#malia tate x you

[kitkatkitzune]

NO ONE SHOULD BE ALONE ON CHRISTMAS

Pairing: Theo Raeken x Fem!reader

Summary: You can’t get into the holiday spirit, not with a certain Chimera on your mind.

Warnings: Fluff, One use of Y/N, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (my bad)

Notes: Merry Christmas to all who celebrate!!

Word Count: 991

———————

You knew that he was the bad guy. Emphasis on ‘was’. Theo Raeken was different after coming back from hell and anyone with eyes could see that.

The pack still didn’t trust him and you couldn’t blame them but you still felt sympathy for the chimera.

You couldn’t shake the thought of him from your head as you sat in Derek’s flat. Everyone was there. Everyone except for him. Even Peter was there! It didn’t make sense to you how they could forgive Peter after he repeatedly screwed you all over but couldn’t even give Theo a chance to redeem himself.

The worst part was that Theo was actively trying to be better, Peter never changed. Theo had helped you all fight the Ghostriders, he had fought the hunters, and now that everything had calmed down, he was still trying to be good. Trying to unlearn all the bad he was taught.

Your thoughts are interrupted when Kira waves her hand in front of your face, “Are you okay?”

“Hm?” you hum, looking up to see everyone looking at you, “Oh, I’m just wondering when we’re going to open the secret santa gifts…”

Liam and Stiles both cheer at the mention of presents, dashing towards the large Christmas tree you had bullied Derek into putting up. You laugh a bit at their antics as they pass out the gifts, not noticing the way Kira glances at Scott to see if he also noticed your behavior. He nods and mouths, ‘I’ll talk to her’.

Everyone begins to open their gifts, you had Stiles for secret santa and had gotten him a Darth Vader action figure that you knew he wanted. He practically squeals like a child when he sees the collectible and you let out a little laugh at his reaction.

Malia had you for secret santa, something you already knew because she didn’t understand the concept of it and immediately told you. She got you a large bag of Hershey’s Kisses, she said she remembered you eating them once and that food was the best gift. Malia failed to hide her annoyance when the gift she received wasn’t food related.

After opening your gift, you began to get lost in your head. You were trying to be happy but you couldn’t be when you knew a certain chimera was out there, all alone on Christmas.

Scott sets a hand on your shoulder, making you nearly jump out of your seat.

“What’s on your mind?”

You shrug, not wanting to admit the truth, knowing he won’t like it, “Nothing… just zoned out.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

You groan, cursing him and his werewolf abilities, “It’s fine, Scott.”

He sighs, “Listen, if you need to leave… or just want to go home… you can. No one is going to be upset, just don’t leave without telling someone, we don’t need to be trying to hunt you down only for you to be curled up on your couch.”

You laugh a bit, considering the idea before you tilt your head, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Then I’m going to head out… I’m not feeling well,” it wasn’t a complete lie, “tell everyone I went home?”

Scott nods, pulling you into a hug before walking you to the door.

That’s how you got here, driving around Beacon Hills, looking for Theo’s truck. You had seen it parked all around town in different spots and you had a sinking feeling that he was staying in it.

It didn’t take you long to find him, he was pulled off the road, near the woods. You slowly approach the truck and peek in the back window. There’s Theo, curled up and crammed in his back seat. You knock on the window of the truck and he jumps awake, his eyes go wide at the sight of you.

He reaches into the front of the truck and unlocks the door so he can roll down the window, “Y/N?” he calls out.

“Hey Theo…”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, “What are you doing here? Is everyone alright?”

You nod, “Everyone’s fine…” you glance at the blankets he has piled around him to try and keep warm, “Do you wanna come sit in my car? The heats on.”

Theo stares at you for a moment, trying to figure out what you’re getting at, what ulterior motive you could have. He thinks of many but decides that it doesn’t matter, he’d do near anything right now to get warm.

So he agrees, this is how you end up with Theo Raeken in the passenger seat of your car, sitting in silence. You stare ahead as he stares at the side of your head. You had been thinking of this moment all night and now that you were here, you had no idea what to say.

You decide to reach for the bag of kisses and silently tilt the bag towards him to offer him some of the chocolate. Theo takes one, popping the kiss into his mouth all while keeping his gaze locked on you.

After another moment, he breaks the silence, “Why are you doing this?”

You turn to him, “What do you mean?”

“Being nice to me,” Theo clarifies, “after everything I’ve done, to you and your friends.”

“Because I think you deserve a second chance regardless of what Scott and my friends think.”

“I tried to kill Scott.”

You roll your eyes, “Everyone has tried to kill Scott, Peter tries to kill him every other day and we keep him around.” you smile at him, “Now, how about we go watch some cheesy Christmas films while drinking hot chocolate in a nice warm house?”

Theo stays silent, observing you and how you seem so genuine towards him. He had never met someone who was so kind to him.

You put your car in drive, “Besides, no one should be alone on Christmas.”

[1doesnotsimplyhavejust1fandam]

Whatever your feelings on Stalia are, you can’t deny that they most definitely matched each other’s freak. From day one too. Stiles is one of the main reasons why the pack was able to find Malia and turn her back into a human, all while not being able to read a word on paper or chalkboard. Malia wishes she weren’t turned back into a human, and was able to live out the rest of her life in coyote form, and also punched Stiles the next time they meet in the show. Then they do the deed in the super dark and creepy basement of a mental institution where they are both patients, and where Stiles keeps having dreams about the psychotic fox spirit possessing him. You know. Normal teenage stuff.

