#stilesworld!

[murdrdocs]

MISCELLANEOUS ONE SHOTS !

note from author all works are 18+ ; ☽ indicates explicit sexual content; home

includes ... BRUCE WAYNE (BATTINSON); RAFE CAMERON; JAKE SULLY; ETHAN LANDRY; STILES STILINSKI; MIKE SCHMIDT; LUKE CASTELLAN; PAUL ATREIDES; ART DONALDSON, TASHI DUCNAN

BRUCE WAYNE !

❝ after party ❞ ☽ 1.3k+ words 

after a tiring night out, bruce just wants to bury himself between your thighs

RAFE CAMERON !

❝ west village ❞ ☽ 1.1k+ words

all good things must come to an end, and that includes your relationship with rafe

JAKE SULLY !

❝ east to west ❞ ☽ 3k+ words 

sometimes you and jake argue. sometimes those arguments end up with him fucking you against a tree.

ETHAN LANDRY !

❝ stuck with you ❞ 1.6k+ words

by a stroke of sheer bad luck, you end up stuck in an elevator with your self proclaimed worst enemy

❝ bad taste ❞ 1k+ words

you're partnered with ethan landry for a 2000s-esque 'baby project'

❝ just a little bit ❞ ☽ 2.4k+

there's something about the heat of camp nightingale that makes you really want ethan landry

STILES STILINSKI !

❝ kiss me ❞ ☽ 1.8k+ words

your choice of bikini has stiles taking advantage of the brief loneliness you find yourselves in

❝ saw your end ❞ ☽ 4.5k+ KINKTOBER '23

its hard not to give into the nogistune. he does have the face of your favorite personal after all

❝ she's driving me crazy ❞ ☽ 6k+

stiles gets another chance with you. he doesn't take it for granted

❝ torn at the seams ❞ ☽ 5.7k+

as part of a pact, you and stiles lose your virginities to each other

MIKE SCHMIDT !

❝ nothing real ❞ 1.3k+ words

usually haircuts don't include intense longing. but usually, mike doesn't get a haircut from the person he desires most

⇀ ❝ haunting your bed ❞ 2.2k+ words

you, mike, and abby bake a chocolate cake and mike gets to taste it from your lips

LUKE CASTELLAN !

❝ thrill of it ❞ 1k+ words

the thrill of luke chasing you is nice, but you enjoy what happens after the most

❝ where you are ❞ ☽ 4.2k+

almost a year after splitting from luke, you find yourself in his embrace once more to scratch an itch

❝ untitled 001 ❞ ☽ 1.2k+

luke sneaks into your cabin with pure intentions. those quickly turn into something else

❝ rearrange your world ❞ ☽ 1.3k+

as the daughter of the god of dreams, you frequently find yourself pulled into luke castellan's dreams

⇀ ❝ foolish lovers ❞ ☽ 5.8k+

luke has betrayed you, but you can't stay away from him. besides, it's not real if it's in your dreams

❝ to forever always ❞ ☽ 5.5k+

luke sees a look in your eyes, similar to the one he has in his eyes

❝ venus fly ❞ ☽ 4.5k+

luke knows that inhaling sex pollen isn't favorable, but the results definitely are

❝ death do us part ❞ ☽ 3.4k+

luke doesn’t care about the rules when he has you

PAUL ATREIDES !

❝ do you believe in us? ❞ ☽ 5.4k+

you and paul become stepsiblings, but don't stop your affairs

ART DONADLSON !

❝ sweet as a grape ❞ ☽ 3.6k+

you make art's loss feel like a win

TASHI DUNCAN !

❝ spinnin' out waiting ❞ ☽ 4.2k+

reuniting with tashi in a hotel bar

LOGAN HOWLETT !

❝ go about things the wrong way ❞ ☽ 5k+

logan is a hypocrite. not that you're complaining

❝ i want your video ❞ ☽ 6.5k+

your roommate asks you to film a porno with him

JAKE SERESIN !

