#fat!Stiles

[sterekchub]

Stiles picks up a job during college…pay might not be great but the free food is a great perk! If only the uniforms stretched a bit more…

Another story I want to eventually write… brought to life with this fantastic series I commissioned from @topaz-gainz

Please check out their PATREON and become a member if you can! They have a fatDerek sequence and some other fantastic art!

[twpromptsillneverwrite]

Derek: Came to pick you guys up. You ready?

Scott: Let me check. STILES! Are you ready!? We're gonna be late.

Stiles: Almost ready, just need to pull up my briefs over my FAT ASS!

Derek: ...

Scott: Why do you have a hard-on?

[eevylynn]

Comic Con 2010

Look at the baby!!! Look at him!!

[bellybounce]

Day 4 - "Marshmallows"

Sterek unintentional weight gain!

This is day 4 of @fatguarddog's feedist kinktober. I find it quite hard to stick to timelines with these things so just moving through the prompt list at my own pace!

Comments appreciated and prompts welcome in my DMs

Prompt; Marshmallows

Stiles let out a groan of frustration, pushing his hands into his fleshy stomach and sucking in so that he could actually see the red flashing numbers that had been half blocked by his middle. Really, the fact that he had ballooned that much should have been an indicator of how much he had gained, and yet when the scales finally settled on a mocking 263 pounds, his mouth dropped in shock. 

He pinched at his flabby belly, the pale flesh sticking out in front of him like he was 6 months pregnant, bloated even when he’d not even eaten breakfast yet. If that wasn’t bad enough, his belly had taken the form of a B, sinking in deep at his belly button before protruding back outwards even further than his top half and had begun to sag over his underwear, half covering his crotch. He stepped backwards off the scale, watching as his belly wobbled and moved independently to him.  As he walked towards the bedroom he was all too aware of the fact that his thighs had backed on the pounds too, and were now rubbing so much that he had developed a slight waddle to accommodate it. 

In the bedroom he forgo his jeans - they had been a nightmare to pull off the night before, an event which had led to this spontaneous weigh in - and stuffed himself into sweatpants that he chose to ignore were also feeling a bit tight around the waist. He had no substitutes, however, for his t-shirts and had to settle for a very hugging white one that cupped his fatty chest and clung to every roll around his middle. He tried his best to pull the sweatpants as high as they world go in order to roll the shirt into it but the second he moved he felt it inch upwards and expose a sliver of pale flesh, 

Stiles studied himself in the mirror. Every single calorie he had stuffed into his face was evident on his body. He turned sideways, smoothing his shirt down and cupping his stomach in both hands as if it were a baby bump, and marvelled at how massive he actually was. As if reading his thoughts, two muscular arms appeared and wrapped themselves around him, resting over his own. 

“Boy or girl?” Derek teased, his hands rubbing up and down Stiles’ belly soothingly.   

“Fuck off,” Stiles groaned burying his head in his hands whilst Derek held his belly. “I’ve gotten fat, Derek.” 

Derek hummed in agreement, moving his hands to the overhang of his stomach and holding the girthy weight of it in his hands, Stiles signed in relief as the weight was no longer dragging him down. His back had started aching a lot these past few months as his weight creeped up and Derek had figured out on his own that holding Stiles’ stomach eased the pressure. It was embarrassing but it also made Stiles feel loved. 

“You’re not disagreeing,” Stiles mumbled into his hands. 

Derek let go of Stiles’ stomach causing him to puff out a breath as it dropped down unexpectedly. Derek turned him in his arm, wrapping them around his shoulders and pulling him flush against him, Stiles’ boulder of a stomach pushing against Derek’s lean abdomen. “l’m not going to lie to you,” Derek ran his hands soothingly up and down his back, “you know you’ve gained some weight, what does me telling you otherwise do?” 

“I’m all ugly and gross and jiggly,” Stiles muttered, trying to crowd more into Derek’s space but being stopped by his belly. “I’ve gained over 100 lbs since High School.” 

“You’re my mate, Stiles, I’ll love you wherever you’re 100 pounds or 500 pounds,” Derek told him, pulling him closer and placing a kiss on his hairline. “But, I want you to be happy, so if you feel you need to lose some weight then that’s what we’ll do.”

Stiles lasted 3 days of sadly poking at salad leaves and grilled chicken, dreaming of smokey bacon burgers and a late night taco bell drive through visit and breaking out the Hale family recipe book to make those chewy peanut butter cookies before he was struck by an amazing idea. Four hours later he came through the door with a whirlwind of bags that he dumped in the kitchen before finding Derek in the living room. 

“You’ve been gone a while,” he stated, opening his arm, welcoming Stiles into a hug. Stiles didn’t hesitate and dropped down onto the space, the couch groaning with the sudden added weight matching Stiles’ groan as he belly slapped against his thighs. Instinctively, Derek wrapped his arm around Stiles’ middle, his hand resting on the swollen ball. Stiles watched Derek’s hand absentmindedly rubbing circles into Stiles’ tight skin and felt a shot of excitement and warm up his spine. He wasn’t that big, was he? Maybe he was fine as he was? He had upgraded his clothes, going two sizes bigger - “They need to be bigger Derek! How do you expect me to work out in such tight clothes, I need to be comfortable!” - and now he didn’t look as big. Maybe it was the clothes fault! This train of thought was combated by the sight of his belly bulging out onto his thighs; it was that big. 

“I’ve had an idea,” Stiles told Derek firmly. “Marshmallows!” 

“Marshmallows?” Derek repeated, sounded confused. 

“Marshmallows,” Stiles nodded in confirmation. “They basically have zero calories, Derek. That way I can still have a sweet treat whilst not eating anything fatty. I’ll be much more motivated to lose weight if I can still eat things that aren’t classed as rabbit food.”

And maybe this plan wouldn’t have been too bad of an idea if Stiles had simply stuck to a bag of marshmallows every now and then. Instead, however, he seemed to have added marshmallows to every meal, dosaging himself with far more sugar than he had consumed when he wasn’t on a diet . Marshmallow cereal for breakfast in the morning - “It’s fine Derek, it says it contains fibre” -, Marshmallow fluff slathered onto half a dozen pieces of toast for lunch - “Marshmallows hardly have any calories, Derek, so really it’s only a couple hundred calories for the bread” - an Thanksgiving style Sweet Potato casserole topped with a bag of marshmallows every evening to pair with his chicken. As if that wasn’t enough, he would constantly be snacking on candy bars filled with the sticky filling, would keep bags of them in his desk drawer to eat as he worked, and would make himself trays full of s’mores for a midnight snack. 

Any concerns raised about the validity of this “diet” was met with a scoff. “I googled it - there’s on average 23 calories in a marshmallow. I could eat 100 a day and only just hit my intake requirements,” he proudly told Scott after their monthly pack meeting, conveniently ignoring that a) he ate at least 100 with his dinner last night and b) the graham crackers he had slapped them between held significant calories in their own right. 

6 weeks into this new diet and Stiles seemed to be ballooning by the day. Derek was very well versed in every inch of Stiles’ body and could tell that the skin was becoming more taunt, that there was more to grab hold of at night, that his face was looking more puffy as the weeks moved on. Stiles, however, seemed none the wiser, completely ignoring that he wasn’t having to pull the drawstrings on his sweats as far anymore. Instead, he stood in front of their bathroom mirror shirtless, admiring himself from different angles.

“I think it’s starting to work, you know,” he declared, holding his belly in his hands and jiggling it. Derek watched on in amusement, having witnessed this dance many times, each time Stiles having an excuse as to why it definitely wasn’t working. 

“Okay, so i’m a bit bloated at the moment, but i’ve only just eaten,” - he’d had a cookie pizza that had pepperoni shaped marshmallows on top for dessert - “but my pants still fit as good as the day i bought them!” - the pants no longer needed their drawstring to fit snugly, and had also “absolutely, definitely been shrunk in last weekend's wash.” 

“You look good, babe,” Derek nodded along, getting ready for bed. “You coming?” 

“Yeah, yeah, let me just get a few chocolate bars in case we get snacky,” Stiles retreated downstairs only to return 5 minutes later, puffing as he walked, the stairs taking their toll on him as he reached the top and made his way into the bedroom, his waddle becoming more prominent. He threw himself on the bed with a huff, the mattress bouncing under him and he hurried under the covers. 

“You alright?” Derek asked, his hearing picking up on the fast heartbeat in his chest. 

“Yeah, yeah, man,” he waved him off, resting his arms either side of him above the covers, pulling the sheets tight against his swollen middle. “Just tired, nothing to worry about.” 

 The rest of the pack had voiced their concerns to him about this diet, how it clearly wasn’t working and that Stiles was packing on more weight now than he ever had whilst passively gaining. Derek simply shrugged and stayed silent. Stiles was happy, he was confident and he was still as attractive to Derek as he was their first night together, what he chose to do with his body wasn’t Derek’s business. He enjoyed exploding Stiles’ body when they were in bed together, what did it matter if there was more of it to hold? All his previous relationships had been filled with sharp bones and cold bodies but with Stiles, Derek found comfort in the heavy weight resting on his chest as he slept, the warmth of his skin melting into Derek. 

It took another month for all of this to come to a head. Stiles had continued to pack on the pounds as the days went on until, finally 10 weeks after the start of the infamous diet, Derek watched in amusement as he tried to pull himself out of bed after a particularly large midnight stuffing . 

“Ughhhh!” Stiles puffed, having to rock himself a few times to get enough momentum to roll onto his side and drop his legs to the floor. He wrapped one arm around his stomach, that was still bloated and stuffed from last night, to hold it in place before his other arm held his weight, pushing him upwards. His arm shook underneath his frame before giving in and he collapsed backwards onto the bed. 

Derek stifled a laugh and came to stand over him. Flat on his back, his mountain of a stomach swelled like a beach ball over him, pinning him to the bed. He held out both arms to Derek who pulled him to his feet effortlessly with his supernatural strength. 

Once on his feet, Stiles looked down at his stomach in thought. “Maybe I should weigh myself, just to make sure i’m on track,” he sounded unsure so Derek nodded and gestured for him to lead the way. Derek could have gone first, but this allowed him to enjoy the view as Stiles waddled, his legs further apart than 3 months ago. His back was bowed slightly, pushing his stomach out further as it led the way, the bottom flabby apron section swinging as he moved. 

Standing in front of the scales, Stiles took a deep breath before mounting the device, the plastic creaking underneath his pudgy toes. Derek could see the cloud that Stiles had been living in these past few months fading away, could see in his face how he could no longer convince himself that this diet was a good idea.  “You’re going to have to look,”Stiles mumbled, “I'm too big.” 

Derek stepped around Stiles and glanced down, excitement burning through his throat as he smiled slightly, “306.” 

“WHAT!” Stiles head shot up, his eyes filled with panic, “I’ve gained almost 50 pounds!” He stepped back from the scale, sitting himself on the edge of the bathtub, staring down at his massive girth. It seemed as if most of the 50 had gone to his magnificent belly, inflating it to the point where it covered nearly half of his thighs.

Sensing it was now or never, Derek took to his knees in front of Stiles, spreading his legs apart so he could crowd into his space. He grabbed the pale skin between his hands and pressed his lips to the belly. He could feel the warmth of the tight skin against his mouth, and could hear the light gurglings below the surface. 

He began peppering kisses along the flesh, punctuating his words with his lips. “Stiles you’re the most” kiss “handsome” kiss “loving” kiss “beautiful” kiss “mate I could ask for.” His fingers digged into the pudge, his thumb rubbing smooth circles into the tender flesh. He nuzzled it with his nose, feeling Stiles’ hand find his hair and begin playing with the strands. 

“Derek,” Stiles began but Derek shushed him, pulling back to look him in the eyes. He pushed himself up against Stiles' middle, feeling it squish between them. 

 “No, just listen,” Derek insisted. Whilst his eyes looked at Stiles, his hands stayed on his stomach. “You were so small when we first met, every time there was a new threat I was convinced you were going to snap in two. You were always so cold to touch and never relaxed. Now, you feel safe, you feel warm, I can feel you next to me in my sleep, I know you’re there. You’re my mate, Stiles, and I want you to be safe and happy and secure.” 

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Stiles mumbled, pulling Derek into his chest, hands still wrapped in his hair. 

“Stiles, be honest - are you losing weight for yourself, or for me?” Derek asked. 

Stiles was silent for a beat, his chest rising and falling against Derek’s head before he nodded. “I look at all the other people you’ve dated, and I look at you and I wonder what must people think when they see us together? And then I get sad and end up eating my feelings which starts the cycle all over again. It’s nice, not caring about whether an extra slice of pizza is going to tip me over the edge and add another pound, but it’s even nicer coming home to you every night.” 

Derek stood, pulling Stiles up with him before sitting in his place. He tugged Stiles forward, allowing him to straddle his lap, immediately feeling secure feeling the weight of him pressing on his legs. 

“You’re happy and you’re safe. I need to feel like my mate is safe and protected, and you are. That’s all that matters to me.” With Stiles’ arms around his neck securing him in place, he let go of his waist to  hold his stomach again. It had invaded the space, pushing against Derek but being so large that it didn’t even allow Stiles and himself to be face to face. “You’re so attractive to me.” 

“You into this, sourwolf?” Stiles grinned, wiggling so that his belly jiggled in Defek’s hold. Always one to lighten the mood when things got a bit too serious, Stiles threw his head back in an exaggerated sigh before declaring “well I suppose I can put my diet on hold if it means you can get off easily.” Derek rolled his eyes but grinned all the same, leaving forward to plant a kiss on Stiles’ puffy cheek. “If I had known you were this kinky I would have hit the 300 pound mark months ago!” 

“Stiles,” Derek warned.

“I know, I know,” Stiles mumbled, resting a hand on Derek’s chest, tracing his finger up and down. “I don’t mind being bigger, like you said, I feel more sturdy and myself, more confident. If you’re okay with it then so am I.”

“I love you.” 

“I love you too,”Stiles waggled his eyebrows at Derek. “Now, you kinky bastard, how about we go explore all 300 pounds of me?” 

