that beautiful control over him while he drowned in your wetness.

He knew that he would likely cum in his pants from eating you out if he ever got the privilege of doing so, and even if you laughed at him - stupidly, he would find that hot too.

Stiles picked up the pace again, pumping his cock in hand evenly and firmly - even reaching down with the other hand to cradle his balls, gently rolling the flesh in his hand as he got lost in another fantasy of you.

He imagined the two of you in his bed - textbooks forgotten and pushed off onto the floor, your dress hiked up around your hips, and again, those fucking purple lace panties. He was on top of you, hovering on his knees so that his hard cock wouldn’t brush against you (even through his jeans) while the two of you sloppily made-out.

It wasn’t long before you pulled away from his kiss-swollen lips.

“Stiles,” You purred into his ear, kissing along his neck. “You know, you’re so pathetic.”

These words had his cock jumping, spurting out precum - in his fantasy, it made his underwear messy as you undid his fly.

In the real world, it made his hand messy as he continued to rhythmically jerk his cock.

“I’m not gonna let you fuck me.” You told him, contrasting these words with your intentions as you put your hands inside his waistband and shoved his pants and underwear down over his hips - down to his knees until his hard, throbbing cock was exposed. “Not until you prove yourself.”

Before Stiles could ask the question, the beautiful, fantastic you that he had made up inside his mind gave him the perfect answer.

“Get yourself off by rubbing your pathetic dick against my panties. And then - I might let you fuck me.”

In the real world, Stiles let out a throttled moan - a choked sound that surely would have had his father knocking on the door to ask if he was okay if he was at home. And then he rushed to grab the panties again, and without even thinking, he used his sticky lubed up hand to position the fabric around his dick. It was a coarse roughness compared to the slick smoothness he had previously been feeling, but it did wonders to complete his fantasy as he delved back to the you inside of his mind.

He started rubbing the slightly lube-sticky rough fabric up and down his dick at a very slow pace as he imagined it:

Being perched between your thighs, with the fabric of the panties stuck to your wet cunt, his cock hard and leaking as he tucked himself right up against you and began to rub his dick against you in order to get off. Just like you wanted, just like you had ordered him to do.

“Please.” Stiles chanted, the words leaking out of his lips, chanted into his empty bedroom as he pleaded to the imaginary you that would always have a hold over him - just as tight of a hold as the real you had. “Please, please - oh fuck.”

He moved the fabric over his cock faster as he moved his hips faster in the fantasy, imagining how hot your pussy would feel against him, imagining your nails digging into his hips as you looked up at him with mocking and adoration in your eyes. He imagined you forcing his hips faster, trapping him in place with your knees bracketed around his thighs, showing him absolutely no mercy.

“Please, please, please.” He chanted, knowing with a distant part of his mind that he must have sounded utterly delirious. “Please, Y/N, lemme cum-”

“Cum for me, Stiles.”

Confirmed by that fantasy version of you and truly unable to hold it any longer, Stiles arched up off the bed, cumming all over his own fist. Just as he had predicted, it was an utter, uncontrollable mess. He shot cum all over his stomach, and absolutely soaked the fabric of the panties - making a horrible mess of them. Which, the lube had definitely already done. He laid there for a single moment catching his breath before it truly hit him.

Fuck. He had fucked up.

You would definitely notice the underwear missing after a while and he certainly couldn’t return them to you in this condition.

…

Stiles spent the next hour in the bathroom, absolutely panicking over how to get them clean. Luckily, he wasn’t a total idiot and he looked up the washing instructions online - and after hand-washing them in warm water with a ‘gentle’ detergent (handsoap was the best that he could do), they came out perfectly clean.

The only problem?

Hang to dry.

He set his alarm for early, earlier than you suggested, and prayed that he wouldn’t sleep through it. In fact, he set three more alarms just to make sure. He couldn’t have you or his father barging into his room to wake him up when he had a pair of your stolen panties pinned to his corkboard in order to properly dry them so that he could sneak them back to you in good condition.

…

The next day, he departed for school by 6:45 with the stolen goods hidden away in his bag, ready to sneak them back into your room later that afternoon. He made it to the library ten whole minutes before seven, and you seemed shocked that he was not only on time - but early.

“Wow.” You said, having just gotten there yourself, spreading out your items at a table - including a tray with some coffees. “You know, Stiles, I am impressed.”

“You don’t have to act so - so shocked.” He replied, partially interrupted by a yawn.

You leaned over to get a pen from your bag, and Stiles’s eyes immediately went to your ass, unconsciously trying to spot panty lines through your dress and tights - wondering if you were even wearing underwear because he had stolen the ones you had intended for today.

Focus, Stiles. Focus.

“Well, if you weren’t here by seven sharp like I told you, I was gonna pour this in the garbage.” You told him, taking his coffee out of the paper tray and sliding it toward him.

“You don’t have to be so mean.” He chuckled, airy and light - very secretly annoyed with the way your ‘mean’ streak affected him sometimes. Why did he have to be turned on by you scolding him and punishing him? Why?

“Hey, if I’m not mean then you never get anything done.” You told him truthfully. “And you know how it works by now. Good boys get rewards and bad boys get spanked.” You told him, letting out a bright laugh - indicating that it was clearly meant to be a joke.

But instantly, it shook his mind with imagery of you bending him over the table, ripping his pants down and spanking him until he came untouched and cried for mercy, forcing him to agree that he would behave and listen to you. He became downright dizzy at the thought.

You meant it as a joke - he had to sharply remind himself. But the way you so casually called him a ‘good boy’, said that he was deserving of a ‘reward’ - it sent chills down his spine and already had his cock waking up. Too early. Bad rabbit hole.

If he was any sort of brave, he would have pushed it more and asked you what kind of ‘reward’ you had in mind. But he wasn’t, and he was too tired to analyze the potential consequences.

“Oh!” You said, as though suddenly remembering something. You moved to grab your bag again and Stiles closed his eyes to forcefully keep himself from staring at your ass. “You left this at my place last night.” You told him, sliding his English textbook across the table toward him.

He was too busy trying to calm his own lust that he missed the smirk on your face - the mischief lingering in your eyes, the intention in your tone. He was too caught up, drowning in his own affections for you that he never would have pieced together that you had taken in and hidden it on purpose as a ploy to get him to come back. That you had put out some other bait for him to find.

“Thanks.” He said quietly. “So - what do we need to go over before the test?”

“Everything.”

Stiles groaned.

...

A/N: Yes, there is a sequel for this fic in my drafts. It is something that I worked on during my hiatus. It's 10k long, and it's pretty much done.

If you would like to see the sequel edited and posted in a timely manner, I would like to see at least 30 reblogs and 25 comments on this fic - in the form of replies or anon asks.

102 people liked the preview for this fic and I know a lot of people are interested in it, so I am only asking for a 1/4 of the people who liked the preview to interact this fic before I release the sequel. But please, keep comments to the content of this fic rather than just asking for the next part to be released.

If you want to be tagged in the next part, you can ask to be put on my Teen Wolf taglist by interacting with this post, but please know that if you don't follow my taglist rules, you will be removed from the taglist promptly. If that happens, you are still welcome to read and enjoy future fics, you just won't be included in my taglists ever again.

Happy reading, and I hope you enjoyed the fic!!

#sundrop writes #stiles stilinski x reader #dylan o'brian x reader #dylan o'brien smut #stiles stilinksi smut #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinski #stiles x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf x y/n #teen wolf x reader #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf smut

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quicksweetdreamer · 2 years

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Watching videos, searching the tags, reading fanfics, making playlists, gifsets and posts and daydreaming non-stop about my blorbos isn’t enough.

✨I need them injected directly into my veins✨

#blorbo from my shows #blorbo #favorite characters #shitpost #I need to become them #I need to fuse with them #do you guys feel like parenting going out with and becoming your blorbos all at the same time too?#or am I just really fucked up and sleep deprived?#every time I get a new blorbo their personnality bleeds into mine a little #right now it’s Stiles Stilinski #my sarcasm is cranked to 100 #and I need to move ALL THE TIME #I’m writing this after studying non-stop for hours I need help #my post

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bamboozledbird · 2 months

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Written in the Stars // Stiles Stilinski Imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5k Tags: fluff, fluff, fluff, i love my men nerdy and desperate, all characters are over 19, my vibe is it's like their sophomore or junior year of college Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected pnv (terrible advice, babes, don't listen to these idiots)

Request: stiles smut plssss!!! anything fluffy??? A/N: request mixed with a lil bit of an old work to ease me into my first smut. still coming across virginities at 27, and that is really something. s/o to the anon who requested it lmao.

Stiles’s childhood bedroom is an assortment of Star Wars paraphernalia, baseball posters, and bundles of wrinkled flannels squeezed to fit within four faded blue walls. There are a few books stacked on top of his desk, coated in a thin layer of dust from the semester away from home, and little plastic stormtroopers stand at attention on his dresser corners. It smells a little musty in his room, a little like damp earth, but you’ve always liked that smell. You especially like how his cologne smells here—like spice, like fallen leaves, like Christmas morning.

