˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— michael jackson’s lady supernatural harry potter my babysitter’s a vampire stiles stillinksi’s gf the vampire diaries twilight interview w/ a vampire infinity saga 1-3 skins dylan o’brien glee teen wolf jackles seb stan percy jackson’s sweetheart panic!
summary: when entering university you never once thought you would find romance, after all you were there for an education. you get paired up with a guy from your psychology class, which happens to blossom a friendship and soon after a relationship. base on this song
word count: 3175
pairing: university student!stiles x university student! reader also friends to lovers
warnings: reader wears reading glasses, making out like in a few scenes maybe, dry humping, no actual smut tho???, pet names, profanity, slight jealous reader, mentions of food, allusions to female oral, sensitive reader, saying i love you, baby as a pet name, grammatical mistakes also not proof read </3
I just can’t come between ’em, they got their own thing
his pov:
university wasnt what stiles expected, it was early september.
sure, he knew it would be different from beacon hills—bigger, louder, filled with people from all types of backgrounds, but he didn’t expect to feel so out of place, like he was just waiting for something to go wrong.
and then there was her.
she wasn’t part of his plan.
he met her in their shared psychology class, where she sat two seats over, always doodling in her notebook like the rest of the world didn’t exist. she was just another classmate. but then the professor paired them together for a semester-long project, and suddenly, she was everywhere in his life.
it started with study sessions in the library, it was just a project after all nothing will emerge from it…they had to work together, so he told himself that’s all it was. but then there were the little things.
the way she tapped her pen against her notebook when she was thinking. the way she’d get this determined look in her eyes whenever she was arguing a point, eyebrows drawn together like the whole world depended on her being right. the way her perfume linger— making him wished she stayed longer with him.
the way her reading glasses would slid down her nose as she read through the documents.
then the study sessions turned into late-night coffee runs, bickering over which coffee flavor was the best, learning small details about each other.
before he knew it, she wasn’t just a classmate.
she was different, a feeling he hasn’t felt before. it wasn’t a silly crush anymore.
I wish he'd stop pretendin', he won't let his phone ring For more than a couple seconds, oh, I think maybe two
his pov:
stiles’ phone buzzed against the wooden nightstand, the vibration cutting through the quiet of his dorm. he glanced at the screen. her name. again.
his fingers hovered over the accept button.
she was easy to talk to—too easy. that scared him. conversations with her never felt forced. she didn’t fill silences just to avoid them, didn’t make him feel like he had to be anything other than himself. but that also meant she could read him easily, like a book.
so, instead of answering, he let it ring.
the second it went to voicemail, regret settled deep in his stomach.
before he could overthink it, before he could convince himself that ignoring her was the smarter option, he called back.
she picked up almost immediately.
“hey,” she said, her voice softer than he expected.
he exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “hey. sorry, I—”
“you’re fine, stilinski,” she interrupted, her tone amused. “i was just checking if you were alive.”
he let out a quiet laugh, leaning back against his headboard. his laptop was still open, the paused screen of some random movie he wasn’t really watching flickering in the dim light of his room.
“what are you doing?” he asked.
she sighed dramatically. “trying to watch a movie, but someone’s been ignoring my calls, so i got distracted.”
his lips twitched. “i wasn’t ignoring you.”
“sure.” he could practically hear the smirk in her voice.
a comfortable silence settled between them, just the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of her tv in the background.
“what movie?” he finally asked.
she hesitated, then admitted, “something pretentious. you’d probably make fun of it.”
“try me.”
she told him the name, and stiles immediately groaned. “oh, come on. that’s, like, the most film-student choice ever.”
”i knew it.” she giggled, the sound warm and familiar. “what are you watching?”
“something better, obviously.”
she scoffed. “doubtful.”
he smirked, adjusting his pillow behind his head. “wanna watch something together?”
a beat of silence. then, softer, “yeah.”
each of them stayed on call, playing a movie they decided on. neither of them speaking much, just listening to each other breathe, the occasional whispered comment about the movie slipping through.
and somehow, it was enough.
Two hearts just fallin’ in and out of love for somethin’ new
your pov:
neither of you had planned for this.
you hadn’t come to university expecting romance. you’d been focused on settling in, figuring out who you were outside of high school. dating was the last thing on your mind.
but something about him was different. it was easy to be around him. the way how he was able to make you laugh without even trying, the way you caught yourself daydreaming about him in class, the way your heart would race just from his smile. it was all so natural.
it felt like you were always on the verge of something more, but the moment never seemed to come. still, you couldn’t help but wonder if he ever thought about you that way.
it was a friday afternoon. you were sitting on a bench under a large oak tree, the falls falling from the tree provided you with some kind of quiet peace as you read your book. the campus was quieter than usual, a perfect moment to relax before the weekend rush. but then you heard footsteps familiar, hesitant and looked up to see stiles standing there, his hands tucked nervously into the pockets of his jacket.
“hi,” he said, his voice soft but steady, a small smile tugging at his lips.
you closed your book, trying to hide the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “hey,” you replied, matching his smile, but a little more shy. you shifted on the bench, keeping your tone casual, trying not to let the nervousness in your chest show.
“i was just thinking,” he continued, shuffling his feet as if unsure whether to sit or stand. “do you… do you mind, like, grabbing dinner later? not like in a friend way,” he added quickly, his cheeks flushing red. “i mean, like, in a different way. more than friends. you know?” he smiled awkwardly, like he was both excited and terrified all at once.
your heart skipped a beat. this was it. this was the moment you’d been dreaming for, but now that it was here, you were almost too nervous to process it. you nodded gently not trying to act desperate, trying to keep your voice steady. “yeah, I’d like that.”
you both stood there for a second, an awkward silence hanging in the air. it was hard to hide the smile that broke across your face, but you tried your best. the guy you’d been crushing on for the past weeks, the one who made your stomach do cartwheels and make your mind race, had just asked you out. and you couldn’t be happier.
dinner later that day was amazing, at first it was awkward due to you guys both being nervous but soon the nerves went away and felt normal, after a few more dates stiles asked you to be his girlfriend and you agreed, of course.
I wish that you could see ’em, their faces lighten up
his pov:
scott noticed first.
“dude, you look stupidly happy,” he pointed out one afternoon, laying on Stiles’ dorm bed eating on doritos leaving crumbs.
stiles scoffed, but the heat rising to his cheeks betrayed him.
“i do not look stupidly happy.” he grumbled
scott smirked. “you do when she texts you.”
at that moment, his phone buzzed.
my wonderful gf: i miss u :(
my wonderful gf: are u busy?
a smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
scott laughed. “yeah. that’s what i thought, you’re whipped.”
Their past is cold and empty, they know it’s been enough
Of waitin' on somebody, someone who doesn't care
your pov:
the dorm room was dimly lit, the glow from your tv screen flickering against the walls as some half-forgotten movie played in the background. you were curled up on your bed, wrapped in stiles sweater. you fidgeted with the small stuffed animal stiles had given you a couple weeks ago for your 3 month anniversary. It was well-loved now, squished between your fingers as you focused more on the stuff animal than the movie.
he sat beside you, legs stretched out, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against his thigh.
“i don’t know if im doing a good job,” he admitted suddenly, voice quieter than usual.
your brows furrowed as you glanced over at him. “what do you mean?”
“this,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you. “i mean us.” he ran a hand through his messy hair, exhaling sharply. “not sure i’m…good at it.”
you studied him for a moment, taking in the slight downturn of his lips, the crease between his brows. stilies was always moving, always talking nonstop, but right now, he was still. vulnerable.
instead of answering, you shifted onto your knees, crawling over to straddle his lap. his breath hitched, hands settling on your hips as he blinked up at you, eyes wide and startled.
“youre doing good at this,” you murmured, letting your fingers trace along his jaw, trying to boast his confidence. it was definitely a shift for you, being so bold. you’re trying to make him feel better, but you wonder if you are making a fool of yourself.
“i mean- are you sure? i feel like-“ his lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours like he wanted to believe you but didn’t quite know how.
so you kissed him.
it started slow—your hands threading into his hair, tilting his face up to meet yours. ‘wow i am really doing this..’ you thought as he melted under your touch, his grip on your waist tightening as he kissed back, shy at first before growing more confident. the warmth of him, the way he sighed into the kiss, sent a rush of heat through you.
and then, without thinking, you shifted.
your hips rolled against his, ‘oh no, that wasn’t supposed to happen’ you thought mentally cursing yourself, and the sharp inhale he let out made your mind fuzzy. his fingers tightened on your waist like you were an archer, it felt so good the first time you wanted to try again. you did it again, you grind yourself against him once more, his grip weakened for a second before pulling you even close.
the next kiss was different. messier. desperate.
you could feel him now, hard beneath you, the feeling of him, sending heat straight to your core, you out a needy whimper once feeling it. you moved again, this time slower, savoring the way his breath stuttered and his head tipped back against the headboard.
“fuck,” he muttered, voice rough, hands sliding beneath the oversized sweater to grip your bare skin. his touch would make your core pulse, his fingers digging in just enough to make you whine his name.
you grinned against his lips, grinding your hips again, and the whimper sound he let out nearly undid you.
“youre—” he exhaled sharply, forehead pressing against yours as he struggled to find words. “youre actually trying to kill me.”
you hummed, rocking your core against him again, slow and teasing. “i dunno. you seem to be handling it pretty well.”
he let out a shaky laugh, but it was cut short when you ground down harder, sending a shudder through his entire body. his fingers dug into your waist, and for a second, he took control—lifting his hips to meet yours in a way that made your core wet. both of you are now heavy breathing.
stiles shifts effortlessly, moving you like you weigh nothing, now he’s hovering over you. his hands find your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks as he pulls you into a kiss—slow, deep, intoxicating.
his fingers toy with the hem of his your sweater, a teasing touch that sends shivers down your spine. “you look so perfect wearing my clothes,” he murmurs against your lips, grinning before his mouth moves to your neck. he sucks gently at your skin, drawing a breathless moan from your lips—his name spilling out of you, made him even more harder if that was possible.
his hands trail lower, playing with the soft cotton strings of your shorts, fingertips grazing your heated skin like he can feel the warmth heat from your core radiating from you. he tugs lightly, testing, before pausing.
stiles lifts his gaze, wide, searching—those doe eyes locking onto yours. “are you sure?” his voice is barely above a whisper.
you nod, but he doesn’t move. his lips brush yours again, softer this time. “i need words baby,” he murmurs between kisses.
“please,” you breathe, voice trembling with need. ”i need you.”
a slow, knowing smile spreads across his lips before he moves to your core, pulling down your shorts and your panties.