❝ house calls ❞ ☽ 1.8k+

your mechanic charges extra for house calls

[murdrdocs]

listening to diet pepsi n thinking abt having the most stereotypical teenage american romance w stiles.......

untouched, XO

young lust, lets- ah

when we drive in your car, im your baby

losing all my innocence in the backseat

car sex; established relationship; rawdogging; brief mention of accidental pregnancy; not proofread MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

a summer of kept promises with stiles.

there’s something in the air, a feeling of change steadily drifting to you both within the front. it’s mostly unspoken, always crept around with fear that if you really said it now, it’ll all end prematurely.

so you keep your impending doom to yourselves, nothing but shared looks across the console of his jeep.

summer is halfway over by the time stiles gets back to beacon hills, but that’s fine. you both make quick work of the time you have left. nostalgia becomes prevalent as you relive a simpler time, a time where stiles was the only one with a license and a car. there’s some things different about it this time, like the shameless way you hold his hand as he drives you both to a sonic just a little far outside of town. you both know it’s so that you can make the drive last longer, hanging on to all of the time you both have left together.

you sip diet pepsi’s and sickingly sweet milkshakes, sharing new stories from freshman year and old stories from the years before. you look at him from your side, your feet tucked up into the seat, your head lolled back against the seat. stiles has always been pretty, but he looks prettier tonight. maybe it’s the sentiment of it all, the young love circling the air.

your last year being teenagers has a way of making you sappy. you hadn’t expected the element of existentialism, but it’s not completely unwelcome. especially when it leads you to doing things you would’ve never done without it.

you weren’t innocent before stiles and you knew he wasn’t innocent before you, but something about giving yourself to stiles in the backseat feels like an act of deflowering. maybe it's the tender way he touches every part of you, equal parts analysis and appreciation as he slides his fingers down between your petals, dragging nectar onto your bundle of nerve endings. when you kiss him, he tastes like a strawberry milkshake, the flavor mixing with your own as he presses his tongue against yours.

he sinks his fingers into you, reaching further and further, gliding his fingertips against your walls. he watches you the entire time, eyes lidded, lips open, his expression one you've never really seen on him before. he wears it well. as well as you wore the jeans that have become nothing but an unimportant bundle of fabric on the floor.

"could stay here just like this," he tells you, his forehead resting against yours as he lets his eyes flutter close. he takes a breath, and you take it with him. he releases his naturally, while yours gets punched out of you with a well-crafted twitch of stiles' hands.

"yeah?" he asks. you groan, your head tipping back as it just continues to get better.

stiles laughs to himself a bit. "yeah," he deduces.

you, too, could stay like this forever. letting stiles pull you apart and put you back together until you couldn't think anymore, existing outside of the rest of the world and in a bubble you've both created in the back of a deserted parking lot. a world that smells like black ice little trees, joined by a few empty water bottles on the floor, and shut off from the outside by foggy windows.

but time hasn't stopped here. you only have so many hours left together before you're off to a second year apart, one that'll be so much different than the first.

you need to cherish your time together.

you pull stiles' hand from between your legs when he goes to give you another orgasm. he watches you the entire time, eyes dark while you bring his fingers to your lips. he's weightless, allowing you to maneuver his touch. he only acts when you have his fingers sitting on your tongue, your lips wrapping around his digits soon after.

he thrusts his fingers back into your mouth, pressing onto your tongue once, and pulling out when you gag around him. there's a sick look in his eyes when it happens, but you don't comment on it for fear that he'll take it negatively. you like when he looks at you like that. like you're completely his. his to toy with, his to control, his to learn every single detail of, all for his own twisted benefit.

he tries to tug his hand away in favor of lining himself up, but you keep him there for just a while longer—long enough to swirl your tongue around his fingers, ignoring the taste of yourself because it gives him pleasure to watch you like this. and then when you're done, you let him pull his hand away, grinning when he smears your own saliva over your bottom lip. 

it's risky, letting him enter you raw, but just the once. you tell yourself you're prepared for the consequences, you're not shocked that the idiocy and delusion easily settle into stiles' brain too.

"whatever happens," he tells you, hovering his tip right over your entrance. "we'll go through it together." and when he says it like that, sincerity making way through the thick fog of hormones, you believe him.

you tangle your hands in his overgrown hair and pull him down for a kiss while he slides home. 

[murdrdocs]

coming back from hibernation cause i saw your reblog about void stiles and…….. just thinking about being friends with scott and stiles but being unaware of the supernatural. they were both planning on telling you eventually—but things have taken a turn to worse lately, and none of them seemed to find the right moment to shatter your reality as you know it. void thought you knew— so imagine the pleasant surprise he has when he shows up at your place and he realizes that you—precious little you, who’s name often was at the forefront of stiles’ mind, who scott seemed to hellbent on keeping safe— doesn’t know a thing about the ancient evil standing before you.

and as void leans closer to you, there is a smirk you haven’t seen before on stiles’ lips. void tilts his head. this should be fun.