[hemlocksandfoxgloves]

for my love @thiamsxbitch 💜🩷

Summary:

It was supposed to be one night. Just one night that Theo was desperate to erase from their mind forever—after all, they weren’t interested in another colorful friendship. Not anymore. They didn’t want any more problems than they already had. Liam, on the other hand, was up for this challenge.

[lesbiradshaw]

the one time teen wolf catered to the sapphics.

[moths-in-hats]

moodboard: malia x isaac

in which malia goes to france and meets a certain werewolf while she's there

[userlaylivia]

I know they didn't have much after their breakup or in s6 but I included them anyway lol I also know they only really had scenes in three episodes in s3 but lol

@emilyskinners, @piperslovebot, @jessmalia, @braedenhales, @clary-jace

[nightingale2004]

Teen wolf next gen: Malira (Malia x kira) version

June Eliza Tate Yukimura

Faceclaim: Madison Hu

Firstborn daughter Malia Tate and Kira Yukimura and cousin to the Stilinski Hale children

Like Kira, June is also a Kitsune, but she is an ocean kitsune

June takes after Kira, and she is a responsible older sister

Her family is part of the Hale pack

She and Talia are best friends and often bond over their responsibilities to their families

Kira helps June control her inner fox

Master of the sword along with Kira

June made a fencing club in Beacon Hills High (she's the captain.....obviously)

☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆◇☆

Kenneth "Ken/Kenny" Luca Tate Yukimura

Faceclaim: Ryan Potter

Second child of Malia and Kira

A big ball of energy and sunshine

He is an werecoyote like Malia

Loves to go on runs in the woods

He has a bit of both of his moms personalities mixed in

He's on the lacrosse team along with Eli

He loves his family

He's a feminist

He tries to be an optimist

♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤○♤

Evelyn "Eve" Kylie Tate Yukimura

Faceclaim: Anna Cathcart

Eve is the youngest in her family

She's a pessimist and takes after Malia and even inherits Malia's brutal honesty bluntness, which gets her into trouble

She is an earth kitsune with her aura looking similar to a coyote fox mix

Is a mini version of Malia and a hint of Peter

Peter visits his grandchildren a lot, and even though everyone in the Hale pack is cautious of him to this day, they somewhat trust him

Fluent in sarcasm

One of the pups in the pack (she doesn't like it either)

More of a boxer than a swordsman

-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

+ Cora Hale's daughter

Hadley Maeve Hale

Faceclaim: Ciara Bravo

Hadley is the only daughter of Cora Hale

Father unknown

Cora came back to Beacon Hills when she was pregnant with Hadley

She is a part of the Hale pack but is also a pup

Maybe young, but she is intimidating and a force to be reckoned with

Loves her family with a passion

Likes sports (more specifically basketball and lacrosse)

She would not be caught dead in a cheerleading short skirt (or any short skirt)

Lives to embarrass her cousins

She's a bit of a young businesswoman

Speaks fluent sarcasm

Crazy stubborn and has a temper

Tomboy style

She's on the soccor team

[thiamblogger]

tracy x malia moodboard

[bamboozledbird]

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

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

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

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

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

But they aren’t you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, what if you know? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Work?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He remembers falling in love with you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good. God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who’s to say, really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then, he’d kiss you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not like this!” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t come. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[mrsstruggle]

The Beast of War - Chapter 2 // Teen Wolf x Marvel AU

This is the second part of the Shadow Wolf Series. Read The Lost Child First if you haven't!

Series Summary: In the aftermath of discovering her true identity and reuniting with her long-lost family, Y/N Stilinski finds herself adjusting to a new chapter of her life in Beacon Hills. With her brother and his friends in their senior year at High School, the town faces a fresh new threat. Y/N must navigate the complexities of her new life while confronting the looming threat that threatens to hurt her and the people she loves.

Warnings: Language, Mentions of Death/Injury/Grief/Torture, Possible Grammar Mistakes (please let me know if there is anything else)

Series Pairings: Derek Hale x Reader, Stiles Stilinski x Malia Tate (for now), Steve Rodgers x Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner x Natasha Romanoff, Vision x Wanda Maximoff

Words: 4.9k

Note: This is not my best work, but here it is! Also, looking for penpals if anyone would like to be penpals with me!

Additional Note: While this is a Teen Wolf x Marvel AU, not everything is true to the shows/movies/comics. I had to change things for the story.

One Last Note: Y/N was adopted by Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. I did this so more people can see themselves in this story.

***I do not own Teen Wolf or Marvel or any related characters. This is a work of fanfiction and is meant for entertainment purposes only.***

Masterlist

The Beast of War Masterlist

The Lost Child Masterlist

Previous Chapter

---

Slowly opening her eyes, Y/N notices that Derek isn’t in bed next to her. Rolling over, she sees that Stiles isn’t in bed either. She rolls back over to look at the clock on Derek’s bedside table—it reads 10:28 AM. Sighing, she debates whether to get out of bed or stay there a bit longer.

She grabs her phone from her bedside table and scrolls through it aimlessly. She starts to type a text to send to her dad when the bedroom door opens. Y/N looks up from her phone as Derek walks in. His plaid pajama pants hang low on his hips while his chest is free of clothing.

“I see you’re finally awake,” Derek teases, lying down next to her. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her closer to him, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I’m surprised I slept this late. With all my morning shifts, I’m used to getting up way earlier than this.” Y/N replies, cuddling into Derek’s embrace. “When did Stiles leave?”

“He left earlier to get to school. He was running behind, so I told him that we’d put the mattress back so he didn’t have to do it.”

“You are a big softy.” Y/N teases.