But he knows her name, she knows he’ll always be there for
his pov:
the sharp ring of his phone woke him from his sleep. stiles groaned, face mashed into his pillow as he blindly swatted around for the buzzing device. his hand finally closed around it, but he barely managed to drag it to his ear, voice thick with sleep.
“h’lo?” he mumbled, eyes still shut.
“stiles?”
her voice was quiet, shaky. even through the fog of exhaustion, something about the way she said his name sent awareness through his brain.
his stomach clenched. “what’s wrong?”
there was a pause, then a harsh exhale, words spilling out fast and frantic. “everything is wrong. kelly—the girl i told you i’m working with—she didn’t do her part of the project, and it’s due tomorrow. its worth half our grade, and i—idon’t know what to do.”
her breath hitched, a barely-there sniffle over the line. and then, almost instantly—
“fuck, sorry—i didn’t know you were asleep. it’s fine, go to bed.”
stiles blinked, still trying to shake off the weight of sleep pressing down on him. but instinct took over before he could think twice.
“wait—no,” he said quickly, already kicking off the blankets and reaching for his hoodie. “come over.”
“stiles—”
“i mean it.” he shoved his feet into his shoes, rubbing a hand over his face to wake himself up faster. “i’ll meet you outside.”
because that’s what they did.
they showed up.
He laughs at her eyes, at her smile, at the glasses on her face
your pov:
it’s been about 5 months since you started dating stiles, his silly remarks never failed to make you laugh.
“okay, but seriously, your glasses are crooked.”
you shot him a playful glare, adjusting them with exaggerated care. “better?”
“nope.” he grinned, tilting his head as if assessing them like a scientist analyzing an experiment. “worse, actually.”
you huffed, rolling your eyes. “well, maybe they’re just permanently defective now, thanks to you.”
“or maybe,” he countered, leaning in with that boyish smirk, “you just need better handling. here—”
before you could protest, his fingers brushed against your temple, gently nudging the frames back into place. his touch was light, fleeting, but enough to send a spark down your spine.
you swatted his hand away, laughing. “youre impossible.”
“yeah,” he said, eyes gleaming with something softer now. “but you love me.”
the words hung between you, easy, teasing—until they weren’t. because you paused. just for a second. just long enough for his smile to falter, for his breath to hitch.
and then, softly—too softly—
“yeah. I do love you.”
stiles froze. the humor slipped from his face so quickly, but his eyes
”you—?”
“dont make me say it again,” you muttered, looking down, feeling your face get warm.
“well, i love you too,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. like it had always been there, waiting to be said out loud.
you turned back just in time to see the grin stretch across his face again, but this time, it was different—softer, realer, like he couldn’t believe his luck.
“cool,” he said, rocking back on his heels, pretending like his heart wasn’t racing.
“cool,” you echoed, biting back a smile.
but then, because it was stiles.
“so, about those crooked glasses—”
“stiles!”
your laughter filled the space between you, and when he pulled you in—arms looping around your waist like he’d been waiting forever to do it—you didn’t pull away.
She loves how he talks late at night, when there’s no one else to say
your pov:
some nights, you guys just talked.
about ears. about reams. about things they never told anyone else.
“you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he whispered once, curled up beside you.
your throat tightened. “you mean that?”
“more than anything.”
He hates it when she’s crying, he hates when she’s away He hated when she cried.
his pov:
stiiles had always known she were sensitive. she would up over a disney movie, sniffle at those sad dog commercials, get teary-eyed at the thought of a bear being left behind at a park. it didn’t matter what it was—if it hurt, even a little, you felt it with your whole heart. and somehow, that made his own ache just a little, too.
so when she blinked quickly, trying to fight off tears after a long, exhausting day, he just pulled her into his chest.
“i got you,” he murmured against her hair, pressing a kiss on her temple.
and he did. always.
she fit against him perfectly, her arms tightening around him as she sighed.
but if there was one thing he hated—truly, deeply hated—it was when she was away. even if it was just for a few days.
“i can’t believe you’re leaving for a week,” he pouted dramatically, flopping onto the couch like she’d just announced you were moving to another continent.
she rolled her eyes, standing over him with her arms crossed. “its my sister’s bachelorette, stiles. ill be gone for a weekend.”
“debatable,” he muttered, crossing his arms.
she sighed, shaking her head with a smile. “you’re being ridiculous.”
“ridiculously in love with you,” he corrected, reaching out to tug her down beside him. “and ridiculously bad at surviving without you. are you sure you have to go?”
“yea,” she laughed, even as she lets him pull her into his lap. “youll survive.”
he hummed, unconvinced, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “i dunno, baby. feels like i might die.”
“stlies.”
“you’ll come home and find me dramatically spread out on the floor. scott will be crying. it’ll be tragic.”
she swatted his arm, shaking her head. “I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me.”
“again, debatable.” he sighed heavily, tilting his head to look at her. “you sure I can’t come with?”
“you’re a guy, you can’t necessarily come to a bachelorette party”
“well in that case don’t go- whenever i’m not welcome you can’t go—”
she cut him off with a kiss, quick and soft and enough to make him forget whatever nonsense he was about to say next. when she pulled back, his lips were still parted slightly, his eyes warm with something completely and utterly lovesick.
“You’ll be fine,” she murmured.
he sighed dramatically, tightening his hold on her. “yeah, yeah. whatever you say.”
and maybe, just maybe, he’d be okay for a few days.
Even at their worst, they know they’ll still be okay
your pov:
you guys weren’t perfect. you fought.
you had tried to ignore it. you really had.
but every time you and stiles hung out with mandy, you saw it—the way mandy laughed just a little too hard at stiles jokes, how she always found an excuse to touch his arm, the way her eyes practically lit up when he walked into the room.
and the worst part? stiles acted completely clueless.
tonight, it was more obvious than ever. you guys were at a friend’s party, and you watched as mandy leaned just a little too close to stiles, giggling as she rested a hand on his shoulder.
your fingers curled into fists. ’Is he really not seeing this?’ you scoffed
stiles finally turned towards you and frowned. “Hey, you okay?”
you forced a tight smile. “I’m fine.”
he gave you a look—the type of look he always gave you, when he knew you werent telling the truth. “ don’t look fine.”
you exhaled sharply, biting your inner cheek, grabbing his wrist and pulling him to an empty bathroom, for some privacy.
“its just… mandy.”
stiles blinked, confused. “what about her?”
you scoffed. “are you serious? she’s all over you,stilies. she likes you.”
stilies let out a short laugh. “what? no, she doesn’t. that’s just how she is.”
you crossed your arms. “no, stilies. that’s how she is with you.”
his smile faded. “baby, you know I only want you, right? i don’t even notice if she’s acting like that.” grabbing your hand, before you pull away.
“that’s the problem!” you snapped. “you don’t notice, and it makes me feel like I’m insane for seeing it.”
stilies sighed, finally taking her hands. “i swear, i’m not trying to ignore it. but if it bothers you, I’ll set some boundaries.”
you looked up to him, still frustrated but also reassured by his words. “you promise you don’t see it?”
he shook his head. “no i pinky promise. because the only girl i pay attention to is you.”
you rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the small smile that crept onto your lips. “you’re lucky you’re really cute.”
stilies grinned. “and you’re lucky i love you.”
you pull him into a kiss, slow at first as you both find your rhythm. your arms slip around his neck, fingers slipping through his hair, while his hands rest gently on your waist, his touch warm and secure. as the kiss escalates, he guides you backward until your back meets the door with a soft thud, making you both break apart with a breathless laugh.
but no matter what, you guys always chose each other.
and that was enough.
Everything in-between
an: haha i knew i wanted to make this fic really cute and everything!! also the scene abt calling while watching a movie is base on blair and dan :))
i had to also cut some parts of the song ‘there is holy ground beneath them’ the fic was getting really long and i knew it would be very verbose
Stumbling through the dark, you wondered if this was really a good idea. When Stiles had asked if you wanted to hang out tonight, you had dropped everything for the brown eyed boy, hoping that maybe tonight would be the night you could confess your feelings. You like him, maybe always have, and over the last month you've been getting mixed signals. Ones that suggest the Stilinski boy might finally be over Lydia, and just maybe, might be into you.
But after the fourth tree root trips you up, your brain starts to tell you maybe this isn't worth it.
"What are we here for?" you mumble into the darkness, Stiles somewhere off to the left of you, having the time of his life.
"We're exploring! You know, like in the old movies." you hear him stumble, and stifle a laugh. At least you’re not the only one finding it hard to wander around.
"I like exploring better when I can actually see where I'm going." you joke, and you can hear Stiles make his way closer to you in the darkness. At least you hope it's him. You really can't see anything.
A beam of light shoots down at your sneakers then, and your eyes flick to the source of it—a torch in Stiles’ hands.
"You had a torch this whole time?" Your voice echoes in the dark and quiet woods, and Stiles shrugs, now softly illuminated.
"Sorry, I just thought the dark made things more interesting." He's got a gentle, boyish smile, and you forgive him instantly. You always do.
"More cinematic?" you offer, and Stiles winks at you.
"Exactly. But I don't want you breaking an ankle on my watch so," He extends the torch triumphantly and you take it from his grasp.
"Thank you for your generous thought."
Stiles grins at you then, and if it weren't so dark, you could have sworn a blush was clinging to his neck and cheeks. You're not sure if he likes you back, but it's small moments like these, ones where his hand brushes against yours as you walk side by side, moments where he doesn't pull away and instead moves half an inch closer, that make you think he could feel the same. But it's not enough to know for sure. So you have to ask, and that is terrifying.
"So," you break the falling silence before it can reach your feet. "what are we looking for Stilinski? All explorers are looking for something."
He thinks his over, squinting when you point the torch's bright beam in his direction. "We, are looking for..." he pauses but you know he's got nothing. You can hear it in the quiet. It's not a silence for dramatic effect but rather one of someone who doesn't know what to say next. Eventually, he confesses.
"Yeah, I don't know."
"Okay, how about we look for animals?" You offer up the idea and Stiles frowns skeptically. "you know, like owls and things. We can look for them in the trees." You point the torch upward, and the light acts like a beacon, disappearing into the infinity of black once it gets too high.
Stiles is looking at you now with something you're not sure how to describe. It's not wonder exactly, but it's something close to it. "Okay, we can do that." His voice sounds far away, but he's agreed, and you need something to look at other than him before it breaks you.
"Okay," You drop your voice to a whisper "what are you gonna look for?" You're trying to think up animals to find in these woods, but they're almost lost on you. You think you're just going to look for owls. It's the first thought you had anyway, and you cast your eyes to the trees. Stiles is silent beside you, and then he says.
