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watermelondip · 2 days ago

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Competitively Stupid | Steve Harrington

》 PAIRING: steve harrington x female!reader

》 TROPE/GENRE: rivals-ish (since childhood) to lovers, some angst; fluff

》 SUMMARY: It was stupid, jumping off a cliff just to prove that you were better than Steve fucking Harrington. But you were competitive. You were not losing to him. But you know what was stupider? For it to take a near-death situation for you both to confess what you truly feel for each other.

》 WARNINGS: canon divergent (everyone is alive & well & happy thanks), pet names (sweetheart, baby), shitty parents (on both sides), competitiveness on all accounts, r is basically a counterpart of steve during high school (cheerleading captain, queen of hawkins high, swim team captain, etc.), peer pressure-ish, some stupid decisions & stupider actions, very irresponsible cliff jumping (which doesn't end well), drowning, CPR, injuries, an emotional moment™, love confessions, and a happy, sappy ending.

》 WORD COUNT: 5.3k+

A/N: hi! okay, well, it's been a while since i posted a steve fic so i'm kinda nervous ngl. also, not me making it a habit to include swimmer!steve in all my fics from here on out. this was meant to be short & sweet to dust off the cobwebs but lol. super random. i saw a video of someone cliff-jumping & boom, the idea was born. also, not me using the first aid training i learned in college.

📍 BLOG NAVIGATION ✩ STEVE H. MASTERLIST ✩ MAIN MASTERLIST ✩

⊱ ─────.⋅♚ *｡･ﾟ.★. *｡･ﾟ✫*.

This was stupid.

Absolutely idiotic.

You genuinely have no idea why you were even doing this in the first place.

"There's no way you can do it."

Right.

That's why.

The taunting voice of Steve fucking Harrington was the reason why you were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down at a thirty-foot drop into the dark ocean.

This was supposed to be a relaxing trip with your new found family.

"You know you don't have to listen to him, right?" Robin sighed, so completely over the fact that her two best friends who never got along no matter what she tried, somehow came to an agreement to not listen to her right now.

Not that you could blame her.

You and Steve had been rivals ever since you were kids.

It was what you had always known.

What with narcissistic parents who used their children as pawns to one up each other, you had been conditioned to see him as an enemy from the second you step foot into their home.

Your family was invited into the Harrington residence for dinner as a way of welcoming you to the neighborhood. You recently just moved in, so you didn't know anyone else yet. When you heard that the next-door neighbor had a son who was your age, you had been really excited to gain a new friend.

All that changed when your dad sat you down an hour before, prepping you about how the Harringtons were a respected family in the town, and that you needed to show them you weren't any less than them, if not show them you were better. He drilled it in your brain to be on your best behavior, to be the best and the perfect daughter.

It only got worse when you finally sat down at that dinner table.

The comparisons were endless.

"See, my daughter here is a wonderful gymnast, quite amazing for someone her age."

"How wonderful. Steven here has swimming lessons every weekend. His coach said he might end up in the Olympic team once he's of age."

"Splendid. How about his academics? I'm sure he can take inspiration from my daughter's exemplary grades."

"He's the top of his class. Maybe if they study together, your daughter would be able to catch up in time."

It was harsh, pitting two seven-year-olds against each other—impressionable kids who only wanted to make their mom and dad proud.

But neither your parents nor his truly gave a shit. All they cared about was becoming the best family in the street, if not the whole town.

The sad thing was, those dinners became a regular thing, held alternately between your house and his.

It always looked like a preparation for battle whenever your mom would pull out the finest china in her collection along with the cookbook she only ever used for special occasions.

It was in the guise of cordiality when it was, in fact, an excuse to show off, to make a competition out of everything, a moment to compare who did what best. Those dinners were like monthly scoreboards, tallying up the respective families' recent achievements—and that included yours and Steve's.

Nobody was surprised that the competitiveness stuck with you both.

And it only got worse during high school.

Whether that was something as mundane as winning the popularity contest when running different circles—even going as far as getting crowned the King and Queen of Hawkins High—down to academics and extracurriculars.

Captain of the basketball team. Captain of the cheerleading squad. Prom Queen. Prom King. MVP of the season. Brightest student of the year. Beer pong Queen. Kegstand King. Best summer camp counselor. Lifeguard of the month and it went on and on and on and on.

When he got co-captain for the men's swim team, you rubbed it in his face that you were the captain of the women's team. When you got second place at the science fair, he made sure to rub his first place medal right in your face. When you became president of the student council, you ordered him around to do extra work whenever the basketball team was required to help with community service.

It was a constant back and forth.

There was always a competition between you and Steve Harrington.

And sure, since you graduated, it became subdued. But it was still very much there. Vying on who was the coolest babysitter in your band of ragtags, even fighting to have the title of Robin Buckley's ultimate best friend.

This thing between you and Steve was deeply rooted. So there really wasn't much Robin could do apart from getting in between your frequent squabbles before you started actually killing each other.

In Robin's words, something drastic had to happen for you both to finally wake up and see that this rivalry between you both wasn't what it seemed to be on the surface.

You had no idea what she was even implying.

Now, on a little getaway on the nearest beach you could drive to, the competition started with a race on who could get there first. It wasn't even fair seeing that you weren't the one driving.

The group had split into two, some were in Eddie's van—along with everyone's belongings since he had ample space in the back—while the others were in Steve's Beemer. Since you and Steve couldn't be in the same room together without an argument ensuing, it was a unanimous decision to have you two separated. Nobody wanted to deal with that for hours on the road.

Not that you could blame them, either.

And sure, it was the kids who suggested the race, but with Steve's smug smirk and that arrogant wink he threw once you got into Eddie's passenger seat, you knew it was game on between you too.

Yet despite the metal head being a fast—albeit slightly reckless—driver, he somehow took his sweet goddamn time getting to your destination.

Only when your group arrived at the beach last, did he say something about Steve threatening him to be extra careful with driving because there's important cargo in his van—whatever the hell that meant.

You lost to Steve on that one, but you would argue it was rigged from the start.

The next was a supposed friendly bout on who could build the biggest sandcastle that didn't topple over after a few minutes.

It was boys versus girls with you and him being team leaders. The girls won, obviously and El never used her powers. It was fair and square since the other team mostly argued over everything they could think of and had no teamwork at all. You made sure to point that out to Steve as you watched their sandcastle crumble into ruins.

Another one was beach volleyball. Same leaders as before, but you get to pick the members of your teams this time. Steve made it his mission to pick the tallest of the bunch. Still, it wasn't the advantage he thought it was because it ended up being one point too close.

Your team would've won if Steve wasn't such a dramatic asshole.

It was truly an accident. When you spiked that ball, you were not aiming for his face. He simply thought it was a good idea to catch the ball with it. Besides, he was distracted, flirting with some random girl in a bikini who was passing by, right in the middle of the game.

How was it your fault that he wasn't paying attention?

He made sure to oversell his injury after that, curled up on the sand as the girl fussed over him. But you saw that smirk on his face. You would've hit him again—definitely not by accident this time—if you weren't busy arguing with Robin about the point deduction. She said it was only fair since you hit the ball when she hadn't blown her imaginary whistle yet.

You decided to let it go when Steve commented on you being a whiny sore loser.

Unfortunately, the competition was ending with who could make jumping off a cliff and into the ocean look the coolest—adults only, despite the groans of protest from the mischievous bunch.

Eddie offered to stay behind and watch the rascals. When teased, he simply said he didn't want to test Death today.

His comment didn't help your nerves.

Robin said she was only coming purely as a voice of reason. She'd been saying nonstop how it was a horribly stupid idea, that there really was no need to be doing this in the first place.

But Steve wasn't backing down, so you weren't going to either.

So once again, it was only you and him.

As it always had been.

He volunteered to go first, throwing in a comment about rushing back up the cliff's edge before you could take your turn because he wanted a front-row seat for when you'd chicken out.

It only made you want to do it more.

His dive was smooth, almost flawless, you admit. He even showed off with a little flip near the end. It didn't take long for him to swim back to the shore, either. His years of training as a swimmer were obviously paying off.

But you trained just as much if not more than he had.

The only difference was, adrenaline didn't fuel you as much as it did Steve. So instead of getting all powered up looking down at a cliff's edge like he was, you were terrified.

But who wouldn’t get scared looking down at harsh waves crashing against sharp and jagged rocks? There was no margin for error here because one wrong slip and you'd be dead.

Still, if Steve could do it, you could do it better.

You weren't about to lose to his stupid ass.

"I'm not listening to him," you argued back, taking in a shaky breath as you took a step.

"He's doing reverse psychology!" she squeaked. "So you doing it is still listening to him!"

"I'm fine, Robs, I can do it," you mumbled, a slight questioning lilt at the end of your sentence.

"Look, sweetheart, it's okay to admit defeat," Steve said, cocky voice with an even cockier smile as he crossed his toned arms against his bare chest. His hair was still damp, quick to climb back up so he could get his front-row seat as he promised.

But you weren't chickening out.

Never.

"I mean, it wouldn't be the first time you lost to me so, it shouldn't sting as much."

You ignored him.

Instead, you took another step, the tips of your toes now hanging over the edge.

You can do this. Wipe that smug smirk off his face. You got this.

"Listen, you don't have to do—"

"Shut it, Harrington," you growled.

With a deep breath, you closed your eyes, counting from three, two, one…

You jumped.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

This was stupid.

Absolutely idiotic.

He shouldn't have pressured you like that.

The jump wasn't deadly, per se, but it also wasn't exactly deemed the safest, especially if you weren't an expert in any sort of way.

And he didn't want to say it out loud because if he did, he knew it would only push you to do it more just to prove him wrong.

But Steve could see how scared you were.

He was already dropping the act, voice laced with concern as he started telling you that he wasn't worth all of this, that he was stupid and that you were always going to be better than him.

But, obviously, you didn't listen.

You simply jumped.

You and your stupidly competitive ass.

"Damn it," he cursed under his breath, rushing to the edge of the cliff, tensely watching your falling figure disappear into the water with a splash.

"You two are complete idiots."

"Shut up," Steve gritted, never looking away from the water. Yet any annoyance was quickly overpowered by sheer worry as he scanned the deep blue for anything.

There was no sign of you.

"Like seriously! It's like I'm the only one with a brain cell here!"

"Come on, come on, come on," Steve mumbled, completely ignoring Robin when you still hadn't emerged to the surface. "Come on, Y/N, don't scare me like this."

"Uh, Steve?" Robin asked after a moment, carefully looking over the cliff before shooting him a worried glance. "You look anxious and you being anxious is making me nervous."

"She hasn't come up," he grumbled, glancing at his watch.

It was nearing a minute.

"Maybe you didn't see her?"

"I haven't taken my eyes off the water, Buckley," he gritted, too harsh and uncalled for since Robin didn't do anything wrong.

But he was panicking.

A minute and thirty seconds.

"Come on, sweetheart, you can do it. You're an amazing swimmer," he whispered encouragingly, hoping some sort of magic would let you hear him underwater all while saying it aloud for his own sanity.

Two minutes.

You could never hold your breath any longer than that.

Steve knew because he always won that competition.

And that was in a calm pool.

"Shit, shit, shit!" he cursed, gearing up to dive after you. "I don't think she's coming up!"

"Okay! Okay," Robin rushed, panicking. "Maybe she's already on the shore. We should go down now and see—"

Steve didn't listen.

He jumped right after you.

The biting cold was awakening.

Still, it was the absolute fear of losing you that was keeping him alert.

He ignored the sting of the salty ocean water in his eyes as he frantically searched for you, his heart beating hard and fast, struggling for oxygen all while fearing for your safety.

Steve didn't know which came first, relief or dread when finally found you, aimlessly floating and unconscious under the deep blue.

He swam to you as fast he could, securely hooking his arm under your shoulder and dragging you up to the surface.

Steve always knew that adrenaline can give you a random boost of strength when needed. He simply didn't expect that to be proven true when he was carrying your unresponsive body in his arms as he brought you to the shore.

He gently placed you on your back on the sand, cupping your face as he checked for any injuries.

You were so cold.

"Hey, hey, wake up," he begged, grabbing your shoulders to try and shake you awake.

Nothing.

"You didn't have to make the jump, you idiot. Why do you always want to prove me wrong," he scolded with no ounce of anger, only worry. He started tapping your cheek frantically. "Come on, wake up!"

Still no response.

"Dammit, Y/N, why'd you have to be so fucking stubborn," he scolded, his voice shaking in fear, his chest tightening as he pressed two fingers against your pulse point.

His own heart stopped when he couldn't feel yours.

And you weren't breathing.

Steve tried to keep himself calm. If he panicked now, he wouldn't be able to give you the aid that you direly need.

"Come on, Harrington. You know what to do. You trained for this," he mumbled to himself, getting into the proper position to give you CPR.

He gently cupped your forehead with his left hand, his other two fingers under your chin as he tilted your head up.

"You're going to be okay," he whispered, pinching your nose before slotting his lips against yours.

Breathing into your mouth, one, two, he watched your chest rise as it filled up with air, only for it to settle back down without coming back up again. He quickly kneeled straighter, locking his fingers together and placing the heel of his left hand in the middle of your chest, pushing down with enough pressure to try and get your heart to start again.

"One, two, three, four, come on, sweetheart, breathe for me," he mumbled, easily finding the right rhythm, his first aid training as a lifeguard coming back to him like it was second nature.

Still, he never wanted to use this skill in a real-life situation, much less use it on you.

It was the longest thirty counts in his life.

Check for a pulse. Check for breathing.

Still nothing.

"Goddammit, Y/N, come on!" he growled, blinking back the tears as he pressed his mouth against yours again.

Two rescue breaths.

Thirty chest compressions.

Steve repeated the cycle over and over. His eyes were stinging with unshed tears, his knees were burning as the rough sand dug deeper into his skin, and his arms were starting to get sore, tiredness slowly covering his aching muscles.

But he'd rather die first than give up on you now.

"Steve—"

"Call for help, Robin!" he ordered, not taking his eyes off you for even a second. When he didn't hear any movement, he yelled, "Don't just stand there! Go!"

He was going to apologize for being an asshole later. For now, he needed you to fucking breathe.

"Come on, come on, please," he begged, leaning back down to give you two more rescue breaths. "Breathe for me, baby, please."

Thirty chest compressions.

"Trying to prove me wrong when I've always been wrong, you idiot."

Five, six, seven—

"Sweetheart, come on," he choked back a sob. "Who's going to call me out when I'm being stupid, huh? You know Robin can't do it alone."

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen—

"And you're really going to leave me alone to watch our kids?"

Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two—

"Y/N, baby, please, I can't live without you," he whimpered.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thir—

Steve felt his breath leave his lungs when you finally gasped for air.

He quickly turned you to your side, rubbing your back as you choked out all the ocean water that got into your system.

"There you go, you're okay," he whispered, whether to reassure you or himself, he didn't even know anymore. All he was focused on was making sure you were going to be okay.

"S-Stevie?" you coughed out the nickname that was only ever used by you.

It was the equivalent to his nickname for you—sweetheart.

Names that started out to annoy each other but the more often it was used as time passed, it only managed to grow into an endearment that held something warm underneath it. You both were quick to realize that the nicknames you had for each other weren't out of spite anymore.

Neither of you simply addressed it.

"Steady, sweetheart, I'm right here," he reassured, hurriedly getting into your line of sight to stop you from trying to turn around to face him. He gently cupped your cheek, offering you a soft smile when your gaze found him. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded as best as you could, your eyes clinging onto his brown ones only for them to screw shut when a shiver ran through your whole body.

"C-Cold," you stammered.

"I know, I know, come here," he said softly, guiding you to sit up before quickly settling behind you. He gently pulled you closer between his legs, his chest pressed against your back as he blanketed his body over yours, rubbing your arms to keep you as warm as possible.

You turned to face him slightly, burying your face into his neck only for you to wince at the slight movement. He quickly tried to steady you again, checking over you twice to look for any visible injury. But he couldn't find any.

"Tell me what hurts," he asked, pressing his lips against your cold forehead as he fully wrapped his arms around you.

"A-Ankle," you whimpered in pain, your grip on his waist tightening and God he hated that sound so much.

You must've rolled it when you jumped, and having landed on it when you reached the water, it definitely made it worse.

"It's okay, you're okay," he murmured, littering kisses against the side of your head to try and keep your mind off it. "Robin already called for help, they should be on their way, alright?"

You gave him a small nod, inching even closer to him, seeking as much warmth from him as possible. Your cold breath was tickling his skin but he didn’t care. Hell, you could be breathing fucking ice and he still wouldn’t give a shit.

As long as you were breathing.

"I need you to stay awake for me, okay?"

"I-I'll try," you whispered.

"First to fall asleep is the biggest loser," he mumbled, squeezing you slightly when he felt your eyes flutter close. "And you wouldn't want me to win this, babe, because I'll be a little shit about it."

"Not f-fair," you choked out a laugh.

"It's plenty fair," Steve chuckled tearfully, ignoring the sudden wetness on his cheeks. He hugged you tighter instead. "So stay awake or you'll lose to me. Again."

"Right there! They're right over there!"

Steve had never been so grateful to hear Robin's voice.

-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"So are you finally going to tell her?"

"Tell her what?" Steve questioned back, unable to take his eyes off of you, soundly sleeping in a hospital bed with your foot now wrapped in a cast.

The doctor had already checked everything and thankfully, there weren't any further injuries apart from your twisted ankle.

Now, all you needed was to rest and recover.

"That you've been in love with her this whole time."

Steve sighed, squeezing your hand before turning to look at his best friend.

"I'm not in love with her, Robs."

"Right," she scoffed, raising a knowing brow. "Because jumping off a cliff with zero hesitation so you could save her is totally normal behavior for someone you claim you hate."

"I never said I hated her," he argued, and it was true. He couldn't think of a single moment where he hated you.

"Yeah, well, you two definitely don't act like you like each other."

"Does she annoy and frustrate the shit out of me? Yes. But I never hated her," he admitted.

Steve didn't know what it was exactly, maybe it was his tiredness muddling his brain, maybe it was from everything that happened in the last couple of hours finally catching up to him, or maybe it was the overwhelming need to confess everything into the open before it was too late—and it almost had been. Either way, he found himself suddenly spewing out all the things that he always just kept to himself.

"She's also been the most constant person in my life, you know? Hell, we basically grew up together. I can't just not care about her," he continued, memories flooding his system before he could even stop it. "She's been so ingrained in my life, her and the cute dresses she wore at those stupid dinners our parents always dragged us to. Her and her stupid competitions whenever our babysitters would bring us to the park together. Her and that stupid dance she always did whenever she won at anything even if it was my expense—she always does this cute little wiggle whenever she won, and that never left her even as we got older," Steve chuckled at the thought.

"And fuck, don't even get me started with how similar our parents are. She's the only one who will always get me when it comes to that," he continued. "And yeah, we compete a lot, but there was no hatred between us. Maybe at the start but all that went away when we learned that whatever our parents were feeding us was bullshit—that they were bullshit.

"And fine, did I sometimes get so annoyed whenever she got a new boyfriend? Yeah. But only because she always had this bad habit of dating fucking assholes. I don't know where she got those dickheads from but every time I see a glimpse of her crying by her window at night I swear to fucking God I would've killed every single one of those assholes if she asked," he gritted, slumping down in his seat with a sigh.

"She deserves to be treated right, you know? She's already experiencing so much shit at home, she doesn't need any more of that anywhere else. Sure, she irritates me to no end but that doesn't mean she's not a sweet girl who always cried whenever some random pet commercial came on the TV during the holidays. Does her competitiveness drive me up the wall? Absolutely. But that doesn't mean I don't feel so fucking proud of her whenever she wins another medal or achieves another milestone. And yeah, I wonder about how she's doing, if she's taking care of herself, if she's getting enough sleep between her work and classes. But that's only because I worry, you know?

"And maybe I do think about her a lot but that doesn't mean I'm in love with…"

Steve blinked.

Well fuck.

"Wow," Robin marveled. "You're stupider than I thought."

"He hit his head as a kid, cut him some slack."

Steve paled at the sound of your voice, swiftly turning red at the thought that you probably heard all the things he said.

He turned to face you, groaning in annoyance when he saw the smug smile on your lips. "You've been awake this whole time?"

"I'll leave you two love birds alone," Robin sang, quickly slipping out of the hospital room and closing the door behind her.

"How much of that did you hear?" Steve asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Enough to say you're stupid," you hummed.

He rolled his eyes, leaning back in his seat with crossed arms. "I'm not the one who jumped off the cliff and almost died just to prove a fucking point."

"Yeah, well, I guess we're both stupid then," you snorted.

He shrugged. "I guess we are."

"Jesus, you don't have to act so tense. I mean, you've already given me a mouth-to-mouth, we've practically made out already," you scoffed playfully. "I honestly thought I'd die first before swapping spit with you yet here we are."

It was your attempt at alleviating the tension, to throw in a funny quip. But with everything still so fresh in his mind, Steve simply couldn't take it well.

"Don't fucking joke about that will you?" he snapped, rubbing a frustrated hand over his face.

The silence that followed only made the tension worse.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

Steve immediately felt bad.

"No, no, no. You didn't do anything wrong, don't apologize," he sighed, meeting your eyes with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped. It's just—"

He stopped himself, chewing on his bottom as he looked everywhere but at you when he felt the tears well up again.

"Will you come here?"

Steve took a calming breath and did as you asked, moving his chair closer but didn't attempt anything else than that.

"Stevie," you called when he still wouldn't look at you.

Harshly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he lifted his head. You smiled at him sweetly, wiggling your fingers to get him to come even closer.

"You scared me back there," he croaked, taking your hand with a squeeze.

"I didn't mean to," you softly said, remorseful and apologetic even though you didn't have to be.

"I know," he murmured, pressing your warm palm against his cheek as he shot you a glare. "Just don't do that again."

"Promise," you giggled, stroking his cheek with your thumb.

Steve leaned closer into your touch. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, thanks to you," you hummed, brows furrowing in thought. "When Marcus got that black eye, you said it was because he was playing dirty on one of your games." You tilted your head knowingly. "That wasn't true, wasn't it?"

Steve shrugged. "He hurt you."

"It was a small bruise on the arm, Steve," you reasoned.

"He shouldn't be giving you a fucking bruise in the first place," he growled, the memory bringing back the same anger he felt when he first saw that bruise. The soft tapping of your finger against his cheek calmed him down. "Sorry."

"Did you lose on purpose to get him expelled?"

"What? No!" he scoffed, offended, rolling his eyes when you giggled. "I tried so fucking hard to win that fight, you know, for you."

"You've always been protective of me," you hummed, taking his hand and interlacing your fingers together.

"Don't think I didn't know it was you who dyed that poor girl's hair green that one year in middle school summer camp," he retaliated.

It was a sharp and piercing scream that woke up the whole camp that morning. Everyone rushed out of bed to see what was going on only to find a girl who once was blonde was now sporting bright green hair in the middle of the crowd, crying her eyes out.

Steve would've thought it was only some silly prank if he didn't know who the girl was. But he did. Because the day before he tried to ask her to be his girlfriend, only for her to turn him down in the most embarrassing and humiliating way possible.

It wasn't difficult for him to find out who the culprit was since he immediately noticed how you kept hiding your hands in your pockets for the next few days after the incident.

The counselors quickly found out that the little menace—whoever she was—decided to use permanent dye on the poor girl's hair instead of something washable.

Your green palms colored you oh so guilty.

"She called you pathetic and gross in front of everyone!" you argued, pouting. "You looked like you were about to cry and I hated it."

Steve's heart warmed at that, a smile on his face despite rolling his eyes. "I wasn't about to cry."

"Yeah well," you shrugged, eyes trained on your intertwined fingers, your thumb playing with his. "I'm the only one who's supposed to be mean to you."

"Hmm," he agreed, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. "I guess we've always been there for each other, huh?"

"I guess so," you giggled, cupping his cheek and tugging him closer.

He stood up from his seat, following your lead until he was pressing his forehead against yours.

"Thank you for saving my life, Steve," you whispered, eyes turning glossy as so many emotions covered your irises, the weight of what almost happened catching up with you.

"You don't have to thank me for that," he said sincerely, brushing the tip of his nose against yours. "I'd do it over and over again in a heartbeat."

You nodded, sniffling, "Still, thank you."

Steve wasn't able to argue some more when you all but kissed him.

The first time Steve felt your mouth on his was a horrible experience considering he was trying to keep you alive.

Now, everything was the complete opposite.

A kiss that was careful but sweet, a hint of nervousness and excitement all the same, completely unhurried yet burning with passion as his lips molded against yours.

But still, it felt like that first gasp of air—a finally.

"I'm in love with you, too, by the way," you murmured as you pulled away, your warm breath tickling his lips.

"Thanks for clarifying," he chuckled, eyes laced with adoration, unable to stop his smile from growing wider, warmer. "I couldn't figure that out from the kiss."

"I mean, you are kinda stupid," you teased.

"We're on that same boat, sweetheart," he chuckled. "I'm sure Robin would remind us about that every single day now."

"Unfortunately," you groaned playfully. "God, she gets annoying when she's right."

"Tell me about it," he hummed, brushing his lips against yours, moving away when you chased it.

You whined.

Steve didn't hesitate to dive back in.

✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ♛ *.

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watermelondip · 3 days ago

Text

transatlanticism | chapter seven

masterlist ao3

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Series Description: The past, present, and plausible future. Knowing Steve in the in-between. Or, as you grow up in Hawkins, parallel to Steve's rich kid bubble, you fall out of favor with expectations, and end up abroad for the rest of highschool. In light of an abrupt return, you try to rekindle a friendship with someone you don't know anymore.

Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

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steve harrington / reader Warnings: mild sexual content (so ig MDNI but it's really not that graphic), smoking, smoking, description of injury. Words: 5.3k

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You were exponentially escaping his footnotes, and it was December. Still, Steve didn't want you to come over to his house for Christmas dinner. It was an adamant declaration under a late-night glow. You furrowed, incredulous.

You had always been in the Harrington's hesitant favor. There was always a fifty in your purse, and your hair was always done, and your clothes were always new, and your family never did anything unsavory for the vipers to consume. You wore a painted-on perfection that pleased them immensely. Despite this adoration from his parents, he feared them innately, and maybe, in some subconscious sector of his mind, feared what they might presume from your attendance. A really bitter sector of your mind, which was a mind of all-consuming, tortuous self-destruction, thought that maybe he just didn't want to face the obligations of commitment so soon. You frowned.

"Your parents love me," you pointed out, folding an old blouse on top of your dresser. "Our dads play loser-old-man-poker together, like, all the fucking time." Steve groaned from behind you, sinking into your comforter.

"I know, I know." He placed a weighted hand over his eyes. "Isn't your family doing something?"

