#stiles stilinski writing

[reidiot]

don't fucking interrupt me when i'm reading my x reader fics it's rude

[bethsvrse]

me when writing

[shitpostingsterek]

credit

[murdrdocs]

torn at the seams

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

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

wc. 5.7k+

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Early last year, my family trip.”

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

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

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

You try not to stare, averting your eyes elsewhere. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kissing Stiles is nice, to put it simply. 

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

You’ve always imagined yourself in this position. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath hitches. You lick your lips. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanna feel you.” 

“I wanna taste you.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me put it on. Please?” 

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

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

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

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

“Good?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More?” 

You nodded. “More, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

He leans down and knocks his forehead against yours. 

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

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

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

It’s such a pretty sound. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[patolemus]

There’s just something about Stiles being so unflinchingly violent if it’s to protect Derek, of him having vivid fantasies about bashing his bat against Kate’s pretty blonde hair until her brain splatters across the room, about cutting Jennifer’s tongue and arms off so she can’t spell or touch Derek ever again, about lighting Gerard on fire and ripping Kali’s head off her shoulders...

[artaxlivs]

Stiles always assumed that when Derek finally kissed him - because it has always felt inevitable - that it would be a boiling over of their anger. That Derek would throw Stiles into a wall or yell at Stiles after a monster fight and the kiss would be provoked by outrage. That it would be a violent meeting of tongues and teeth and groping, squeezing hands on every part of each other that they could reach. 

It would be a battle for dominance, a mess of conflicting emotions. Uncontrolled and undiscussed. That it would burn like a forest fire and either leave them both with nothing but ashes or ignite something that would consume them. 

He always assumed that a kiss from Derek would not be given, would not be shared. It would be wrenched from his tightly controlled fists and Stiles would have to fight for his right to keep it. 

But when it happens it’s nothing like that at all. When Derek finally kisses Stiles for the first time, it’s with laughter, rather than rage, in the space between them. 

When it happens - it’s with consent. 

Because Derek asks. Because of course he does. 

They’re on Derek’s couch, an empty pizza box on the coffee table. Derek, relaxed and comfortable, is sitting sideways with one knee bent between them. Stiles is sitting criss-cross with his socked feet tucked up under his knees. He’s just finished a story about one of the deputies trying to arrest Mrs. Riechton for shoplifting and getting beat up by the eighty-three year old woman and her giant purse. Her purse that was heavy with the five books of fairie porn she’d just stolen from the local Barnes & Noble. 

Derek is almost doubled over with laughter and Stiles has one hand across his stomach because it hurts from laughing. And suddenly it’s like the last puzzle piece has clicked into place. The last Lego in the build. The last push pin in a mind map. 

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s soft and filled with something like hope. Something like wonder. Like Derek can’t possibly believe that they made it this far. That they’ve somehow made it to a place where the answer might be yes. 

And it is. 

It really fucking is. 

Because Stiles has been in something with Derek since he was sixteen. In sexual crisis. In confused lust. In determined lust. In awkward friendship. In love. In all the stages of mutual respect. In love. 

So yes. Yes, please. Yes a million times in a million ways. 

Just. Yes. 

It’s not a soft and gentle kiss. It’s not bordering on aggressive like he’d always thought it would be. No, it’s somewhere in between. It’s sure and happy and hopeful - so hopeful. Just warm, soft lips at first but then tongues, too. Then one of them leans forward and one of them leans back and it’s everything.

They sink into the couch and into each other and the rest of the world fades into the background. Like everything from the last six years has been leading up to this moment. Every loss, every victory, every bullet wound and demonic possession, every step into danger and every step away from each other has still somehow brought them together. 

To this. 

To kissing with intention. 

“I think I always knew,” Derek says when they’re curled into each other's warmth later.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, not asking for clarification because he always knew, too. 

Some things are meant to be.

Edit: You can now find this on Ao3 here. There might be more someday, It's happened before.

[sundrop-writes]

BRAINWASHED

Virgin!Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

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

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

Summary:

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

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

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

Word Count: 8,000

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

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

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

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

...

Stiles was hopeless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, you had become his hero. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tried not to act like it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again - he was hopeless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N, uh-” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This thought caused Stiles’s stomach to clench. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 

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

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

His little secret piece of you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what else could he do but obey? 

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

He was a man of simple, divine tastes. 

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

“Stiles, please.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Though he knew that would never fucking happen. 

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

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

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

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

Terrible idea. Terrible rabbit hole. 

But what would they smell like? 

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

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

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

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

He could always imagine the other aspects so well. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cum for me, Stiles.” 

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

Fuck. He had fucked up. 

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

… 

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

The only problem? 

Hang to dry. 

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

… 

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

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

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

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

Focus, Stiles. Focus. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everything.” 

Stiles groaned.

...

Edit to my notes as of Oct. 9th, 2024:

It is now my biggest regret announcing that there is a sequel to this fic in my drafts, but there is one that is fully written and just needs to be edited (but that is something that takes time and effort - neither of which I am going to put into the fic right now). However, it will not be posted anytime soon, and it is delayed infinitely. It will be posted when it is posted (and currently I don't know when that will be), and I would appreciate people not chasing me down and not asking about it.

Originally, my point of having a comment and reblog goal on this fic was so that a certain percentage of the people who read and liked the preview for this fic would have to reblog it, but the ratio on this fic is still absolutely horrendous, and it's clear to me that once people saw that goal was met, they didn't care to reblog this fic or comment on it if they enjoyed it - they only care to nag me and chase me down for the sequel while this fic sits at over 600 likes and less than 100 reblogs and comments (including my replies to people's comments).

If you are reading this fic after the edit, I hope you enjoyed it. I hope you do stick around on my blog while I work on and post other things. But the sequel to this fic will not be coming out anytime soon because I am a person with shifting interests, not a robot. Those shifting interests (and me chasing them organically) is the reason that I can produce 200k of fanfiction in a year and post all of it for free for people to enjoy.

And as always - if you enjoyed this fic, please comment about the body of work that has been written. And perhaps, consider reblogging it to show your appreciation. Please do not comment about the sequel.

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

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

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

a little fashion show

kinktober, day four

a/n: bro, the amount of time this idea has been in the notes app on my phone....

warnings: stiles stilinski x reader, smut, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, trying on lingerie, teasing, flashing, kissing

word count: 990

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

masterlist | join my taglist | kinktober 2023

“Who was at the door?” Stiles asked as your giddy form appeared in the doorway to your room once more. 

“The mailman,” you giggled, unable to contain your excitement, “and look!”

“You got a package!” not getting as revved up in the excitement as you were, he nonchalantly pointed out the parcel in your palms, “oh, cool!”

“Not just any package, only the one I’ve been waiting about a billion years to arrive,” you shut the door behind you, gazing down at the bundle in your hands with heart-shaped eyes, “you don’t mind if I just try this stuff on right now, do you? I just don’t know if I can wait till you leave.”

Discretely readjusting in his comfortable seat on your mattress, he waved a hand, “no, no, it’s fine.”

“Really? Great!” you squealed, digging your fingers into the opening of the package, “you can help me see if any of it doesn’t suit me or fit right, give you a little fashion show and everything.” 

“Alright, sure,” he agreed with a soft chuckle as you disappeared behind the wide bookcase that acted as a divider in the middle of your room.

After changing into the first item, you couldn’t stop yourself from springing back out, arms raised high above your head as you sang, “tada! What do you think?”

“Wow, oh, wow,” you watched Stiles eyes grow wide as they landed on the extremely short nightgown hanging around your form, “that’s-, that’s-…”

“It’s cute, isn’t it?” you turned your back to your stunned friend to glance at yourself in the mirror, “the floral pattern especially.” 

