. ۫ ꣑ৎ . loser stiles and his out-of-his-league pretty girlfriend.
pairing: stiles stilinski x fem!reader.
summary: when stiles finally asks you to be his girlfriend and you say yes, he can’t believe it —and he’s not the only one. you two come in very different fonts. but, you’re so quick to prove him and his self-deprecation that you like him, fully and shamelessly.
warnings: used of y/n… im sorry. a little fluff? reader being a menace and the end of stiles life (in a good way).
a/n: i tried my best to be funny and make it a little longer. a mother needs to feed her kids. based on this req <3
stiles stilinski had spent a solid seven-teen years being a complete and utter dork. a nerd. a disaster in human form. the kind of guy who could tell you, unprompted, that the fear of long words is called hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia but somehow still couldn’t spell “necessary” on the first try.
he was the guy who tripped over air, made obscure pop culture references no one asked for, and had a deeply unhealthy relationship with sarcasm.
so, naturally, when you—actual goddess, the prettiest face in beacon hills, social butterfly extraordinaire—agreed to date him, stiles was convinced he was being pranked.
“she said yes,” he had told scott the night it happened, voice shaking, hands gripping his best friend’s shoulders like he was trying to transfer the shock through sheer physical contact. “she said yes. to me. like, willingly. no coercion. no hostage situation. just… yes.”
scott, ever the supportive best friend, blinked at him. “huh.”
“I just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, looking way too amused. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but… dude, that’s y/n.”
you weren’t just popular. you are the cool kind of popular. the kind that made people want to be around you instead of just tolerating your presence because of high school hierarchy rules.
you had this effortless confidence, this ability to make everyone feel like they belonged—even stiles, who had spent most of his life on the outskirts of social normalcy.
you are the type of person who could go from hanging out with the lacrosse team and his girlfriends to sitting with the theater kids in the same day, and everyone would be happy to have you there. people gravitated towards you.
meanwhile, stiles had spent most of freshman year trying to convince people that his name was, in fact, not short for “stilton” like the cheese.
It didn’t make sense. and yet, somehow, here they were.
dating you was like winning the lottery, except instead of money, stiles got the incomprehensible love and affection of a literal angel.
except for the fact that he had no idea how to be cool enough to keep up with you.
“you’re overthinking it,” you told him one day as you sat in your car, legs propped up on the dashboard.
“I always overthink it,” stiles replied. “It’s literally my defining trait.”
you laughed, and god, that laugh. It was the kind of sound that made people pause, made them turn their heads just to see what could possibly be so funny.
“okay, fine,” you said. “then tell me. what’s running through that giant brain of yours right now?”
stiles exhaled dramatically. “alright, let’s start with the obvious. I am a disaster. you are not a disaster. explain.”
you tilted your head, amused. “you really don’t see it, do you?”
you smirked, leaning in a little closer. “you’re kind of amazing, stiles.”
he blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“you make me laugh,” you continued, like you hadn’t just dropped a bomb on his entire worldview. “like, really laugh. you make things interesting. and you care so much about the people around you. I like that.”
stiles stared at you, brain officially malfunctioning. “uh. are you… are you sure you’re not under some kind of supernatural influence?”
you rolled your eyes, shoving his shoulder playfully. “just shut up?”
and just like that, he realized something insane. you actually liked him.
not just in a “haha, he’s fun to have around” way. not in a “pity date” way. not even in a “this is a temporary thing before I move on to someone more worthy” way.
you liked him. dorkiness, sarcasm, ADHD-riddled brain and all.
maybe he wasn’t as out of your league as he thought.
still, he spent the next few weeks in a state of perpetual disbelief.
he kept waiting for the moment where you would realize you had made a grave mistake and move on to someone who, well… had the ability to walk in a straight line without tripping over absolutely nothing.
In fact, you made it very clear that you were, for some ungodly reason, into him.
like, full-on, public displays of affection into him.
because now, not only did stiles have to deal with his own confusion, but also the confusion of literally everyone else at beacon hills high.