This is also on Ao3 if you could go show it some love over there! https://archiveofourown.org/works/51231895

[chubby-derek-and-friends]

Kinktober 2022 - Day 1

Masturbation

“God, you’re getting fat.”

Derek’s breathing heavy, his hand sliding back and forth on his dick, which is partially buried in his fat pad.

His other hand stuffs a raspberry filled doughnut into his mouth, causing jelly to dribble down his chin and onto his turgid, heavy belly and flabby moobs.

“Such a pig.”

Derek struggles to swallow the mouthful of dough and jelly as he continues to stroke himself. His dick is throbbing as the voice on the video teases him.

“Gonna keep eating aren’t you? Gonna get so fucking fat.”

Derek moans as he feels the orgasm building. He grabs another doughnut and scarfs it down, more jelly and flakes of glaze falling onto his naked torso. He’s eaten a dozen and a half already, achingly full, but he still craves more.

“You love it, don’t you? Love the fact that you’re getting fatter!”

Derek’s heart is racing. The orgasm building like heat behind his balls.

“Go on, pig, come for me!”

Derek does, his hips thrusting weakly under the pounds and pounds of blubber he’s piled on in the last few years. Derek groans as he shoots agin and again.

“Nice going, lardpile.”

Derek huffs, out of breath. His hands cradle his engorged belly as his comes down from the high, his fullness starting to really hit.

“Thanks…BUUURRPP…Stiles…” he grunt out.

“Next time, we go for the full two dozen.”

Derek’s dick is quickly softening, but it gives a weak throb at the idea of eating even more.

[domesticated-feral]

T/W Slight Flash

[beaconfeels]

Do I have fics people actually want me to finish and are looking forward to? Yes. Did I instead write this one that absolutely nobody has shown interest in or asked for? Also yes. But listen, this fic has been on my mind for a LONG time, and I’m so so happy to be finally putting it out into the world. Maybe someone else will like it too 🤷🏻‍♀️

[hotniatheron]

derek hale was such a pathetic loser he awakened my pegging instinct

[strangerstilinski]

𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝟏𝟖+

𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐭. 1 — 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐞

minors/ageless blogs please DNI.

REBLOGS are important. please reblog to share.

| 𝐩𝐭. 𝟏 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟐 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟑 | ⋆ | 𝐩𝐭. 𝟒 |

You'd both sworn. You'd sworn that you wouldn't subject yourselves to sex in the Jeep ever again. Not after the last time ended with so many unnecessary injuries between the two of you. Following one rolled ankle, a noticeable egg on the back of your head, and a bruise to Stiles' elbow that had been so worryingly dark that the purple had been mottled with spots nearly black in color, it was decided that handjobs were fine, blowjobs were great, fingering was.. sufficient. But full-out sex — You had sworn, never again. And, yet..

You can't find it in yourself to care when the dizzying warmth of Stiles' breath falls against your spit slick, kiss swollen lips. Your mouths have separated only as a result of the way he's trying to maneuver you into a better position, a closer position, large hands encasing your waist as he drags you over to straddle his lap. The moment you've settled against his thighs, his hands are already pushing their way up underneath your skirt, fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties as his mouth finds its way to your cheek, your jaw, your neck.

And fuck if your own hands aren't already scrambling to undo the button on his jeans, tearing them open and pushing up on your knees just enough that you two of you can work his pants and boxers down his thighs just a few inches.

His cock springs free, already almost fully hard with the anticipation of what's to come, and your mouth nearly waters at the sight. You will never tire of the sight of Stiles' cock, you're sure of it. When your hand wraps around him, your fingers don't meet, and when you give the fat length of him a gentle tug, he groans deliciously into the skin of your throat, hips jerking up as he chases the feeling.

“Hey, slow down, why don'tcha?” Stiles teases softly, “Why're you in such a hurry, huh? Got somewhere else to be or-” He cuts off with another quiet groan as you twist your wrist the way he likes, “Or something?”

“Shush, you.” You reply with a smacking kiss to his mouth.

His fingers are moving in a teasing touch beneath your skirt, skimming the sensitive skin of your belly before finding home on your thighs. He gives the softness a pinch just hard enough to have you gasping before he's slipping beneath the fabric to drag long fingers between your folds.

“Shit, babe,” Stiles groans, his lips finding your cheek again before he drops a light kiss to your chin, “You're this wet already?” He asks, as if you haven't been working each other up for the last twenty minutes with heated touches and even hotter kisses.

He punctuates his question by slipping two fingers inside you in a ridiculously easy glide, the stretch making your eyebrows pull together as your jaw falls slack. He's giving you shallow thrusts, trying to open you up a little and get you ready for what will come next, and your free hand falls to his arm, tethering yourself with fingers circling his wrist in a firm grip. The way the muscles in his arm work with each drag out and then back in has your fingernails digging little crescent moons beneath the dark hairs on his forearm.

Your head is thrown back in pleasure, and it feels like it might weigh a million pounds when you drag it forward again to drop your forehead to his, your hips rocking down onto his fingers and your hand still working him to full hardness, closing over the head of his cock and collecting his precome just to slip back down his length again and again.

It had been days of longing glances across crowded rooms, and lingering touches that were a little unnecessary but desperately craved, and pushing maybe a little too far into each other's space when one of you needed to grab something just to feel the sparks along your skin. Each tiny moment shared had built upon one another slowly, day after day, and now that you're together, skin on skin and teeth and tongues on lips — that fire between you finally burns bright again.

You're both panting a little breathlessly already, worked up beyond belief after not finding moment alone like this in what feels like ages. Hot breaths mingle between your parted lips, the sound of it broken up by the quiet little noises clawing their way up your throats.

You've missed him desperately amidst the chaos that the week has brought. You find yourself wanting him to wreck you beyond repair, to turn your brain inside out until he is all that remains — no stresses about infuriating assholes in the form of college professors, or pack disputes, or the supernatural threat of the week — and the way Stiles continues to work his fingers inside you, pushing in deep until he's caressing that spot that makes your vision white out a bit at the edges, you think he's well on his way toward that wreckage.

“Condom?” You question desperately, tugging at his wrist in signal for him to extract himself from you.

He's muttering to himself while he fumbles to get access to where his back pocket is scrunched up beneath his thighs and you push up onto your knees all the while, maneuvering your underwear down one leg and then the other until you're free of them. When he produces the little foil packet, you take it from him without prompt, tearing it open and rolling it down over him in a quick, practiced motion that has him biting his lips together to hold back a curse.

Stiles slides his hips down the seat a bit further and grips the backs of your thighs to support you as you guide his tip to your entrance. The moment you start to sink down, his fingers dig into the doughy flesh of your thighs, fingertips curling below the curve of your ass to help spread you wider as he fills you up nice and slow.

“You got it, baby,” Stiles praises quietly, lips catching against your cheekbone to leave a small peck to your flushed skin, “There y'go.”

You're shuddering through your breaths as you accommodate to the stretch, knowing that every inch just a precursor to where he's thickest at the base. It's slow going, painful and delicious all at once, but when your hips finally meet his, clit nestling right up against the thatch of hair that trails from his belly button down to where you're connected, you let out a breathy sigh of relief.

Now that you're seated, his hands leave your backside to skate higher, rough fingertips dragging up to the back of your skirt to massage at your spine. You feel him fiddle with the zip at the back, his eyes meeting yours in silent question before you're nodding and he's giving it a tug and freeing you from the thick fabric.

You can't help but look down, and that first glimpse of where you've sucked him in, where he's filling you to the brim, has you eagerly rocking your hips a little to test the stretch. There's still a bit of an ache, a sharp little sting where you're stretched the widest, but it's lessening already and you can feel that pleasurable fullness behind your navel settling in.

“Almost,” You update him quietly, combing your fingers through the strands of his hair and grinning softly when he cranes into your touch, “Jus' need another minute.”

“Take as much time as you need,” He returns earnestly, “You know I'm just enjoying gettin' you like this. Missed you. This week was the worst.”

And it truly has been. Nearly every minute of every day, start to finish, has been an onslaught of lectures and assignments due and pack bullshit that you're both inevitably dragged into every goddamn time — the presence of the token pack humans always necessary if only to give another perspective to a mundane issue that, really, probably could've been solved by your brother and his co-alpha alone. Scott and Derek really shouldn't need to drag the two of you into every little problem — which in turn would leave the two of you with ample time to sneak off somewhere to do this, perhaps in a bed, without the risk of bonked heads or twisted ankles or the bruises that came with ravishing each other in such close confines. And yet, and yet.

You nod in agreement, fingers tangling in the hair at his nape to give it a soft tug, “Been so busy with classes. N' there've been way, way too many pack meetings,” You complain in a quiet huff, “Not enough time for this..” He grumbles his own agreement as your thumb finds the large beauty mark beneath his ear, “I missed you too.” You return softly.

Stiles is patient as ever, his fingers taking the time to explore every bit of exposed skin on your body with a gentle touch. His arms circle your waist only to release you a second later to run his warm palms up your spine and give your shoulders a squeeze. His movements slow for a moment when he finds the band of your bra, pinching and unclasping it in a practiced motion, and then his big hands are making their way back to the front of your ribs, thumbs dragging against the soft underside of your breasts as he dips his head to press kisses to the newly exposed skin.

You lean back a bit to give him more space to work, savoring in the feeling of his mouth peppering soft kisses over your breasts as your own hands fall from his neck to rest on his pecs. Your fingers trail over dark freckles that dot his skin, nails scraping ever so gently into the patch of hair at the center of his chest.

Even with the windows cracked to let in a bit of the crisp autumnal air, the temperature in the Jeep creeps higher, the windows already fogged over with a thin sheen of condensation that smears lightly when you brace your right hand against the window. Five little streaks through the microscopic drops of water covering the cool glass, one to mark where each of your fingers scrape across the surface as you finally rise up onto your knees.

A pitiful little grunt falls from your lips as you drop back down, the sound pushed out with the sheer depth that his cock manages to reach in this position, so full that you can nearly taste him at the back of your throat.

You settle into a slow rhythm and Stiles grabs a hold of your hips as you do, but he's not guiding you, no. He's not aiming for control, not pushing you to go harder or faster, but rather simply holding on and following your movements, his thumbs tracing little concentric circles against the sides of you belly as you go at your own pace.

“Fuck,” You groan when your knees slip a little against the leather seat. It pushes him impossibly deeper than before, driving his tip against your cervix in a way that erupts goosebumps along your skin even in the warm car. “You’re so deep. 'S so big, baby. You're so big-”

You're not even sure what's coming out of your mouth, already a little drunk on the feeling of being filled so completely, on the slick drag every time you rise up and then the sharp jolt to every one of your nerve endings with each thrust back down. Despite the ramblings falling from your lips, or perhaps because of them, Stiles begins to make little noises of his own — guttural moans against the curve of your throat, quiet grunts each time he hits deep.

He tips his head back and the warm brown in his eyes is almost completely taken over by black with how his pupils have blown wide. You catch sight of a small bead of sweat as it works its way out of his hair and begins a slow trail down his temple but you're kissing it away before it can reach his cheekbone. The salt of it lingers on your lips when your tongue runs over them just a moment later.

Dark eyes watch you move with rapt attention, his lips parted to let out low groans of encouragement. It takes a few minutes for him to find his voice, but when he does, his words send heat flooding through you.

“So good,” He tells you, hand tucking a lock of sweat-dampened hair behind your ear before his wide palm settles against the side of your neck, his voice thick with arousal, “Always so good. You're- Shit, y're so tight. So warm. So perfect.”

The thumb resting at the bottom of your cheek creeps up higher, rubbing the plush of your bottom lip until your jaw falls slack in acceptance and then he's cupping your chin and pushing the pad of his finger down against the softness of your tongue. You bite down softly with a moan and your bottom teeth dig into the meat of his palm with just how deep he's got his thumb before you're pulling off just a little and closing your lips around it, sucking and swirling your tongue and reeling at the way his eyes flutter shut with a groan, like he can't quite handle the sight in combination with the way you're riding him slow and deep.

When he removes his thumb, you suck harder to combat the spit that threatens to cling to the digit, but it doesn't make much of a difference because he's already sliding his hand around the back of your neck and bringing your mouth down against his.

You brace one hand on his stomach to aid your moments as your tongues meet in a hungry kiss. A whimper finds its way up your throat when he rubs his free hand achingly slow up and down the front of your thigh, around to grope your ass and then back, smoothing and squeezing along your skin like he wants to be touching you more — Harder, tighter, everywhere all at once.

He's so, so deep like this and you can tell it's affecting him too. His kisses are hungry as he licks into your mouth, a little messy while his nose presses into your cheek and his fingers graze your waist on their journey toward your chest. He's thumbing over the peaks of your nipples, swallowing up your moans with his own, breathing a little like he's the one getting the air punched out of his lungs every time you seat yourself, burying him deep enough that the head of his cock is driving into that spot that makes you see stars.

Your brain goes a little hazy with your budding orgasm, tiny noises becoming more frequent, falling against his mouth a bit like a plea. You don't need to explain, Stiles is already dragging his hand up to push between your thighs, thumb circling your clit the way he knows you like. Your eyebrows furrow as you slip from the kiss, far too focussed on chasing your high now. You bounce a little faster, shallower, fingers scraping at the pale skin of his chest, eyes pinched shut as your thighs tremble with exertion and your knees ache.

Heat licks across your body, a bead of sweat trickling down your spine as your movements start to become a little more difficult. You're so close — so close-

“C'mon, you're doing so good, baby.” Stiles says with far too much tenderness, far too much amazement.

“Fuck,” You whimper, shaky breaths tearing from your chest as you teeter closer and closer, “Fuckfuckfuck-”

“You got it. You can do it. C'mon-”

His gentle praises send you careening over the edge and your whole body shakes as you try to work through it. You're struggling, but then Stiles' hands are under your ass again, guiding you this time, gripping the backs of your thighs tight as he supports some of your weight and helps you ride out your high. Every nudge of his cock against the deepest parts of you has you moaning louder, brain going a little fuzzy as your orgasm peaks but never quite dies off.