Gaze tracing your hands as they played with the tiny skirt, “y-yeah, it is,” you just barely managed to catch sight of his reflection discreetly move one of your pink pillows over his lap, “it’s good, you should definitely keep that one.”

You hadn’t thought that his blush could have gotten any worse, but evidently, as you soon pranced out clad in the next thing, it very much could. 

“What about this one?” you innocently observed the lingerie set in the long mirror, turning a bit to see how the high-waisted, black underwear hugged your bottom, “do you think it fits alright?” 

Looking like a broken PlayStation 2 game you’d have to pull out and blow on, Stiles simply hummed, “huh?”

“I just feel like if I jump around or bend over in this, the girls are just gonna spill out,” your nose crinkled as your fingertips ghosted over the cups of the matching bra. 

“I mean,” he blinked hazily, “you could test it out, if you want.”

Obliging twice, jumping gently in place, the squint to your eye didn’t fade away as not only you observed how your boobs jiggled in the cups, “hm, I don’t know, maybe one of the ones that has a different cut then this one…”

Peeping through the shy slivers of the bookcase, you bit down on your smirk as you watched the trouble you’d stirred up on the other side. As you slid off the black number, daringly arching your back and purposefully sticking your butt out far enough for him to catch a glimpse, you spotted how a string of your want clung to the panties as you dragged the down your legs. 

If this last one wasn’t gonna do the trick, make the guy you’d had a crush on forever fess up and make a move, then you didn’t know what would.

Pink, skimpy and sheer, your pebbly nipples weren’t the only thing on full display as the see-through thong also made your puffy pussylips no secret to anyone. 

Your pace as you returned to the mirror was purposefully slow, not looking to Stiles even once as you felt your desperation for him soak the pretty garments. 

“T-that-, yeah,” his fluttering eyes were trained on your bare bottom, “that’s nice.”

“Yeah?” you still didn’t dare to look at him, “you think so?”

“Mhm,” he nearly groaned. 

Grazing your touch ever so lightly over the elastic edges, you uttered, “you really think it’s pretty?”

“Y-yeah…”

“Stiles,” you sucked in a deep breath and gathered up the courage through the pumping adrenalin of being so exposed before your crush, “can I ask you something?”

“Anything,” flowed from his lips nearly instantly.

“Would you have sex with me?”

The room was dead silent a moment before Stiles choked, “what?”

“Would you fuck me?” you rephrased, still not looking back at him in the refection. 

“Would I-… I’m sorry, what?”

“Would you fuck me?” gnawing at your bottom lips, you finally turned to face him, “because I kinda really like you, like a lot,” your feet slowly carried you closer to where he sat, “and I don’t know, I’m sorry, am I being too forward? Is this too much? Do you not like me in that way? Because I totally get it if you do, I’m really sorry for everything. I thought you’d picked up on the hints I’ve been dropping for a while now and that you-”

“I do like you!” he rushed to cut off your concern, “I-I-, yes,” seizing your hand in his as he emphasized, “yes.” 

“Yes or yes?” you asked, eyes flickering to the pillow hiding his own excitement. 

“Yes,” he nodded, swiftly tugging you down in his lap before you could withdraw your proposal. 

An airy whimper escaped your lips as he then kissed you, your whole body feeling like puddy in his grasp. Drawing back a moment from his long-awaited pecks, you found yourself offering bashfully, “you know, I could also just give you a handjob or blow you or something if you’re not-”

Using his leverage, he suddenly flung you down against the mattress, effectively cutting your suggestion off as he scurried to hover above you, an earnest grin adorning his lips as he then exclaimed “oh my god, just shut up and let me screw my best friend.”

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[teencopandthesourwolf]

edited version can be read on ao3 HERE

.

“Need a hand with that?”

Derek didn't drop the tire he was carrying, but it was a close thing. He'd recognise that voice anywhere—would know it in a sea of a thousand others.

He slowly turned on his heel to find its owner sat in Derek's favourite tree.

Stiles.

“You're here,” he breathed, not bothering to hide the mix of shock and relief that coloured his own voice and features.

Stilesʼ lips twitched. “I'm here,” he confirmed, just in case Derek needed to hear it.

“Hey,” Derek said, eloquent as ever.

“Hey yourself,” Stiles grinned back.

Shifting his weight on the tree branch, Stiles then pulled himself up to standing. He wiped his hands on the ass of his jeans before proffering one towards Derek.

“I'm Mieczysław Stilinski. It's really nice to meet you, dude.”

Stilesʼcheeks flushed an overwhelmingly pretty shade of pink, and Derek wanted to eat him.

Reaching out to take the hand in one of his own, the pads of his fingertips brushed the familiar Jack rabbit pulse at Stiles's wrist, for just a second, and it was both a calling card and like a huge sigh of relief.

He turned the name around in his mind.

Mieczysław. Mieczysław Stilinski.

It was unexpected, and very Polish, and Derek sort of adored it.

Looking a little antsy, Stiles said, “It, uh, means 'sword' in Polish. If you go in for that sort of thing.” He blushed some more and then snorted at himself. “But yeah, I know it's kinda... ʼSʼobviously why I go by Stiles—which was my Grandfather's nickname too, by the way.”

Derek's heart swelled in his chest.

This was what they could've had if things had gone differently for them.

He cleared his throat, took a deep intake of woodsmoke-laced air into his lungs, then said, “Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, third son of Talia and Seth Hale of the Hale Pack of Beacon Hills county, North California, and I'm very pleased to meet you're acquaintance. Oh, and do not call me dude, by the way.”

“Broderick? Are you shitting me right now?!” Stiles blurted, trying and failing to not laugh.

Derek rolled his eyes and it felt like breathing. “Seriously? I think you'll find you don't have even half a leg to stand on, Mieczysław.”

“Actually, I have two, Broderick Seth Rodman Hale, and I diligently used the both of them to come out here to Bumfuck nowhere to find you.”

He shot Derek with ridiculous finger guns then blew away imaginary gunpowder smoke, and if it wasn't for the kid's beard it could've easily been thirteen-years ago.

Not a kid anymore.

Stiles looked amazing. A little broader, and a little fuller in the face, and the beard really, really suited him. At once, Derek had the desperate urge to sink his claws into it and paw at the pale skin beneath. He wanted to back Stiles into the bark of the tree and bury his nose in that long, mole-peppered neck he still had dreams about, to breathe in pure unadulterated Stiles.

He swallowed thickly, licking at his dry lips and wishing they were Stilesʼ. Had to force himself to unclench the fist not currently grasping Stiles's hand.

Derek had to try his best to pretend that he wasn't very aware of the fact that they were still very much holding onto each other.

“Broderick means 'brother' in Old Norse, if you go in for that sort of thing,” he offered, borrowing Stiles's banter.

Stiles's smile was easy, albeit tainted with a hint of sadness for that piece of information. He was sort of—looser. More relaxed, and definitely less agitated than he used to be. Though he smelled exactly the same as he always had: Of strong coffee and Bath & Body Oak shower gel and wild cinnamon and lemon sherbet dip, and that particular warm smack of something that Derek had always struggled to place—the very essence of Mieczysław 'Stiles' Stilinski.

The familiar tang zinged over his taste buds like popping candy, and his wolf took up its routinely impatient pacing at his core as if they had seen Stiles only yesterday.

“I'm—uh, I don't—you look good, Stiles. Really good.”

This human was the only creature on planet earth that had Derek Hale fumbling his words.

Stiles was smirking his signature smirk—only there was something new pulling at the curve of that life-ruining mouth of his.

Unerring confidence.

Derek sniffed at the air and licked at his lips again so he could taste that, too.

“You're look pretty fine yourself there, Sourwolf,” Stiles divulged, mirroring Derek again by licking his own lips. He shamelessly looked Derek up and down and said, “Your edges aren't quite so sharp, and you're little softer ʼround the eyes, like maybe you're—I dunno. Something closer to being happy?” His eyes shone like the full moon in the dark when he told Derek, “And, dare I say it, maybe not even all that sour anymore?”