Derek rolls his eyes, “Shut up.”

“When do you go in to work today?”

“I took the day off today. Peter and Isaac should be fine on their own today, and Cora will keep them in line anyway.” A month after the fight with Kate, Isaac moved back to Beacon Hills. He says it’s because he got bored of France, but Y/N knows it’s because he missed his friends and pack. Not long after he moved back, Cora did the same. After seeing her brother and his girlfriend plastered all over the internet, she decided to move back for moral support and to protect her brother—not that he needs it.

Isaac and Cora now both work at the Hale Garage. Isaac mostly does smaller things, such as oil changes or dent removals, but Derek has been teaching him other things to help his skills grow. Cora mostly likes to sit up front and work at the front desk. Other than the occasional phone call, appointment setting, or dealing with people who go in, she doesn’t have to do much. She likes that there is not a lot of work that she must do, and Derek likes getting to work with his sister—and he needed someone to take over Lydia’s job with school starting back.

“What about you?” Derek asks.

“I should probably get up and get ready,” Y/N groans. “I’m supposed to meet Steve and Bucky at noon, remember?”

“What are you helping them do again?” Derek asks, watching Y/N roll out of bed and walk to their bathroom.

“I’m supposed to help them move into their new place. I don’t even think they really need my help. I think they are using this as an excuse to hang out with me.” Y/N replies with her toothbrush in her mouth. “It’s also why we got them that stuff yesterday.”

“Do we need a code for if it gets too much for you?”

Y/N laughs, spitting out the toothpaste in her mouth and wiping her face clean, “I think I’ll be okay. Did you want me to speak to Bucky about the open position at the garage?” She wasn’t going to say anything about it, but she does know that Bucky needs a job.

Derek watches as Y/N walks out of their bathroom with clothes in her hands, “What do you think about it?” After Tony and Peter left last night, they didn’t speak about Tony suggesting Bucky for the open position. Derek hasn’t thought about it much either. He’s aware of Bucky’s dislike of him, so he assumes he won’t apply.

“I think,” Y/N says, stripping off her pajamas, “that he needs a job, and Tony thinks he would know what to do. Plus, I know you and Stiles are still a little wary about any of them, so this would give you an opportunity to get to know him a bit.”

“And you’re not?” Derek questions, leaning back against the headboard and watching Y/N as she slowly and teasingly puts on her clothes.

“I am, but this is a way for someone who isn’t me to check one of them out. Since my judgment is clouded, I’m scared I’m going to miss major signs I should be seeing.” It’s not that she thinks they are this group of evil people who are out to get her, but it’s hard for her to trust new people. She has her memories back, and she knows that they love her, but fifteen years is a long time—people change.

She’s changed. She’s not the toddler they knew her as. She’s an adult now with a life that, up until recently, didn't include them. That’s what scares her. It took her three weeks after the war against Kate to cave and look up everything she could about the Avengers. While she knows the media can’t be trusted or believed, she still saw a lot of concerning things.

They are public figures, and how they handled the grief of losing her is plastered all over the internet. From articles to YouTube think-pieces, people never gave them a moment of peace. There are even true-crime podcasts and YouTube channels where people do their makeup with smiles on their faces and talk about the mysterious disappearance of 3-year-old Y/N Stark. She can’t imagine how much pain they were in—and still in.

Y/N is scared that one day, they will pack up her things and take her back to the now-old compound. She sees the pained look in their eyes when she tells stories about herself growing up or when she calls Noah, Dad. What if one day they decide they want to go back to the way it was before Pepper gave her to Hydra and no longer accept her new life?

This isn’t something she thinks of often, and she knows, realistically, that they aren’t going to do anything that she doesn’t want, but the little voice in the back of her mind likes to worry. She hasn’t voiced her concerns to Derek, but he knows how she feels because he feels the same way.

“You think my judgment isn’t clouded?” Derek questions.

“I think that they are putting in an effort right now, so we need to do the same,” Y/N says, crawling into the bed and Derek’s lap to straddle him. “I can just tell him about the position. It doesn’t mean he will apply. And if he does apply, you don’t have to give him the job if he won’t fit. I want us to put in an effort, but not if it’s going to hurt your business.”

Derek stares into Y/N’s eyes before sighing, “Fine, you can tell him about it, but I can’t promise anything.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Y/N smiles, pressing a kiss onto his lips.

Derek smiles at the happiness radiating off her. She hasn’t said anything to him, but he knows her thoughts around her ‘new family’ are complicated. He knows that he should be putting in more of an effort to get to know them, but it’s hard when some of them don’t seem to like him—some of them being Bucky and Steve.

Steve is, at the least, friendly with him when they come over from time to time. He puts in a little effort for Y/N’s sake, but Derek can tell that Steve isn’t his biggest fan. Bucky, on the other hand, hates him. The few times that Y/N has invited them over for dinner, Bucky puts in the effort to ignore him or glares at him when he speaks. Y/N tries to ease the tension between them, but nothing works. Derek thinks it’s because they are both so protective of Y/N.

Y/N thinks it’s something deeper. Bucky is the only member of the Avengers who hasn’t tried to get to know anyone but Y/N. She doesn’t think it’s because he resents the life that she has outside of them, she thinks he’s scared about what the others think about him and what he’s done. She thinks he’s scared that the others won’t want him around her if they truly know about him.

She knows that dealing with Hydra and knowing about what Hydra has done to her has triggered old, hidden memories and insecurities that he had long buried in his mind. Even though they haven’t spoken about their experiences, she can see the way it’s brought up some old thoughts.

