I decided to go with Steter for this one! up on ao3 here.
The beach is packed with people of all varieties; families with young children screaming and bawling, younger couples soaking up the sun, lone men obviously there just to be creeps. The air reeks of sunscreen and wet clothing, so much so that it almost blocks out the pleasant scent of the lake.
Peter can think of about a dozen different places that he’d rather be off the top of his head, but it was Stiles’ turn to pick where they went for their weekly Saturday date, and as much as Peter likes upsetting traditions, there are some things that he simply can’t be bothered to go against.
Besides, he does have to admit that being able to simply lie in the warm sun and stare at Stiles’ shirtless torso for a few hours isn’t actually that horrible.
“Can you even tan?” Stiles asks. He hasn’t gone in the water yet, but his shorts, hideously patterned with an array of fluorescent abstract shapes, are resting low on his hips, just above his ass. There’s a book open in front of him, and grains of sand have fallen down into the spine.
“No,” Peter answers. “I heal too fast.” Absently, he reaches out and runs one finger along a cluster of moles on Stiles’ shoulder, a cluster that almost looks like a constellation. “Do you tan?”
Stiles snorts.
It’s possibly the least endearing sound Peter has ever heard.
“I skip right past the tanning stage and go straight to burn.”
“And yet, you’re not wearing sunscreen,” Peter comments, pressing his finger into Stiles’ back. He doesn’t mind that much; the heavy chemical smell is bad enough coming from the people near them, let alone from right beside him, but he can already hear future Stiles whining about being in pain, chest and back red as a damn Christmas ornament.
“Forgot to bring some,” Stiles says with a shrug, turning back to his book.
Peter rolls his eyes and digs his wallet out of the pocket of his shorts. He fishes out two twenties and drops them into Stiles’ book, right in his line of sight.
“Go get some from the gift shop. Bring me back some water too.” It’s obvious that Stiles wants to talk back to him; his mouth opens and closes a few times, like a fish out of water, but Peter refuses to engage him. He simply slides his wallet back into his pocket and shuts his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun.
“Why can’t you do it?” Stiles finally asks, closing his book with a sharp snap.
“I’m sunbathing,” Peter answers, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Whatever. Asshole,” Stiles mutters, jabbing at Peter’s hip with his foot. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“Bring back some snacks too,” Peter adds, reaching out and brushing a thumb against Stiles’ calf, acknowledging the part of his sentence that began after you’re lucky. “Some jerky, if they have it.”
7 = silent fury! this takes place between season 3b and 4, in a universe with no Hale fire. warning for Kate Argent mentions! on ao3 here.
“I’m going to take her goddamn head off!”
Laura’s rage-filled voice echoes around the entire loft, bounces off the concrete pillars and glass ceiling. She’s pacing up and down the middle of the main room, her eyes glimmering red. One of Derek’s shirts is wrapped around her left hand, and she’s gripping it so tightly that Stiles is surprised it hasn’t ripped yet.
“He hasn’t been gone long,” Stiles says, his foot tapping a hurried rhythm against the floor, mere inches from a pool of dark blood that has yet to congeal. “She can’t have taken him far.” It takes every ounce of self-control that he has to keep his voice mostly steady; really, he wants to do exactly what Laura’s doing, wants to scream with anger.
And, also like her, he wants to rip off Kate Argent’s head.
“I’m going to kill her,” Laura says, crossing the room and dropping to a hunker in front of Stiles, eyes on where Derek’s blood is slowly staining the floor. “I’m…” She trails off, but her shoulders are still shaking in silent fury, and Stiles leans forward until he can drops his hands to them. He can only imagine how difficult it is for her to stay sitting still, to not simply fling herself out into the night and follow Derek’s scent.
But the rest of the pack is on their way, and while there’s no doubt in Stiles’ mind that Laura is a more than capable alpha, he also knows that there’s strength in numbers, and if they want to take down Kate Argent for good, they’ll need all the strength they can get.
“The others are gonna be here anytime now,” he says, sliding forward to the edge of the chair so that he’s closer to her. “We’re going to find her, and we’re going to make her sorry that she came back to life. Alright?”
Laura nods, long dark hair falling in a curtain around her face, and lets out a long, shuddering breath.
“I’m going to rip her apart.” Her voice is quieter and steadier now, but it’s also deeper, infused with the wolf living inside of her.
“I know,” Stiles says, leaning forward even further so that he can press his lips to the top of her head. “I’m going to help you.”
rating: t. warnings for alcohol consumption and minor emetophobia.
word count: ~1300
written for: Sciles Day 2016!
summary: The one where Stiles has a little bit too much to drink at a show and Scott helps him through it.
Stiles is really regretting not shoving earplugs into his pockets before they left for the show.
Thankfully, his ears aren't ringing yet; the room is simply too damn loud for that. The band is separated from him by twenty rows of thrashing fans and a barricade manned by burly security guards. Stacks of speakers flank the stage on either side, broadcasting rumbling bass and screeching guitars and throat shredding vocals. There's a small whirlwind of a mosh pit forming, falling apart, and reforming a few rows ahead of them. Stiles had been part of it for awhile, had lost himself for two songs in a tornado of pushing and shoving, but when he'd caught someone's elbow in the cheekbone, he'd had enough of that and pushed his way back through the crowd to try and find Scott.