Your arms curl around his shoulders, digging your face into his neck as you gasp against his skin, thighs shaking as he keeps guiding you back and forth, not pulling out nearly as far now before he's dragging you against him and filling you back up. Your breasts are pushed tight against his chest. The smell of his aftershave is in your nose and your forehead is pressed into his sweat slicked neck. You're panting, nearly drooling on his shoulder as you try to lock your knees to hold yourself in place, thighs feeling exhausted and like jelly all at once.

“Sti. Fuck, baby, I can't-” A moan cuts you off as it rolls off your tongue, “My legs can't-”

“Aw, your legs too tired, baby girl?” He asks, and it comes out a little condescending. You can practically see the satisfied little smirk on his face, even from where your own is buried in his neck as you nod. He lifts you up a little higher, hands still grasping at the crease where your thighs meet your ass as he adjusts his hips beneath you, “Need me to do the work now?”

The teasing in his voice has your body going traitorously pliant, your voice weak when it finally comes, “Please.”

“I got you,” Stiles promises, taking a little pity. He drags one hand toward the center of your spine while the other falls to the outside of your knee to hold you steady, “I got you..”

The first thrust up into you has you crying out. Not hitting nearly as deep as before, but he's driving in so much harder, so much faster. It pulls whiny little gasps from your lips with each thrust and your jaw's gone slack where it's buried in his neck as his skin slaps against yours with every snap of his hips. The sound of it is loud, and the combination of noises both lewd and salacious only proves to turn you on that much more.

“Shit.” Stiles grunts, voice a little hoarse and yet somehow high as it catches in his throat, “You make the prettiest noises, baby. Fuck. Just listen t' you.”

You don't entirely mean for it, but your next moan is just a little louder in response, unabashed and desperate even as you attempt to muffle the sound of it in the curve of his shoulder. The pitch his voice has taken is one that you only get to hear when he's getting unbearably close to his own peak. The sound of it is so, so sweet to your ears, mingling with the obscenely wet glide of his cock sliding in and out of you.

“'M gonna come,” He warns, his hips jerking just a bit rougher, a bit less coordinated as he fucks up into you, “Shit. Shit, sweetheart, 'm.. gonna.. come-”

His arms curl and lock around your waist as he does, dragging you down against him and burying himself so deep that it has you crying out again, fingers digging into his shoulders where your arms have curled under his to hold tight. He comes with a moan and a grunt that both get muffled with the way his face is now hidden in your hair, his cock kicking up inside you as he releases into the condom.

The increased stimulation against your sensitive walls has you going a little teary in the best way, overwhelmed but loving every moment of it, and you roll your hips over him despite the soreness in your thighs just to hear the way he groans in response.

You pull back just enough to lock your fingers in the hair at his nape and tug him into a sweet kiss, it's warm and a little sweaty as your lips slide together but it's also so full of unspoken thanks and emotion and undeclared love.

When you lean back again to collectively catch your breath, his thumb finds your wet eyelashes and swipes at them gently.

“Oh- hey, you good?” He checks with concern, his free hand already at your waist and drawing soft patterns along your skin, “You okay?”

You turn your head into the hand on your cheek and press a kiss to the center of his palm, scraping at his scalp beneath sweat-dampened locks, “I'm good,” You promise, “Gonna be sore as fuck tomorrow though, God.”

A smirk finds its way onto his face, “Fucked you so good you're gonna have trouble walkin', huh?”

“Shut up,” You huff, a laugh slipping out in contradiction to your weak display of annoyance, “But with the way my thighs feel right now? Yeah.”

You wince as you push up onto your knees, both from the ache left behind as he slips out and from the soreness in your legs. When you rise up a little higher, your head hits the roof with a painful thump and you can't bite back a curse.

Stiles is quick to bring a hand up to the back of your head with a sympathetic wince, cradling the tender spot on your skull softly, “Oh, shit, y'alright?”

“Ow,” You respond with a pout, your own hand reaching back to cover his over your hair, “Stupid Jeep n' stupid metal roof..”

“Hey,” Stiles frowns, “Don't blame the Jeep, alright? It's not Roscoe's fault you bumped your head.”

“Is too.”

It comes out in a huff and Stiles chuckles in amusement at your disgruntled expression as he slips his hands under your thighs to help you dismount from his lap completely. You fall into the seat beside him and drop your calves over his knees, bumping your forehead against his shoulder in a silent gesture of gratitude.

After a few long minutes wrapped up in each other as you collect yourselves, you both gather your haphazardly discarded clothing and redress. Stiles digs out a new air freshener from the glove compartment and adds it to the hoard of them already hanging from the rearview mirror. Another little tree to the collection, this one a pretty shade of purple and smelling of berries, dropping to sit right atop number of similarly shaped scented hangers in a wide array of colors.

And later, when you're forced to part ways, you push up onto your toes as you lean back in through the driver's side window of the Jeep for one final kiss. The breeze is cool against your thighs as it catches beneath your skirt, goosebumps causing you to tighten your fingers around the window frame as you prepare to lean back. Stiles has a hand coming up to the back of your neck to hold you in place at the first sign that you're about to pull away, stretching the kiss out for as long as he can get away with. It's a sickly sweet press of lips. One that will hopefully be enough to hold you over until you get the chance to have him like this again.

A glance over your shoulder as you walk away has your gaze meeting Stiles one last time, elation and melancholy both pulling at the edges of your lips until you're left with a saccarine smile to pair with your tiny wave goodbye. Your fingers come up to brush your lips as you begin to turn away, and when you extend your hand in his direction Stiles nearly throws himself out the open window to catch the invisible kiss that you've sent his way. His unnecessary enthusiasm has you stifling a giggle as you finally turn your back to him and make your way down the street.

You're forced to jog around the block from where Stiles has dropped you a safe distance from your house, hopping into the shower the moment you get home to wash away any and all evidence of the afternoon from your skin.

It's with skin scrubbed clean and a heavy heart that you head to the washing machine and dump your clothes inside to extinguish the lingering smell of Stiles that you know clings to the fabric, of you and Stiles, together.

And when Scott pauses the load mid-wash with the intention of throwing a shirt in, your brother is sure to complain about the way you've pointedly used the scented detergent — the overpowering artificial smell of lavender much too strong an irritant to his overly-sensitive, supernatural, wolfy nose — But, you remind yourself, if you want to keep up this thing with Stiles, which you desperately do, then that's just how this has to go, because, well.

𝐒 𝐜 𝐨 𝐭 𝐭 𝐲 𝐃 𝐨 𝐞 𝐬 𝐧 ' 𝐭 𝐊 𝐧 𝐨 𝐰 .

𝐚/𝐧; 𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝!𝐌𝐜𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠!! 𝐢 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬. 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭𝐦 — 𝐬𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐬.

again, REBLOGS are important.

please have the curtesy to reblog to share/save your ur fave fics.

[sundrop-writes]

BRAINWASHED

Virgin!Stiles Stilinski x Fem!Reader

Everything’s clean - except for my thoughts. (Thinking about me getting you off.)

Can’t stop thinking you got me B R A I N W A S H E D .

Summary:

Stiles likes you. He really, really, really likes you. It's bordering on obsession, but he likes to believe that he has it under control.

So when you accidentally leave a pair of your panties in his presence, ripe for the taking, and they're in his backpack faster than he can blink - he realizes that he might not have it as under control as he would like to think. But he can't find it to be too much of a problem when he has those panties wrapped around his cock.

Virgin!Stiles Stilinski x Best Friend!Fem!Reader. Pining!Stiles/One Sided Fantasies. Panty Stealing. Smut/PWP.

Word Count: 8,000

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: the reader uses she/her pronouns and is described as having a vagina; Stiles and the reader have been best friends since childhood and they are in high school now (they are both the same age) (for argument's sake, they are both 18, but the horny parts were motivated by the hotness of a 20-something actor so idc what age you interpret the characters as); the reader's looks are mostly undescribed and left neutral in terms of race, hair texture/colour, height, etc. however the reader is implied to be fat/plus sized; mentions of the reader wearing dresses and tights (things that the other characters on the show would typically wear); mentions of the reader having a cat - I did not give the cat a name so you can imagine it's the same as your cat's name/what you would want your cat to be called if you had one; use of Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); brief mention that the reader would like wearing bikinis; the reader calls Stiles 'good boy' in non-sexual contexts and it turns him on; mentions of Stiles looking up the reader's skirt when she doesn't know it; some slight dubious consent because Stiles steals the reader's underwear without her consent and uses them in a sexual act (his masturbation); masturbation (Stiles touching himself); this is a one-sided/pining fic - all the sexual acts take place inside Stiles's mind as sexual fantasies while he masturbates; the reader character is described in these sexual acts as they play out in his mind, so that's why she is included heavily in the warnings; Stiles is submissive (even in his own fantasies) and he fantasies about the reader being dominant toward him; Stiles becoming aroused by the idea of the reader not shaving her pussy; technically there is edging - because Stiles edges himself to make his fantasies last longer; panty sniffing (though the panties Stiles took are freshly launder and not used ones); scent kink/sweat kink - Stiles likes the way you smell, including your sweat; kinks and sexual acts mentioned only in Stiles's fantasies (taking place only in his mind in this fic): car sex (in the back of the Jeep (typical, I know)), fingering (reader receiving), degradation kink (Stiles receiving - he likes the idea of the reader insulting him and being mean to him); pussy eating (Stiles fantasizes in depth about this); Reader makes a joke about spanking Stiles and Stiles has a small fantasy about being spanked by her; I think that's finally it.

A/N: Title for the fic comes from the song Brainwashed by Waterparks. Warning - Stiles might be a bit OOC in this because I wrote it before I started re-watching Teen Wolf again (and before I started watching Season 1 for the first time, because previously I had only seen 3B and beyond). In this, I have said that he's flunking classes and he's not really great with studying, while in the show, he's really smart and bookish and really well studied - but it could just be chalked up to the fact that he has a huge crush on the Reader that is distracting him from studying. So, interpret it how you want. I hope that you enjoy it, and please read through to my end notes to find out about a potential sequel to the fic!!

...

Stiles was hopeless. 

That was the only way to describe his current state of being. Completely, utterly hopeless. 

He was a complete and total loser, hopelessly in love with his best friend. And he was getting more stupidly caught up in that crush every single day. And of course, he didn’t even have the courage to admit his feelings for you so that it could be awkwardly out in the open. So that the two of you could get the rejection part over with, at least. 

Basically - his feelings for you were slowly ruining his life. 

Stiles had been in love with you for as long as he could remember. Well, maybe not that long. 

See, you, him, and Scott had all been friends since the beginning of kindergarten, and naturally, Stiles always liked you as a person. He always thought of you as a good friend, even if he gravitated toward Scott more.  

But he distinctly remembered the first moment when he had started to develop a crush on you. It was a very special memory to him - the day when you shifted in his eyes from annoying, slightly nagging friend to a beautiful, fierce woman. 

It was the day when the three of you were out on Halloween night during the third grade - and that was around the time people started whispering about crushes in school, when people would have playground girlfriends and boyfriends that they broke up with every other week. That night, a group of eighth grade bullies began chasing the three of you, trying to take your candy. 

Without hesitation, you picked up the largest rock in sight and threw it at one of them, causing a large cut across his forehead - and you loudly told them to ‘fuck off’ (the first time Stiles had ever heard such a word when it wasn’t coming from his dad). They had run away, somehow terrified of a girl a foot shorter than them. 

That night, you had become his hero. 

And since then, you had been the only object of his affections. 

Of course, over the years, Stiles had plenty of opportunities to tell you about his feelings for you. He just… always felt too cowardly to do so. 

In seventh grade, he had come very close to asking you out to the winter dance - only to have Scott beat him to the punch. When he pulled Scott aside to ask him about it, Scott confessed to him that he also had a crush on you. This resulted in their first ever fistfight. The first ever true rift in their otherwise close, brotherly friendship. 

The boys didn’t speak to each other for days. Which, naturally, annoyed the hell out of you. Especially because, of course, neither of them told you why they were fighting, not wanting you to know that you were the source of the rift in their friendship. And to you, this only made the fight seem more stupid and immature. 

So finally, when you demanded it, they called a truce. They agreed that they didn’t want to lose their friendship or lose you. They didn’t want to make you choose between them when it wouldn’t make any of you happy. 

So Stiles proposed that the three of you should go to the dance as friends, which you loved, and they both got you a corsage, one for each wrist - and the three of you still laughed at the pictures of you holding each of their arms. 

Eventually, Scott grew out of his crush on you and moved onto other girls, and he loved that he got to keep you as a close best friend, someone he could go to for dating advice if needed. Scott kept trying to convince Stiles to simply ‘man up’ and tell you about his feelings, but Stiles kept that same sentiment they had concluded upon years ago. Telling you about his feelings would only ruin the friendship. Not just between you, but between the entire group - it would fuck up the pack. 

Though it felt like the more he tried to ignore his feelings for you, the more they festered like a tumor. While Scott was able to mature past his crush on you, Stiles only grew more intense, and more insane when it came to his ‘crush’ on you. 

Over the years, his crush on you had grown from something sweet and childish into something much more. When puberty truly took over and lust was added into the mix, he now had to deal with the fact that you had grown into a gorgeous woman. He could barely control his arousal when looking at you, hearing your voice, smelling you, talking to you, thinking about you - even simply being in your presence made something in his mind melt. And it was growing much worse with each passing day. There wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t wake up with a raging boner fueled by sexual dreams of you. 

And naturally, he would say that not telling you about his feelings for you was ultimately the best thing for him. He would steadfastly refuse to admit that him being distracted by all these fantasies of you was slowly eroding your friendship from the inside out. Slowly, bit by bit, his worst fears were coming true - your friendship was being ruined by his crush anyway. 

But he tried to ignore that. Even if you were the most gorgeous, perfect being ever put on the planet, he tried his hardest to simply enjoy the platonic version of you. He tried to act like he wasn’t stupidly, head over heels in love with you. 

He tried not to act like it. 

But on nights like this, it was just so hard. 

Tonight, the two of you were studying for an upcoming English mid-term that would be worth a decent portion of your final grade. 

Logically, Stiles knew that he should have locked himself in his room and forced himself to study independently. Or he should have taken up Scott on his offer to study with him and Allison. 

But no, he just had to ask you for your ‘help’. 