She sees the way he flinches when Stiles refers to him as ‘Winter Soldier.’ She sees the way he withdraws within himself when Scott talks about how he believes he can save everyone and goes on his moral high ground I’m better than everyone spiels. She sees the way he flinches when people touch his metal arm—even Steve.

Y/N wishes that Bucky would give the others a chance and get to know them or even spend some one-on-one time with her without Steve or someone else so she can tell him about them. If he did, he would realize that he has a lot more in common with them than he thinks, and they don’t judge him for his past.

If he spoke to Stiles, he would realize that he understands what it’s like to hurt and be responsible for people’s deaths while not in control of your mind and body. If he spoke to Liam, he would realize that Liam understands what it’s like to fear losing control. If he spoke to Lydia, he would realize that she understands what it’s like to be afraid of your own mind. She’s sure if he spoke to them and got to know them, he’d find even more in common.

“You owe me for this,” Derek says, his hands settling on her hips.

“What do you have in mind?” Y/N smirks, running her hands up and down his abs.

“I’m sure I can think of something.”

“I’m sure you can.” She leans in to kiss when his phone goes off on his side table.

“What now?” Derek groans as Y/N reaches over to grab his phone. He takes the phone from her hands to see a message from Peter. “I guess I will be going in to work today.”

“What happened?”

“Someone just dropped their car off, and it needs its brakes replaced.” He says while he types back a response to whoever texted him.

“Doesn’t Peter know how to do that?”

“They apparently requested me specifically.”

“I don’t blame them.” Y/N teases, her fingers running along the waistband of his underwear. “I’d specially request you too.”

Derek sets his phone down next to him and grabs Y/N’s hands to stop her from teasing him more, “If you keep teasing me, we both won’t be leaving this bed today.”

“That’s not much of a threat.” Y/N rolls her before sliding off him and fake sighing in disappointment, “But if you insist on going to work…”

“Well, it is what’s paying for the remodel of the house.”

“I assumed your large inheritance and the money made from the people living in this building was going toward the remodel.”

“No, most of my inheritance is still safely tucked away while the money made from this building has gone toward my new Camaro and making sure you and the pack are taken care of,” Derek presses a quick kiss to her forehead before getting out of bed.

“If Peter has $117 million in inheritance money, how much do you have?” Y/N asks, watching Derek walk over to the dresser.

“Let’s just say if we wanted to, we would never have to work a day in our lives, and neither would the people around us.”

“You have that much money, and you still make me go to work?”

“Is this you trying to tell me that you’re only with me for my money?” Derek teases, walking into the open bathroom to finish getting ready.

“No, this is me wondering why you force your hot girlfriend to work if you have enough money to have her naked on a beach somewhere with nothing but time to do other things.” She can hear Derek’s laugh echo throughout their bathroom. “If I knew that I could possibly marry into old money, I wouldn’t be trying so hard for my bachelor’s, and I would’ve dropped out of school a while ago.”

“Possibly marry, huh? Who said I want to marry you?” Derek questions teasingly.

Y/N rolls her eyes playfully, “Oh, so you don’t want to marry me? I guess I better start packing my things then…”

Derek laughs as he walks out of the bathroom, fully dressed, toward Y/N, “I think we both know that one day you will be Mrs. Y/N Hale.”

“Who said I’ll take your last name?”

“You don’t have to take my name if you don’t want to.”

Y/N thinks for a moment, “Actually, I think we should get married as soon as possible so then I don’t have to have the awkward conversation with anyone about whether I’m going to stay a Stilinski or become a Stilinski-Stark. If I’m a Hale, then there will be no room to argue.”

“Save something for the vows.” Derek jokes before leaning down and pressing a kiss to her lips. “I’ve got to go. Hopefully, I won’t be gone too long. What time will you be back?”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be at Steve and Bucky’s, but tonight I’m going to the station to help my dad get ready for his date tonight.”

“I can join tonight if you want me to.” Derek knows that Y/N is happy that her dad has finally decided to get out there and go on a date after years of throwing himself into his work and struggling with the death of his wife, but he wants to be there for her in case seeing her dad with a different woman brings up some old feelings.

“Sure. I’ll come back here before the station if you’re done with work by then.”

“Okay.” Derek grabs his phone and presses one last kiss to Y/N’s lips. “Love you. I’ll text you when I get off.”

“Okay. Love you more.” Y/N smiles widely at him, watching him leave as he rolls his eyes at her childishness.

After he walks out the door, she grabs her phone to check and see if she has any notifications. Turning her phone on, she notices that Steve has texted her saying the moving truck arrived a little early if she wants to go over now. She quickly replies to him before grabbing her stuff to head over to his new place.

---

Y/N steps out of her car in front of Steve and Bucky’s new rental house. The four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath home is smaller than what Steve and Bucky are used to but considered average-sized in Beacon Hills. It’s also only two blocks away from the Stilinski house. Even though Y/N doesn’t live there anymore, she still considers it her home and is there quite frequently. She knows that is part of why they chose to rent it.

Walking up to the open storage container sitting in the driveway, she sees Steve and Bucky removing boxes from it and carrying them into the house, “Hey!”

“Hey! Thanks for coming.” Steve says, setting the box down in the garage so he can hug her. “We’ve moved all the big items into the house already. The only thing left are the boxes.”

She looks into the open storage container to see a few left, “How is there only three boxes left? Didn’t this just get here?”

“We don’t have that much stuff.”

“How?”

“We lived at headquarters. Most of the stuff there was Tony’s.” Bucky replies, walking into the garage with a rare smile on his face. He pulls Y/N into a tight hug in greeting.