- 🍒

typical void antics; darker content; MDNI 18+ w/ VOID

void clocks the confusion on your face first. he steps into your room and you wreak of naivety. the scent permeates your room, your clothes, your everything. it sinks into his skin, but it feels good. because he knows that something can and will come out of this.

"stiles?" you say, sitting up from your position on your bed. you're wearing nothing but a sweatshirt and tiny shorts, and every thought stiles has ever had about you comes rushing to the forefront.

void can hear the weak human speaking to him now, begging him to leave you alone. he's trying to negotiate, but stiles doesn't have anything void wants. well, except you. but void is stiles now, and what's stiles' is void's.

void steps closer, wondering if he should disguise himself, if he should pretend to be your best friend. would the payoff be bigger that way? but the initial fear in your body would give him the rush he needed. yes, he'll take that route.

he doesn't say anything and your face contorts into confusion. you rest your book off to the side, standing and rounding the bed to face void.

"what's wrong? are you sick?"

void just blinks down at you, his lips pursed and his arms clasped behind his back. he can sense the fear settling in your body. he's getting you there, but this isn't nearly enough.

you lift your hands to void's face with assurance, as if you've done this before with stiles. void lets you push the dark hair off of his forehead, analyzing his face for any scratches or bruises. and when you come back empty, you're pouting, pressing the back of your hand against his forehead.

"you're freezing, stiles. what happened?"

void tilts his head a bit. "you really care, don't you?"

you seem surprised, either that he's finally spoken or that this is what he asks you.

"of course i care. why wouldn't i?"

your phone rings from on your bed and from where void stands he can see the contact name. it's no surprise that scott's calling you. he's likely trying to make up for lost time, intending to warn you of events that are already beginning to transpire.

void doesn't even resist scoffing, nor does he resist wrapping his hand around your elbow when you try turning away. he pulls you into his chest, holding you there with a hand on your lower back.

his head dips, eyes looking in yours. there, he finds shock, fear, and excitement. he smirks, big and broad, and continues dipping his head down until his lips trail over the side of your neck.

"don't answer it," he tells you.

you're rigid, not even attempting to push him away from you.

stiles is still pleading with void, begging him to not force you into anything. stiles doesn't even know that void won't have to force you, you've been dying to sleep with stiles. it's obvious. void can't see how stiles hadn't noticed.

"why not? what if it's important?"

void lifts the bottom of your sweatshirt, pressing his hands into your sides. you jump at first, but then melt into the contact.

"probably just your little friend scott warning you about me. nothing he can do now, isn't that right?"

there it is. void can feel the fear in your now. the feeling is as close to a home as he'll ever have.

"warning me about you? what do you mean, stiles? what's going on?"

you're worried and scared, but you still let void run his hands down to the waistband of your shorts. he wonders how long it'll take for you to put an end to this. there's only one way for him to find out.

[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.”

[murdrdocs]

Sunshine, you talking about S3B Stiles and S5 Stiles is making me think and that’s so dangerous. I fear I will always need him. Imagining the one of the ways you really know something’s off is because he’s being rougher with you

I need to rewatch season 3B rn

-❣️

traces of void; reader asks to wait and stiles doesn't so whatever that is; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

he keeps telling you he's fine. he told you this morning when you called him to ask about lunch plans, he told you this afternoon as he stabbed a fork into his salad, and he told you again as soon as he entered your dorm.

but you know stiles, better than he thinks you do, and you know this isn't stiles when he's "fine". he's never this aggressive, even when he really wants you.

usually, his hands are soft on your hips when he tugs you closer to him. he looks at you fondly, like you've taken every second out of your life to paint the stars because you knew it would make him happy. he knows you would do something like that if you could.

but the stiles sitting in front of you isn't like that. his grip is bruising on your hips to the point where you wince and circle your hands around his wrists, gently telling him "it hurts" as you attempt to pull his grip away. he does eventually let go, but he only mumbles a small "sorry" under his breath before he's moving his hands to your ass instead.

he barely looks at you, his gaze directed to your body instead, amber eyes making direct eye contact with your tits, your stomach, and—eventually—with your cunt as it sucks in his cock over and over again.

when stiles is "fine", he doesn't speak to you like this.