He thinks that he got out just in time. In addition to the spikes of sound attacking his ears, his other senses are also being tormented. There's perspiration running off him like a river, plastering his torn shirt to his back. The whole room stinks of sweat and spilled alcohol and it seems to be swaying slightly; not quite spinning, but definitely working up to that. Some of his disorientation is definitely from his exertion in the pit and the damn temperature of the room, but he thinks that the rest of it is from the beer he'd wasted nearly thirty-five bucks on. It seems to be churning in his stomach now, and he really hopes that he isn't going to throw up on anyone as he continues shoving his way towards the back of the expansive room, eyes sweeping the crowd for Scott.
He finally finds him off to one side, near one of the pillars holding up the balcony section of the venue hall, bouncing up and down slightly, head rocking to the beat of the song. Stiles buttonhooks around a clump of people and ends up approaching Scott from behind. His sensory overload is only intensifying; the lights seem too bright and the thud of the kick drum seems to be specifically targeting his stomach. His nausea just keeps growing, and the possibility of him throwing up on the floor, already tacky with spilled beer, seems eminent so as a last resort, once he finally makes it to Scott, he throws his arms around Scott's waist and buries his face into his neck.
"It's just me!" he yells belatedly when Scott's back goes stiff straight. At that, Scott relaxes again, leaning back against Stiles' chest. He's no less sweaty than anyone else packed into the room, but hints of his shampoo and deodorant still linger, and Stiles focuses on those, forces himself to take slow, steady breaths.
It doesn't magically stop the room from spinning or stop his stomach from churning, but at the very least, it doesn't make him feel worse.
"Are you alright?" Scott hollers back over his shoulders. The words almost end up swept away by the sound waves pummeling them.
"I'm fine!" Stiles replies although, strictly speaking, that isn't exactly true. After taking another deep breath, he moves his face away from Scott's neck, in favor of tucking his sharp chin over Scott's shoulder. For a few minutes, he stays exactly where he is, swaying slightly with the music. Eventually, the band slows things down a little. The lights dip to a deep blue, and Stiles' pounding head thanks them. The strum of an acoustic guitar fills the room. It's one of Stiles' favorite songs by the band; it's a love song through and through, and the combination of the music and the atmosphere and the alcohol coursing through his system leads him to blurt out words that he's still getting used to being able to say so freely.
"I love you." He tries to lean forward and press a kiss against Scott's cheek, but he's foiled when Scott turns around in the circle of his arms. There's a neon bright grin spread across his face, but as soon as his eyes meet Stiles', that grin sputters and disappears.
"Stiles, you look horrible," he says, eyes widening with concern. "Did something happen in the pit?"
"I just drank too much," Stiles says quickly, trying to defuse the worry creasing Scott's face. "I'll be okay, seriously." Right on time, the room starts spinning a little faster, and even though his arms are still around Scott's waist, he wobbles slightly.
"We need to get you out of here," Scott says firmly, sliding his way out of Stiles' loose grip and taking his hand instead. "If you pass out and end up in the hospital again, Mom will kill me."
"That was one time," Stiles retorts, but he doesn't try to pull away from Scott's hand. He holds on tightly as Scott leads them out of the venue hall and into the lobby, which is thankfully empty aside from a few people picking up merch before the booth is swarmed at the end of the show. There's a concession stand off to one side of the room and Scott shells out ten dollars for a condensation dappled bottle of water and a protein bar that's probably going to taste like chocolate flavored chalk. While Stiles leans against the nearest wall and waits for Scott to finish the transaction, the sound of the crowd roaring drifts out into the lobby, and he momentarily feels a stab of regret that he's going to miss the last few songs of the night.
But he'll live. Besides, he's sure they'll be back in town soon enough. If not, he'll just have to drag Scott on a road trip.
Once Scott comes back, they move outside. It's a cool night, and the gentle breeze almost feels too cold against Stiles' sweat dampened skin. There's a clump of people smoking right outside the entrance, flagrantly disobeying the half dozen signs telling them not to do exactly that, so Scott keeps moving down the street, his fingers still tight around Stiles'. Eventually, half a block away, they come across a stoop of a shop that's long since closed for the night, and Stiles gratefully sinks down to the rough concrete. His headache has lessened, but the ringing in his ears is only intensifying with each second that passes and his stomach still hasn't stopped churning.
"Are you still dizzy?" Scott asks, joining him on the stoop. It's a tight fit; they're squeezed together from shoulder to hip to ankle, but Stiles doesn't mind. It's like having his arms around Scott's waist, only intensified. His wooziness is still present, but the points of contact with Scott make him feel grounded.
"A little," he admits grudgingly. Scott twists the cap off the bottle of water and passes it to him. He resists the urge to down the whole thing, but just barely. Taking small sips, he manages to drink a third of the bottle over the next few moments, and while his stomach had been close to rejecting the first few drops, he is starting to feel a little stronger. Before he can even ask, Scott passes him the cap for the bottle and the protein bar.
"Hey," Scott murmurs, voice so low that Stiles has to strain to hear him through the incessant ringing plaguing his eardrums. He drops his now free hand to the nape of Stiles' neck and smooths his thumb along Stiles' skin. "You know I love you too, right?" It takes Stiles a moment to realize that Scott's words are a response to his blurted declaration from earlier in the evening. Sighing contently, he twists his head and leans his forehead against Scott's shoulder.