“Did you never think about getting your own place?”

“We did, but a certain incident put that thought to a halt.” Steve answers. From the sad he’s looking at her, Y/N can assume he’s talking about her disappearance. She wants to ask more questions, but she’s not sure that she wants to know the answers. Most of what she knows about how they, and the other Avengers, took her disappearance is from Stiles and the extensive research she did on them.

“Well, then, I guess we need to do a bit of shopping,” Y/N says, moving to grab a box from the storage container. She sets her phone and keys on top of a box before picking it up. “You also need to show me where to put this.”

Steve picks up the box he previously set down and motions for Y/N to follow him into the house. She follows him through the laundry room and into the open kitchen and living room area. Y/N sets the box in her hands down on the other boxes that are piled up against the far living room wall and grabs her phone and keys from the top of it.

“Do you have any furniture, or is it just boxes of stuff?” Y/N asks, noticing that she doesn’t see anything other than boxes.

“Our couch and bedframe should be here tomorrow,” Steve replies.

“Is that it?”

“We thought that maybe we could go shopping together one day when you aren’t busy,” Bucky says, walking in with the last two boxes. “If you’re interested?”

“Sure. I’ll have to check my schedule and see when I’m available.” Between work, rebuilding the Hale house, and splitting her time between her two different families, she feels like she’s always doing something or having to meet with someone. She knows she needs to start saying no when people ask her to do stuff, but she has a hard time doing that. She sets her purse and phone on the kitchen counter but keeps her keys in her hand as she turns back to them, “Where’s your cleaning supplies?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we should probably scrub the place down before we start unpacking, so what box is your cleaning stuff in?”

“We don’t have any cleaning stuff,” Steve says, double-checking the labels on the boxes even though he knows they don’t have any.

“Then how did you clean at the compound?”

“Tony had people that did that,” Bucky replies.

“Even your room?” Y/N doesn’t understand how they don’t have any cleaning stuff. Even if they didn’t clean at the compound, they should have bought stuff for their new place.

“Yes.” Steve and Bucky look a little embarrassed that they are unprepared.

“Did you plan on hiring someone to clean this place too?”

“Um,” Steve doesn’t know how to answer that. He and Bucky hadn’t discussed much about their moving situation. They just wanted a break from the Avengers and wanted to be closer to Y/N.

Y/N smiles teasingly at the scared and embarrassed look on their faces, “So you have no furniture, nothing to clean with, and judging by the labels on these boxes, nothing to eat with either. Did you own anything at the compound, or did Tony own everything?”

Steve and Bucky glance at each other with wide eyes. They should’ve done some shopping before moving in. Since she said it out loud, they realize they don’t have anything to cook or eat with. Steve is also realizing that they don’t have any toilet paper, laundry detergent, or other things they will need. Anything they needed at the compound was always there. They never needed to buy anything. They also never needed to restock because people would restock things for them.

Y/N laughs a little at them, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I kind of assumed this would happen. Follow me.” She turns and walks to the front door as the trail silently behind her. Unlocking and opening the door, she walks over to her parked car, unlocks it, and opens her trunk. “I stopped and got a few things for you yesterday.”

Stepping back from her car, Steve and Bucky can see that it’s full of things they need. With her back seats down, she was able to get them more than she planned to. She bought them a nice vacuum, a broom and dustpan set, a Swiffer mop, rags, dusters, and various cleaning sprays and scrubs. She even bought them toilet paper, laundry detergent, dryer balls, dish soap, towels, and other various necessities.

Closer to her front seats, there are boxes of pots and pans, plates, silverware, cups, and a few other kitchen items. In her passenger seat, there is a stack of organizers and containers. She even got them a few games and puzzles for fun.

“Thank you, but there’s no way we need all of this,” Steve says in shock, giving Y/N a little side hug to show his appreciation.

“Do you want your place to be semi-clean or clean-clean? Also, not everything is for cleaning. From the way you and the others talk about the compound, I assumed you would need a few things.”

“This is still a lot of stuff. You didn’t need to do this,” Bucky says, pulling her into a hug too, “but thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but I’m not the only one you need to thank. I might have been the one who picked everything out, but Derek was the one who paid for it.” Y/N says, pulling away from Bucky. She can see the smiles on their face falter at her Derek paid for it.

“We will make sure to thank him the next time we see him,” Steve says, his smile a little more forced than before, “right, Buck?”

Bucky hums in fake agreement. It’s not that he’s less grateful now that he knows Derek paid for it, he just doesn’t like Derek. He swears he’s just protective of Y/N, and he doesn’t trust Derek, but Nat thinks he’s jealous. She also thinks he’s bitter that Y/N has this whole life that, up until recently, doesn’t include them.

“Well, let’s get all this stuff inside and start scrubbing everything down,” Y/N says.

---

They spent two hours scrubbing and wiping everything down before taking a break for lunch. Steve ordered two pizzas and a few drinks for them. Now, they are standing around the kitchen island as they quietly eat their lunch.

They haven’t spoken much since they started cleaning. Y/N put on some music, and she showed them what to do, but they didn’t say much after that. Part of it was due to them concentrating on their tasks; the other part was due to them not knowing what to say.

“How has work been?” Steve asks Y/N.

“It’s been good,” Y/N replies, “With no current threats in town, we haven’t been as busy as we sometimes are.”

“Tony said another journalist visited you at work recently.”

Y/N rolls her eyes a little at his protective tone, “They were just some college kid that had a few questions. They were mostly just asking about my thoughts and feelings on everything.”