"take it, you can take it all, can't you? mhm, i know you can. there you go ... fuckin' sucking me up. you needed this?"

it's hot, you'll willingly admit it, but it's concerning. he's never like this with you. at least, he hadn't been like this since ...

it all clicks for you. the dark look in his eyes, the way his lips are pursed and his jaw is set, the rough pace he sets as he practically slams his cock into you without much care for how you feel.

"stiles," you say, reaching a hand out for him. "stiles, wait." any attempts you make to sound assertive fly out the window as your voice shakes, but you want to check up on him. it doesn't matter if your orgasm is ruined by the conversation you need to have. it's important for you to know that stiles is okay.

stiles shakes his head, his lips parted to give way for his tongue to drag across his lips. "uh-uh. there's no waiting, not when you're this close. i can feel you squeezing around me. so go ahead, let go for me."

there's no harm in cumming first, and then talking it out ... right?

[murdrdocs]

ik stiles is a fiend for tan lines

i had this same exact thought this morning but w someone else

he totally is btw. he loves when you spend the weekend apart and the next time he sees you, you’re wearing a low top that shows off the halter bikini you were wearing a few days ago. bonus if you’re wearing low waisted shorts and he sees the evidence of the way you had you bottoms hoisted up over your hips.

[murdrdocs]

virgin!stiles and virgin!reader ur fucking crazy!!

his cute little freckles n big brown eyes looking up at u while ur dry humping n moaning in each others mouths. ur both not exactly ready to commit to fully penetrative sex but u rationalize that nothings wrong with a lil bump n grind, right? god i want him so bad

dry humping; virgin stiles and virgin reader; not proofread sawry MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

there's absolutely nothing wrong with bumping and grinding, both you and stiles agreed. committing to sex wasn't in the cards right now, especially when both of you were craving a quick release, something that required both of you to be present and not a lonesome slip of hands into pants and rubbing one out that way.

this was far more enjoyable—laying back on stiles' bed, your legs parted to accomadate his hips. he kisses you messily, not unlike he's kissed you many times before. but the circumstances make it different. knowing that he's kissing you with more tongue and teeth than lip because he's distracted by the bump of his erection into your cunt makes this a hell of a lot different.

neither of you are naked, and the clothes covering you both is bothersome in the summer heat, but you don't have the patience to peel your clothes off. besides, you're getting there. pulling apart just to get naked would be nothing but a waste of time.

when stiles pulls back from your lips, it's audible. just as audible as the breath he lets out. it hits your slick lips, and you're sure your labored breaths are doing the same.

"still good?" stiles asks for at least the third time since the two of you began.

you nod, licking your lips and letting your head hang between your shoulders. "yeah. 's good, stiles."

you can't see how he reacts, but he takes your confirmation in stride. his grinds gain more momentum. he speeds up a bit until his hips star to move as sloppy as his mouth did. he starts to make sounds, little gasps turning into moans. he sounds like you, and it's so fucking hot.

you stare up at him, stomach fluttering when you see he's already staring down at you. his amber eyes wide and lidded, his pink lips parted to let every pretty little sound out.

he leans down, likely aiming to kiss you again, but neither of you make it that far. your leg ends up hooked over stiles' back and with just a few more pushes of his dick into you, your moans crescendo as you cum.

you don't know if stiles' own orgasm happens so quick because of your reaction, but it happens right after yours.

[murdrdocs]

I just want them to beg for my touch, to have them so stupid that they would beg for even a hand job, but I also want them to look at me as if I'm a goddess as I ride them, as if I personally put every single little star in the sky (and yes, this is about the subby men)

sub!stiles stilinski; handjobs; begging; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

stiles' teasing nature always melts away as soon as your hand lands on his crotch. if the roles were reversed, and you melted as quickly as he did with just the slightest touch, stiles would tease you relentlessly. he would mock you as he said something along the lines of "my girl is always so needy, isn't she?".

and it feels so good to be the one saying that now. pouting up at him almost cynically as you stroke over his boner with the lightest touch. "my boy is always so needy, isn't he?"

you don't realize just how far gone stiles is until he doesn't feed you a reply that is just as sardonic. instead, he stares blankly at you, the only signal of life existing behind those eyes being the way they flicker from your own eyes to your lips over and over again.