"Well, my dad hates me, and everyone else lives in Michigan, so probably not."

"Yeah, right." He sighed and grew quiet.

The month was a slow descent.

Movie store girl (the longer you expressed reluctance towards her name, you figured, the less she existed) didn't like your whole thing. With a squint and a strain, you were quite sure you remembered her from high school, albeit vaguely, and albeit with little kindness. She was in band, you knew. She was still in school, you also knew, which discouraged the thought that Steve was secretly and madly in love with her, but didn't diminish it completely, for if you knew one thing most of all things, he wasn't very wary of imbalances. She spoke tentatively. You didn't know it, but only assumed it, or simply inferred that Steve had told her about the fight you'd had. This was the ultimate catalyst.

"He doesn't work today." She avoided your eyes, straightening punch cards behind the register.

"Oh, I know. He takes Thursday afternoons off to watch sports and be lame," you replied, elbows resting on the counter. You teetered securely on your heels. "And I totally didn't come here for him, anyway. I wanted to talk to you." You smiled, plasticky. "Robin," you emphasized, showing her your teeth, a sign of faux congeniality, something she'd come to know you for.

"Hm?" She moved to the other side of the counter, and you followed swiftly, shuffling alongside her with a manic pep that forced a grimace and a glance as she fiddled pointlessly with the computer.

"Well, I guess I just figured, since you and Steve are so close and all, we should get to know each other." The statement reeked of high school. You had thought, a little idiotically, maybe, that you had long since abandoned whatever devil resided in your bones, and that you were a fairly nice, decent sort of lady in your current state. Your thoughts were volatile, and your conversations were imploding, every word another nuke sent down too late.

"Yeah, and how exactly do you wanna do that?" She just wasn't his type. She was too young, you recalled, and sort of hyper, and she looked like a dork, and she dressed like a dude, her hair short and her eyes all smudgy. She just wasn't his type, really, but you weren't either, not after Nancy. The more the idea lingered, the more you sunk, and so you brushed it off, flicked your hair back, and grinned harder, pointed toe and popped hip incredibly poignant.

"Brunch?" You shrugged as you suggested it, a glee plastered onto your expression that made her scoff real subtle, something crueler than you'd have imagined.

"You want to have brunch? With me?" She turned to face you, arms propped up against the counter, face a little closer, competitive in this juvenile, mocking sort of way. She was poking and prodding at your weakening resolve. She was taunting Schrodinger's bitch.

"Yes. I said that." For a moment, she fell into the know and softened.

"Look, I'm busy right now," she nodded at a customer, "but talk to Steve. We'll, like, meet up or something."

The month was a slow descent, but it was also fast, and it was also mostly your fault, mostly your bizarre conscious that decimated your short-lived peace. You rented Alien and crashed at seven PM.

Parked in the woods, futilely flipping through radio stations, Steve was idyllic, and he looked like he could be sixteen, of course, only in the dark, and only if you looked at him from the corner of your eye and maybe fibbed a bit about the comparison. You liked to pretend that you were both still young and nothing had ever happened at all. He landed on George Michael, yet still seemed displeased, frowning as he flopped back into his seat.

"We don't need music, you know," you pointed out, unbuckling your seat belt, re-tucking your shirt into your pants.

"I always have music. Never not had music. It's like a-" he paused, lips all thin and forehead all wrinkly, "lucky charm. It's like a lucky charm." You smiled, kissed him slow, and said he didn't need one, not with you.

Steve always fucked girls in cars. Sometimes, and this was a shoddy reference, knowledge from a dying era, he'd call up a girl, and then he'd take her out to dinner, and he'd tell her she's pretty, and he'd offer to take her home, but he'd say he knew a place, and this movie-like ruse would only escalate, clothes off, mouths on. You wondered when the last occurrence was. You wondered if he'd cleaned his car since then or if, sliding your jeans off, you were sitting where another girl had sat, and that invisible sheen of nostalgia on the interior that only you could sense was, in fact, sex from another time.

He peeled you like corn. Hand on your back, hand pulling you closer, the other fumbling with your jeans around your ankles, shucking them down your legs and onto the console. You were wearing your blue Campuses, a bit worn on the edges, a little smooth on the sole, and your pants caught on them, and he whined, pulling at the ends. You knocked of your shoes and your jeans and your inhibitions, too. He kissed like a dog. He'd been drinking, hands sweltering on your sides.

He pulled you into his lap, fumbling with his own seatbelt as he raised up his hips to meet yours. He faltered once you were on top of him, pulling back just to look at you, letting go just to let you settle. He cleared his throat. He breathed out heavy, dim and abruptly untrained. He eyed the robotic unbuttoning of your top, your fingers working mechanically, efficiently. You were looking down, sniffing a bit against the cold, and he couldn't pull you quite close enough, make you warm and melty, even as you touched him and wanted him and made soft, sex-esque sounds into his air.

There was a prying longing for the way it used to go. When you were young, wistful and angry and curious about it all, he would do it for you, hands awkwardly orientated around you collar as he hovered over you. There was a taboo in your modern roboticism. There was a thing, a lurking, garish, ugly thing that you refused to address, refused to acknowledge. It came in soft swipes of air over your collarbone, heavy breaths and heaving chests. When he was above you, maybe in your room, maybe somewhere more obscure, and he was moving hastily, and you were so lucid that your vision blurred, leaving your sightline with just a shoulder or a slice of abdomen, that is when it appeared and began to infest your mind. It was the years you had lost in England. It was the time you spent away at parties, the time in bedrooms or bathrooms or coat closets, but only once there, just like only once in the pool, once in the garage.

You wanted him, he knew. He must've known. Often, you kissed him like it was a wedding kiss, the pastor smiling all soft as he dipped you down in a puffy dress. Even in your occasional urgency, there was a blasé element, a detached edge that found itself lost in the flurry of his affections. Still, the kissing was the extent of the sexual indulgences. Often, and contrastingly, you fucked him like an old woman, maybe sixty or so, welcoming her husband to an early grave with a beer and a lasagna, doing what she figures she must. You reached for the button of his jeans. He choked on his own contemplations.

"Hey." He grabbed your wrist. "Hey, what's the rush?" He laughed. You straightened and didn't smile.

"We don't have to," you retorted, figuring it a calculated rejection. You leaned back, going to re-button our shirt before he reached out to stop you. "Steve, its okay if you don't want you," you assured, glaring, dim and obscured, a little disheartened but a lot empathetic. Brow furrowed, he grabbed onto your hands, pulling them away from your chest.

"I want to, of course I do. Just--" he winced at his own girlishness. "You never let me touch you." He sighed out something extraordinary, and he shrank, squeezing your hands in his. You broke out into the cruelest of grins, winding your fingers in-between his, dancing with the unshed skin of his knuckles, poking at his sensitivity.

"You are touching me," you jested, scooting back a bit. He scoffed.

"You know what I mean." He seemed reluctantly genuine about the whole thing. It was a toothache in itself.

"Steve, are you actually pissed that I won't let you finger me?" His hands felt like little, burning stars; he was best at touching, often touched like it was a competition, made it better than sex, sometimes. Still, the daydream had you shifting in his lap, the ideal, melodic movements that always seemed to evade you coming across as perfectionistic in your head. Of course, there was the want, just as there was the air and the heartbeat, but it faded easily into the swell of returning inhibitions that consumed you.

"Not pissed," he murmured, hand moving up your thigh, a little sloppy, a little high school. "Just wondering why. I mean, you think I'm not, like, good at it, or something?"

You laughed: "Come on. How many girls have you successfully fingered? Like, five, six bajillion?"

"More like three or four, but sure." His humility consumed you. The desire to absorb him only intensified, your spine going mushy against his trailing fingertips. "Really, though. I wanna know." He seemed to wonder endlessly, and his baby eyes implored (pretty, by the moon, looking young, smiling a little).

"It's not that you're bad or anything. I just, like, don't want you to feel obligated, you know? Like, I don't want it to be one of those things you do even if you don't really like it that much, you just do it because you have to, or you should, or I guess you think you should." Your face went hot, and his hand, wavering, slipped from your thigh to your hip, your spine to your waist, encasing you, holding you together a bit. "I don't know, it probably sounds stupid. I mean, you can do whatever you want. I don't care, is all."

"You don't care?" It struck a chord in him, a low, tentative one that shivered at the light rain that began to hit the window. You shook your head. He pulled you closer.

"Whatever you want," you murmured, but it got lost in the way he kissed you, the way he pushed his mouth against yours, fighting a little, the mental spar overtaking the rain and the night and the George Michael. In some ways, it was the cruelest thing to say. You were a constant guilt trip, a nagging reminder, like always and before, and you never changed, and you never apologized. He put his hand in your underwear, and it was the sort of thing you would've readily avoided with anyone else, too slow and too good, really. Sometimes sex was bad, and it was for the best. This unbearably morbid view faded right along with the moan you bit into his shoulder.

"Whatever I want," he repeated, forcibly, a tone that made you wiggle like an animal, too mean. He put his hand on the side of your neck, pulling you away, forcing you up, forcing you to look him in the eye, and he smiled with a part in his lips, mockingly proud. Fingers and sounds and heavy man breaths, all everywhere, all on the seats and the windows and the wheel, even, seeping into the engine. "You're so pretty," he whispered, jutting another finger inside of you, but you furrowed as the air grew thicker. You frowned. You wished you were plastic; it felt too stuffy, too much.

When you tightened, and you said his name, and you fell into his chest, he held you there, and that was the sort of touching he'd been waiting for, the real type. He liked your sweaty neck. He liked your sticky hair, your smudged makeup. Sometimes sex was good, and it was for the worst, and it felt like flying. He tucked your hair behind your ears, pressing his nose into the side of your head, shifting against your weight.

"I missed you so much," he said, and it resonated all the way into the backseat, maybe even into the town over. Contrastingly, he lifted up his hips, rubbing himself against you, groaning into your skull. You didn't think he'd ever understand why you cried into his collarbone, but didn't say why, and kissed him anyway.

Everything was rotating. The push and pull was reductive. It was worse when he wanted you, better when he was distracted. Your dad took another trip. The maid took the holiday off, and so did the gardener, and so did the rest of the world, so everything was just snow and unfolded sheets, all melting into the month.

Steve slept at least thirteen hours a day. If he wasn't working, he was hanging out with children, hanging out with you, eating with either you or the children, or he was just sleeping. That day, very post-coitally, he took up more than half the bed, and he started to snore. You wondered if this was what marriage felt like, and you pulled out a cigarette. He liked to say that his emotional turmoil made him tired. When you exhaled he shifted, and so, feeling performative, you blew a puff of smoke right above his nose, forcing out a jolt and a cough as he groaned himself awake.

"Fuck you." He slammed his hand over your alarm clock, tilting it into view. "God, its late. Put that shit out."

"You'd rather I smoke during the day like a beer-gutted deadbeat?" You nudged his leg with your cold foot. He laughed all dry, pushing the hair off his forehead.

"I'd rather you not smoke." He shoved you off, sitting himself up. His eyes were puffy and there was this sheen of sweat on his face that reeked of domesticity.

"Hypocrite," you mumbled, murdering the small attempt at release as you pressed the cigarette into your jewelry dish. "You gave me my first one, remember?" He groaned again, this time with a little less malice around the edges. "And I coughed, and you laughed and then you said it was cute, but I was so embarrassed. Actions have consequences," you taunted, your faux attempt at humor falling flat underneath the implications of the situation; nothing was now anymore, only memories.

"Yeah, and I meant it, but now its gross." You nudged him again, but he only grunted uncomfortably, rolling out of the bed to pick up his clothes from the floor. "You want me to go?" he asked, pulling on his boxers. "You know, so you can smell bad in peace."

"I wanna go out." You looked over to him, but he didn't return the gesture, pulling on his jeans, which he struggled to button up after all that leftover sloppy joe. You knew, then, that it was what marriage felt like. "I think there's a show at the lounge tonight. We can still catch it." He sighed, turning slow like cattle and pulling his lips taught. With an incredibly cruel, paternal sort of movement, he came around and sat down next to you on the edge of the bed, his hand over your knee from above the comforter.

"Baby, I'm tired, okay?" He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, but it didn't linger. "Next time, alright?" It didn't mean anything at all to you at the time, and you nodded like a bitter child, your chin reaching down to your chest. He jarred you consistently, jerking you in all directions. "Promise." He pecked your mouth. It felt like an insult, but you worried you were being over-attentive. You grabbed at his wrist.

"You don't have to go." His skin was hot and alive and dissipating, still, even as you refused to let it leave.

"My dads been getting on my case about my sudden absence in the household. Don't wanna piss him off too much." You ran your fingers over the top of his hairy man chest, which aged him a bit, but still felt symbolic of the person you'd always figured him to be, albeit a bit more homely. Even if this was like marriage, and even if you felt sort of dull whenever he bailed on you like this, the idea was innately romantic. You liked waking him up in bed and watching him put on his clothes. You liked listening to him snore, because you couldn't sleep half the time anyways, and he looked so funny when he did it, mouth open and all.

"I like it when you stay," you admitted, fingers sliding up to his neck. "Helps me sleep." A sense of naiveté peeked through your pores, and he gripped it tight, pulling you into a real kiss with a surge and a scooch; he liked you all soft and wavering, shivering under his fallen superiority, mostly because it made you seem younger and a little bit because your whole persona stung, cut him good and bleeding. He pressed steadily against your mouth, breathing in roughly, and when you tried to open up to him, he pulled away, stopping you short of yourself, keeping you decent.

"I know," he whispered, letting his breath coat you all drowsy. You memorized his sympathy, and in your dreams he'd never leave.

"Movie?"

"Well, probably Sixteen Candles, but maybe Heathers if i'm feeling depressed or something."

"Music?"

"I'm a radio zombie. Don't care too much. Madonna?"

"Dare I ask, book?"

"I liked The Catcher in the Rye."

"You did not!"

"Yes, I did, swear. We're both wanderers."

"You're not a wanderer. She's not a wanderer."

Dustin was tiny and had big greasy hair that reminded you of a pre-pubescent Harrington, still attempting to tame the beast attached to his scalp. He turned to Steve, shaking his head, waiting for some grandiose explanation about why he was slumming it with a prep-slathered richie, so untasteful and so uncultured. Steve shrugged. Maybe he was just happy you'd agreed to meet his strange child friend. Maybe this was marriage, too.

"She can be a wanderer," Steve argued, gesturing vaguely at your crossed legs and your navy blouse, your proper form. "If she wants," he added, grinning softly.

"What about you, Dustin? I mean, what makes you and Steve so wholly compatible?" He grimaced at your backhanded smile, stuffing a two hands of stubby fingers in his pockets.

"Huh?" he retorted, incredulous. Steve bit his thumb, leaning back into the booth (Salty's Diner, six PM).

"I mean, what is it about you that makes you worthy of his grace? That is what we're talking about here, isn't it?"

"Yeah, well, Steve and I, we get each other." His insincerity melted into his downturned expression, culminating in a soft mumble at the end of his statement.

"You get each other?" You glanced accusingly between the two, forcing down a mocking giggle. "Steve, a grown man, and you, a dorky freshman, get each other?" Steve kicked your foot from under the table, tilting and parenting, just a little bit, too.

"Hey, don't be mean. He's a cool kid." His mouth went flat, and you could see his hollow brain trying to configure Dustin's personality into a complementary frame. "Total smarty pants." He patted him on the shoulder assertively. It was charming, but guy pushing a stroller sort of charming, when you can tell he's soft because he holds a crying baby or doesn't kick a puppy.

"New topic," you teased, slyly bringing your glass for Cherry Coke up to your lips. Dustin attempted to mediate.

"What're you bringing to the Christmas party? Steve won't let me make my own pie. He says it's dangerous." A sharp string cut the table in half. Dustin ate a fry. The innocence eluded you, and a hankering for blood consumed your complexion; it all reeked of the sorts of ordeals you might get yourself in when you were in middle school, girls with secret hangs and boys with half-truths.

"Party?" you questioned, sharpening your teeth.

"Yeah, the Christmas Eve party, at his house," Dustin clarified, fitting in another fry. "His mom makes a great turkey," he managed out over his muffled mouth full. Steve sat silently, captivated by the wall art.

"Oh, I bet." Your unpleased expression swiftly fell, revealing a stained grin that had been copied over years and years of vapid hate. Steve shivered with his eyes, but didn't let his shoulders faltered, clearing his throat as he re-adjusted his position in the booth. You would've gutted him if it had been a table for two, but then this wouldn't be the case at all, you supposed.

"It's a small thing," Steve coughed out, shifting again. "Not a big deal."

The month was a dreadful descent, one that leaked into your bones and made you terribly mushy with the worry. It was carbs and sweat upper lips and poorly fitted jeans. The daydream proved to be a temporary fix.

You knew why, of course. Why he wouldn't tell you, or invite you, or tell you but not invite you, disregarding your distress with a fatal apology. Maybe this was the most marriage thing out of all the marriage things. It was ironic in that way, because all of this was emblematic of a drastic non-commitment, but still somehow indicative of the behaviors that commitment invites into a relationship. You figured he wanted a rest from you, and you figured that his parents must've heard about the specifics of your escapades. You figured you were being shunned.

You knew why, but you didn't mention it, and you let him drive you home and you let him kiss you at the door. You let him hold his hands in fists and be quiet on the road, too, because his unwavering anticipation was his punishment. There was hardly any kindness left. You wanted him to burn as well.

Your unkempt Christmas eve was another party, which was so unbearably predictable that you refused to tell Steve it was happening, no matter the repercussions for such an omission. Carol was there, of course, as she was everywhere, judging without restraint. Tommy came, and he brought his Ohio friends, and they brought their friends, and so there was a guy, twenty-three or so, called Dick, or Rich, because he said he liked either, and you said that was rich (funny girl, flirty girl), and he liked you in a very party way. You played suck and blow, and he kissed you then, which felt so raw, so intangible, that you nearly puked again.

Steve got you a tennis bracelet. He gave it to you a few days early, wrapped in paper that was blue and green and like the sea, and he said he'd been saving up for something imaginary anyways, so he thought it would be best to spend it now, for you. It wasn't diamond, of course, although the one you had that was diamond, a gift from a previous romantic escapade, hardly compared, not in sentimentality. Still, you left the bracelet on the jewelry tray beside your bed when you went down to set up for the party; the event itself felt like a betrayal, after all. You got him a sweater, but you hadn't gotten a chance to give it to him yet.

So, suck and blow. This guy, Dick or Rich or Richard if you knew him well, ironically, was cute, and even worse, had the hair, the Steve Hair-ington hair. He stuck his tongue in your mouth, and you choked on it, and everyone laughed, but he gave you the sex look, so you shuddered, too. Since you'd never had a real actual boyfriend, you'd never really actually cheated. This was morally debilitating. You didn't think the lack of freedom that monogamy inevitably granted would bother you, and maybe it didn't, maybe it was just the guilt that came with promiscuity instead, not the desire for it, that wrecked you so completely. Whatever it might've been, it ached and ached and fissured, up your arm and down your neck, contracting and expanding and pulling you together a bit too tight.

Carol asked about Steve again, whether or not you had invited him, but it was only a series of "no" and "duh" that followed, your wallowing increased by tenfold.

Dick or Rich or Richard or Dickard had a foot in his mouth and a dog in his brain. He touched your shoulder. He came like a ghost up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, breathing beer into your collarbone. If you closed your eyes, his hair tickling your ear, it could maybe be Steve, and you softened at that. You felt like ice when he tried to kiss you again, your body stiff as he pressed into you. It had never felt so gory before. You thought of Steve again, missed him, and figured yourself a baby for that, too.

You had another drink, another beer, another shot, or something strong, and then you let Richard take you to your room. He liked your frilly throw. He liked your old pictures. He pointed at one of Steve, and then he kissed you like it was real. It felt like when you eat a sour candy for the first time when you're real little, five of six, and it blows your head off and makes you want to cry, but then you get lost in that, even if your tongue bleeds and your mouth purses all funny. He said you were serious hot stuff for a Hawkins party. He said he'd seen you before, back in high school, and he'd always regretted not saying something.

"Is Steve your boyfriend?" he asked, looking away as he undid his jeans. You fiddled with the ankle of your sock, legs pretzeled over each other. "I mean, I heard you talking about him earlier, with Carol."

"No." You shook your head adamantly, but the drinks made it oddly exaggerated. He turned back, pushing his pants to the floor. "No," you affirmed, straightening yourself out before moving over to him, smiling and reaching for another sloppy kiss.

He fingered you for a minute or so, and then he pushed you back and tried to make it real some more. It hurt in a way that it never did. You were aware that it was biologically correct, but there was a sting in your limbs and a blister on your heart that made it feel so glaringly wrong. He wasn't even that large. You wanted to laugh, but when he asked you how it felt you just made a breathy noise and pulled his head into the crook of your neck, spurring him on.

You were too drunk to argue for a condom. You were too drunk to move by the time he did that ugly man groan and fell down on top of you. It hit you like a nasty flu.

Without a second word or a "thank you" or a "never again", you dressed yourself and left him on your bed, reeling.

In the dark pit of the night, it was Charlotte Street, and you were absentminded, a loose grip on the wheel. It was the shittiest of the family cars, the one with the wide turns and the occasional stall, but it was small, and it was dim, and it was the first one in the driveway that evening. You were speeding. You thought that maybe you were crying, but you couldn't have been sure, wet face slowly numbing. Steve was in the passenger's seat, and he was in the back, in the trunk, a floating, disembodied head in the rearview mirror, a carcass on the road. He was on your lap, but you were on his, and it was 83, and you were kissing and kissing and then he was grabbing your throat and then you were dead, but he didn't stop kissing you.

And so the road is thin, and so the drive is hesitant, wobbly and weaving. That same self-destructive brain from all previous exploding conversations was the one to urge you to jerk the wheel, to drive into the forest and never wake up.

At the age of thirteen, riding your bike down the neighborhood drive, your wheel got hooked on a rock on the road, the vehicle skidding to a halt as you lost your balance, leg getting caught in the mechanism. A few scratches, a bump on the head, and a skinned knee; you still cried. The world ended on the pavement, and it was born again in the kitchen, bandaged and reassured, with a cough and a shrug. Other than this incident, you had trotted through life generally unscathed. Most of your major injuries were purely emotional, a few select moments from parties or concerts when things went awry, and your optimism was snatched up without a second thought.

There was a deer, large and foreboding, frozen and wide-eyed, an omen. Your legs became solid, icy, and they melted, and you had no limbs.

You were thirteen, your ankle caught in the mechanism, but you weren't crying, possibly unable and possibly unwilling, but still felt a surge, a jolt and a slam, your nose going straight to the dash. It passed it, though, your nose scraping against the wheel as your unbuckled waist lifted from the seat, head surging forward, scalp threatening the windshield. Your emerged through the car in a birth-like scene. If felt anything at all, you felt an immense pressure, a swift hammer to your skull, as you immerged, glass cutting into your skin as you landed face-first into the hood.

The impact hit your nose like a brick, the cartilage bending, fissuring, flattening, and you heard the rebel yell of your limbs following close behind, your wrist bending awkwardly beneath your chest. You slid across the hood, the windshield scraps digging harsh into your skin, drawing lines down your arms and your cheeks and your neck; this was like the months in England, the slow deconstruction on the plane. But pain hit slow, and all it was at first was noise, crashing and bending and halting, the night's children whispering around you.

The deer laid misshaped in front of the car, and it cried before it died. From your face-first position, lifting up your chin slightly, you saw it fall limp.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington imagine

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watermelondip · 3 days ago

Text

marked (teen wolf, stiles stilinski x reader)

pairing: stiles stilinski/reader, backround! scott/allison summary: scott’s cousin is back in beacon hills after a long absence. stiles thinks he is over his crush on her but boy is he wrong. one look at her and he is back to his fourteen year old awkward pining self. after taking reader to lydia’s party, a game of truth or dare might have dire consequences if stiles doesn't die of embarrassment first. tags: childhood friends to lovers, endless pining, yearning, seemingly unreciprocated feelings, takes place in season 1, but the characters are aged up for clear reasons, canon divergence (everyone lives, malia isn’t a coyote, cora is around) narration is 3rd person but tied to stiles’ perspective, stiles is a simp, playing truth or dare, the dares get raunchy, but no smut yet, canon typical stiles horniness, stiles is touch-starved af warnings: lotta cussing, i delve a bit into stiles’ grief of his mother, mentions of him missing her and wishing she was there to give him advice, themes of stiles having low self-esteem, thinking himself unworthy of reader, stiles being self-conscious of being a virgin, some guys tease him about it, blurry consent inherent to truth or dare? (nothing explicit happens, some horny dares but none of the characters are really pressured into doing something they don’t want to) alcohol consumption (remember I’m aging up the characters but I guess in america drinking at 18 is still underage drinking) biting, marking reader is: scott’s cousin (not mentioned if by blood) mentioned to have been kind of a tomboy as a kid, emotionally unavailable, troublemaker (it’s said that her parents sent her away to beacon hills because she kept getting in trouble), hotheaded, hinted at being a werewolf (will be confirmed in part two) word count: 9.4k

The train station was fairly quiet that Sunday morning. Two boys were waiting patiently on a bench for a train that announced to arrive half an hour late.

"Thanks again for helping me pick up my cousin, Stiles."

The boy shrugged as if to say no big deal.

The three of them used to be really close friends as little kids. She used to visit every summer vacation. They did everything together; go to the beach, cycle around the neighborhood, go for ice cream. Y/N and Scott used to make a competition out of everything. Who can make the better sandcastle? Who can finish their ice cream fastest? Stiles was usually asked to be the referee which stressed him to no end because he didn't want to choose between his two best friends. It always ended in one of them being upset, although they never held a grudge for long.

But then Y/N got older, and Scott's parents got divorced; so change inevitably happened. She stopped visiting and Stiles hasn't really heard from her ever since. Scott would update him every once in a while. She cut her hair, had changed her style. She has a cat now. She picked up photography. She changed her style again.

Stiles wondered if he could pick her up from a crowd now that four years had passed since the last time he'd seen her. They weren't kids anymore. He wondered if she still did that cute thing when she'd smile with just one corner of her mouth like she was trying to hide it but couldn't help it. Or if she still twirled her hair around her index finger when she thought about something really hard.

The sound of an old lady making an announcement over the speakers jolted Stiles awake from his reverie. The train was about to arrive in 5 minutes. Finally.

"I don't want to sound ungrateful, it's just… will you promise me something, Stiles?" he nodded in response. "Promise you won't make it weird with Y/N being back?"

"Dude, it's been forever. I forgot I even used to have a crush on her. Plus I'm loyal to Lydia these days."

"She doesn't even remember your name," Scott pointed exasperated.

"Who? Lydia or Y/N?