“The curtains are blackout,” Stiles says. He pulls the heavy navy curtains over the window facing the small backyard. The grass is yellowing from the cold of winter, and the air is crisp with the same bitter chill. You shiver and burrow further into the sweatshirt you’d somehow commandeered long before you and Stiles were a we. A few flecks of dust float off the plaid bedding when he sits down on his bed. He looks up at you and grins at the sleeves hanging limply below your fingers, “Flip off the light.”

You turn off the light and shut the door. It’s dark inside the room now—almost completely black. What little remains of the sun is gone, and now you can only see the glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to the ceiling. “You must have taken a lot of people up here,” you hum, grinning at him coyly over your shoulder. You’re not quite sure if he can make out the glint in your eyes under the pale fluorescent glow, but you’d like to think he can. Either way, you’re sure he knows.

Stiles laughs easily and scoots himself down to the edge of his bed, “Why?”

“For kissing,” you say, matter-of-factly, but you’re still grinning. You make your way towards him, and your prowl is far less smooth than you’d like it to be—the piles of books and a couple month’s worth of dirty laundry make an already difficult path downright hazardous. You count it as a win when you end up in his lap without tripping on anything, “Doesn’t everyone want to be kissed under the stars?”

His hands, his wonderfully large and veiny hands, find their way to your hips. It’s instinct for him, reflexive at this point, and here in the dark it feels like the only thing he knows. You can feel his grin against your neck, “Do you?”

You hum, playing coy, and absently curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, thick and curling a bit at the ends. It’s grown out over the last few months. He’s been too busy with studying for finals and working at the library to bother getting it cut. You like it like this, long enough to hold onto, long enough to yank. “I like the stars,” you sigh—so close to his mouth, but not touching—and then you pull back, smiling fondly when you see his mouth is already puckered. “Tell me about ‘em.”

Stiles groans and falls onto his back, pulling you down with him. You end up tucked against his side, shivering as he slides his hand under your sweatshirt to trace a feathery line up and down your back. “That’s like the worst possible genre for innuendo. I can’t woo you while I’m David Attenborough-ing about astrology.”

You smile against his shoulder, and he yelps when you nip at his skin through his thread-bare t-shirt. “You like a challenge.”

He wraps a strand of your hair around his finger and pulls a little, just hard enough to tip into a reprimand. It’s at least half the reason you turn into a brat when he’s this close. “There’s Andromeda,” he hums against the top of your head, pointing towards a small cluster of stars. “Those are supposed to be her legs, and that’s her head, and the ones over there are her arms—fuckin’ uneven, I know. I think that side kinda looks like she’s holding out one of those canes with tennis balls on t—”

You smile and knock your head into his chin lightly, “Wooing, Stiles.”

He tugs on your hair again and swears under his breath when a little whimper tumbles past your lips. “Anyway, she’s next to Perseus—who looks a lot more like Patrick than a demigod. I mean, look at him; his body type is like…something between Dorito and spanakopita.” You laugh, and Stiles squeezes you closer to his side, tangles your legs together, and kisses the tip of your nose like he just can’t help himself. “Story goes, Andromeda's mom royally pissed off Poseidon, so he sent a sea monster to destroy her kingdom—as one does when someone’s talking shit.”

“Naturally,” you hum as you reach for the hand he has cupped around your waist.

“Naturally,” Stiles agrees, nodding against the crown of your head. You try not to get too distracted by the length of his fingers, bending them and straightening them out one at a time, as he carries on with the story, “So Andromeda’s mom is up there with the titans of bad parents—like right next to Vader and every Disney step-mom ‘cause she fuckin’ ties Andromeda to a rock as a sacrifice for the mo—” He sucks in a shallow breath through his teeth when you start kissing along the row of his knuckles, first little soft brushes that almost tickle and then a few lingering ones that wet his skin. He swears again and ever-so slowly shifts his hips against the thigh tucked between his legs. You take pity on him and rest your entwined hands in the small gap between your breastbone and his ribs. His exhale is warm against your forehead, “Obviously, Perseus swoops in at the last minute, slays the beast, gets the girl, etcetera, etcetera.”

Humming, you tip your chin up against his chest and look at him through your lashes, “What happens during etcetera, etcetera?”

“I think,” Stiles rolls over so that he’s on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging you in delightfully close to his broad chest, “something like this.”

You forget about the game for a minute when he starts mouthing at your skin with just the right amount of teeth. His hair, adorably messy and sticking up in little patches from your fingers, tickles the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t Perseus kill Medusa?” you mumble, head tipping back into the mattress, eyes closed.

“Uh,” Stiles keeps kissing along your neck, obviously distracted by the hitches in your breath and the soft sighs you let out when he breathes against spit-slick skin, “yeah?”

You can feel the heaviness of his whine against your mouth when you pull away, blinking up at him with big, round eyes—the picture of innocence. A little lamb, an unplucked daisy, a gossamer butterfly wing, entirely unaware of the raging hard-on pressed against your inner thigh. His skin is warm through his shirt, so warm you feel it on your legs when you wrap them around his waist. “While she was sleeping?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles slides a hand up your thigh. The other one is pressed into the mattress, and the muscles in his forearm flex under his full weight. You’re pretty sure he’d agree with anything you say like this.

Unfortunately for the pulsing between your legs, you’ve fallen victim to your own ruse. Your head tilts as you recall all the unsavory details of the Medusa myth, “After she was literally assaulted by his dad?”

Stiles drops his head against your chest and groans, “You’re killing me, baby.”

You grin and curl your fingers in his hair, petting him gently and squeezing your thighs against his hips, “Tell me another one.”

He sighs and rolls over, starfishing his right arm and leg over the edge of the bed with a dramatic flop. “We’ll skip Orion and the seven girls he stalked.”

“Smart choice,” you hum and snuggle into his side. His chest is firm from hours of trying to lift enough to play lacrosse with werewolves, but it still makes for a nice pillow. Stiles’s fingers find their way into your hair, and you swallow back the purr rising in your throat for his sake. He’s been so good for you, after all. You don’t want the torture to be too painful.

“And the swan-fucker,” he adds, scratching lightly at your scalp.

“What?”

Stiles ignores your wide eyes, smirking, and continues playing with your hair, “Altair and Vega. That’s a good one.” In the blanket of darkness and under the strain of yearning, his voice sounds soft and crackly, like one of those singers in the black and white movies, the ones that dance with the microphone. “Starts with a gorgeous, sexy, incredibly charitable goddess falling for a lowly mortal,” his grin is sly as he hikes your thigh over his, squeezing just under your ass, “a lot like us.”

“Boo. Awful.” You pull a face as he drops a flurry of kisses over your cheeks, nose, chin—your laughing mouth, “Disgusting. I’m disgusted.”

His fingers dip into the waistband of your leggings, tauntingly close to just where you want him, “You don’t feel disgusted.”

Now, that won’t do. You’re just getting started. You trap his hand with your thighs and tap your finger against the slope of his upturned nose, “Finish the story.”

Stiles whines a little and then sighs, returning the palm of his hand to the little dip above your hip. “Her dad is disgusted that she wants to bring a loser human home, so he turns them into stars on opposite sides of the galaxy.”

Frowning, you squint at the collection of stars he’d pointed to. They don’t look so far apart on his bedroom ceiling. “That’s…depressing.”

“It’s not over yet,” Stiles pulls on your hair and does his best to look annoyed, but the nip to your bottom lip feels far more like a reward than a punishment, “hush.” He waits a minute for you to comply—or, more likely, not comply—and you settle back on his chest and arch your brow, waiting. He arches his brow right back and then keeps going, “One day a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, Altair fills the galaxy with his tears, and every bird in the sky makes a bridge with their wings so that they can spend one more night together.”

The corner of your mouth tugs into a little grin, “That is a good one.” You trace little patterns on his bicep, little swirls and stars, and rest your chin on his shoulder so that you can see his pretty face, “But just for the story. Only one night a year would kill me.”

“Baby,” Stiles clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shakes his head like he's disappointed, bottom lip jutting out slightly from under his top, “it'd take a helluva lot more than a couple light-years and an immortal father-in-law to keep me from getting to you.”

It’s such a line, but the dopey grin he gives you while he says it somehow makes it charming. Maybe you’re just a little bit lovesick. Okay, maybe a lot. “You can kiss me n—”

He’s on you before you can finish, but you don’t mind being interrupted when he's slanting his mouth against yours just right and groaning into your sighs with a gravelly pitch that makes your toes curl. “Fuck me,” Stiles sighs. He dips back in before you can quip something bratty, something that would definitely earn you another yank on your hair—later perhaps.