"Not sure, I'll think of something." Because he always does, think of something. That's how he is, and always has been.
After about ten minutes of quiet, almost unbearable quiet, Stiles grabs your hand. You stop in your tracks, stunned by him, but he is looking up, at the trees a few meters away. "found one." He whispers, breath hot with him so close to you.
"One what?" you breathe back, your words causing small clouds in front of you.
"An owl." He points toward one of the further trees, and then you see it. A pristine white owl, perched on an almost barren branch. His wings pulled in and chest puffed out with the cold.
"He's cute." You manage to say, thoughts still spinning with Stiles' hand in your own. An involuntary shiver runs through you and Stiles turns to look your way, face closer to yours than it's ever been.
"Are you cold?" he asks, but he's already shrugging off his jacket before you can answer. Because of course he is. That's one of the reasons you like him.
"Thanks." You mumble, as he puts it over your shoulders, and you slip your arms into the sleeves. It smells like him, like pine and mint and boy.
"Oh, um, yeah sorry."
You look at him eyes wide with horror then, because you must have just done the unthinkable.
"Did I just say that out loud?" you're mortified, and your stomach churns with shame as Stiles nods.
"Yeah, but in your defense, pine and mint doesn't sound like an insult. Not so sure about boy, though."
Hiding your face in your hands is the only thing you can think of to do, pulling them down over your eyes and mouth hard so that the skin stretches with the tension. "I am so sorry, and no it wasn't meant as an insult, you smell good, the jacket smells good, boy is good—i mean sometimes it's not—but this is good." you are rambling. you are a mess. you have fucked this up.
There's silence, dead silence. Not even the owl on it's branch dares to hoot. Like it's embarrassed for you. And then Stiles says something unexpected. He's looking right at you, frowning somewhat, as if he doesn't know why he's here and he's doing this and he's doing it now.
"I like you." He says, the thought echoing. "I like you a lot."
And the anxious pump of your heart switches to a different tune. Beating faster, but for reasons other than embarrassment, and shame. Beating faster because, thank god, he likes you back.
"Cool," you can't think of what else to say, and then instantly the thought occurs to you. The obvious answer. You say, "I like you too. A lot."
And in the light of the torch, Stiles smiles.
-
TEEN WOLF TAGLIST: @arignipanja574
GENERAL TAGLIST: @heliads @candywh0r3 @caplanreadss @s00buwu
𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒏 𝒈𝒐 // stiles stilinski imagine
Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Malia Tate, Kira Yukimura, Allison Argent
Pairing(s): Stiles x you,
Word Count: 8.9k
Tags: human!au, fluff, childhood friends to lovers
Warnings: there are a few little nsfw mentions in the middle, so MDNI. Stiles does go out on a window ledge, but i have to make it clear he has no intention ever of jumping lmao.
A/N: this is basically just one day i thought what if stiles had a nick x jess first kiss because he seems stupid and awkward enough to jump out a window. and thus this nonsense was born. also the pov switching was new, so you’ll have to let me know if you’re a fan or not.
The thing is, Stiles isn’t an idiot. He’s stupid, but he isn’t dumb. He knows that it’s not normal to think about your best friend like this. That being so intensely attuned to the curve of her spine when she stretches or the hint of citrus that clings to her hair after she showers isn’t exactly platonic.
And he really doesn’t want to be that guy. You know, the guy who just wants more, who gets upset when he can’t have more—the guy who can’t be friends with the girl who doesn’t love him back. So. Stiles stuffs it down. Deep down. And he’s content to die like this because he needs you.
There are other girls. Boys too, after a latent discovery freshman year ( one that surprised no one but himself ). They come, and they go, and Stiles makes due with what he can have because he knows this is how it has to be.
But they aren’t you.
A blatant fact that ruins anything real before it even has the chance to start.
So here he is: 24, single, and perpetually in love with one of his three roommates—but, hey, at least he does his own laundry now.
Stiles watches you on your bed, sitting on the floor like a child, while he pretends to work on a case report. He feels a little like a child too, the longer he stares at you—like a little boy with his hand in the cookie car.
He plays with the fluff on your rug to keep his hand busy, tugging on it a little too harshly when you pull your hair back with the scrunchie on your wrist. Stiles feels like a cretin when his eyes follow the rise of your breasts as you fiddle with the knot on top of your head. They trail over the flex of your collarbones, and he sinks further into his shame when he imagines tracing the lines with his tongue.
You catch him staring, and his throat bobs with his swallow.
“What?” you ask with arched brows. You grin at him like you know something.
Fuck, what if you know?
You asked him something. Stiles knows you asked him something, but he can’t remember what. He just swallows again and fumbles for his coffee. Stiles knows that he should be desensitized to it all by now: your clever mouth, your deft fingers, your fluttering lashes, but he’s still startled by it every so often—like right now, when you look like you’re about to say something snarky at his expense.
“Does it look that bad?” A few strands of your hair slip from their loose hold when you shake your head at him. “Are you moonlighting with the fashion police? I thought you’d be a little busy living in the murder capital of the world.”
Stiles laughs a little, mostly because of the simple fact that your hair always looks pretty. He said it the first time he saw you, blurted it out like a little lamb. Stiles knew, even at six, that he should be embarrassed, but he just couldn’t help it. He was so little and completely overwhelmed by his first case of puppy love; the words had nowhere else to go.
He’s gotten better at swallowing the praise-vomit, but he still notices. You’re always pretty. He’s doing his best to ignore it.
“That’s St. Louis actually,” Stiles says. He burns his tongue on his coffee and pulls a face that he knows gives him a double chin.
You slide off of your bed and kneel down next to him. Your knees press into his thigh, and it feels like something more, something profound, but he knows it doesn’t mean anything. You’re generous with your affection; you make everyone feel special when they’re around you. Stiles loves that about you, how you make him feel like he’s so smart, so vital when he knows that he’s moderately clever at best and really a lot closer criminally obsessive most days.
“Can you tell me anything about it?” you hum, nestling your chin in the hollow of his shoulder.
Stiles can smell your body wash. It’s sweet, fresh, and tickles his nose pleasantly—marigold and aloe. He’s seen the bottle in the shower. Sometimes, he has to bite his fist and turn the water to freezing when he accidentally imagines your wet, sudsy body, lathering the scent of marigold from neck to toe. It’s the in-between bits that make him especially nauseous with guilt.
“Huh?” Stiles mumbles, pressing his singed tongue to the roof of his mouth.
You poke his cheek and say, “You’re eating your lip. You only do that when you get stuck in a case.”
Stiles can think of several other things that make him suck his top lip between his teeth, but he is stuck—most likely because he’s spent the last hour watching you.
You frown, and he smiles a little at the wrinkle between your brows. You smooth out his own forehead wrinkles with your thumb and say, “It helps you sometimes—talking. You think best out loud.”
He does. Stiles swallows a little. You know him so well. You know everything about him. Everything except, of course, that the crush he had on you in elementary school has metastasized into an all-consuming, all-encompassing, honest-to-god, tried-and-true-blue, last-of-dying-breed, core-of-the-sun, probably-caused-the-big-bang kind of love.
Stiles has tried, and failed, to think of a way to casually confess how he feels. How do you even begin to break something like that to a friend? Over Chinese food? After a few beers at your favorite bar? During one of your Buffy binge nights? How is he supposed to say, ‘Hey, so I’m kind of totally and irrevocably in love with you, and it’s ruining my life a little—but that’s okay ’cause I can’t be happy unless I know that you’re happy’ without blowing up his entire life?
He can’t. So Stiles stuffs it down again with a sip of his coffee: black and bitter, a little like his heart when your not-boyfriend, boyfriend texts you. And he knows that’s so incredibly unfair of him. He knows that he’s needy, and pathetic, and far too possessive of your attention—it all makes him a little sick with self-loathing.
You have every right to remove your warmth from his side to respond, and Stiles thinks that if a guy can make you smile like that, he must not be all bad. You seem happy. When isn't feeling sorry for himself, Stiles is happy for you.
“The local police think it’s gang-related,” Stiles says eventually. His voice is raspy from his burnt throat and too loud in the silence of the near-empty apartment.
You slide your phone back into your pocket, and Stiles tries not to feel victorious. “And you don’t,” you scooch back to his side, ducking your head over his shoulder to see his screen.
“No,” Stiles combs his fingers through his hair and sighs, “I don’t. It’s too easy.”
“Follow your gut,” you say, poking his abs, “he usually knows what’s up.”
“You know what he’s sayin’ right now?” Stiles’s back clicks as he stretches and rolls his neck around in slow circles. It does little for the perpetual ache along the ridge of his skull, but it gives him some space from you and your stupidly sweet smile. “It’s time for chimichangas.”
You smile at him again, and Stiles blames the swooping in his stomach on hunger. “I think you deserve a little more than off-brand, freezer-burned Tex-Mex.”
“Don’t knock Great Value,” Stiles grumbles, rubbing a hand over his face. His lips, swollen from an afternoon of tearing into them with his teeth, tug into a tired smile when you wave your hand impatiently in front of his face. He wraps his long fingers around yours and says, “She’s been there for me through everything.”
“Higher standards, Stiles,” you roll your eyes, crinkled at the corners with your grin, “you’re in desperate need of higher standards.”
Stiles wants to laugh, feels the impulse itch his throat. High standards are precisely his problem.
“Maybe you should stop being such a brand snob,” Stiles pokes you in the side, a spot between your ribs that he knows is ticklish. You laugh and shove him away with a firm hand; Stiles goes willingly, stumbles into the doorframe just to make you laugh again.
“I am not a snob,” you push yourself onto a barstool, socked-feet dangling below. He smiles as you swing them and then knock your ankles together. You used to do the same thing on the playground swing set. “Not liking over-salted garbage is not snobbery.”
Stiles reaches for the open bag of corn nuts on the island, needlessly resting his palm on your lower back under the guise of balance. Your skin is warm, and he’s too busy thinking about how his hand must’ve been molded around the shape of your hip to notice how hard you’re biting your lower lip.
He tosses a few corn nuts in the air and catches them in his waiting mouth, smacking his lips together until they’re free of nacho cheese seasoning. He grins at the look on your face, and he wants to kiss the tip of your scrunched nose. “See,” Stiles sucks the leftover orange dust off of his fingers. His voice is muffled by his thumb when he says, “You’re snubbing my snacks right now—like a little munchie elitist. How dare you; they probably won’t ever recover.”
You laugh, as expected, and snatch the bag from the counter, not expected. “You’re literally biting your thumb at me!”