Scott laughed. Stiles having a crush on his cousin wasn't gonna make a difference because she'd never like him back anyway. She didn't seem much into romance. One time a boy kissed her cheek at a birthday party and she hit him over the head with a pool noodle until he started crying. She used to chase guys around with bugs or worms in her hand and they would scream and scatter. She'd laugh about it. Stiles tried to compliment her once and she punched him in the arm so hard he fell over.

She used to punch him in the arm a lot actually, now that he thought about it. So much so that his shoulder area was in an almost constant dull pain while she was visiting. Stiles never thought he'd miss the pain until Scott told him she wasn't coming over that summer.

But now she was back. Scott says she's been getting into a lot of trouble lately and that her parents don't know what to do with her anymore. He's overheard phone conversations between his mom and Y/N's and the situation is dire. She says that sending her away is an alarm signal and if she doesn't start behaving now they'll need to take serious measures. Stiles had no idea what "serious measures" meant, but it couldn't be good. Yet another reason why Stiles shouldn't couldn't have a crush on her. She was gonna disappear again.

The train had finally made it to the station and small rivulets of people started pouring out with their suitcases and trolley bags. Stiles spotted Y/N with such ease he surprised himself.

She looked the exact same as he remembered. She looked nothing like she used to. Both statements were true at the same time. There was something about her – her eyes, her smile, that Stiles recognized immediately. Like you recognize the first few notes of your favorite song before it really starts playing. She was the same old girl who left Beacon Hills four years ago, yet she was brand new somehow.

She gave Scott a hug then he grabbed a few of her bags and started helping her carry them to the jeep parked nearby. Stiles debated whether or not to go in for a hug, but halfway through it he chickened out and pretended he was just leaning in for her backpack since it was the last piece of her luggage.

"It's fine," she assured him seeming mildly annoyed. "I got this one."

Of course she'd give Scott a hug, they're related and have kept in touch all this time. To her Stiles was just some kid she used to play with who had a massive and painfully obvious crush on her. He cringed internally thinking about all the times she caught him staring at her and she rolled her eyes or flipped him off. She was probably angry at Scott for bringing him here.

"Scotty?"

"You only call me that when you want something."

"Can I get shotgun? I'll get a better view and I want to take pictures."

She pulled out of her jean jacket's pocket a small digital camera and gave a lopsided smile. Yes, Stiles thought, she still did that. Scott just pointed towards the front seat with his chin and jumped in the back of the jeep.

Stiles did his best to hide how nervous he was now that he wasn't just sharing a car with his first-ever crush, but she was gonna be in the front of the car with him. He was grateful his mom owned a jeep and not something tiny like a mini Cooper. Because then the half-hour-long drive would turn into pure torture.

They recounted stories on the way and laughed and Y/N took so many pictures. Some of them while hanging half out of the car, almost giving Stiles a heart attack in the process; some of them were artsy shots of the dashboard or the rearview mirror. She even took a picture of Stiles while he was driving, causing him to take one hand off the wheel to cover his face self-consciously. She berated him for putting them in danger but she laughed while doing it so she didn't really mean it.

"If I die in this car cause you wanted to be coy I'll haunt your ass," she says as she snaps another shot of him, this time both his hands were on the steering wheel.

"If we die in this car it'll be because you put a camera in the driver's face."

"The flash isn't even on." She turned around and took a picture of Scott next. Stiles saw him giving an awkward thumbs up in the rearview mirror. "Now that's more like it."

Stiles saw in the corner of his eye the camera turning towards him once again and he flipped her off without thinking. He immediately felt bad for it. Few years ago she would have flipped him off right back and laughed about it but they weren't twelve and best friends anymore. He needed to remind himself of that.

As Y/N went quiet for a second inspecting the picture she just took on the tiny screen of her camera, Stiles chewed on his lips and debated between apologizing sincerely or trying to play it off as a joke.

"Look Y/N, I'm sorry–" he started but got interrupted.

"This is actually really good, can I post this?"

Stiles had no idea Y/N posted her picture somewhere on the internet. She didn't have an instagram or facebook, he knew because he's looked for her. Some people may call it cyberstalking; he'd call it being curious. He even asked Scott when he got desperate and Scott said she doesn't really do social media. Sometimes she'd text Scott a really cool picture she took and if Stiles was there he'd show it to him. He always assumed the pictures were just for herself or maybe a portfolio if she planned on doing this professionally one day.

"Look you can't even see your face– if that's what you're worried about."

She turned the camera around for him to look just as they pulled over in Scott's driveway. The camera focused on Stiles' hand, which was strategically covering his face, and the rest of him was blurred and hardly recognizable. Stiles wouldn't call that a good picture but he'd be lying if he said he didn't feel flattered that Y/N wanted to post a picture of him on her social media.

"Sure, I don't mind."

"Thanks! And thanks for picking me up, too. My cousin is too lazy to get a driver's license."

"Oh, really? Where's yours?"

"I had one but my parents took it because I got caught sneaking out at night. I'll get it back in a few months."

They helped Y/N haul her luggage all the way up into the attic, where Ms. McCall arranged a makeshift bedroom for her. Stiles recognized the bedframe because it was Scott's years ago before he got the one he has in his room now. The mattress looked new and so did the bed sheets. They stood out in an otherwise very old, dusty room. It was clear Scott's mom made an effort to clean up but the attic was beyond salvation at that point. The room looked good but in the corners there were still some boxes of things the family kept stored away. There were cobwebs and water damage to the walls and ceiling.

Stiles thought there was a metaphor in there somewhere for an attic trying to double as a bedroom, trying to be something it's not. An attic being representative of all that is old and out of use but you hold unto it for sentimentality. Like a childhood crush; something familiar and comforting that won't go anywhere but throwing it away feels like a betrayal.

It reminded him that no matter how much you brushed off the dust of something old, it still doesn't make it work as if it's new. The past stays in the past and we have to move forward. Some things can not be brought back.

"Thanks again for the help," Y/N chimed in interrupting his train of thought.

Her hand brushed his as she grabbed her backpack from his hand and gently placed it on her bed. He felt a familiar shiver buzz through him. Starting from the very point her fingertips made contact with his skin and going everywhere at once.

Some things stay in the past and some things stay with you forever.

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Stiles nervously fiddled with the buttons of his jacked before hitting his car’s horn the first time. He’s talked to Y/N and promised he’d pick her up for the party they were all going to since Scott wanted to pick Allison up and spend some one-on-one time with her. How this girl agreed on going to a party with his dorky best friend was beyond him.

The boy found himself checking his own reflection in his rearview mirror multiple times before honking a second time, just to make sure he was heard.

Y/N had moved to Beacon Hills three weeks and five days ago (not that Stiles was counting or anything). He was finally managing to be normal in her presence, at least when Scott or some other person was around them. Still, knowing there was only gonna be the two of them in his car with no buffer made him nervous. Stiles had a penchant for shoving his foot in his mouth every time he found himself alone in this girl’s presence. It would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so mortifying.

One time they were alone for all of five minutes, he and Scott were helping her unpack and shuffle some furniture around (there wasn’t a lot of it in her room/attic). Scott took a break to go to the bathroom. Stiles was shelving books while on the other end of the room, Y/N was unpacking and sorting out clothes. She pulled a cute sundress out of a box and tried it against her body for a second, looking in the mirror mounted on the wardrobe.

“I don’t know why I brought this with me, it’s gonna get too cold in the fall for this."

She still hung the dress on a clothes hanger with a disappointed look on her face.

“I’m sure it looks good on you. My mom used to wear dresses like that.”

Stiles let his head fall on the steering wheel, feeling embarrassment wash over him like it was happening all over again. He accidentally touched the horn a third time and jumped at the sound. Is he gonna seem impatient now that he’s honked three times? Fuck, he didn’t even get to see her and he already messed up.

At least it’s better than comparing her to his dead mother. Holy shit, does he not think before opening his mouth in front of her? My mom used to wear dresses like that. What a dumbass. Now she’s gonna assume he thinks of her like a mother figure –he doesn’t– or that he’s into her because she reminds him of his mother – she doesn’t. Either option made Stiles want to drive into a lake.

Deep in thought he almost didn’t hear the knocking on his car’s window. It was Y/N and she was wearing a red flannel over a graphic t-shirt with a comic book speech bubble that said ‘I’m fluent in sarcasm’, Melisa McCall was behind her snuggled in a comfy looking house robe.

Stiles leaned towards the car door and cracked it open from the inside as much as he could. If he was smarter he would have come out of the car and opened the door for her from the outside. And Y/N would find it charming and sweet, maybe it would make up for all the time he was less than charming or sweet. He thought about it before getting here but he got taken by surprise by Scott’s mom and then it suddenly felt like he would be trying too hard if he did that. He didn’t want to make it so obvious that he wanted this girl’s approval.

Ultimately that was what Stiles was chasing; approval. It’s not like he was gonna get a date or at least a kiss. Y/N was there temporarily and then she’d be gone and everything would have to go back to normal. Anything serious or permanent, anything they couldn’t go back from was out of the question. And Stiles had the feeling Y/N wasn’t the type of girl you kiss once only to walk away. So he settled for her to at least look at him like she wanted to kiss him and that would have to be enough.

Yeah, for him it would be enough.

Y/N made herself comfortable in the passenger seat, smoothing over her clothes when Melisa grabbed the car door and widened it, peaking her head in slightly.

“Make sure to look after her, ok Stiles? I’m trusting you to keep her safe.”

“Or you can come with us and keep an eye on her yourself, ma’am,” Stiles joked. “You’d blend right in.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

She rolled her eyes in fake annoyance but Stiles noticed a slight smile tugging at her lips.

“I mean it, I want you on your best behavior.”

“Yes ma’am,” Stiles quipped nodding his head towards the woman.

She leaned inside the car and fastened Y/N’s seatbelt on tightly. He expected the girl to protest or at least roll her eyes but she just gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek and a smile.

“And you, remember what your parents told you?”

“Promise I’ll be good, auntie. Besides you asked Stiles to babysit me and you know he’s such an angel.”

Melissa let out a snort and waved her hand goodbye as the two teenagers drove away.

Y/N jokingly called him an angel and he couldn’t help but think that his mother also used to do that. Every time he got himself into trouble, or detention, or he broke a vase; she’d call him her little angel and help clean whatever mess he was in.

He couldn’t say anything about that, though, if he compared her to his mother twice in a row he would simply jump out of the car while it was still in motion. If the friend zone was so dreaded by men everywhere, imagine what being son zoned will do to you.

Another thought crossed his mind and Stiles tried to shove it away before it was too late. He was unsuccessful. The last time Y/N was in Beacon Hills, his mom was still alive. He would give everything to go back to that place in time. Sell his soul to the devil to be twelve again and in love with his friend and have his mom tease him for it like before. He used to hate it. He’d get all red in the face and tell her to mind her own business.

“My son’s love life is my business,” she’d say.

“What love life? I have no love life.”

“Not now, but when you’re older I want you to know that you can talk to me about it.”

And then he’d make a face because the mere thought of talking to his mom about feelings towards girls and boys felt so embarrassing. Now he would kill for a chance to talk to his mom again and ask her something as mundane as what to do about his crush.

He stopped at a red light a bit too suddenly, causing both of them to sway in their seat. Stiles felt the familiar ache of trying to hold back tears, he tried looking up and when that didn’t work he let out a sigh. It would have been just like him to cry for no reason in front of the girl he liked.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?”

Y/N said his name softly, like a secret. He involuntarily held his breath as he felt her hand creep on top of his on the gear stick.

“Nothing,” he found himself lying in spite of his glistening eyes.

Under any other circumstances, he would have just told Y/N the truth; that he was thinking about his mother. But he promised himself he would not mention her tonight, not so soon after the last time they spoke.

“We don’t have to go to this stupid party if you don’t want to. We can just go to your place and play some scrabble or we could read some comics and when you’re sick of me you can drop me home.”

Her thumb was rubbing the back of his hand and it affected Stiles more than it should for such an insignificant gesture.

“No, it’ll be good for you to go to a party. You know, meet kids outside of school, make some friends that aren’t me and Scott.”

He removed his gaze from the road to look at her, really look for the first time since she got in his car. He searched for a word that described her properly. The only one he could come up with was disarming. The kind of beauty that makes knights throw down their weapons and surrender, the kind that would make him kneel and beg. Except that Stiles was no knight in shining armor and the only weapon he was wielding was his wit. No wonder he forgot how to speak around her, how to be clever. She was disarming him.

The light changed from red to green and it didn’t make her look sickly– like he expected but ethereal, otherworldly. Disarmingly beautiful, he thought.

“Stiles, go,” she whispered.

It took Stiles an embarrassing amount of seconds to realize what she was talking about. Green light. Go. When he finally managed to shift gears, the girl took her hand off of his and he immediately felt the loss of heat.

“You got lost in your thoughts again. You know, whenever you feel ready to talk about whatever is bothering you, I’m here.”

The words `really, I’m fine` were dancing on his lips once again. After all, how could he ever tell her that more often than not he lost himself in thoughts of her? Instead, he surprised himself by saying something else entirely.

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

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The music at the party was too loud and not really Stiles’ taste. Inside the house it smelled like booze and sweaty teenagers so he grabbed Y/N’s arm and gently dragged her after him all the way to Lydia’s backyard, where her pool was. Normally at parties, Stiles sits in a corner and talks to whoever will listen, mostly other socially awkward nerdy kids, they tended to find each other easily. But this time he found himself swaying to the music alongside Y/N wondering if he could try and pinch himself without making it super obvious.

To be fair, if this was a dream they’d probably be making out by now.

He saw Y/N leaning in closer and closer to the point where he honestly thought she was going in for a kiss, and then he felt her breath to his ear. She smelled like something sweet (berries?) and she was radiating heat. Stiles shivered. He was too dazed to decipher what was being said and, by the time he came back to his senses, she leaned away.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

She leaned in even closer this time propping a hand against his chest, and instead of whispering her words came out more like a shout.

“I’m gonna go grab us some drinks, ok?”

Without checking if Stiles understood what was being said this time she walked away and the boy found himself in the all too familiar position he usually ends up in at parties. He looked around for something to do while waiting for Y/N, wondering if he should’ve just gone with her inside.

Maybe she needed a second away from him. Maybe he was giving her the creeps. He liked to think that he was hiding his crush pretty well – yeah, he was awkward around her but so was he around everybody. He just wasn’t that good at the whole socializing thing.

While looking around for a corner to hide in, Stiles spotted his best friend dancing with Alison. He made a b-line towards them.

“Stiles, where’s Y/N?”

“She’s gone to get a drink. How are you holding up?”

He didn’t know how else to phrase the question without raising suspicion. Hey, Scott, how are you dealing with the first full moon since you’ve been bitten by a werewolf? That would send Allison running. But his friend knew exactly what he meant, he could tell by the look he gave him.

Stiles found it hard to believe that only a few days ago he thought the hardest thing for him to do this year would be hiding his feelings from his crush and his best friend. Now he’s gonna have to help said friend hide his werewolf side from… well, everybody. Spending time alone with Y/N in his car didn’t seem so daunting in retrospect.

“I’m fine,” Scott said, but Stiles didn’t buy it.

He was going to offer to go after Y/N and get a drink for him. Maybe that would drown out the wolf, but then again it might bring it to the surface. Better not to risk it.

Deep in thought, Stiles didn’t realize Y/N had made her way back to his side with two drinks in hand until suddenly her arms wrapped around him and she whispered something in his ear. He must have misheard her or fully hallucinated because there was no way that what she said was real.

“Hold me like you can’t get enough of me.”

Her arms were now holding him tighter and Stiles could feel the can of soda in her hand pressing against the back of his neck. It was cold and probably the only thing keeping him from melting in Y/N’s arms.

He hugged her back, unsure of where to place his hands at first. He decided one in the space between her shoulder blades and one right above her hip. He squeezed her gently, unable to shake the feeling that his hand fit perfectly in the dip of her waist. She leaned once again like she was trying to whisper something in his ear but this time Stiles placed his head on her shoulder, resting his forehead there in order to make it easier for her to tell him things.

“I’m gonna let go now, but leave one arm around me.”

Stiles breathed in her berry scent and let out a sigh. She was letting go too soon. He didn’t remember the last time he got a hug like this, full-bodied, as tight as it can get, feel it in your heart type of hug. When she let go it felt like somebody removed a rib from his chest.

As per her instructions, his hand remained firmly above her hip and although five minutes ago he’d kill to be this close to her, now it wasn’t close enough.

When he looked back from Y/N to Scott and Allison they had matching shocked expressions.

“Did I miss something important?” Scott asked perplexed and Stiles heard the barely contained anger simmering below the surface.

“Just a guy hitting on me at the punch bowl. I figured if he saw me with some other guy he’d give up. Men are like wolves that way, they respect each other’s territories.”

Stiles didn’t miss the irony of Y/N comparing men to wolves to her cousin, an actual wolf. He smirked and hoped she didn’t see it.

“Allison, is the guy in the lime green shirt still looking at me?”

Allison subtly looked towards the doorway over Y/N’s shoulder. She let out a tsk and gave the girl an apologetic smile. He must still be looking.

“Do you want me to talk to him, Y/N?” Scott nearly growled.

Scott was not-so-subtly glaring in the same direction as Allison was a second ago.

“Down boy,” Y/N joked. “Since when are you Mr. Though Guy?”

Stiles caught the yellow flash of Scott’s eyes for a second and felt the dread of the truth being out. He told Scott not to come to this stupid party, not on a full fucking moon. But does he ever listen to his smart and reasonable friend? Nooo.

Scott looked like he was about to transform when Y/N did something brilliant. She downed her drink in one big gulp and pushed her cousin into the pool behind him, falling with him in the process. The water splashed both Stiles and Allison, who let out an undignified squeak.

It worked. Scott seemed back to his normal self if a little peeved for being pushed in the pool. He pulled one arm all the way back, then hit the water at full force, splashing as much as he could directly at Y/N. She retaliated. Allison gave Stiles a nudge and pointed at the two playing in the pool as if to say “Look at these two idiots”. And he didn’t realize it at the moment but they both had a similar love struck expression pasted on their faces.

A couple other brave teenagers jumped in the pool after Y/N inspired them. Stiles tried to shield his face from all the water splashing in all directions. Suddenly he felt a soaking wet hand grab at his ankle.

“Y/N, no! It’s cold as shit tonight!”

She let go and flipped him off. The pool was getting crowded so the girl lifted herself out of it with surprising ease. She took her shirt off and did her best to wrangle out any water in it.

Stiles forgot how to breathe. One moment he was with his friends at the party having fun and the very next it’s just him and Y/N left in the whole world and she is shirtless and he can see her bra and her stomach and that dip where her waist meets her hip. He licks his lips desperately trying to find the strength to look away.

Three seconds. He gives himself three seconds to admire her and then he’s gonna turn around and forget what he’d seen.

One…

Two…

Three– Was that motherfucker who was bothering her earlier still there? Was he also staring at her body with the same hunger in his eyes? And if he was; how was Stiles any better than him?

He turns around to look for him, with no idea what he actually looks like but Y/N mentioned a lime green shirt and that’s hard to miss. All of a sudden he felt something cold and wet hit him in the back. It was Y/N’s shirt that she was brandishing like a whip. He saw her twisting it again and going for a second hit, which he dodged.

“You’re relentless,” he laughs but he’s pretty sure she didn’t hear it since the music was still blaring at full volume.

He took off his own jacket and draped it across her shoulders, surprised by the amount of heat her body was radiating still. As his hands gently brushed against her skin he expected it to be ice cold, but it felt feverish to the touch.

She couldn’t have caught a cold that fast, could she?

“Are you feeling ok?” he asked, the back of his hand brushing the side of her face trying to gauge her temperature.

“Yeah, I just run hot.”

She shook off the excess water in her hair in a dog-like manner. Stiles took a step back. He took the shirt from Y/N’s hand and tried to squeeze a few more drops of water out of it. When he looked back at her, his jacket was buttoned up and fully covering her. The boy decided that he liked this look on her even better.

He wasn’t sure what to feel more guilt over; how much he liked seeing Y/N half naked or the satisfaction he felt seeing her wearing his clothes. He had no right to be possessive over her but the thought popped into his head regardless: Let green shirt guy top this.

“Are you gonna give me your pants, too?” Y/N asked with a grin.

Stiles realized he must have been staring like an idiot this whole time and maybe the filthy things he was thinking were etched on his face. But if they were, Y/N didn’t seem to hate him just yet.

“Please, you’re gonna have to work harder than that to get in my pants.”

The girl laughed. A genuine and lighthearted sound that made Stiles’ heart stop for a beat. He was afraid his joke wasn’t gonna be received well, but Y/N has always been the type of person who can take a joke.

He gave the girl a once over, examining the still very wet state of her with worry.

“What am I gonna tell Melisa?” he wondered out loud.

“That we had fun, nerd.”

She punched his shoulder lightly and Stiles couldn’t stop a small smile from forming on his lips. There was still hope. They could still be friends like before and tease each other and have fun. In spite of his ever growing fondness for her, they could still salvage what remained of their friendship. And maybe Stiles would survive this trial like he survived everything that came before it.

“Let’s get you inside before you catch a cold.”

Stiles looked back at Scott and Alison but they were playing in the pool together and he didn’t want to interrupt their date any more than he already had. He put a hand on Y/N’s back to gently guide her inside the house.

If anybody asks, he did it to make sure she doesn’t run off back into the pool. If anybody pressed him on the matter, it’s because he just loves being so close to her. But if he was wholly honest, his hand just ended up there without him thinking about it, like muscle memory, like he had done it a thousand times before.

Once inside she ran for the kitchen to get another drink and Stiles followed her because he didn’t want to risk green shirt guy appearing again.

He watched her pour straight vodka in her red solo cup and down it like it was nothing. Is that what she had in her cup earlier, too? And if that was the case, how was she still standing up? Two full glasses of vodka would have sent Stiles to the hospital.

The boy remembered what Scott said, that Y/N had some issues and that’s why her parents sent her away. Were her issues alcohol related? And if so then was he enabling her right now?

Stiles took the now empty cup and cleaned it a little in the sink before refilling it with water.

“Thanks me for this tomorrow,” he says while handing her the cup back.

The girl rolled her eyes a little but she took the plastic cup with her to the living room where a bunch of kids were sitting in a circle, playing truth or dare. She elbowed Stiles in the ribs and pointed in their direction with her chin. At first Stiles thought she was pointing at the circle as a whole but then he realized she was pointing at one person in particular. Lydia Martin.

“Wanna play?” she gave him a knowing grin.

How would she know about Lydia? he never said a word. Unless…

“Scott. He told you.”

Scott used to update Stiles on what was new in Y/N’s life semi-regularly. If she was dating somebody, if she made any big changes to her look, if she got in trouble, Stiles knew about it. Not that he was asking, it usually just came about.

“Hey Scott, who are you texting?”

“Just Y/N. She got a new camera, look.”

And he’d show him a picture. It was a selfie in a mirror, but her face was fully obscured by the bulky camera she was holding. He noticed a picture of the three of them when they were kids stuck in the corner of her mirror. He remember when they took that picture, they were at a public pool and Y/N was wearing a Disney princess swimsuit, which made Stiles jealous because he wanted one too but they only made them for girls.

Or.

He remembered one time he came over to Scott’s house to study together for an exam and when he got there his friend was on the phone.

“One second, Stiles is here,” he took a pause like he was listening to something on the other side. “Y/N says hi.”

“Tell her I said hi, too?”

“Stiles says he loves you and can’t stay away from you any longer. He’s moving next door to you this week–”

Then Scott got cut off by the pillow Stiles threw in his face. He laughed as he ran a hand through his hair to put it back in place, phone still glued to his ear.

“Well, your boyfriend can cry about it. I think he’s kind of a dick anyway.”

Stiles had no idea she had a boyfriend until then. And he felt stupid for assuming she’d be as chronically single as he was. With her wit and charm boys were probably standing in line waiting for a chance.

He had never stopped to ponder the idea that Scott was probably telling her things about him, too. Like how he got diagnosed with ADHD and got put on meds, or the fact that he had an unhealthy obsession with Lydia Martin, the most popular girl in school.

What does Y/N know about Stiles that he’s never shared? Scott wasn’t a gossip, he certainly hadn’t shared any gory details, right? Like Stiles knew Y/N had a boyfriend and that Scott didn’t like him, but he didn’t have any idea why. Scott never gave him a reason for why he disliked him and Stiles never asked because he assumed it would be too personal to share.

He probably had only mentioned it off-hand like:

“Oh, yeah, Stiles has a crush on this girl he has no chance with.”

Y/N had said something back like: “Yeah, he does that a lot.”

And they both laughed at him.

Stiles looked back between Lydia and Y/N wondering if he actually has a type after all, and it’s girls who wouldn’t look at him twice.

Y/N was looking at him quizzically and he remembered that she had asked him a question which he hadn’t answered because he’s been trapped by his own self-doubt and anxieties.

“Sure,” he finally murmurs. “But you gotta drink all of this first.”

He pointed at the red cup full of water in her hand, which he presumed she only took to shut him up and wasn’t planning on touching the rest of the night. But she looked at the cup and then at the circle of people that were now cheering on a guy who dropped ice down his pants, then took a few big gulps of her water, finishing it before the ice melted.

“Hey, got room for two more players?” she asked a little louder than she needed because the music wasn’t blaring as loud in the room they were in as it did outside.

Some guy whooped and patted a spot next to him on the floor. The two of them took that as an invitation and sat down. A blonde girl, Stiles was pretty sure her name was Malia, got dared to remove an item of clothing and they all watched in awe as she removed her bra from underneath her shirt, then flung it like a slingshot at the guy who dared her in the first place.

They kept going in a circle, spinning a bottle to determine who was asking or daring who. Every time somebody picked truth there was a girl who determined how honest you were, her name was Cora and everyone in the circle swore up and down that she was psychic. Now that he knew werewolves were a real thing, Stiles couldn’t really scoff at the idea of a psychic girl. And everybody kept insisting “trust me, we played a bunch of times with her and she always knows”.

So when his turn came he picked truth out of curiosity, to see if he could lie to a mind-reader. Also because most of the dares were raunchy or embarrassing and Stiles didn’t think he could take making a fool of himself in front of both Lydia and Y/N.

“What’s the weirdest place you’ve ever had sex in?”

Fuck.

“The…” he took a second like he was remembering something. “Back of my jeep.”

Stiles hoped that telling a very mild lie that made him seem boring was probably his best bet to getting away with it. Anything bolder and even a non-psychic would be able to tell he was full of it. He felt his heart hammer in his chest as Cora’s eyes narrowed as if she were searching for something inside him.

“Bullshit,” she declared.

Double fuck.