you drop the act just a bit. just enough to not be mean. but you're still a little rude about it. not in the way you push forward and press your lips to his. not in the way you pull his pants off and spit into your palm before circling his cock with your palm. but in the way you almost give him what he wants.

you pump his cock with perfectly crafted strokes. and just when he starts to get into it, when his head falls back and his breathing turns all labored, you take your touch away. you kiss his neck, you tap your fingertips against his leaking head.

it's surprising how you don't even have to tell stiles what to do. he starts begging on his own volition. not as sweet and desperate as you would have wanted. at least not at first. but when it comes, it's so worth it.

you're between his legs, kissing around his thighs and torso. missing the spot that literally cries thick fluid for you every single time. until up above you, you think he might cry too.

he expels his desire verbally instead of with secretion.

"please. pleasepleaseplease. i'll do anything. just touch me, please?" it would be downright evil for you to deny stiles when his begging is so pretty.

[murdrdocs]

stiles birthday boy deserves a gift in the morning (head + riding)

talking to pussy; riding; unprotected sex; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

you've already lubed his dick up with your mouth— hot and warm around his cock as you went down on him as soon as you both were conscious enough to stay awake for more than two minutes. you intended to get him off like that, the start of your many gifts to him. but just as he began to get lost in the feeling, one hand on the back of your head as an anchor, he grunted and used his grip to pull you off of him almost by the scruff of your neck.

"sorry," he was quick to apologize when you glared at him, and even quicker to explain. "just don't wanna cum like that. if it's okay with you." his voice was raspy then, it still is as he groans words of affirmation into your chest while you ride him.

the saliva that you had smeared around his cock helps you now, but it wasn't really needed as your leaking cunt manages to hold her own without any trouble. stiles praises you for this, he praises her for this.

"that's my girl," he says, staring down at where your cunt sucks in his cock over and over again. you don't know who he's speaking to, you or your pussy. but the effect remains the same.

your eyes roll back, your hands on his shoulders, nails bared and digging into his freckled shoulders. he's more vocal than he's ever been, spewing out praise after praise, all of it spreading equally between your head and your cunt.

"you're doing so good. so, so good. keep going. yeah. just like that. milkin' me so well."

and you really do milk him. in your haste, a condom was deemed unnecessary, allowing stiles to feel you in ways that he only has a couple of times before. like those previous times, he doesn't take it for granted. he revels in the feeling, his eyes shut as his hands rest on your hips. when he cums, your cunt squeezes around him, sucking the cream out of his cock as you continue to bounce. stiles' watchful eyes stare down, gazing as his cum leaks out and you smear it on his cock.

just that sight alone makes his cock twitch inside of you and encourages you to speed up. to continue.

[murdrdocs]

stiles is knee deep in his passenger seat and he's eating reader out after she threw him a bday party :)

happy stiles day to all those who celebrate; oral (f receiving), dom!stiles; inspired by casual by chappell roan; MDNI 18+ w/ STILES STILINSKI

you were supposed to be heading towards stiles and scott's apartment ten minutes ago.

under your thigh, your phone has been vibrating for the past couple of minutes, likely message after message from the group chat that included everyone in your friend group minus stiles. the birthday boy.

he had been clueless earlier in the night of the festivities, and you know he's clueless about how they have yet to end. if he knew, it probably wouldn't have changed anything. he wouldn't have stopped.

it's his birthday, you're supposed to be celebrating him, and you did earlier in the night. but now, after you're a little tipsy from drinks and stiles is a little buzzed, and you're both elated from the party you'd thrown him in a restaurant he's always wanted to visit, he's the one celebrating you. your events earlier in the night, born out of weeks of planning, was unlike that of a casual relationship. it was unlike that of the mutually beneficial agreement you and stiles have settled on. but this is more like it.

with your legs spread and stiles between them, this is the familiar territory. it's a weird position, slightly uncomfortable for both of you, but stiles is undeterred.

he keeps licking and sucking like his life depends on it, pouring all of his appreciation into the way he pleases you.

"thank you," he tells you every so often. at first, you thought he was speaking of the party you'd thrown him, but now you don't know exactly what he's thanking you for. possibly for the way you're letting him devour you in this parking lot in his jeep.

"no problem," you stress. stiles draws a line up with his tongue from your entrance to your clit. his circles it, staring right up at you while he does it.