Derek huffed a breath out through his nostrils that was in the proximity of a laugh.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Looks good on you, man. Really good.”

Stiles was borrowing Derek's words, and if he kept saying things like that to Derek while looking at Derek the way that he was, Derek would have to restrain himself from picking the guy up by the scruff of his very nice sweater and kissing the words right out of his mouth.

Then everything sort of stilled, somehow, including the wind, and the birds, and them, as if the whole world had just halted for something incredibly important.

They stood there, just gazing at each other. Like there wasn't anything else they could or would possibly be doing right now.

Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty.

It was obvious to even the blades of grass on the ground that they both still felt it.

Slowly, slowly, they caught back up to reality.

Derek took a breath and found his voice again.

“Might've taken a few pointers from a kid I used to know,” he smiled, eyes never leaving Stilesʼ.

Then he thought in for a penny and admitted, “I hoped you'd come looking for me—and I want you to know that I'm really, really glad that you did.”

Stiles squinted at him through the sun's afternoon rays that broke through the Colorado cloud cover like the heavens had suddenly appeared. In that moment, he reminded Derek of the beautiful golden Aztec Sanvitalia shrub that grew down by the little stream behind his cabin. He wondered briefly if that was the missing base note in Stiles's scent, and felt a little insane with it all.

“Well, I knew I'd find you,” Stiles shrugged, “because one: I'm like a dog with a bone, and two: You left a trail of breadcrumbs so fucking vague only a genius like yours truly would be able to follow.”

He then shielded those big brown doe eyes of his from a particularly bright sunbeam with a still-bony hand, and the squinted look on his face was so fond Derek had to sink his canines into his lip to hold in the pitiful whine that threatened to climb up and out of his chest and escape him.

He stepped closer to the tree; closer to the boy who runs with wolves, who was definitely not a boy any longer.

“You make it sound as if we're in some sort of fairytale, Stiles,” Derek said as he attempted to blink Stiles's beauty from his eyes, knowing it would be a fruitless endeavour.

Finally, Stiles reached out to pull Derek down and into his lap, and Derek went like a force of nature.

He dropped the tire this time.

Stiles smelled like love when he said, “Weren't we always, Der?” right into Derek's mouth.

And Derek knew.

As Stiles leaned in and kissed him softly, and he kissed Stiles softly right back, he knew they both understood that although they had to travel far from Beacon Hills to find it, they had both—at long last—made it home.

.

on ao3 HERE if you'd like to leave me a comment <3

i saw the new dob shoot and my brain remembered the hoech one and went ping! this is for @wulfnerd seeing as they came up with the wonderful Broderick as Derek's full first name in the tags of a post of mine who knows how long ago...

unedited, please be forgiving <3

[shieldofiron]

Derek was still getting used to the whole pack being around. Living together was important to establish themselves as a strong and independent pack but of course it would take some getting used to.

Well, actually… there was only one person he had trouble getting used to. He fell into an easy rhythm with all of them underfoot, even Allison.

But God.

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles would walk right into Derek’s chest in the morning, toothbrush dangling from his lips.

“Sorry!” He would say as he tiptoed into Derek’s study and borrowed/stole a pair of sissors that Derek never did get back.

“Sorry,” he said with a mouth full of food after interrupting Derek’s strategy with another (admittedly slightly better) idea.

And now he was blinking up at Derek with those big bambi eyes. A droplet of water slid down his long pale neck, and-

“Sorry. Waters on the fritz in the east wing. I think Scott, Allison and Kira are… ahem… using up the hot water,” Stiles’ heart skipped a beat and Derek forced his eyes back on Stiles’ face.

“What?” Derek barked.

“L-Laura said to use yours,” Stiles supplied quickly.

He was so… annoying. So hard to live with. Always… around. He was everywhere, dusting everything with his scent, trailing off at the end of his sentences and driving Derek up the wall. So human and annoyingly intelligent. So… pale and pink and flushed and wet.

Derek’s eyes slid down without permission and-

“What’s that?”

“Oh,” Stiles laughed, and the husky sound danced in the molecules between them. “Last Friday the 13th, Lydia and I got free bestie tattoos. They match.”

He angles his hip up, the little stars and swirls on his hip dancing against pale skin dusted with hair.

“Hers is on the back of her neck, but my dad would kill me if he saw so…”

There was that trailing off thing. Derek could only blink at Stiles, watching that pretty pink mouth for another word.

“Well… I better be hittin’ that old dusty trail,” Stiles hitched the towel low on his hips a little and Derek’s eyes ping ponged up and down his lithe body. “Thanks for the shower, partner.”

He patted Derek’s shoulder and headed off, presumably to his own room.

Derek spent a long time standing there in his room, his head filled with snatches of this and that and dark ink on pale skin.

Fuck. He would be really hard to live with now.

[ghostieblr]

Peter's Vows

When Derek is born, there is an earthquake. Beacon Hills is many things, but it is not a place of earthquakes. This is an anomaly, this sudden shaking of the land, and Peter watches Talia go through the pain of birthing a cub, and he makes note of how her cries resonate with the moving earth. As the baby is brought to the world of the living, the earth shakes more; giddy, Peter thinks of the land. Giddy at this baby's birth. That's what it is.

The town reels with the destruction, however minimal it seems to be. It is the strangeness of the earthquake that has the people in a panic, and it takes two days of Mayor Yukimura calling for council meetings and community barbecues that they begin to somehwat calm down.

The baby is named Derek on the first day itself, born underneath the Nemeton, his pale blue eyes reflecting the moonlight in silver hues. Talia sobs with relief, Nathan beside her, stroking her hair. Laura is back at the pack house, safely tucked in the bed, the rest of the pack members keeping watch. Talia had wanted to bring her with them, fearing the worst of the anomaly, but their mom had convinced her to not do it. The birth of the Alpha's cub is a big deal, but it is also private: only the Mate, Emissary and Left Hand are allowed to be present, for comfort, safety, and protection, respectively.

It has been tradition since ages, and Talia is the last person to break it.

Derek is a calm baby. Sleeps through the night, doesn't cry for attention. Only does it for feeding, his survival instinct as strong as his lungs. Peter adores him, even if he may never admit it to anyone.

He is also curious about the boy. Why an earthquake? It cannot be a coincidence. Truly, he wonders how some people can be so dumb. Calling it a coincidence is insulting to the Powers That Be, which must have called upon such a natural reaction of the land for a reason. Derek is a special boy, and Peter vows to find out how.

Besides his incredibly compassionate heart, that is.

It is in his eyes, which have slowly turned into a kaleidoscope of colors, the kindness of him. Derek's trust is not so easily earned, but once it is, it is extremely difficult to dislodge it.

Derek is a boy destined to become a kind man, one that will be an Alpha with mercy in his heart but cunning in his mind. Peter sees the makings of it right from the beginning, the way the boy will procure solutions to his own problems as well as those he deems important to him. Laura is the first born and thus has the claim to being the next Hale Alpha, however Peter knows, somehow, perhaps instinctually, that Derek will be the Alpha.

Another piece of the puzzle falls in place when their emissary falls pregnant. She's an amazing woman, Claudia. Peter likes her wit and humor, and he enjoys the perspective of her husband, the deputy, and if luck is on his side, soon-to-be Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Peter is happy for the couple.

He is, also, astonished to see an almost five-year-old Derek climb onto Claudia's lap one morning, his small fists rubbing against his eyes, and his nose scrunching determinedly to find a scent.

Peter remembers the conversation well.

"Derek, honey? What are you trying to find?"

"Mine," is what Derek growls in reply to Claudia, and shoves his nose against her barely-showing belly.

