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Study Buddies

Stiles Stilinski X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: Explicit Sexual Content (18+ ONLY)

Stiles Stilinski habituated chewing on the end of his pen when he was thinking too hard—a nervous tic leftover from middle school that never quite went away. You had watched him do it a hundred times before, but tonight, under the warm glow of your bedroom lamp, it was different. The cap was mangled beyond recognition, and his knee bounced under the rickety folding table they’d dragged in from your garage.

“You’re going to choke on that thing one day,” you said, nudging his shin with your bare foot under the table.

He startled, blinking like he’d forgotten you were there. “Huh? Oh. Right.” The pen dropped onto his half-finished calculus worksheet, leaving a small blue smudge. “I just can’t get this problem. It’s like my brain’s misfiring or something.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning over to peer at his work. “That’s because you’re doing it wrong. You're—" Your hand brushed his as you flipped his notebook around, and for some stupid reason, your stomach did a little flip too. Weird.

Stiles exhaled sharply through his nose, watching as your fingers traced over the numbers on his page. There was ink smudged on the side of your pinky, and he had the sudden, inexplicable urge to grab your wrist and lick it off. Which was—yeah. New.

“See, you skipped the distributive property,” you murmured, your breath warm against his ear as you leaned closer. The scent of your shampoo—something fruity, maybe strawberries—hit him like a physical force. His grip on the edge of the table tightened. “You’re supposed to multiply the terms inside the parentheses first, genius.”

“Right,” he croaked, then cleared his throat. “Obviously.”

Your knee bumped his under the table again, lingering this time. The contact sent a jolt up his thigh. When he glanced up, your lips were quirking in that way they did when you knew you were getting under his skin.

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry as the math problem dissolved into static in his brain. Your knee was still pressed against his, the heat of it seeping through his jeans. Your fingers lingered near his, tapping idly against the notebook paper like you were counting beats to a song only you could hear. He couldn’t stop staring at the way your bottom lip caught between your teeth when you concentrated—something you’d done since you were kids, but now it felt like a fucking revelation.

"Distributive property," he muttered, more to himself than you, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. "Yeah, I got it." Except he didn’t. Not even close. The numbers might as well have been hieroglyphics.

You smirked, leaning back in your chair just enough to tilt your head at him. "Liar." The word came out low, teasing, and Stiles felt it curl around his ribs like smoke. Your socked foot slid up his calf, slow and deliberate, and his breath hitched. "You’re staring at me like I’m the one who’s supposed to be solving this."

"Maybe you are," he shot back, but his voice cracked halfway through, betraying him. The air between them thickened, charged with something he couldn’t name—or didn’t want to. Not when your big toe is hooked under the hem of his jeans, skimming bare skin.

Stiles’ breath stuttered as your foot traced him, the rough fabric of his jeans dragging against his skin. The notebook lay forgotten, equations blurring into meaningless scribbles. Your smirk widened, your eyes darkening with something he’d never seen directed at him before—not like this, not when they were alone, not when the air between them crackled with unsaid things.

“You’re distracting me,” he managed, though it came out more like a plea than an accusation.

“Am I?” Your voice was a whisper now, barely audible over the hammering of his pulse in his ears. You shifted in your chair, the legs scraping against the floor, and suddenly your knee wasn’t just brushing his—it was wedged between his thighs, pressing in with deliberate pressure. Stiles choked on his next inhale, fingers twitching against the table’s edge. The pen rolled off the notebook and hit the floor with a quiet clatter.

You didn’t even glance down. Your foot slid under you, your toes curling against the inside of his knee, and his hips jerked involuntarily. “Jesus—,” he hissed, gripping the table so hard the cheap metal groaned under his fingers. Your lips parted, tongue darting out to wet them, and Stiles’ vision tunneled. He’d known you since you were six and had seen you cry over skinned knees and laugh until soda came out your nose—but this? This was uncharted territory.

Your hand moved first, fingers skimming up his forearm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The touch was light, almost tentative, like you were testing the waters. Then, without warning, your palm flattened against his chest, pushing him back into his chair. The motion knocked the breath from his lungs. “Oh my g—”

“Shut up,” you murmured, and then you were climbing onto his lap, your knees bracketing his hips, the fabric of your shorts riding up enough that he could feel the heat of your thighs against him. The folding table wobbled dangerously as you knocked into it, sending papers fluttering to the floor. Neither of them moved to pick them up.

Stiles’ hands hovered uncertainly for half a second before landing on your waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of your sweatshirt. Your weight settled against him, warm and real and impossible—except you were right there, your breath hitching when his thumbs brushed the strip of bare skin where your shirt had ridden up. “You—uh—” His voice cracked again. “You’re really bad at studying.”