"are you close?" you nod, your face scrunched up in pleasure. "can you give it to me?" you nod again, unable to do anything else for fear that speaking will pull the loudest and most uncomfortable sound from you. stiles sympathizes by helping you closer.

he increases the speed of his tongue against your clit. his amber eyes watch you the entire time. his large hands keep your thighs spread apart, even whenever your muscle start to twitch and you attempt to close them around his head. he shakes his head at that, his mouth busy but you know what he would have told you.

keep 'em open.

[murdrdocs]

what do you think would happen if luke and stiles were put in a room together

stiles asks luke what he is. luke says he's a demigod. stiles is immediately confused, crosses his arms over his chest, does that thing where he leans over a bit and furrows his eyebrows. he asks luke to repeat himself, and luke does. and then luke has to go in that entire spiel about demigods existing and stiles is all "prove it" and luke is all "i cant prove it that's not really how being a demigod works". then stiles says something along the lines of that being completely lame and illogical, and luke agrees that it is lame and illogical that only the Big Three kids have real and valuable powers.

they would end up agreeing on lots, namely the way gods are allowed to be deadbeat parents. since they have some things in common, specifically the adhd which isn't incredibly obvious but it bonds them together nonetheless, they kind of end up befriending eo just a bit.

[murdrdocs]

what about country stiles😔

i cannot see that boy withstanding the heat and the mosquitos buttt ignoring that country stiles lives in a lake town or near the coast. a town where there isn’t much to do other than go down to the water, which works for stiles since he’ll just take the doors off of his jeep and go.

he grew up fishing with his dad. their form of bonding after his mom passed. he got pretty decent at it, but it’s more of a reluctant hobby for him. something that helps relax his overworked and hyperactive brain on warm sunday mornings when his dad has clearly been stressed too.

he wears blue jeans always. they’re faded in the knees, with rips along the bottom. he has two pairs of cowboy boots, one casual and nicer than the other pair he’s had since the beginning of high school. but he tends to wear vans or adidas more than boots the older he gets.

he constantly has a farmers tan along the muscle of his biceps from the work he does around town. not professionally, but being the farmers son means he has a pair of helping hands even if he doesn’t want to.

he’s extremely polite, to the point where it’s an obvious facade. he wants to let his attitude show, but again, he’s the sheriffs son. he can’t exactly go around saying “yeah” to the older lady down the street without adding a “ma’am” to it.

he might have a bit of an attitude, but he’s so sweet when it comes to dating. he’s not an expert in that department, which leads him to acting on presumed assumptions instead of facts. he’s acting on ways of movies or undesired information from his dad—speeches given in the doorway of stiles’ bedroom when he’s trying to sleep.

he buys flowers and opens your door for you and invites you for dinner, even though dinner is takeout from the one good restaurant deep into town. he tries to make your humdrum town more entertaining with stargazing or by letting you drive his jeep as fast as you can down back roads. he’s the sweetest guy to your parents, and even sweeter to your siblings especially if you have younger siblings. he’s protective and willing to fight, even if he isn’t the most built guy around.

bonus: he has a tendency to play house, but not on purpose.

he has the hottest drawl with certain words. not nearly as strong as his fathers or his friends, but it’s very noticeable when he’s drunk, mostly on words ending with r’s. sometimes, he has a tendency to call you “sugar” when he’s a little too wasted, and the word is thick like molasses.

[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. 

[murdrdocs]

stiles deserves road head fs

reader has hair long enough to tie back; MDNI 18+

there were times when you absolutely hated stiles' jeep.

it wasn't particularly fit for road trips, even without considering the unreliability of the engine and stiles' handiwork of duck tape temporarily keeping things together. compared to lydia's car for example, the seats were stiff and barely allowed for any sleeping room. leaving you sitting upright with your head resting against the window and knocking into the metal of the interior any time stiles' ran through a pothole.

but there were times when the truck had redeemable qualities, namely the lack of a center console.

sure, it would've been nice to have something to rest your hand on as you wrapped your mouth around stiles' cock. but really, beggars couldn't be choosers and in this scenario both you and stiles were beggars.

so stiles drives a little smoother, settling on the outside lane to leisurely cruise instead of being pressured by trucks bigger than his in the inside lane. and this way, he gets to enjoy your lips sliding up and down his cock, and you aren't facing the plausible threat of losing your grip on the seat next to stiles' thigh and hitting the floor.