And you pitied him and said yes, because he was doing poorly in the class. The only reason for that being because it was one of the classes that he shared with you, and he spent all of his damn time staring at you across the room during it. He had tried to tell himself that he really would study tonight, that he would really take advantage of your intelligence here and now to get his shit together in order to up his grade. 

But no. That was just one of many daily lies that he told himself. Since the moment he had set foot in your bedroom that afternoon (and it was dark out now, well into the evening) - he hadn’t been able to focus on anything but you. 

Sure, sometimes that worked to his benefit. Hearing you recite Shakespeare, the words coming off your sweet lips - it did force him to focus on the material at hand for at least a short period of time. But it wasn’t like he was actually retaining any of it. He was just thinking about how gorgeous your voice sounded and how amazing you would be in an adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. One where he played Romeo, of course - and he would get to use someone else’s well-crafted words to romance you, finally getting to kiss you for the first time. 

Again - he was hopeless. 

Currently, Stiles was laying diagonally on your bed, sitting among a mess of books - the English textbooks, the assigned novels, the published copies of the play, along with binders of your notes and other notebooks, stray papers. He couldn’t pay attention to the notes he was supposed to be writing, not for a moment, not if his life depended on it. Not when you looked this stunningly beautiful while busy writing your own notes. 

With the soft lighting from your bedside lamp brushing across your skin, making that skin look even softer, you were a goddess-like vision sitting on the bed across from him. You were wearing the simple dress that you had worn to school earlier that day, your modest tights since shed off in the name of ‘comfort’ (and so that your cat wouldn’t rip holes in them while crawling across your lap, you had remarked to Stiles). When you had stood at your hamper and peeled them off your legs, Stiles had a hard time not letting the drool spill out across his chin. 

Your thighs were gorgeous. Thick, wide, spread out like a buffet for his eyes to feast on every single time you sat down. From his angle, laying down the way he was, he was up close and personal with the dimpling cellulite and stretchmarks you had there. The hem of your dress had ridden up when you had adjusted your position to get comfortable, and he felt absolutely spoiled by how much more of your thighs were revealed to him. 

A few times throughout the evening, he had to physically clench his fingers, tight, to remind himself not to reach out and touch. To remind himself that he wasn’t allowed to touch. The last thing he wanted to do was to creep you out by randomly reaching out and touching your thigh. But he wanted so badly to touch. 

How many times had he imagined what those thighs would look like bouncing and jiggling while you rode his cock? How many times had he imagined those thighs clamped around his head while he licked your pussy? (Far too many times for the good of his own sanity.) 

Not to mention the concentration spread across your face - you were so fucking hot when you showed off your intelligence. Hell everything about you was hot - your sweetness, your laughter, your sarcasm, even your bitchy side. But your bookish side had to be one of Stiles’s favorites. 

The way you would nibble your own lip when thinking, the way your brows furrowed slightly in thought. Everything about you - from the bra strap sticking out of the neckline of your dress to the chipped edge of your nail polish where you had chewed on it - you were a fucking vision. And Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tried. 

It was a wonder that you didn’t notice Stiles staring at you - not as often as he did it. 

Stiles felt strangely caught when you put down your pen and looked up from your notebook, then. He quickly scrambled to grab his own pencil and start writing something, to look busy. But of course, he just looked like more of an idiot when the eraser end began scraping across the page in nonsense patterns. 

“Stiles,” You scolded him with a sigh, a way he was used to hearing his name come off your lips. “Have you gotten anything done? I told you to copy down at least half my notes-” 

Of course. You pegged his blank page as simple laziness, rather than his brain slowly melting out through his ears due to his inability to think about anything but you (especially when he was in the same room as you). At least he hadn’t been caught staring at you in that creepy way yet. 

You snatched up his notebook to check his work, and his heart dropped - if you looked too carefully, then he would be caught. In the back of that notebook, there were about three pages of his name and yours in hearts, and a few times he had practiced writing his signature as ‘Mr Stiles L/N’. (He was a feminist, and he liked the idea of starting a new tradition.) There was even a drawing he had made designing your theoretical wedding cake, including a cake topper where he was Superman and you were riding on his back while he was flying. 

“Y/N, uh-” 

He quickly snatched the notebook back, causing a glare from you while he sighed in defeat. 

“Fine.” He shrugged, knowing that he had to admit to a smaller crime in order to cover up the larger one. It was something that he did with his father all too often. “I didn’t get anything done. I was slacking off. You caught me.” 

“Stiles!” You scolded him again, reaching out to gently smack his shoulder. “If you keep this shit up, you’re never gonna graduate!” 

Sadly, you were probably right. His crush on you was absolutely going to ruin him. 

“Well, you could just let me copy off you,” He replied, giving you a wide grin that let you know he was mostly kidding. 

You rolled your eyes in reply, and soon your gaze caught sight of the clock on your nightstand. 

“Well, it seems like you have wasted enough of my time for tonight.” You scoffed sarcastically. 

Stiles knew that you had intended this to be a joke - but he couldn’t help the twinge of pain the words caused in his gut. The idea that he was truly just a waste of time in your life. He pressed his lips tightly together to suppress a frown and didn’t say anything more, and then you continued. 

“It’s almost your curfew anyway.” You pointed out, gesturing toward the clock. You were right. Stiles hadn’t even noticed how late it was getting - too busy enjoying his time with you. “We’ll pack it up for the night - but you should meet me at the library tomorrow morning, early, so we can go over everything again before the exam.” 

Of course, you were still invested in the idea of him getting a good grade, even if that seemed unlikely to happen. 

“You’re gonna make me get up early?” He whined, hating the idea of missing out on even ten extra minutes of sleep. 

“Yes.” You stressed. “I want you there at seven o’clock. Sharp.” 

Your ultra serious voice ordering him around was undeniably a turn-on for him. No matter what sexual fantasies Stiles cooked up about you in his mind, he could never picture himself having full control over you. In fact, most of the time, he found himself covered in cum at the idea of you having complete control over him. And it was likely because this was how most of your friendship went - you told him what to do, and he did it. And that was a huge part of why he fell for you in the first place. 

When he didn’t verbally confirm the time, too caught up in his infatuation yet again, you let out a gentle growl of frustration. 

“Stiles!” You called out his name. “You have to be there at seven. So you can’t get out of bed at seven - you have to set your alarm for like six-thirty, got it? Don’t make me come over there and get your ass out of bed like last time.” 

This thought caused Stiles’s stomach to clench. 

The last time you had come to his house to wake him up for school (because he had agreed to help you with some bakesale project and you were pissed off that he wasn’t there early to help you set up tables and whatnot) - you had charged into his house in a fury. You had your own key, of course, and his dad wasn’t there to busy you with conversation or pleasantries. 

And you charged right up the stairs and nearly caught him with a hand around his cock, jerking off to a picture of you in a bikini from the summer before. And he had rushed to shove the picture in his nightstand and cocoon himself in the comforter to hide his body just as you made it to the top of the stairs, shouting at him for being late. Luckily, he had gotten away with the lie that he had slept in, rather than revealing the truth that he had been distracted because he had woken up with morning wood after having a heated dream about you. 

When Stiles didn’t respond yet again, you grabbed a smaller decorative pillow from behind you and lightly hit him with it for emphasis, causing him to burst into laughter. 

“Promise me you’ll be on time!” You said, smacking him with the pillow again. 

“Yes, yes! I promise!” He finally agreed, his face becoming pink from laughter. 

You dropped the pillow then, and leaned down, causing his eyes to inadvertently go straight to your cleavage while you gave him a gentle, friendly kiss on the forehead. 

“Good boy.” You responded, praising him for agreeing to your terms. Obviously, it was another joke. 

But these praising words combined with your lips even slightly brushing against his skin, along with your tits dangling so close to his face, had his cock swelling to hardness nearly instantly. He grabbed the pillow then, trying to look subtle as he put it over his crotch, desperately trying to hide the very obvious bulge that had popped up at the front of his jeans within seconds. 

He was lucky when you shifted your attention away from him, now busy with cleaning off the bed, gathering your textbooks in a pile and moving to put them on your desk in the corner. You being distracted gave him a few moments to try and mentally will his dick down, which worked slightly. Only slightly. 

“You could help me, you know.” You mocked him lightly - distracting him from his thoughts of baseball, trying to will the blood out of his cock. 

He looked up and saw you standing there with his backpack, putting away his textbooks and notebooks now. He had been so dumbly distracted by his own dick that he hadn’t noticed you taking the kind initiative to clean up his things for him too. 

“Right, sorry.” He jumped into action and did so, taking things from your hands and shoving them into his bag with haste. 

“You don’t have to rush out, I just need the bed cleared off so I can pick out my clothes for tomorrow.” You told him. 

“Wait - you actually pick out your clothes in advance?” He asked, thinking that this was entirely adorable, and explained why you were always so well dressed. 

(And it explained why you were always so punctual in the mornings while Stiles was usually a mess - running around his house still half-asleep, shoving his head into a shirt that he had sniffed to see if it was clean, shoving things frantically into his bag in order to get out the door five minutes late.) 

“Well you know not all of us are okay with just throwing on last week’s mustard stained tee shirt,” You said, playfully pointing to a mustard stain that he had on his shirt from lunch. 

He rolled his eyes in return, trying to ignore the slight twist of embarrassment that wanted to swell up inside of him at the comment. 

There had been a point where he used to make a very pointed effort to impress you. Back when his crush on you had first gotten serious - likely around the beginning of high school. He used to get up early every single morning, spending a lot of time being intensely picky about the clothes he wore. He drowned himself in cologne (until you had complained about it), he wore certain colors just because you mentioned liking them. But none of it seemed to garner any more of your attention than usual. 

And so, he resigned himself to be the loser best friend who would always just float at the corners of your life, drowning in his secret affection for you until some better, hotter guy came along and swept you off your feet one day. 

He was just glad that day hadn’t come yet. 

Stiles was hesitant to leave - he wasn’t done being around you for the day yet, too emotionally attached. But he guessed that he would need to get some decent sleep before waking up at the asscrack of dawn in order to see more of you the next morning. (Even if it would include the horrors of studying at the library.) 

“So - I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” He posed, ready to take his leave as he swung his backpack over his shoulder. 

“Ooh, wait one second.” You said, eagerness twinging through your voice. 

His heart pounded hard in his chest for a moment, wondering if this could be the moment he had been waiting so long for - would you stop him there, grab him by the shoulders and kiss him hard, and then tell him that you had been feeling the exact same way as he had for all these years? 

“Which one?” You asked, spinning around from your closet to face him, holding up two dresses on hangers. 

Oh. You were asking for his opinion about what you should wear to school the next day. 

“The blue one.” Stiles said, motioning towards it. “That shade of blue looks beautiful on you - it compliments your skin tone well, and it makes you shine. But ya know, you look gorgeous in everything. You could wear a paper bag to school and everyone would still be jealous of how amazing you look.” 

He rambled on for a moment too long, and realized that his genuine fondness for you - something straying too far into romantic territory - was slipping out. 

“But - uh, yeah. I’ll see you later.” He quickly added on, now eager to leave before you could make any further comments. 

Then he dashed out of your room and down the stairs, getting out the front door so fast that he practically left a poof of cartoon dust behind him. 

He got into the Jeep and tossed his bag into the passenger’s seat - which, he hadn’t realized was not even zipped up. (A habit you often scolded him for - going around with his bag unzipped.) Papers and books spilled across the seat and underneath it, and he let out a loud growl of frustration. 

“Idiot!” He screamed, scolding himself as he leaned down, trying to clean everything up. “Idiot, idiot, idiot!” 

Partially, he was feeling so idiotic because he had just been so vulnerable with you and you probably thought he was weird for it. Actually, that was mostly why. 

As he was picking up his things, he realized that - yup, he was missing his English textbook. He had forgotten it in your room. He heaved out a sigh and collapsed back against his seat. He could leave without it - but then he would get an earful from you in the morning about how he was ‘forgetful’ and ‘irresponsible’. Ugh. 

He got out of the Jeep again and shuffled his way back into your house - your mom was working late, so there was nobody there to question him running out of the house at top speed and then appearing back so soon. All he got was a curious chirp and a head tilt from your cat, who was sitting on the top of the stairs. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Stiles remarked to the animal, stopping for a moment to pet him. “I’m pathetic. But you can’t rat me out, okay? I know she thinks highly of your opinion and I need you to put in a good word for me. Got it?” 

The cat purred and pushed his face into Stiles’s hand, so he assumed that was a positive affirmation that he would root for Stiles - or at the very least, keep his secret. 

Stiles linger for a moment to scratch the cat’s furry cheek, and then he stepped over the cat and made his way back toward your room. He passed the closed bathroom door and heard the shower running, and he almost cheered. If you were in the shower, then you wouldn’t notice him slipping back in to grab his book, so you couldn’t scold him for being a forgetful idiot. 

He went into your room, and the second he made it through the mouth of your open bedroom, his eyes locked onto your bed like a hot target. Your clothes for the following day were spread out so neatly, and right there, on top of the blue dress he had suggested - there was a pair of lacy purple panties that were something right out of one of his fantasies. 

Stiles had thought about your underwear before - many times. Too many times to count. 

He had even caught small, passing glimpses of your underwear before - when you had worn dresses without tights and bent over in front of him. But he had only seen enough of it to determine the color, not to know if it was lacy or silk or cotton. And even that was enough to send him into a tailspin that had him rushing to the bathroom to relieve his aching cock. 

In the back of his mind - or truly, the forefront of his mind whenever he jerked off to thoughts of you - he always wondered what kind of underwear you wore. What kind of decorative wrapping your pretty pussy would come in if he ever got the other-worldly privilege of getting his hands up your skirt. 

Would they be simple, practical cotton underwear? Would they be cute? Would they be sinfully sexy? Would they be those underwear with the days of the week written across the front? 

But seeing this now - seeing the tangible evidence in front of him that you actually planned to wear purple lacy lingerie to school - it was something that had all sense draining from his mind as blood rushed to his cock once again. He barely had time to think about it - and he didn’t think about it. Because then, they were in his hands, in his pocket, and he was back in the Jeep, hiding his stolen goods in his bag and hastily zipping it up so he could slam his foot on the gas and race home. 

