Scott got bitten by a werewolf when they were sophomores, and got hot. Then, about a year later, as Lydia is more aware than Stiles will ever know, Stiles got hot as well. But to the supernatural community, Stiles has always been attractive.
Derek Hale has one hand around Stiles’ throat, pressing him up against his bedroom wall, and Stiles is definitely going to die with a boner. The thought should be enough to fix that problem, and yet.
He looks into Derek’s blue (so, so blue) eyes and whimpers. Derek pauses, getting close almost like he doesn’t want to then swaying away, darting back in to sniff under Stiles’ jaw, his neck. “What the hell…” he says under his breath before he’s drawing back and darting out of Stiles’ window, into the night.
Stiles knows he shouldn’t be moving right now, with Peter’s deadly claws literal inches away from Stiles’ soft, human flesh, but he took his Adderall today and it feels like he’s going to jitter out of his own skin even as Peter smiles and delicately pinches the back of Stiles’ neck between two fingers, holding him still.
Then he stops, an odd expression on his face, and sniffs at Stiles’ neck just like Derek did, which, what the fuck? Does having supernatural abilities mean you can ignore basic etiquette?
“Interesting,” Peter murmurs, tipping his head to the side as he leans back to look at Stiles.
“What’s, uh, what’s interesting?” Stiles asks, pretty sure he’s vibrating a little. He thought Peter was just here to be vaguely threatening after fucking attacking Lydia, who’s now in the hospital so Stiles would be there if he wasn’t being held at clawpoint, but instead Peter seems to think a moment before he offers Stiles the bite.
Stiles almost takes him up on it, but there’s an expression on Peter’s face that’s a little too interested; there’s more life in his eyes than Stiles has ever seen there before. And he thinks of spending the rest of his life knowing he went along with something Peter wanted for probably nefarious purposes. No thanks. So Stiles yanks his arm back, and ignores how he can hear Peter laughing as he leaves.
When Isaac gets turned into a werewolf, he goes up to Stiles, who he’s never talked to before in his life, and puts his head on his shoulder, arms around his waist. The guy is huge and gangly and his curly hair is tickling the side of Stiles’ face.
“Dude, what the hell?” Stiles yelps, pulling away from him, yelping again when Isaac’s claws come out from surprise and they tear easily through his sweatshirt. Which Stiles prefers to, like, his stomach. But still, it’s one of his favorite sweatshirts, and yet another article of clothing sacrificed to supernatural accidents, he’s not sure why he bothers trying to dress well.
Isaac yanks his hands back, tucking them under his armpits and steps away from Stiles, looking satisfyingly guilty. Guilt is a better look on him than smugness, Stiles thinks. “I don’t...I don’t know why I did that,” Isaac says, ducking his head. “You smell really good.”
“Thanks, it’s a new cologne.” Stiles beams, although if it’s only attractive to werewolves he hopes Derek starts biting girls instead. (He knows who he wants Derek to put his mouth on, and it’s not girls.)
Derek does bite a girl, but unfortunately it’s Erica, who has apparently been saving up her whole life to be as much of a mean girl as possible. Like when she corners him at school, the hallway mysteriously empty.
“I missed you,” she says, grinning with her fangs out. “You smell so good.”
“Isaac said the same thing, it’s a new cologne,” he answers, turning as she circles him, the hair pricking on the back of his neck.
She laughs, even as she presses up to his side, greedily. “Oh, Batman. You really have no idea, huh?” Stiles puts every part of his brain into not looking at her boobs. She runs her nose along the side of his neck; Stiles is used to it at this point, how everyone he comes across wants to smell him, which, like, personal boundaries don’t matter when you’re supernatural, apparently. Or super hot. “Fuck, I just can’t get enough.”
“Enough of what?” he asks, high pitched and embarrassing because he can feel Boyd at his back, suddenly, Boyd tall enough to rest his chin on Stiles’ head which he is doing right now.