it's as comfortable as you can get. one hand pressed into cracking leather with the other resting on stiles' thigh. your seatbelt more of a decoration than anything as it loops around your body in a way that allows you to kneel on the seat, your ass turned towards the window. stiles' has one hand resting on your back between the end of your sweatshirt and the beginning of your leggings. the other rests on the steering wheel, effectively opening his body up to your work.

the tape in the radio has long ended, leaving space for the music from stiles' lips to fill the area. the sound of his breathing, deep sighs nearly each time you went down. the sound of his grunts each time you came up and swirled your tongue around him.

he tries to praise you every so often, but stiles' brain can only handle so much stimulation. and focusing on the road while also focusing on you is all he can take, leaving him to utter unfinished sentences.

"doing so ..."

"jesus, you're so ..."

"mhm, right ... right t–"

your hair has been tied back since the first half hour of the trip, but between your intense sing-alongs and your less intense naps, only half of your hair remains in the tie, leaving stiles to push your hair back, holding it off of your face.

in an attempt to thank him without sacrificing his pleasure, you look up at him and smile as best as you can. but since your mouth is occupied, the look transfers mostly to your eyes.

you don't know what does it, but stiles glances down at you, stares into your eyes for less than a minute, and then grips your hair as his hips jerk up into your mouth, his foot slams down onto the gas pedal, and he cums right down your throat.

[murdrdocs]

suggestive content; MDNI

the hand on your inner thigh, once warm and comforting against your bare skin, becomes almost unwanted. you tense up, closing your legs a little even though it has the opposite effect. trapping his hand in your center instead of removing it.

above you, stiles, or, not stiles, raises his eyebrows. he purses his lips, sucking in air briefly. he tests the waters, pulling his hand as if he has plans to take his touch away completely.

you don't mean to, but you push your legs together more, knees knocking against each other as you wordlessly beg for him to keep going. for him to go further.

his face morphs from shock to amusement. his lips curl into a smile, proud and expecting.

"you want this don't you?"

you avoid responding to him by dropping your eyes, but you're only made acutely aware of the way your small skirt—worn to entice your boyfriend—shrouds his hand. you can only see his wrist and the pale skin leading up to a veiny forearm.

your eyes trail up, following the pattern of his veins, flickering along the lines to the moles along the way, until you find amber colored eyes again.

his eyebrows are raising expectantly, clearly waiting for an answer from you.

"hm?" he asks.

when your eyes flit off to the side, he only moves his head, using his freehand to press his thumb into your chin and the rest of his fingers into the side of your neck. using his hold, he makes you look at him as he's staring you down. scrutinizing you.

he's judging you for wanting this. judging you for spreading your legs further to let him touch you. judging you for the way your lips part, the way you take in a breath, and then the way you whisper your reply, the volume doing nothing to change the want in your voice.

"yes."

[murdrdocs]

pathetic stiles who unconventionally begs for your forgiveness.

a mistake of his own doing leading to you distancing yourself. he'd purposefully excluded you from the newest mission. he'd brushed off your additions, barely gave you updates, shielded information from you when you would ask questions. he pushed you away, by some means of "protecting you" when you've been through worse together.

so when he comes at your doorstep, tail tucked between his legs, eyes pleading, it's a sight that you barely feel any sympathy for. you're walking away from him, back to your bedroom, and he's hot on your tail as if you have a leash leading him.

his hands are on your hips, touch simultaneously cold and warm, the contact both wanted and dreaded for you. you still end up melting against his chest as it comes to your back, head resting on his shoulders when his lips start to kiss down the side of your neck.

"I'm sorry. so, so, so sorry." the words sound sweet enough to create a toothache from him. they drip in sincerity, barely giving you enough clarity to decipher if he truly means them, or if he just wants to get back on your good side.

with just a few more kisses, and stiles' fingers starting to slip under the waistband of your sleep shorts, you decide that it doesn't matter. history repeats itself either way, and if that means you'll get brought back here, then that's fine.

because here you have a borderline pathetic stiles between your legs, dark hair product free and left in a mess as your hands tangle through them. his tongue which is usually used for spewing out shit faster than you can follow, now flicking against your clit, lips puckered to provide suction every so often.

it's possibly the best apology you've ever received, making the betrayal you felt before slightly more bearable.