You laughed, low and throaty, and the sound went straight to his groin. “You’re really bad at pretending you don’t want this.” Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until their foreheads bumped. The scent of you—strawberries and laundry detergent and something uniquely you—filled his lungs, drowning out rational thought.

He didn’t realize he’d leaned in until your mouth crashed against his, messy and uncoordinated and perfect. Your teeth caught his lower lip, sharp enough to sting, and Stiles groaned into the kiss, his grip tightening on your hips. The chair creaked dangerously beneath them as you rocked forward, grinding down against the growing hardness in his jeans, and he swore, breaking the kiss to gasp against your jaw. “Fuck, baby—”

“Yeah,” you breathed, dragging your nails lightly down his chest before fumbling with the hem of his shirt. “Off. Now.” The command sent a jolt through him, and he yanked the fabric over his head without hesitation, tossing it somewhere behind him. Your palms flattened against his chest, tracing the planes of his ribs like you were memorizing him, and the intensity in your eyes made his pulse stutter.

Stiles’ breath came in ragged bursts as your fingers traced the ridge of his collarbone; you touch feet that are light but electric. The moment your nails scraped downward, catching on the waistband of his jeans, his hips jerked involuntarily. You let out a breathy laugh against his throat, your lips brushing the frantic pulse there. “Eager,” you murmured, and the teasing lilt in your voice made his stomach flip.

Your hands were everywhere—tugging at his belt, sliding under the fabric to palm the aching length of him through his boxers. Stiles choked on a groan, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your sweatshirt. “You’re—fuck—” His words dissolved into a hiss as you squeezed, your thumb rubbing slow circles over the head. The friction was maddening, just shy of enough, and he bucked into your grip, desperate for more.

With a smirk, you pulled back just enough to yank your own shirt over your head, tossing it aside. The sight of you—skin fluid, lips parted, bra straps slipping off your shoulders—short-circuited his brain. Stiles didn’t think; he just reached for you, dragging you back against him, his mouth crashing into yours. You moaned into the kiss, grinding down onto his thigh, and the heat between your legs burned through the thin fabric of your shorts.

His hands trembled as they slid under you, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra. “Stupid—fucking—” he muttered against your neck when it wouldn’t budge, and you laughed breathlessly, reaching behind yourself to undo it in one swift motion. The second it fell away, Stiles didn’t hesitate—he palmed your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, and the way you arched into his touch sent fire licking down his spine.

Your breath hitched when he ducked his head, mouth closing over the peak, tongue swirling in a way that had your fingers tangling in his hair. “God, Stiles—” His name on your lips was a prayer and a curse, and he reveled in it, sucking harder just to hear the broken noise you made in response. Your hips rolled against him, desperate for friction, and he groaned against your skin, teeth grazing the tender flesh.

One of your hands slid between them, popping the button of his jeans with practiced ease. The zipper came down next, your fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and Stiles nearly bit his own tongue when you wrapped your hand around him. “Fuck, fuck—” His hips jerked into your grip, the tight heat of your palm almost too much.

The moment your fingers wrapped around him, Stiles’ vision whited out for a second. His grip on your waist tightened reflexively, fingers pressing bruises into your skin as he gasped against your collarbone. “Jesus Christ,” he choked out, hips stuttering forward into your hand. You weren't gentle—couldn’t be, not with the way his pulse pounded under your touch—and the rough slide of your palm sent sparks shooting up his spine.

Your breath was hot against his ear, teeth grazing the lobe as you murmured, “You like that?” The question was rhetorical; you could feel the way his body answered you, every twitch and shudder betraying him. Stiles didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded dumbly, forehead pressing into your shoulder as you tightened your grip just shy of painful. His hips jerked again, chasing the friction, and you laughed—soft, breathless—before suddenly pulling away.

The loss of contact was agony. Stiles made a noise halfway between a whine and a protest, but you were already sliding off his lap, knees hitting the floor with a quiet thud. His brain short-circuited when your hands landed on his thighs, pushing them apart wider. The look you gave him—dark-eyed, lips swollen from kissing—made his stomach flip. "Jeez—" he started, but you didn’t let him finish.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, tugging them down just enough to free him fully. The cool air of the room hit his overheated skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of your breath as you leaned in, pressing a teasing kiss to the inside of his thigh. Stiles’ breath caught, fingers flexing against the arms of the chair. “You’re—fuck—”

Stiles’ words dissolved into a strangled groan the second your tongue traced a slow, torturous stripe up the length of him. Your lips were warm, impossibly soft, and the sight of you—eyes locked onto his, layous fluttering—sent a jolt of heat straight to his gut. You didn’t break eye contact as you took him into your mouth, sinking down until your nose brushed his lower stomach. Stiles swore his heart stopped.