He didn’t even have a chance to think about the fact that he left without the textbook that he had gone back into your room looking for. He didn’t have the attention span to notice that said textbook was in a stack along with your own - almost as if purposefully kept there like an excuse to lure him back into your room, rather than clumsily forgotten by him. 

… 

When Stiles got into his room, he slammed his bedroom door shut behind him, now entirely frantic, and thankful that his father was working a late shift again. He sat down on the edge of his bed, his hands shaking with anticipation as he unzipped his bag and pulled out the thing he had so hastily snagged. 

His mind was warring with so many sensations. Guilt for taking the panties, paranoia that he would get caught, shame that he even had the urge to take them in the first place - but all of that was easily toppled over and forgotten in the name of lust. Overwhelming lust and arousal that he felt for you. Greed and joy at knowing that he had something so private of yours in his hands now - something so secret that he shouldn’t have. A perfect little piece of you. 

His little secret piece of you. 

He still couldn’t believe that this was the kind of underwear you wore on a daily basis. 

Just imagining that this was what you wore to school - thinking about the fact that this was what you were wearing under your clothes during your everyday interactions with him: it drove him wild. 

He easily pictured this pretty lace sticking to your cunt when you were wet, the lavender colored material getting slick and slightly darker, soaked through and visibly sticky when you spread your legs for him to see. He wondered if your pussy would be shaved or not - but you didn’t have a boyfriend, so currently, you didn’t have anybody to shave for. 

He remembered a conversation from a few weeks ago where Scott had wondered if he should shave his pubes for Allison and you had remarked that ‘putting a razor near your junk’ was ‘ill-advised and stupid’ - so you probably didn’t even like shaving your pussy on principle. 

This immediately put a picture in his mind of your pussy being covered in soft hair that matched the shade on your head - maybe a bit darker. It would clump together with your juices and become soaked when you got wet. The little hairs would probably stick out cutely from the sides of the bikini cut underwear, peeking at him. 

Your pussy would be the prettiest thing he had ever seen, he knew that for certain. 

Stiles imagined getting you in the backseat of the Jeep one night after a game. 

He would still be covered in sweat from his efforts, worn out from trying his best. Sure, he wasn’t the best player, but you wanted to ‘reward’ him for his efforts on the winning side, even if he hadn’t directly contributed to the win. 

So as soon as the game was over, before he even had time to change out of his pads or shower, you hauled him to the parking lot and shoved him into the car. His gear was only half-off, ditched hastily by your feet, and you were in his lap - a perfect prize after all the hard work he had done, sitting astride his already sore thigh muscles while you kissed him - hard. Your mouth greedily sucked the oxygen out of his lungs while you shoved your tongue past his lips, painting his tongue with your sweet spit - and fuck, it felt like he was made for this. 

He got sucked so deep into the fantasy - it felt so damn real. 

He imagined having his hands splayed out against your beautiful, plump ass, gripping you tightly, noting wanting you to separate from him for even a section. While you held on tightly to his face, sealing him into the kiss until his lips were sore. And you would only pull back to look into his eyes with glossy desperation and utter out: 

“Please, Stiles. I need you. I need you to touch my pussy.” 

And what else could he do but obey? 

So he would lift up your skirt - a particularly short skirt that you had worn with nothing else but a pair of knee-high socks. Something that you knew he loved to see you cheer for him on the sidelines while wearing. Even though it was a chilly night, you couldn’t feel too cold when you saw him glancing at you every single chance he got. Of course, those distracted stares had gotten him screamed at by Coach more than once. But he loved the way your skirt would flutter up in the nighttime breeze, teasing him. The way the fucking beautiful thick fat of your thighs would jiggle whenever you would jump around in order to cheer him on. 

He was a man of simple, divine tastes. 

So - he would lift up that perfect skirt to find those purple lacy panties underneath; to find the perfection of your wet cunt waiting for him, growing slicker by the second, more needy for him. You were humping yourself against his athletic cup, which his hard cock was practically dying inside of, bursting to get out of the hard shell of plastic to touch you. But he ignored his own needs for a few minutes longer in favor of yours. Reaching forward, sliding his fingers along the wet spot at the front of your panties, absolutely indulging in the beautiful gasp you let out when his touch grazed across your swollen clit through the fabric. 

“Stiles, please.” 

He could almost hear it - it was so fucking clear inside his mind. The way your voice would be so pitched with desperation, so perfectly needy curled around his name. He wanted so badly to hear it in real life. 

And he would push those panties to the side, pushing his fingers inside of your hot, wet cunt-

Back in the real world, Stiles’s cock gave a needy pulse, leaking into his boxers. 

He heaved out a sigh, his cock practically vibrating with blood. He had driven home the whole time trying to ignore that boner, but he simply couldn’t do that anymore. He just had to give in. 

He hesitantly put your panties aside - already feeling a strange sense of attachment to them - and reached to his nightstand, grabbing the bottle of lube that he had in the drawer. Shamefully, it was already half empty, mostly due to the fantasies that he had about you. He undid his pants and had them around his ankles in record time, and whipped off his shirt for good measure, knowing that he was quite a ‘splasher’ and not wanting to get cum on it to pair with that ugly mustard stain. 

He lubed up his cock more than a healthy amount, knowing that it would contribute to the fantasy of you being so wet around him. It was a distant fantasy that he would never actually get to achieve, but hell - a man can dream. Then he began to slowly pump his cock in hand, wanting to milk it and truly enjoy it, and he let his mind get back to work. 

He thought back to your place. A place he was comfortable, spent a lot of time at hanging out with you. 

He imagined that early that night when he had forgotten his book, rather than you being in the shower, he went back to your room and found that you had been getting ready for bed. You were rubbing sweet-smelling lotion on your arms, pulling back the covers, wearing nothing but a pair of cute little socks, a tiny camisole - where he could very visibly see that you weren’t wearing a bra, with the natural teardrop shape of your breasts bared to the eye, your nipples poking through the fabric - and those purple lace panties. 

When he would appear in the doorway, you would gawk at him and ask: 

“Stiles? What are you doing? Did you… forget something?” 

But you would be positioned half leaning over the bed, taking back the covers so it would be comfortable for you to sleep - and your ass would be unintentionally on full display. Your sweet pussy lips peeking at him from behind, the roundness of your ass so fucking inviting, daring him to leave bite marks across the beautifully fat flesh. 

And after a few moments of him staring so brazenly, saying nothing, simply drinking in the gorgeous sight of your body bent over, wearing so little clothing, wearing those perfect little lace panties-

(Stiles sped up his hand on his cock, the lube sounding downright sloppy in the silence of the room.) 

You would stand up to your full height, come to him in the doorway, put your face so close to his and say: 

“If you’re gonna spend so much time staring at me like a gaping idiot, then you should do something about it.” 

Stiles had to stop the swift movements of his hand and clutch his grip tightly around the base of his cock, making his entire dick throb hard as he edged off his own orgasm. 

He still wasn’t sure why the idea of you calling him an ‘idiot’ in such a brazen tone made him want to cum so hard - but he didn’t have time to unpack all that now. 

He grabbed up the panties again with his non-lubed hand. Something in the back of his mind thought that it would be a crime for him to get them dirty. Another part argued that he would absolutely love to get them covered in his cum, not clean them, and then return them to you. That it would be fucking thrilling to have you wear them in that dirtied state. 

Though he knew that would never fucking happen. 

If he returned the panties to you covered in his cum, then you would slap him, call him a pervert, and likely have Scott beat the shit out of him with his newly harnessed werewolf strength. Stiles pushed this thought to the back of his mind, though. 

Out of curiosity, he lifted the fabric to his nose and took a whiff. They smelled like fresh laundry - a nice lemony detergent. Of course they weren’t ones you had previously worn - they were a pair you had been planning on wearing tomorrow. 

He distantly wondered if that meant you would not be wearing underwear tomorrow, because he had taken your intended pair. And that could have led his mind down a whole different filthy track, but instead - he began to wonder what a pair of your dirty underwear might smell like. 

You should take a pair of used ones. A voice in his mind told him. Snatch them right out of the hamper. Come on, you’re over at her place all the time. She won’t even notice them gone. 

Terrible idea. Terrible rabbit hole. 

But what would they smell like? 

He wasn’t deluded enough to think that pussy smelled like roses. He had never been close enough to one - a real pussy - before to actually know. Yes, he was a virgin. He could have said that he was waiting, ‘saving it’ for you - but every other girl, including you, was smart enough to look past him. There were plenty of other guys who were better looking and more charming than him, and probably better in bed than him, that girls had chosen instead of him. 

He wondered if your pussy smelled like that perfect bit of sweat that you gathered at the end of a long day. Sometimes when he went to hug you before the two of you parted ways, he would catch a whiff of the tiniest undertone of musk, a good amount of sweat paired with the berry scented body spray you had put on that morning, and orange tic-tacs you had popped after lunch. It was a delectable combination. 

He imagined that your cunt would smell like that bit of sweat, combined with the blueberry body wash you used - the one he knew about and loved because of the time you had insisted he use your shower while stinking up a study session because he had skipped the showers after lacrosse practice when he was late to be with you. 

He imagined getting hints of that blueberry body wash smell coming off your thighs when his head was buried between them. What would your cunt taste like? That was a mystery he wanted to solve live. 

He could always imagine the other aspects so well. 

He could imagine the feeling of the heat under his tongue, the perfect feeling of your wetness mixing with his spit. He imagined getting to bounce your swollen clit against his tongue and while feeling your moans and cries of his name vibrate through your body as he pleasured you so well - the feeling of your pubes brushing against his cheeks as his entire face became soaked with your wetness. 

But the taste - that was something he could never conjure up in his mind, no matter how hard he tried. 

He knew that eating your pussy would be perfect. Not just because he would be giving you pleasure, serving you. But he so often dreamed of having his head smothered by your thighs, having you grab his head and shove him tighter into your cunt, you purposeful and demanding. You having that beautiful control over him while he drowned in your wetness. 

He knew that he would likely cum in his pants from eating you out if he ever got the privilege of doing so, and even if you laughed at him - stupidly, he would find that hot too. 

Stiles picked up the pace again, pumping his cock in hand evenly and firmly - even reaching down with the other hand to cradle his balls, gently rolling the flesh in his hand as he got lost in another fantasy of you. 

He imagined the two of you in his bed - textbooks forgotten and pushed off onto the floor, your dress hiked up around your hips, and again, those fucking purple lace panties. He was on top of you, hovering on his knees so that his hard cock wouldn’t brush against you (even through his jeans) while the two of you sloppily made-out. 

It wasn’t long before you pulled away from his kiss-swollen lips. 

“Stiles,” You purred into his ear, kissing along his neck. “You know, you’re so pathetic.” 

These words had his cock jumping, spurting out precum - in his fantasy, it made his underwear messy as you undid his fly. 

In the real world, it made his hand messy as he continued to rhythmically jerk his cock. 

“I’m not gonna let you fuck me.” You told him, contrasting these words with your intentions as you put your hands inside his waistband and shoved his pants and underwear down over his hips - down to his knees until his hard, throbbing cock was exposed. “Not until you prove yourself.” 

Before Stiles could ask the question, the beautiful, fantastic you that he had made up inside his mind gave him the perfect answer. 

“Get yourself off by rubbing your pathetic dick against my panties. And then - I might let you fuck me.” 

In the real world, Stiles let out a throttled moan - a choked sound that surely would have had his father knocking on the door to ask if he was okay if he was at home. And then he rushed to grab the panties again, and without even thinking, he used his sticky lubed up hand to position the fabric around his dick. It was a coarse roughness compared to the slick smoothness he had previously been feeling, but it did wonders to complete his fantasy as he delved back to the you inside of his mind. 

He started rubbing the slightly lube-sticky rough fabric up and down his dick at a very slow pace as he imagined it: 

Being perched between your thighs, with the fabric of the panties stuck to your wet cunt, his cock hard and leaking as he tucked himself right up against you and began to rub his dick against you in order to get off. Just like you wanted, just like you had ordered him to do. 

“Please.” Stiles chanted, the words leaking out of his lips, chanted into his empty bedroom as he pleaded to the imaginary you that would always have a hold over him - just as tight of a hold as the real you had. “Please, please - oh fuck.” 

He moved the fabric over his cock faster as he moved his hips faster in the fantasy, imagining how hot your pussy would feel against him, imagining your nails digging into his hips as you looked up at him with mocking and adoration in your eyes. He imagined you forcing his hips faster, trapping him in place with your knees bracketed around his thighs, showing him absolutely no mercy. 

“Please, please, please.” He chanted, knowing with a distant part of his mind that he must have sounded utterly delirious. “Please, Y/N, lemme cum-” 

“Cum for me, Stiles.” 

Confirmed by that fantasy version of you and truly unable to hold it any longer, Stiles arched up off the bed, cumming all over his own fist. Just as he had predicted, it was an utter, uncontrollable mess. He shot cum all over his stomach, and absolutely soaked the fabric of the panties - making a horrible mess of them. Which, the lube had definitely already done. He laid there for a single moment catching his breath before it truly hit him. 

Fuck. He had fucked up. 

You would definitely notice the underwear missing after a while and he certainly couldn’t return them to you in this condition. 

… 

Stiles spent the next hour in the bathroom, absolutely panicking over how to get them clean. Luckily, he wasn’t a total idiot and he looked up the washing instructions online - and after hand-washing them in warm water with a ‘gentle’ detergent (handsoap was the best that he could do), they came out perfectly clean. 

The only problem? 

Hang to dry. 

He set his alarm for early, earlier than you suggested, and prayed that he wouldn’t sleep through it. In fact, he set three more alarms just to make sure. He couldn’t have you or his father barging into his room to wake him up when he had a pair of your stolen panties pinned to his corkboard in order to properly dry them so that he could sneak them back to you in good condition. 

… 

The next day, he departed for school by 6:45 with the stolen goods hidden away in his bag, ready to sneak them back into your room later that afternoon. He made it to the library ten whole minutes before seven, and you seemed shocked that he was not only on time - but early. 

“Wow.” You said, having just gotten there yourself, spreading out your items at a table - including a tray with some coffees. “You know, Stiles, I am impressed.” 