“I’ve never…” he felt too embarrassed to finish the sentence. He looked up at the ceiling like he was annoyed at the question and not utterly humiliated.

The only way out is through, he thought.

“I’m a virgin.”

Oohs and aahs were heard from the group of kids. Stiles tried his absolute best not to look at Y/N. He was desperate to know what she thought about him in that moment. Did her opinion of him change at all? Did she think he was a loser? Did she already know? Did Scott tell her?

Lydia looked completely unbothered but that didn’t surprise Stiles. She probably didn’t even know his name until Y/N said it at some point during the night. Jackson was right next to her looking smug as always and Stiles just knew he was gonna give him grief for this later, during lacrosse practice or in the locker room.

He tried to play it cool like it was no big deal, but his face was burning hot. He knew, intellectually, that the average age of losing one’s virginity in America was 18.4, so he wasn’t falling behind by any means. Yet still, he felt like he was missing out on something. Especially since Scott started dating Allison because he knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be the only virgin in his friend group. The more the clock was ticking the harder it will be for him to find someone who didn’t think it was weird. And then before he’d know it he’d be 35 having never felt the touch of a woman because his type was utterly unavailable.

“New girl, truth or dare?”

Y/N spun the bottle and it landed on the same guy who dared Malia to take off her bra. Somebody in the circle murmured ‘careful’ but Stiles couldn’t pinpoint who exactly said it. He knew exactly why they said it though. That guy had creep written all over him. Everything he said to the girls was an innuendo, he was undressing them with his eyes, unashamed of it too, he was so clearly playing this game trying to get some kind of action.

“Dare.”

The shit eating grin on that guy’s face made the hair on Stiles' arm stand up. He finally had the guts to look at Y/N again, considering enough time had passed between Cora’s question and now that it didn’t look like he desperately wanted to see her reaction. She looked fierce and determined as always. As if she wasn’t at the mercy of this guy’s perverted mind.

“Give someone in this circle a hickey.”

Stiles froze in his place. Once again he looked away from Y/N, knowing that his thoughts were written on his face and she knew him well-enough to read them.

He examined her options.

Creep? No way.

Jackson? Too douche-y for her.

Boyd? Some girl’s hand was possessively gripping his thigh as if she was thinking the same thing.

One of the girls? Maybe…

Then Y/N popped on his lap like it meant nothing, straddling him between her thighs. If Stiles' face was pink earlier, it was definitely burning red now.

“This ok?” she asked gently.

Stiles’ heart stopped in his chest. This was real. His crush was straddling his lap and was about to suck on his neck in front of a bunch of strangers, all ogling them like they were at the circus. And Stiles was beginning to feel like a clown.

He almost said no. He was terrified of what this could mean for their friendship. He knew there was no coming back from this. There was no world in which Stiles could have Y/N do this to him and then act normal in her presence ever again. This was bad bad bad. It’d be best to say no.

He opened his mouth but found himself unable to speak. He should say no but he didn’t want to.

And then he thought about Y/N and how she never backs down from a dare. How even when they were kids she and Scott made everything into a competition and she would always try to win, to her own detriment sometimes. They'd try to see who can finish their ice cream faster and she’d get a brain freeze but keep eating anyway.

If Stiles refused she would just hop in someone else’s lap and still do the dare, then he’d be forced to watch her give someone else a hickey knowing it could’ve been him the whole time. He’d die of jealousy. And Stiles was the only person she knew in this circle, the only one she trusted and felt comfortable around. If he said no, she’d have to do this very intimate act with a stranger.

So when he put it this way he was being charitable.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded, afraid of what undignified noise he might make if he opened his mouth.

“Cover the little one’s eyes,” someone shouted and Malia put her hand on top of Cora’s eyes, who just laughed and let it happen. “She’s a minor, she can’t see this.”

Y/N leaned down to reach his neck. He looked up, partially to give her better access and partially to avoid looking at the gawking teenagers around them. The fact that they just found out he was a virgin right before this made things ten times worse for him.

He felt the girl’s hot breath right above the base of his neck, above the vein that leads to his heart. He took in one deep breath, then tried to hold it. She smelled like raspberry flavored vodka, like a fancy cocktail you’d get at a bar. How drunk was she, really? Should he worry? If she’s too drunk to judge what she's doing, was he taking advantage of her? He did want it to happen but not like this. Not with people watching, not when she was drunk, not on a dare.

Holy shit.

And just like that her lips were on him, like he’d dreamed of so many times. She licked the spot at the base of his neck and Stiles would be lying if he said that feeling didn’t go straight to his dick. Another gentle kiss and then– oh.

He had no idea what to expect, he’d never done anything like this, but he definitely didn’t think it was gonna hurt as much as it did. Or that he was gonna enjoy the pain to that extent. He thought she was just gonna suck on his neck but it certainly felt more like a bite, and not a gentle nibble either. Stiles hissed. Those were most certainly her teeth scraping his skin. He found himself gripping her thigh in an attempt to stifle the pain; her jeans were still wet from being in the pool.

She placed a third kiss right before sucking on the very same spot she previously bit. The whimper that escaped Stiles' lips was one of the most unbecoming sounds he could’ve made. He heard Y/N’s lips come off him with a smacking sound that was gonna get stuck in his head forever.

“Still good?” the girl asked looking straight into his eyes.

Stiles wondered what she was looking for. Signs of regret? Pain? Desire? Because in that moment he was flipping through all of them in rapid succession.

“Yeah, are you?”

She kissed her thumb and pressed it against his lips. Before he could ask what that meant she got off him and let herself fall back in her spot on the floor. Stiles' lap was still wet in every spot that had made contact with her, the cool feeling serving as proof that he didn’t hallucinate it all.

“Lydia, I believe it’s your turn.”

The redhead grabbed the bottle from the middle of the circle and spun it lazily, it landed on Y/N.

“Dare,” Lydia announced without giving the other girl the occasion to even ask.

“My first dare, fun.”

She placed a finger on her chin and acted like she was thinking really hard about something, but Stiles knew her too well to fall for it. She had been probably cooking questions and dares since before she decided to join the game. He had no doubt she’d been sitting on something juicy this whole time, waiting for her moment. He was almost scared for Lydia.

“Let someone of my choosing…” she took a pause for dramatic effect and looked at the kitchen island visible from the living room floor. “…take a body shot off of you.”

A chorus of surprised sounds erupted from the group. Lydia eyed the creepy guy who was staring at her like a lion at an antelope.

“Not him,” she declared.

It was just like Lydia to still give orders even when it was her turn to take them.

“Deal.”

Y/N led the ginger to sit on the kitchen island, muttering something about how they don’t have tequila so vodka will have to do. She touched a lemon slice to Lydia’s right thigh and stuck some salt on it, poured a shot of vodka carefully balancing it on her left leg, the lemon slice was left on the counter in between the girl’s legs.

“Stiles?” she turned around to the whole group that was still waiting in the living room. “Will you do the honors?”

The boy choked on air.

“I’m-I’m driving.”

“Scott can drive us home. You can come pick up Roscoe from Lydia tomorrow.”

She gave him a wink and finally, he understood. Not only was she trying to set him up with Lydia tonight, she was giving him an excuse to come see her the next day. Evil fucking genius.

“I guess,” Stiles shrugged.

He walked up to the counter sluggishly, everybody else behind him waiting to see what happens like vultures waiting for a wounded animal to keel over. He stopped for a second, assessing the situation. Even though everybody in the room already knew he was inexperienced he was still too embarrassed to ask what he was supposed to do. He felt Y/N’s hand press down on the back of his head with surprising force and he found himself kneeling in front of Lydia’s spread legs.

“Don’t enjoy this too much, Stilinski.”

Stiles didn’t need to turn around to know that it was Jackson who spoke.

“If you cream your pants doing this doesn’t count as losing your virginity, by the way.”

That voice belonged to Creepy Guy.

Stiles licked the salt line off the girl’s thigh then drank the shot, it tasted like disinfectant and some of it spilled down his chin, then he snatched the lemon slice without touching it with his hands. All of that with the quickness and efficiency of someone taking medicine they hate. One and done. He spat out the lemon after a second making a comically sour face. He heard someone wolf-whistle.

Emboldened by what he had done in the past few minutes, a bit high on a mix of adrenaline, euphoria, and vodka he turned around towards Y/N and grinned.

“Satisfied?”

“Very much so,” she quipped.

He looked straight into her eyes searching for something he was embarrassed to admit to. Jealousy. He had just licked Lydia Martin's thigh, the girl he's been wanting for four years, and all he could think about was did this make Y/N jealous?

If it did, she wasn't showing it. Of course, she was the one who dared him to do this. But a very selfish part of Stiles was hoping she’d regret it.

Scott and Allison stumbled into the kitchen, still laughing about something one of them said, their clothes still wet from the impromptu pool party outside.

“Are we interrupting something?” Allison giggled.

Stiles shot up from in between Lydia’s legs so fast he felt dizzy, his face flushed and he was unable to say something that would justify the situation the two teens walked in on.

“Truth or dare, wanna join?”

Surprisingly it was Lydia who spoke up and invited them.

“We were actually looking for you to tell you we were going home. Y/N?”

He didn’t need to say anything else, which Y/N must have appreciated. Having your cousin tell everybody that you have a strict bedtime because you’ve been a wild child lately is diminishing and Y/N was just starting to make some new friends.

“Yeah, we should go, too. Stiles?”

The boy slid his hand down his neck to carefully conceal the hickey that was still pulsating. Now he had to hide that from his best friend or else he’ll take a bite out of him.

Could he pull off a scarf? No, better not.

Avoiding eye contact with Scott and Y/N as if he worried the werewolf could read his mind he found himself looking around at everyone in the group. Malia and Boyd were smirking as if they knew exactly what kind of trouble Stiles had gotten himself into. Cora was staring daggers at Y/N. She patted the girl on the shoulder and asked if they can speak for a second in private before they left.

Did Stiles miss something?

Lydia got up from the kitchen island and brought a blanket for Allison so that she doesn’t catch a cold. Funny, she didn’t seem to care that Y/N was also soaked when she walked into the living room. But it made sense since Allison and Lydia made really good friends in the short time since Allison moved to Beacon Hills.

As Cora and Y/N had their little chat, which was very heated on Cora’s part, Stiles found himself lingering close to them. Partially because he wanted to be far away from Scott, partially because he just liked Y/N’s presence so much. His behavior reminded him a little too much of a kid holding onto his mother’s skirts everywhere she goes. Stiles did not have mommy issues. And he was not projecting them unto Y/N.

“It’s gonna have consequences,” the boy overheard.

He perked his ears, etching closer to Cora, still staying behind her.

“What are you talking about?”

Cora turned around as if she heard of felt Stiles despite their distance. Cora has always been quite a weird girl, maybe she really was psychic. She looked at Stiles and then back at Y/N.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Good luck.”

》 a.n. This is my first dip in Teen Wolf fic and my first post on this blog. I used to be @the-fangirl-from-hell but I couldn't interact with people due to the main blog of that account having a lot of personal information. So I just remade so I can interact with people, follow, like, reblog without fear of doxxing myself.

This is an old blog that i scrubbed clean and repurposed.

Feel free to ask to be in my tag list and interact in any way, I'm looking for reader and writer friends alike 《

no beta, feel free to point out any mistakes you see, i won't mind

#love #i'm excited abt this!

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watermelondip · 9 days ago

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#teen wolf #<3

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watermelondip · 16 days ago

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#teen wolf

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watermelondip · 17 days ago

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touch-starved boy

stiles stilinski x gn!reader rant

when i thought of this initially, i wanted to make it smutty but i just couldn’t stop thinking about this sweet, sweet boy. one hug could cure him

stiles stilinski, the touch-starved boy.

stiles stilinski, who after his mother passed away, lost the only one he shared physical contact with (if you don't count the bullying and chaining scott up). who genuinely couldn't tell you the last time he hugged someone — probably the last time someone almost died.

who was grateful for the touches he did get, whether it be a high five, or even being shoved into a locker. at this point, touch was touch, and he would take what he could get. who thought that's how the rest of his life was going to be, sorrowfully accepting the fact that physical touch just wasn't in the cards for him in this lifetime, and he dreamed of what could be in the next one.

until you.

you, who wasn't shy with your affection, a touchy person by nature with everyone you came across. who sat confused whenever you'd rest your hand on stiles' arm, only to earn a flinch in response. who wondered if you were overstepping, but as time went on, you began to realize he simply wasn't used to it. who grew sad at that knowledge, confronting him and learning his past. who gave him the biggest hug he's ever received upon hearing his story, a soul-healing kind of comfort stiles didn't know existed.

stiles stilinski, who grew to yearn for your touch, shamelessly finding any possible way he could touch you every moment he saw you. who was now no stranger to being held or holding someone else close, even gong as far to initiate the touch himself.

who’s touching grew to become more over time, a language he spoke against his better judgment, reaching for you and exposing his true feelings. who blurted it out one friday evening during a star wars marathon, how he thinks he’s falling in love with you. who was blown away when you pulled him in for a kiss, a form of touch he definitely hadn’t experienced much of. who couldn’t shake the sensation of your lips against his for days until he saw you next, immediately approaching you outside of school and kissing you like he’d never get the chance to again, to feel what he’d been craving since the first time.

who, once given permission, refused to take his hands off of you in any fashion, no matter where the two of you were. who woke up each morning itching to feel your hands in his, who yearned for your lips, a constant fight with himself to not make out with you in inappropriate situations, his brain wracking itself for an excuse to pull you into the next room and kiss you until neither of you can breathe.

stiles stilinski, who fell in love with physical touch.

masterlist!

#love

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watermelondip · 17 days ago

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And I still feel that rush in my veins

It twists my head just a bit too t h i n

lydia + pallete 93

#teen wolf

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watermelondip · 17 days ago

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[i basked in you] by Franz Wright

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watermelondip · 17 days ago

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#teen wolf

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watermelondip · 17 days ago

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seasons | summer pt. one

pairing: stiles stilinski / female reader word count: 11k tags: friends to lovers, jealously, miscommunication, little bit of angst, mostly fluff, pre-season 3/post-season 2 warnings: underage drinking, brief/vague mentions of sexual content (will become more graphic later on) a/n: this story is going to be three parts, and this is part one of part one basically, bc i just wanted to post it. i'm gonna cross-post onto ao3 but i don't wanna do that until the whole chapter is finished, which it nearly is. at that point i'll post the second part of part one. been working on this since the beginning of the year! don't know why it's taken me this long!

At the end of sophomore year, your boyfriend dumped you, you threw your finals, and Stiles decided to grow out his hair. Of those three things, the hair was the only one you were willing to talk about, so the first week or so of summer was emotionally muddled, mostly consisting of days in bed and text conversations about dorky movies or hypothetical plans that were bound to fall through. Plus, Allison jetted off to France, and Lydia was generally MIA per mysterious Lydia reasons; you were looking out at three months of Stiles and Stiles alone, which was intensely overwhelming.

Foremostly, Stiles had been a good, unwavering, PB&J (a.k.a. everything you’d expect, want, etc) sort of friend since Elementary school, but he had never taken such a central role in your life before. Since, of course, your boyfriend, tall-blond-asshole-Pearl-Jam-listening Kenny, had always been the leading man. But Kenny was bored with mediocrity, and according to you, and maybe also Jessica from lit who loved to talk shit, he just wanted to whore around until college, which was fast approaching, the senior that he was.

So, when you sobbed, tried to stop sobbing, nearly vomited, and then decided to call Stiles, screeching he’s such a jerk, I hate him, god, he’s such a jerk, you know into the phone, it was almost cathartic. But when he rambled back at you over the line, something about you being better than tall-blond-asshole-Pearl-Jam-listening Kenny and needing to stop letting him get under your skin, something sweet like that, an urge that had been buried on the playground emerged with full force, albeit a little morphed for the modern day.

Too desperately for your own good, you wanted to fuck Stiles. In fact, you wanted to make love to Stiles, like in an 80s movie, something smooth playing in the background, basking in candlelight, or maybe after prom, makeup fallen under your eyes and dress half laced up in the back. The specifics weren’t entirely important. Most vitally, you asked yourself if you understood love at all, and if what you had felt for Kenny was genuine love, or if that had been reserved all those years for your sudden realization. You thought, most assuredly, that you very well could be in love with Stiles, for all that was worth.

It had been apparent for years that it was more than a friendship. Kenny would hardly ever shut up about it, but you were good at brushing things off. Stiles is Stiles, you’d say, a shrug or a slump accompanying your deliberate nonchalance. I could never date Stiles, you’d affirm, but you’d be at a loss if asked to explain why (except, maybe, to say that Stiles would never date you, but admitting something like that to yourself was unpleasant, so you shied away from it).

Cataloging memories and coming up with the logistics in your mind, it was important to consider that Stiles was perpetually obsessed with Lydia to the point of derangement, so it seemed unlikely that he would abandon all of that for a girl that was functionally opposite. You were, of course, a girl with hair and eyes and cute enough clothes, but you were also overtly normal and lacked the minx-ish qualities that seemed to be so attractive to him. You were friends with Lydia and you understood her most of the time, occasionally sharing in her girly-isms on Saturday nights, but there was something fundamental in your DNA that prevented you from ever being her carbon copy. You thought, how could he want to fuck you if you didn’t smell so strongly of vanilla and cashmere, and when he touched you your essence didn’t transfer onto his skin in a gold, sparkling sheen?

Sometimes, though, when it was late and you were sitting on the couch in your basement, the only thing separating you being an empty popcorn bowl, and he turned to you and made a joke about whatever was on the TV, but he was smiling so wide and you just couldn’t stop staring, it didn’t matter if you weren’t Lydia. You knew it would never be like that with her, and you let yourself be mean spirited about it, too, because you were so jealous sometimes that it consumed you. You wanted to pull him over by the sleeve and throw the empty bowl on the floor and tell him how cute he was, how potently him he seemed.

It was a hellish summer.

You got a job at this isolated little coffee shop at the edge of town, rustic fixtures and squeaky tap and all, but it paid decent enough. There was this cute senior named Josh that would always be working there when you were on your shifts, spouting, I’ll miss you when I graduate, Ace, and running his fingers through his overgrown hair. He was tan and he played sports and you probably should’ve dated him, if only for a few months, just to wean yourself off Kenny and prevent yourself from salivating over Stiles, but you could never bring yourself to fully reciprocate his banter.

“Guy’s a douche,” Stiles murmured, playing with the sleeve on his coffee cup, leaning overtly over the countertop. “He was on lacrosse last year, which he sucked at, by the way, and he kept calling me scrawny, a total projection, obviously, since he’s got major chicken legs and that super long, like, Slenderman neck that he always juts out like a creep–” Stiles mimed the action, “–you know? And, besides, if you’re gonna rebound, you should do it with somebody cool like a famous person or a teacher or something.”

“Stiles.” You fussed with the faulty register, shooting him a warning look. “Sit,” you chirped, nodding towards the tables behind him.

“Just kidding, about the teacher thing, definitely don’t do that. Actually, I heard that Mr. Sanders isn’t gonna be there next year because he got caught hitting on Lauren Johnson, which is kind of crazy considering his wife just got pregnant, pretty sure, and–”

“They’re gonna fire me if you keep talking my ear off, you know.” He grinned, tightening his grip on his coffee.

“Yeah, well, that’s sort of my goal.” He leaned closer, tilting his head with a hesitancy that made you frown. “You spend all day here. It’s boring.”

“You could always get your own job.”

“Har har, good one. Me, working, very funny–

“–Stiles–”

“–No, a zinger, really.” It was too early for him to be so bright, and you squinted at his shine.

“Customer, due east,” you declared, shooing him away with your hand. Someone burly and un-caffeinated stumbled through the door. “Stiles, sit down,” you urged, pushing at his hands, splayed lazily over the counter. You narrowed at him and he relented, slouching over to a seat by the window. Even in defiance, he pulled out a book and stayed for an hour.

It was a half-an-hour drive to the beach, which felt like hours in the Jeep since the seats were always sticky and the air conditioning was temporarily busted. You had done yourself up in the most severe way, with a tiny bikini and a face of makeup that would inevitably be washed away by the water and the heat. You kept running your hands over your thighs, trying to decide if the skin there was smooth enough, scratching nervous lines up and down. Rilo Kiley was on the radio and the sun was reaching you through the window; the backseat was oppressive.

“Water?” Scott asked, dangling his arm over from the passenger’s seat. His water bottle had rolled under the seat, and you contorted yourself in an attempt to grab it. It was old, scuffed on the cap, half-filled and a nauseating shade of green that looked worse with age. Stiles took a turn and you huffed as the bottle skirted out of your grip. “Are you digging for gold back there or something?”

“Just gimme a second,” you snapped, clawing at the bottle until it relented into your palm.

“She’s testy because Kenny has a new girlfriend,” Stiles remarked, slapping Scott’s expecting arm. You handed him the water bottle.

“He has a new girlfriend?” You pushed your hair from your face, feeling the slick sheen of your back resettle against the seat. You crossed your legs, quelling the oncoming tremor.

“They’re not really dating, are they?” Scott questioned before chugging his water like an Olympian, throat pulsating, expanding like a beast. There was something animalistic that lined his every action post-bite, and you found it occasionally off putting, like he was some strange dog on the side of the road, swaying towards you with an open, heaving mouth. He swallowed, gasping for a moment. “You’re talking about Tana, right?”

“Uh, no, no, I meant Bree.” Stiles glanced at you in the rearview, frowning. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” You pulled at the hem of your shorts, wondering if Kenny took Tana or Bree to the same diner he always took you to, or if he told them to close their eyes and kissed them soft and quick like he used to do with you. Begrudgingly, you let in the reality that your relationship with him would never be the snowglobe you made it out to be, and that he had processed things fully while you were still mourning.

“Tana’s a total slut,” Stiles tentatively reasoned. Scott elbowed him to no avail. “And Bree too, so,” he trailed off, throwing you a look over his shoulder, something slathered with sympathy. “We’ll find you a beach hunk, don’t worry.” He patted your knee, his burning fingertips and good intentions infecting you all throughout.

Cute-senior-coffee-boy Josh was playing volleyball a few feet away, and from your position on your front, head turned to the side, maybe just to stare, you felt undeniably voyeuristic. In a sense, with sweat dripping down his chest and hair flopping into his face, he was coital. Beach hunk, you thought, daydreaming.

“Stop drooling,” Stiles puffed, pulling off his t-shirt. You furrowed.

“Where’s Scott?” You sat up on your elbows, glancing to the empty chair beside him.

“He hasn’t scored a single point this whole game, and you’re still ogling him, which is sort of pathetic on your part.” Stiles’ hair stuck out unceremoniously from his scalp, morning-esque, and he tossed the shirt into the sand. The sun hit him in a nasty way, and he dug through the communal bag for a pair of sunglasses. “Of course fucking Josh is here today, fucking douche.” He began to murmur, and you sighed, flopping back down onto your arms, chin poking harshly into your flesh.

Stiles pushed on a pair of large, boxy sunglasses that you recalled pulling out from your vanity that morning.

“Those are mine.” You suppressed a laugh, shoving your nose into your forearm.

“I kinda pull them off though, right?” His anger subsided for a moment, and he easily diffused the conflict with a grin. He hated to dwell, you knew. Things were never very gritty for him. He turned his head to either side, shrugging. His nose was a little sunburnt, and you pictured what he might do if you lathered it in aloe and kissed him hard right after, saying, god, will you stop picking at it?

“You’re the one who brought up the beach hunk.” You returned to the side-facing position that gave you a good view of Josh’s serve. Your feet kicked up behind you. “You think he’d go for me?”

Stiles was quiet for a moment. Josh grunted whenever he hit the ball. His swim shorts were low on his hips. You were so inexplicably piggish with your gaze that what you had assumed was a post-breakup horny brain seemed to really just be the birth of a nympho, you thought. There was something mad about you.

He cleared his throat: “Course he’d go for you. Doesn’t mean you should throw yourself at him.” You turned to look up at him, squinting, incredulous.

“What’s your problem?” He slumped into his beach chair, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to fix it, only managing to make it messy in a different format, charming all the same. You liked the taut folds of his stomach, the moles on his chest, on his arms, his shoulders, the ones that were reaching for his face through his neck. You found it difficult to be frustrated with him when he was half naked and sweltering.

“Guy’s a douche. That’s all.” You could hardly see his eyes through the dark lenses. “At least be tactful.”

“Tactful?”

“Subtle. At least be subtle.”

You pondered on subtlety as Stiles looked off at the water. He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest, baking a bit. You thought to ask, can I get your back, squinting up at him and maybe pushing your boobs together a little, but then you reprimanded yourself and remembered that you shouldn’t be a perv. When you were eleven you’d asked him if he’d ever kiss you and all he could get out was nowaynowayuhgrossno, choking on his Cheerios. It seemed futile.

A few minutes later, Scott returned with a mint-chocolate-chip, which he handed to you, and a rocky road, which he had already taken a decent chunk out of for himself. Stiles seemed offended, mouth ajar.

“I don’t like what you said about Tana and Bree in the car,” explained, crashing into his chair. “Also it was really expensive and I still owe her twenty bucks.”

“Don’t worry about that,” you assured him, vaguely waving as if to say I’m cool, and licked off a drippy bit. “This works. Ice cream is, like, how much it costs times two and then some.”

“Why don’t you have a chair?” Scott asked, tossing his leg over his knee. “You look like you hate us,” he laughed. Stiles looked over at you, and even though you still couldn't see his eyes great, you imagined that they were raking down your back, subtly like he’d said, and got sort of hot in the neck.

“I’m basking,” you explained, wiping some mint-chocolate-chip from the corner of your mouth.

“She’s trying to be sexy for Josh,” Stiles chimed in, gruff. “Which you don’t need to do because he already likes you, by the way.”

“You don’t know that,” you argued, flattered. It showed; you meant to say that you knew he liked you, but that wasn’t the point, and that you really just wanted to be dramatic, since everything had felt so grey since Kenny had ended and all.

“He likes you,” he retorted firmly.

“Ask him out,” Scott suggested. You hated that he was an ice cream biter, and the sight made you shrivel up a little. He had his mouth full. “He’ll probably say yes,” he decided, examining you.

“Aw gee,” you teased. He hardly ever said stuff like that to you. Mostly, if he did anything at all, he’d flick your head and say you make me laugh at lunch or maybe in the hallway, if he had the time. You liked that he was so casual. Stiles gave him a look like they had some big secret, like you were just a little kid sitting on the edge of the bench, getting words spelled out to you like you were dumb and wouldn’t know the meaning.