You pressed your tongue flat against the underside of him as you pulled back, then curled around the head in a way that had his thighs trembling. A string of incoherent curses spilled from his lips, his fingers tangling in your hair—not pushing, just holding on for dear life. You hummed around him, the vibration rippling through his body like an electric current, and his hips jerked involuntarily.

“Shit—sorry,” he gasped, but you just smirked, your grip tightening on his hips to keep him still. The next time you took him deep, you swallowed around him, and Stiles saw stars. His back arched off the chair, heels digging into the carpet as pleasure coiled tight in his abdomen.

You set a relentless pace, alternating between slow, teasing licks and quick, desperate bobs of your head that left him gasping. Every so often, you’d pull off just to drag your teeth lightly over his tip, watching the way his stomach muscles jumped in response. Your free hand slid up his thigh, nails scraping lightly, and Stiles choked on your name when your fingers burrowed lower, cupping him in a way that made his vision blur.

Stiles’ grip on the chair arms was white-knuckled now, every muscle in his body coiled tight as your mouth worked him over with a practiced rhythm that shouldn’t have surprised him but did. The wet heat of your tongue circling his tip, the suction when you hollowed your cheeks, the way your fingers teased at the base—it was too much and not enough all at once. His hips twitched involuntarily, and you hummed around him, the vibration shooting straight to his spine.

He barely registered the sound of his own voice—ragged, pleading—as his fingers tightened in your hair. “I’m not—I can’t—” The warning was slurred and half-formed, but you ignored it, dragging your lips up his length before sinking back down with deliberate slowness. The pressure built low in his gut, hot and inevitable, and when your nails dug into his thighs in silent permission, he came with a broken groan, his head slumping back against the chair.

You didn’t pull away—not fully. you swallowed, lips lingering at the tip until he shuddered, oversensitive. When you finally sat back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, the smirk you gave him was downright predatory. “You’re welcome,” you murmured, your voice husky.

Stiles blinked dazedly down at you, his pulse still thundering in his ears. His chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat cooling on his skin. “That was—” He swallowed, throat dry. “You’ve done that before.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your wrist, still smirking up at him from the floor—your knees pressed into the carpet, your cheeks flushed pink. Stiles could feel his own pulse hammering in his throat, his breath still uneven, but the way you looked at him—like you’d won something—sent a fresh jolt of heat through his veins. “Maybe,” you said, shrugging one shoulder before pushing yourself up onto unsteady legs. The movement made your shorts ride high, revealing the faint red marks where the carpet had pressed into your skin. Stiles couldn’t stop staring.

His hands twitched at his sides, itching to reach for you, but before he could, you were climbing back into his lap, straddling him with a confidence that made his brain short-circuit all over again. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just hard enough to sting, and he groaned when your teeth scraped against his jaw. “Your turn,” you murmured, your voice rough at the edges, and Stiles didn’t need to be told twice.

His hands slid under the waistband of your shorts, fingers tracing the curve of your hips before dragging the fabric down your thighs. You lifted just enough to help him, kicking them off somewhere behind him, and the second they were gone, his palms were on your bare skin, gripping the backs of your thighs and hauling you closer. The heat of you against him was dizzying, and when you rocked forward, grinding against the rough fabric of his jeans, he cursed under his breath, fingers digging into your flesh.

Everything moved so fast, and Stiles’ fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as you finally seated yourself fully, your thighs trembling against his. The breath punched out of him like he’d been sucker-punched—your warmth, your tightness, the way your nails bit into his shoulders—it was too much. He’d imagined this a hundred times in the dark of his room, but reality obliterated every half-formed fantasy. You were yours, your forehead pressed against his, your breath coming in ragged little puffs against his lips.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then you rolled your hips experimentally, and Stiles swore, his grip on you tightening. “Fuck, fuck—” His voice cracked, the words dissolving into a groan as you rocked again, slower this time, dragging yourself along his length in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. Your nails scraped down his chest, leaving angry red trails in their wake, and the sting only sharpened the pleasure coiling in his gut.

You set a merciless pace from the start—no tentative exploration, no coy hesitation. Just you, riding him with single-minded intensity, your hips rolling in smooth, practiced motions that had Stiles seeing stars. His hands slid up your back, fingers tangling in the straps of your bra still clinging to your shoulders, and he yanked you closer, crushing your chests together. The friction of skin on skin was electric, and when your teeth sank into his shoulder, he bucked up instinctively, driving deeper into you with a choked gasp.

“God, you—” Your words broke off into a moan as he hit a spot that made your thighs clench around him. Your fingers fisted in his hair, tugging hard enough to make his scalp burn, and the pain-pleasure mix sent another jolt straight to his groin. “Again,” you demanded, voice rough, and Stiles obeyed without thought, angling his hips to thrust up into you just right.