“You don’t have to act so - so shocked.” He replied, partially interrupted by a yawn. 

You leaned over to get a pen from your bag, and Stiles’s eyes immediately went to your ass, unconsciously trying to spot panty lines through your dress and tights - wondering if you were even wearing underwear because he had stolen the ones you had intended for today. 

Focus, Stiles. Focus. 

“Well, if you weren’t here by seven sharp like I told you, I was gonna pour this in the garbage.” You told him, taking his coffee out of the paper tray and sliding it toward him. 

“You don’t have to be so mean.” He chuckled, airy and light - very secretly annoyed with the way your ‘mean’ streak affected him sometimes. Why did he have to be turned on by you scolding him and punishing him? Why? 

“Hey, if I’m not mean then you never get anything done.” You told him truthfully. “And you know how it works by now. Good boys get rewards and bad boys get spanked.” You told him, letting out a bright laugh - indicating that it was clearly meant to be a joke. 

But instantly, it shook his mind with imagery of you bending him over the table, ripping his pants down and spanking him until he came untouched and cried for mercy, forcing him to agree that he would behave and listen to you. He became downright dizzy at the thought. 

You meant it as a joke - he had to sharply remind himself. But the way you so casually called him a ‘good boy’, said that he was deserving of a ‘reward’ - it sent chills down his spine and already had his cock waking up. Too early. Bad rabbit hole. 

If he was any sort of brave, he would have pushed it more and asked you what kind of ‘reward’ you had in mind. But he wasn’t, and he was too tired to analyze the potential consequences. 

“Oh!” You said, as though suddenly remembering something. You moved to grab your bag again and Stiles closed his eyes to forcefully keep himself from staring at your ass. “You left this at my place last night.” You told him, sliding his English textbook across the table toward him. 

He was too busy trying to calm his own lust that he missed the smirk on your face - the mischief lingering in your eyes, the intention in your tone. He was too caught up, drowning in his own affections for you that he never would have pieced together that you had taken in and hidden it on purpose as a ploy to get him to come back. That you had put out some other bait for him to find. 

“Thanks.” He said quietly. “So - what do we need to go over before the test?”

“Everything.” 

Stiles groaned.

...

A/N: Yes, there is a sequel for this fic in my drafts. It is something that I worked on during my hiatus. It's 10k long, and it's pretty much done.

If you would like to see the sequel edited and posted in a timely manner, I would like to see at least 30 reblogs and 25 comments on this fic - in the form of replies or anon asks.

102 people liked the preview for this fic and I know a lot of people are interested in it, so I am only asking for a 1/4 of the people who liked the preview to interact this fic before I release the sequel. But please, keep comments to the content of this fic rather than just asking for the next part to be released.

If you want to be tagged in the next part, you can ask to be put on my Teen Wolf taglist by interacting with this post, but please know that if you don't follow my taglist rules, you will be removed from the taglist promptly. If that happens, you are still welcome to read and enjoy future fics, you just won't be included in my taglists ever again.

Happy reading, and I hope you enjoyed the fic!!

[teenwolfpackincorrectcaptions]

Stiles: Have you ever noticed Derek has a really fat ass? Scott: I hadn't noticed, I usually just stare at his chest. Stiles: Yeah! He has huge tits too. Isaac: Why do I even hang out with you?

(source)

[sterekchub]

Thanksgiving ideas.... As Alpha - Derek and Scott end up invited to a week worth of dinners. With the Mccalls, the Stilinskis, the charity benefit meal at the police station, the pack dinner.... Even Derek has to finally cave and accept he's going to need sweatpants after his jeans pop open during dinner #1 Scott and Stiles get stoned and eat the entire Thanksgiving feast that has been sitting in their fridge for the next da. Their punishment? Derek is going to feed them turkey and funnel them full of gravy until the couch is creaking under their weight...

[twpromptsillneverwrite]

Stiles: Does this shirt make me look fat?

Derek: It makes my dick look fat.

Stiles: I can never talk to you.

Derek: It's getting fatter.

[star-stilinski]

What about Stiles fic where their class is going on a school trip and Stiles has a massive crush on a reader and he's been trying to show it/make a move for a long time but he couldn't because they're friends and because in his eyes reader is perfect so he thinks they're too good for him and sth happens on a trip (maybe there's a party or the pack decides to play a game) and he somehow confesses or kisses the reader

Sorry if it's confusing 🙈😅

THIS WAS REQUESTED ON AUGUST 28TH. I AM SO SO SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG. also: 'tis once again unedited. beware.

(i'm gonna clarify now: this is NOT the school trip they take in season 3A. that was too dark and serious and important for me to try and weave a cute storyline in!)

☆

six months ago, stiles had tried to give you flowers. they got crushed in his bag and then fell in a brown puddle when he tried to take them out and give them to you.

three months ago, he tried to have a study date with you where he planned on cooking food and confessing over dinner on the floor of his bedroom. not the most romantic, but he had candles! .....until his dad dropped one and broke it, stiles lost another, and the rest became futile when he burnt dinner and scott called him all panicked, realizing it was a full moon and he didn't have a plan.

and then there was the lacrosse game last week. they won, no thanks to stiles the benchwarmer, but he got you a necklace. your favorite metal with a small pendant of your favorite flower. and he told himself, if they won -no, when they won- he would find you in the bleachers immediately and bear hug you the way you liked. then, he would present the necklace and ask to be your boyfriend.

and that one, unfortunately, had no excuse other than stiles was a big fat chicken. he found you, you bear hugged, and when he pulled back and looked you in your deep, excited eyes...

he chickened out.

it was nothing against you. oh no. no, no, no way. even the suggestion was ridiculous to stiles. the only reason he couldn't confess was the same reason everything conveniently went wrong every other time he tried to confess. the same reason he bit back every compliment, the same reason he held himself back when he went to touch you, for any reason. and god, stiles hated himself for that stupid string tugging him back to home base every time he went running out to first.

stiles, being bluntly honest with himself, was half convinced you were too good to even be his friend. don't get him wrong, he wouldn't lose your friendship for the world. which is part of his problem. he looked at you and saw a clever, funny, adaptable idiot with the looks of a goddess. he could pick your eye color out of a deck of those swabs you'd find at home depot and get the shade exactly right. he had your moles and freckles memorized, the scars on your knees mapped, he knew the way your lips curved up when you had a bad idea like he knew the back of his hand.

so when he looked in the mirror and saw stiles; skinny, rude, distrusting, not nearly as muscular as your type. not nearly as handsome, or kind, or gentlemanly. not nearly enough. he could tell you exactly why he had yet to confess.

you were too good for him, plain and simple.

so when he got up for your guys' class trip to some big museum, he wasn't feeling too fantastic. sure, you had texted him last night asking to sit with him on the bus ride there (lydia and allison were predictably going to sit together), and that had led to the two of you going from texting to calling until two in the morning. and you had said "i need to go to bed but i don't wanna hang up" and his heart had practically fell out of his mouth with how fast it beat when he heard your timid sleepy voice.

but then he woke up the next morning and remembered that you did not like him. he always forgot that when you were alone, talking for hours and never getting bored. or, alternatively, when you two could just be quiet together and never get uncomfortable. it just felt so natural with you. you were just so perfect.

and stiles was not. it sucked, and it hurt like hell, but he would live with it like he always did. even if it felt like it was getting worse every day. the highs and lows, that is; going from the 'oh my god she does like me!' to the soul-crushing 'oh. that's right. friends.'

he was currently at the low point, brushing his teeth and pulling out his clothes for the day. his jeep already had his bag in it, packed for the three day trip to a huge, fancy museum a little ways into a bigger town near beacon hills. he had done some research on the exhibits to see if there was anything he'd want to sneak off and see, and he found something you'd be fascinated by. part of him wanted to surprise you, and part of him knew you'd get antsy not knowing.

he realized he was smiling thinking about your antsy face and had to shake his head a bit, spitting out his toothpaste in the sink and splashing his face with water. get it together, stilinski.

☆

later, he's got his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and your backpack on the other, watching you from afar while you chat animatedly with allison and lydia.

all the students attending the trip were meeting outside next to the parked busses at an ungodly hour of the morning. you had said a tired "g'morning" to him and he had offered to hold your things, before the girls had dragged you away. and now, he stood like a sap watching you slowly wake up in the company of your friends.

"dude," he hears scott approach beside him, and he has to force himself to turn away from you to acknowledge him. "you've got it so bad."

stiles scoffs at his best friend, giving him a knowing look. it's the same as it's always been since you came in the picture. "yeah, okay, and you're so much better? don't think i didn't notice you looked for allison before you found me. you know, a 'good morning, stiles' would have done just fine."

scott shakes his head, and stiles clocks his 'you're so done for' look in a second. before he can remark on it, scott hums "good morning, stiles."

"good morning. do you have any idea when we're supposed to get going?" stiles resumes his admiring just in time to see you giggle behind your hand. he can see scott adjust his bag on his shoulder and join in the simp stare-off. his subject being allison, of course.

"i dunno, probably within the hour. you know coach never gets us anywhere on time. that's why i slept in."

stiles side-eyes scott. "stop acting like it was a strategic move and not you forgetting to set your alarm."

scott frowns, and opens his mouth to retaliate when coach's grating voice sounds from the front of the gaggle of sleepy teens.

"alright, the buses are gonna start loading and we got the nice ones, so put your bags in the bottom storage spaces. make sure you know who you want to sit with. we don't need a repeat of last year's incident, greenburg. okay, get your scrawny asses moving. lets go!"

he claps his hands hastily and the buses open their storage compartments. stiles haphazardly tosses his duffel bag in, annoying some kid trying to do things in an orderly fashion. he's not sure what to do with your backpack, since he remembered you having a suitcase too. just as stiles goes looking for you, he feels himself being turned around by the shoulder.

"hey, don't store that." you hum, holding his non-backpack shoulder with one hand and reaching for your backpack with the other. "it's got my book, i might wanna read on the way if i can't sleep."

"it's okay, i can hold it until we get on." stiles nods and blinks rapidly to try and shake the warmth he feels where your hand holds his shoulder. when you smile groggily up at him, he just about falls over. "you look tired, anyway."

you nod, and to his disappointment your hand leaves his shoulder to rub at your eye. he smiles a little at how cute it is, compared to your usual too-pretty-and-argumentative-to-be-cute look. "yeah, i couldn't sleep. i swear, if i don't pass out on this bus, hit my head against the window until i lose consciousness."

"aw, so you get to sleep and get window seat? this feels unfair."

"you're lucky i'm not making you sit with greenburg. remember the incident?" you both make your way to the line of kids boarding the buses, right behind scott (who is surprisingly convincing allison to sit with him).

"oh, i remember. coach said if we bring it up on this trip it'll curse us. sort of a 'theater kid hamlet' situation."

"do you think if we tell the story three times it'll reoccur?"

"that's beeltejuice."

you roll your eyes, just as stiles continues with a smirk. "beetlejuice, bee-"

"what are you two even talking about?" pipes in a tired danny from behind you. you both whip your heads around and find him giving the two of you an incredulous look. "it's eight in the morning, how are you this awake?"

"my company is just lively and fun, danny." you joke, turning up your nose. stiles knows you're playing, trying to be enjoyable before you crash and get cranky. he doesn't realize he has that idiotic sappy smile as you keep talking. "i don't hang around closet cases and wannabes. me and stiles like to summon demons in our free time."

"you sure you're not hanging out with a closet cased wannabe?" danny drawls as the three of you shuffle forward in line.

stiles scoffs. "i am not a wannabe."

danny slowly raises an eyebrow.

"..... or a closet case-look, we were perfectly content with our conversation before you rudely interrupted. so if you'll excuse us."

you laugh quietly but it turns to a yawn, and you use a sweater-pawed hand to cover it. stiles mentally picks out his coffin. yeah, he's planning on killing himself if you keep looking so holdable. no biggie.

"yeah, you look so content, stiles." danny mumbles through his sleep deprivation. stiles blushes pink and glares at him. fucking danny. shut up.

"god, i probably look horrible right now. i didn't feel like putting makeup on at seven AM, and of course my two hot best friends show up with swipes of mascara and blush and look like runway models." you're talking to yourself, stiles can hear the familiar tone. he adjusts your backpack on his shoulder and squeezes the strap tight, imagines holding you around the waist and pressing his face into your neck. telling you how wrong you are, telling you,

"shut up, you look cute."

oh fuckity shit! great job, stiles. wanna go ahead and relay every fantasy you've had of her while you're at it? what about you favorite one in freshman year, when you were first getting the hang of your hormonal wants and needs? fucking idiot said it out loud.

"liars go to hell, stiles." you hum, only half-joking. he clears his throat, blushing. you dug this grave, stiles. now lie in it.

"i'm not lying." it's simple, he can hear danny huff out an unsatisfied breath in the back, and he can feel you shift next to him. your shoulder brushes his arm.

"alright. thank you."

he has never heard you speak to him like that before. it's... sure, full of your usual "i don't believe you" insecurity, but something else catches in your tone. it's quieter. softer. he scoots forward in line.

when you're both on the bus (you at the window, stiles at the isle), you fall asleep on his shoulder in seconds. your arms wrap around his bicep like a teddy bear, and he falls asleep quickly after, head lolled back on the top of the seat.

scott, now successfully sitting with allison, takes a few photos and sends them to stiles. allison peers over scott at you two, 'aww'ing quietly.

"i knew he liked her back." allison whispers to scott, sliding her palm down his arm to squeeze his hand. she's grinning, and scott admires her dimples silently. "she's so convinced otherwise, like he's 'too good' for her or something."

"wait-" scott blinks away the lovesick fog in his head and registers allison's words. "wait."

"what? what is it?" allison tugs on his hand, trying to catch his eyes as he sees the next three days unfold before him, as well as things clicking into place from years prior. allison grows more impatient. "scott?"

"she likes him? for sure?"

allison's eyes widen as she nods. "crazy for him."

scott turns back to watch as you nuzzle against stiles and huff out a breath in your sleep, causing stiles to make a 'auh' noise as he snores. allison joins him, and seems to see the next three days, this trip they're on their way to, play out before her as well. a smirk grows on both of their faces, and scott's voice is full of mischief when he speaks.