“What did you tell him?” Buck asks curiously.

“Nothing that he couldn’t have guessed himself. How’s your job search been?”

Bucky huffs in frustration at that question, “I had a Zoom interview two days ago, but they only asked me questions about Steve the whole time. From the Captain American photo I could see in the corner of the room, I’m guessing she was a fan.”

“Well, I know of a job opportunity if you’re interested.” She knows he’s not going to like her suggestion, but she told Derek she would tell Bucky about it.

“It’s not at the hospital, is it? I’m looking for something less stressful, not more stressful. I also don’t think I’m qualified.”

“No, it’s at the auto shop. Derek is looking for someone to help out, and Tony said you would know what to do.”

Bucky almost declined immediately, but a sharp look from Steve stopped him, “I don’t know…”

“You can always just apply and think on it. His interview process is pretty simple. He’ll ask you some questions, and then he tests you out for about an hour to see if you’re a good fit. There’s no guarantee that you’ll get the job, and if you do, you can decide whether to accept or not.” Y/N shrugs her shoulders as she wipes the pizza grease off her hands.

Bucky thinks for a moment. On one hand, he wants a new job, and this one would allow him to learn more about Derek. On the other hand, Derek would be his boss, and he would have to spend time and speak to him too. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great,” From the smile on Y/N’s face, Bucky could tell that was the right answer.

They finish eating their lunch before unpacking the boxes. After they unpacked the last box, they said their goodbyes, and Y/N left to go home to pick up Derek.

---

“Maybe I should’ve gotten a haircut.” The sheriff mumbles, looking at himself in a handheld mirror.

“I think you should be lucky that you still have hair to cut,” Stiles says.

“I think you look great,” Scott counters.

“Thank you, son I should’ve had.” The sheriff smirks at Scott.

“Don’t listen to Stiles, Dad. I think you look handsome.” Y/N says, fixing his hair a little with her hand.

“God, what am I doing?” The sheriff struggles with his tie before Y/N stops him.

“What you’re doing is taking a night off and going to enjoy a lovely dinner with your date,” Y/N replies, fixing his tie.

“And who are you having dinner with?” Stiles asks.

“None of your business,” Noah answers.

“Why does Y/N get to know and not me?”

“I didn’t tell her who it was. Derek was the one who figured it out.”

“Derek knows too?!”

Derek just smirks and sits back against the sheriff’s desk. He likes that he knows something that Stiles doesn’t.

“Stilinski!” Someone yells somewhere in the sheriff’s station.

They follow the sheriff out of his office to see the boy who yelled for him. His lawyer is standing in front of him as Parrish and another officer stand next to him.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says, staring at Noah.

“Donovan, if you think that shocks me, remember it is well-documented in your Anger Expression Inventory. Officers, take him out of here.” Noah says, nodding his head at the officers.

“When I say I’m going to kill you, I mean I’m going to get a knife, and I’m going to stab you until your heart stops beating.”

The station is silent for a moment before Stiles breaks it, “Wow, that was awesome. Really, that was great. Do it again, but as Christopher Walkin.”

“Maybe shed a tear this time. I want to see the anger issues overwhelm you as you think about the little cell you're about to live in.” Y/N adds.

Donovan nods his head, stepping back before lunging forward toward them. Scott jumps in front of Stiles as Derek jumps in front of Y/N. Donovan continues to yell as the officers pull him out of the station and toward the transportation van.

“Well, he’s got some issues,” Y/N mumbles, slipping her hand into Derek’s to reassure him that she’s okay. “We should get out here so you can get to your date.”

“Us too,” Stiles says after he finishes his quiet conversation with Scott.

“You have to promise to call me afterward and tell me how it went. If I don’t hear from you, I will call you myself.” Y/N says, fixing her dad’s tie one last time.

“I will text you afterward,” The sheriff compromises.

“Thank you.” She hugs him goodbye, and Derek whispers a little dating advice to him before they leave. Stiles and Scott trail behind them before breaking off toward Stiles’ jeep.

“Do we want to pick something up or make something at home?” Derek asks as they sit in his Camaro.

“I want you to make that dish of yours I really like. I think we have the stuff for it.” Y/N replies, trying to give Derek her sweetest look so he won’t turn her down.

Derek huffs and rolls his eyes as he turns the car on, “The things I do for you.”

“Do you think I should be worried about what that guy said to my dad?” Y/N asks quietly. She made fun of him in the moment, and she likes to think that nothing will ever happen to her dad with her and everyone else around to protect him, but they do live in Beacon Hills, where anything is possible.

“With the things he has to deal with, I think some angry human boy is the least of his worries. He’s probably more worried about his date than him.”

“That’s true. It’s just that everything has been calm here recently. I can’t help but worry that something is coming. Stiles seems to be worried about something, so I’m worried too. Maybe it’s nothing, but there’s this feeling in my gut that something’s not right.”

---

@xxemmarldxx @esposadomd @ladyjenjay @ts1mp0ne @misshale21

@n1ght5h4d3-24 @xoxoloverb @hizzielover @remuslittlesister @oscarissac2099

[jessmalia]

malia tate playlist: you first by paramore (x)

everyone is a bad guy and there's no way to, no way to know who's the worst but karma's gonna come for all of us and i hope, well, i hope, i just hope she comes, comes for you first

[crazyk-imagine]

Breakfast and Shocking News

Pairing: Theo Raeken x Pack member!reader

Characters: Theo Raeken, Pack member!reader, Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall, Liam Dunbar, Malia Tate (Hale), Lydia Martin, Derek Hale, Peter Hale

Warnings: Fluff, post show, Theo is probably ooc, cute pack moment, Isaac should have been in season 6a/b and the movie so I brought him back, I got lost in tw fanfic tiktoks and now I'm back on tw

Word Count: 918

Is this the start of a series like my gym one for Triple Frontier? Maybe, we'll see.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You make another bowl of pancake batter, making sure to make more than you did last time. God, that was a mess.