"Yeah," he replies, glancing at the protein bar and water in his hands before he closes his eyes. "I know."
rating: nc-17, for explicit sexual content. here be car sex and handjobs!
word count: ~3600
summary: “I’ve got an idea,” he says with a grin, tugging the duffel bag away from Scott and stowing it in the front seat. After a moment, Scott’s eyes spark with recognition and he groans again, although he doesn’t move towards the door.
“Stiles, I can’t miss any more classes,” he says. “I missed thirty-eight last semester!”
“Scott, it’s just-“
“Thirty-eight, Stiles!”
(or, the one where the 'thirty-eight classes' conversation from episode 6x01 takes place under very different circumstances, and ends far more happily for everyone involved)
Stiles isn’t sure if there’s something about his face or demeanor that makes people unconsciously target him when they’re in the middle of spilling food, but seeing as he’s never made more than a month into the school year without having something spilled on him, he’s starting to think that it’s a theory he should really look into.
He’s managed to outdo himself this time; he's barely four days into senior year, and he’s already ended up with milk all over his front, courtesy of some freshman who had just so happened to be holding their lunch tray in the exact spot he’d been gesturing. The thought of getting some food for himself has long since left his mind; the milk has already seeped through his overshirt, and it’s only a matter of time before it gets through his tee to his skin, and that thought makes him want to gag. Milk is meant to go in his mouth, not all over his stomach.
“I don’t get how this happens to you every year,” Scott says, easily keeping stride as Stiles power-walks out of the cafeteria and into the quad.
“And you think I know?” Stiles asks, madly gesturing to the still spreading stain on the front of his shirt. “Like, if I thought Deaton had some kind of spell or thing to prevent exactly this from happening, I would have gotten it out of him years ago.” Lydia, Kira and Malia are sitting at a table in the shade and when Lydia glances at him with a raised eyebrow, he simply plucks his wet shirt and points it in her general direction.
The eye roll he gets in return from all of them just makes him groan with frustration.
“Can’t believe I’m going to miss lunch because of some stupid freshman,” he mutters, quickening his pace once he gets to the parking lot. He can barely see the Jeep’s roof over the seemingly endless rows of cars; he’d gotten to school with exactly two and a half minutes before the first bell this morning, and every single good spot had been taken. The one he’d managed to secure after driving in frantic circles around the lot is in the very back corner, right up against the treeline.
“You can have some of mine if you want,” Scott says. “Mom sent me with leftovers.”
“It’s fine,” Stiles says. “I think you need the energy more than me. I probably have something shoved in the Jeep.” If there’s one thing he’s learned since Scott became a werewolf, it’s that keeping spare sets of everything in his car is vital. He has a duffel of Scott’s clothes, a duffel of his own clothes, some shorts and tank tops for Malia, a case or two of bottled water, a fully stocked first aid and road emergency kit, and a box of protein bars that cost him an arm and leg.
The only issue is that, while he does have all that stuff, it’s not exactly organized in any discernible way. When he opens the back of the Jeep, he’s greeted with a mass of things, sprawled across every square inch of space. His lacrosse stick is resting diagonally across the entire pile, and he doesn’t know where to even start digging.
“Think you can find my clothes with that super powered sniffer of yours?” he half-jokingly mutters to Scott. Scott does try; he leans forward into the back of the car and sniffs, nostrils twitching minutely as he turns his head this way and that.
“Sorry,” he says valiantly after a few moments. “The whole thing smells like you and me. Maybe it’ll be easier to dig from the other side?”
“Maybe,” Stiles says, slamming the trunk closed. At this rate, he’s willing to try anything, just so long as it gets his damp shirts off quicker. He fumbles his keys from his pockets, unlocks the Jeep, and throws himself into the backseat. Before the milk can progress any further, he yanks his shirts off and tosses them into the foot well on the passenger side. Even if he can’t find the duffel bag, maybe by the time he’s done searching, they’ll both be dry enough to put back on.
“They’re in here somewhere,” he says, throwing half of his body over the back seat and shoving things around. A loose bottle of water goes flying into the back window, and he finds a lacrosse ball that’s been missing for a week, but it’s at least another minute before one of the duffel bags comes into view. Even then, it’s Scott that ends up finding it.
“Well, here’s one of them,” he says, easily yanking the bag out from under the mess and sitting back on his knees. “I think it might be mine.”
“Don’t care,” Stiles says. It would be far from the first time he’s worn something of Scott’s, and the whispers and gossip that it used to evoke among the other students has long since died down. Just as Scott reaches for the zipper on the bag, the bell announcing the end of their lunch period echoes across the parking lot.
“Damn it,” Scott sighs. “We’re going to be late.” He’s not wrong; there’s only five minutes between the warning bell and the beginning of their next class. That gives Stiles approximately three hundred seconds to find and put on a shirt, find a protein bar or some other form of sustenance in the back of the Jeep, get back across the parking lot to the school, get his history book from his locker and make it to class.
He might be able to do it, if he starts moving immediately, but when he glances over at Scott, his mind immediately starts drifting to other options. After all, he is shirtless, in the back of his car, with Scott, and this far back in the parking lot, it’s unlikely that anyone is going to stumble across them. It has all the makings of a good time, as far as he is concerned.
“I’ve got an idea,” he says with a grin, tugging the duffel bag away from Scott and stowing it in the front seat. After a moment, Scott’s eyes spark with recognition and he groans again, although he doesn’t move towards the door.