"then let's help them out."

☆

stiles can feel the ghost of your body pressed against his even once you've been separated into your hotel rooms. you're with allison, lydia, and some girl named claire that's friends with lydia.

stiles and scott are alone, after all the guys picked their roomies and the dust settled. stiles was grateful, for once, that they still didn't quite reach that popularity status. having his own bed to curl up and die in after spending a whole day looking at exhibits with you was a blessing.

"so..." scott hums after they set their bags down (which looked more like throwing them on the nearest bed or couch). "big day."

"it is?" stiles is rifling through his bag, searching for his phone charger.

"well, y'know, lots of opportunity..." stiles can hear scott smirking. oh no. "lots of ideas..."

stiles rubs a frustrated hand down his face when he can't find his charger, only half listening to his best friend. "ideas? scott, what the hell are you talking about?"

"ideas like maybe you should see if a certain someone needs a room to stay in for the night." scott leans against the wall, watching stiles with a knowing smirk and crossed arms. stiles straightens and sets his attention on scott.

"are you asking me to invite a girl over? with you in the room? and coach breathing down our backs? and dead cockroaches in the corners? how romantic, wow."

"obviously i'd find somewhere else to go!" scott defends, feeling his feeble attempt slipping away from him. stiles can see it in his eyes. he's so bad at scheming. "and coach will knock out at ten. you know he's a heavy sleeper with a tight schedule. and... well, the cockroach thing is out of my hands. you can clean up?"

stiles raises an eyebrow at scott. "if you wanna have sex with allison, i'd be more than happy to sleep in danny's room, scott. i hear he's a cuddler."

scott blushes and groans, picking up his phone and texting in an annoyed attitude. "that's not..."

scott leaves the sentence unfinished and stiles doesn't ask him to change that, opting instead to checking the front pocket for his charger. he could've sworn he grabbed it.

instead of the sweet victory of a chord, stiles' fingers brush a hard box. he frowns and pulls the small, dark object out and turns his back to scott, who's too busy texting god knows who to notice anyway.

"what the..." stiles turns the small box over in his hands before he feels his whole body go cold with shame. the loopy, gold lettering of the jeweler he bought your necklace from. the necklace that he failed to give you just over a week ago. the necklace that he shoved back in his duffel bag after the game, hauled home and promptly buried in the back of his mind.

and now, it had travelled hours with him and appeared right when he was on a 'oh my god she does like me' high from the bus. like a physical embodiment of his inadequacy, it dumps a bucket of ice-cold water on his heart and leaves him dripping wet and filled with shame.

he sets the box down on his bedside table and makes for the door. yep, he's totally storming out like a baby. whatever.

"where are you going?" scott calls as he swings the door open.

"i'll be right back." stiles hisses over his shoulder, skittering out of the room as quickly as he can.

stiles rubs a hand over his mouth as he goes for the stairs. all he needs is five seconds alone to wallow, and he'll be fine.

instead, when he swings open the door to the staircase, he finds you in the corner, sitting on the platform with your phone in front of you. your head whips up and you blink up at him. "oh, hey."

"hey." he nods, tilting his head a bit. "what... what are you doing?"

you wave your phone, shrugging. "just taking a second. the girls were talking about tonight. after the museum, what they wanna do."

you pause, looking away from stiles.

"who they wanna do."

stiles shuffles, clears his throat, rubs his neck, does anything to fill the space. "ah, yeah, scott seemed to be getting at that too. i wonder if the wet towel stench of this place is an aphrodisiac."

you laugh, pressing your phone in between your thighs as you draw your knees closer to your chest. he analyzes you, before smiling softly.

you look up at where he stands, and when your eyes lock, it's like everything else gets blurry. all stiles can see is you; hair all messy from the bus ride, bags under your eyes, picking at your nails. he wants to kiss you. so bad.

you suck in a breath and both of you snap out of it, you going for your phone and stiles speaking to cover his tracks.

"it's probably almost time for us to be heading back to the buses." he offers you his hand. "you should bring a jacket, just in case."

"i'll be fine." you grab his hand and he pulls you up. "i didn't bring any comfortable ones, anyway."

he holds open the door for you and you both part ways for your respective rooms, trying to ignore the electric feeling where your hands touched.

☆

"alright, now i know you horndogs can't be trusted," coach stands in front of the bus with the light of the hotel parking lot and the moon casting odd shadows on his face. "so i expect lights out at eleven. ya hear me? eeee-leee-veeen. and remember to take some notes for the essay you'll be writing about this trip. alright, get out of here."

the museum had been interesting enough, but nothing to write home about. you and stiles had been separated into different groups, so the closest he got to seeing you all day was that morning and the things your and your friends posted on your private stories throughout the tour.

and then there was the bus ride home, but you sat with lydia in the back, and stiles was stuck next to coach himself near the front, since his best friend took it upon himself to remind stiles of his singleness and sit with allison. which was fine, until every other spot was taken except for the one right next to the bane of stiles' existence. whatever.

so stiles got to his hotel room in a bit of a sour mood, needing to numb his brain on his phone or the tv and knock out asap.

just as he had gotten on his pj pants and flopped (shirtless) into his hotel bed, there was a knock at the door. expecting one of the guys to be asking to borrow a pillow or something, stiles continued to lay on the bed as scott swung open the door. but instead of one of the guys, stiles hears the voice of an angel ring through the hall.

"hey, sorry, do you guys mind if i use your shower? all the girls in my room need to and i'll be up until ungodly hours waiting my turn. just wanted to get it over with and go to bed." you ask scott, whose eyes widen slightly. he nods vehemently and lets you in, giving stiles no warning to throw on a shirt or get under the covers or hide or something.

you thank scott and smile at stiles as you pass through to their bathroom, setting your stuff down on the sink counter on the way so you could get organized.

"hey stiles, you forget something?" you joke, not even sparing him a glance as he grabs a t-shirt and hastily shoves it on. he can feel his cheeks burn red and grumbles.

"you barged into my room, what were you expecting?" he fusses with his hair. scott stifles a laugh poorly.

"decency." you hum, winking prettily at the poor blushing boy before stepping into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you. the boys are frozen a moment as the water starts running, and then stiles falls back against the pillows, groaning.

scott rubs the back of his neck, smiling. "maybe she thinks the grumpy attitude is cute?"

"get out."

scott's smirk grows, and he steps towards stiles' bed. "why? wanna have the room to yourself?"

"no, so i don't slowly suffocate the life out of you with one of these pillows. you know, real friends try to encourage and cheer on their friend's romantic escapades."

"i am encouraging!"

"not well!"

"okay, well, i was leaving anyway." scott turns towards the door and stiles shoots up, scooting towards the edge of the bed.

"what? why?"

scott turns slowly, jaw ticking like he's hiding something. stiles knows the tell.

"...allison... needs.... to borrow my..... shoes......"

stiles watches the cringe slowly crawl up scott's face. he shakes his head, waving his best friend out. "you know, that is much better than half the lies i've heard you tell to go see her. wrap it first, dude."

"i'm not...! ugh, okay, bye." scott leaves in a hurry and stiles shakes his head, used to scott's antics. at least someone's getting some.

that leaves stiles to listen as the water patters down in the shower. he has to turn the tv on and scroll on his phone so that his mind doesn't conjure up images of you in the shower.

images of your wet hair shining softly in the light. your skin, slick and plush, covered in scented suds. stiles clenches his jaw as he imagines the rest of you. as he imagines things he totally should not, having to turn the volume up on his phone and will the blood in his body to stop concentrating to the wrong places. he sighs.

"i'm so screwed." he mumbles, letting his phone fall to his chest.

not even minutes later, the water shuts off and you come out, hair up in the towel like a turbie-twist, smelling like hotel body wash and your shampoo. he watches you moisturize your face in the mirror, then take your hair out of the towel and hang it up, brushing your hair quietly in the meantime.

there's something intimate about laying in bed and watching you pamper yourself. stiles admires your legs and your concentrated face, feeling a bit like a husband watching his wife. god he fucking wishes.

"find something interesting?" you break the silence as you put product in your hair, making the room smell even nicer. it's like a bath & body works ran through the room, covering the boyish musk.

stiles blinks, registering the fact that your question wasn't rhetorical. "...huh?"

"on tv," you giggle and meet his lovesick eyes through the reflection. "did you find anything interesting to watch?"

"oh, um." he shifts up, glancing at the tv where a bland action movie plays. "not really. why?"

you finish your nightly routine and turn to face him. you look like a clean, fresh dream. dewy from the shower, damp hair and healthy skin. you look happier, too, like getting clean helped with your tired funk. as you get closer to the bed, stiles feels the temptation to touch you- to feel how soft your skin is after a shower. but he's not a perv, and you wouldn't want it.

would you?

"where's scott?" you ignore his previous question and crawl onto stiles' bed, sitting next to him and practically knocking him over with how good you smell and how pretty you look. he wants to pull you into his chest and die in this dingy old room.

"scott? oh. i..." stiles ponders saving a lie for his friend, but he knows allison probably had a similarly see-through excuse and opts for the truth. "i think he went to have sex with allison. not sure where."

you roll your eyes, getting comfortable against the pillows-and stiles' side. he blushes all the way down to his neck.

"all the girls are room shuffling to hook up. coach is an idiot if he thinks telling teens lights out will stop them from getting some on a school trip." you move stiles' arm to press yourself into his side more comfortably. "that's like, the whole point of a school trip."

stiles feels a sudden bout of jealously coarse through him. "is that the point of this trip for you?"

you sigh, pressing your head against his side and dampening his shirt. stiles, feeling bold from your cuddling, wraps his arm around you. his heart hammers as you draw out the silence, taking too long to answer for his liking.

“no, it’s not.”

he breathes out a sigh of relief.

“is… is that the point for you?”

stiles sometimes forgets that you don’t know. he’s surprised for that very reason by your timid question, like you’re scared of his answer too. it’s almost laughable to him, since it must be obvious. the way he stares, the way he touches you like you’re a gift from the gods, how he constantly calls you and keeps track of your location on pack missions, your study dates he spends making you laugh and letting you control the music. the inside jokes, the good morning texts, the good night phone calls. he knows when you’re going to cry, when you’re going to smile. isn’t it obvious? isn’t it?

and yet you’re curled up against his side, making his arm fall asleep and getting his pjs wet, completely unaware that he wouldn’t let this slide with anyone else. he turns to face the tv, swallowing.

“no. it’s not.”

the two of you fall silent, watching the tail end of a crappy spy movie. the volume is low enough not to be bothersome but high enough that you can hear. stiles can feel your body slowly relaxing completely under his arm, head resting against his chest like a pillow. the dim lighting of the bedside lamp illuminates your features like an oil painting, and stiles can’t look away.

your lashes flutter closed and your lips part, huffing small breaths out and giving him goosebumps. your brow pinches slightly and you shift, curling one leg over his. he shuffles lower onto the pillows and now you’re both laying, eyes closed, falling asleep to the sound of an infomercial.

☆

stiles wakes up to an empty bed, feeling cold where you were laying. it’s late-or early. stiles can’t tell and the clock in his room is off. he sits up and looks for you, hearing the bathroom door click open.

“oh, sorry. had to pee.” you mumble tiredly, washing your hands, giving stiles a moment to blink away the sleep and admire your short shorts. he scratches his bed head and shrugs.

“‘s okay. were you, uh.. comfortable?”

you nod as you walk back to the bed and crawl back over to him. he adjusts to accommodate you again, but you pull at the covers. “let’s get under these. I was freezing.”

he obeys, but just as you go to resume your previous position, your eyes catch on the bedside table. “what’s that?”

“huh?” he raises his head off the pillow and follows your gaze. “what’s what?”

you reach across him and pluck the small jewelry box off the table. “this. woah, looks fancy. is it a hospitality gift or something?”

you start to open the box, and stiles snatches it out of your hands roughly, making you jump. if you see the pendant, your favorite flower and your favorite metal, you’ll know. you’ll know and you’ll call him a creep and slap him, get out of the bed like it’s on fire, and he’ll lose you. that’s the last thing he can lose.

so stiles tosses the box away, onto scott’s bed, urging you to lay back down.

“it’s nothing. just some gift scott’s planning on giving to allison, i think.” his tone has an edge that makes you curl away from him.

“oh, okay. um. but it had your name, on the bottom.”

“what?”

“the order sticker, it had your name. did… are you lying to me?” you sit up, over him now. he swallows back the surge of longing he’s hit with, when he sees your hair a bit messy and your shirt hanging off one gorgeous shoulder, giving him a glimpse of your skin.

“lying? no, scott just needed me to order it so it could be a surprise.” he’s fumbling the fib now, and he can see you doubt him in your deep, pretty eyes. he feels a lump of panic in his throat. “lay down, I’m tired and coach’ll have us up early.”

your eyes narrow and you shift away from his hands. fuck. “that doesn’t make sense. scott could just take the sticker off.”

“yeah,” stiles tries to look casual, rubbing his eye. “I don’t get it either. scott just wanted to be really cautious.”

“scott’s never cautious.” you’re glaring at him now, and stiles wants to melt into the pillows. “you’re lying.”

“jesus, why are you so suspicious of me? it’s just some stupid jewelry scott got for his girlfriend, alright?”

“don’t talk to me that way.” you hiss, getting off the bed. stiles shoots up like a rocket and goes after you as you gather your things in the shower.

“no, I didn’t mean… fuck, okay, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, i just got defensive.” he paces and scrubs the back of his neck anxiously. “I’m sorry, okay? I am.”

you turn to face him, sizing him up. stiles watches you with a mouth open, ready to plead. “why did you get defensive? because you’re lying? did you get jewelry for a girl?”

stiles steps back, slapped in the face by the ice in your tone. something sharp lingers, like…

like jealousy.

he scrambles to stop you as you make for the door, grabbing your shoulders.