You had to calm down three of them and Stiles should know better than to throw a fit in front of everyone. He's older than them for god's sake.

You shake your head and scoop more batter into the second pan you have going.

Footsteps entering the kitchen alarm you but enough to make you worry.

"Hey," he pecks your cheek.

"Someone else could be up, you know."

"I already checked." He taps his ears.

"Really?" You stare the chimera with a deadpan expression.

"Yeah, really," he says sarcastically, smirking at you afterwards.

"You're not cute."

"Oh, I think you're wrong. I'm," he wraps his arms around your waist. "Adorable and as your adorable boyfriend, it's my duty to tell you that," he pecks your neck, the spot underneath your ear. "Your pancakes are close to burning."

Your eyes widen. "Oh, crap." You remove yourself from his grasp and remove the pancakes from the pans. "Go sit down. You can get started on breakfast before everyone else wakes up."

"As long as you eat with me." He turns off the stove, pulling you with him.

"But I-"

He sits down, pulling you down beside him. He prepares your plate before making his own. "Eat." His free arm wraps around your back, his hand landing on your hip, keeping you close.

"Sometimes I wonder how you were ever a bad guy," you comment, cutting up your pancake.

"Stiles says the same thing but more sarcastically."

"It'd be alarming if he didn't use sarcasm." You look for your glass and realize you didn't get something to drink for either of you. "Do you want milk or juice?" You look in the fridge.

"I'm not Liam."

You purse your lips. "Just because he's younger and doesn't like coffee, doesn't make him a child."

He gives you a look.

"Don't be mean. He's a nice guy."

You reach for a mug in the cabinet.

"He has a crush on you."

"He does not."

"He follows you around like a puppy."

"He says I'm like an older sister to him."

"So, he doesn't get his ass kicked."

"You got punched by him at least three times."

Theo scoffs. "Did he tell you that?"

"Everyone has."

He shakes his head, stabbing his fork into his food. "I let him."

"Sure, you did." You place the mugs beside the plates and sit back down. "I'd still call you to kick somebody's ass for me," you tell him, wanting him to feel better.

"Yeah?"

You nod, "of course I would. Also, not to mention how hot you look when you shifted."

"You think I'm hot?" He turns to you.

You pause in your bite, slowly swallowing. "No?"

"You do. You think I'm hot."

You scoff, pushing him away. "I didn't say that."

"You said I'm hot," he repeats to tease you.

"No," you whine when he leans in.

"What did I just walk into?"

You both freeze, slowly turning to face the human of the pack. "Hey, Stiles."

"Don't "hey Stiles" me." He points between the two of you. "What's a- what's going on here?"

"We're having breakfast."

"You're looking a little close for people having breakfast."

"What's it to you?" Asks Theo.

"Something you want to tell your friendly neighborhood FBI Agent?"

You two glance at one another and shrug. "No."

He nods and ventures over to the coffee maker. "I don't buy it."

Some of the other pack members wander into the kitchen.

"Did Stiles find out?"

"Little bit," you tell her, pinching your fingers together, leaving a bit of space between your thumb and index finger.

"I don't get it."

"He's about to figure it out," Liam tells the were-coyote.

"Oh."

"Wait- you guys know they're dating?!" Stiles screeches.

"Uh," Malia, Liam, and Brett make the same noise.

"No?" Scott chimes in.

"Oh, please. It was painfully obvious from the start."

"How did you get in?" The true alpha asks Peter.

"When I got here," Derek adds.

"When did you get in?" Stiles asks.

"A few minutes ago."

"Is everyone here?" Malia asks.

"Now, we are," Lydia interrupts.

"Great. How many of you knew these two were dating?"

Everyone raises their hands, except for Liam.

"Okay, I'm not the only one."

"I was the one who got them together."

"Oh, great so everyone knew before me."

"Guess so," you shrug.

"Why didn't anyone tell me?"

"We knew you'd judge."

He scoffs, "I wouldn’t-"

"I asked you a hypothetical question and asked how you would feel if I was dating someone from the pack."

"Uh huh... and?"

"You said rip the band aid off and I said Theo. You told me to put the band aid back on and pretended I didn’t say anything after that."

"And your point is?"

"You didn’t want to accept it therefore I didn't actually tell you."

"I can- I can accept it."

"You can't," Isaac pats his shoulder before pushing him out of the way.

"When did you get into town?"

"This morning."

"Hence the big batch for breakfast," you answer.

"You knew he was coming?"

"Of course, I did. I picked him up."

"I did," Theo corrects you.

"It was a team effort, sweetheart." You pat his knee.

"Ew. Please, I'm trying to enjoy my coffee."

"Like you need something else to get you all jittery," you tell the human.

He sarcastically laughs in return.