Peter's laughing figure is shot out of the end of the couch and onto the floor by Claudia's impeccable throw of one of the decorative pillows from said couch.

Thereafter, it was peculiar but not unseemly to find Derek following beside Claudia, his whole little being focused on the life forming inside her. And when the night came, Peter wasn't at all surprised to witness the thunderstorm.

Claudia had plans of giving birth in the hospital, but due to miscalculated steps, or simply because of reasons not privy to them, the best possible option left for her seemed to be below the Nemeton.

John had lost his damn mind at the prospect. "It's raining! Heavily!"

"Talia gave birth in an earthquake," Claudia says through gritted teeth, "And the baby doesn't care, nor do I, John. It is—"

Her words are cut off by another scream, and she is right, of course. It is time.

Talia, John, and Peter are the only ones who should go with her, but Derek, the little sneaky wolf that he seems to have become, follows them. It isn't until halfway through that John, the human, realizes his presence first.

They move forward with the determined little boy, who is all sopping wet in his wolf onesie, and really, this is no laughing matter. Except it is.

Claudia is brought below the Nemeton, and the tree, big and branching and beautiful, hums in their presence. The canopy of it sheds them some, but not completely.

And so, under hard rain and sharp thunderstorms, Mieczysław Stilinski is born, his little body almost white under the moonlight, and his eyes, when they open, a shock of topaz, like a glinting jewel; a fallen angel, Peter thinks.

Derek carefully wraps the baby in the blanket Talia removes from the packed bag, her movements locked onto her son's and the baby's, while John tends to his wife.

Peter watches. He notes the way the baby is calmest in Derek's arms, the way Derek is mesmerized.

This is more than just being True Mates.

True Mates itself are the rarest of occurrences, but something tells him this is more than that. The earthquake, and this sudden rain, in April of all things, simply cannot be coincidence. There must be a reason, one that Peter must uncover.

In the coming years, he dedicates his time to the quest, and finds that, oh, this is something unique indeed.

Unique to the point of legend.

Of course, he gathers facts before telling anyone. Derek's control goes onto the list, as does his ability to switch between his shift as easy as breathing. Having such control at the age of seven is almost impossible, but he has it without the growing ego that would have inflated anyone else's with the amount of praise he gets.

Stiles, as Derek had nicknamed Mieczysław almost immediately post his arrival in the world, is no human. His mother's line has some pretty strong magical abilities, but the kind of power that this boy exudes surpasses imagination. Nobody notices at first, not even Peter, until Stiles is a couple of months past his third birthday. It truly isn't until Derek, almost nine, comes down from his room one day into the kitchen, says, "Which packet, Stiles?" that they realize it.

"Honey, he isn't a wolf. He cannot hear you," Nathan tells him, but Derek just shrugs.

"He is for today."

Peter hears the, "Blue one! Blue one! Blue is sooo pretty, Derek!" from Stiles, who is definitely sitting in Derek's room, upstairs.

Derek grabs the blue packet and goes upstairs, and Peter follows, followed by Talia and Nathan, who beckon Claudia as well.

Stiles sitting on the floor, a myriad of toys around him, while the packets of chips sit beside him, torn open, evidently by Derek's claws, who himself is playing with Stiles.

And they're both being fed flying chips.

The three wolves turn to Claudia as one. Her shaking head and awed face is enough to clue them in, and really, Peter thinks, this is fucking incredible.

Powers don't manifest as early as this in magic wielders. They're more of the puberty package, tied to emotions at the beginning rather than will.

This is... defying it.

Peter loves to see when the next piece of the puzzle will fall.

And it does oh so enticingly.

Years later, when Derek is fourteen and Stiles is almost nine, comes the first trial. The Alpha Summit & The Argent Treaty.

Peter doesn't believe Gerard's words to do no harm, so he sets up precautions in place. It pays off, because during the summit, he almost ends up blinding Deaucalion — something that could have turned super bad if left unchecked.

Gerard's attack is met with swift retaliation, but somehow, only his goons end up dead. Gerard himself remains free, and through sheer will, maybe, the old man manages to kidnap Laura.

By the time the adults sniff out their cub, they're too late.

Not in the sense of Laura being hurt, but in the terms of missing the action, somewhat.

When they enter the warehouse, they are faced with Gerard being held down by a black wolf, fangs around his neck, the eyes of the creature a deep, ruby red. Deeper than Talia's. At first, they all assume it to be one of the visiting Alphas, but then they realize Stiles' presence, too, and it clicks.

Stiles frees Laura from the painful looking electric rod, and comes back to Derek, coaxes him back to his human form as Peter and Nathan take care of the psychopath.

Laura lets Talia mother her, and then says, "We'll have two Alphas."

Talia looks at the now human Derek, and eyes shining with pride, she nods. "Come here, both of you," she beckons, and the boys run, Stiles' chattering a comforting sound for all of them.

A few weeks later, Derek admits to everyone he has a new friend, and talks about her often. Paige this, Paige that. Laura teases him, restrained in her words, trying not to upset Derek's control. Even Cora pulls back. Stiles, though, is almost worse.

He riles Derek to the point of him using his Alpha voice to shut up, and the whole Pack silences itself, even Talia. Stiles, though — an exception to all things sane — doesn't back down. The voice doesn't work on him, and Derek isn't phased by it. However, the smell of guilt filters through their home, and Stiles' sigh is followed by comforting words. There is no apologizing though.

Soon, they'll learn from Derek himself that he hates that everyone is walking on eggshells. That is why he kept bringing up Paige, so that someone would tease him, uncle Peter, Laura, Cora. Or that Stiles would rile him up.

"Why would he, though? He should be happy for you. I am." Cora's words are met with a laugh from Derek, and a groan of embarrassement from Stiles.

"He's weirdly possessive — don't push me, you know you are."

"Alright," Stiles sighs, "I am."

"And Paige is a great friend, but I don't nearly think about her as much as I might have let you all believe."

And that is when Peter sees it. The blink-and-you-will-miss-it purple flash of Stiles' eyes. Peter doesn't put thought into why now; he simply focuses on completing the puzzle.

And he does. True Alpha and Purple Eyes? That's easy.

That's legend.

Set in stone as the first Alpha and the first Emissary as well as Spark, who, arguably, also set in stone the sword of Excalibur.

That part of the legend has questionable sources, though. Sure, Merlin Emrys is, as per theories, the most powerful sorcerer of all time, and Arthur Pendragon the greatest ruler, the once and future king, but it doesn't have as much merit.

What Peter is sure about is that somehow, the Powers That Be decided that this is the pack to send these two to.

He watches Stiles argue about the best type of pasta with Derek, and thinks, suddenly, that perhaps this is their happy ending. What legends end happy? None. So this must be their time to be happy.

Peter vows another quest, then. To always protect Derek and Stiles.

[dcangel]

one thing about stiles is that he absolutely cannot stay quiet when he cums, even if it’s in the worst situation possible. he could be home alone, or it could be late at night— either way, he’s jerking off to the explicit picture you sent him last week that he still has yet to get over. he can’t muffle any soft grunts or hums even when his mouth is closed. especially not when you’re letting him fuck you. his intentions when resting on top of you were innocent, perfectly content with being your weighted blanket. but something quite literally rubbed him the wrong way, and you felt it moments later. how could you say no to some not-so-innocent cockwarming? after all, Noah was in the dining room mulling over another case of a slashed-up body in the woods. clothes weren’t removed, just adjusted to allow his cock to slip out of his plaid sweatpants and into the small gap you left him between your drawn-down waistband and your cunt. it truly didn’t take long for vibrations of lost hums and whimpers to be felt against your neck as he allowed his hips to work lazily; his cock sliding in and out easily thanks to your building wetness. you really didn’t expect or want more from him, you just wanted him to please himself as you relished in his struggles to stay silent.

it was hard to keep stiles quiet, especially with the way the house fell silent after his dad drank himself to sleep, and there was no absent-minded muttering and mumbling to drown of the echoes of stiles’s growing whines. it was even harder when you felt warmth spill inside you and his hips still twitched as if one orgasm wasn’t enough. he was doing it to himself. grateful praises and broken whimpers tumbled from his lips that languidly tried attaching to your neck, and you didn’t even attempt to quiet him down. it would’ve been a futile effort anyway, especially with the way he absently began spewing mumbled begs against your neck to just let him be loud— to let him have his moment to openly relish in the feeling of you. and who were you to say no to your boy who took it upon himself to overwork his recently neglected body?