“Stiles, I can’t miss any more classes,” he says. “I missed thirty-eight last semester!”
“Scott, it’s just-“
“Thirty-eight, Stiles! Ms. Martin will kill me. You know she will.”
“Not if she doesn’t find out,” Stiles points out. “Besides, it’s just history. You know Ms. Ruthers is just going to make us watch more of that documentary while she sits at her desk and plays Candy Crush.” Scott groans again, but he doesn’t actually seem upset. Stiles is intimately aware with Scott’s various tells when he’s upset, or panicking, or scared, and there’s nothing in his expression but a small amount of understandable conflict, which Stiles thinks he can clear up with a little more talking. “If you’re really worried, I can find the movie online and we can watch what we missed after practice, alright? I’ll have you back by psych class, promise.”
That’s the limit of his persuasion; he has no interest in making Scott stay if he truly doesn’t want to. That kind of thing doesn’t fit into their relationship; admittedly, they’re still trying to figure out what exactly does fit into their relationship, which puzzle pieces fit together and which need to be straight up discarded, but that’s one thing Stiles knows absolutely.
He wants Scott to be with him because he truly wants to be, not because he feels obliged to be.
After a moment, Scott twists in his seat, eyes sweeping the environment around them. There’s cars on either side of them, the trees are at their back, and the parking lot in all directions is empty of both students and teachers. When he settles back down, he drops his legs down and slides over, away from the door.
“You’re the worst,” he says with a long-suffering sigh, but the bright grin stretching across his face shows that he’s truly present in the moment.
“You love me and you know it,” Stiles retorts, sliding across the seat and throwing his leg over Scott’s lap. He wraps one hand around Scott’s shoulder and pulls himself up so that he’s straddling Scott properly, knees snug against his hips on either side.
“I do love you,” Scott says, perfectly solemn. It seems wrong for Stiles to immediately dive for Scott’s mouth after a remark like that, so he settles for dropping his forehead against Scott’s and waiting patiently, fingers wrapped up tight in the fabric stretching over Scott’s shoulders. He closes his eyes and simply focuses on the moment, on Scott’s quiet, rhythmic breathing. Scott runs one of his broad hands up the path of Stiles’ spine, over the nape of his neck, and into his short hair. Goosebumps follow along in his wake. Finally, he tugs gently on Stiles’ hair, just hard enough for him to open his eyes once more.
“Sorry,” he says, lips crooking into a small smile.
“Don’t apologize for that,” Stiles replies, brushing one thumb along Scott’s neck. “Seriously.”
“Okay.” In the seconds that pass before Scott cranes his head up to meet Stiles’ mouth with his own, his smile only grows larger. Stiles isn’t exactly sure when his feelings for Scott fell over the line separating friendship from something more, but he knows that that grin is one of the reasons whyhe crossed that line.
The kiss starts out slow, barely more than their lips brushing with the occasional flicker of tongue, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Scott’s usually content to draw things out for as long as possible, but there must still be some kind of worry about missing class present in the back of his mind, because after Stiles tries to pull away to refill his aching lungs, Scott’s sharp (but thankfully human) teeth gently seize his bottom lip and give it a single sharp tug that has Stiles digging his fingernails into Scott’s shoulders.
The problem with dating someone you’ve known for your entire life, he muses, is that you’ve definitely told them, more than once, the things that drive you wild, and they aren’t afraid to use those things to their advantage.
On the other hand, the awesome thing about dating someone you’ve known for your entire life is that you know exactly how to get back at them.
Stiles sucks in a deep breath, leans back down and, at the last moment, twists his head to the right, ducking his face into the junction of Scott’s neck and shoulder. He tugs Scott’s shirt down far enough so that he can settle his lips on the rounded hardness of Scott’s collarbone. When he sucks the already taut skin between his teeth, Scott groans and drops his head back against the seat, hips arching up against Stiles’. His grip in Stiles’ hair tightens and his previously free hand curls around the back of Stiles’ thigh, right below the curve of his ass.
“Fuck,” he breathes out when Stiles lets the skin drop from his mouth in favor of directly scraping his teeth along the line of the bone. He follows it to where it meets Scott’s shoulder and repeats his actions, doing everything he can to make Scott groan. He has plans on copying everything over to the other side of Scott’s body, but when he sits up so that he can switch sides, Scott pulls him back to his mouth. This kiss is almost bruising; at the very least, it’s going to leave Stiles with swollen lips. When he traces his tongue along the inside of Scott’s mouth, he very carefully trails it along the point of Scott’s canines.
Scott may be able to keep most of his body under control when it comes to this sort of thing, but Stiles is fairly sure that Scott’s teeth are just a little too pointed, straddling the fine line between human and wolf.
After that, there’s no returning to their earlier pace. Scott’s hand drops from his hair and takes up residence on his hips instead, smoothing over warm flesh alive with nerves. His fingers periodically flit over the line of skin right above the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, which is peeking out from his jeans, and it’s so close to where Stiles is achingly hard that he could almost cry with need. Thankfully, Scott doesn’t make him wait too long. After two tries with one hand, he manages to get Stiles’ belt, button and zipper open, relieving some of the excruciating pressure.