It started with a completely normal lunch. stiles, scott, lydia, and you were all sitting together, as usual, while he rattled off some extremely important information about why the original ‘star wars’ trilogy was superior to the prequels.
“you just have to accept that Jar Jar Binks was a crime against cinema,” stiles was saying, mid-rant, when he felt a hand casually slip into his.
you, completely unbothered, just kept eating your fries, fingers lazily intertwined with his.
scott immediately stopped chewing. lydia raised an eyebrow. somewhere behind them, he was pretty sure he heard jackson choke on his drink.
stiles, being the mature and composed individual that he was, blurted out, “are you—did you—was that on purpose?”
you gave him a deadpan look. “no, stiles, my hand just accidentally fell into yours.”
scott made a choked sound that was very unhelpful.
“I just—” stiles floundered. “you’re—you want to hold my hand? In front of people?”
you smirked. “what, do you want me to sign a permission slip first?”
lydia rolled her eyes. “stiles, stop acting like you just won the lottery.”
“but I did,” he said, eyes still wide. “this is like if someone found bigfoot, but instead of running away, bigfoot started dating them.”
you snorted and leaned closer, whispering, “you’re an idiot.”
and then—just to completely obliterate stiles’s ability to function—you kissed his cheek.
all right, maybe “erupted” was an exaggeration. but scott definitely lost all ability to contain himself, because he burst into uncontrollable laughter, clapping stiles on the back so hard he nearly faceplanted into his lunch tray.
jackson muttered something about how the world was officially broken.
and lydia? lydia just sipped her drink and said, “honestly, this might be the funniest thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
stiles, meanwhile, was still sitting there, trying to process the fact that you had just kissed him in front of the entire student body.
“okay,” he breathed. “alright. cool. totally fine.”
you squeezed his hand. “you’re so lucky I can keep up with you.”
scott shook his head, grinning. “dude. just take the win.”
now stiles had zero business being on the lacrosse team. he was only there because coach finstock occasionally needed a warm body to throw onto the field, and also because scott insisted that he “needed to be included in the team dynamic.”
that was stupid, because stiles was about as useful on the field as a drunk giraffe.
still, here he was, suited up, trying his best to not die.
you were sitting in the stands, chatting with some of the other girls on the cheer squad, but every so often, he caught you watching him.
why on earth would you be looking at him when there were actual athletes running around?
at some point, coach finstock (in a moment of pure insanity) decided to sub stiles in.
naturally, it went horribly.
he got knocked over in under a minute.
like, wind knocked out of him, stars in his vision hard.
by the time he sat up, still gasping for breath, he vaguely registered that someone was calling his name.
then, suddenly, you were there, pushing past some of the other students on the sidelines, crouching next to him.
“oh my god, are you okay?” you asked, eyes scanning him for any visible injuries.
“you,” stiles wheezed. “just—taking a quick—dirt nap.”
you sighed, shaking your head. “you really shouldn’t be allowed to play this sport.”
“tell that to coach crazy over there,” he muttered.
you rolled your eyes, then—without warning—cupped his face and kissed him.
stiles was pretty sure his soul left his body.
by the time you pulled away, he was definitely malfunctioning.
you smirked, brushing some dirt off his jersey. “maybe if I keep doing that, you’ll actually start scoring points.”
scott, who had jogged over at some point, burst out laughing, —again.
“please don’t encourage him,” he told you.
you just shrugged, standing up. “what can I say? I like an underdog.”
stiles, still staring into the middle distance, finally processed what had just happened.
then, very calmly, he said:
“I have no idea what’s going on, but I’m definitely not complaining.”
stiles finally gets it. he gets you.
It took three months of dating before stiles finally stopped expecting you to give up on him.
because the truth was, you could.
but for some ridiculous, unexplainable reason—
and maybe, just maybe, that was the best part of all.
stiles stilinski had exactly one defense mechanism when faced with overwhelming emotional stimuli:
pure, unfiltered, high-octane panic.
In fact, stiles was about 80% sure that her actual favorite hobby—above reading, music, and being generally awesome—was finding new and creative ways to make him short-circuit.