You straddle his waist, sit back in the cradle of his pelvis, and lace your fingers together on the mattress against the sides of his head. He whimpers. You curse. “Off,” you mutter against his mouth, tugging petulantly on the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles is quick to comply, like always, but the fabric gets stuck around his shoulders. You let him struggle for a minute, just long enough to hear more of those petulant little whines. When you finally help him wrangle his shirt over his head, you’re up close and personal with his mouth. His lips are pretty—swollen, pink, and shiny with salvia and your lip balm—and you’re filled with the overwhelming urge to bite. You toss his shirt somewhere on the floor behind you and lean down, your chest pressed against his. You can feel his heartbeat stutter, like a rabbit in a trap, when you stroke your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s soft and wet against your finger, and you sigh high in your throat, “Pretty.”

His chest warms, and you wish you had more light to admire the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. You know it’s pink and pretty too, but you’d enjoy seeing the proof. “Pretty?” Stiles echoes, cocking his head slightly, and slides his hands from your ass to your hips. He continues his path along the sides of your ribcage with the bottom of your sweatshirt bunched between his fingers.

“Pretty,” you nod, sharp and definitive. You sit up a little so that Stiles can pull your hoodie off, and then it’s lost to the dark abyss. Frankly, you aren’t that worried about if you ever see it again. You can always steal another one after you’re done.

He shakes his head and runs his hands over your torso, your collarbones, your stomach, just under your tits—he can’t see that well in the dim light, so he’s damn well going to see you the only way he can. “Pretty,” Stiles groans, cupping your tits and gently thumbing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your cotton bra. It’s simple, white, unadorned by lace or a pattern—and it’s sexier than it has any right to be, he thinks. He’s eager to rip it off.

You shudder through the entire length of your spinal column, through all the nerves attached, and arch into his touch, “Yeah?”

He coos, and your nipples pebble in response. It’s embarrassing but soon forgotten when Stiles cups your face, big hands encompassing almost the entire length of your jaw, and whispers, “Pretty girl. My pretty baby.”

It’s even more embarrassing how quickly you feel your underwear dampen under the scrutiny of some simple praise. Now, you’re whining, and he’s letting out a string of guttural, “Fuck,”s as you grind down against the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. Your nails leave little pink lines along the sculpted v of his pelvis, just deep enough to sting a bit—enough to send his head back towards his shoulders. He sits up a little more so that he can grip your hips, holding them still as he catches his breath, and you’re only a little ashamed of the way you mewl his name in protest. Stiles shuts you up with a kiss and shakes his head, “Can’t come in my pants like I’m 17 again. That’s the worst possible ending to our constellation. Like a 1/10, definitely certified rotten.”

You grin against his throat, and he swallows at the sharp press of your teeth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the worst ending. Wouldn’t the worst be the one where you don’t come at all?”

Stiles’s fingers dig into your hips and he pulls you down firmly against his lap, like he’s scared you’ll get up and leave him with a weeping cock and teary eyes. “Baby, don’t even joke about that. That’s a billion times worse than letting a sea monster rip me in half.”

“Guess you can split me in half then,” you shrug a little, and Stiles goes taut under you, fingertips flexing into the small of your back, “unless you want me to tie you to a rock. I’d be into that.”

He growls in your ear, nipping at your jaw and flipping you onto your back. You laugh, a little breathless, as you bounce back on the mattress from the force of it. “Definitely wanna split you in half,” Stiles mutters as he shucks off his pants and kneels at the edge of his bed. He starts peeling back your leggings, taking his time to kiss each sliver of skin revealed to him despite the urgency in his eyes, despite the ache in his white-knuckled grip on the buttery martial of your bottoms. “Gonna wreck you,” Stiles promises as he brushes his lips over your ankle a few times. His words are filthy, but his eyes are honey-sweet and lit with nothing but complete and utter devotion—like you really are a goddess in the sky. You’re already wrecked, probably have been since he kissed you for the first time, entirely ruined for anyone else.

“Did’ya know that Vega is brighter than Altair,” he says, quiet and reverent as he drops your leggings. You blink at him, a bit dumbly, but it’s his own fault for trying to have a conversation while he’s sliding your legs over his shoulders and fiddling with the hem of your underwear. “By, like, 5 places? I think? That’s us too—can’t even look at you sometimes,” he hums, warm against your wet cunt, and hooks his thumbs around your panties. You shudder, and he smiles. You aren’t quite sure if he’s talking to you or to the glistening flesh he reveals when he yanks the baby pink cotton to the side. Either way, you understand his dilemma. It’s torture to watch him sometimes. You have to close your eyes when the pink tip of his tongue darts out, wetting his lip, tasting the air.

There’s a sigh. So soft. Really more of an exhale, and you aren’t sure where it came from. It could’ve been you, or him, or the stars. “You talk a lot,” this time you know the sigh is coming from you.

Stiles smirks a little and slips his thumb inside your panties, swiping through your slick folds like he’s fingerpainting, “Is that a complaint?”

Your hips stutter, and his other hand is quick to clamp down on your skin, stopping any attempts to skitter away from his light touch. “I love it when you talk,” you hum, leaning up onto your elbows so that you can watch him work. He grins up at you, almost shy, and presses down against your clit. A wet gasp bursts through swollen lips as your back arches, and Stiles isn’t so shy when he bends down to drop a gentle kiss over his thumb. “But I, uh,” you brush your fingers through the dark hair flopping over his forehead and squeeze your eyes shut when his kisses become kitten licks, “I also love it when you use your mo—” His finger (his long, gifted finger) slides into your cunt with an embarrassing squelch, and his lips wrap around your clit as he sucks. “That,” you whine, back arching a little until Stiles spreads his fingers over your stomach and presses down, “I also love it when you do that.”

His laugh vibrates deliciously against all the places he’s trying to devour, and you think it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go—being eaten alive by your gorgeous boyfriend. He pulls back to slip another finger in your pussy, spreading them just enough to burn in the best way, and then he’s prodding at the spot inside you that sends a jolt up your spine—makes your fingers wind in the bedspread, pull on his hair, fly to your mouth when you start to cry a little. It didn’t used to be like this. Sex. Getting fingered, fucked, even eaten out—it never felt like this before him. It’s…overwhelming, sometimes. Most of the time, actually. You keep waiting to get used to it, for the newness, the discovery of it all, to wear off. Hasn’t happened yet. You don’t think it ever will. Certainly not tonight.

“Good?” Stiles licks his lips, at the glistening corners of his mouth, and you toss your head back—overwhelmed. “Good,” he concludes, and he’s not even smug about it. More like he’s making a note in one of his case files, something to look back on later when he needs it. He’s quick about getting what little remains of your clothes off, and when he crawls on top of you, you’re immensely grateful for it. Skin on skin, nothing quite like it. Quick romps in the jeep, up against alley walls, the sink of the occasional bar bathroom—all fun, but not nearly as satisfying as being completely pressed against his naked body, completely caged in by his large frame. Sappy, maybe, but it feels dirty when he drags the tip of his cock through your folds. When he bumps against your clit, you mewl and dig your nails into his back. He sucks in sharply and buries his face in the crook of your neck, “There’s a condom in th—”

“Forget it,” you whimper, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s a little sweaty where it meets his neck, and it’s so soft, and thick, and perfect, and—he’s stopped breathing against your neck.

He groans from a place deep in his gut, deeper actually, and his arms shake, “Are you su—”

“Yes,” you nod rapidly and wrap your legs around him, arms too, and your fingers join in on the clinging when they twist in his hair. “Absolutely. 1000%. Please don’t make me say please.”

He lets out a little laugh that stirs the hair framing your face, and he traces your cheekbone, barely touching your skin. Your head swims with the look in his eyes: amber, warmth, and worship, “But you’re just so pretty when you beg.” Not that you’ve ever had to for long. Stiles gives you anything you want if you ask him the right way. If you look at him with big, wet eyes, if you jut out your lower lip just so—wet as well, the little lick of your tongue is part of it; that took him months to figure out—he crumbles. He’s said many times that better men than he have fallen victim to far less beautiful schemes.

Stiles kisses the pout off your lips and nudges the tip of his nose over yours, grinning like a drunken idiot, “Told’ya, baby. Not a light-year, definitely not a little latex.” His grin slides into a little ‘o’ when you slither your hand between your bodies and grip his cock, sliding the first inch into your cunt, impatient. “F-fuck—fuck-ing hell,” he grunts and takes over for you, squeezing your hip until it starts to hurt a little. You’d say something, but then he’d stop—and you like the way it aches. You like knowing there will be a bruise. He’ll fret over it later, kiss each mottled spot better a million times, and you like that too. You like being taken care of, almost as much as he likes taking care of you.