Stiles leans against the counter, rests his forearms on the granite, and watches you chew with a dumb, fond smile on his face. You’re just so clever, all wrapped up in keen smiles and sharp wit. You keep him on his toes, always have—Stiles hasn’t ever met anyone else who can spar with him so well. He doesn’t think he ever will. Admittedly, he hasn’t looked that hard; his heart just isn’t in it—who else would paraphrase Shakespeare in the middle of a mock debate? Who else could possibly look so wily and wicked while doing it through a mouthful of, objectively, terrible gas station eats.
“Purely accidental,” Stiles taps his fingers against the counter, and his shoulders lift with a small, oh-so innocent shrug, “it’s what we professionals call a ‘serendipitous turn of events’.”
“A professional what?” You grin at him. It’s one of his favorites, the one that says you’re about to tease him. “Sadist?”
“Oh,” Stiles’s brow quirks as he leans forward onto his arms, “so I torture you? Being around me is torturous?”
“Yes.” Your chin jerks with a small, sharp nod, but the only thing Stiles can see is your pouty bottom lip.
Sometimes, Stiles swears you do it on purpose—turn him on in the most inconvenient of moments. Make his heart swell into his throat until he devolves into a lovesick caveman. You have to know what you’re doing to him when you walk around in those little tank tops with the lace trim and the sleep shorts that ride up to the swell of your ass. It can’t be accidental, the cute laugh-snorts you’re so embarrassed of, or how you get so excited when you see a bird in a parking lot. It’s all too effective to be a coincidence.
Like right now, the way your lip balm shines under the kitchen lights and exaggerates your pout. You must know how completely and utterly kissable you look, and Stiles can’t do anything about it—now that’s torture.
You give him mercy and tuck your pout away for a solemn line instead. “You’re evil; you never close the cabinets or take the trash out.”
“Careful,” Stiles grins and snaps his teeth in the air, “I bite too.”
You lean across the island, and it’s torture, the way your arms squeeze your chest and push your cleavage to the neckline of your shirt. Stiles pointedly avoids looking at the round flesh. It just looks so soft, so plush—so ripe. His teeth ache. His tongue salivates. He craves with reckless abandon, and he’s never satiated.
Stiles knows you’re a smart girl, but sometimes he forgets. You’d have to be pretty dense, after all, to not see the ravenous gleam in his eyes. You certainly don’t seem to notice it now, not with all that fondness twisting your lips into a grin. Stiles often wonders, worries, how you’d look at him if you knew. Disgusted most likely; he’s disgusted with himself half the time—but you’re so sweet, and so understanding, you’d probably forgive him.
Pity, Stiles decides, if you knew, you’d pity him. He can’t decide if that’s worse.
You rest your finger between his brows, and his dark lashes flutter, brushing against his freckles like they stamped the specks onto his skin. “Eat your nuts, monster,” you drag your finger along the slope of his nose and then ‘boop’ the tip, “and then preferably something with a single gram of protein.”
Stiles grumbles to himself and searches the fridge for something that will placate your relentless bullying. He picks up the whipped cream and rolls the chilled can around in his hands, squinting at the label. 0 grams of protein. Stiles scoffs. Reddi Whip is, like, 75% milk, right?
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he forgets to shut the fridge door until it starts beeping at him like it's a personal offense.
“Work?”
Stiles barely hears you, nose almost smooshed against his screen. “Huh?” He stares at his phone, eyes rapidly flicking back-and-forth, brain turning over how to counter the latest move on his ever-changing chessboard.
Stiles finally registers what you said when he begins his reply to his unit chief. “Oh…yeah.” His thumbs fly over his screen at a speed that, frankly, shouldn’t be humanly possible, “One sec…”
“You need a break.” You stand and place your hands on your hips in an adorable show of strength. He knows that you’re going for stern, so he bites his twitching mouth lest he invoke your actual wrath. “You’ve been working 18-hour days for the last two weeks.”
That’s an exaggeration, but Stiles doesn’t argue. He feels like it’s true. His stubble is out of control, and he’s afraid to look in the mirror and see exactly how dark his eyebags are. He only stopped by to shower and get a fresh change of clothes, but you came out of the bathroom in your little pink bathrobe and distracted him.
Stiles hates that robe. Detests it. He wants to burn it. He wants to rip the flimsy tie off with his teeth.
Mostly, Stiles wants to tuck you under his blankets and snuggle into the fuzzy fabric until he falls asleep.
He wants, he wants, he wants. That’s the problem.
You pry his phone from his hands and slip it into your back pocket. “We’re getting drunk tonight,” you say, and you say it in a way that he can’t even argue with. You say it like it’s a fact—you’re informing him, not telling him. Stiles is usually happy to comply.
That’s how you’ve always worked, after all: You point at a crocodile infested river, and he goes merrily, merrily, merrily down the stream, with a stupid, dreamy smile on his face.
It’s just. He’s functionally useless at doing anything without you. You take care of him. Always have.
Way back, when he was pre-Adderall Stiles, all baby energy and undiagnosed ADHD, you shoved a kid off of the swings when he made fun of Stiles’s babbling and twitching. He still babbles and twitches, but at least now he knows why. He doesn’t have some parasitic monster inside him; he’s just Stiles.
You’ve always known that—how was he supposed to not fall in love with you?
And after his mom died, you let him cry on your shoulder until your shirt was soaked through. He got snot all over your collar, and you just squeezed him tighter. Held onto him until he could breathe again, and then you said, “Want a grape soda?” and he almost started crying again because right then, at that moment, that was somehow the only right thing to say. Maybe because it was you, or maybe it was because you knew him so well. Maybe, it didn’t matter.
You spent the rest of the night starfished over your bed, and after a minute of staring at your ceiling fan, Stiles whispered, “Do you think we’ll be best friends forever?”
You looked at him and grinned, all teeth and sparkly eyes, and said, “You better hope so, boy blunder. Who else is gonna watch Twin Peaks with you a zillion times?” And Stiles knows that he was only eight, and he knows that maybe it was just because you made him laugh after all the emptiness, but he thinks that he fell a little bit in love with you then, even if he was too young to put a name to the feeling.
He finally figured it out when he was seventeen. Stiles wanted to be an adult so badly back then—and he felt like he was sometimes, after everything he’d gone through, but in so many ways he wasn’t. He definitely didn’t know how to handle his breakup with Malia like an adult—his first breakup, his first real relationship.
Stiles drank a lot that night. He can’t remember exactly how much, or anything that happened after 11 pm, but he does remember how you stroked his hair. He remembers how you wiped the foul mix of bile and sweat from his face with a cool washcloth and tender hands. He remembers how you tucked him into bed and curled up next to him when he asked you to say.
He remembers falling in love with you.
The epiphany felt a lot better when he was warm and limp from his dad’s scotch. It hurt a bit, when he woke up hungover and in an empty bed. You were in the kitchen, making him breakfast: greasy eggs and hashbrowns. After he got over seeing you in one of his t-shirts, he wondered if you’d ever get tired of cleaning up after him and all his issues.
Stiles still wonders that sometimes, even after you crawled into bed with him the night you found out your college sweetheart was cheating on you. He stroked your hair and ignored the wetness soaking into his neck, and you whispered against his skin, “Do you think we'll best friends forever?”
Stiles wanted to laugh. And then scream. And then kiss you. He didn’t do any of those things. He just said, “Can’t picture it any other way.” He didn’t say that whenever he thought about the future, whenever he pictured forever, you were always there.
He didn’t ask, ‘Is it okay if I’m in love with you forever?’
Stiles wants to ask it now, while you rattle off your plans for him this evening, but he doesn’t. He chews on a corn nut instead.
“Lydia’s looking for the right opportunity to make a move on the guy in 2B anyway,” you finish, blowing a strand of hair out of your face.
You’re looking at him like he’s supposed to say something, so he nods dutifully, “The guy with the mullet, right?”
You roll your eyes and poke around the cabinets, taking stock of the chips and tequila. “It’s not a mullet—you’re so obtuse when you’re jealous.”
Stiles blinks because…where the hell did that come from? “I’m good on the perm front, thanks,” he snarks through the food lodged in his cheek.
“Not of him,” you say, tongue trapped between your teeth and distracted by the mixers on top of the fridge. Your back is to him from your perch on the counter, and Stiles watches you with wary eyes. It would be so much easier if you'd just ask him to get things down from the top shelves, but you never do. Refuse to, actually. Vehemently. You'll do it yourself, even if it means breaking a limb.
You manage to keep a hold of the pile of bottles cradled against your chest through your dismount, and Stiles breathes easier when your feet are pressed against solid ground. He’s glad your eyes are still on the kaleidoscope of sugar and citrus because you’d mock the relief in his eyes without mercy.
You line the bottles up in order of emptiness and absently hum, “Well, yes of him, I guess, because—can you check on the vodka and gin?”
Stiles sticks his head in the freezer, grateful for the blast of frigid air, and tries to untangle the crumbs of meaning in your flimsy accusation. He comes up with absolutely nothing—on every front of his mission. “No gin.”
You let out a long, heavy sigh and shake your head at the dangling light fixtures. “Lydia.”
Lydia was the only person in the apartment who liked gin, but Stiles didn’t have any room in his brain for commiseration. “So, I’m jealous of little orphan Annie from 2B because…?” He leans against the counter and tucks his hands under his arms, squinting skeptically, “Just so we’re on the same page n’ all.”
You’re texting someone. He’s sure it’s Lydia, probably asking her to pick up more gin on her way home, but Stiles can’t help but wonder if you’re inviting your…whatever you call three decent dates and one evening of alright sex. ( Oh, how Stiles loved hearing all the details when you came home. )
“Hmm?” Your smile is lit up by your screen and the kittenish glint in your eye, but Stiles knows it’s not for him. He swallows his pettiness before he chokes on it. “Oh, right,” you put your phone down on the counter and smirk. This one is for him, but Stiles actually wouldn’t mind if it was for someone else; the look in your eyes is downright diabolical. “You’re so adorably, blatantly jealous that Lydia is into another no-neck, illiterate jock from the gym—but the perm is pretty bad, I’ll give you that.”
Stiles’s jaw falls, and you laugh, completely misinterpreting his stupor. He stares at you and just shakes his head, scrambling for a grasp on at least one of the million questions pinging around his skull. “You think I want Lydia?”
“Uh-doy,” you roll your eyes like he’s said something particularly stupid, “only since forever.”
He’s struck again at how you can simultaneously know him so well and not at all. “You don’t think that would’ve come up in the last, I dunno,” Stiles’s head jerks with his choppy hand gestures, “eighteen years?”