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

Ten years on, I have so many questions about one line of dialogue in Teen Wolf 3B...

We see the chess board with all the names on it and the names correlating with the pieces would suggest that Stiles has an understanding of chess at the bare minimum. But was Stiles a chess kid? And if he is/was or does play chess, how did Peter know? Does Stiles play chess with Peter? Is this just Peter's way of saying Stiles knows how to play games? Is he saying Stiles knows how to strategize and think tactically?

[biblicallyaccuratestiles]

DEREK: "I'm going to rip your throat out, with my teeth."

STILES: "Ooh, kinky!"

[murdrdocs]

she’s driving me crazy

description. STILES STILINSKI finally gets another chance with you, and he won’t take it for granted

includes. SMUT 18+, riding, car sex, fem!reader, protective p n v, lots of making out, loser!stiles, awkward stiles, bi!stiles, exes getting back together, slightly manipulative reader, reader has easily malleable hair, reader wears makeup, drinking (but no drunk intercourse), bickering, scott guest appearance

wc. 6k+

a/n: long awaited stiles fic. bestie boo this one's for u. title from confidence by ocean alley. art credits unknown.

Stiles knows he fucked up. 

He had you, after almost a full year of tortuous pining, and he let you slip through his hands. All of it, your relationship with Stiles, really didn’t last more than two months. Two months where date nights were rain checked and eventually canceled. Sleepovers were lackluster, and nothing more than a movie playing in the back while Stiles worked over something that wouldn’t rest in his brain, leaving you alone in the center of his unmade bed. Promises were made, and never kept. It was a mess, a horrible, murky mess of Stiles’ own creation. 

He knows this. But he still allows himself to mourn what could have been. He grieves what was. All while nursing a warm beer that doesn’t sit well in his stomach, mostly because of the sight he has been doomed to acknowledge—also his own doing as he could definitely turn his gaze elsewhere. 

You’re tucked under the arm of some guy who looks nothing like Stiles, and he doesn’t know if that makes him feel better or worse. Is that your dream guy? Or are you forcing yourself to branch out and try something that wasn’t him? He tries to resist the spiral that sends him on, and is only able to start crawling out of the self-deprecating and insecurity tunnel through Scott’s voice beside him. 

“What’re you staring at?” 

Scott reeks of alcohol and fruit-flavored syrup. If he wasn’t a werewolf, Stiles knows his best friend would be unable to stand straight by now. But Scott stands like his usual self next to Stiles, a big grin on his face probably from the attention he’s been getting from Kira. (It was sickening for Stiles to watch but he forced himself to be happy for the strong relationship his best friend has.)

Stiles’ immediate instinct is to lie. “Nothing.” He says it a little too fast. He tries to cover his slip up by taking a sip of his beer, but the flavor is unappealing to the point where the face of disgust he presents makes him look more guilty than he really is. 

Scott stares at Stiles, waiting. Stiles knows he won’t lie to Scott, not about something this small anyway, and it is only a matter of a few seconds before Stiles sighs. 

“Look,” he points at you and your suitor. “Don’t you think he’s making her uncomfortable? Look at that. He’s all over her. Probably reeks of Axe body spray.”

It’s then that the guy cracks another joke, your head throwing back in laughter just before you rest your ear against his chest. It’s so affectionate. As if you’ve known this guy for years, and not just mere minutes. 

Stiles flicks his eyes over to Scott, expecting to see his best friend analyzing the situation with at least a small amount of attention that Stiles is. Instead, Scott is looking over at Stiles, wearing what Stiles can only describe as a knowing smirk on his lips. 

Stiles steps back, a little bewildered. “What?” 

Scott, annoyingly, shrugs. He sips his drink, one he has solely for taste as Stiles knows, and only responds once he’s taken a long, slow swallow. 

“She seems fine to me. I thought you guys were broken up anyway.” 

“We are!” 

“Then why do you care so much?” 

Stiles can’t help but petulantly roll his eyes. He turns to face you and your human shaped bag of bricks once again, gesturing for Scott to do the same. His mouth opens, lips parted and tongue ready to spew out the analytics he’d been gathering this entire time in lieu of an excuse. 

Then Scott interrupts. 

“Do you want me to see what’s going on?” Scott throws a finger up towards his ear, one eyebrow lifted as he waits for Stiles to gather the implications and then make a decision. 

It takes Stiles longer to complete the latter than the former. 

He waits, thinks, looks at you and the guy. And then remembers the strict ‘no listening’ rule you all have set in place, the one he most definitely won’t betray in the name of jealousy, even if you aren’t particularly aware of all of the intricacies. 

When he sighs, it’s defeated and with his entire body. He knows he’s pouting, he assumes he resembles his teenage self—mopey and brooding. He doesn’t mean to speak through gritted teeth, but he ends up doing it anyway. 

“No. She’s probably … fine. I guess.” It hurts to admit, deep in Stiles' jealousy-filled gut. Scott’s way of comforting him is by clapping a hand on his shoulder, and telling him that you’re a grown adult who is allowed to make her own decisions, the same as him. 

Scott’s intentions aren’t understood until he points at someone in the opposite direction of you. A guy who, from the looks of it, has been eyeing Stiles for a while. He’s Stiles’ type. Exactly his type, actually, and Scott knows this. 

“Instead of sulking around …” Scott doesn’t need to finish his sentence in order for Stiles to understand. He only lingers for a few seconds, and then is pulled back towards the larger group by Kira’s eyes and grin. 

The guy on the other side of the bar is still watching Stiles. He’s smiling a small but confident smile, like he knows Stiles wants him as much as he wants Stiles. He tilts his head in a beckon, and Stiles is close to letting the guy pull him over there. Until he sees you step away from the man, smile dismissively up to him, and start towards Stiles instead. 

Instantly, it’s like a flip has been switched. 

He starts to feel the effects of the alcohol, even though he’d been nursing the same bottle the entire night. Still, he chooses to attribute the buzz flowing throughout his body to the overpriced beer and not excitement of finally having your attention. 

He watches your path, trying not to feel too disappointed as he takes notice of the way you’re struggling to walk in a straight line. 

You fall into his arms in a fit of giggles. Your head resting on his chest, your hands circling around his back. 

“Stiles,” you sing, long and drawn out and definitely drunk.  

He repeats your name in the same tune, placing his drink onto a tabletop next to him and abandoning it for good. Keeping you away from self destruction is his new main priority. 

You slump against him even more, turning yourself around and leaning back against his body. Your position leaves Stiles with nothing else to do other than stand stiffly. He knows that if you were sober, you wouldn’t be nearly as affectionate as you are now. He ignores the way your ass brushes against his crotch. He ignores the smell of your perfume wafting up to him, a scent he had the privilege of seeing you apply a few times before when you were dating. (The image of you getting ready for the day, lathering yourself in the oils and lotions and scents that worked to create your unique scent will never leave his brain, for better or for worse.)

He does his best to remain unaffected, but then you tilt your head up, the crown of your hair rubbing against Stiles’ shirt as you look at him. As soon as he glances down, he sees you pouting, clearly over exaggerated but it’s a look he, pathetically, will never be able to resist. 