When he bottoms out, when his pelvic bone ruts up against you, a long, drawn out whimper spills through your pout. “Yeah? Feels good, baby?” Stiles watches your face closely, brushes away the hair sticking to your forehead, and drops a few kisses on your shut eyelids. You nod, and nod, and nod, until he stops you with another kiss to your lips. He kisses you slowly, presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you sigh. The kiss quickly becomes wet and filthy, and you’d be embarrassed by the sound of your tongues sliding together if you could actually hear it. At the moment, all you can hear is his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy—and that’s definitely sending a dizzying heat up your neck. You don’t worry about it for long when his hips shift and he starts hitting that spot inside you again. After that, neither of you can hear anything over your squealing. Stiles kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes and licks his lips, chasing the taste. “Right there, huh?” You babble an incoherent answer, and he strokes your hair and noses at your cheek, “Yeah, right there. I know. It’s okay.”

Stiles slides his hands under your back and sits up, taking you with him. The new angle is impossibly deep, and you bite down on his shoulder and wind your arms around his neck to keep yourself there. With him. In the moment. “It’s okay, baby. I got you, promise,” he squeezes your hips, and despite his reassurances and the strength of his grip, you know he’s falling apart too. He’s close. You can feel it. His hips stutter a little, change direction, lose their dedicated pace—and it’s perfect because you’re right there with him. It’s been building for a while, probably since he led you by hand to his room, maybe even before that when he smirked at you behind his cup of tequila and (mostly) pineapple juice.

You cry a little and bite down on your bottom lip, hard. Stiles kisses the sting away, and your eyes screw shut as you start babbling again, “I’m—”

He kisses you again and lifts his hands from your hips to cup your face, thumbing along your bottom lip when he pulls back—not far, just enough to look at your face, shiny with sweat and tears. “I know,” he stills for a moment, pausing the movement of his hips so that he can just feel you pulsing around him for a moment, “me too.” You aren’t sure if you want to hit him or kiss him for stopping, but you don’t have the strength to do either when he starts what must be his final round of thrusts. It has to be—you’re a few seconds away from collapsing or coming, whichever comes first. When Stiles moans your name in your ear, soft and high like he does when he’s right there, and he slides his hand down your stomach to rub firm circles on your clit, you’re happy it’s your orgasm that happens first. Your abs convulse a little as you twitch around him, and you curl in on yourself as much as you can with Stiles in the way. He’s not in the way for long. Growling, he shoves you back against the bed and mumbles, “Where?” after a few sloppy thrusts.

You mewl as he keeps the pressure on your clit, reach for his wrist and try to pull his hand away, but he’s determined and you’re tired. You twitch and throw your head back, whimpering, “Inside,” before you can think better of it. It’s his fault, you’ll decide later, for prolonging your high with his mean, unforgiving, wonderful thumb.

He’ll blame you, for feeling so perfect around him—for fluttering, and leaking, and trembling better than…anything he’s ever seen in porn, and he’s watched...a lot of it, so he’s a bit of an expert on the cinematic orgasm. “You’re so fuckin—you,” he shakes his head against your heaving chest and groans, “you’re everything.” And when he finally comes in you, you’re okay with taking the blame for something that feels so good. He manages a few more thrusts, and then he finally lets you pull his hand away from your cunt when he collapses onto his forearms, barely holding himself up from crushing you with his full weight. You’d tell him to roll over, but then he’d be over there and not in you, so you put up with the sweat and heaviness while your head spins.

“Baby?” Stiles hums noncommittally in response to your soft prodding, and you smirk against the top of his head. All the smugness leaves you when you finally feel the foreign sensation of his cum leaking out of you. Shuddering, you kiss his hair a few times and scratch up and down his back lightly until he’s able to breathe normally. He pushes himself up onto his arms and glances down when he pulls out, staring for a moment at the way your pussy gapes a bit, watching the trickle of cum drip down your folds and onto the bed. He rubs his hand over his jaw and licks his lips, shaking his head—at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Your tongue is a little thick when you fill the void for him, “Next time, towel first.”

He finds it within himself to tear his eyes away from your cunt and gives you a crooked little grin, “Next time?”

You roll your eyes, but your grin is stupid with affection, “Sure, next time. Maybe. If you’re good.”

It’s a little disgusting, the way he just rolls over and pulls you on top of him with absolutely no regard for the various bodily fluids sticking to your skin, but you forget about the unpleasantness of drying cum and cooling sweat when he kisses you. “I’m always good,” he huffs against your cheek. You shoot him a look, brows arched and eyes narrowed, and he smirks, “Okay, maybe not, but I’m always good for you.”

You nuzzle in a little closer and scoff, but it’s true. Stiles is so good, always—especially for you. “I guess you did manage to woo me. You’re very sexy when you’re talkin’ astrology, you know that?”

He smiles, wide and happy, and wiggles his brows, “An absolute banger of an ending, right? I don’t think they could chart it in the stars without ruining your pretty face, but that’s probably for the best.” Stiles brushes his fingers over your lips when you let out a little questioning hum and takes your hand, growling playfully as he nibbles at your fingertips, “You’re mine. Nobody’s allowed to see you like this but me—definitely not horny little nerds with their telescopes.”

You grin and bump your nose against his, “You’re a horny little nerd with a telescope.”

Stiles tips his head with a sly grin, and you already know what he’s going to say—it’s still devastatingly adorable when he whispers, “No, I’m your horny little nerd with a telescope.”

Adorable enough to make you consider pulling him into the shower with you, and if the heavy-lidded look he’s giving you is anything to go by, you’d say he agrees.

#stiles stilinski #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinksi smut #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski fanfiction #teen wolf #teen wolf imagine #dylan o'brien imagine #stiles stilinski fic #teen wolf fanfiction

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sterekcollabang · 2 months

Text

Falling Together On Purpose

Writer: @adeceasedtulip

Artist: @escharis

Rating: T Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey/Scott McCall Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Lydia Martin, Allison Argent, Vernon Boyd, Erica Reyes, Peter Hale, Sheriff Stilinski (Teen Wolf), The Nemeton (Teen Wolf), (Mentioned) Claudia Stilinski - Character, Alan Deaton Additional Tags: Stiles Stilinski is Derek Hale's Anchor, Derek Hale is Stiles Stilinski's Anchor, they're cute what can i say, Flustered Derek Hale, Character Study, sorta - Freeform, there is a lot of internal workings out, Pack Alpha Derek Hale, Hale Pack 2.0, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Getting Together, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Lucid Dreaming, Monster of the Week, well issue of the week but eh semantics, Spark Stiles Stilinski Summary:

The Nemeton has been on the Beacon Hills land for centuries. It has stood strong and protected the Hale pack and been protected in turn. It was only when that was ripped from it that things started to change and the power became tainted. It all changed once Scott Mcall was bit. A Hale came back and stayed. A short period of time passed since all the drama surrounding the events. It was only then that the Nemeton recognised a spark in its midst. It once again began to hope to be free of the darkness. In an attempt to do so, it called out to the spark. Stiles. It called out to Stiles. OR The Nemeton plays matchmaker for Stiles and Derek in hopes of chasing away the darkness that has haunted Beacon Hills for too long.

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heartbreakgrill · 1 year

Text

stiles stilinski: breakable heaven; pt. 3, “devils rolls the dice, angels roll their eyes. if i bleed, you’ll be the last to know.”

description: situationship x stiles.

stiles: hey :)

y/n: hello! don’t let coach see u on ur phone, loser :)

stiles: i know, i know. just thinking of you

y/n: oh?

y/n’s throat tightened. she looked up across the lunch room, past danny’s head. her stare blanked at the wall. he was thinking of her. thinking of her…how? that was a very loaded statement to make. it was…flirtatious. caring. it was a strings attached kind of statement. it was dangerous.

her phone buzzed.

stiles: thinking of that lacey bra you had on the other day, mostly :)

y/n flushed, a red, hot buzz radiating off her skin. she nearly choked on her spit, and had to take a quick sip of water. danny- who was shooting off at the mouth about something during the lacrosse game last friday- barely glanced at her. he kept blabbering.

this? y/n was good at this. she didn’t have to look him in the eye while saying the dirtjest things she could. this was just her, her phone, and her imagination.

y/n: today it’s red

stiles: pics or it didn’t happen

stiles…was not good at this. she didn’t expect him to be. he was awkward, no matter what. but, it took the pressure off of most of the stressful things in life. that’s part of what she was starting to value most in his character.

y/n: come see for yourself ;)

stiles: fuck, i’m in econ!

y/n: excuses, excuses

stiles: no, no, i would if i could, i promise!

y/n: prove it, then ;)

stiles: meet me in the locker room in 5

y/n pocketed her phone, grabbed her bag.

it had been nearly a week since their first time. she thought about it almost every second of every day. it was clouding the heartbreak that had lingered on her like freezing rain. it was loosening her mangled mind.

she hadn’t expected for them to fuck every single day since then. but, neither of them had said anything about it. she was half-worried that she was so terrible, he didn’t want anything to do with that aspect of their relationship. instead, they’d just been texting a lot about other stuff. music, movies, books. they were bonding.

it was cool to have another friend, but god- she wanted him.

stiles had been dealing with his own issues. he, scott, lydia, allison- they’d spent a night tracking boyd and cora, after searching for a week to find them in the vault. it was an exhausting gig, on top of lacrosse practice, the game last friday, homework. he hadn’t had time to really think about getting laid.