You wave your hand and then grab his wrist, “It’s been intermittent.”
You lead Stiles back into your room by his hand like he’s a wayward dog on a leash. He’s grateful for it. Stiles can’t do much else besides blink and breathe when he’s like this—when he’s wrapped up in a case he can’t crack.
Stiles drops onto the edge of your bed with a solid thud, feeling a bit like someone slammed a 2x4 into his gut. His tongue seems to be useless, glued to the back of his teeth. All he can do is watch you flit around your room, gathering an armful of skirts and dresses.
You hold up a black dress in one hand and a black mini-skirt layered under a red baby tee in the other, “Pick.”
Stiles wants to pick the sweats you’re currently wearing because they’re his, but he points at the skirt. He knows it’s your favorite; you’d pick it anyway.
You sit down in front of your vanity and pull the scrunchie out of your bun. Stiles watches your hair tumble over your shoulders. You’re insecure about it, always have been. One day it’s the color, and then it’s the texture, and he, for the life of him, doesn’t understand why. Your hair shines so prettily under the light, and it always smells so sweet, like citrus and honeysuckle—Stiles can’t decide if he wants to bury his nose in it or wrap it around his spindly fingers.
Graciously, you twist it into an artful arrangement before he can do either.
“I don’t want to be with Lydia,” Stiles finally says quietly.
You stop fiddling with pieces of hair framing your face and meet his gaze in the mirror, “It’s okay if you do.”
Stiles nods and stares at his lap, twiddling his fingers. “I know,” it’d be easier if he did, “but I don’t.”
You turn around in your chair and give him a little smile. It’s fond and sweet, and Stiles feels like a hand is closing around his heart and twisting it behind his ribs. “We’ll find you someone tonight, then,” you say, popping up from your seat. You grab your clothes off of the bed and squeeze his shoulder on your way to the full-length mirror next to your closet.
Stiles turns his head when you start to wriggle out of your shirt. He knows you don’t care what he sees after years of sleepovers and lake vacations, but you don’t know what it does to him. How all your dips and curves slip behind his lids when he’s alone with his fist and too much lube. If he’s really being honest, it also happens when he’s not alone, but that makes him feel like a piece of shit for a whole other list of reasons.
All of it feels pretty awful when it’s over—when Stiles is left with the unpleasant sensation of drying cum on his stomach and the very unpleasant realization that you’d never wear a swimsuit around him again if you knew exactly what he does with the image.
So. Stiles does what he can. He doesn’t look when you change, tries to avoid seeing you in a towel altogether, and watches so much porn of people who look nothing like you.
It doesn’t work, of course, but he tries. That has to count for something.
Stiles swallows and taps his fingers against his thighs. “I can’t think of anything I want to do less than interact with a bunch of drunk strangers partying in my—”
“Not a bunch,” you say around a grunt, tripping over the dragging hem of your borrowed sweats, “and not a party. Just a chill get-together of like-minded peers.”
He scoffs and tips his chin up, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “I’m sure I have so much in common with Lydia’s guest list. Yeah, we can talk about how they can bench-press two of me and that I also love me some stacking—pancakes, not steroids, but close enough.”
There’s a whoosh of a zipper and then you’re in front of him with your arms folded over your chest and thinned eyes. “You better behave.”
Stiles grins; it’s decidedly obnoxious. “I’ll be perfectly cordial, promise. I’ll even speak slowly.”
You laugh, and Stiles knows you’re only pretending that you didn’t want to.
“I think it’ll be good for you.” You return to your vanity and pilfer through your mess of earrings. “Y’know, to get out of your head for a little bit. It really is just gonna be us and a few plus ones. I know you, boy wonder, no parties shall ever be thrown in your honor. I solemnly swear.”
He smiles at the childhood pet name, a private little grin Stiles keeps tucked in his chest and at his feet. It falls, however, when he remembers the middle bits of your speech. “So,” Stiles gnaws on his thumbnail and jiggles his knee, “did you invite a plus one?”
You slide a gold hoop through your ear and grin at him, “Nah, I’m all yours tonight, Stilinski.”
Good. God.
Stiles wants to kiss you. He always wants to kiss you, but sometimes every inch of you rips the air from his lungs—cleaves him right in two. Like right now. He forgets how to speak, trying to remember what he can say and what he absolutely can’t say, while he imagines a life where you really are his and you know that he’s always been yours.
You’re just so pretty in your little skirt and cherry t-shirt, and you’re so clever, and funny, and you’re looking at him like he’s your favorite person in the entire world, and Stiles feels all of it spilling over the edges of his restraint. He almost says something so heavy—so categorically, catastrophically stupid, it would ruin your friendship for good.
Stiles swallows it back into his chest, but his voice is still thick when he says, “All mine, huh.”
He’s sick with yearning, and he’s petrified for a moment that you can tell. It seems so obvious to him. It would be obvious to anyone, Stiles thinks, if they heard how weak he sounded, how soft in his throat and reverent in your presence.
But you don’t notice. You never do. It’s a relief, and it’s endlessly frustrating.
“Yep,” you smack your lips together, blotting your red lipstick until it’s perfect, “I wanna win, and everyone knows you can’t win True American with a noob on your team.”
His brow arches, and a lazy grin smears across his mouth, “Oh, so we’re getting drunk drunk tonight.”
You wink at him in the mirror, “If you play your cards right.”
Stiles does, in fact, play his cards right. He picks Scott as the third member of your cabinet, possibly because Scott can outdrink anyone…or maybe it’s because Scott knows that Stiles is pathetically into you and can’t keep his mouth shut at the best of times, but especially not when he’s drunk.
Who’s to say, really?
Honestly, Stiles doesn’t need the advantage—Lydia’s voluntarily stuck with Isaac and the guy from 2B who can’t follow the rules no matter how many times they shout them at him, and Malia and Kira care far more about making goo-goo eyes at each other than they do helping their friend from yoga make any progress towards the King—but he’s competitive by nature and feeling exceptionally stupid tonight.
Lydia introduced the Clinton Strip Rules solely to ogle her latest man candy’s aggressively sculpted six-pack and show off her bewitching décolletage, and it was going along swimmingly until the idiot forgot how to count.
It was so simple. All the guy had to do was hold up three fingers—that’s all. He would’ve matched Lydia's count, and then they could've made out behind the Iron Curtain. But he didn’t. He held up two fingers and in doing so single-handedly crafted Stiles Stilinski’s demise.
Ironic. Considering the moron can't craft a compound-complex sentence to save his life.
For a single, endless moment, you and Stiles just stare at each other, more specifically, at the four fingers plastered against your foreheads—and then the spell is broken by drunken cackling. Lydia grins like the cat who caught the canary, and Scott laughs until his face turns red. He’s loud and obnoxious with the four drinks he’s downed, and Stiles wants to shove him out the window.
“Guys,” Stiles whines, “you don’t really—”
You finish the beer in your hand and shrug your shoulders, “It’s fine.”
Stiles’s head whips towards you, big-eyed and fish-mouthed. He can’t form words. Can’t speak any of the five languages he knows. He’s become a Stiles Stilinski skinsuit held up by a skeleton of gelatin and faulty survival instincts.
You smile at him a little and shrug again, “It’s just a game, right?”
You don’t say it, but Stiles can hear it with painful clarity: It doesn’t mean anything.
Stiles doesn’t know how to say no without telling the truth. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, not exactly. Stiles wants to kiss you—of course he wants to kiss you, feels like the whole goddamn world knows he wants to kiss you and is conspiring against him—but not like this. He doesn’t want to kiss you when it’s nothing. He’s thought about it far too much, imagined it on his bedroom ceiling in the safety of darkness too many nights, to blow it all on a stupid drinking game. A stupid gym-bro’s mistake.
Stiles had a plan. A plan he never actually had the courage to act on, but a plan nonetheless.
He was going to hold your face with shaking hands, smooth his thumbs along the sleek line of your jaw, look you in the eyes so that you could see the disbelief, the wonder, the awe. You’d see that he was overwhelmed to the bone, to all the nerves shivering inside the marrow, and you’d have to forgive him for being so tongue-tied and awkward—for taking so long.
And then, he’d kiss you.
He’d kiss you again, and again, and again, until one of you started laughing, but that’d be okay because it would give him the chance to kiss your neck and whisper, 'You’re the sky, and the mountains, and everything in-between.'
'You’re dark matter; you’re gravity,' he’d kiss the words into your skin and sigh, 'you’re the only thing holding the universe together.'
But he can’t say that, so Stiles follows you into Lydia’s bedroom and wipes the sweat on his palms off on his jeans.
You’re a little giggly while you fumble for the light. It’s breathy, and you can’t meet his eyes. Stiles feels a little better knowing that you’re almost as nervous as he is. You aren’t usually the nervous kind, after all. That’s his thing.
Stiles slides his hands into his back pockets and rocks onto his heels, “We don’t…we can just pretend that we…did it.”
“Did it?” you arch a brow, lips curling into a wry grin. “It’s just a kiss, Stiles. I thought you wanted to win? We gotta end Lydia’s streak, or she’ll be insufferable.”
Stiles’s mouth goes dry: cottony with wanting, brittle with misery. He can’t pretend anymore; he can’t pretend that he's not dying from this.
You can’t look at Stiles’s face. Can’t see the panic. It’s why you shuffle closer to him, stiffly reach for his shoulders and awkwardly search for the least romantic place to rest your hands. Stiles’s back thuds against the wall, and you finally dart your eyes to his. “It’s fine,” you say weakly.
There’s a loud chorus of, ‘Kiss, kiss, kiss,’ through the door, and Stiles watches the resolve harden your face. His chest rises and falls with quick, shallow exhales. He can hear his pulse ricochet around his ear canal, can feel the sweat gathering on his palms, can taste the anticipation in the air.
You roll your shoulders back a few times and shake your hands by your side, rotating your neck in a few slow circles. “Just kiss me, Stilinski. No biggie. I think we can catch up to Isaac if you hurry the hell up and plant one on—”
“Not like this!”
Your mouth parts into a perfect little ‘o’, and Stiles’s eyes bulge when he realizes that the pathetic, desperate cry came from him.
You fold your arms over your chest and tilt your head with an expression on your face that Stiles can’t read for the life of him. “What,” you lick your lip, and Stiles squirms with shame when he can’t stop himself from tracking the movement, “what does that mean?”
Stiles’s face spasms, and he can feel his IQ drop by tens the longer you stare at him.
“No, I didn’t…” Stiles’s stutters, flicking his gaze to your forehead, your chin, between your brows—anywhere but your eyes. His nose scrunches as he shakes his head, “Nothing. I just—I didn’t mean like that.” Stiles isn’t entirely sure what you think he meant, but considering he can’t decide what he means, it’s a safe bet that you’re wrong.