“Why won’t you touch me?” You manage to sound pitiful, as if you had lost every single thing you hold dear to your heart in the last couple of minutes. 

In his response, he tries to remain neutral. Drunk or not, you know the game you’re playing, and Stiles foolishly believes that his knowledge of the ploy makes him insusceptible. 

“Because you’re drunk,” he platonically rests his hands on your shoulders and encourages you off of him. “And we aren’t together anymore.” 

You turn around to face him, grinning up at him like the cat with the canary as you tell him, “it didn’t stop us last time, right?”

That, and the way you almost throw yourself at some guy walking past, is enough reason for Stiles to link his hand in yours and pull you towards the others. Scott stares down at your interlinked palms for only a moment before Stiles explains his plan, which entails getting you back to your apartment before you do something you could regret. 

This isn’t an excuse for Stiles to continue hanging out with you. He makes sure he clarifies that to himself and his best friend before he’s pulling you out of the bar and towards his Jeep.

You’re both less than ten steps away from the entrance to the bar when you suddenly have your lips pressed to Stiles’. 

There is a moment where Stiles fails to resist. Where he reciprocates quicker than his brain can realize, acting on pure instinct and muscle memory instead of logic. He is unable to stop himself from getting comfortable, from linking this kiss to the last one he’d received from you. Hotter and messier than this one. (Lost in his appreciation to finally be kissing you again, Stiles fails to notice how you don’t taste like alcohol at all)

Only a few more seconds pass before Stiles reminds himself that you’re drunk, and that this is wrong. When he pulls away from your lips—regretfully, that is—he’s tempted into staying by the slight stickiness of your lipgloss and the almost-disgusting string of saliva that briefly keeps you two sewn together. 

You try to lean back in, but Stiles stops you with his hands on your shoulders. 

“You’re drunk,” he reminds you. 

You’re fixing him with a look, one that feels strong and weirdly sober. His suspicions have more proof to back them up when you say his name with the same matter-of-fact tone he had just used on you. 

“I’m not drunk.” 

He scrunches his eyebrows together, the muscles in his face mimicking the movement as well. His lips part as he nonverbally exclaims his confusion. He lifts one of his hands from your shoulder to hook his thumb towards the bar entrance. He looks around, for nothing or no one in particular, but as if the night will have an explanation that you would surely be willing to provide if he asks. 

He didn’t even need to ask before you provide an explanation. It’s cut and dry, matter-of-fact, spoken like it is the most casual thing in the world. 

“I faked being drunk so you could take me home.” 

Stiles knows what you mean. He’s not dumb. But he surely does feel it when he says, “If you didn’t feel well you could’ve just told Lydia. She would’ve taken you back to yours.” 

You roll your eyes. “If you don’t wanna sleep with me, that’s fine. Just let me know before I waste my time.” 

Stiles should stand up for himself. He should reprimand your attitude, and exclaim how unnecessary it was. Instead, he flounders and almost falls to your feet with the speed he clarifies himself. 

“No. I do wanna sleep with you. Like, really bad. But … um … well,” you lift your eyebrows and Stiles clears his throat. “How many fingers am I holding up.” 

“Jesus, fuck, Stiles.” He continues holding up his first three fingers on his right hand until you answer. “Three.” 

You lean in but Stiles takes a step back. And then another. And then another, until he’s standing against the wall of the bar and you’re standing at the edge of the sidewalk. 

“Walk in a straight line towards me.” 

You don’t seem happy about it, but you place one foot in front of the other over and over again until you’re in front of Stiles. Nothing more has to be said before Stiles places his hands on your hips, pulls you flush to him, and finally allows himself to kiss you. 

It’s been a while since Stiles had the privilege of kissing you. The last time, just a month ago, didn’t count in his mind. Sure, he remembered nearly every detail, but your shared inebriated state at the time overruled any legitimacy the encounter could have held. Now, it only acts as a reminder and motivator for Stiles to enjoy every moment of this that he can. 

Eventually, it would be smart, and preferable, to leave the outside of the bar and actually take you home where you two could be alone. But for now, Stiles presses his hands into the middle of your back as a way to pull you as close to him as possible. He has his legs spread, creating space for your limbs to stagger. Your hands rest on his shoulders, then at the back of his neck, then in his hair. Both of you are attempting to get as close to the other as possible, all while engaging in the sloppiest kiss you’ve ever had. You both kissed cleaner when you were drunk. 

Now, outside this bar with your closest friends inside, and with nothing but the night (and the bouncer) as witness, you submit to the other. There is a level of appreciation in the way your lips slide together. There is a level of gratitude in the presses of your tongues against each other. There is an exorbitant amount of longing that is solved each time you jerk your hips into Stiles and each time he reciprocates. 

You thread your hands through Stiles’ hair the same time that he slides his hands down to your ass and squeezes, pulling you as close to him as possible and rubbing his thigh against the center seam of your jeans. You both groan into each other's mouths—Stiles from the way you tug just right on his hair, and you from the feeling of his leg between yours. 

Sensing—knowing that he did something right, something good, Stiles does it again. And again. And again. The steady slide of his thigh between your legs does the job. You let your head fall, leaning the top of it against Stiles’ chest just right under his sternum. 

The sound of you moaning Stiles’ name goes straight to his dick, with a few remnants traveling to his head, leaving him dizzy and with a steady growing semi. His actions make you grip his hair stronger. His actions indirectly cause pleasure for him, too. 

It all disappears when the sound of spitting—loud and boisterous, almost cartoonish—breaks up the moment. Stiles stops his movements. He lays his hands flat on the back pockets of your jeans as he turns his head to the side. 

The eyes of the bouncer meet Stiles and Stiles’ ears burn. 

While the bouncer doesn’t say anything to him, Stiles knows the message he’s trying to communicate. 

Get the fuck out of here. 

Stiles is forced to push you back by hooking his fingers in your belt loops. He’s still touching you, at least an extension of you, but then your hands drop to your sides and Stiles can feel his body crying out for you. The same way his body calls out for vital needs—food, water, sleep, entertainment. He squashes his emotions for a second, plasters on a—truthfully sympathetic—face, one that comes off more as a tight lipped smile than anything else. 

“Sorry, man. You — uh. You have a goodnight.” He throws a hand up to the bouncer, hoping it is received as friendly. When the bouncer returns the gesture, still with that same look in his eyes, Stiles heads down the street and pulls you with him. 

The walk to the car is tortuous. His boner keeps rubbing against his jeans, leaving him to stop every few paces, face away from the street, and try to adjust himself. After the third time, you were voicing your frustration, claiming that it was taking forever to reach the car because of Stiles’ worry about who could see his erection. He tries things your way, ignoring the way his dick calls for his attention and instead focusing all of his attention on you. 

The way your hips sway in your tight jeans. The way the wind blows your perfume to him and lifts the edge of your shirt in one, giving Stiles a peek of your skin. It’s such a small look, nothing more than a glimpse, and Stiles feels like a Victorian man the way he’s having to bite his fist at the next crosswalk to avoid groaning. The street lights illuminate your face in just the right ways, highlighting your makeup in an unnaturally ethereal way. Everything about you is driving Stiles crazy. There’s no way he’s going to make it to your house. If he doesn’t get to his car soon, he might pull you into the next bar bathroom that he could find just for a semblance of privacy. 

If he could just get to his Jeep. 

It’s then that Stiles realizes he’s been walking for far too long. He stops in the center of the sidewalk. You stop right beside him. 

Stiles doesn’t say anything as he turns around and leads you three blocks down the street, one street over, and then into the parking garage elevator. 

The way you’re grinning at him alerts Stiles of the words soon to come out of your mouth, definitely words that would be at his expense. He stops you while you’re ahead. 