but, now, here he was- monday at 12:10pm, during economics, with coach yelling like a banshee- he tried to focus on the chalkboard, on the text highlighted in his book. all he could think about was her. her skin, delicate beneath his fingertips. her lips, so plump against his neck. her legs-

he dumped his shit into his backpack and shouldered it quickly. scott whipped his head towards his friend, concerned. then, the werewolf caught a whiff of stiles’ hormones. scott crinkled his expression, grossed out. but, he shot stiles a half-hearted thumbs up.

coach called after the boy, “hey, next time, let’s try, excuse me, may i use the restroom, k?”

coach continued on with some angry remark, but stiles ignored him.

he made it to the locker room, quickly, nearly out of breath from how fast his pace was. stiles tossed the door open, and it slammed shut behind him. y/n wasn’t visible to him. he set down his bag, “y/n? hello?”

stiles looked around every which corner, but she wasn’t there. he pulled out his phone, and saw a text from her.

y/n: was on my way, but danny made me go stalk the new boy ethan in study hall. i’m so so sorry stiles! i’m totally going to make it up to. what are you doing 6th period?????

stiles’ shoulders dropped. he slouched down on one of the benches, feeling a little blue-balled. then, a second text dinged.

y/n: also here, for now ;) 1 attached photo

he nearly broke his phone. it flipped out of his hand, and he jumped from the bench to grab it before it hit the floor. he fell onto his knees, awkwardly holding the device in the air. the picture stared back at him. she’d slipped into the school bathroom to take a picture for him. for him. stiles.

he fell over, again, this time onto his stomach. stiles groaned, annoyedly, into the concrete floor of the locker room. his life sucked so bad.

the bell rang for lunch.

–

stiles: all yours, baby. see you, then

y/n, now in history, felt her breath hitch at the text. baby? baby. he called her baby. she knew, a lot of the times, people used pet names when they were sexting. but, this…was strange for a guy like stiles. he wasn’t fluid or, by any means, good at sexting. he wasn’t the type to know to say that. he wasn’t the type to…y/n overthought it every which way that she possibly could.

and, then, he texted her again.

stiles: you are so, so beautiful. 1 attached photo

y/n choked on her spit this time. she dropped her phone onto the desk, coughing hysterically. danny, seated behind her, leaned forward. he patted her back, asked her if she was okay. she gave him a thumbs up, kind of.

stiles was wearing underwear with pickles on them.

and he was very, very hard.

the bell rang, signaling the end of the transitional period, and the instructor began the lesson. y/n took a swig of water. she was sweating a little bit. she was struggling to sit still.

someone’s phone dinged. the instructor called out, “please, everyone, take a moment to put your phones away.”

y/n grabbed her cell, staring intensely at the photo as she slowly, painfully, leaned over to put it in her bag.

–

y/n: do you know how hard it was to pay attention in class, thinking about you like that?

y/n: i want to take care of you so badly

y/n: i’m in the locker room, where are you?

y/n: please, stiles. need you

stiles phone buzzed, four times, in the back of his jeans pocket. scott, ethan, and aiden glanced over at him. he cleared his throat, scratched the side of his neck.

“let me, just…” he stepped aside from the conversation to look at his phone screen.

his face turned beat red.

he hasn’t forgotten about their plans, but time got away from him. it was 6th period, and he was stuck interrogating alpha werewolves about supernatural shit. it was in times like these, when he wished life was normal. unfortunately, life is anything but.

stiles: i’m so fucking sorry. scott needed me for something. please don’t be mad at me. next period, promise

y/n: you know girls can get blue ball too?

y/n: it’s just easier to hide.

y/n: good luck :) 1 attached photo

oh, fuck.

–

7th period.

y/n was marching towards the locker room. she dumped her book bag at her locker, intending to be done with school for the day, since her next class would be her free period. she had one very important, very…big thing on her mind.

y/n was just around the corner from the locker room when a voice called out her name. she skidded to a stop, shoulders tense, and a huff on her lips, where stiles’ should be.

“y/n…the bell rang four minutes ago,” miss blake spoke, looking pointedly in y/n’s eyes.

y/n smiled, so painfully fake, “yes, ma’am.”

“so, you have one minute to get to my class on time. yet, you seem to be headed for the locker room. do you have a late pass?” miss blake was on her high fucking horse today, it seemed.

y/n shook her head, lips pursed in annoyance, “no, ma’am.”

“oh, silly me, then,” she rolled her eyes in a funny manner, “you must just be turning around then. here, we can walk together?”

miss blake looped her arm through y/n’s, and led them towards the english classroom at the other end of the hall.

y/n didn’t get a chance to text stiles back, but she just knew the poor boy was about to burst.

–

stiles: here

stiles: i can’t wait to touch you

stiles: oh my god i just saw miss blake literally drag you away from me

stiles: i’m gonna die

stiles: don’t even try to apologize, it’s literally not your fault. and i can survive with not getting off for a little while longer. guilt free zone here :)

stiles: but oh my god you’re so fucking pretty

stiles: you look so good today. and your ass looks good in those jeans

stiles: ok have fun in english. text me when you’re out. if you can. please. thanks

incoming call from: y/n :)

“y/n?”

“stiles!”

“speaking?”

“it’s my free period.”

“meet me at my jeep in 5.”

“im already here.”

–

stiles parked his jeep behind the lacrosse field. he watched y/n climb into the back seat, painfully slow in her movements. she settled onto the bench in the back of his jeep, blushing already, smiling shyly. stiles waited but a second to climb towards her. only he was a million times more awkward about it. stiles clambered through the vehicle.

“oh-!” y/n touched his back gently, assuring he safely made it back there.

his face was close to hers once he was seated. stiles flashed a sweet grin, “hi.”

“hi,” she giggled lightly. “how are you doing?”

“i’m doing swell, thank you,” stiles eyed her lips, the low curve of her v-neck t-shirt.

y/n took a breath to speak, her chest expanding. stiles watched her watched the tops of her breasts move. she barely said, “i was-“

before stiles interrupted, “i am so totally interested in what you have to say, but i really fucking need to touch you and kiss you, so please shut the fuck up.”

the soft sound of the low-volume radio and the idling engine was background noise. stiles’ windows were tinted just enough to dull out the light inside. it was tight, and they struggled against each other more than once. but stiles was more than happy to bend into strange positions so that y/n was comfortable. she didn’t ask him to- but he insisted. he insisted on putting his jacket beneath her head, so she could have a makeshift pillow. he insisted that she didn’t have to give him a blow job, so that she wouldn’t have to squeeze onto her knees behind the front seat. sure, they might have been bare minimum, consensual things that weren’t anything to write home about. but in this day and age, a boy muttering, “‘is okay?” each and every time he moved against y/n was enough to give her butterflies. it meant he cared. stiles cared.

the first time they had sex, it was just sex. they fucked, she went to the bathroom afterwards, and when she got back, he was dressed, ready to leave. stiles hadn’t known what he was supposed to do, but he figured she didn’t want him to linger.

this time, after he pulled out, wrapped the condom, and tossed it into the mini trash can in the front seat, stiles scooted over far enough on the bench to allow her room to lay down beside him. this time, it was heated…passionate. romantic.

y/n wasn’t even thinking, she was just caught up in the moment. she lay her head on his bare chest, ear cupped so she could hear his heartbeat. he was sticky with sweat, and his breathing was quick and loud. but he was warm, comfortable, and…strong. she’d never noticed that before. how defined his chest was. he was a lacrosse player, after all. even if he spent most of the time on the bench, he was still working out.

stiles tensed up under her affection, at first, but he became comfortable soon enough. he peered down at y/n. she stared off into space, and her expression was hidden from him. stiles gently slid his arm around her and the tips of his fingers floated up and down her bicep.

“what’re you thinking about?” stiles found himself saying.

y/n took a breath, regaining some semblance of awareness after she had been caught up in a daydreaming feeling. usually, after sex, she always felt…distanced. like she was behind glass. the air was slowly being sucked out of the box by her own lungs. she was suffocating.

the first time with stiles- it had felt like that, if only because of her internal battle with her feelings for sam. her mind had been racing with over wrung thoughts.

other times, like with sam, it was because the sex had felt like a transaction, like a consummation of some small part of her she’d never get it. this whole new generation was focused on sexual liberation- and y/n was into that. sex was awesome- it felt good. but, that idea completely ignored the fact that, most often, sex between a teenage boy and girl was laced with miscommunication and manipulation.

this time- this time was good. this time felt- liberating. it felt good. she got off. sure, she’d gotten off a few other hands, if only at her own hands. but, this time- stiles had made her feel good. and, she didn’t feel shitty because she wasn’t trying to get some small form of intimacy from someone she wanted to love and have. no, this time it was really just sex. sex with someone kind, considerate, and unattached.