Stiles's hands take over for his melting brain matter, gesturing wildly every-so often like the flexing and contracting add any actual meaning to his meaningless babble. “I just, we can’t like that because that’s not…Do you know, like…? It’s very, like, you don’t…” His eyelids seem to have forgotten how to blink, and Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything for a piano to fall out of the sky right about now.
The chanting outside the door gets louder; Stiles isn’t sure if it’s real or just his anxiety. Through his narrowing pinprick vision, the only thing he can see at the end of the dark, dark tunnel is Lydia’s window. The heavy purple curtains frame the opening like serendipitous velvet gift wrapping.
Stiles swallows and nods sharply, “If you’ll excuse me.”
Stiles steps around you, and you follow his path with your eyes. They’re pinched with suspicion, but mostly concern. “Stiles, what are you do—”
“I’m fine,” Stiles tries to wave off your worries with a shaky hand.
And then he unlatches Lydia’s window and crawls on top of a chair to reach the opening.
“Okay, this makes sense. I just need a little air,” Stiles mumbles to himself. His dirty sneakers leave a clear outline of his soles on the white fur. Under any other circumstances, you’d both be desperately trying to scrub the fabric clean before Lydia found the stains and rained her wrath down upon your very fragile, bruisable bodies. Under these circumstances, you’re preoccupied with the half of Stiles’s body that’s hanging outside the window of your 3rd-story apartment.
“Stiles!” you stumble to the wall and freeze, unsure how to pull him back in without accidentally tipping him onto the concrete three floors below.
Stiles manages to slip the rest of his body through the window without breaking any limbs. Yet. “This is what I needed. Yup, this is—” his eyes engulf his face, a wide pool of churning honey, when he finally realizes just how small the ledge is and just how far away the ground is, “ah, ha, ha!”
“Stiles!” You cover your face with your hands and shake your head over and over again. You hope, childishly, if you spin fast enough, you can rewind time back to 10 minutes ago—when Stiles was safe on the floor and you could stop yourself from giving into the silly, stupid desire to kiss him. Just once. To finally find out how it would feel.
You peek through your fingers and wince as he stumbles towards the left. “You don’t have to kiss me!”
Stiles disappears from view, and you tumble into the hallway. You let out a low hiss when your hip slams into a sharp corner. The flare of pain is soon forgotten, however, when Stiles slams his hands against the living room window. Everyone turns to gawk at him, eight mouths wide open and not a single word is spoken until Stiles presses his entire body against the glass.
The window hasn’t been cleaned since you all moved in, so you can’t quite make out his expression through grime and dirt, but you can hear the shrill urgency in his voice. “This is a regret—I immediately regret this.” It would be funny, how high his voice is—approaching autotuned chipmunk territory, honestly—if he wasn’t six inches away from certain death. You can all laugh about it later when Stiles is safe on the couch, you decide. After you’ve punched him in the arm for doing something so bone-shatteringly stupid, obviously.
Malia does laugh, and Kira smacks her shoulder. You almost appreciate the levity; it reminds you that your brain needs oxygen to function.
Scott cups his hand around his mouth and shouts, “Don’t move!”
Stiles smooshes his button nose into the glass. He inhales and exhales with mad abandon, creating and erasing a cloud of condescension with every breath. “I've made a very bad mistake! I’m not trained for this!” his lips smear against the glass, muffling his cries for help. Stiles pulls back, and leaves a streak of saliva behind. At least, that patch of the window is clean now, biohazard be damned.
It’s Scott who ends up saving the day. No surprise there. He gets Stiles through the window and shoves him onto the couch, teeth ground in what can only be described as parental frustration.
Scott folds his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes, “You scared me half to death out there.”
Isaac snorts and rolls his eyes, quipping over Scott's shoulder, “Are you not getting enough attention?”
“I’m fine!” Stiles groans into his hands and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s still red from being smashed against the window, and the rest of his face matches with his embarrassed flush. “I am fine! I was partly joking and at least 64% drunk!”
“Stiles, we will talk about this in the morning,” Scott’s face is stern, and his grip on Stiles’s shoulder is just as firm, “but right now, I’m gonna go do stuff with a girl.”
Scott’s face is still solemn when he high-fives Isaac, mostly out of habit. You do laugh then. Can’t help it. A little bit of relief creeps through your constricted chest when Stiles smiles. It’s brief, a little twitch at the corners of his slightly-swollen mouth, but it’s there.
Allison rolls her eyes when Scott holds out his hand, but she still takes it and follows him towards his bedroom.
“Shut the door!” Stiles shouts at their backs. He slumps back against the couch cushions when the thudding of Scott's door closing echoes through the hall.
It’s quiet for a moment. Kira shifts awkwardly, clinging to Malia’s arm for balance when the fog of alcohol spreads from her flushed cheeks to her platform combat boots. Malia doesn’t look that concerned, but she’s always been cool under pressure…and any other emotion.
You expect Lydia to look as worried as you do, but she has a strange, calculating look in her eyes. They’re sharp in the light of her brilliance; the jade almost looks feline.
Lydia’s beaux ends up breaking the silence with a loose laugh. His head tips back with his chuckle, and he throws his meaty arm around Lydia’s shoulders. “That was freakin’ hilarious! I mean, dude jumped out on a ledge instead of kissing a 10. Can you believe that?”
Lydia looks wholly unamused and says flatly, “I really can’t.” She fixes Stiles with a look you can’t read, but Stiles seems to understand.
“I know.” Stiles drops his face into his hands and digs his face into the cradle of his wide palms. "I’m an idiot.”
Everyone seems to hear a cue that you missed while watching Stiles’s chest rise and fall. Malia, Kira, and their plus one filter out the door one-by-one, and Isaac kisses your cheek before wrapping his scarf around his neck. You’re relieved again when you hear Stiles scoff; it’s something he always does when Isaac puts on one of his pretentious kerchiefs in the balmy, LA weather. It’s nice to see some things are still the same.
Lydia stares at Stiles, and they have a silent conversation that ends with a patented Lydia Martin glare and a quintessential Stiles Stilinski squint.
Lydia leaves with her late night delight and kiss to your other cheek, and suddenly it’s just you and Stiles.
You wring your fingers together, gnawing on the lining of your cheek. You can’t think of anything to say. To Stiles. You never thought you’d see the day.
The couch creaks with Stiles’s shifting weight. He pushes himself to his feet and stands in front of you. The redness in his face has faded, baring the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose that you’re so fond of. His lips part. Your breath stills, waiting. Wanting. His silence washes over the room like a flood, and you close your eyes. You’re afraid of it, witnessing the inevitable wreckage.
It doesn’t come.
You hear the quiet padding of Stiles’s footsteps. When you open your eyes, he’s gone, slinking down the hall to his bedroom. You stare at the place he was just standing, feeling the chill of his absence, and then it’s gone. A glaring blaze of anger warms your face, and you allow it to carry you to Stiles’s closed door. What a metaphor; the thought grinds your molars together until they screech.
You wrench his door open, and Stiles jumps, halfway out of his jeans. He stumbles over the cuffs and almost falls on his face. You wish you could tease him, laugh until you snort and Stiles glares at you through his pathetic attempt to hide his smirk. But you can’t. Not yet.
“You’re really just going to leave it like that?” you say, closing his door behind you. It’s preemptive; you feel a little like yelling. “That was a whole other level of stupid, Stiles, even by your standard.”
Stiles quickly yanks his pants back up and buttons them, struggling with the zipper and his twitching fingers. “Can we just not,” Stiles rubs a hand over his face, looking infinitely older than he is, and mumbles a hollow, “actually, can we never.”
The words hang heavily in the air. In the harrowing quiet, you think: Oh god, is this it? Is this really the end?
Stiles stares at his feet, at the hole he’s wearing in the oak floor. He hears it too, the weight of what he’s done. Fucking hell, he thinks, I didn't know cowardice could be so loud.
You smooth your hands over your hair, clasping for any semblance of composure. “I just…I didn’t realize that the thought of kissing me was so…traumatic.”
Stiles jerks his head from the floor and tugs his fingers through hair. He pulls at the roots until it stings and shakes his head, “That’s not…you’re,” he gestures towards you helplessly and swallows the millions of things he wants to say, “you.”
“Yeah,” your shoulder lifts in a tiny shrug, arms winding around your torso like a brace, “that seems to be the issue.”
Stiles just looks at you for a moment. The lamp on his desk bathes his skin in a wave of warmth when he tilts his head. The tip of his nose casts a shadow over his lips, and you want to trace the divot in his cupid’s bow, the little lines by his nose, the hollow space under his eyes. You want to trace them all with your fingertips and then memorize them with your mouth.
Stiles's eyes are golden in the light, and they’re stuck on yours.
“You are…” Stiles closes his eyes, and his voice is so soft, so devout, “you are so fucking...inescapable, you know that? You are…you’re so deep inside my head, I can’t do anything without thinking about you. It’s becoming a serious fuckin’ problem—a nuisance, actually, a nuisance. And it’s not like I haven’t tried to stop, y’know, like it would be fuckin’ awesome if I could just forget how you smell like going home and a goddamn spring meadow, or if I could go fuckin’ grocery shopping without looking for those impossible to find chips with the Elmer Fudd lookin’ fucker on ‘em—”
“Hot fries,” you whisper hoarsely.
Stiles stops pacing for a moment and nods at you, “Thank you—hot fries. And I would love it if I could walk down the street, just once, and not look for a dog to take a picture of, just so I have an excuse to text you without looking like I was just thinking about you—even though I was obviously just thinking about you because, re my previous ranting, there’s literally not a single second of the day that you're not on my mind. You're just…inevitable.”
“And…I am Iron Man?” your smile is wobbly.
Stiles gives you a flat look over his shoulder, “You’re a smartass—but I love that. I love everything about you—even the way you talk through my favorite movies and force-feed me a vegetable once a week.”
“Stiles,” you swallow shallowly and rest your hand on his chest. Stiles stops pacing and meets your gaze with big, endless eyes and blinking butterfly lashes. Tipping your head to the side, you swipe your thumb over his thudding heart, “What are you trying to say?”
Stiles rests his hand on top of yours, clunkily lacing your fingers together for a little stability. “I love you,” he whispers, because he has to. It has to be this soft. It has to stay just between you and him, in the little bubble of air between your lips. “I’ve been in love with you since…” Stiles chews on his lip, trying to pinpoint when he knew, when he knew that you’re it for him. There are so many moments that come to mind, and he can’t pick a single one. It’s just that the line between mud pies, and t-ball, and this is so blurry. Stiles can’t tell where it really begins and where it ends.