Stiles’ breath came in ragged bursts as your hips rolled against him, each movement calculated and relentless. The chair groaned beneath them, threatening to buckle under the force of your rhythm, but neither of them cared. His hands slid from your back to your ass, gripping hard enough to leave marks as he helped you move, lifting you just enough to drag you back down with a force that made you gasp. The sound went straight to his already frayed nerves.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Your mouth latched onto the pulse point, teeth scraping over the frantic thrum of his heartbeat. “You’re—fuck—you're going to kill me,” he managed, voice wrecked, and you laughed against his skin, the vibration sending another shockwave through him.

“Good,” you breathed, your lips brushing his ear before you nipped at the lobe. Your hips stuttered when his thumb found the slick heat between your legs, circling just right, and the broken noise you made was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. Stiles swallowed it with a messy kiss, his tongue tangling with yours as you ground down against his hand, chasing your own release with a desperation that matched his.

The air between them was thick with sweat and the scent of you—strawberries and salt and something darker, something theirs—and Stiles buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling like he could imprint you onto his lungs. Your nails raked down his back, sharp enough to burn, and he groaned, his hips snapping up harder, faster. The slap of skin against skin filled the room, punctuated by their ragged breathing.

Stiles' fingers dug into your hips as you rode him with a rhythm that threatened to unravel him completely. The chair beneath them groaned in protest, its hinges squeaking with every desperate thrust, but neither of them cared—not when your nails were scoring red lines down his chest, not when the air between them crackled with heat and sweat and something electric.

Your breath hitched when he shifted his grip, one hand sliding between them to press his thumb against your clit in firm, circling motions. Your entire body tensed, your thighs clamping around his hips as a broken sound tore from your throat. “Stiles—” His name was half-gasp, half-curse, and the way you walls clenched around him nearly sent him over the edge right then.

“Yeah, yeah, come on—” His voice was ragged, barely recognizable, his forehead pressed against yours as he chased the friction, the heat, the way your body moved against his like you were made for it. Your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to make his scalp sting, and the sharp burst of pain-pleasure had him thrusting up harder, deeper, until you gasped and arched back, your spine bowing under the force of it.

The sight of you—head thrown back, lips parted, chest heaving—was enough to burn itself into his brain forever. Stiles couldn’t resist dragging his teeth over the exposed column of your throat, biting down just enough to make you whimper. “You close?” he rasped against your skin, already knowing the answer by the way your hips stuttered and the way your breath came in shallow, uneven pants.

You didn’t answer with words. Your hips rolled forward in a sharp, unsteady jerk, your thighs trembling against his as you ground down onto him with a desperation that stole his breath. Your fingers tightened in his hair, yanking his head back to expose his throat again, and this time, your teeth sank into the tender skin just below his jaw. The sharp sting of pain-pleasure shot straight to his groin, and Stiles swore, his hips bucking up involuntarily.

“Fuck—yes,” you gasped against his skin, your voice raw and ragged, and then you were coming apart around him—your body tensing, your nails biting into his shoulders, your thighs clamping around his hips like a vise. The sound you made was half-moan, half-sob, and Stiles felt it reverberate through his entire body, tightening the coil in his gut to near-breaking.

He didn’t last much longer. The sight of you—chest fluyid, lips swollen, eyes dark with pleasure—was too much. His grip on your hips tightened, dragging you down onto him one last time as he thrust up hard, his release slamming into him like a freight train. Stars exploded behind his eyelids, his vision whiting out for a dizzying second as pleasure burned through him, leaving him gasping and trembling beneath you.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Your forehead dropped to his shoulder, your breath was hot and uneven against his skin. Stiles’ hands slid up your back, fingers tracing the damp lines of your spine as he tried to steady his own breathing. The air between them was thick with sweat and the scent of sex; the only sound was the ragged sync of their panting.

The first thing Stiles registered was the way your heartbeat thudded against his chest—fast, erratic, slowing gradually like a storm settling. Your fingers, still tangled in his hair, loosened their grip, nails dragging lightly over his scalp in a way that made him shiver. He could feel the dampness of sweat between their bodies, the stickiness of skin pressed too close for too long, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when your breath hitched just slightly as you shifted in his lap, your thighs flexing around him.

“So,” you murmured, your voice rough in a way that sent a fresh pulse of heat through him, even spent as he was. “That happened.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, the sound hoarse and disbelieving. His hands slid down to your hips, thumbs tracing idle circles against the sharp jut of bone below. “Yeah,” he managed, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. “That… definitely happened.”

First ever short fic!! Hope you guys like it, i enjoy a lot of fandoms so i will expand and start a masterlist❤️