And that’s when Stiles belatedly realizes how awkward of a position they’re in. On the previous occasions that they’d fooled around in the back of the Jeep, they’d both been wearing considerably less clothing, and there’d been a little more room for them to stretch out. Technically, Stiles could fall back onto the seat and shimmy his jeans off, but he’s more than a little reluctant to climb off Scott’s lap. Besides, just in case someone doescome along, having jeans at least partially on might preserve some of his modesty.
Maybe. They’ll just have to make it work.
He sits up onto his knees and shoves his jeans down as far as they’ll go. They end up caught just underneath his ass, and he feels more than a little trapped by the constricting fabric, but he thinks he can manage for a few minutes. Scott wastes no time in joining him; he doesn’t take his shirt off, but he shoves his own jeans down to his knees, his movements forcing Stiles’ thighs further apart. The stiff denim is definitely going to chafe his skin before they finish, but he’s pretty sure that he has hand lotion somewhere in the depths of the trunk.
But that’s something to worry about later.
Scott doesn’t try to contort his hand so that he can fit it under the elastic waistband of Stiles’ garishly patterned boxers. Instead, he licks a stripe up it and slides it into the loose leg hole. By the time Stiles realizes what Scott's done, Scott’s fingers are already wrapped around his cock. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip in order to bite back a moan and immediately drops his hands to Scott’s waist, scrabbling his fingers along his stomach so that he can return the favor. Their elbows smash together a few times before Stiles manages to twist his wrist to slide under the waistband of Scott’s briefs. The elastic scratches at the inside of his wrist as he thumbs at the head of Scott’s cock, and Scott groans softly as he arches up into Stiles’ hand.
“Stiles,” he sighs, just the barest hint of a growl slipping into his voice. Stiles hears it as a warning for him to stop fooling around and get down to business, and since he’s never been good at denying Scott anything (even when doing just that almost undoubtedly would have benefited himself), he complies with the unspoken demand. He spreads his legs as far as the restricting confines of his jeans will let him, so that there’s more room for both of them to work their hands. His forehead drops against Scott’s and he lets his eyes fall closed. As lovely as Scott usually looks when he’s right in the middle of a hand-job, removing one of his senses means that there’s less chance of him getting distracted by something outside. It makes it easier to focus on everything else; the rough sound of spit-slick digits dragging along hard flesh, the feeling of Scott’s exhalations as he gasps against Stiles’ mouth, the smell of clean sweat and deodorant coming from his body.
The whole combination is more intoxicating that anything Stiles has ever drank.
Stiles only stops the rhythm of his hand to re-dampen his palm with spit. He’s pretty sure that there’s lube buried somewhere underneath the seat, but that would require twisting away, and that just isn’t an option. Scott doesn’t seem to mind too much; his hips are arching off the seat in a steady beat, thrusting up into the tight circle of Stiles’ fist. Stiles’ ability to thrust is rather limited by the jeans still wrapped around his thighs, but the speed and slight twisting of Scott’s hand more than make up for the absence. He knows it’s not going to be much longer before he finishes, so long as Scott keeps doing exactly what he’s doing.
Almost as soon as that thought floats into his mind, Scott does something entirely unexpected.
His free hand, which has been splayed across Stiles’ left thigh, curves around the back of Stiles’ leg and slides into the back of his boxers. It lingers for a moment on Stiles’ ass before it keeps moving further, until two of Scott’s long fingers are pressed against Stiles’ entrance. He doesn’t try to push in any further, but the blunt pressure still makes Stiles’ nerves spark, and arousal tightens in his gut.
“Is that okay?” Scott pants, curling his fingers a little harder.
“Uh-huh,” Stiles replies, tightening his free hand on Scott’s hip and twisting his fingers slightly around the head of Scott’s cock. “Fuck, Scott, stay right there.” Scott slurs something that might be the word okay and does as Stiles asks, rubbing slightly but never trying to push in. Stiles’ thighs are aching with the effort of holding himself up on his knees but thankfully, before his legs cramp up, Scott twists his wrist just so and Stiles comes with a jerk and a bitten-back fuck. His boxers catch most of the mess but when Scott wriggles his hand out, a few droplets cling to his fingers. As he raises his hand to his lips, Stiles’ mouth, already slack from the orgasm, loosens even further.
“Jesus Christ,” he groans as Scott’s tongue brushes against the tip of his index finger. He wants to sag down against the seat, but he has Scott to take care of first. He speeds up his hand slightly and starts pressing his mouth along Scott’s hairline. Sweat tangs against his tongue as he keeps moving, whispering nonsense against Scott’s flushed skin. There’s not much warning before Scott comes; he moans around one of his own fingers, his hips stutter hard against Stiles’ fist, and Stiles' fingers grow warm and wet.
“Good boy,” Stiles mumbles, only half paying attention to what he’s saying as he absently wipes his hand off on his boxers. Scott groans again as he drops his hands back to Stiles’ thighs. Neither of them speak for a long series of moments; they’re too focused on getting their breathing back to normal, of coming down from the high. Once Stiles lowers himself down so he’s no longer holding himself up on his knees, Scott ducks his head into the side of Stiles’ neck, nose pressing right against his pulse point. When he inhales deeply, Stiles can feel Scott’s nostrils flaring against his skin.
“You know,” Stiles says eventually, his voice raspy from thirst, “we could probably still make it to the second half of history.”
“No point,” Scott mumbles against the side of Stiles’ neck. He moves one hand to Stiles’ back and runs it up and down the line of his spine, fingers catching on the knobs of his vertebrae.