(even if they were cuddling and neither of them wanted to admit how good that felt.)

“not much,” y/n lied through her teeth.

stiles caught a piece of her hair between his fingers and tugged at mindlessly. it tickled the back of her neck. stiles was hoping she was going to say something heartfelt, something sweet. he had gotten his hopes, for no reason. after all, he knew the rules. “fair. uh, hey, listen…i should probably-“

“oh, yeah, no, of course,” y/n sat up quickly, covering herself with his jacket.

they settled, side by side, on the seats of the jeep. y/n shifted awkwardly, reaching across his lap for her t-shirt that shoved between the wall and the seat. stiles reached her direction for his own shirt. they stumbled over each other for a second or two, muttering sorry’s and elbowing sides. then they were holding their respective clothing pieces.

they dressed in silence.

“i’ll drive you back, okay?” stiles offered.

y/n tugged her shirt down her torso, breathing deeply, “uh, sure, yeah. yeah.”

so, stiles drove them back over to the main parking lot. school was just letting out for the day. stiles spotted scott running down the front steps, seemingly in a rush, as the jeep came to a stop beside y/n’s car.

“listen, uh,” she turned her knees towards him, jaw open with a buffering conversation.

stiles wasn’t paying attention, but she didn’t notice. he was too busy watching scott, who was now talking to allison. and, then he saw derek power walking towards them.

“yeah, hey, um, could you send it in a text? i’ve gotta get somewhere. thanks for- that. yep!” stiles popped open the jeep door. he slid out, in a hurry, slamming the door shut before she could get another word in.

y/n sat there, for a moment, in utter shock. she took a deep, unsettled breath.

she needed to call danny.

–

“yeah, that’s fucking strange.”

y/n plopped onto her bed, rocking danny in his spot beside her. she took a hit from her cart, letting the smoke roll out as she replied with, “isn’t that fucking strange? like, it’s not that i expected we cuddle for twenty minutes and be all cutesy. but, the way he just rushed me out of there? that was weird.”

“maybe he’s pushing you cause he’s scared of having feelings for you,” danny tossed a ball of popcorn into his mouth, shrugging nonchalantly.

y/n rolled her eyes. she shifted onto her stomach, shoving her head into her pillow. “ugh,” she groaned, loudly. “you know, maybe i should end things right now. it’s gonna get complicated, i can already tell.“

“wait, okay,” danny pulled the pillow out from beneath her. she looked up at him. “let’s do a pro and con list before we make any rash decisions.“

“literally why?” y/n questioned.

danny waved her off, “cause it gives me entertainment. besides, it’ll be fun. now, give me a pro…”

she thought, tapped her chin as if it helped, “i think it’s helping me get over sam. i mean, i’ve stopped driving past his work. and i unfriended his mom on facebook. don’t think about him as much.”

danny clapped lightly, “aw, wait, yay. that’s such good news! best pro ever. okay, now, con.”

“um,” she hummed, “maybe…i don’t know. like, it’s complicated. like, it’s gonna be complicated.”

“yeah, but what’s complicated about it? nothing! so, one of you catches feelings- fuck it. you figure it out. i know another pro- the sex if fucking good. it’s making you feel good. you’ve got a goddamn glow about you, babe. you’re getting over bitch boy, you’re moving along. it’s not complicated.”

“i just,” y/n lay her head down again, “i’m just scared of getting hurt again, so soon. i feel like it would wreck me.”

“if you get hurt,” danny set his hand on her arm, “then, we’ll get through it, again. it’ll pass, it always does.“

she smiled up at her friend, only a little encouraged by his words. she still felt off. danny could tell by the distant look in her eyes. “but, you know, if you’re that worried- just end it. don’t continue. don’t put yourself in a situation where you think you could end up getting hurt.”

y/n didn’t know what to say. he was right, both sides of his argument were right. danny was the type of person to always be.

“you know what we should do?” y/n sat up, suddenly, the light bulb above her head aglow, “throw a party!”

danny laughed at her, leaning his head on his hand. “really? you are the last person i’d expect to want to throw a party.”

“i know, but- let’s do it! i wanna get fucked up and just chill out for a night.”

“you know,” danny pointed at her with a smug expression, “that’s the best idea you’ve had all year.”

#derek x stiles #stiles stilinksi fanfiction #stiles stilinksi imagine #stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles x lydia #stiles x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf stiles #teen wolf x reader

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emo-nova · 3 months

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Update time for some good ol' Teen Wolf, ig? i'm on episode 7 of season 2, and now I am definitely seeing some clips that i saw that was making me interested in the show as well as aspects within the fandom spaces.

Never understood the whole idea of Pack mom Stiles thing until I saw Stiles basically be the first to clock that 1, she is in seizure, 2, she may have an issue with the kanima venom (more than others) and 3, to be able to help her he needs to go to Derek cause Scott defo doesn't know. I didn't see it in the beginning, but I can see what people are seeing in it.

Another aspect, Stiles predicting Matt as the villain was such a rewarding scene. Mainly because I have been spoiled, I don't mind them, sometimes I actively look for them to see how the writers handle certain characters plus a summary isn't always true to what actually happened depending on interpretations.

You know what wasn't? Stiles' dad not being told. Or Melissa. Can these two be in on it now? Please? I'm mildly done with the charades on both ends mainly because the friction between two parties is simply miscommunication, plus it would be interesting to have Stiles' be open to this now so that we can see more of a struggle for the Stilinski family when the Sheriff *carries on* heading into danger when he knows. Same with Melissa, I think it would help create more stakes, but it will needed to be handled with care, that she can notice when a patient might have been involved with the supernatural which she can tell the sheriff. It'll make a good feedback loop for the adults, me thinks.

Onto Scott and Alison, I am noticing the writers are now ramping up a more heaviness to their relationship. This is no longer about puppy love but genuine wanting to carry on together, on both ends. And the touch with Jackson being used as the mouthpiece of the writers to foreshadow something more sinister lurking within Alison's future and her decisions. I honestly can not wait for Alison's either degression or progression as a character, as an aspiring writer who likes to study stories of any kind, I would have her digress to create a more nuance version of her character especially with her and Scott creating friction between each other. The friction I'm talking about is Alison's fear of being truly hopeless, unable to actually help herself out of a situation, this could be due to her being raised to be independent and to be a leader within the Argents. Scott on the other hand has a total Hero Complex, wanting to save as many people as possible, yada yada (mild affection now, he's grown on me), wants to be there for Alison *always* which contradicts Alison's want of independence.

Derek, so far, has been following a characterisation I would do for him (after that abysmal training set) cautious and careful with his betas, almost paranoid about their safety with mild disregard for his own in time of the full moon. I would like to see more Boyd though, you have an entire episode on him, and he doesn't get to appear in that scene??? BS, I want Boyd, Erica and Isaac have a moment of annoyance at Derek for being so careful with them. Would I have Derek explain to them why he's so cautious? Not fully, no, I would have Derek explain simply "I am your leader, I look after you and train you. And I need to look after you by ensuring you don't get caught between the Kamina and the Hunters."

Let Derek be a vague, paranoidly responsible Alpha that noticed that his first method didn't help for shit and changing the curriculum for these three because Scott's training was a *mess* and not some fucking dictator alpha guy. But knowing the writing team they most likely will mishandle Derek's character like a child given a machete in the garden which is disappointing.

That's all I got so far, but enjoy my ranting about what happened so far.

Also thank you to the kind soul that told me the timeline of season 1 and 2, I didn't realise that it was such short periods of time! Thank you again :)

#teen wolf #stiles stilinski #scott mccall #alison argent #derek hale #yelling into the void #Characters have grown on me #I have so many problem with how this show handles Derek #A bit on the parents too #let the parents know - i want the stakes of Sheriff and Melissa walking into danger and KNOWING IT #Also pack mom stiles is a concept that I am now getting #it does seem quite fun #also I'm so happy that Scott finally joined the Hale pack - it will include so many interesting dynamics that will most likely never happen #:( i will be annoyed about that #but that's why fanfic exists - isn't it folks?

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skylerverse-teenwolf · 9 months

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*holds them all gently

#teen wolf #character study #my best friend is a teenage werewolf #lycanthrope #lycanthropy #skylerverse #werewolf #world building #lydia martin #stiles stilinski #scott mccall

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sterekbros · 9 months

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all he would ever need (1257 words) by Winchesterek

Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Derek Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Original Children of Derek Hale and Stiles Stilinski, Eli Hale (Teen Wolf) Additional Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Established Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mates Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mpreg, Omegaverse Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omegaverse Alpha Derek Hale, True Alpha Derek Hale, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski are Eli Hale's Parents, Parents Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slice of Life, Fluff, Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Stiles Stilinski is a Nice Thing, Derek Hale Loves Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski Loves Derek Hale, Derek Hale is a Softie, Derek Hale is Good at Feelings, Family, POV Derek Hale, Feels, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Feels, Derek Hale Feels Written for @sterekfests kiss me at midnight, @sterekweekly kiss, @sterekmonthly new year, @imagine-sterek 24 event

Summary: Derek has a quiet moment, reflecting on his life and his little family as the New Year counts down to midnight.