In the most inconvenient and socially inappropriate moments possible.
stiles was already having a rough day.
coach had made him run extra laps for “being a distraction” (which was not fair, because technically speaking, it was danny who had laughed first).
so there he was, post-practice, dripping in sweat, hair a mess, brain still recovering from almost getting hit in the face with a lacrosse ball, when you materialized out of nowhere.
“hey, loser,” you greeted, leaning against the locker next to his.
stiles jumped about a foot in the air. “jesus—you can’t just sneak up on a guy like that!”
you, completely ignoring him, hummed thoughtfully. “you look cute when you’re sweaty.”
stiles immediately turned red. “I—what—who?”
and before his brain could fully reboot, you leaned in and kissed him.
With scott and half the team still standing right there.
his brain immediately short-circuited.
somewhere in the background, he could hear the distinct sounds of his teammates reacting.
jackson made a disgusted noise.
danny, ever the neutral observer, just snorted. “I mean, props to her, I do love watching stilinski suffer.”
scott, instead of helping, just shook his head fondly. “dude. just accept it.”
you, for your part, just smirked against stiles’s lips, completely unbothered, and pulled away with a satisfied little hum.
stiles, meanwhile, was still frozen in place.
“did I break you?” you teased, poking his cheek.
stiles let out a strangled sound.
jackson groaned. “oh god, get a room.”
you turned to him, smirking. “jealous?”
jackson scoffed. “not even remotely.”
you shrugged, looping your arm through stiles’s. “good. because I’m not sharing.”
and then you walked off, dragging stiles with you—leaving the entire locker room howling in laughter.
stiles had one sacred rule in life:
the library is a safe space.
the library was for quiet and learning and pretending to do your homework while actually texting scott about supernatural nonsense.
the library was not for being publicly humiliated by your ridiculously hot girlfriend.
unfortunately, you did not respect the sanctity of anything.
stiles was sitting at his usual spot—textbook open, pen in hand, pretending to study—when you slid into the chair next to him.
“hey,” you greeted, voice suspiciously sweet.
stiles narrowed his eyes. “you’re up to something.”
you smiled, all innocent. “me? never.”
he squinted harder. “what do you want?”
you tilted your head. “can’t I just want to spend time with my adorable boyfriend?”
stiles immediately turned red. “I—you—stop that.”
“being cute,” he hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was listening.
before stiles could formulate a response, you very casually leaned forward and kissed him.
and not just a quick kiss.
this was a calculated attack.
a slow, lingering kiss, tongue and all—just long enough to completely fry his brain, but not long enough for him to actually do anything about it.
by the time you pulled away, stiles was bright red, gripping the edge of the table like his life depended on it.
you shrugged. “felt like it.”
stiles gaped. “we are in library.”
you smiled sweetly. “uh-huh.”
“where people can see us.”
she leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “I know.”
stiles let out an undignified squeak.
and that was the exact moment lydia martin—who had apparently been sitting three tables away—very loudly shut her book and said, “I’m going home. this is disgusting.”
stiles, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands.
now, there were rules when it came to dating in front of parents.
rule #2: seriously, no PDA.
rule #3: do not test sheriff stilinski’s patience.
you had no regard for any of these rules.
stiles had just walked you to the door, ready to say a very normal, appropriate, and respectful goodbye, when you suddenly grabbed his hoodie, pulled him way too close, and kissed him stupid.
where his father could definitely see.
and as if that wasn’t bad enough—
the front door creaked open.
sheriff stilinski cleared his throat.
you pulled away completely unbothered, turned to the sheriff, and grinned.
“good afternoon, mr. stilinski.”
stiles, meanwhile, had stopped breathing.
the sheriff raised an eyebrow. “you trying to kill my son?”
you smirked. “not today.”
and then you smiled—like a menace—patted stiles on the chest, and walked off, leaving him to deal with the aftermath.
the sheriff stared at him.
after a long, painful silence, his dad just shook his head and muttered, “unbelievable.”
then, he walked inside—chuckling to himself.
stiles, still standing frozen on the porch, groaned.
you were going to be the death of him.
he wouldn’t have it any other way.