“Alright,” Stiles replies with a shrug. He’s not exactly sure that he even could run; his legs are sore from being cramped up for so long. But a little longer isn’t going to make him feel that much worse, so he simply stays where he is, running one hand through Scott’s tousled hair. It’s only when the dampness in his boxers grows unbearable that he shifts, sliding off Scott’s lap and thudding to the seat beside him.
“Now we really need to find that other duffel bag,” he sighs, plucking his damp boxers away from his skin. “And some wipes or something.”
“Do you even have wipes in here?” Scott asks, raising his hips and tugging his jeans back up to his waist, although he leaves them undone.
“Do you really have that little faith in me?” Stiles scoffs, tugging his own pants up for the time being. “There’s definitely wipes and clean clothes in here. Somewhere. We just have to dig.”
“You are so lucky that I love you,” Scott sighs.
“I know,” Stiles says simply. It isn’t in his nature to make grandiose statements about love and connection and all that sappy shit but sometimes, in moments like this, when it’s just him and Scott, some of that stuff peeks out anyways. Scott rolls his head on his shoulder and smiles at him, grin as luminous as the full moon. Stiles holds his gaze until the moment feels too heavy, too much. When he averts his eyes, he clears his throat, gets back onto his knees and spins around to face the cluttered trunk area.
“Where did all of this shit even come from?” he mutters under his breath, pushing aside a spare blanket.
“If Ms. Martin catches us,” Scott says, leaning into the front seat and taking a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from the partially unzipped duffel bag containing his clothes, “I’m blaming you for being late. Just so you know.”
“Scott,” Stiles says, breaking off to yell triumphantly as he fishes the packet of wet wipes out from under a first aid kit, “I’d expect nothing else from you.”
both @sleepy-skittles and @clarymaureen requested Kira for this multiship meme, so I’ve decided to write ten ficlets with ten different Kira pairings. all parts will be posted separately.
for the grand finale, here’s 3000 words of awkward Stira college makeouts. also written for the ‘super′ square on my Teen Wolf Bingo card!
on ao3 here.
"Have you seen this one yet?"
"Sorry, what?" Kira asks, looking up from her lap, where she's been fiddling with a tiny hole in the fabric of her tights. Stiles is kneeling on the floor beside his narrow dorm bed, holding up a DVD copy of the latest Marvel movie. There's a full bowl of popcorn beside him, made in the shared kitchen down the hall (along with two steaming cups of tea, which are sitting on the narrow bedside table).
"Have you watched this one yet?"
"Once or twice," Kira says with a shrug, taking the popcorn bowl when he passes it up to her.
(The actual figure is closer to ten, but she doesn't want to nerd out too hard, not yet at least.)
"Wanna watch it again? I'm not sure if I'm awake enough to watch something new."
"That's fine," Kira says with a smile, scooting over to the wall so that Stiles has enough room to slide back onto the bed once he puts the DVD in his game console, which is balanced on his desk beside his television, surrounded by textbooks, leaking pens and pieces of scrap paper.
Even with her side touching the wall, the bed is still so small that they have to sit pressing against each other, hips and knees and toes all brushing together with every slight movement. It's been happening all night and the more Kira tries not to notice, the harder it is to ignore the tingle of warmth that zips through her skin every time a bare patch brushes against Stiles'.
On cue, when he reaches into the bowl, the back of his hand grazes against her wrist and she bites her lip.
This is just downright inconvenient.
She had told herself that her freshman year was going to be absolutely, 100%, totally free of crushes. She had too many other things to focus on, like trying to keep her grades at a decent level, fitting in some extra-curricular activities and forcing herself to learn how to cook so she didn't have to survive off grocery-store sushi and takeout.
Sure, she wasn't going to rule out making a few more friends; her parents insisted on it, actually. But no crushes or relationships. Not until she knew that she could properly handle college.
But evening, she'd decided to head to the weekly movie night that took place on the main square of the campus and when she'd squeezed herself into a spot at the back of the lawn, she'd found herself beside Stiles.
Between the malfunctioning speakers and the hum of the crowd, it'd been nearly impossible to hear the film and when he'd said hi, asked her what she was studying and offered her a Red Bull, she'd fallen into conversation with him.
She'd walked him back to his dorm when they'd finally given up on the movie after an hour. That had gradually progressed to grabbing coffee together, studying in the cafeteria and texting about video games when class got too boring. And in turn, that had led to this moment: to watching three movies in a row, turning on the fourth at just after three in the morning. It's four hours past when Kira normally turns in and she's pretty sure that under any other circumstances, she would be exhausted.
Yet every time she feels herself starting to flag, they touch somewhere and her tingling skin snaps her wide awake again.
The popcorn doesn't last long and when it's done, Stiles puts the bowl on the floor and passes Kira her cup of tea. It's in a chipped mug and the logo is so faded that Kira can't tell what it was advertising when it first came off the assembly line. She can still feel the sticky remnants of a price sticker on the bottom and while she doesn't want to look too far into things, she's pretty sure that Stiles recently bought the mug from the nearby thrift store.
(It would certainly explain the plastic bag bearing the store's logo hanging from the corner of his desk chair, which is shoved into the corner.)
She tells herself again not to think about it, but she still has to bury a smile into her mug when she takes the first sip.
