nanoochka asked you:

I’ve been toying with the idea of starting a future fic where Stiles cheats on Derek, maybe while he’s away at school or something. I know it’s lame to ask for something I might potentially attempt myself, but I feel like you would write the shit out of that. And probably, in the process, convince me there’s no longer any need for me to bother. ;)

I feel like I should clarify that this isn’t about an infidelity kink so much as I just really like to see stories that represent realistic relationships, especially those that involve distance and new experiences being had on one side and potentially poor communication as well. Perhaps more than Derek, I think I could see Stiles slipping up in a moment of weakness or drunkenness or whatever, getting carried away or forgetting himself and later regretting it immensely.


There’s a funny little balcony you can climb down onto from Lexi’s bedroom window; the drop isn’t so far, really, but Stiles is drunk enough that the rush of the fall runs through him sharply, so that he lands grinning. “C’mon,” Lexi says, kicking her feet against the stucco wall. “Help me out, or there will be no cigarettes for you.”

She’s short, Lexi, a little miniature pixie of a girl, with long hair and a nice smile, good laugh. Her dress is rucked up high on her legs; the material bunches under Stiles’ hands as she slides into them, his palms warm against the bare skin of her thighs. The weight of her surprises him: he can feel the sharp outline of her ribs, one pointy knee at his side, but she’s not so insubstantial, gathered up like this. He releases her gently to the ground, trying to keep his eyes from the soft fall of cotton uncrumpling at her hem.

It’s late spring in Vermont, just warm enough for clothes like that, nights like this: drinking cheap gin from the bottle and playing fifteen rounds of slap and shoot, so that Stiles’ cheeks are still stinging, sneaking out for cigarettes on rooftops. Co-llege, Stiles thinks muzzily. This is exactly how this is supposed to go. Lexi arranges herself with her back against the building, knees tented up in spiked peaks, and pulls a pack of Parliaments and a lighter from her bag. 

They have the whole thing to themselves but Stiles curls himself up at her side, the top of her shoulder a quarter centimeter from the bare skin of his upper arm. There’s always been a cheerful physical intimacy between them: he’s used to touching her, casual and easy, so that it almost feels weirder not to. He shouldn’t even have to think about it, he thinks, and then tells himself what he already knows: go home, you’re drunk.

Lexi lights her cigarette, the tip flaring orange with light. Her first drag is long and deep, ash forming at the end, soft and chalky gray. “I guess this is it for you and smoking for a while,” she breathes out on the exhale, the words carried by a cloud of warm, dry smoke.

“Dad doesn’t really approve, no,” Stiles agrees, inhaling his first lungful, the buzz of nicotine making him shaky and uneven even though he’s sitting still. 

“And isn’t your boyfriend like, super sensitive about that stuff? Smells or whatever?” Stiles bites back a too-harsh laugh. 

“You could say that.”

Derek came to visit in March, a late Valentine’s Day present; there was a late-season snowstorm a couple of days before he arrived so that campus was a slush-covered ice rink for most of his visit, hazardous and grey-brown all over. He hated it, hated everything: the way Stiles’ room smelled like other people, the fact that in order to have sex they had to announce to his roommate that they wanted to do it, the tiny town with no amusements, really, other than booze he couldn’t enjoy.

Stiles had thought they’d weathered enough together that awkwardness wasn’t an option, anymore, but he’d never encountered anything like the silences that started falling at the end of the trip, blank, blank things, dead air. It was a little better when he went home for spring break, good enough that they haven’t broken up but it’s a long summer ahead of them, another three years after that.

His friends at school don’t really get it, the Derek thing. He understands that. He doesn’t blame them. How could they? There’s a long history that he can’t exactly share, explanations he can’t really offer. It’s not cigarettes, he can’t say. It’s the way my pillow smelled like you, and my clothes and my hair, the insides of my books

“No,” Lexi says warningly, shoving Stiles in the side. “Absolutely not, you’re not getting contemplative on me. We just finished our freshman year of college and made a daring leap—”

“Four feet max,” Stiles protests.

“A daring leap so we could sit outside and smoke and enjoy our youth and freedom. Don’t make sad faces thinking about your dumb scowly boyfriend. I won’t allow it.” Lexi pulls a little bottle of vodka out of her purse and dangles it from two fingers. “Drink more if you have to.”

Stiles takes the bottle, takes an ill-advised swig, feel the alcohol burn through him, pure and clean. “I like spring,” he says, a little nonsensical, just to change the subject. “I like being outside again.” There’s a breeze stirring, cool and gentle; the air smells like living things, damp soil. 

“I like being out here with you,” Lexi agrees, taking the bottle, drinking deep. It’s so easy, sometimes: her mouth where his mouth just was, warm and soft and wet. 

“‘m gonna miss you this summer,” Stiles allows, the admission almost shy. His body feels electric, like he’s just made up of the weightless impulses flashing through him, helpless against the charge of lifting his hand to settle on her knee, her thigh, fiddling with the hem of her dress, pushing it back, back, so that he can see her. She’s got runners’ thighs, sleek quads, tight calves. Her skin is hairless and smooth, unfamiliar in the moonlight. 

“Yeah,” Lexi says, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining it, the catch in her breath. It’s such a bad idea. They’ve been drinking for hours, steady and slow, ever since they walked out of their last final at three. Stiles has lost track of himself a half-dozen times, since, and he can feel his hangover starting to gather itself, the first distant rumbling of a thundering headache. 

Lexi turns and presses her face to his shoulder, her body shifting around towards his so that they’re curving towards one another, starting to make space together. “This year would have been so different without you,” she says. “I can’t even imagine. If we hadn’t been friends.”

“Mmmm,” Stiles says, his free hand coming up to stroke gently through the soft fall of her hair. He’s never been this far from home before, certainly not for this long. It’s terrifying to think of all the things she knows about him, the things that don’t quite read to everyone back in Beacon Hills. He thinks about their first weeks together, sitting like this on damp lawns in hot August, when she taught him how to smoke and he taught her how to drink from the bottle. They would go to parties together and hang out until they got bored and then sneak off, laughing, wasting the rest of the night wandering around together, talking, talking. She’s warm and solid in his arms, here with him, now.

Lexi burrows in closer, her forehead against the slope of his neck. “I think—” Stiles starts. Whatever he was going to say is lost when she looks up to listen to him, her nose brushing against him, her mouth just grazing. He can’t help it, doesn’t want to: he keeps very still, still enough that she leans in, deliberately this time, and presses a single, soft kiss to the base of his throat.

The hand that’s tangled up in her hair tightens against the back of her skull, drags her up towards him, so that he can kiss her wild and frantic, can hold her against him and feel it, the flutter of her pulse in her neck and wrists, blood beating through her fast fast fast. He knows he’s wrecking things, but he knows it distantly. Who could care about anything, really, drunk on a warm spring night with your best friend laughing against your mouth, saying yes, Stiles, yes, yes, please. I’ve always wanted us like this, just like this.
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