Derek smiled as he studied his family.

Stiles was asleep on the couch with Ava tucked against his chest and of course, she was shifted. Derek knew that she loved being shifted because she had more freedom as a pup than she did as a baby and he’d be sad when she stopped shifting around the age of five. It would feel like an eternity to both of them until she could fully shift again after she was eighteen, but he also knew it would feel like time flew by the time his little girl was on her way to being an adult and starting a life of her own. And maybe one day, her own pack.

Elijah was hanging upside down off the couch, his head resting on Derek’s shoulder as Derek sat on the floor. His little family had tried their best to stay up until the new year, but they’d been fast asleep for about an hour now and there were less than thirty minutes left until midnight.

The night had been eventful with watching their children’s favorite cartoons and letting Elijah drink sparking white grape juice as he pretended he was an adult, but they both knew they only bought it for Stiles since Ava was still nursing. They’d played the Floor is Lava with Stiles being the safety zone and Derek had more than once let Elijah win like he always did.

Not for the first time that night, Derek thought his life was perfect. After everything he’d been through, after all the pain and loss, he couldn't ask for more than what he had right now. Ever since he’d met Stiles and Elijah was born, he thanked whatever powers that be in the universe for letting him have this little slice of happiness. Even more so after Ava had been born, and especially now that Stiles was pregnant again.

They’d both always wanted a big family, each for their own reasons, and Derek felt like he was building a life that he could be proud of. One that he knew his family would have been proud of him for. He had a mate, he could take care of his pack, and they were living a perfectly mundane life filled with so much love and happiness that it sometimes hurt Derek’s chest with how much he felt for Stiles and their children.

After the fire, he never thought he’d be able to feel like this again. He never thought that he would be able to love anyone ever again. He was glad that he was wrong.

Derek raised his hand to gently stroke over Elijah’s hair, which caused Elijah to rumble with that little sound that Derek knew meant he was happy. Stiles always made fun of Derek when Derek made that sound too, telling him that he was teaching their son bad habits. He knew Stiles didn't mean it and they always laughed about it.

He carefully shifted until Elijah was sliding down his shoulder, still fast asleep, until he slid into Derek’s arms. Derek cradled Elijah against his chest. He smiled as Elijah curled against him, purring as best a werewolf could, and stood. He scented Elijah’s hair and walked him to his room, carefully tucking him into bed and brushing his hand over his hair again before he left and did the same for Ava.

Once the kids were in bed, he returned to the living room and smiled down at Stiles, who was still sleeping. Derek sat on the edge of the couch next to him, glancing at the muted television that had Times Square in New York on, waiting for the ball to drop. They still had some time and he thought about not waking Stiles, but then he felt Stiles’ hand on his thigh.

Derek’s gaze returned to his sleepy mate, finding Stiles blinking up at him and yawning.

“Kids in bed?” Stiles asked, voice groggy. He stretched and then slid his hand to hold Derek’s, relaxing back against the couch.

“I just put them to sleep… the three of you have been asleep for a little while. I didn't want to wake you.” Derek laced his fingers with Stiles’, bringing his hand up to place a kiss on the backside.

“Did we miss the ball drop?” Stiles asked, glancing at the TV which would answer his question, but Derek knew that he’d wait for his response all the same.

“Not yet, but it’s soon. Did you want to skip it and go to bed?” Derek glanced at the TV and they still had at least five minutes until the countdown started.

“No, we’ve made it this far. Or, well, you did. But I’m up now.” Stiles chuckled and sighed, then sat up on the couch, crossing his legs under him.

“It was a valiant effort,” Derek replied with a grin, reaching out for Stiles and dragging him into his lap. Stiles moved easily enough, draping his legs over Derek’s as he settled and wrapped his arms around his neck.

“Maybe next year the kids will make it to midnight… or maybe at least I will.” Stiles laughed softly, nuzzling against Derek’s neck as Derek’s hand slid onto Stiles’ belly. He wasn't showing yet, but Derek knew they were both imagining that Stiles was already growing a tiny pooch, despite them both knowing it was more likely a food baby at this point in Stiles’ pregnancy.

“I think we both might miss midnight next year with four children underfoot.” Derek’s other hand smoothed up Stiles’ back as Stiles scented him, glad that it comforted Stiles, especially since he knew it would help him the further along his pregnancy went.

“You’ve got a point,” Stiles replied and smirked as he drew back. “But I’m sure we will still all try.”

They looked at the TV when the countdown started and Derek thought about how different the following New Year's Eve would be. If they got the twins they both wanted, they’d have four kids, and if they still had only one, they’d both be happy with their little pack of three children.

“So, Derek Hale,” Stiles started, his fingers playing at the base of Derek’s skull, teasing the hair there. It sent a shiver down Derek’s spine and his smile was soft, his eyes full of love as he held Stiles. “I think you owe me a New Year’s kiss.”

Derek’s hand moved from Stiles’ back, trailing up until he wrapped his hand around the back of Stiles’ neck and gripped firmly as the seconds ran down on the television. He drew Stiles into a kiss as the horn sounded, pouring everything he felt into it. The kiss was passionate, yet gentle and he grinned as he scented Stiles’ arousal.

Stiles was flushed and laughing softly when the kiss broke. “I think I’m awake now,” he teased. “And you need to take me to bed and breed me while we can,” he whispered, fingers dancing across the mark on Derek’s neck that marked Derek as Stiles’.

“Your wish is my command,” Derek replied, his arms moving to cradle Stiles and he stood, sending Stiles into a fit of quiet giggles. Derek loved it when Stiles was happy and he knew that he’d spend the rest of his days making sure they were always like this.

As long as their hearts were beating and their lungs were filled with breath, Derek knew he had everything he’d ever need for the rest of his days. His life was perfect.

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silvxrvalkyrie · 2 years

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“There’s no better feeling than coming back from a job to a semi conscious arms dealer in our living room,” not mention Scott’s ex girlfriend. Stiles chose not to rehash that bit with Allison in earshot. The first time he had come across her photo in the bureau database he’d nearly scorched his crotch by dropping his coffee. Guilt sink his soul like a stone drifting to the bottom of the water. No matter how long it had been, he had to contend with the grief.

“What did you told Scott?”��

@hearthebansheescream

#convo : lydia #character study ; stiles stilinski

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takaraphoenix · 2 months

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Camping & Bonding (Part 4)

Tags: m/m, Erica Lives, Boyd Lives, Jackson Doesn't Leave, Pack Mom Stiles, Pack Feels, True Mates, fluff, hurt/comfort, camping, mutual pining, m/f

Main Pairing: Derek/Stiles

Side Pairings: Scott/Allison, Boyd/Erica, Jackson/Lydia

Teen Wolf Characters: Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski, Derek Hale, Erica Reyes, Vernon Boyd III, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Cora Hale, Scott McCall, Allison Argent

@writersmonth Prompts Part 4: season + school

Summary: Stiles thinks the pack should go camping, as a bonding exercise. Much to his surprise, Derek agrees with his plan. So the pack goes off into the mountains to camp together.

This Fic on AO3 | This Fic on FFNet

Stiles Summer Stories 2024

Part 4: The Confession

They brought enough eggs to make twenty omelets. While the wolves went on their morning run to also hunt a little meat on the side of those eggs, Stiles went to forage for mushrooms and herbs with Lydia and Allison. A little walk of their own. It was nice. Chilly, but beautiful. The orange and red and yellow leafs. And every now and again, they saw the pack running by in the distance.

When the three of them returned to their camp side, they started prepping everything for breakfast before the wolves returned from their hunt. Once again, Derek dropped a dead animal in front of Stiles, which was going to keep freaking Stiles out. Just because he knew how to take them apart didn't exactly mean he enjoyed the sight of dead animals, especially not when they were unceremoniously dropped metaphorically in his lap.

"Good hunt," Stiles offered when the Alpha kept staring at him. "Now go wash up. Seriously."

And since when did Derek need this much affirmation? Still, it was kind of cute to see that preening Derek did at the praise before once again rounding up the pups to herd them to the creek for a quick wash. Shaking his head, Stiles waved Allison over to help him take apart the catch of the day.

"We could save some cuts for lunch, we brought enough bread to make sandwiches," Stiles suggested. "I was thinking we could go on a hike, so take them with us. Yes, we. All of us. Stop groaning, Lydia. It will not kill you, I promise you that."

Not that Stiles himself was the biggest fan of hiking. But he knew the pups needed the exercise and he knew this would be a great way of bonding. Plus, he'd heard the view was breathtaking.

"You do know what Derek is doing though, right?" Lydia asked, while stirring the omelet.

Stiles looked confused at her. "Uhm, currently? Taking a bath, I guess?"

"No, Stiles," Lydia heaved an exasperated sigh. "You look so confused every time Derek drops the hunt in front of you. I thought it was weird yesterday."