It’s nice to have the position switched. Your back against the wall instead of his. His hands are still on your hips, but he uses them to push you into the metal instead of pulling you into him. You have that part covered, your arms once more thrown over his shoulders, pressed into the back of his neck and head, drawing him in until the pressure of his lips against yours is a little painful. 

In the rush neither of you have pushed the button, leaving the elevator stagnant on the ground floor. Stiles notices at the same time that you scratch his scalp. He moans, he really can’t help it. His mouth opens as you purse your lips again, and he feels a little bad but you aren’t deterred. In fact, you do it again, your nails scratching in just the right spot and Stiles feels like an animal the way he shudders and keens. 

He’s more human when he admits, “Missed this.” He presses his lips to yours again, pulling back with a smack. “Missed you.” 

Your lips slide against his with what Stiles can only describe as desperation. Pure, unadulterated desperation and desire. You’re breathing a little heavy, deep exhales through your nose and inhales in the in between moments, and it doesn’t turn Stiles off at all. He wants more of you. He takes more of you. 

He doesn’t know how long you two are in there, but it is eventually you who pulls back first, your lips visibly swollen and lacking any of the makeup that was previously on it. 

“Has the elevator been moving at all?” You could check for yourself. Just one look over Stiles’ shoulder and you could see that the small screen still displayed a digital ‘1’. Yet, you’re looking up at him instead. Like Stiles is the most important thing in the elevator. Like he’s the most important thing in the world to you. (Maybe it’s Stiles’ delusion talking, but he chooses to believe it either way)

Still, Stiles looks over his shoulder, confirms that he hadn’t hit the button at all, and leans back to correct his mistakes. 

The elevator beeps twice, bringing you both to the third floor, and as much as Stiles’ wants to continue standing there and just admire you, he can hear the door daring to slide close. Again, he pulls you out behind him. 

As soon as he turns the corner, Stiles is immediately made aware of the lack of other cars on the level. It’s a little eerie, and if he wasn’t about to get his dick wet he would possibly be on the lookout for potential threats that could turn one of the best moments of his life into another inconvenience. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, his back, his arms, as you hold onto him. 

“Why did you park all alone? Did you plan this? Were you trying to get in my pants all night?” 

Stiles digs into the front pocket of his jeans and searches for his keys. “No. There were other people parked here earlier. They’re just all gone now.” 

You hum unconvincingly. “Uh-huh. Whatever you say, Stiles.” 

As soon as Stiles has the passenger door unlocked, he holds the door open for you and stares, hoping the annoyance is overpowering every other feeling he’s currently having towards you. 

“In the back,” he tells you. You smile up at him, big and entertained, and then do as he says. 

He climbs in right behind you. At this point in the night, there was no point in attempting to get back to your apartment or his. Stiles couldn’t wait much longer, and you two are no stranger to the back of his Jeep. You’ve been in this situation before. 

It’s all completely effortless. You’re already in the process of slipping your jeans off whenever Stiles has the door closed. He mourns for just a second, pouting to himself over not being the one to take those sinful jeans off of you. But then you climb over his lap, situating yourself to hover just a bit above him. 

Stiles plants his hands on your hips, just like he did before, and pulls you to sit right over him, just like you have before. He knows that the status of your relationship has changed since the last time he had the privilege of being in this space with you like this, but that doesn’t mean the way you do things has to change, too. 

You were never shy before. You would always be quick to attach yourself to Stiles in whatever ways you could, just like you had been doing just a little earlier into the night. But that’s gone now. Now, you’re staring at him, your teeth pressed into your bottom lip. 

Before you were together for a short time, Stiles had spent months pining. Months analyzing whatever he could about you. Months mentally cataloging your tells. And now, he calls on that information to declare that you’re hesitant. You’re nervous. No, not just nervous. You’re worried. Almost regretful. 

He tilts his head. “What’s wrong?” 

You shrug but Stiles knows you’re aware of what has you like this. He just gives you the time to voice it. 

Eventually, you say: “Will this change anything between us?” 

It’s his turn to shrug. “I dunno. Do you want anything to change?” 

You shrug again. 

“Well … do you want to keep going? And we decide that afterwards?” Stiles really wants to fuck you, but deep down he knows that if you stopped and got up off of him in this moment, he would be okay with it. Well, he would be okay with it after a few days. Maybe a week or two. 

A little part in him swells, jumps, and clicks its heels when you nod. 

“Yeah. That sounds good.” You press your lips to his once. 

“You just tell me when you decide, okay? I’m cool with whatever you’re cool with.” And Stiles means that. If he gets just one more time with you, if this is his final time with you, he would cut his losses and be grateful for the time that he was allowed. What else was he supposed to do? He would never dream of doing anything that could jeopardize his spot in your life. 

Stiles can feel the warmth of your center is his hand when he trails his touch down. He cups your mound and his eyes flutter shut. He feels like a pervert for only a second before you start to work your lips down his neck and rock your hips into his hand. The way your mouth suctions around his favorite spot almost has him distracted enough to not notice your hands working on his pants. Almost. 

He can’t really tell in the dark, but he can slightly feel your once confident movements start to falter. You stop on his neck, keeping your lips as nothing but a pucker against his skin before you pull away completely to look down between the two of you. 

“When the fuck did you start wearing a belt?” 

Stiles doesn’t want to tell you the truth, he feels like it would be too embarrassing. Really, he knows it wouldn’t, but something about having to tell you that he decided to wear a belt because you always said he should makes him feel a little meek. So instead of filling the silence with the truth, he fills the silence with the clinks of his belt buckle as he undos it himself. 

“Recently,” is all he tells you when you’re still staring at him for a response. Somehow, it’s enough for you and your hands are back on his waistband. 

In record speed, your hands are down the elastic of his boxers and wrapping around Stiles’ cock. He doesn’t hiss, but he does shudder. He tries to hide it by pretending that the car is cold, which it was beforehand, but now it’s warm. It becomes warmer when you spit in your hand, wrap it around Stiles’ cock and pump him a few times, and then push your underwear to the side and hover above him. 

It really pains Stiles to stop you, but he does. He asks if you have a condom, then he asks if you want to use a condom, and the entire time he’s kicking himself. Because he can feel the warmth radiating. He has his tip already nudged between your folds, and just this small touch is already making him lose it. His nails are digging into your hips, he’s breathing harder than he was before, and he has to blink a few times to really focus on you. 

It feels like Stiles blinks and suddenly you’re tearing the foil packet open and slipping the condom over him. He watches it go down as best as he can, and the light doesn’t reveal much. Just the bottom of you and the tip of him is visible, the rest Stiles is forced to make out through squints and memorization. 

He’s just briefly dejected about the lack of visuals, but then your hands rest on his shoulders and he hears you take a breath and he knows it’s time. 

Stiles rests his hands on your side and looks up at you. 

You go down slowly. Softly. It allows Stiles to feel each delicious inch as they go by, revealing more and more of the inside of you as time passes. He battles between watching your face and simply basking in it. Eventually, he settles on the former. 

Your eyebrows are tightened just enough to show your discomfort. You have your lips parted, long breaths leaving them every so often, usually right before you sink down again. And Stiles has seen you take him before. He knows that you have been able to take him faster than this before. And then he wonders: is this your first time doing this, with anyone, in a while? Have you been as lost without him as he has been without you? Have you even attempted to fill that hole, and was your stunt earlier tonight just that: a stunt?

There isn’t time for him to ponder over his questions like he would have wanted to whenever you bottom out. It’s with a sigh, the back of your thighs meeting the top of his just briefly. 

You rest your forehead against his, and you both breathe together. Or, it’s more so you breathing and Stiles matching the pattern. 