It was out of place, but you started to think about sex. Building up the courage to talk to Josh, with Scott and Stiles arguing about something inconsequential, maybe lacrosse or maybe Allison, in the background, it became incredibly important to you. Not just sex in terms of the act, but sex like the aura, like the way you might walk towards him, hips swaying, and the way you might bear your neck to him as if it were some sort of animalistic ritual. You had never gone that far with Kenny, and you asked yourself if you could fake that sort of thing or not. Josh was older and you were sure he’d slept with plenty of girls, which was scary and you were psyching yourself out too much.

“Give me those,” you demanded, wiggling your finger at the sunglasses Stiles had adopted.

“What? No, I like them. Why?” Half of you wanted to let him wear the silly girl sunglasses because they were yours and that must’ve meant something.

“You told me to be subtle and I have expressive eyes.” You stretched out your hand, urging. Stiles paused, almost like he had been talking in hypotheticals and he’d never thought you’d do it, not with Josh who you were sure had slept with lots of girls and was a douche, that’s all.

“You’re really going to talk to him?” He was quieter, more reserved, like you’d juiced him dry and now he was just reeling. Scott smiled, but maybe just because Stiles was being stubborn and he looked dumb in your sunglasses.

“I do it almost every day, Stiles.” You jutted your hand forward impatiently.

“That’s work. Work is different. This is voluntary and you’re in underwear.”

“Give me the sunglasses,” you demanded, tucking your hair behind your ear on the left, giving him a look that usually garnered affection, eyes big. He was a sore loser, but he handed them to you anyway, and he sucked it up okay, digging his heels into the sand.

Josh smelled like something from the mall, something like lake water and rough pine, and he had a sweaty beach face, tan and dark in the eyes and a little bit of condensation on his upper lip. You looked at him through your sunglasses, confident in the way they concealed you, and he said, “you look hot”, laughing and grinning and being overall very effective.

When you licked your ice cream, you wondered if he found it all sensual or if you were just embarrassing yourself. He was so easygoing that you couldn’t really tell.

He ran his fingers through his hair like he always did, with it falling on either side all piece-y and smooth. You thought about how much Lydia would like him. She always told you to go for more typical sorts of guys. She never wanted to hear about Stiles, who was non-typical and didn’t smell like mall scents and never wore the right thing. She said, “he’s too much of a cartoon, with his clothes and his blah, you know”, but his clothes had changed since last year. He was more typical than he’d ever been before.

“We’re all going over to Miller’s place after this,” Josh said, picking over your appearance, lingering a bit on your collarbone. “You can come. So can Stilinski and McCall and whoever else.”

“It’s a party?”

“It’s a thing. I guess it’s a party. Anyway, I want you there.” That made you extra sweaty. You wondered if he’d pull you into an empty room and try to put his hands in your pants like you’d always feared, even if it was that kind of fear that teetered on the edge, dipping into something different, more like curiosity. It didn’t matter much because Peter Miller had the third biggest house of anyone you could think of off the top of your head, and he had a pool too, and a giant basement with a bar, which was always stocked because his parents didn’t mind for him and his friends to drink.

Josh ran his hand along your hairline, clearing your eyes, and said, “crazy wind today”, boyishly aware, so you just knew you’d go to the party.

Stiles took you home so you could change. He said, “I’ll be back in a little”, and he left with Scott and the Jeep and some of your sanity, too. It was intensely hot outside and you knew that finding a balance between comfort and sexuality was important. Still, your trademark was your lack of formality. Lydia always said it was charming that you picked shorts when she might have picked a skirt, and you didn’t do up your hair like she did, and that when you wore makeup it was just different, like it didn’t make as much sense for you. This was all a construction, everything just as innately tailored as it was with her, but in a different strata.

You wondered if Josh liked boobs or butt or neither or both or maybe a subtle, uneven mix, like sixty-forty or something. If you asked Stiles you knew he’d say eyes, and when you’d say no really, he’d say you’re right, it’s boobs, and then he’d grin for days.

Your shorts were the girly kind, with big buttons and a chunky foldover hem, paired with something thin and airy that Allison had said was so cute, something she’d buy for herself if the color didn’t wash her out. You thought you might shower, but then you thought of Stiles, how he could be back anytime, and how he’d be mad if you held him up. He already didn’t want to go.

“Josh, like Josh Dubie? Like the one who sucked at lacrosse?” your sister asked. You had three. Three sisters and two brothers and an uncle in the basement and two parents who didn’t talk very much, probably because one of them was a little too close with their siblings.

“Stiles is worse,” you said, wiping off your lipstick. Lucy, aged fourteen, had barged in to borrow a sweatshirt that she couldn’t seem to locate. She had a bonfire later. You knew she was going to drink but you were too muddled to complain to her about it.

“Yeah, but it’s funny with Stiles. Josh should be good at lacrosse, so it’s just kinda sad.” You shot her a look. “That color is too much,” she said, furrowing at the red all faded on your lips.

Scott had decided to stay home. Even though his werewolf-ness had given him strong arms and an underlying sense of urgency, he still carried remnants of the wallflower you’d grown up with. Stiles would’ve stayed home too, had it not been for you and Josh and you and your terrible driving skills and you. He was wearing his nice plain blue t-shirt, not his nasty old one, which you found only slightly endearing.

“You need to clean in here,” you grimaced, kicking around an old bag of Doritos by your feet.

He pressed his lips together all taut-like, frowning, something forming in his throat that made him contract, retreat, reorganize.

“Do you think we’re gonna know anyone?” he asked, glancing at the footwell.

“Definitely not. Well, not unless you’re familiar with my good friend, the Twisted Tea.”

“Or the lacrosse assholes,” he added, hinting at a depression that made you feel obtuse. It would’ve been a fine night to re-watch Tremors and have an expired popsicle. He tried to smile but you watched the way it fell, his mouth twitching at the sides. You wondered what he’d do if you were alone with Josh and he was stuck downstairs or on the patio or something, and he called you but your phone was in your purse and your purse was on the floor. You wondered if he’d leave you there.

“We don’t have to go,” you offered, shifting uneasily. “I mean, we can do something else. We can go see Bad Teacher. It has Jason Segel; you like him, right?”

“No, no, we’re going.” He bit his lip, and you realized you were staring. “Sure, I’m dreading it, but hey, it might be fun, and maybe Josh isn’t as bad as I think.” He gesticulated haphazardly.

“Really?” You tucked your hands under your thighs, looking down at your feet. The Converse probably weren’t the right choice. You and Stiles matched. His eyes flickered over to you for a moment, and he smiled softly.

“Well, for starters, he likes you. That’s already, like, five points at least.”

“You don’t know that he–”

“–he likes you, and he’s generally hygienic, which has gotta be another two. Then there’s his prowess in all non-lacrosse sports, although after today I might add beach volleyball to the list of things he’s not very good at. Oh, and cold brews.” You puffed out a scoff-laugh. “Minus a bajillion points for not being very nice to Stiles, though.”

“I can scold him later if you want.” It never made much sense to you why people were nasty to Stiles, since he was cute and sweet and even if he was being a little annoying, it was always easier to laugh at him than kick him down. But then Lydia would say you’re too nice, it’s not good for you and you’d think that maybe you were just fated to feel that way about him, to see him as tolerable, because otherwise no one would be there quietly worshiping his ground. “I could blue ball him or make him confess some deep dark secret and then mass text it to the whole school like they do in movies,” you finished, trying to lighten whatever damper had lined his lilts and movements.

“Just be careful, okay?” he asked, more sincere and rigid than you were used to seeing him. Still, you knew that he thought you were a bit funny, and that he didn’t mind who you tried to date as long as you didn’t stop going to him for rides and helping him with his essays. You wondered if you weren’t careful, if you drank the darkened cup and entered the unknown room, if he would come to save you, and if you would fall in love forever after that.

You took your first shot, first shot ever, or at least since Kenny, which felt like a lifetime ago, and Stiles looked you in the eye and tugged on your arm and he whispered, “Hey, slow down party girl”, but Josh was giving you sex looks from the couch, so all you wanted to do was accelerate. You still felt obtuse, though. Stiles really didn’t know anyone at the party. It’s different for girls because guys don’t have to know girls to like them, but Stiles was just the bad-at-sports kid with one friend and a handful of decent grades. It was one of those things where not even the ugliest girls there, who really weren’t ugly at all, and probably had boyfriends at the end of the day, would even try coming up to him.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you out, you know,” Josh said, leaning against the wall like a real cool guy. He had this sly grin that made you go shivery. Stiles was symbolically hooked to you, symbolically sewed to you by his elbow or his fingertips. He gave Josh a funny look, a look like really? You giggled.

“Ha,” you coughed, sipping, “right.”

“Stilinski, you drink, don’t you?”

“I’m driving,” he said tightly. His fingers ghosted over the back of your hand, dangling at your side.

“You know, you guys can totally crash here. Pete’s parties aren’t really much unless you get wasted, and he’s got a million couches in the basement.” This was your surging, everlasting, fear-and-curiosity nightmare. Stiles would drink, and babble, and pass out, and then the hand in your pants, the mouth on your neck. Your legs felt tired and your head pounded a bit. He should’ve been more pushy with Scott, then you might still have a savior.

“Stiles is responsible,” you murmured, grabbing onto his arm and shaking it a bit. There was always something intoxicating about touching him ever since you hit puberty and became wholly conscious. His eyebrows pinched together as he looked down at you, and you just wanted to cry a little, just to let something out other than another wobble. You knew it was a lie; he was just as much of a boy as the rest of them, and he let things go just as often.

“Yeah, we’re good,” he assured. Your hand fell from his arm and you straightened yourself up.

“No, no,” Josh shook his head, eyeing you with a strange determination. “No, man, let's get you a drink.”

“Really, it’s okay, I'm driving.” Josh pushed himself off the wall, going to grab Stiles’ shoulder, but he shoved him off. You tried to sink into the houseplant beside you, become one with the dirt and avoid the confrontation you saw slowing bubbling in front of you.

“Like hell!” Peter Miller jogged through the archway. He was bigger than you remembered. He muffed up Stiles’ hair and nudged him where Josh had tried to grab him, and you sort of just wanted to steal the keys and declare celibacy. “Like hell you aren’t drinking, Stilinski,” he reiterated, shoving a cup, something identical to yours, into Stiles’ hand. Stiles looked at you like you’d have some great big answer for him. All you could do was shrug and blame the whole scenario on the poor decisions caused by a false sexual drive.

Thirty minutes later, you ran off to the bathroom to puke. You never drank as much as you had that night. Maybe it was nerves, you thought, but it wasn’t as if you even liked Josh all that much, aside from his solid chest and his charming expressions. Maybe it was Stiles, you thought, who had made you second-hand upset with his uncharacteristic quietness. You hated when things really did get to him, since he never let it linger, never liked to dwell, not usually.

It felt like five whole minutes that you were hurling. Someone knocked on the door a few times, but you were still frantically pulling your hair back, heaving, as she said, “I have to piss like a fucking racehorse”, clearly to a friend, and you couldn’t half care.

When you came back downstairs, Stiles was gone. Right away you figured he’d been murdered, but when Josh wrapped his arm around your shoulder and tried to swing you into the kitchen, it became pertinent that you didn’t let assumption overtake you. Josh breathed heavy down your neck like a predator, whispering you look nice as he drank beer from the bottle like your father always did. You sobered, and you knew this wasn’t your fantasy.

You found Stiles by the pool. His shoes were placed neatly next to him, socks stuffed inside, with his feet dangling in the water, texting. Even with his neck craned over and his shoulders hunched forward, you found him so innately attractive you nearly became stone and fell to your knees at the sight, cracking at every corner.

“I’m sorry,” you said. He shut off his phone as you sat down next to him, crossing your legs. Even though you had rinsed out your mouth under the tap, you feared the vomit stench, and made sure not to get too close.

“For what?” He rubbed the heels of his palms over his shorts, hesitant to engage with you.

“For making you come. I’m sorry.” He nodded, eyes locked on the water, rippling as he moved his legs back and forth. “How drunk are you?”

“Tipsy. I mean, I can’t drive, if that’s what you’re asking.” He looked at your lap, the way you fiddled with your hands, picking at the skin around your nails. “You?”

“I puked,” you said, swallowing down a bit of shame about it. Stiles laughed, which made you smile a little too wide, since you were still feeling so warm and loose, but his hair flopped and his eyes were clouded. Your thumb dug into your palm. “Also definitely screwed up the whole Josh thing, but I probably could have managed that sober too.”

“Well, okay then, final verdict: he’s still a douche.”

Even though you very well could have been in love with him before, you were suddenly so sure that it was definite, that you loved him and there was nothing else to call it. It was a summer thought, something that appears when life is uninterrupted by school and fleeting connections. You thanked yourself for puking because you could have kissed him then. It wouldn’t have been much of anything.

You picked at your cuticle so hard it made a noise, and Stiles winced.

“Stop that.” He reached out to pull your hands apart, taking one of them on his own, interlocking your fingers. He squeezed once, pulling your joint hands into the space between the two of you, which you had thought was just for the bile smell but seemed to be of more meaning the longer he looked at you. “You do that when you’re stressed. I hate it.” Even with the lukewarm chill of the night, the back of your neck was burning, and your stomach was spinning like a car tire.

“You play with your pencils,” you accused, but still frowned at you, “and you bite your nails.”

He furrowed: “No I don’t.”

“You do. And you scratch your knees. You did it a second ago.” His pupils were big and brown, dilated. You weren’t sure how drunk you were anymore, but it all felt very hazy. You thought that he’d probably only held your hand like that a few times ever, which made it all very special and exhilarating, even if you couldn’t show it with your slight slur, speech slowed down just a fraction.

“Yeah, well,” he trailed off. Not very jovial, you understood. His grip around you loosened and, fearing that he might let go, you squeezed as tight as you could, smiling obscenely big even if you didn’t mean it.

“Let’s go find an empty couch and pass out, hm?” you asked, and you shivered a bit at the idea of sleeping so close to him. You figured you were drunk enough to let it happen. He nodded and you pulled him to his feet, your smile unwavering.

“Josh called you his girl at the Panera yesterday,” Scott said. He had ketchup on the corner of his mouth. “And he said you guys did stuff at Peter’s party.”

“No he didn’t,” you retorted, a bit incredulous and a bit embarrassed, maybe, like you didn’t want to be the kind of girl that was Josh’s girl.

“Really, he did. There’s this guy on the team, Toby; he can’t keep his mouth shut about anything.”

“I’m not his girl,” you stated, stony.

“Yeah, I mean, sure, but he still said it.” You gave Scott a laced glare. Stiles’ hotdog was going cold in his hand. He grimaced.

“I told you,” he murmured, finally taking a bite.

Near the end of June, Kenny and Bree got froyo. He kissed her on the cheek; that’s when he first said I love you. She licked his spoon clean. You saw it from your car. Lydia said ew and then she stuck out her tongue and asked if you could take her home.

Under the surface, Stiles spun in and out of himself, choking on a laugh before he jolted up for air. You were always better at holding your breath. Once, when he was eleven and you were eleven and your older brother Joey was twelve, you won the who-can-stay-underwater-for-the-longest-no-breathing contest by ten whole seconds. You got the last cherry popsicle. Everything post that was a lot less climactic.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, pulling you back up with a rough tug.

“Okay, no! You for sure went down after me that time.” You pushed him back, swiping at the water.

“You’re such a sore loser!” His hair was matted to his forehead. It was his youngest moment in years, reveling in whatever the sun and the grass dew and the chlorine provided. He gave you another dilated look, more defiant than before. “If you’d just admit I’m better then we could move on.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t tell bold-faced lies.” He swiped back, splashing your face. “Plus, you’re way too cocky.”

“I’m not cocky, I just won, you ass.” Your next splash was over-zealous. Stiles coughed on pool water, but he did it with upturned lips, fighting another laugh. Sometimes, though, when he was smiling and laughing and getting splashed in the face, you’d think of the time he’d cracked his head open on the blue tile when was seven, and how he’d cried so hard you thought you might puke.

You faltered, slipping a bit as you waded over to the ladder. You glanced over your shoulder. He was pushing the hair from his forehead, stationary.

“No round four?” He pouted.

“No round four!” You grabbed your towel, checking your phone. “Scott’s gonna be here in ten. Did you warn him about Lottie?”

“Why would I warn him?”

“Because she’s in love with him and he’s going to take his shirt off.”

“She’s thirteen!” Stiles splashed around carelessly, moving to the edge of the pool.

“Thirteen and insatiable, yeah. She won’t stop asking me about him now that he and Allison broke up.” This, you thought, and showed glaringly in your twist of features, was silly, since it was one of those things, something you’d known all too well in your youth, where it didn’t matter if the guy had a girlfriend or was married or just madly in love; for Charlotte, it was a fantasy, just like it was for you with Stiles.

“I think Scott can handle himself against your little sister.” He pulled himself out of the pool. You looked away; it felt ambiguously wrong. You decided to stop inviting him over for a swim.

“Insatiable,” you repeated, making sure to enunciate slowly. “You want food?” Stiles scoffed.

“Like you ever have to ask.” He slumped down into a patio chair, reaching lazily for his towel, splayed across the table. You only ever tolerated his disorganization because he was so boyish and appealing with it most of the time, only occasionally acting annoyingly unaware. “Can you make sandwiches? I love when you make sandwiches.”

“Yeah, sure.” Your phone buzzed. Lydia was entranced by a collegiate asshole named Rick Bigabsshinycar, which she didn’t shut up about for at least a week “You want the crusts cut off those, little guy?” He spat out a laugh, ironic, and gave you a playful expression of un-amusement. Of course, he ended up making his own sandwich.

Lydia said that her first time was with Jackson. She said it hurt more than she had expected it to, and that he wasn’t very attentive, not in the way she would’ve liked. But she also said that she loved him with all of her guts, all innards and organs, so it didn’t matter how horrible it had been. She still thought back on it fondly.

“You could try it with Stiles. He definitely would,” she remarked, running the pads of her fingers along her new manicure. “But then, of course, you could never just be his friend again, so you’d have to deal with that, which I don’t think you want to do.”

You shook your head, sweating at this idea, but she was looking elsewhere, in her own mind too much to observe you.

“Like with Scott and Allison,” she said. “They’ll never just be friends, even if they talk. It’ll always be different, you know? I bet it’ll be worse with Stiles too, since he’s so neurotic.”

This was a dilemma you had never been forced to face. It stung you thoroughly and left you aching.

Scott picked Roadhouse for movie night, which you always thought was super macho, but ended up coming back around in this overly-sensitive, girly way that only self-obsessed man films can achieve. Still, he was Scott, so when the movie was funny he laughed and when the movie was serious he laughed again.

“I watched this with my dad when I was a kid,” he said, mouth full of popcorn. He was always eating, savage.

“The sex?” you questioned. “The violence?” Your voice raised in volume. Scott shrugged.

“It’s not the same for boys,” Stiles chimed in, academic in tone. “We’re exposed to these things at an early age. That’s what gives us the cooties and over-zealous sex drives.”

“Ew.” You grimaced, deciding against another handful of popcorn.

“It’s true,” Scott agreed. “If I hadn’t watched Roadhouse, I’d probably be celibate. I mean, who knows if I would’ve ever even wanted a girlfriend.” You doubted, furrowing.

“Yeah, but it's not just about sex. There’s emotional stuff there too.”

“Sex emotions,” said Stiles. He shot you a popcorn-littered grin. You shoved his gleeful face, palm against his cheek, and he chuckled, tossing a few kernels in your direction. He fought back with no spine, limp as your hand drifted to his shoulder before dropping back to your lap. “I’m serious! It’s a lot more important for us than it is for you.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean that watching Roadhouse at infancy permanently alters your brain chemistry.”

“It doesn’t have to be Roadhouse,” Scott added, waving his hand over Stiles’ head, pointing at you vaguely. “Could be, like, porn or something really scary. Poltergeist or Jaws.”

“It’s puberty,” you said. He dropped his arm, frowning. “And I know that you weren’t just with Allison because you wanted to sleep with her.” You fiddled with your thumbs, Stiles noticing with a held glance. “That was love.”

“God, now you’re the gross one,” Stiles groaned. Patrick Swayze kicked ass in your periphery. Without drawing focus, he pulled one of your hands away, stopping the fidgeting. “Do we really have to talk about love during movie night?” He crossed his arms, head falling back on the couch.

“I think it’s important to be candid about your emotions with your friends.” Stiles returned the face shove you’d given him, playfully pushing you away and sticking out his tongue with a big blegh. He threw you off center, and you grabbed onto the arm of the couch to adjust.

“Course I loved her. The point is that I still wanted to you know with her, like, all the time, which was only because of the culture, A.K.A. Roadhouse, slash all that other dude stuff I saw as a kid.” Scott didn’t talk about his father a lot. As the conversation continued, you saw yourself in a bad light, wondering if you really just weren’t part of the hivemind in the same way that he and Stiles were. You felt stale, like heels clicking down a tile hall, stiff and unsmooth.

“Whatever,” you drawled, turning back to the screen. “I just think that sex isn’t as all-consuming as people make it out to be.” You reached over Stiles’ lap for the popcorn bowl. “And I definitely don’t think that Roadhouse has anything to do with child sexual development.”

“This is why we never should’ve made friends with a girl. It’s actually revolting how sweet you are,” Stiles spat out through a bothered facade. You knew he found you novel.

“I’m not sweet!” Your argument fell flat when you tossed a palm of popcorn in your mouth, muffling your protests.

“It’s a good thing,” Scott assured. “You’re like a friendly bird.”

“Oh, yeah! Like a canary. You remind me of a canary,” Stiles said, shooting you another popcorn grin. He smelled uncharacteristically mall-esque, something you suddenly noticed as you re-adjusted, scooting a bit closer to him. It was one of those things you cataloged to your constant string of evidence that he thought about you, that he wanted to smell good because he knew you’d be able to tell. “Don’t worry, we love you just the way you are,” he teased, patting your shoulder.

The rest of the movie was a lot of the same, and then a whole different argument about condiments, and then another about Kenny’s new haircut, which Stiles adamantly despised while Scott was mostly impartial, maybe leaning a little on the positive side at certain points.

Later, Stiles’ fell asleep on your shoulder, and Scott reacted with a quiet laugh, saying, let him stay there, I think he’s been having nightmares.

stiles 9:56 p.m. lydia is dating a college guy?! u shud have told me wtfff

Kenny called you, drunk, late, on a Sunday. It was right after you got off work. On work: things were averagely stilted with Josh, and he didn’t bother you much. Sometimes you caught him looking at the back of your neck, though, and so you knew he still wanted you at least a little carnally.

“Can you pick me up,” Kenny asked, mumbling. He hadn’t spoken to you since he’d dropped off a few miscellaneous belongings at the start of summer. The way you missed him felt almost pavlovian.

“No.” You stared at the crack in your ceiling, limbs splayed out across your bed.

“Please, ohmygodohmygod, please please, it’s so late, please,” he said. “I know you want to,” he slurred, an attempt at cheeky.

“Can I hang up now?” You knew that if he passed out on a bench and swallowed his own puke you’d blame yourself forever.

“Wait! Come on, come on, I miss you,” he whispered, and you could tell he was getting closer to the phone. “I miss you, really. Can you come pick me up?”

“I don’t have a car,” you admitted, shivering. Before he called, you had been thinking about Stiles, about how his hair might feel under your fingers, how his shirt might look draped over the back of your chair, that sort of stuff. Still wistful, you meandered in the conversation.

“Since when?” You sighed momentarily, picturing the way Kenny used to love you, to look at you with love, and say it all the time, even if he didn’t mean it for every one.

“Since it broke down in May.”

“Take your mom’s. Take the van. I just really need a ride, okay?”

“I’m not stealing the van while she’s sleeping.” He scoffed faintly from the other end, pausing to think, you thought. You hung onto the phone, glancing over at the night shone through your window. You liked the view from the house at night, with the quiet street and grass lawns, all generally manicured, comfortingly monotonous.

“What about Stiles? Can you get Stiles to do it?”

“Do you seriously not have other people you can call?”

“No, and stop being such a bitch about it.” His tone made you feel dirty, like there was a layer of grime on your skin that you couldn’t scratch off. It was nearly nauseating to talk to him so casually, to want him so little, and still have to hear his voice.

“Yeah, good luck,” you murmured, hanging up.

To: stiles 11:47 p.m. don’t worry he’s ugly 11:49 p.m. also kenny just called supa drunk. blerguh

You hadn’t masturbated since Kenny dumped you. Lydia said it was good for the soul, but she was too candid about things, and sometimes you thought she was wrong anyways, no matter how much she seemed to mean it. It all felt unbalanced. The desire to have sex with Stiles became more emotional as the weeks went on, and the physical part of your wants fell to the background. Besides, if you did think about him when you did that sort of thing, you always felt a bit nasty after and wished you had just searched for some semi-artsy softcore, not that it ever did much as a replacement.

Stiles sat vacantly on the end of your bed most nights, staring off into space, murmuring softly to himself, glancing down at you every so often. He never touched you, too far to reach out for, but when you woke up in a jolt he’d be sitting there, back hunched over, chin in his palms, smiling like he knew everything all the time.

Lydia always wanted you over early to help with party set ups; her new solo cups were pink, which you found way too exuberant for the sort of night it was, too birthday, but took them out of the bag and set them on the counter nonetheless. She was still curling her hair, huffing every few minutes, teasing and spraying and wetting and drying and brushing, clearly tempted to rip it all straight out.

“You didn’t invite Stiles did you?” She put down the iron, fussing with her ends, looking at you through the mirror.

“Was I not supposed to?”

“He just lame-ifys the atmosphere, you know?”

Once people filled out the space, Lydia got lost in it. You sat on the couch, crossed-legged, staring at conversations. You held your cup with two hands. Your legs felt cold. You had invited Stiles, but he’d said maybe, a foreign response for a Lydia party. He wanted to be her arm guy, her arm-around-the shoulder-at-a-party-leaning-on-the-wall-all-suave guy, with a smirk and a confidence that always evaded him. His intense distaste of social gatherings never kept him from her, not until the maybe.

“Where’s your lover?” Kenny had a blazer on. It was his occasion blazer. He washed it once a month even if he didn’t wear it and always kept it ironed. He was holding a real beer, not just a half-empty pink solo cup that was stained with lipstick and spit.

“Who?” You glanced over quickly, refusing to turn to the side to give him a proper look.

“Stiles, obviously.” He shifted uncomfortably in your periphery. You closed your eyes, lips pursed.

“Why are you here? Lydia hates you.” He banged the tip of his shoe against the foot of the couch a few times, flittering.

“I wanted to say sorry about calling you, for saying all that stuff, and I just figured you’d be here.” There was a rush when he implied that he had been thinking about you. It had been days, nearly a week, you thought. You pictured him roasting in guilt at all hours, pushing away a smile.

“Well, I really would’ve preferred a text, so,” you drifted, glaring from behind your hair, head downturned. You picked at the hem of your skirt.