The tea doesn't last much longer than the popcorn and after Kira hands the mug back over to Stiles, her fingers go back to poking at the hole in her tights. It's on her mid-thigh, just below the hem of her skirt and she knows that she's definitely made the hole bigger over the last few hours, but if she doesn't do something with her hands, she finds it harder and harder to stop herself from reaching out and taking Stiles', which are loosely clasped in his lap.
So she simply keeps fiddling with the hole, until it tears with an audible rip.
"You're not going to have any pants left if you keep going," Stiles says with a laugh. "Unless that's what you're trying to do. In that case, fuck pants."
Kira lets out a noise somewhere between a giggle and a snort and immediately feels her cheeks betray her, flushing with burning warmth. Stiles grins wide at her, amber eyes lighting up like beacons.
"I don't know what that sound was, but it was awesome," he declares. His toes brush against hers again and she turns even more red.
(She knows without a doubt that if she could get rid of one automatic reflex, it would be blushing. It just makes her more embarassed.)
"I don't know what that sound was either," she says, placing her hands in her lap. "I don't think I've ever made it before."
"Well, if it happens again, I won't mind. It's probably the cutest thing I've ever heard." Before Kira can even react, Stiles' mouth drops open and he scoots a few inches away from her, just enough so that they're no longer touching.
"I mean, you can forget I ever said that. You probably should because I... yeah." Stiles' cheeks pink up and he starts furiously rubbing at the back of his neck, like he's trying to scrape off an entire layer of skin. Kira's thoughts are the furthest thing from coherent, but they keep cycling back to the same word over and over again.
Cute. Or, rather, cutest.
For a few seconds, neither of them say anything; only the sounds of colliding fists and explosions fills the space between them. Eventually, Kira grows tired of trying to figure out what to say. Even if she could settle on something, she's not sure that she'd be able to get it out without stammering and embarrassing herself even more.
So instead, when Stiles finally pulls his reddened palm away from his neck, she scoots over until they're touching again and takes his hand. That same tingle, almost electric, slides up her arm and she can't quite bring herself to look up at his face. She just keeps her eyes fixed on where her fingers are wrapped around his until he flips his palm over so they slot together properly, knuckles brushing against together.
"I've literally wanted to do that from day one," he says, trailing off into a hesitant laugh.
"Me too," Kira says, finally gathering the nerve to look up at his face. He's much closer than he was before, close enough for her to see the darker flecks of brown in his eyes. His bottom lip is chapped and torn slightly at the corner and as she watches, his tongue flicks out and wets it. She's pretty sure that it's a completely unconscious action, but it makes it way harder to resist leaning in and closing the already minimal space between them.
"We can wait, if you want to. I mean, I definitely want to kiss you, some day, but waiting is totally cool. This," he says, squeezing her hand, "is awesome enough."
He's not wrong about holding hands; it is pretty awesome. But Kira thinks there's no point in waiting, not when it seems clear that he wants just as much as she does.
"I want to," she says. "Definitely. I've wanted to for... well, for awhile."
"Since around day five?" Stiles asks, grin spreading even more across his face. "First cafeteria study session? Because that was definitely it for me."
"Somewhere around there," she murmurs before taking a deep breath and leaning over to press her lips against his. They're rough but warm as a crackling fire and the kiss gives her the same sensation, of being wrapped in heat and comfort. His fingers slide from hers but before she has time to miss them, they find their way into her hair, tucking a wayward strand behind her ear before sliding through to the base of her neck.
She pulls away before she loses her breath but doesn't move. She stays put, forehead still touching his, hand loosely draped just above his knee. His thumb smooths down the side of her neck, curling around to her throat to where her pulse is thumping against her skin.
"We should do that again," Stiles murmurs, lips snagging against hers with every word. "Later or now, if you-"
"Now," Kira blurts. "If that's okay."
"Now is good," Stiles replies, in between kisses that linger longer and longer. "Now is definitely good."
The sound of the movie seems to gradually fade away. Kira has far more important things to focus on, like the feeling of Stiles' hand curled around the back of her neck. When their tongues come into play, it takes a few moments for them to find a rhythm that actually works; at first, it's on the wrong side of too sloppy, both of them trying for too much, too fast. But when things do click into place, Kira moans and moves her hand from Stiles' knee to his hip, tugging him closer to her.
This is definitely going to affect her grades.
They end up half leaning against the wall, half on their sides, pressed against each other. It's not that it's bad; Kira's hand has moved just underneath the hem of Stiles' shirt and his skin is beautifully warm and smooth underneath her slowly exploring fingertips. Every so often, Stiles ducks his head to mouth along the line of her throat and when he presses his teeth softly against the curve of her jaw, she has to squeeze her thighs together for some relief.
But still, the angle is making her neck more and more sore and when things eventually come to a stop, she wants it to be because she's tired or she isn't ready to proceed any further, not because her neck has cramped up. And while Stiles' bed may be narrow, she thinks that there's enough room for her to straddle his waist.
The thought of him running his broad hands up underneath her shirt or down to cup her ass suddenly pops into her mind and just like that, she officially makes her decision.
Their legs are tangled together and after a few moments of wriggling, she manages to free her top leg and slide her knee over his thigh. The movement pushes their hips together and for one dizzying, potentially overwhelming moment, Kira feels a hard line of warmth press against her core. She tightens her hand around his hipbone for stability and rolls up, ready to push his shoulders back down onto the bed.
Her knee doesn't touch the mattress. Instead, as she pulls herself up, it descends through thin air and by the time she realizes what's about to happen, it's too late to stop it.