-

Taglist

@kmc1989

[skyesdaisys]

character's i write for

welcome to my list of characters where i have many of them from many fandoms that i write for

requests: open currently (just wanna try writing again)

bolded names are ones i really wanna write for

yellowjackets (shauna shipman, jackie taylor, lottie matthews, taissa turner, van palmer, nat scatorccio, laura lee, callie sadecki)

dc titans (dick grayson, jason todd, kory anders, gar logan, donna troy, dawn granger, hank hall)

fear street (deena johnson, sam fraser, ziggy berman, cindy berman, kate schmidt, alice hart, simon kalivoda, tommy slater, young!nick goode)

teen wolf (scott mccall, stiles stilinski, isaac lahey, malia tate, kira yukimura, lydia martin, liam dunbar)

american horror story (violet harmon, kit walker, lana winters, zoe benson, madison montgomery, kyle spencer, misty day, cordelia goode, jimmy darling, tristan duffy, ally mayfair-richards, kai anderson, winter anderson, mallory, brooke thompson, montana duke)

the summer I turned pretty (jeremiah fisher, belly conklin, taylor jewel, shayla wang, conrad fisher)

gossip girl (nate archibald, dan humphrey, blair waldorf, jenny humphrey, serena van der woodsen, vanessa abrams)

miscellaneous: maeve rojas (one of us is lying), leighton murray (the sex lives of college girls), miguel diaz (cobra kai), brooke davis (one tree hill), maeve wiley & ruby matthews (sex education), kate bishop (hawkeye), roronoa zoro (one piece live action), daisy johnson (agents of shield), zach dempsey (13 reasons why)

another thing i'd like to add, i wouldn't mind writing poly ships x reader like dickkory, jackieshauna, stalia, sameena, lottienat, jaygar, etc. (or a poly ship with crossover characters like dick grayson & kate bishop for example)

i will write for fluff, angst, and maybe smut (there's only so much i am comfortable with though) if you ask nicely. and i only write for fem & gn readers

and as a reminder, you guys can request for the following fandoms for oneshots, headcanons, or just sending your fluffy or horny thoughts in my inbox (i don't judge)

[samdeancass]

Show Me

Requested by @ab1nsur

Pairing: Malia Tate x male Reader

Genre: Smut

Characters: Malia, Y/N

Description: When Malia hears Y/N talking about what he'd like to do to her, Malia pulls him aside and tells him to show her what he means.

"You know, she is the only girl that I think could take me, the whole nine inches. Get her up against the wall and fuck her into oblivion. That's what I'd do to her."

You were standing at your locker with your gym buddies. They'd asked you about your recent 'wet dream' about Malia which led to the current conversation. What you didn't realise, however, was that Malia was standing just across the corridor and had heard every last word that you'd said. The smirk that had pasted itself on your face suddenly disappeared when you saw her walking over with a shit-eating grin on her face.

"Oh, fuck." Your buddies turned around and tried to suppress their laughter when Malia pushed her way through the group and stood toe-to-toe with you. "I heard what you'd like to do to me. Now, pretty boy, how about you show me?" She smirked playfully at you, innocently batting her eyes.

You smirked evilly at her, eyes darkening with lust, before roughly grabbing her hand and tugging her down the hallway. "See you later, guys, I have some business to take care of." Wolf whistles and cheering were your reply as you dragged Malia into the nearest closet.

Roughly pushing her inside, you locked the door and slammed her on it before attacking every part of her body. "Alright you little slut, you want me to show you what I wanna do to you?" You wrapped your hand around her throat and squeezed slightly, eliciting a moan from her lips. "Yes, Y/N, show me. Fuck me into oblivion."

You growled in response and roughly turned her around, pressing her face into the door. Roughly, you moved your other hand down her body and stopped at her pants, ripping them from her body.

Unzipping your zipper, you pulled your dick out and pumped a few times before putting a condom on and lining up with her cunt. Without giving her any time to expect it you roughly bottomed out inside her, earning a guttural moan from her. You pressed your body up against hers, wrapped her hair around your hand, and pulled just as you pulled out and slammed back in.

You hammered into her, making her take all of you. You could feel yourself getting closer to your high but you weren't ready to let your dream end. Pulling out, you roughly turned Malia around and slammed your lips onto hers while one hand massaged her breast and another reached down to play with her clit.

"This good enough for you, you little slut?" She opened her mouth to respond but only a low, breathy moan came out. You rubbed a little harder and smirked when you saw Malia's eyes roll to the back of her head. "Oh yeah, you like it rough, don't you? You little whore." That comment tipped her over the edge and she came all over your hand, a loud moan escaping her mouth.

"We're not done yet, sweetheart." Once again, you turned her around and pushed her against the door. You slammed into her, completely bottoming out and going at a monstrous pace. Her face slammed against the door to match the pace you were going at. Loud moans echoed around the room as she orgasmed all over your dick. Your orgasm was dangerously close. The last few thrusts were all that you needed before you emptied your seed into the condom.

Taking it off, you tied the ends together and tossed it in the corner before pulling up your pants and cleaning Malia up. "Was that good enough for you, babe?" She looked up at you through her eyelashes and smiled widely. "The best sex I ever had. But please tell me, when are we gonna tell your friends about us?"

You leaned down and kissed her before opening the door. "Not just yet, let us have this dirty little secret for a little while longer. It makes doing it here more thrilling." You winked at her before walking towards your cheering friends.

Teen Wolf Tags:

@akshi8278 @bxoken-heartss @hellomyweirdos @redcoatgirl

[moths-in-hats]

moodboard: kira x lydia x malia

[fandomnerd9602]

Male brother of Hope Mikaelson x Malia Tate where they’re messing around in there wolf and Coyote forms

Hope: where’s Y/N?

Meanwhile Y/N and Malia runs around in their wolf forms…

Y/N: I’m gonna get you!

Malia: no you’re not!

Y/N tackles her, their tail wagging…

Malia: no fair!

Y/N nuzzles her…