“Can I sit?” He waved his beer at the place beside you. Finally deciding to look at him fully, your eyes caught on his short hair, freshly cut. In response you shrugged, biting your cheek.

Stiles showed up two and a half hours after the time posted on Facebook, which was a half an hour before people were supposed to show up anyway, so he was only around two hours late, not two and a half, but it still felt rude and little like he was doing it all just to spite you. Why he’d ever want to piss you off, you were entirely unsure. It seemed, though, as Kenny talked your ear off about how he had gotten so drunk that night and why he had decided to bother you about it, that it was the ultimate purgatory after all.

“Bree, she’s got a convict dad, you know? He’s out now but he was locked up when she was a kid, so she’s a huge drinker. She loves to drink and she hates when the people around her don’t feel the same. I just got so caught up in it; you get that, yeah? Getting caught up in stuff? I do it all the time, leads to the worst shit. Once, I stole a tow truck on a dare, you know, because I was so high after this party, and I almost got arrested.” He had gained a bit of weight, maybe muscle, since you’d gotten a good look at him last. His nose less thin, cheeks less gaunt: he was more objectively attractive than he’d ever been, but a bit more intimidating, too.

“A tow truck?”

“Yeah, one of those little ones.” He sipped down something big before tilting his bottle off into the distance. “Your lover,” he indicated. Stiles was wearing black jeans and a fat frown, looking at you, his hand on Scott’s shoulder, tapping incessantly.

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“That he’s your lover?” Kenny circled the beer bottle on his kee, tilting his head side to side. “Well, mostly because you’re in love with him, but also a little because I like seeing the face you make,” he smiled, “like that, yeah.”

You furrowed: “I’m not.” Your lipgloss was starting to feel tacky, separating around the little cracks on your lips, the ones you struggled not to bite off. Scott dragged Stiles into the kitchen.

Kenny laughed: “Okay.” You could feel him staring at the side of your face, the heat of it. He put his hand on your shoulder, fingers prickling up the side of your neck, teasing the nape. “You look really pretty tonight,” he murmured, breath warm.

“I think Kenny wants to fuck me,” you told Lydia, refilling your cup. “He touched my neck, like, sensually.”

“I’m opposed to the idea that Kenny can do anything sensually.” She messed with the hair on the back of your head, tossing it around before flattening it back down again. “But you know I don’t like him.” Her hand pressed into your elbow, a sign to stop pouring. She had pity face when you met her eyes. “If you’re going to fuck someone tonight, make it Stiles.”

“You don’t like Stiles either.”

“I like him more than Kenny, and so do you.” Her lips pressed together, narrowing tentatively. “Also, like, your summer ennui is getting really old and I just think you should do something exciting with your life.”

“My summer ennui?” You drank. Warmth invaded your self-imposed isolation.

“Yeah, I don’t know. You just seem kind of depressed right now and I think fucking Stiles would be good for you.” You scowled at her from behind the sanctity of your drink.

Stiles had his arms crossed in the family room. Harley and Josie and Steve from pre-calc made up a mini-conversation circle around him, Scott glued to his side. He spotted you once you entered the room, your heeled shoes causing you to stumble through the archway, confidence wavering. Kenny had wandered, and you supposed that you feared him, what he might try to initiate, eyes skirting the perimeter.

“Hey!” Stiles broke the circle to jog over to you. “Hey, I’m here!”

“Yeah, I can see that you’re here.” He vibrated on his feet. “You should try to find Lydia. That college guy just dumped her and she’s super drunk.”

“The ugly one?” Even inquisitive, he seemed oddly disinterested, like he was just floating around the topic, not caring to collide.

“No, I just said that to make you feel better. He was really hot.” Your heels burned, and the atmosphere felt dizzying. Stiles laughed. He beamed.

“Hey, so, why were you and Kenny talking earlier?” His brow creased, something to dig into.

“Well, I think he wants to have sex with me, but I’m not really sure why. He can be cryptic.” You were a blunt drunk. Stiles wrinkled his eyes with a hesitant annoyance, biting the inside of his cheek. He was buzzing, hands twitching, noticing your detachment, eyes in a constant spiral.

“You think you’ll do it? If he tries.” The question was kryptonite. You wanted to melt at his feet. He chewed at some dry skin on his bottom lip, and you knew this was a whole different purgatory, one far more tailored.

“You mean, have sex with him? Are you really asking me that?” Stiles wasn’t the sort of boy you discussed your sexuality with. Even though you’d trust him with your beating heart in his palms, he got sweaty when he remembered you had a vagina, and there were things you knew to keep concealed. He smiled on one side, tilting his head with an inward chuckle.

“Yeah, I don’t know. Sure.”

“Well, no, I won’t. He dumped me.” You wondered if he could see you in a form that weak. Everything withered, and Stiles seemed disheartened. Trivial things were allowed in the summer. In the summer, it was okay to be sixteen.

“Yeah, course, I know I just–”

“I don’t like Kenny anymore.” You took a sip of your drink, concealing your growing urgency, everything bubbling in your throat. “He’s a dick,” you explained, swallowing hard. Stiles had a bit of a vacant thing, hollow, mind in another room.

“I’m aware,” Stiles barked, half sardonic and half like he had somehow been scorned. The party surrounded like hounds, shoving, forming a mass. It felt like the room was caving in, something inherently uneasy about the way he spoke to you and the way he looked you in the eye. He bit his tongue.

“You’re aware?”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He teetered on his left foot, pressing hard into the floor. He glanced down at your drink. “He said some stuff, like, a few months ago, when you guys were still dating. I just don’t like him, whatever.”

“Some stuff?”

“Yeah, like, dumb shit. I just–” he caught himself. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Your face is telling me that it does.” You grinned for a moment, toothless, and he scoffed. In dreamland, Stiles uttered, he called you easy, a slut, so I sucker punched him, grabbed him by the collar, and told him never to talk about you like that again, because I’ve loved you since we were little, and I’m also infallible, by the way. Your throat burned. His mouth hung agape for a moment, expecting some sort of out, but failed to find escape.

“He was jealous,” Stiles admitted, scratching at the back of his hand. “Just, don’t talk to him anymore, okay?”

He had never commanded you, not once, not really. If he did, he was joking, or he wasn’t, but you were, and it didn’t end up mattering. Despite the way he’d wavered around his vague notions of a prior argument, playing it off as another quickly passing mishap in what was, knowing him, a haphazard day, his voice was flat, mouth tight. You gave him a withering look, stepping back unconsciously. You shook your head, and you were leaning harder on one foot, oblivious to a piece of hair hanging down into your eyes. It wasn’t the time for dynamics to shift.

“Why are you being weird?”

He countered, moving forward: “I’m not being weird,” he reached out.

“Yes, you are. Stop it.” He ran his palm over his forehead in exasperation.

“I’m sorry, but I just don’t like that you’re talking to him again.” His hands gestured at his sides, emphatic. He was a few decibels away from exclaiming, only hushed in fear of you scurrying away. You shook your head again, a few times, indignant.

“Don’t be an ass, Stiles.”

“Me, an ass? Kenny is the one who dumped you so he could fuck other girls!” Your ears rang. Drunkenness hadn’t quite hit you until his tone raised. You thought that, yes, you agreed with Lydia. If you let him stick it in right there and then, it might feel therapeutic in some sense, gaining back control. Still, he had big, brown eyes and they were wet and they were open and he was staring, almost beastly, hand outstretched. Something struck him, and he surged forward. “Hey, no–”

“Whatever.” You pushed past him, needing a nap. In dreamland, he grabbed you back by the wrist, pulled you in, gripped your waist, kissed you as hard as he could without tongue, and told you it was love for him too. There was no beckoning call, just “Dancing On My Own” and a bundle of roaring laughs. You huffed to yourself, finding the hallway, setting down your drink, and leaning against the console table, trying not to heave.

Kenny rediscovered you in Lydia’s guest room, your face stuffed into a throw pillow, eyes leaving smudged black marks, even though you would've denied that you ever cried. You could hear that it was him, his chunky shoes and dragging feet entirely emblematic of his hardened core.

“It wasn’t me, was it?” He sat down on the end of the bed, glancing at his lap.

“No,” you muttered, leaning up on your elbows. He still had his beer.

“Ah,” he spoke, nearly spat. “So, Stilinski?” There was a moment of silence, as if this idea angered you, and a tense feeling surrounded your shoulders and your neck.

“What did you say to him?” you questioned, sitting up to lean back against the headboard. Kenny’s brows pinched together.

“What?”

“Stiles said you told him something, when we were still together, that you were jealous.”

Kenny pondered on this, his lips twisting up strangely. Half of you thought he might hold you down by the hips and lie about love again, but he only shook his head, smiling crookedly to himself.

“Course I was jealous. You want to be with him.”

Post-party, you didn’t speak to Stiles for days. Lydia, in infinite tact, was right. Kenny didn’t seem to want to talk either: no calls or texts or handwritten letters. He very well could’ve fucked you that night, if he had been more kind and less insistent on your priorities. Mostly, you spent time with your sisters and mowed the lawn. Once, you saw a movie with a friend from cross country.

stiles 11:34 p.m. are u mad at me?

“I’m not mad at you, Stiles.” He was a bad phone call. He talked entirely too much, and since there was no physical manifestation of him beside you in bed, you couldn’t punch him in the shoulder or send him a glare to shut him up.

“You seem mad.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You ran away from me. I pissed you off.”

“You didn’t piss me off. I was just drunk.” You sighed, glancing at the clock. Monday loomed ominously in the corner of your eyes. There was a residual ache from the colder months, even though work often broke the boundaries of weekend rest. “I left because I didn’t want to be mad. I wasn’t mad.”

“But you would’ve been?”

“Stiles,” you chided, rubbing your hairline.

“I’m reasonably concerned! I didn't want to make you angry; I was just being honest. I mean, the guy is a complete fucking loser, he doesn’t care about you, but he does you the small kindness of striking up a conversation and you just, what, forgive him?” His voice cracked over the line. Your thumb hovered inadvertently over the red button, but you knew it to be some greater sign, your muscles pushing you to pull the plug.

“I don’t forgive him,” you muttered, about to retort with something like you don’t understand or it’s not like that, but he very much did understand and it was, in fact, very much like that. Being wanted was a bliss more intense and all-consuming than a fresh cherry slushie. “And it’s not really any of your business,” you added on, trying to find your edge.

A groan ripped out of him, but he’d taken a step back from the phone, so it came to you muffled and softer than intended.

“What is the deal with you and assholes?” he asked, incredulous.

Kenny wasn’t the asshole that Stiles made him out to be. He had a conflicting household, and you were sure the weed had been getting to his brain. He was just a rodent. You were too simple for his universe, too concise, and you were in love with your friend, which you didn’t think helped any. In the smaller moments, Kenny saw you in a pure way, and he admired that. He liked you. You wondered if Stiles found that perverse.

“Are you jealous?” you threw back, too in the heat of it to consider the implications. You had to remind yourself that this wasn't dreamland, and he wouldn’t be at your window, saying yes, I'm jealous, because I love you like hell, so can we kiss now, finally? You choked on a breath waiting for him to reply, which took a while. You could hear him thinking into the phone, a wavering “uh” spilling out.

“What?”

Considering a path to take, a way to flip this on its head, you stuttered, “I–”, swallowing, “it’s just that, no one wanted me before, when we were younger, but they do now. I mean, I have a life and you’re acting like it’s a sin or something.”

“That’s not true.” He was even.

“Yes, it is! You keep berating me for–”

“No, no, the thing about no one wanting you before, it’s not true.” This you clocked as a play on his part, a way to defuse your tone. He knew, of course, that when he said something sweet, you’d get soft and forgive him forever, because you always forgave him forever. The pit in your stomach boiled.

“That’s not my point.”

“But it is your point, and it’s not true, so your entire argument is null. I know for a fact that Drew Pike had a huge thing for you in fourth grade, so much so that he asked me, who he despised intensely, if you liked him back. Sure, I said no, because Drew was a mouth breather and wasn’t nearly enough of a gentleman, but still.”

You scoffed: “That doesn’t count.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dumb, and it’s just one small example amidst sixteen years of barren landscape.” You felt that you urgently needed to stand up, take space from the phone, and pace circles around your room for a few hours, or maybe until you wore down your socks into thin strips of unwearable fabric, feet bleeding. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you confirmed, stale.

“Well, I do. Are you with him now?”

“Drew Pike? No, he moved to Texas, and I think that ship sailed.”

“Kenny,” he spat, firm. “Did you get back together with Kenny?” He had a tone to him that you were unfamiliar with, something sharp and awful, something like you’d seen at the beach, or at Peter’s party.

“No, Stiles, I didn't get back together with Kenny. I told you, I don’t like him anymore.”

“Yeah, well–” he breathed heavily, “well, good.” You knew he wouldn’t be saying those things if he could understand how much you wanted him, how much you didn’t mind his poor tendencies or his social miscalculations. You knew he’d hang up the phone and never spend another night with his sleeping head on your tired shoulder. The nail of your thumb scratched at your knuckles hard, picking and peeling and biting bad.

“Awesome. I’m going to bed.” You ended the call without a goodnight.

#stiles stilinski x reader #stiles x reader #stiles stilinski imagine #stiles stilinski fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x you #stiles stilinski fic #dylan o'brien x reader

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watermelondip · 18 days ago

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transatlanticism | chapter six

masterlist ao3

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Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

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steve harrington / reader Warnings: makeout! Words: 5.1k

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He didn't call. A small, lingering, juvenile part of you though that maybe, and only if it was a really good one, a call might make you take it all back, but he didn't call. In a brief dream you had that night, the night after all was said, he kissed you hard, kissed you against his car, said he loved you, and when he pulled down his pants like it was a race, like always and before, it didn't feel like a failing moment, but more like a fair resolve.

You kept packing. After having filled three medium sized suitcases you took a nap, woke up, showered, ate lunch, thought about showering again, felt sweaty, felt full of something hard to describe but easy to feel, and fell asleep again. You watched Cheers for an hour or so. You tried to find a movie after that and, in a moment of intense Deus ex Machina, pulled out Fright Night, unplayed and unreturned. It made you monstrously upset, and it was only three. You watched it anyway, and liked it, and made popcorn, and didn't brush your hair. It was like a breakup but there had never been much of a relationship, so it was all inflated, your underlying sense of stupidity making you all the more distraught.

Your dad locked himself in his office all day. Had it not been for the maid, you would've died on the couch in the T.V. room.

Two days later: a pizza date. You planned on leaving in a week or so. Carol had a friend in Indianapolis with an opening for a roommate; it was a matter of getting all your stuff put in boxes, your father satiated. Pizza date felt comforting, a swift distraction. His name was Dylan, and he was blond (surfer blond, California blond, and blond like your first boyfriend, from that September when you were thirteen and utterly petrified).

Dylan ordered too many toppings for his own good. He was a prospective military man, someone who'd despised community college and figured he'd have a better time shooting guns and killing his ego. He ate like a heathen, and it reminded you of Steve, and you suddenly realized that you were incredibly bitter and totally unfit for a new, causal romance.

"You eat like a squirrel," he accused with a rough laugh, poking fun at your awkward, tiny bites. You explained that you read it in Seventeen once, it must've been at least five years ago now, and you'd been on a weight loss kick so it had just stuck. But it was just pizza and he just this messy sort of guy. Wealthy, sure, but shallow and uncaring all the same. You felt tense and very non-flirty. It was only mildly miserable, though, with the crowded ambiance of the place somewhat blurring whatever hesitancy existed in the conversation.

After a half an hour of dull, incessant talking points, the date became predictable and utterly reminiscent. While Dylan was stuttering on about protocols and prospects, a little bit of sauce on his face, a little bit hideousness with his expression and his slump, you attention drifted to the door. In another act of vague Deus ex Machina (the phrase was getting thrown around a bit, but God in, if not the machine, the bell on the door, or the smallness of the town) movie girl entered, Steve in tow, both hungry in a post-shift haze.

You didn't mean to stare, all wide-eyed and ominous, like an owl, a predator of sorts, ignoring Dylan's attempts to regain your attention. He didn't understand that you were just in orbit, just floating around Steve, just circling him over and over, over and over until the world ended. When he glanced over his shoulder as Robin ordered, sort of forlorn and sort of wistful, you felt emotionally lobotomized, movements becoming jittery as you covered your gaze with your hair.

"You know that guy?" Dylan asked, looking back and forth, dumbfounded and unimpressed.

"A friend," you murmured. Your cherry coke was too sweet and your throat was tingly, bordering on sick but maybe just disturbed, uncomfortable. You choked the animosity, the guilt, and the fervor down, falling into a soft grin. "Maybe more like frenemy." Dylan found that charming; he chuckled. He made a quip about having competition. You could see, in his eyes and his shoulders and his grin, that he wanted, passively or not, to sleep with you later. The longer Steve lingered, leaning against the counter as Robin listed out a plethora of toppings, the more the idea made you slimy, uneasy, and perturbed.

You started going on about your local involvement and ladylike activities, boring him to death all while painting yourself as elegant and pageant-like. Steve was still waiting for his pizza, but he was looking. The outward facing side of your head was hot, sweaty and burning up, feverish, while the one facing the wall, facing Dylan, was cold, gloom-covered and slick with a faux content. You were so glad for Indianapolis. Another lifetime of running into him would've been a whole fresh hell.

Dylan furrowed: "He's coming over?" he whispered, leaning over the table. And then Steve was standing all rigid and kid-like beside you, Robin fiddling with her thumbs from across the room.

The absurdity overtook you, and you glared expectantly, trying your best to flaunt a nonchalance that evaded you.

"Hey," Steve coughed out, looking down to his feet. Dylan leaned back, sighing all loud and jerky, a solid and opposing force to your effortless non-effort. He tried once more: "Hey, sorry, don't mean to interrupt."

He had nervous hands, anxious eyes, and you wanted to eat his face, put his whole self through a pasta maker, ring him out and spread him thin, just to rebuild him better, making him understand, kiss more, talk more. Despite desire, your face remained indifferent and, if anything, cruel, a slight grimace pulling at your lips. Most of you hated him, saw him cowardly and silently malicious, his reformation a simple ploy to get you all twisted around his finger again. A little bit you was sympathetic, but it was easily smothered with your gritting teeth and your sharp shoulders.

"Do you, like, need something?" You invoked the screaming, whining little girl from highschool that faked a subtle vocal fry and made fun of thrift stores.

"Yeah, we should talk." His blunt maturity only managed to harden you further.

"Kinda busy," you retorted, gesturing to Dylan. "I'm on a date." You punctuated the statement with a sip from your half empty glass.

"I see that." He coughed out something of a laugh, and you shrunk. "Look," he glanced to Dylan, emotion dropping low, "I'll call you, okay?"

It was a spontaneous burst of interaction, an unrealistic, improbable dream scenario, and you fell far too much into bitch to make the most of it. Your guarded shoulders and your aura of subtle disgust warded off his niceties, and you felt horrendous, felt juvenile like before. You wondered if there was any jealousy under his annoyance. You wondered if there was any love under his jacket. He waited for a reply, expectant, unsuitable for the air and wavering between nervous and unhindered by your aggression.

"Fine," you stated, placing down your glass with an overt slam, and when he left he didn't look back.

He'd never had any time to miss you. Falling in love and bleeding all over, you were the farthest from his biggest concern, much less his most sentimental acquaintance, more so a spec of dust on his past perfection, someone who fell into the crevices of what remained. He didn't have time to ruminate on what ifs, but you were still the cobweb in the corner of his room, the loose shirt on his floor, the dead bug floating in the pool as the air began to chill. There was something pungent about those lingering afterthoughts, those poorly developed polaroids.

You were the counterpart to a boy who died the moment Nancy Wheeler gave him the time of day, kissed him in the bathroom, made him go all mushy and loser-like. You were the manifestation of a life long since lived, a decaying possibility. It felt like an underreaction just to call.

You were doing aerobicize in your almost grave, a.k.a. the T.V. room, the time nearly ten, your leotard a bit too tight and your leg warmers a bit too warm-y, sweaty ankles ruining whatever bounce you'd carried in your step twenty minutes prior. But with every drip of sweat there was a drip of solitude, too, and the sense of peace you had with your ever-growing alone, the big, black void in the big, empty Indiana house, only deepened. Besides, the movement made you tired, and tiredness promised serenity in sleep.

From the hallway, as you walked to the bathroom, from the hallway in the dark, your father still had the light on in his office, dim and silent in the night.

The apartment in Indianapolis was a soft yellow, covered in art, art from a aunt in Texas, one who always sent paintings in the mail. Carol's friend was named Amy, a business and communications student with a liking for movies and pottery. The description played like a mantra in your head as the T.V. drawled on. The apartment in Indianapolis was next to a pharmacy, and it was a nice neighborhood, and there had never been any trouble there. Your room was waiting for you, a single bed and a small window.

There was a knock at the door. You paused, arm falling down heavy to your side, breathing like a dog, smelling a bit too much like deodorant and a few floral spritzes. Another knock, and another, and then a flurry of them. You paused the television. Yet another knock, louder. You huffed, running the back of your hand over your forehead. You called out, tucking the hair out of your face and rushing to the door. You said you were coming. Another knock.

Steve had open eyes, open eyes like the eyes of the boy from middle school, the boy with the wilted corsage. His head was leaning forward a little, subtly ashamed and showing a certain humility that you found jarring. He had a wild look, a sudden urgency, and a moving form, shifting in and out of himself, getting closer without taking a step.

"Hey," he addressed, dropping his hand.

"Hi." Unlike previous encounters, you felt soft and quiet like the baby you'd never been, the one that didn't whine or cry or thrash, the baby with the gummy smile and the grabby hands. "You said you'd call," you pointed out, brow furrowing.

"I couldn't--" he stopped himself, looking too deeply and feeling too much with his mind, not his words. "I'm sorry." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, can I come in?" And so he came in.

You ejected the tape, organizing and shuffling around and doing your best to tidy up as he followed behind, silent and jittery, hand fussing with the hem of his shirt. You told him to be quiet, said your dad didn't want guests over for a few days, but that he was probably asleep at his desk and would hardly know, or maybe would hardly care, not if it was Steve. In truth, your father liked Steve more when he was young and like his father, still in the position to thrive in a world that rejected ambivalence, but couldn't hate him now, not even with the dumb job or the dumb friends.

"I look crazy," you apologized, messing with your hair, pulling at the edges of your leotard. He shook his head. He did it so much you wondered if there was anything he didn't disagree with.

"It's hot." He sat down on the La-Z-Boy, feeling spectacularly expected and remembering, with a tilt, the always and before, the time in which he spent in the room when he was young and green and free of tarnished memory. His jest did little to amuse you, and he smiled. "I'm kidding," he added on, and you sat down in the chair next to him. There was a couch, of course, but it was not a couch conversation and being close like that felt too hefty and presumptuous.

"You really could've just called." Again, a head shake, a furrow, and a downturned look.

"I wanted to see you," he explained, glancing at the shelf, the tapes, the books, and the old, empty coffee table. The room was dim and mostly brown. "I feel like shit. I needed to see you." His eyes implored. It hurt to hold his gaze, and so you faltered, flickering down to the ground, to the scuffed wood floors and your still clammy ankles. He breathed out a laugh: "I couldn't fall asleep last night. I mean, it was three in the morning and all I wanted to do was call you and tell you I was sorry and tell you that none of that crap was true."

You went hot and stuffy, nose big like a balloon, eyes obscured, hair growing, falling to the floor, wrapping around your neck like a noose.

"I don't want to argue," you retorted, laying bare the nature of the relationship, the devolvement of every internal discussion. He sat on the edge of the chair, elbows on his knees.

"I don't want to argue either. We don't have to argue." No matter how much you avoided it, he kept looking and staring, glancing, saying things like he was bleeding, wanting more. "Hey, look at me? I just wanna talk. Can you look at me?"

But in his eyes was the always and before, and in the always and before was a confession, an inability to forgive. Most of you hated him. The part that didn't, which laid silent in the kisses and the words and the looks, was pancaked and pummeled when you were still a kid. It hardly helped. You shook your head. You became urgent and insistent and wordy, searching for his soft spot.

"I'm leaving town in a few days. My room's half packed and the car's in the shop," you blurted, a steady tone forcing an unwavering confidence that failed to come across in your other venues of communication, your posture or your expression, your feet or your shoulders. "There's a girl with an apartment in Indianapolis and she needs a roommate, so I'm going." Steve stiffened. "Permanently," you added on, kinder than you'd like. "I can't be here anymore."

"You're serious?" he asked. You nodded. He scowled. The air got tight and the outfit, the leotard and the legwarmers and the silly, happy colors, it all became entirely and fantastically ironic. "You're serious?" Rhetorical. "After all this, one fight and you just wanna leave again? I mean, is it your dad? Is he making you?"

"No." Your hands went to your knees, nails digging into your skin. Steve shifted.

"Well, what the fuck? Were you going to tell me?" You were mad, so you probably weren't, just to make him think about that, how you left and never said goodbye.

"I'm not sure," you muttered, the lie sitting heavy on the back of your neck, forcing you down. He scoffed, falling back into the chair, hand over his face, in his hair, fingers in his eyes, rubbing the disbelief out of them until he was red and raw and floppy, arms at his sides. No matter how much you wanted to punish him for his ignorance, in its heart, leaving would've been an act of kindness. He'd never wanted anything more than to be free from the part of himself that was still attached to you. His head went straight to his hands, heaving.

"I know I've been a dick in the past, but it's not like that anymore." He was raw and mushy, moldable, perceptive. "It can be complicated. I don't care, okay? I want it to be complicated. Anything, just something, yeah? I just wanna be with you." The words came to you like a dream, a fantasy. He'd said them to you so many times before, shifting in the sheets, fan running on low, head submerged under a shroud of pillows and sleeping pills. Your waking dream was lucid. His affection was a wavering light, a rope, a guide, but it fell short, made you trip. You'd spent so many nights drinking for the loss of him, the 'never was' of him. It felt unfair to indulge in everything now, to let yourself forget.

"It doesn't work like that, Steve." Your voice came out rough.

(When you were both sixteen, the always and before of it all, divulging in the vulgarity of the memory, he'd had you on your knees, his hand in your hair, and he was grunting like an old man, someone tired and cliché and trying to get the last bit of your innocence pelted out of you like it was currency. He came in your mouth, and he didn't say a thing about it. You had wanted a thank you, or maybe even a smile, but he fell silent, became stoic, and zipped up his pants. He'd left you in his bedroom, a bit red around the eyes, a nasty ache in the back of your throat. There were people downstairs, and he said he'd return the favor later, but you didn't care much about that. For you, the sex was a means of closeness, a way of communicating through quick glances and rushed movements.