It feels boundless, Stiles thinks, infinity. It’s something, somewhere, past the edge of the universe. He’s yours infinitely. There is no before he loved you, and there is no after. It’s just always.
Stiles breathes and sighs out his answer, “Forever. I’ve loved you since forever, and I couldn’t—I can’t kiss you if it doesn’t mean anything.”
Your lips curve slowly. It’s a nervous smile, one that’s afraid of the rug being yanked out from under happily ever after. “You love me?” you say quietly, voice little and meek.
The tip of Stiles’s tongue darts out, wetting his lip. He nods slowly and rubs the back of his neck—an anxious tick you know very well. You’ve watched Stiles for eighteen years, after all. You’ve studied the tendons in his neck, how they flex when he crooks his head down to read, how it makes your belly warm more than it should. You know he flexes his fingers exactly three times before starting a test, and you know that the long veins in his arms are the most stupidly attractive things you’ve ever seen. He’s the most attractive thing you’ve ever seen, and you’ve loved him for so long it’s written in your bone marrow.
Stiles scratches his neck until it’s pink and raw, and you pull his hand away instinctively. He smiles at you so timidly it breaks your heart, “Is that okay?”
You nod, and nod, and nod. “Very okay. Very, very okay. The most okay of all the okay’s.” It’s so fast, and it’s been so long, but mostly it’s right. Like this is the only logical conclusion, the answer to a cold case that took eighteen years to solve. Your life has always been youandstiles, and that sounds a whole like forever.
Slipping a hand to the back of his neck, you run your thumb along the knobs of his spine and whisper, “I am so ridiculously in love with you, boy wonder.”
Stiles grins. It starts small, fond, tender—but the more times he hears it, every time she loves me, she loves me, she loves me bounces around his ribcage, his grin gets a little bigger, a little brighter. Soon, it stretches across his entire face and swallows you whole. He looks more than alive like this; you want to taste the electricity in his mouth.
You smile at each other for a long time, and you look at Stiles through your lashes. “So,” you tip your chin and bat your eyes, “you gonna kiss me?”
Stiles is going to kiss you. He swears. He’s just…he’s thinking too much after an evening of not thinking at all. He’s been waiting for this for forever, and what if his lips are dry—or, worse, what if they’re too wet? What if his hands are cold and clammy, and you can feel his sweat when he cups your cheeks. He definitely feels sweaty. And nervous. And—
You rock onto your tiptoes and kiss him. It’s a little kiss, soft and short, but everything goes static and neon around you. You let out a little sigh, start to pull away—and Stiles whimpers. His hands surges forward and latches onto the back of your neck, pulling your mouth back to his.
Stiles slides the breadth of his large palm up and down your back, chasing the rhythm of your breath. There isn't much to chase, you think deliriously, you aren’t really sure if you need oxygen to survive anymore. You like swallowing his sounds and tasting his tongue far more than breathing. It feels like Stiles agrees with you when he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you into his chest, digging his fingers into the small of your back until there’s nowhere else for you to go. Silly boy. As if you’d rather be anywhere else.
He makes the sweetest little noises in-between your kisses, softening the wet smacking of lips and tongues. You chase them, learning what he likes by unraveling him one sound at a time, with a tug on his hair here, a nibble on his lip there, and your hands just about everywhere.
It’s hot. Literally. You can feel heat licking your skin—or maybe that’s just Stiles. Your head is a little fuzzy from his kisses and not enough oxygen, and logic is a distant thought. Breathing. People need to breathe.
Stiles’s nose bumps against yours when he pulls back. He smiles drunkenly and leans in for one more kiss. It’s quick and open-mouthed, two little brushes of his lips, and it steals what’s left of the air in your lungs.
Stiles brushes your hair back and rests his forehead against yours. His breath chills your spit-slick, swollen mouth, and you shiver at the look in his eyes. “I meant something like that.”
my home to everything stiles stilinski from mtv's teen wolf
⤷ back to my main masterlist!
fluff (❋) angst (⏾) nsfw (☒) smut (ꨄ)
one-shots:
꩜ stiles, are you hard right now? in which you and stiles end up in a... tight situation (☒)
꩜ in his flannel you show up to stiles' for a study session in a particular choice of clothing (❋)
꩜ dramatic lately, stiles just can't seem to catch a break, and everything is getting to be too much. luckily for him, stiles seems to have his own anchor (⏾)
꩜ that was the best sleep i've had in months taking a car ride nap never sounded so good (❋)
꩜ kiss it better stiles helps you calm down the only way he can think to (⏾)
꩜ do you want to have sex with me, yes or no?? it had been a week since stiles kissed you, and you began to question how he was feeling. lucky for you, nothing with stiles ever goes the way you expect it to (☒)
꩜ trying something new stiles never expected you to be the one to suggest it, but he's pretty sure you've just changed his life (ꨄ☒)
blurbs:
stiles stilinski, the touch-starved boy (❋)
stiles stilinski, who can't keep his hands to himself (❋ꨄ☒)
stiles stilinski can't get enough of you after your first kiss (❋☒)
「naps and forgetfulness」 Stiles Stilinski x F!reader
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The door clicks shut as you walk into Stiles bedroom. Thanks to your luck Sheriff Stilinski was just getting out of the house when you arrived at his porch and quickly let you in before going to work.
You spot Stiles immediately: he is curled up in his bed with his lips parted slightly and his breathing soft, he is wearing the grey sweatpants you love paired with a plain t-shirt and hair slightly messier than usual.
Despite the fact that you're slight mad at him for forgetting to come pick you up after work, the sight can't help but make you giggle lovingly at his expression and let your purse fall on the floor silently before changing into one of his shirts and boxers.
Stiles continues to remain asleep, unaware of your presence in the room and it doesn't really surprise you, he is a very heavy sleeper, after all, and it’d take a lot more than just a small giggle to wake him up.
His body shifts on the blankets, rolling over onto his belly and you take advantage of his change of position to climb on his bed and body to leave a trail of kisses up his back until the nape of his neck. His skin is soft to the touch, and as your lips leave gentle kisses on his skin, his muscles visibly shudders until you can feel him starting to stir, even if his eyes are still closed.
"mh?" he mumbles with frowning eyebrows.
"excuse me sir? I think you're in the wrong bed, and house" you whisper in his ear after nibbling it softly with your teeth.
His body stiffens when your teeth graze over his ear, but he sighs at the sound of your voice as a soft smile appears on his lips. "Baby, what are you doin here?" he mumbles sleepily but he's not displeased to see (hear) you, on the contrary, he loves when you unexpectedly come at his house to see him.
He moves to turn around on his back and you lift your hips just enough for him to do it without difficulty, only to sit back on his hips when he's done moving.
"I wanted to see if everything was okay, but it seems I was worried for nothing" you say with a bit of sarcasm in your voice that Stiles catches immediately, he opens his eyes to look at you groggily.
"oh no, what did I do?" he asks, resting his hands on your hips to squeeze them lightly, his face already looks guilty and your heart melts.
"you were supposed to come pick me up at work so that we could spend the night at my house which, as you may remember, is empty because my parents are away, watch a movie, have sex and sleep together so that we could have gone to school together tomorrow morning, does something ring in that pretty head of yours?" you explain with a victorious smile on your face.
"oh, fuck. baby I'm sorry, I swear I didn't forget I fell asleep after coming back home and forgot to set the alarm, I'm so sorry" he says covering his face in embarrassment. “Are you mad at me?”
"No, I've come to terms with it, my friends had warned me, after all" you sigh while resting your hands on his belly and he looks at you confused, you barely manage to hide a smile "that you would get tired of me and keep me around just for sex, like all boys do, after all-"
"ok that's it, you've said enough bullshits already." he says grinning and pulls you by your hands to lay your body over his and wrap his arms around you to keep you there, a squeal leaves your lips between laughters. After all, he knows you're only joking.
"you're stuck here now, forever" he says laughing as his hands start moving up and down your back, he's strong enough to keep you pressed against his chest but even if he wasn't, you would never dream of moving, ever.
"I don't mind" you admit hiding your face in his neck to kiss it lovingly and he sighs, closing his sleepy eyes as if your lips on his neck are trying to lull him back to sleep.
"I'm really sorry, I didn't want you to take the bus to come here" he apologizes again.
"I didn't take the bus, Logan drove me here" you answer and you feel a sense of satisfaction at your words when you hear your boyfriend groan.
"fucking Logan" you giggle "with his- fucking Mercedes and his- fucking crush on you" he keeps on rambling.
"oh come on! he was being nice" you say to lighten his thoughts.
"yeah right, of course he's always fucking nice, he's got a massive crush on you, I bet you love his car more than mine" he mumbles with a displeased expression on his face.
"don't be ridiculous, I love your Jeep" you tell him between giggles and Stiles rolls you two over so that you're on your back and him splayed on top of you and between your legs, now it's his turn to hide his face in your neck.
"and you love me right? more than- and better than Logan right?" he mumbles nuzzling his nose against your neck, and his arms wrap around your body to keep you still, you're definitely not going anywhere anytime soon.
"I don't know, before making such a statement I should ask him if he would ever forget to come pick m- OW!" a harsh bite on your neck interrupts you.
"don't even joke about it" he says against your skin after kissing the still sore spot and slowly moving up your neck until they're next to your ear. "and for the record, you're stuck with me baby" he whispers.
"I'm happy to hear that, now give me a real kiss" you demand.
"yes, ma'am." he mutters before propping himself on one of his elbows to move better his other hand from your hip to your chin, your head now tilted so that he can kiss you properly. His lips move against yours as his body presses yours further against the mattress.
His tongue slides over your bottom lip and you feel him smiling before his tongue slips inside your mouth, all you can taste and feel is him, and as his tongue teases yours you let your hand tangle into his messy hair and tug at it lightly.
His hands move up, taking your shirt with it until it's bunched over your bra before slowly breaking the kiss to remove the piece of fabric.
"what do you think you're doing?" you ask, taking his wrist in your fingers to stop him and it takes a second for Stiles to understand what you just asked, his lust-filled eyes looks at you unfocused. His dilated pupils roam down the length of your body until he reaches your chest and the black bra you're wearing, but almost as if he just realized he's doing something wrong he shakes his head.
"I- I'm sorry, I thought uhm- I thought we were going to uhm..." his words drift off while his fingers, still wrapped around the fabric of 'your' shirt, twitch in excitement and anticipation.