"Yeah, it really was weird, right?!" Stiles threw up his hands. "Thank you, Ly-"

"No, your reaction was weird," Lydia furrowed her brows. "Like you didn't know what he was doing. And now again. You don't know what he's doing, do you?"

Stiles paused, looking at her. "What… What do you mean? What is he doing?"

"How do you not know that, I thought you researched werewolves to the smallest detail."

"Don't sound so accusatory," Stiles glared. "How am I supposed to know everything. There might be things even I missed. Or didn't deem important at the time due to the massive volume of research to be done. Also school. Like. There are more things than the supernatural that I have to do too, studying and helping Scott study, and take care of my dad, and the household, and the pack-"

"He's courting you, Stiles," Lydia blurted out to interrupt him. "He's bringing you the game he caught himself, and don't think the wolves haven't noticed how much you two smelt like each other this morning. Jackson froze up and told me. You two weren't just sharing a tent."

"We shared some body-heat," Stiles defended with a blush. "But that's not-"

"Stiles," Allison offered him a small, nearly pitiful smile. "You're the only one who can sway Derek. Don't get me wrong, he listens to everyone's opinion, he learned to do that. But… but you are the one who can convince Derek of any of our ideas and who always has his ear and trust. You're his second, Stiles."

At that, Stiles huffed out a laugh. "No, I'm not. Peter is Derek's left hand."

"Not his left hand," Lydia heaved an exasperated sigh. "His second. His second half. The co-leader of this pack. The only one to outrank the left hand. How do you not see it."

Stiles froze and stared at the girls a little dumbly. He wasn't Derek's mate. He would know if he was Derek's mate. They'd known each other for well over a year now and they had been… close, for months. And Stiles was the one who figured these things out! Erica and Boyd. Jackson and Lydia. Allison and Scott. Heck, Allison and Scott were how Stiles had figured out that mates were a real thing, he had put that together. He would know if he was someone's mate.

/break\

Something had happened while the wolves bathed. When they returned, Stiles was… jittery. Even by Stiles standards. Derek frowned as he watched his mate cautiously.

"Training," Derek growled after breakfast. "Pair up. Erica and Jackson. Cora and Isaac. Boyd and Scott. Don't groan at me. You have predictable patterns that your usual go-to sparring partners know. Switch it up. Now go."

"Sourwolf," Stiles huffed annoyed as soon as the betas got up. "Don't growl at the pups."

He had his arms crossed and he was glaring at Derek, making the Alpha falter a little. Damn it, he needed to have better control. But when Stiles was upset – and especially when Stiles seemed upset with him – it still messed with Derek. Perhaps because Stiles was his anchor, Stiles calmed him, so when Stiles was upset, his anchor was the reason for Derek's own upset feelings.

"You flinched away when I touched you earlier."

How much Derek hated admitting these things. He crossed his own arms, trying to brace himself, glaring at a point behind Stiles – where the betas were training with each other and decidedly pretending they couldn't hear Stiles and Derek's conversation. Allison and Lydia were pretending to be busy with the clean-up. Stiles stared at him in bafflement.

"I didn't…" Stiles trailed off and then sighed. "I didn't mean to. I was just really in my head and you startled me. But, Der, c'mon. Even if I flinched, that should not make you lash out at the pups! They didn't do anything."

"They didn't," Derek agreed, with a heavy sigh. "I'm… sorry. I just… It messes with me when you… When something is wrong with you."

"Why," Stiles frowned at him.

Derek remained stubbornly silent. He couldn't tell Stiles. He shouldn't tell Stiles.

"Why," Stiles asked again, more pointed, his eyes narrowed. "I need you to tell me, Derek."

"Why do you need to know," Derek growled. "It doesn't matter."

"It does!" Stiles threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "If it affects our pack, then I need to know, so I can figure out what to do to avoid it!"

"I don't like when you're upset, or hurt, or – or when anything is wrong with you."

Stiles stared at him like the air got knocked out of him. "They're right."

Derek tensed at that, hunching over a little like he was bracing himself. "Who was right."

"The…" Stiles motioned over to Lydia and Allison. "The girls! They said that I'm your mate. That's what kept me so distracted during breakfast. Because surely that can't be, right. 'Surely, Derek would have told me at literally any point during the past months that we've been friends, that I've been in his pack. There's no way he would have kept something like that from me. Even if he doesn't want me, he knows how important the trust between us is to me, he would have told me the truth,' while I replayed pretty much every single interaction between us since I joined the pack, I kept thinking that. And I guess I'm fucking wrong, huh."

The more he talked, the more bitter and louder his voice grew. He turned away from Derek, a sneer on his face. The cold autumn breeze carried over a scent of misery and Derek's inner wolf whimpered because he knew they were the cause of it.

"I could have been okay with you not wanting me, Derek," Stiles turned to look at him with a devastating look on his face. "You know I can handle rejection. But this… this is about more than you and me. If I'm your mate, I'm the Alpha mate. That… That's really fucking important information regarding our entire pack and I should have known that. You should have told me."

Derek didn't know what to say, or how to say it, not that he got a chance to, because Stiles barreled on. "I deserved to know. You know how weird the past months were for me? I kept cuddling up with my classmates, I fucking nuzzled Jackson at school the other week. I genuinely started to think I was losing it but no. No, I'm the Alpha mate, of course have I been more in tune with the betas. Which also, explains why I keep thinking about them as the betas! Part of me has gotten really fucking worried that I kept mentally excluding myself from them, like, what, was I not seeing myself as pack, what was my problem? But no. No, my problem was that I'm not a beta. I just didn't know it. Because nobody fucking told me."

Stiles was radiating frustration and anger and hurt and all Derek could do was watch and listen quietly, knowing his mate needed to vent. He always talked a lot, especially when he was being emotional. Maybe it'd help him to get it out of his system.

"I would have been fine, Derek," Stiles whispered, and the whispering scared Derek much more than the yelling. "I was in love with Lydia for years and I was fine when she rejected me and got back together with Jackson and we're friends now. I would have been fine if you just told me that you don't love me. We could have led this pack together. As friends. Even if you don't want me."

Suddenly, it felt much colder than it had any right to, and it had nothing to do with the season. The blood in Derek's veins froze as Stiles' words – all of his words – finally fully sank in and context was webbed between them. Stiles was angry because Derek hadn't told him. Stiles… expected rejection. Because of Derek's actions, or rather his inaction, Stiles thought he wasn't wanted.

"Can I… talk now?" Derek asked softly. "Can I explain why I didn't tell you?"

With a sarcastic smile, Stiles made a gesture that indicated 'the floor is all yours'. Derek took a deep breath, trying to mentally prepare himself to talk about his feelings. The feelings he hadn't shared for good reason so far. But that had hurt Stiles, the last person he wanted to hurt, and now he had to fix this somehow, he had to make Stiles stop hurting.

"I want you, Stiles," Derek looked his mate directly in the eyes, wanting for Stiles to see how serious and sincere he was. "I want you more than I ever wanted anything, I want you so much that it scares me, because if I… if I had you, I could lose you again. I would lose you again."

Stiles stared at him in confusion. "That doesn't even make sense. If you don't have me, you can't lose me. Well, great, but you're also not having me, so what's the big difference."

"The difference," Derek growled and ground his teeth together hard. "The difference is that every good thing I ever dare hope to have dies or is otherwise forcibly taken from me, Stiles. P… Paige died. My family died. Laura died. Boyd and Erica were taken and tortured because they were part of my pack. Everyone I love gets hurt because of me. And the thought that someone hurts you, takes you away from me – from the pack, from your dad – all because of me? I can't… I would much rather not have you than lose you for good, Stiles."

In front of him, Stiles crumbled. The anger and hurt melted away to make room for the most heartbroken look Derek had ever seen. Stiles walked up to him, with careful and slow steps, as though he was approaching a cornered animal. Once he stood close enough, he reached both hands out for Derek's face, gently cupping it and leaning closer.

"You big, dumb idiot," Stiles heaved a sigh. "Look at me. Look at me. I'm the human who runs with wolves. I got hunted by a less than sane Alpha. I got tortured by an evil hunter. I regularly get attacked and nearly killed by whatever evil lurks in Beacon Hills. And I'm still standing. You are not getting rid of me that easily. You are not going to lose me that easily. I love you. You and me, we save each other. That's what we do, Derek, and that's what we'll continue doing."

He leaned in, more and more, until Derek could feel the ghost of Stiles' breath against his lips and for once, he didn't hold back. He wrapped his arms around his mate and pulled Stiles into a kiss filled with all the emotions he'd tried to reign in these past months. Stiles practically melted against him, warm and firm and there. Right there, in Derek's arms.

#Sterek #Fic: Camping & Bonding #Sterek Fic #Teen Wolf #Derek Hale #Hale Pack #Stiles Stilinski #Stiles Summer Stories 2024 #Phoe's Fics

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