Mostly, you liked doing those things for him because it was as if, for a moment, he needed you, or at least felt universally drawn to you by some ape brain attraction that had settled deep in his gut. Mostly, when he was sighing or groaning or grabbing on to your skin for leverage, and anyone else would've called you a whore for it, it felt most like love, and you were happy. But it was not like this for him. You grew to resent the brutality in his desires. You were made of plastic, and when he kissed you there was no air, and when he fucked you there was no heartbeat, and he did not love you.)

"It can," he argued, vast in all of his inadequacies.

"There's stuff you can't take back," you admitted, burrowing into yourself. He narrowed, considering this statement greatly. For all of the time he'd spent deciding what to say, he'd never much figured why he had to say it. You supposed it all looked very different to him.

"What do you want me to do? God, I'm sorry, you know that, but it's not like I can go back in time." You time traveled often, frequently finding yourself lost in an old memory, re-writing the script to a conversation long since ended. When you went back, you liked to kiss him again, feel how it felt when you were youngest, not yet quite understanding his hold on you, feeling the fingertips of possibility with his locker notes and desktop confessions. You scoffed. There was an ache inside, a young girl, a willing participant begging for you to forgive him, to let it all wash away.

"I know." You relented, sighing, smiling, feeling softer under his glaze. "I know, I just--" but he was so pretty by the lamp, and you were so lost in the fantasy. "It's just hard for me," you admitted, scratching at your wrist, clawing at your prickly skin. His sweetness was like a toothache, radiating from the gums, the core of the bone, all before spreading to the rest of the mouth, ruining your day and forcing you to complain, hand rubbing fruitlessly at your jaw.

"I never wanted to hurt you," he swore, feeling obstinate to your insistence that, in fact, all he had ever done was skin you alive.

The deceit festered. The house grew cold and untamed.

"Yeah, well, you did, so," you replied, feeling blunt and soaked in brevity. Your normality was fading, your crazed casualness falling away like the peel of a rotted banana. If you added a 'like' or an 'um' between every few words, you were socially demeaned, no longer taken very seriously, and returned to your cage of conversational solace, no one digging too deep and no one prying too far. After all, what could you feel? When men (if they could be called that, the boys they were) touched you, you never made much of a noise, and you only said their names when they seemed particularly insecure about the whole thing. You'd never had a boyfriend of note. You'd never told anyone that you were in love, and so you weren't in love, not really. You supposed, in the midst of most moments, you truly were plastic.

You were so entirely confident that he hardly remembered what he'd done to hurt you. You crossed your arms and waited for the fallout, the inevitable.

"I'm sorry I was such a dick, and I'm sorry about when you--" he paused, swallowed, and you blanched, albeit metaphorical, your complexion unhindered. "I'm sorry about when you said, or I guess, when you told me how you felt, when we were sixteen. I was such a dick about that, and I wish I could take it all back, alright? I wish we could just start over." There was a dwindling sense of devotion in his tone that your foot begged to step on. It felt masochistic to your own wants, but then there was the memory of his unyielding control, his deity-like cruelty, and you felt that pull, that urge to devour.

But he was also Steve, and he looked like he loved you, and he was being honest for once. You considered symbiosis. You considered the relenting resolve, the future flaws, and the overpowering stench of happy endings, of false starts. It was here, you thought, that it could be your living daydream, but only if you were to enter a sudden metamorphosis, freeing yourself of all hardened outer shells and shedding your tattered skin, presenting yourself as the meat on bone you knew to be. Otherwise, the relief of atonement felt temporary, unforgiving. You smiled at him begrudgingly.

"It's late, and my dad can probably hear us talking, so..." you stood up, fussing with your outfit again. He shook his head, insistent and assertive. "So, you should leave, Steve." He followed your movements, forgoing the chair, entirely unimpacted by the drowsiness that had been sprung upon you so recently.

"You gotta give me a chance here." Your time with him had always been littered with chances. You grimaced.

"Look, we're both tired and it's probably making you emotional, okay? We should talk after you sleep and think and maybe eat, like, real food and not takeout for the billionth time this month--" something passive and defeated flitted across your expression as he cut you off.

"I can't sleep, not unless I know we're okay. I just need to know, alright? I just need you to tell me we're okay." He grabbed your arm, your elbow, made you face him, had you close as he felt warm and full of air. "I mean, you've always been there for me." His voice was tight and selfish; it made you wholly unresponsive. "I don't want you to just get pissed and run off. I don't wanna lose you like that." Vice grip, loose-lipped, older and a bit bigger, wearing clothes that smelled more like closet than cologne, you loved him just as you always had, and you faltered.

"You're not gonna lose me," you muttered, maneuvering your elbow away, reaching to grab his hand. Your shoulders were hunched up rigid near your ears, the universe constricting you. "I just hate this dumb town," you admitted, rolling your eyes. He laughed, but it was sick with sadness, and nothing about him exuded glee. You wanted to stitch his fingertips to yours, to keep him in your pocket or stuff him in your drawer, to never sit in silence, not without his thick, crackly man breath on your neck. His hand squeezed yours.

"Me too." He glanced at your hands, rubbing his thumb along your knuckle. For a moment, the idea glistening a bit, you did forgive him, and everything was okay.

You kissed him, free hand going to his neck, his hair, teasing it with a scraping motion right where his skull began. There was an itch to dig deeper, sink your nails into his skin and rip it off, to see his bones and watch him wither, but instead you relaxed into his form, pressing your hips to his. He sighed, and his sounds were catharsis, whatever that noise released piercing your gut and letting the pent-up bile and disgust spill out, falling between the floorboards.

He pulled away: "It's not just sex," he whispered, "not anymore." You bounced on your toes, furrowing at his hesitancy. His forehead fell to your brow. "Need you to know that." Both his hands went to your face, your neck, around your jaw and behind your ears. He closed his eyes, and his neck arched over to you, a fleshy, aching bridge between whatever worlds you both existed in. You nodded, the movement rubbing against his tight expression, softening him immensely. He breathed out one of those thick, crackly man breaths and it forced a shiver out of you, gliding from your nose to your neck to your shoulders to your knees, stealing your focus and throwing you back into a million different, scattered thoughts that pounded at your head.

"I know," you said, because it had always been more for you, and he was just being naive, and then he kissed you again, and then it was all warm.

He dipped his fingers under the stretchy strap of your leotard, tugging it away from skin and pulling it to the edge of your shoulder. It felt like the sort of thing kids do, kissing light, no tongue, dark room, clothes thin and loose and falling astray. It felt like the freshman year bonfire, or the dance, or the after dance, which was where he had done something similar, albeit sloppier and more inexperienced. He tilted, pushing his mouth harder against yours, tongue in it now, or tongues, and a little bit of teeth, and he groaned, and it felt like a fire in your empty, bleeding gut.

"Don't go to Indianapolis." He pushed you to the door and moved his mouth to your neck. He hadn't given you a hickey since high school (you never liked them, and when you were twelve your aunt said that they were childish and to never let a boy brand you like cattle), and even if it was sort of an assault on the senses, wet neck and cold air and hot mouth, and even if you knew you were still a little sweaty from your workout and maybe not your most put together, you fell easily into it, the back of your head hitting the door. "Don't leave." He grabbed your waist, your hips, hands under the leotard, rubbing at your skin, pushing up the edges of the fabric.

"I promised Carol," you explained, a bit too airy to maintain the stoicism you had previously spouted.

"Fuck Carol." His tone was an attempt at sternness, but he never carried much authority in the quiet moments (maybe if he was angrier, red-faced and heaving and dumb with a bloody nose or a broken hand). His hand reached the hem of your underwear. "Promise me you'll stay."

"Okay." Your head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and half-hazy. You were weightless and floating and sinking in a sea of him. "Okay I promise."

When he kissed you in response it was partially cruel, sort of forceful and unkind, tongue parting your lips, sliding and prodding and pushing. His hands went all sorts of places: in your underwear, on your hips, your thighs, once on your shoulders, once on your neck, but never touching you like you'd expect, skirting around the important places. The little Steve inside of Steve, the one with the horns and pitchfork that told him to be mean to girls in high school, was taunting you for all of your inconsistencies, your imperfections.

You grabbed at his belt, hinting at something abrupt, but your fingers hooked lazily onto the leather, pulling his hips to yours before falling back down at your sides. Your slump was evident, and he paused, pressing his nose to yours.

"You're tired," he observed, brushing the hair out of your face. "You just wanna sleep and I'm torturing you with my carnal desires."

"Don't mind," you mumbled, smiling, fading, hand teasing the collar of his shirt. "But it is late, and it was a long day."

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot about your hot date." The remembering crumpled you up, and your head fell to his chest, a groan resonating in your throat. His arms wrapped all loose around your shoulders, a hesitant, burgeoning smile forming against your hairline.

"Oh my god, Steve, it was so boring. He kept talking about, like, cars and stuff," you grumbled against his shirt, slipping your hands around his waist, feeling the strip of skin right where his top didn't quite reach his jeans. It was a deconstructed embrace, hands fiddling with their position a bit mindlessly, and neither of you having much of a hold on each other. Floating and sinking and screaming amongst it all, you felt it made an abundant amount of sense. He laughed into your hair.

"If he calls you, I'll kill him," he jested, releasing a bubble of air from his throat, sighing into a closer position, nose pressed against the side of your head. In lieu of a lucidity that had always marked your previous encounters, he was solid, stable, tight around your limbs, latched onto your ankles, keeping you near, fending off the wind. "Scratch that, he doesn't even have to call. I'll use my natural stealth talents to track him down and take him out before he has the chance."

"Just because he's a bore doesn't mean he deserves your wrath." Beneath the causalities, there was a hint of exclusivity that made your heart race, something vile and untouched pounding your head with metal hooves. Steve wasn't your boyfriend, just as the rocks weren't actually alive and the trees weren't really made of broccoli. He was the enteral companion, the eternally fading friend, not the eternal lover. Your perspective shifted, your universe slowly coming apart in long, paper-like strips.

He grew suddenly intensely sure: "From now on, I'm your only pizza date, yeah?"

"Yeah," you said, and night was day, and day was bright, and the always and before marched on with wide-legged strides.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington imagine

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watermelondip · 19 days ago

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*flip* *flip*

#stranger things #:)

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watermelondip · 19 days ago

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transatlanticism | chapter five

masterlist ao3

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Tags: friends to lovers, friends with benefits, angst, severely poor communication.

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steve harrington / reader Warnings: none I think. Words: 1.8k

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For the first time in three weeks, your dad came home. The house fell silent, and all the bugs died with haste. Everything was terrifying, and so you decided to spend the night at Steve's.

"I've got work 'till seven," he said, a little crackly over the phone. "You can stop by, say hi to Robin."

And so you did, and so it was new. She was still in high school, and her goals where wholly undefined. She thought you trivial at first, but met you halfway, and eventually saw that little spark of congeniality that you had mentioned to her when you spoke in the store that day. You asked yourself why Steve hadn't become entranced by her, consumed by her (they seemed close, close like you and him had been as kids), but he hadn't, and they seemed good friends, so you let it rest.

He took you to a diner after his shift. He kissed you on the mouth outside the diner, against his car, keys in hand, smiling and saying something stupid as the sky durned a darker, greyish blue. He ordered a burger and ate it like a heathen, but you laughed, and it was a nice thing. He felt like a sudden and total boyfriend. He nudged your foot from under the booth. He asked you questions, asked about your day and your dad and your future party plans, of which you had none. He asked about Dan again, but you said it wasn't important, and you hardly remembered why you had ever wanted anyone else.

He pulled up to his driveway, his house. You hadn't seen it since you left. Something deep down inside you wanted to cry.

"Parents are home, so we'll have to be stealthy." A pause. A hand waved in front of your eyeline. "You in there?"

You weren't. A few years ago, covered in melting makeup and a sloppy dress, you'd kissed him hard from the passengers seat, praying his parents weren't looking from the upstairs window. A few years ago, reeling from a day like all the others, it was love all over again. There were lots of memories like that, Steve's car, Steve's room, Steve's pool, Steve's face, close to yours and saying something sultry. So you weren't there, and it was always and before.

"Can I ask you something?" Your voice came out bleeding, hesitant and ruffled. He nodded, and you bit your lip to stop it all from pouring out, forcing your words through a funnel, all the way back down your throat, and right out your ass, the fool you became. "What is this for you?" Steve blanched immensely. He laughed, cutting himself off halfway, the whole expression dissolving into an airy choke.

"What do you mean?" You stared him down, a bit incredulous and a bit unsurprised.

"I mean, what is this for you? What are we?" You recognized the cliche of the topic, smiling a bit as you got the words out, forcing a half sardonic tone. Your crystal ball said death and sad and sucks. Your gut said you should walk home. "Steve, this," you gestured weakly over the cupholders, in and out and in again with your shaky hand, "this can't be it forever."

"It's not forever." He furrowed, narrowed, all those things, turning towards you, trying to face you, read you. "It's not." He shook his head, tried to put his hand on your shoulder, but you flinched. The implications went both ways. In ten, fifteen years, you could only imagine the meaningless of this conversation, him all married, maybe, and maybe you all married, too, kids and dogs and life done, dead, just like that. You figured he'd find someone really acceptable, and that he'd never think of you, not with all those complications. "Everything just feels off right now, but I like being with you. I like being around you."

It was miserably not enough. Your chest became concave and you wanted to isolate, move to Paris or London or Mexico and become a lone monk, wandering the streets like a well-traveled nomad.

"That's such bull." You ran a heavy hand over your eyes, smearing your mascara. "You always say that kind of shit and it's always such bull." Being the rarely honest person that you were, it all stunned him. The talking points were over-used and garishly reminiscent of what you'd said that first night, that reunion.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he admitted, always and before and melding and proving and being the past in the present, showing you his skin and bones all raw and real. He just didn't, and it was vile, and your eyes were wet. He shrugged. His head shook again, lighter and smaller, incredulous and indescribable. "Every time I try to say something you get pissed." He sighed, head falling back into his seat. "I'm just trying to take this slow."

"You practically begged me to sleep with you the second I got back!" He turned away from you, glancing out the window. "You make everything so confusing." Your head went straight into your hands, car growing uncomfortable as the air around you thickened. You needed to breathe fresh air or jump in a lake or get struck by lightning, something to shock you back into place.

"None of this has been one-sided, alright? I mean, do you think I'm a total idiot or something? The party? The guys? I know that you're fucking with me." You glared from between your fingers. Again, another head shake, a scoff and an arm, leaning against the window, rubbing his forehead like it hurt. "You act all carefree and soulless but you're such a baby sometimes."

It all feel miraculously apart at once, the diner bubble, the kisses and the compliments, they proved pointless in the car. Feeling tired and overdone, you decided to end the prolonged stalemate you'd been drowning in since you got back. It had been weeks of pointless reminiscence, reenacting the past with little care for age and experience and inevitability. He could pretend to be your boyfriend as much as he wanted. You couldn't feel a heartbeat in any of it.

"Yeah, okay." You grabbed your purse, huffing a bit as you shoved it over your shoulder, fumbling with the door. Everything felt stuffy and horrific. "I get it, you hate me." You nearly fell out of the car, pulling your jacket a bit tighter and holding your purse staunchly to your side. Life felt rigid and foul.

"Hey, come on, I don't hate you," he called out, but you slammed the car door behind you and swiftly began to walk, head down and ignoring the dim, residential streets. "Hey!" He followed you out of the car, cognizant yet fruitless. "Are you seriously gonna walk home?" He threw out his arms, calling you petty with his stumbling walk and his dumbfounded expression. It could've been a fantastic night if it had been two very different people in a very different town.

You stopped, turning back to him: "Yes." He laughed, mean and everything you'd been running from. In his miserable, contained, fantastical little world, he was still king.

"This is stupid." Hands in pockets. Steps slow and hesitant, like you were a rabid dog or a fleeing criminal. "This is so stupid. Just come inside and we'll talk, okay? We'll talk about it."

"I don't wanna talk about it." You huffed and puffed and proved yourself that same baby he accused you of being. "It's so obvious that you're just waiting for a better girl to come along. It's so clear that you couldn't give less of shit how I feel about you." Fatigue consumed you, and you flattened, nose upturned. "I'm sorry, but I don't really understand how talking will change that."

He seemed subtly disgusted, recalling the other times, the other confessions, and how timid you'd became, regressing exponentially at his vague words, his silent rejections. You sounded like smoke and filth, dirty band-aids and honest answers, naked truths and one-night hookups in old, sweat-stained motel rooms. You talked like a dirty girl, unfiltered and unsightly, carrying none of the upper-class, bottled-up elegance that had defined your youth. Being pretty, for the longest time, was being quiet.

"It's not like that," he retorted, accusing and defensive in his own, very Steve-centered way. Still, like always and before, swiftly usurping with his superior stance and expensive crewneck.

Even if it wasn't like that, and even if all of that boyfriend-y pretending hadn't been so pretend, it was a very Jane Austen sort of thing, and your prejudices refused to uncloud your judgement. You saw him through the haze, the frosted glass eyes you'd been given as a tween, and you failed to read him right, take his words for truth.

You shook your head this time, wet eyes even wetter than before, tears like lava, tears like fire on your cheeks, tears like words, words like puke. You crossed your arms and gritted your teeth. Instead of yelling some more, you turned back around and made from the dark, the dying horizon, heels clicking against the manicured sidewalk; it wasn't a jog or anything, never a run, but a sure and speedy walk, a defiant remark made of heavy steps and a bold back.

"Hey, it's not safe!" He followed you. He left his car door open, keys like a cowbell hanging from his fingers. "I'll drive you home, yeah?" You ignored him, the persistence like whiplash, and his voice the new wind.

You considered leaving. In your blunt subconscious you knew that, had it not been for Steve, you never would've came back. It wasn't your town anymore, and it wasn't your boy, and it wasn't your romance, no matter how many diner-laden nights existed in your hypothetical peripheries. In retrospect, and in the pictures and the letters and the calls, the whole ordeal was overly idealistic, fantastical and fixable, miscommunicated and pointlessly convoluted. In the moment, slick with the ache, it was an ending.

You tried packing, but got tired and sad too quickly, falling onto your piles of clothes with a dissatisfied, internal roar. They were all outdated pieces from high school, things you never wore as you moved on.

The night died quiet, sort of like your expression, fading and falling, a dissipating sense of naivety creeping through. You weren't entirely sure whether you had believed the things you'd said to him, whether they were your honest read, or your cruelest sabotage. You figured that the truth hardly mattered, as you had said them, and then you had left, so it was over, and you were to leave again, find another man to pester, and pass away just like that, teetering on the edge.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x you #steve x reader #steve harrington imagine

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watermelondip · 1 month ago

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SHOPPING BAGS

Stiles Stilinski x Female Reader | fluff | cute Stiles | domestic behaviour | puppy dog stiles

Memo: This is the last time I write anything on my phone, Tumblr is glitching so bad. At least it edits everything for me as I go on here though. I think this is really cute and I hope you do too.

You weren’t even sure how you convinced Stiles to come shopping with you in the first place. Maybe it was the puppy eyes. Maybe it was the bribe of burritos afterward. Or maybe—and this was the most likely option—he just couldn’t stand to be away from you for more than an hour.

Either way, here you were, weaving in and out of boutiques with your boyfriend trailing behind like a very eager, very enthusiastic human golden retriever. And not just following, no. He was loaded with bags. Your bags. Bags he insisted on carrying with some heroic, over-the-top chivalry like he was training for a shopping-themed triathlon.

He was also buying you things.

Every time you tried to pull out your wallet, he stopped you with a look. “I’ve got this,” he said for the third time in under an hour, slipping his debit card out of his worn brown wallet with a little smirk. “This is what I work my glamorous part-time job for, babe. Well… that and snacks. But mostly this.”

You tried to protest—because you weren’t trying to make him broke for a cute sweater—but he just waved you off, practically bouncing on his toes as he watched the cashier bag up your new dress.

“I like spoiling you,” he whispered as he leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek. “Let me spoil you. Please. I’ll pout. You know I will.”

“You know,” you said later, casting a look over your shoulder as he struggled to adjust the paper straps on one shoulder, “you don’t have to carry everything.”

“But I want to,” he said, as if you had offended his honor. “You’re the queen of my life. I’m just the humble pack mule.”

You laughed, threading your arm through his briefly before slipping into the next shop.

It was a boutique with soft lighting, walls lined with pastel clothes and minimalistic decor. Stiles followed dutifully, dropping the bags by a little sitting area without even being asked. You were already flipping through a rack of clothes when he threw himself down dramatically onto a little velvety bench, one leg bouncing like he was trying to stay patient.

“You know, I read somewhere that shopping increases dopamine levels,” he said, watching you as you held a sundress up against your body in the mirror. “Not sure if it’s the shopping… or just you.”

You rolled your eyes at him, smiling.

“Flattery won’t get you out of burrito duty later,” you warned, stepping back to look at yourself in the mirror again, smoothing the fabric over your front. Then you smirked over your shoulder at him. “But it will get you some kisses. And maybe some more if you keep it up.”

Stiles perked up like a cartoon dog hearing the treat jar open. “I’m gonna compliment you until my lungs give out.”

You laughed again, shaking your head as you made your way toward the fitting rooms, dress in hand.

“Wait—can I—? I mean, I’ll just wait out here,” he said, springing to his feet. “I’ll… protect the door. From perverts.”

“You mean, from yourself?”

He held a hand to his chest, gasping in mock offense. “How dare you. I am very respectful in the presence of beauty. Even when I’m helplessly in love with it.” Then he leaned in conspiratorially and added, in a stage whisper, “Okay yes, I am a pervert. And I will try not to peek. But I probably will. If you’re okay with it?”

You rolled your eyes so hard you almost saw into another dimension. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I love you too, ” he shot back proudly.

The curtain swished shut behind you, and you chuckled under your breath as you slipped into the dress. A beat later, you peeked out and found him already standing just a few feet away, practically bouncing on his toes.

“Well?” you asked.

Stiles blinked. Once. Twice.

“Okay. Nope. We are not going to be allowed back in this mall. Because I am about to pass out and die in this very spot.”

You tried to keep your composure, but the flustered way he ran a hand through his hair and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “how is this my life” made it impossible not to beam.

“I’m getting it,” you said with a smirk, disappearing back into the fitting room.

“Get five,” he called after you. “We’ll take out a loan.”

A few seconds later, as you were zipping the dress off, you caught movement out of the corner of your eye. A shadow against the curtain. A very familiar pair of scuffed sneakers pointing toward the crack in the side. There was a very exaggerated sound of someone clearing their throat, and then:

“I’m not looking, I swear. But if I were… hypothetically… you’d look really good right now.”

You snorted and tossed a hanger at the curtain. “Eyes front, Stilinski.”

“Dang it,” he muttered. “Didn’t even get a glimpse.” A beat. “I’m pouting right now. Just so you know.”

You came out a few minutes later and found him with his chin propped on his fist, giving you the world’s most exaggerated sad face.

The rest of the afternoon went about the same: you shopped, he gushed. You tried on accessories, he had Opinions. You paused to look at a pair of boots, and he launched into an unsolicited speech about how you could wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful person in the world. When you stole his beanie and wore it while checking out a mirror, he nearly combusted on the spot.

And even when you were just wandering aimlessly between stores, sipping iced coffee, he walked so close beside you that your hands kept brushing.

“You realize you don’t have to follow me like I’m your entire gravitational center, right?” you teased, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he said easily, grinning. “But you are. So.”

You paused. Smiled. Then reached out and grabbed his free hand—the one not carrying half a department store—and laced your fingers through his.

He looked down at your joined hands, looked back up at you, and smiled like he’d just won the lottery.

The weight of the bags he carried didn't seem to slow him down at all—not that you were walking quickly. There was something so perfect about the unhurried pace, the way your fingers stayed laced together like magnets too stubborn to separate.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, your heart doing that gentle somersault it always did when he smiled for no reason at all.

Without a word, you lifted your joined hands and pressed a soft kiss to the back of his.

He blinked, glancing over at you with a little curve of amusement pulling at his lips.

You did it again. And again.

A series of three kisses in quick succession—light, fluttering touches that made him suck in a breath like he was trying to play it cool and absolutely failing.

He stopped walking for a split second, tilted his head at you like, Oh, that’s how we’re doing this? Then, without breaking stride, he turned your hand over and kissed it once.

Twice.

Three times.

You barely contained the delighted laugh that bubbled up in your throat.

The whole thing became a quiet little war, a wordless back-and-forth of affection. He kissed your knuckles. You kissed his palm. He kissed the inside of your wrist with a dramatic flourish like he was a 19th-century nobleman about to go off to war.

By the time you reached Roscoe, you felt dizzy with the sweetness of it all.

He dropped your hand long enough to pop the trunk open, already shifting the bags from his arms into the back with a sort of exaggerated sigh, like he’d just completed a great quest. Meanwhile, you slid into the passenger seat and gave Roscoe a fond little pat on the dashboard, voice dropping into a whisper.

“Hey, baby,” you cooed, smoothing your hand over the cracked vinyl like you were comforting an old friend. “I know you like being dramatic, but let’s not act up today, okay? You’ve got a really great driver, and I happen to be very fond of him. He treats you like royalty. He talks to you like you’re alive. He babies you. You’ve got it good, Roscoe. So let’s keep the breakdowns to a minimum, huh?”

You leaned over and kissed the edge of the dashboard. “Please? For me?”

The driver’s door opened suddenly, and Stiles practically leapt into the seat with the grace of a sitcom character, hair tousled by the wind and that crooked smile already in place like he hadn’t missed a beat of your conversation.

“You bribing my Jeep with compliments again?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he started the engine. Roscoe sputtered to life without protest.

“Worked, didn’t it?” you grinned.

Stiles threw you a glance, eyes bright, full of something fond and stupid and dizzyingly deep.

“You’re a witch,” he said, laughing. “An actual enchantress.”

You reached over and ruffled his hair with a gentle tug of your fingers. “You’re handsome,” you said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious truth in the universe.

He blinked at you like you’d just tossed a live grenade into his lap. “I—what—”

“You are,” you repeated, stretching your legs out and leaning back as Roscoe pulled smoothly out of the lot. “Very. In case you forgot.”

He was trying to play it cool—gripping the steering wheel with one hand while rubbing the back of his neck with the other, his ears turning bright pink.

“I never forget when you say it,” he muttered under his breath.

You smiled to yourself, watching the trees blur past through the window. The bags rustled quietly in the back seat. Roscoe rumbled beneath you like a loyal, tired steed. And beside you, your very own dorky, attentive, wonderful knight of a boyfriend was glancing over at you every few seconds like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

And honestly, you kind of couldn’t believe it either.

Time skipped forward like the flick of a page in a favorite book.