She rolls herself right off the bed and whether it's because she pulls him or because he's trying to grab her, Stiles comes with her.
She manages to avoid striking her head on the bedside table but when she lands on her tailbone, something crunches underneath her. For one absolutely horrifying moment, she thinks that she broke one of her bones, but when the pain doesn't spike in intensity, she realizes that it was just the plastic popcorn bowl snapping underneath her.
Stiles is hovering over her, propped up on his hands. His knee jabbed into her thigh as she fell and she knows there's going to be a bruise there but, all things considered, physically, they're remarkably unharmed.
Emotionally, on the other hand?
Well, Kira doesn't think her pride is ever going to recover.
"I broke your bowl," she mumbles, sitting up just far enough to sweep it out from underneath her. It isn't completely demolished but there's a wide crack bisecting it straight down the middle of its cherry red surface.
"Nothing duct tape won't fix," Stiles says with a shrug, tossing the bowl further away, towards the door. "I'm sorry that I didn't catch you. I thought my reflexes were better than that."
"I should have been more careful," Kira sighs.
"Nah. It's not your fault that these beds are so fucking narrow. Maybe we should just start out like that next time. Save ourselves some trouble."
"Next time?" she asks and Stiles looks at her like she's said the most bizarre sentence in the world.
"Well, yeah. Obviously. We are definitely having another movie night. I've got a list of movies to make out during."
"Oh. Okay. Awesome," she sighs contently, even though the bruises on her leg and tailbone are continuing to throb. She sits up onto her knees and that's when she feels something else on her tailbone, soaking through the back of her skirt.
Popcorn butter.
"Um," she says as the blush that just disappeared comes back in full force, "do you have an extra pair of pants? There's butter..."
"Shit," Stiles says, jumping to his feet. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I should have an extra pair of sweats." He crosses the room in three steps and reaches into the top drawer of the narrow dresser sandwiched between his desk and wardrobe. After rummaging for a few moments, he pulls out a pair of light gray sweatpants.
"I think these are the smallest ones I have," he says, passing them to her. "I can step outside, if you want, while you change."
"It's okay," Kira says. "Maybe just look at the TV?"
"This is my favorite part anyways," Stiles answers with a shrug, turning around so that his back is to her. She quickly fumbles out of her tights and skirt, which has a large, greasy stain covering the seat. She ties the drawstring of the sweatpants as tight as she can and even then, they slide down her hips to rest just below the band of her underwear. After three attempts at fixing them, she simply shrugs and pulls her shirt down to cover it.
"All good." Stiles turns back around and immediately, his mouth drops slightly and his eyes widen. Kira immediately glances down at herself, to see if she has butter on her shirt (or maybe popcorn between her teeth).
"No, nothing's wrong!" Stiles says, words leaving his mouth in a rush. "You just look really good in those. Like really good."
"Oh!" Kira exclaims, twisting her fingers in the baggy fabric of the pants. "Thanks for letting me wear them. I'm not sure if that stain is ever going to come out."
"Well, you can keep those as long as you want," Stiles says with a smile. "Do you still want to finish the movie? I can walk you home, if you want. Or we can make out more." He wiggles his eyebrows comically high and she laughs. It has to be after four o'clock in the morning but while she's pretty certain that she's done with making out for the night, she isn't quite ready to go home.
"Let's finish it," she answers, sliding back onto the bed and pressing herself safely against the wall. "I think there's only half an hour left anyways."
Thirty minutes is not a long time to stay awake but five minutes after they get comfortable, with Kira's head on Stiles' shoulder and his arm a warm line around her waist, the tiredness that she's been managing to hold at bay for the last few hours hits her like a hammer blow. Her eyes begin to droop and she catches herself a few times, snapping her head up just as she starts to drool.
Stiles doesn't seem to be doing much better. His head is growing heavier and heavier on top of hers and together, they seem to be sliding down the bed, going from sitting up to nearly horizontal.
"I'll walk you home once this is done," he murmurs into her hair, brushing his thumb against her hip. "Promise."
"Okay," she murmurs back, turning onto her side so that she's more comfortable and so that she's not resting directly on her tailbone. "Just wake me up when you're ready to leave." Her eyes drift closed again and as one of the heroes launches into a rallying speech, she only hears every other sentence as she drifts in and out of consciousness. One of the phrases that she does hear is about what it means to be a superhero and as another character replies, Stiles presses a soft kiss against her forehead.
"You're super," he mumbles.
"You're super," Kira repeats, the words heavy on her tongue.
After that, she doesn't hear anything for a number of hours. When she does open her eyes again, bright sunlight is streaming through Stiles' thin curtains and the television is off. They're twisted together in a number of different spots and she can feel his chin digging into the crown of her head. Even though it must be beyond asleep, his arm is still wrapped tight around her back. He's snoring softly and she pulls back just far enough to see that his mouth is half-open and his eyes are fluttering rapidly underneath his eyelids.
It's certainly not the most attractive she's ever seen him, but it's awfully endearing all the same. She drops a quick kiss onto the tip of his nose and settles back down, tucking herself back under his chin, draping her arm around his waist and closing her eyes once again.
This definitely violates her plans for freshman year.
this week, in the history of my face: went to a wedding, overused the flower crown filter, accidentally wore a bi-pride flag (or the colors) to work and attempted an actual smile.