“please, cmon, seriously? you’re gonna leave over this? I…”

you shrug off his grip roughly and he lets you pass. “you let me sleep in your bed when you planned on giving jewelry to another girl, stiles. now I’m stuck looking like some… homewrecker, and this poor girl won’t know a thing. you know how bad this looks? on top of the lying? just… goodnight.”

he gapes at you as you leave, the door shutting loudly behind you. stiles can’t even move for a second.

what the fuck just happened?!

it was paradise, sleeping next to you.

and here he is, back in hell. because of his own cowardice.

he tugs at his hair and squeezes his eyes shut. “fucking dammit!”

he has a hard time sleeping after that.

☆

the next day, stiles wakes up late and has to rush getting ready. the necklace box has disappeared and he’s honestly grateful; his eyes sting a bit, from being up late and all the crying he got up to once you left. scott barely got a word out of him all morning, and the bus ride to the museum was torture, listening to you chat and laugh just two rows behind him as if last night was some hazy dream-turned-nightmare.

it only got worse, too, when allison approached stiles as coach was breaking everyone into groups.

“so,” she hums, mischief painting her tone all singsonged. “how was your night?”

“I think you’re in group c.” stiles responds blandly, hands shoved in his pockets. you haven’t even looked at him all morning.

“no, no, some stuff got switched up. we’re with you now!” she grins, tilting her head to where scott is chatting you up kindly. you seem almost as tired as stiles. he cringes, knowing it's his fault.

allison blinks up at him, smiling all excitedly like that's good news to stiles. he shifts his weight, feeling uncomfortable under her gaze. "are you sure that's... when did that happen? there's no changing back or anything?"

her smile falls, and she tilts her head a bit. "no... is everything all right? you seem-"

"i'm fine." stiles lets his tone get snippy, and allison narrows her eyes, visibly recoiling.

"that's odd. i got the same response from her this morning." she nods her head towards you again. stiles doesn't even glance your way, afraid he'll see you and want to fall to his knees. allison purses her lips, before seeming to clock the situation. "did something happen?"

"no, no. nothing did. jesus, what's taking coach so long to get us going?"

"stiles, what happened between you and my best friend? something did, i can tell." she steps into his line of vision, and he huffs out a frustrated sigh.

"nothing, allison, jeez. now can we-"

"stiles, tell me right now or i'll go ask her instead. and she'll tell me. and then i'll tell her you said it was nothing and... and that will really hurt her feelings. you know it will. if it was something, it will."

"alright!" he snaps, shushing her and steering her by the shoulders away from the group. she still has that stubborn scowl on her face, and stiles scrubs a hand over his own expression as he tries to calm himself. "okay. fine."

"after the most recent game," he sighs, "i planned on telling her... how i feel about her. and i got her this necklace. cheesy, i know. but, um, i chickened out and put the necklace in my duffel bag. well, i forgot i did that and brought it all the way here on accident, and when i found it i put it on my bedside table. when she came over last night, she saw it and i got... i acted like an asshole to get her to drop the subject, and she could tell i was lying about it. and i feel like an idiot because i know she hates lying but it just felt so good to finally have her, for just a second. and then it all went to shit and now she thinks the necklace is for another girl and that i'm a player and a liar."

allison blinks, silent for a second. then , she breaks out in a huge, girly smile. "you got her a necklace?"

"will you-" he starts to cover her mouth before deciding against it, and swallows, glancing around to see if anyone heard. "it doesn't even matter now, okay? she hates my guts and i would too. i was kind of a horrible liar and huge dickhead back there."

"stiles stilinski, you're in loooove. that's so sweet!" allison is still hung up on the necklace (which stiles already lost), as she pokes his arm teasingly. "what was it?"

clenching his jaw, stiles grumbles out a short description of the necklace, and that only sends allison into a bigger giggling fit. he's blushing like a kid, glaring at her, and she doesn't even care.

"okay, well, you're gonna apologize. today. before we leave. and then that necklace is going around her neck and you're confessing, because you totally fucked up and she deserves a good day." allison is still grinning like the cheshire cat, and stiles shakes his head at her demands.

"noooo way, i'm not talking to her until my pride heals. and until she stops looking like that." he glances over at you finally, eyes filled with the longing in his chest. you look sad, even when you smile, like you feel it to your core. "i can't stand the thought that i made her look so..."

"rejected?" allison pipes in, also watching you now. "yeah, that's because she thinks the boy she's been head over heels for the past... however long, is about to gift expensive jewelry to another girl. you have the power to change that, stiles. and you're going to. today."

"but i-" stiles can't even form a response before allison's walking away and over to scott, pulling him away from the conversation you and him were having. you catch stiles staring, and the both of you look away like wounded animals.

☆

stiles is reading the information panel next to an exhibit when scott sidles up next to him, glaring holes into his skull. "dude."

"hm." stiles barely responds, immersed in the jargon of the museum that scott would have a hard time understanding.

"don't 'hm' me right now, allison told me what happened." stiles can hear the annoyance in his best friend's voice. "you have to tell her. right now. she's, like, depressed!"

"what do you want me to do?!" stiles hisses quietly, whirling around to face scott with a scowl. "i'm trying not to hurt her more by rubbing my presence all in her face!"

"first of all, gross." scott deadpans, scrunching his nose. "second of all, that is the complete opposite of what she needs. look, i'm not a genius when it comes to girls,"

stiles scoffs.

"but," scott continues, "if there's one thing i do know, it's that girls love apologies. good ones. ones that end with really nice gifts that are personalized to the girl. and you are totally screwing this up right now!"

stiles rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up slightly. "i don't even have the goddamn necklace on me!" their whispers grow a bit more passionate, and a few people turn their heads as they pass the boys. scott digs in his pocket, presenting the small box.

"it was on my bed this morning. now take it, and find a secluded spot and make your speech good. i swear to god, stiles, i can't stand watching you mope around like a lovesick dog and tell yourself she's 'too good' for you. if you don't get this over with, i'm telling her you like her and that's going to be a whole bunch of underwhelming."

stiles stares at scott with a bit of shock, mouth open slightly.

"what?"

"i didn't know you knew how to pronounce underwhelming. or what it meant. you've really been studying, huh?"

"shut up." scott laughs and shoves the box into stiles' chest. he catches it and stares at it hopelessly as scott leaves him to ponder, turning the box over in his hands.

the first thing stiles does is peel the sticker off the bottom. then, he shoves the box in his pocket and goes looking for you.

lo and behold, you're admiring a painting almost as pretty as you, eyes dancing along the brushstrokes like you made them yourself. stiles approaches quietly, letting his eyes drink you in for a moment before he dares to speak.

"hey," he hums and you jump a bit, turning on your heel to face him with wide eyes. "can we talk?"

you tuck some of your hair back and nod, not meeting his eyes. he nods too, just once, and leads you out of the room your group is in. stiles hopes he can remember correctly, that his research wasn't in vain and that exhibit that he knew you'd like was here. down a couple more huge halls filled with people, past the food court. you never asked where he was taking you, just looked around and followed closely behind.

there. a sign, in loopy writing with an arrow pointing to the left. stiles followed it and found the entrance, lit with pretty fairy lights and a huge sign above the door.

botanical garden.

he opens the door and lets you in first, but you don't step in; meeting his eyes instead, hesitating, and open your mouth to say something. but then you decide against it and go in, stiles following close behind.

it's gorgeous.

a greenhouse of sorts, with all kinds of flowers blooming all over. you lead the way, walking slowly and drinking in the sights and smells of the garden. stiles thinks you look radiant next to the spurts of color, complimenting them like you came with the garden itself. he watches you admire the different plants as you walk deeper into the garden, reaching the door that leads to the outdoor area slowly.

the two of you step outside and are blown away with the beauty of the garden. it's colorful and bright, doused in the scent of the flowers and sounding of the fountain in the water. once you start walking the path again, stiles musters up the bit of courage he might still possess and speaks up.

"i was an asshole last night."

you glance up at him, but continue walking silently.

"i lied to you, and i was wrong to do that. i'm sorry."

you stop abruptly, stiles skittering to a halt beside you and blinking down at your narrowed eyes.

"right. but you still let me sleep in your bed with full knowledge that you were going to... to... romance another girl the next day, and i don't think that's right."

he grinds his teeth and swallows. "i wasn't-i'm not going to romance another girl. can't you...?" he huffs, scruffing up his hair in frustraion.

"then who was the jewelry for?" you demand, stepping forward to accuse him more passionately. "looked awfully important, and don't try telling me it was anyone else's, stiles. i saw your name on the box. i mean, seriously, what kind of a lie-"

"it's you." the fountain erupts in a beautiful spurt of water beside the two of you. the confession comes out of stiles before he means it to, and it's not as lengthy and wordy as he pictured it. "it's always been you. really, seriously. always. i mean, you're so passionate and honest and funny and kind. are you kidding me? another girl? it's laughable. i've... i'm... it's you."

you stare up at stiles as he pleads at you with his eyes, filled with longing and need and want that goes unfulfilled without you. he's breathing a bit heavy as he watches you part your lips.

"me?"

he nods, eyebrows upturned, and fishes around his pocket before pulling out the small black box that caused him so much anguish. handing over, he urges you. "open it."

you do, pulling the lid off gently and peering down at what stiles has been hiding from you. a gasp leaves your lips as you pull out the small, gorgeous necklace that has your favorite flower dangling from the chain. you admire it for a long moment, leaving stiles to hold his breath and pray you don't throw it in the lake and run.

instead, you meet his eyes and he can see the tears brimming at the corners. "stiles. tell me it's not just a gift."

"no, no, no no no no-don't, don't cry." he panics, unsure of the cause of your emotional state as he rushes forward to cup your cheeks and swipe the tears as they begin to roll down your face. "it's not just a gift, it's a confession. i like you. so much. every day i wake up and i wish you were next to me. i constantly think about you, your hair and your eyes and your mind and your smile. i feel so... so home with you. please don't cry."

"they're good tears." you laugh and lean into one of his hands, sniffling. "i like you too, stiles. i just... i was so scared it was for another girl, i can't believe i was a bitch over nothing."

"you reacted just like i would, honestly. i should've just fessed up. i'm so sorry." he leans forward and presses his forehead to yours. "please forgive me."

"i do." you whisper immediately, warm in his hands. he sighs with relief and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment, drinking in the comfortable silence with you.

"let me put it on you?" he asks, heart still hammering from the leap he finally, finally took. how did he wait so long? having you like this is the best thing he's ever felt.

you hand him the necklace wordlessly and turn around, lifting your hair. he loops the pretty chain around your neck and clips it in the back, letting it fall against your skin. when you turn back to face him and show it off, asking a timid "how does it look?" he has to remember how to speak.

"it's perfect."

stiles leans forward slowly, giving you time to move. when you don't, he cups a hand around your neck and pulls you close, kissing you softly. he hears the box fall to the ground as you kiss back, arms looping around his neck and foot kicking up like it does in the movies. you fit just right against him, like you were made for each other. stiles tucks that thought away and pulls back, admiring your beautiful, just-kissed blush.

after a long pause, you break into a smile and stiles matches it, both of you giggling softly.

"oh my god, we're both idiots." you laugh, kissing his cheek sweetly. he hums in agreement and leans down, kissing the pendant that sits on your sternum. you swallow the giddy squeal that a young, newly-crushing you wants to emit from years prior. stiles pulls you close by the waist and smiles down at you, eyes darting between your lips and your eyes.

"does this mean i finally get to be your boyfriend?" he teases, a dopey grin he always seems to have with you melting your heart.

"i dunno," you pretend to think. "are you gonna lie to avoid having feelings around me?"

"gahhh," he throws his head back and groans. "am i ever gonna live that down?"

"nope!" you laugh and kiss his exposed neck. "you're really not."

"that's okay," he leans down again, lining up for another kiss. "as long as i get to keep doing this."

somehow, it's sweeter than the last, and the hand stiles doesn't have on your waist is pulling you closer gently by the pendant around your neck.

☆

allison and scott cheer like they just won a lacrosse game when you and stiles show up twenty minutes later than you were supposed to with your hands connected and silly smiles on your faces.

"we did it!" allison squeals, pulling scott in for a hug. "we're matchmakers!"

"we're so good at this, babe!" scott kisses all over his girlfriend's face and makes her laugh loudly. stiles raises an eyebrow at the couple.

"if by 'matchmakers' you mean threatening, stealing, lying, and emotionally manipulating-then yes, you two are fantastic at this." he drawls, making your eyes go wide as you hear everything they did to your (now) boyfriend. your eyes meet a guilty allison as her and scott begin to back away slowly.

"you two did what?!"

☆

heyyyyy guysss........ i feel so bad for taking so long omg. and this isn't even good enough in my eyes for the time it took!! i'm sorry i've been so inactive! i'm going to (hopefully) get the train back on track after this bad boy gets out and about. love you all, keep requesting lovely lovely dob characters! or just pop by and say hi, words of affirmation work better on me than they should (praise kink) (jk) (not jk) (but jk if it makes you uncomfortable)!

[casually-eat-my-soul]

I might get hate for this but I’ll it always find it funny that Scott pushes Derek to work with the argents (season 3 ish) and and struggles to understand why when he refuses to; When Scott himself refused to work with Derek for the longest time becuase Derek killed Peter.

Like brother in Christ, I get it, objectively Derek kinda manipulated Scott into helping kill Peter, by promising that he would be able to kill Peter and turn human (he did say it was a fat chance and just a legend). Yes he knew that the legend was bullshit but telling Scott was the best way to get him to help.

Dereks been a werewolf his entire life. He knew that he couldn’t kill Peter alone and that the risk of letting Scott kill Peter on a chance of turning human wasn’t worth it. �� Best case it happens Scott turns human, Derek maybe becomes an alpha werewolf (the spark transfers) and still creates the hale pack — maybe derek stays an Omega, goes feral and gets hunted down. Or maybe Scott turns into an alpha doesn’t handle it well, goes feral, and than gets killed by either 1 Derek or 2 hunters.

So yes maybe he did manipulate Scott into helping but in the end there is some logic behind Derek killing Peter. So I get the betrayal behind not wanting to be around him

On the other hand pushing him to work with the argents when they killed his family and tortured Boyd and Erica isn’t and not understanding why he doesn’t want to work with them is objectively funny. Even stiles could read the room, shot out to the one scene “would you rather I burned his house down”

[chubby-derek-and-friends]

Forgot to post this here! Have some belated Halloween Derek fattening!