"oh!" you laugh "no, no. we're not going to have sex baby" you tell him with a satisfied smile on your face.
"w-we're not?" your boyfriend asks and he can't help but look disappointed when you push him by his shoulder until he falls on his back next to you so that you're able to get up from his bed, he was looking forward to that.
"No, we're not" you confirm and he looks at you in disbelief, eyes and mouth wide open in shock as he props his body on his elbows again to look at you better.
"is it because I didn't come to pick you up from work?" he asks but he already knows the answer.
"You're so smart, love-" you compliment him, walking towards the bed to kiss his lips "now come on, let's go to my house."
"right now?" he asks and there's still disappointment in his voice, but he doesn't protest further as he gets up to start looking for his car keys.
"Yeah! I still want to spend the night with you at mine's" you say as a matter of fact and Stiles hurries to grab his hoodie from where it laid on his desk.
"And- and we're just gonna- watch a movie and call it a day or…?" he asks, his voice is doubtful, and it's clear he's still waiting for a chance to change your mind.
"That depends, are you going to pay for dinner?"
"Like I always do"
"And are you going to forget about me again?"
"Never again, I'll die before it happens a second time"
"Mh… we'll see" you only say walking out of his room and down the stairs with him following you like a kicked puppy.
"Baby, come on! I said I'm sor- are you wearing my boxers? are you trying to kill me?!"
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it seems like I also write for Stiles now, lol, enjoy! 💞
˗ˏˋ synopsis : the pain from the nogitsune doesn't leave with him and you're left trying to pick up the pieces of your shattered heart without your best friend. ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ
𑁥౿ note : feeling angsty... hope u guys enjoy!!☺️ barely proofread, description heavy, miscommunication and arguing, the title is based on the demo of my boy only breaks his favorite toys by taylor swift and i would recommend listening to that if you can because omg it's so sad, maybe a happy part two ?
you knew stiles would never see you like that.
you knew. and yet you still couldn't help but feel it—a terrible, gut-wrenching need for him. all of the small, friendly, moments you could romanticize in your head meant more to you than anything any other guy had done for you.
there were plenty of them to choose from, you had guys lining up to treat you right. but you couldn't get yourself to like them.
you expected to live with this sinking feeling in your stomach every time he was around lydia—or any girl he liked—forever. he had no idea what it did to you, and you wanted it to stay that way.
but of course, of course, the nogitsune would see it. and of course he would use it. because why wouldn't he?
it was perfect.
you were stupid to not realize. the confession, the moment he kissed you, everything after that. it was all fake.
not the dream kind of fake, where you could accept that it was in your head, but the kind where it happened and still none of it was true.
it was a spirit, doing it for the sole purpose of your pain.
after the whole nogitsune and oni thing was over, you thought it would go back to semi-normal. you knew he knew. stiles had said he remembered everything.
everything, every moment he used your feelings to hurt you.
and you knew stiles, he wouldn't completely hate you for feeling like that. he probably wouldn't even be mad—probably not even uncomfortable. you thought he would come back to you no matter what, like he always said he would.
it started to slip your mind for a while—the death of allison, the whole introducing malia to the group, issac leaving—it wasn't your biggest problem.
but a week or two passed, then a few more, and the thought crawled right back in. it stayed at the forefront of your mind, torturing you all the time by never leaving.
you never talked to him.
you spoke—very briefly, in a group setting—but never talked.
you weren't expecting a love confession, or even to talk about any of it. not your feelings, not the things you assume he wouldn't want to relive. but you expected to at least have your best friend back.
every time you saw him it was like another stab in the chest. he stopped instinctively smiling at you but frowning, he avoided eye contact, he avoided sitting or standing beside you.
but he had no issue with malia, who was clearly all over him.
of course, that thought had you feeling insanely guilty. none of anything that was happening to you was her fault.
the day you finally snapped was when stiles deliberately ignored you.
you sat next to him on scott's couch while the others were still in the kitchen. not crowding, not even on the same sofa cushion. there was an entire body space between you, but still it felt charged with unspoken words.
you knew he felt it, your eyes on him, your need to talk.
there were no butterflies, no exciting nerves. only a deep fear of being rejected of friendship by your supposed best friend.
he glanced up to you—quick, too quick—and stood and left. you watched his frame leave the room, leaving his food and his drink on the table, the smell of his cologne still lingering in his absence. the cologne you bought him for his birthday.
silence. your brain was completely empty.
the bathroom door clicked closed, a sign that the moment was already over before it even began.
you hadn't even realized that you were crying. it wasn't loud, it wasn't supposed to be seen. the cold winter air bit at your face, sharp against your nose and ears, but you barely even felt it.
the warmth of your tears on your cheeks didn't register, and the lack of oxygen in your body wasn't enough to snap you back into it. there was a sinking, empty feeling in your gut, and you felt nothing else.
your breaths were shaky, uneven and short. your sobs racked through your trembling body—the cold only worsening the shaking.
when stiles emerged from the bathroom, he expected to see you either still sitting there or back to talking with lydia. when neither were there, he questioned it.
he knew it was wrong of him to avoid you, but every time he looked at you, all he saw was the pain in your eyes when he hurt you. he couldn't do that again. so he ran.
through the window, he could see you standing on the porch, crying. instinctively, he rushed out to comfort you, to hold you like he normally would. he regretted it the moment he saw your face.
your usually warm eyes, full of love and life, looked exactly as they did when the nogitsune hurt you. exactly what he'd been too scared to face.
and it was completely his fault this time. nobody controlled him but himself, and he made you look like that.
you turned around, expecting lydia or even scott. not stiles.
the scoff escaped your throat before you could stop it. "go away, stiles." you hiccuped, "please."
he watched you try to wipe your tears away, only for them to be replaced in an instant. your body language screamed that you were scared—of him, he guessed.
"are you—"
"stop." the finality in your voice caught him off guard, but he still didn't step back into the house. "i don't want to be around you right now. please, for the love of god, go inside, stiles."
your smile was a weak attempt at pretending you were fine.
stiles was always known to be stubborn, but for some reason you thought he might listen. you were wrong. "no, i'm not leaving you out here when you're crying."
"i want you to leave me alone."
"i'm not going to."
"fine. tell everyone i was sick or something, i'm leaving." you said firmly, ready to walk away. you were surprised by how well you held yourself strong against him, that you didn't cave, that your voice only barely cracked.
"no, you stop. what's going on with you?" he asked, his voice gentle along with his barely-there brush against your arm. your body turned to face him against yourself. "talk to me."
any crack in your walls was gone at that. he unknowingly ruined his chances of getting you to open up. you pulled your arm away, away from his touch that you so badly wanted to lean into. "fuck you."
"huh—what?"
"fuck you." you cried, another sob racking through you. his hands rested at your shoulders and you couldn't help but let him. your hands raised to his chest, stabilizing yourself.
"i have waited weeks for you to talk to me, about literally anything. and the one time, i just want to be left alone, you have to come and demand i talk. i don't want to talk, stiles!"
your voice is cracking—the sound of poorly repressed tears evident in your words—and you're hitting his chest. you feel like you're being mean but you can't find it in you to care. you want to hurt him like he's hurting you, even if it's impossible.
stiles was speechless. standing there, raking his fingers through his hair and debating what to do next.
"i'm sorry."
"i hate you."
"no, you don't."
"i wish i never met you."
you know you don't mean it. he knows you don't mean it. but it still lands exactly where you wanted it to.
you didn't know why you said it, honestly. maybe to get him to really leave you alone, maybe because your feelings were bottled up for too long, but you wished you could take it back.
he didn't say more. he just nodded, turned around, and went back in the house. his eyes were brimming with tears that he wiped away, and when everyone asked where you were, he did what you said to and told them you felt sick and went home.
nobody questioned it, but everybody knew it wasn't the truth.
when you got home that evening, you wasted no time in going to your bed to sulk. your body was exhausted from the sobbing and the fighting earlier, but yet your tear ducts weren't done.
and when you were halfway to sleep, the tears finally over and crusted on your cheeks, the framed photo of you and stiles on your nightstand flipped over because you couldn't stand to look at it anymore, your phone lit up with another ding.
9:02 pm
mischief: did you get home safe?
9:05 pm
mischief: look i know you don't want to hear from me, but if you don't answer i will come check for myself
12:16 am
new! mischief: we need to talk
new! mischief: please
new! mischief: i can't lose you
your plan to continue ignoring his messages was interrupted by a very quiet knock on your window. sliding it open, you held your ground and kept him out. "what are you doing here?"
Nerdy!Sam Winchester x Nerdy!Reader Headcannons!!!
★ Sam is a big nerd. In all the ways that count. The intelligent mathematical ways, argumentative law ways, but also in the cheesy fandom ways. But so are you. And it shows up in your relationship in the best ways.
★ Late at night, you and Sam would stay up on your phones taking Buzzfeed fandom quizzes. You sort yourself into Harry Potter houses, Hunger Games districts, and Divergent factions. And when you get Hufflepuff and Sam gets Ravenclaw, he kisses your forehead sweetly and tells you he loves you all the same.
★ Sam has an impressive collection of legos. He loves collections. It only started recently though, when they started living in the bunker because he had nowhere to keep a collection before. For his birthday, you buy him the one set he needs to complete his Marvel lego collection: the X-Mansion lego set. You secretly always wanted it for yourself, but once you saved up for it, you knew you had to get it for Sam. He tells you $300 is ridiculous and he will repay you in $300 worth of books whenever you want. You spend hours putting the set together with First Class on in the background, and when you’re done he lets you keep Rogue’s lego person.
★ One night, on your way home from a little trip to the bar, you and Sam stop by a Sally’s Beauty store and look at hair dye. Sam’s eyebrows go up when you pick gray hair dye, but he pays anyway. When you get back to your house, you section off a little strip of hair on each of you, bleach it and dye it. You do a little piece of the side of Sam’s bangs. Once you wash and dry your hair and look in the mirror, Sam sees it. A singular streak of gray hair just like Percy and Annabeth in the Titan’s Curse after holding Atlas’ burden. He tells you you’re his Wise Girl and you tell him “I love you, my Seaweed brain.” You make bucket list plans to kiss underwater very soon.
★ You love Halloween and your neighborhood is full of kids who will be trick or treating. Given his lifestyle, Sam could take it or leave it, but he loves you. After much debate, you settle on a couples costume. Sam wears a white collared shirt with a tie and a superman shirt peeking under it and black pants, and you wear a black pencil skirt with a white collared shirt and a vest over it. Sam is the perfect nerdy Clark Kent and you are his (equally nerdy) hot Lois Lane. You tell Sam he’s never allowed to take those glasses off.