You lean up, you move your hair out of your face, and you tell him, “Don’t remember it being this hard.” 

Slightly cocky, Stiles tilts his head.  At first he doesn’t say anything. He smiles, his eyes are heavy when they look you up and down, and then he rubs your back. “Take your time.” 

You take the time you need and then you start moving. Up and down. Up and down. Agonizingly slowly at first, and then faster when you get more comfortable. 

This is what Stiles has needed. This is what he has been missing in his life. You’re like a drug for him, and one hit seems like enough at the time, but by the time this is all over he knows he’s going to be searching for more. He’ll do anything he has to, so long as it gets him in a spot similar to this again. 

He searches for your hand, refusing to look away from the way your body moves atop of him for even a second. You help him out, bringing your hand to his, pressing the fingertips together, leaving Stiles to interlock them. He lifts your hands, looking at them in the white light that enters the foggy window. Somehow, this image is even more captivating. There is a more pornographic way the two of you are connected, one that demands Stiles’ attention. There is something about the innocence of this. He’s doing nothing but holding your hand, and Stiles feels like he might either lose his mind, or cum too quickly. 

He might do both. One after the other. 

You sink down on him again, a little awkwardly this time, but it does it for you. You hit a spot that makes your mouth widen and your eyes flutter shut. You search for it, and find it miraculously. Your head throws back as you hit that spot over and over again, pleasing yourself on Stiles’ dick. The image is heavenly for him. It’s euphoric. 

He lets his eyes wander down your neck, along your clavicle, and your shirt reveals just a bit of your bust but it’s not enough. With his free hand, he pulls the rest of the fabric down, and when he sees that you’re not wearing a bra, he almost cums into the condom then and there. He doesn’t wonder how he hadn’t noticed, he doesn't consider how he hadn’t taken into account the natural shape of your breasts pushing through the fabric, almost reaching out to him. Instead, he leans forward, presses his hand into the curve of your back, and attaches his mouth to the untouched skin. 

Your free hand sinks into Stiles’ hair. Your fingers weave through the back of his hair first, and then you make your way up to the front, pushing back his bangs blindly. 

Stiles peers up at you from his spot around your nipples. You’re still in ecstasy—your head now level once more, but your mouth still open and your eyes still closed. 

He detaches from your nipple to tell you: “Look at me.” 

It fuels Stiles’ ego when you do as told quickly. 

You’re looking at him on his command yet Stiles feels like he’s the one entranced. Because of your eyes. Fuck, your eyes. Watery, lazy, but your pupils are dilated. Your mascara has transferred to under your eyes by now, and it’s smudged a bit, making you look completely fucked out. Stiles thinks some of your makeup along your face has disappeared too, but it allows for a fresh skinned appearance instead. 

Really, there is nothing else for him to do except kiss you. It’s so messy but so good. You flatter in your movements on his cock, but Stiles feels absolutely no remorse when he takes over. 

He unlocks your hands and plants them both on your hips again. This time, he uses the leverage to pull you down on him again and again. He lets you lead the kiss, while he leads this. 

Your hands land on the leather of the seat behind Stiles' back and the foggy glass pane of the window. He hears your fingertips glide down the surface as he starts to fuck you harder, and then the sound is combined with your moans when your lips separate from Stiles’. 

You call his name, low and breathy. 

He hums. 

“‘m so close. Keep going. Just like that.” He nods. Then you add, “Little faster.” And he does as told. 

Your forehead pressed against his, the sweat on both of your skin making your heads glide more than anticipated. It doesn’t deter either of you. When your nose bumps against Stiles’, he kisses you again. When your head becomes too heavy for you to hold it up, he presses his thumb under your jaw, rests his fingers on the side of your neck, and holds the weight for you. 

“You’re so pretty,” he tells you, adding your name at the end to seal the deal. “Baby,” he says, and his heart swells when you hum in response. So he says it again. “Baby, you feel so good. Feel so good, babe.” 

He doesn’t know what more he says. He can vaguely recognize his lips forming the words and his own voice in his ears calling you the prettiest girl ever, telling you that he could never get this anywhere else, telling you he never wanted to get this from anywhere else. 

“Needed this so bad. I needed you so bad. I’ve missed you.” And just as his words finish, yours begin. 

“Stiles, Stiles. Right there. ‘m … I’m…!” 

He singles two fingers out, slips them between your thighs, and rubs along your clit until you’re shaking above him and holding onto his wrist between your bodies. He doesn’t know if you’re trying to pull him closer or push him away, but watching you cum is too gorgeous for him to ever dream of making it stop. 

So he doesn’t. 

Not even when your eyes start to leak and your lips start to plead and you contract around him. 

“One more,” he asks. “I just need to see it one more time. Please.” 

The sound of him moving in and out of you is loud. He drifts his eyes down to watch it happen, groaning when he just barely sees a broken ring of white glinting in the fluorescents from the parking garage. 

It feels a little romantic when you cum and then Stiles follows right after. 

The Jeep is warm, the windows are foggy, and there’s an ache in Stiles’ thighs. He knows for every one of his aches, you have three. The condom has been removed, tied, and disposed of in an old paper bag Stiles had sitting on the floor of his car. His pants are pulled back up, but his belt is still undone. His shirt sticks to his skin and he really needs greasy food and a shower. 

But if that means leaving this moment, and never returning to it, he could put off his needs and wants for an eternity. 

You’re sitting next to him, redressed with the button of your jeans still undone. You’re staring straight ahead, trying to catch your breath as you rub the muscles in your thighs. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to say, so he licks his lips and he says, “Uh … do you … um. Would you like some … ice or something? For your legs?” 

You smile ahead, turn to face him, and shake your head. “It’ll be fine. Nothing a shower and good sleep won’t fix.” You pause. “And maybe some food.” 

Which is how Stiles ends up sitting in your bed, sipping the remnants of his Dr. Pepper as he watches you lather lotion on your legs with your towel still hanging off of your body. 

“Your food’s cold,” he tells you. He doesn’t tell you about the handful of fries he stole earlier, but he knows you’ll notice it and hold the grudge for later. 

Later. Will there be a ‘later’? 

“Be there in a second.” You start to walk back to the bathroom. “Should we go to that place in the morning? Or …” you look at your clock and wince at the time. “Later. The one with the really good pancakes?” 

Stiles is quick to agree. He would love to do something with you later. 

[defire]

Why I like tormenting the funny ones

(kidnapped whumpee vibes)

They start off making jokes. Watching their face fall into terror as whumper approaches with a knife

The disbelief the first time. "Wait, you're not gonna, wait, wait!" Wriggling away as far as they can in their restraints.

More denial, calling for help way too much until whumper gets fed up and gags them

After holding in a scream of pain and keeping it down to harsh grunting, making a snarky remark. "Is that the best you can do, sweetheart?"

After said snarky remark, whumper turns with that "you did not just say that to me." Face. And whumpee turns away and forces a chuckle, knowing it's about to get 10 times worse.

The groan that they try to make sound like laughter.

Reflexive/compulsive joking that they can't stop, it's a trauma response. And it pisses whumper off. *Cue whumper trying to beat it out of them*

"Shit, whumper, don't kill me all at once." Whumper, picking up a whip. "I warned you not to say one more word."

Whumper torturing them with exquisite slowness so they can watch whumpee's face go from forced smile, to red, swollen-faced breath holding as they try not to cry

"I'm sorry," laughing nervously at first. Changing to crying and begging, "whatever I did, I'm sorry, please!!"

When they're so defeated, panting hoarsely after so much screaming, and they stop smiling. Not daring to speak, even to look at whumper.

Or as they raise their head cautiously, whumpee just stares at whumper, lips quivering, hanging onto the last of their sanity by a thread.

Whumper leaving and whumpee just crumples to the floor, hand over their face, grimacing as they try to recover