Roscoe had made it home without so much as a stutter. The shopping bags had been brought in and unceremoniously dumped on the floor of Stiles’ room, next to his desk, next to the worn-out sneakers he never really put away. His bat leaned in the corner, like always, like it was waiting for a threat that never came.

But tonight, there was no chaos. No supernatural emergencies. No late-night research or dead-of-night plotting.

Just warmth.

Just the quiet hum of his ceiling fan spinning above.

Just the way the dying light slipped through the blinds, casting lines across the bed, striping the soft skin of your cheek as you laid there—pressed against him, legs tangled up like you'd been doing it your whole life.

Your head was nestled beneath his chin, your arm slung across his middle, and one of his hands was resting low on your back, fingertips moving in slow, lazy circles that made your spine melt. The other hand was buried in your hair, just lightly scratching your scalp the way he knew you loved.

His shirt was soft beneath your cheek, and his heartbeat drummed steady and slow in your ear.

Neither of you had spoken for a few minutes, not really.

There were words, yes—but only the softest kinds.

Whispers.

Things that didn’t need volume to be heard.

His hand slid up your back and settled at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over the corner of your mouth, and you tilted your head to look up at him.

He was already looking at you.

Like he had been.

Like he always did.

His eyes were a little sleepy, a little glassy with comfort and affection and maybe something deeper—something eternal. And they were locked on yours like he could see straight through to everything you’d ever been, everything you might become.

“Hi,” you whispered, just because you felt like saying something.

His lips quirked. “Hey.”

You stared at each other. Minutes ticked by like honey dripping from a spoon. Time didn’t exist here—not really. Not when you were curled together like the world outside didn’t even matter.

Stiles reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

You smiled softly, eyes fluttering as his hand lingered at your cheek.

“You tell me that a lot,” you said quietly, even though you didn’t mind hearing it. You could never mind hearing it.

“Because it’s true,” he said simply. Then, after a beat, his thumb swept down your cheek again, slower this time. “And because I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

That hit you somewhere low in your chest.

You leaned up and kissed him, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything. The kind that just said, I’m here. The kind that tasted like a lifetime.

When you pulled back, you were both a little breathless, and he looked at you like you’d just knocked the air out of his lungs.

You shifted, pulling him closer, wrapping your leg tighter around his like you were trying to fuse the two of you together. He adjusted automatically, arms wrapping around you, burying his face into your neck for a second, kissing the spot where your pulse beat.

“I love this,” you said, tracing patterns on his chest with the tip of your finger. “Just… this.”

“Me too,” he mumbled against your skin. “We should stay like this forever. I vote yes. All in favor?”

You kissed the top of his head. “Aye.”

His arms squeezed tighter around you. The weight of him, the smell of him—everything that was Stiles—settled into your bones like gravity, like something you could hold onto even in the middle of a storm.

Your eyes met again—his honey-brown ones full of sleep and awe and the kind of softness that made you feel like you were wrapped in a sunbeam—and you just stared.

And stared.

No rush. No need.

Just two people wrapped around each other, breathing in sync, surrounded by soft fabric, scattered shopping bags, and the quiet joy of something real.

This was home.

And you never wanted to leave.

#love

136 notes · View notes

watermelondip · 1 month ago

Text

Written in the Stars // Stiles Stilinski Imagine

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader Pairing: Stiles x Reader, Stiles x You (no use of y/n) Word Count: 5k Tags: fluff, fluff, fluff, i love my men nerdy and desperate, all characters are over 19, my vibe is it's like their sophomore or junior year of college Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, unprotected pnv (terrible advice, babes, don't listen to these idiots)

Request: stiles smut plssss!!! anything fluffy??? A/N: request mixed with a lil bit of an old work to ease me into my first smut. still coming across virginities at 27, and that is really something. s/o to the anon who requested it lmao.

Stiles’s childhood bedroom is an assortment of Star Wars paraphernalia, baseball posters, and bundles of wrinkled flannels squeezed to fit within four faded blue walls. There are a few books stacked on top of his desk, coated in a thin layer of dust from the semester away from home, and little plastic stormtroopers stand at attention on his dresser corners. It smells a little musty in his room, a little like damp earth, but you’ve always liked that smell. You especially like how his cologne smells here—like spice, like fallen leaves, like Christmas morning.

“The curtains are blackout,” Stiles says. He pulls the heavy navy curtains over the window facing the small backyard. The grass is yellowing from the cold of winter, and the air is crisp with the same bitter chill. You shiver and burrow further into the sweatshirt you’d somehow commandeered long before you and Stiles were a we. A few flecks of dust float off the plaid bedding when he sits down on his bed. He looks up at you and grins at the sleeves hanging limply below your fingers, “Flip off the light.”

You turn off the light and shut the door. It’s dark inside the room now—almost completely black. What little remains of the sun is gone, and now you can only see the glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to the ceiling. “You must have taken a lot of people up here,” you hum, grinning at him coyly over your shoulder. You’re not quite sure if he can make out the glint in your eyes under the pale fluorescent glow, but you’d like to think he can. Either way, you’re sure he knows.

Stiles laughs easily and scoots himself down to the edge of his bed, “Why?”

“For kissing,” you say, matter-of-factly, but you’re still grinning. You make your way towards him, and your prowl is far less smooth than you’d like it to be—the piles of books and a couple month’s worth of dirty laundry make an already difficult path downright hazardous. You count it as a win when you end up in his lap without tripping on anything, “Doesn’t everyone want to be kissed under the stars?”

His hands, his wonderfully large and veiny hands, find their way to your hips. It’s instinct for him, reflexive at this point, and here in the dark it feels like the only thing he knows. You can feel his grin against your neck, “Do you?”

You hum, playing coy, and absently curl your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, thick and curling a bit at the ends. It’s grown out over the last few months. He’s been too busy with studying for finals and working at the library to bother getting it cut. You like it like this, long enough to hold onto, long enough to yank. “I like the stars,” you sigh—so close to his mouth, but not touching—and then you pull back, smiling fondly when you see his mouth is already puckered. “Tell me about ‘em.”

Stiles groans and falls onto his back, pulling you down with him. You end up tucked against his side, shivering as he slides his hand under your sweatshirt to trace a feathery line up and down your back. “That’s like the worst possible genre for innuendo. I can’t woo you while I’m David Attenborough-ing about astrology.”

You smile against his shoulder, and he yelps when you nip at his skin through his thread-bare t-shirt. “You like a challenge.”

He wraps a strand of your hair around his finger and pulls a little, just hard enough to tip into a reprimand. It’s at least half the reason you turn into a brat when he’s this close. “There’s Andromeda,” he hums against the top of your head, pointing towards a small cluster of stars. “Those are supposed to be her legs, and that’s her head, and the ones over there are her arms—fuckin’ uneven, I know. I think that side kinda looks like she’s holding out one of those canes with tennis balls on t—”

You smile and knock your head into his chin lightly, “Wooing, Stiles.”

He tugs on your hair again and swears under his breath when a little whimper tumbles past your lips. “Anyway, she’s next to Perseus—who looks a lot more like Patrick than a demigod. I mean, look at him; his body type is like…something between Dorito and spanakopita.” You laugh, and Stiles squeezes you closer to his side, tangles your legs together, and kisses the tip of your nose like he just can’t help himself. “Story goes, Andromeda's mom royally pissed off Poseidon, so he sent a sea monster to destroy her kingdom—as one does when someone’s talking shit.”

“Naturally,” you hum as you reach for the hand he has cupped around your waist.

“Naturally,” Stiles agrees, nodding against the crown of your head. You try not to get too distracted by the length of his fingers, bending them and straightening them out one at a time, as he carries on with the story, “So Andromeda’s mom is up there with the titans of bad parents—like right next to Vader and every Disney step-mom ‘cause she fuckin’ ties Andromeda to a rock as a sacrifice for the mo—” He sucks in a shallow breath through his teeth when you start kissing along the row of his knuckles, first little soft brushes that almost tickle and then a few lingering ones that wet his skin. He swears again and ever-so slowly shifts his hips against the thigh tucked between his legs. You take pity on him and rest your entwined hands in the small gap between your breastbone and his ribs. His exhale is warm against your forehead, “Obviously, Perseus swoops in at the last minute, slays the beast, gets the girl, etcetera, etcetera.”

Humming, you tip your chin up against his chest and look at him through your lashes, “What happens during etcetera, etcetera?”

“I think,” Stiles rolls over so that he’s on top of you, bracing his weight on his forearms, caging you in delightfully close to his broad chest, “something like this.”

You forget about the game for a minute when he starts mouthing at your skin with just the right amount of teeth. His hair, adorably messy and sticking up in little patches from your fingers, tickles the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t Perseus kill Medusa?” you mumble, head tipping back into the mattress, eyes closed.

“Uh,” Stiles keeps kissing along your neck, obviously distracted by the hitches in your breath and the soft sighs you let out when he breathes against spit-slick skin, “yeah?”

You can feel the heaviness of his whine against your mouth when you pull away, blinking up at him with big, round eyes—the picture of innocence. A little lamb, an unplucked daisy, a gossamer butterfly wing, entirely unaware of the raging hard-on pressed against your inner thigh. His skin is warm through his shirt, so warm you feel it on your legs when you wrap them around his waist. “While she was sleeping?”

“Uh huh,” Stiles slides a hand up your thigh. The other one is pressed into the mattress, and the muscles in his forearm flex under his full weight. You’re pretty sure he’d agree with anything you say like this.

Unfortunately for the pulsing between your legs, you’ve fallen victim to your own ruse. Your head tilts as you recall all the unsavory details of the Medusa myth, “After she was literally assaulted by his dad?”

Stiles drops his head against your chest and groans, “You’re killing me, baby.”

You grin and curl your fingers in his hair, petting him gently and squeezing your thighs against his hips, “Tell me another one.”

He sighs and rolls over, starfishing his right arm and leg over the edge of the bed with a dramatic flop. “We’ll skip Orion and the seven girls he stalked.”

“Smart choice,” you hum and snuggle into his side. His chest is firm from hours of trying to lift enough to play lacrosse with werewolves, but it still makes for a nice pillow. Stiles’s fingers find their way into your hair, and you swallow back the purr rising in your throat for his sake. He’s been so good for you, after all. You don’t want the torture to be too painful.

“And the swan-fucker,” he adds, scratching lightly at your scalp.

“What?”

Stiles ignores your wide eyes, smirking, and continues playing with your hair, “Altair and Vega. That’s a good one.” In the blanket of darkness and under the strain of yearning, his voice sounds soft and crackly, like one of those singers in the black and white movies, the ones that dance with the microphone. “Starts with a gorgeous, sexy, incredibly charitable goddess falling for a lowly mortal,” his grin is sly as he hikes your thigh over his, squeezing just under your ass, “a lot like us.”

“Boo. Awful.” You pull a face as he drops a flurry of kisses over your cheeks, nose, chin—your laughing mouth, “Disgusting. I’m disgusted.”

His fingers dip into the waistband of your leggings, tauntingly close to just where you want him, “You don’t feel disgusted.”

Now, that won’t do. You’re just getting started. You trap his hand with your thighs and tap your finger against the slope of his upturned nose, “Finish the story.”

Stiles whines a little and then sighs, returning the palm of his hand to the little dip above your hip. “Her dad is disgusted that she wants to bring a loser human home, so he turns them into stars on opposite sides of the galaxy.”

Frowning, you squint at the collection of stars he’d pointed to. They don’t look so far apart on his bedroom ceiling. “That’s…depressing.”

“It’s not over yet,” Stiles pulls on your hair and does his best to look annoyed, but the nip to your bottom lip feels far more like a reward than a punishment, “hush.” He waits a minute for you to comply—or, more likely, not comply—and you settle back on his chest and arch your brow, waiting. He arches his brow right back and then keeps going, “One day a year, on the seventh day of the seventh month, Altair fills the galaxy with his tears, and every bird in the sky makes a bridge with their wings so that they can spend one more night together.”

The corner of your mouth tugs into a little grin, “That is a good one.” You trace little patterns on his bicep, little swirls and stars, and rest your chin on his shoulder so that you can see his pretty face, “But just for the story. Only one night a year would kill me.”

“Baby,” Stiles clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth and shakes his head like he's disappointed, bottom lip jutting out slightly from under his top, “it'd take a helluva lot more than a couple light-years and an immortal father-in-law to keep me from getting to you.”

It’s such a line, but the dopey grin he gives you while he says it somehow makes it charming. Maybe you’re just a little bit lovesick. Okay, maybe a lot. “You can kiss me n—”

He’s on you before you can finish, but you don’t mind being interrupted when he's slanting his mouth against yours just right and groaning into your sighs with a gravelly pitch that makes your toes curl. “Fuck me,” Stiles sighs. He dips back in before you can quip something bratty, something that would definitely earn you another yank on your hair—later perhaps.

You straddle his waist, sit back in the cradle of his pelvis, and lace your fingers together on the mattress against the sides of his head. He whimpers. You curse. “Off,” you mutter against his mouth, tugging petulantly on the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles is quick to comply, like always, but the fabric gets stuck around his shoulders. You let him struggle for a minute, just long enough to hear more of those petulant little whines. When you finally help him wrangle his shirt over his head, you’re up close and personal with his mouth. His lips are pretty—swollen, pink, and shiny with salvia and your lip balm—and you’re filled with the overwhelming urge to bite. You toss his shirt somewhere on the floor behind you and lean down, your chest pressed against his. You can feel his heartbeat stutter, like a rabbit in a trap, when you stroke your thumb over his bottom lip. It’s soft and wet against your finger, and you sigh high in your throat, “Pretty.”

His chest warms, and you wish you had more light to admire the flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks. You know it’s pink and pretty too, but you’d enjoy seeing the proof. “Pretty?” Stiles echoes, cocking his head slightly, and slides his hands from your ass to your hips. He continues his path along the sides of your ribcage with the bottom of your sweatshirt bunched between his fingers.

“Pretty,” you nod, sharp and definitive. You sit up a little so that Stiles can pull your hoodie off, and then it’s lost to the dark abyss. Frankly, you aren’t that worried about if you ever see it again. You can always steal another one after you’re done.

He shakes his head and runs his hands over your torso, your collarbones, your stomach, just under your tits—he can’t see that well in the dim light, so he’s damn well going to see you the only way he can. “Pretty,” Stiles groans, cupping your tits and gently thumbing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your cotton bra. It’s simple, white, unadorned by lace or a pattern—and it’s sexier than it has any right to be, he thinks. He’s eager to rip it off.

You shudder through the entire length of your spinal column, through all the nerves attached, and arch into his touch, “Yeah?”

He coos, and your nipples pebble in response. It’s embarrassing but soon forgotten when Stiles cups your face, big hands encompassing almost the entire length of your jaw, and whispers, “Pretty girl. My pretty baby.”

It’s even more embarrassing how quickly you feel your underwear dampen under the scrutiny of some simple praise. Now, you’re whining, and he’s letting out a string of guttural, “Fuck,”s as you grind down against the increasingly painful bulge in his jeans. Your nails leave little pink lines along the sculpted v of his pelvis, just deep enough to sting a bit—enough to send his head back towards his shoulders. He sits up a little more so that he can grip your hips, holding them still as he catches his breath, and you’re only a little ashamed of the way you mewl his name in protest. Stiles shuts you up with a kiss and shakes his head, “Can’t come in my pants like I’m 17 again. That’s the worst possible ending to our constellation. Like a 1/10, definitely certified rotten.”

You grin against his throat, and he swallows at the sharp press of your teeth. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the worst ending. Wouldn’t the worst be the one where you don’t come at all?”

Stiles’s fingers dig into your hips and he pulls you down firmly against his lap, like he’s scared you’ll get up and leave him with a weeping cock and teary eyes. “Baby, don’t even joke about that. That’s a billion times worse than letting a sea monster rip me in half.”

“Guess you can split me in half then,” you shrug a little, and Stiles goes taut under you, fingertips flexing into the small of your back, “unless you want me to tie you to a rock. I’d be into that.”

He growls in your ear, nipping at your jaw and flipping you onto your back. You laugh, a little breathless, as you bounce back on the mattress from the force of it. “Definitely wanna split you in half,” Stiles mutters as he shucks off his pants and kneels at the edge of his bed. He starts peeling back your leggings, taking his time to kiss each sliver of skin revealed to him despite the urgency in his eyes, despite the ache in his white-knuckled grip on the buttery martial of your bottoms. “Gonna wreck you,” Stiles promises as he brushes his lips over your ankle a few times. His words are filthy, but his eyes are honey-sweet and lit with nothing but complete and utter devotion—like you really are a goddess in the sky. You’re already wrecked, probably have been since he kissed you for the first time, entirely ruined for anyone else.

“Did’ya know that Vega is brighter than Altair,” he says, quiet and reverent as he drops your leggings. You blink at him, a bit dumbly, but it’s his own fault for trying to have a conversation while he’s sliding your legs over his shoulders and fiddling with the hem of your underwear. “By, like, 5 places? I think? That’s us too—can’t even look at you sometimes,” he hums, warm against your wet cunt, and hooks his thumbs around your panties. You shudder, and he smiles. You aren’t quite sure if he’s talking to you or to the glistening flesh he reveals when he yanks the baby pink cotton to the side. Either way, you understand his dilemma. It’s torture to watch him sometimes. You have to close your eyes when the pink tip of his tongue darts out, wetting his lip, tasting the air.

There’s a sigh. So soft. Really more of an exhale, and you aren’t sure where it came from. It could’ve been you, or him, or the stars. “You talk a lot,” this time you know the sigh is coming from you.

Stiles smirks a little and slips his thumb inside your panties, swiping through your slick folds like he’s fingerpainting, “Is that a complaint?”

Your hips stutter, and his other hand is quick to clamp down on your skin, stopping any attempts to skitter away from his light touch. “I love it when you talk,” you hum, leaning up onto your elbows so that you can watch him work. He grins up at you, almost shy, and presses down against your clit. A wet gasp bursts through swollen lips as your back arches, and Stiles isn’t so shy when he bends down to drop a gentle kiss over his thumb. “But I, uh,” you brush your fingers through the dark hair flopping over his forehead and squeeze your eyes shut when his kisses become kitten licks, “I also love it when you use your mo—” His finger (his long, gifted finger) slides into your cunt with an embarrassing squelch, and his lips wrap around your clit as he sucks. “That,” you whine, back arching a little until Stiles spreads his fingers over your stomach and presses down, “I also love it when you do that.”

His laugh vibrates deliciously against all the places he’s trying to devour, and you think it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go—being eaten alive by your gorgeous boyfriend. He pulls back to slip another finger in your pussy, spreading them just enough to burn in the best way, and then he’s prodding at the spot inside you that sends a jolt up your spine—makes your fingers wind in the bedspread, pull on his hair, fly to your mouth when you start to cry a little. It didn’t used to be like this. Sex. Getting fingered, fucked, even eaten out—it never felt like this before him. It’s…overwhelming, sometimes. Most of the time, actually. You keep waiting to get used to it, for the newness, the discovery of it all, to wear off. Hasn’t happened yet. You don’t think it ever will. Certainly not tonight.

“Good?” Stiles licks his lips, at the glistening corners of his mouth, and you toss your head back—overwhelmed. “Good,” he concludes, and he’s not even smug about it. More like he’s making a note in one of his case files, something to look back on later when he needs it. He’s quick about getting what little remains of your clothes off, and when he crawls on top of you, you’re immensely grateful for it. Skin on skin, nothing quite like it. Quick romps in the jeep, up against alley walls, the sink of the occasional bar bathroom—all fun, but not nearly as satisfying as being completely pressed against his naked body, completely caged in by his large frame. Sappy, maybe, but it feels dirty when he drags the tip of his cock through your folds. When he bumps against your clit, you mewl and dig your nails into his back. He sucks in sharply and buries his face in the crook of your neck, “There’s a condom in th—”

“Forget it,” you whimper, carding your fingers through his hair. It’s a little sweaty where it meets his neck, and it’s so soft, and thick, and perfect, and—he’s stopped breathing against your neck.

He groans from a place deep in his gut, deeper actually, and his arms shake, “Are you su—”

“Yes,” you nod rapidly and wrap your legs around him, arms too, and your fingers join in on the clinging when they twist in his hair. “Absolutely. 1000%. Please don’t make me say please.”

He lets out a little laugh that stirs the hair framing your face, and he traces your cheekbone, barely touching your skin. Your head swims with the look in his eyes: amber, warmth, and worship, “But you’re just so pretty when you beg.” Not that you’ve ever had to for long. Stiles gives you anything you want if you ask him the right way. If you look at him with big, wet eyes, if you jut out your lower lip just so—wet as well, the little lick of your tongue is part of it; that took him months to figure out—he crumbles. He’s said many times that better men than he have fallen victim to far less beautiful schemes.

Stiles kisses the pout off your lips and nudges the tip of his nose over yours, grinning like a drunken idiot, “Told’ya, baby. Not a light-year, definitely not a little latex.” His grin slides into a little ‘o’ when you slither your hand between your bodies and grip his cock, sliding the first inch into your cunt, impatient. “F-fuck—fuck-ing hell,” he grunts and takes over for you, squeezing your hip until it starts to hurt a little. You’d say something, but then he’d stop—and you like the way it aches. You like knowing there will be a bruise. He’ll fret over it later, kiss each mottled spot better a million times, and you like that too. You like being taken care of, almost as much as he likes taking care of you.

When he bottoms out, when his pelvic bone ruts up against you, a long, drawn out whimper spills through your pout. “Yeah? Feels good, baby?” Stiles watches your face closely, brushes away the hair sticking to your forehead, and drops a few kisses on your shut eyelids. You nod, and nod, and nod, until he stops you with another kiss to your lips. He kisses you slowly, presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, and you sigh. The kiss quickly becomes wet and filthy, and you’d be embarrassed by the sound of your tongues sliding together if you could actually hear it. At the moment, all you can hear is his cock sliding in and out of your dripping pussy—and that’s definitely sending a dizzying heat up your neck. You don’t worry about it for long when his hips shift and he starts hitting that spot inside you again. After that, neither of you can hear anything over your squealing. Stiles kisses away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes and licks his lips, chasing the taste. “Right there, huh?” You babble an incoherent answer, and he strokes your hair and noses at your cheek, “Yeah, right there. I know. It’s okay.”

Stiles slides his hands under your back and sits up, taking you with him. The new angle is impossibly deep, and you bite down on his shoulder and wind your arms around his neck to keep yourself there. With him. In the moment. “It’s okay, baby. I got you, promise,” he squeezes your hips, and despite his reassurances and the strength of his grip, you know he’s falling apart too. He’s close. You can feel it. His hips stutter a little, change direction, lose their dedicated pace—and it’s perfect because you’re right there with him. It’s been building for a while, probably since he led you by hand to his room, maybe even before that when he smirked at you behind his cup of tequila and (mostly) pineapple juice.

You cry a little and bite down on your bottom lip, hard. Stiles kisses the sting away, and your eyes screw shut as you start babbling again, “I’m—”

He kisses you again and lifts his hands from your hips to cup your face, thumbing along your bottom lip when he pulls back—not far, just enough to look at your face, shiny with sweat and tears. “I know,” he stills for a moment, pausing the movement of his hips so that he can just feel you pulsing around him for a moment, “me too.” You aren’t sure if you want to hit him or kiss him for stopping, but you don’t have the strength to do either when he starts what must be his final round of thrusts. It has to be—you’re a few seconds away from collapsing or coming, whichever comes first. When Stiles moans your name in your ear, soft and high like he does when he’s right there, and he slides his hand down your stomach to rub firm circles on your clit, you’re happy it’s your orgasm that happens first. Your abs convulse a little as you twitch around him, and you curl in on yourself as much as you can with Stiles in the way. He’s not in the way for long. Growling, he shoves you back against the bed and mumbles, “Where?” after a few sloppy thrusts.

You mewl as he keeps the pressure on your clit, reach for his wrist and try to pull his hand away, but he’s determined and you’re tired. You twitch and throw your head back, whimpering, “Inside,” before you can think better of it. It’s his fault, you’ll decide later, for prolonging your high with his mean, unforgiving, wonderful thumb.

He’ll blame you, for feeling so perfect around him—for fluttering, and leaking, and trembling better than…anything he’s ever seen in porn, and he’s watched...a lot of it, so he’s a bit of an expert on the cinematic orgasm. “You’re so fuckin—you,” he shakes his head against your heaving chest and groans, “you’re everything.” And when he finally comes in you, you’re okay with taking the blame for something that feels so good. He manages a few more thrusts, and then he finally lets you pull his hand away from your cunt when he collapses onto his forearms, barely holding himself up from crushing you with his full weight. You’d tell him to roll over, but then he’d be over there and not in you, so you put up with the sweat and heaviness while your head spins.

“Baby?” Stiles hums noncommittally in response to your soft prodding, and you smirk against the top of his head. All the smugness leaves you when you finally feel the foreign sensation of his cum leaking out of you. Shuddering, you kiss his hair a few times and scratch up and down his back lightly until he’s able to breathe normally. He pushes himself up onto his arms and glances down when he pulls out, staring for a moment at the way your pussy gapes a bit, watching the trickle of cum drip down your folds and onto the bed. He rubs his hand over his jaw and licks his lips, shaking his head—at a loss for words for the first time in his life. Your tongue is a little thick when you fill the void for him, “Next time, towel first.”

He finds it within himself to tear his eyes away from your cunt and gives you a crooked little grin, “Next time?”

You roll your eyes, but your grin is stupid with affection, “Sure, next time. Maybe. If you’re good.”

It’s a little disgusting, the way he just rolls over and pulls you on top of him with absolutely no regard for the various bodily fluids sticking to your skin, but you forget about the unpleasantness of drying cum and cooling sweat when he kisses you. “I’m always good,” he huffs against your cheek. You shoot him a look, brows arched and eyes narrowed, and he smirks, “Okay, maybe not, but I’m always good for you.”

You nuzzle in a little closer and scoff, but it’s true. Stiles is so good, always—especially for you. “I guess you did manage to woo me. You’re very sexy when you’re talkin’ astrology, you know that?”

He smiles, wide and happy, and wiggles his brows, “An absolute banger of an ending, right? I don’t think they could chart it in the stars without ruining your pretty face, but that’s probably for the best.” Stiles brushes his fingers over your lips when you let out a little questioning hum and takes your hand, growling playfully as he nibbles at your fingertips, “You’re mine. Nobody’s allowed to see you like this but me—definitely not horny little nerds with their telescopes.”

You grin and bump your nose against his, “You’re a horny little nerd with a telescope.”

Stiles tips his head with a sly grin, and you already know what he’s going to say—it’s still devastatingly adorable when he whispers, “No, I’m your horny little nerd with a telescope.”

Adorable enough to make you consider pulling him into the shower with you, and if the heavy-lidded look he’s giving you is anything to go by, you’d say he agrees.

#love

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