Erica gives him the coquette grin he’s pretty sure she worked on in a mirror, which means it shouldn’t work on him. It still does. “Oh, nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
Stiles has anxiety. He worries about everything, all the time. He’s worried about the fact that he’s pretty sure Boyd is going to kiss the top of his head. He is extremely worried about that.
Kali from the Alpha pack doesn’t seem to realize humans exist as anything beyond prey, until she’s putting a foot on Stiles’ chest while his pack fights the rest of hers; her gross-ass toenails scratch along his shirt and Stiles fights the urge to gag. He’s so glad Scott doesn’t have those, a guy has to draw the line at some point even for his best friend.
“You stay here, yummy,” she purrs, leaning down so her hair brushes across his face. It smells fetid, like meat. “We’ll play with you later.”
“I would really prefer we keep things platonic between us,” he protests, but she’s already backflipped off him and onto Isaac. Stiles decides it’s best to stay on the ground and not wonder about the fact that she was clearly smelling him.
“I knew it had to be you, Stiles,” the Nogitsune croons, snuffling at his neck, his ear, wet and disgusting. Stiles bites back a whimper. “So ripe for me, calling me right to your side. I couldn’t resist.”
Stiles has been scared before, plenty of times. It comes with the territory of having a best friend who’s a werewolf. He’s never been scared like this, though, alone and confused and raw, feeling the Nogitsune pick at the worst parts of him.
He’s curled up with his head in his knees, letting the Nogitsune slipslide into his head as it takes one of his hands in its own; he can feel the scratch of the bandages, the warmth of the creature underneath that must still be somewhat human. He can’t stop thinking about what he would see if he peeled all that away and saw more than just a glimpse of burned flesh.
He tries to pull his hand back and can’t, the Nogitsune moving him without effort, putting his wrist to its mouth. The teeth are so cold they almost burn as the Nogistune presses an open mouth kiss to the inside of his wrist, against the veins there. Is it just his imagination that he can feel someone sliding up through his bloodstream? The scars around the Nogitsune’s mouth are warm and raised and wet. Stiles retches.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You were ajar and tempting, Stiles,” the Nogitsune murmurs against his skin. “You didn’t have to ask.” Stiles shudders as the Nogitsune slots into his brain.
Malia insists on being the big spoon so she can sleep with her nose in the back of his neck, taking deep, obvious sniffs of him. He’s pretty much used to it at this point, her strong arms holding him close, the occasional scratch of fangs against his nape if he fidgets too much.
“I could be the big spoon tonight,” he offers, hearing her scoff.
“Then I couldn’t smell you,” she says, like he’s being ridiculous.
“Right, yeah…” he says, looking at his bedroom wall, wondering what the hell it is about him that every supernatural creature he comes across seems to be obsessed with him.
Kira’s mother is always watching him. Even before the Nogitsune, and definitely after. He thinks she hates him for, like, harboring the Nogitsune until the night they all stay at Kira’s house and he wakes up to piss, stumbles through the house and bangs against a wall before he manages to locate the bathroom.
He’s upset about being awake because now he won’t be able to fall asleep again. He doesn’t sleep well, never has. His body doesn’t seem to be able to fit a sleep schedule. Now he can add nightmares to that.
Mrs. Yukimura is standing directly outside the bathroom door when Stiles gets out. She looks small and strange in her silk pajamas, so different from what he usually sees her in and he wonders how old they are because he’s never seen pajamas like that before.
Usually he forgets she’s a 900 year old kitsune, until she says things like, “I am a 900 year old kitsune.” Right now, she looks her age, and Stiles is a little cowed. He’s a seventeen year old human. Unless he also has latent supernatural powers like everyone else he befriends seems to. And he still won’t be 900 years old, except for that time the Nogitsune was screaming, “I’m a thousand years old,” but it wasn’t even his real body so he’s pretty sure it doesn’t count.
“Stiles. It is such a delight to have you in my home,” she says, nodding politely. Kind words for a woman who tried to kill him while the Nogitsune was using him as a meatsuit.
Stiles dips his head back though, probably looking like a bobblehead doll. “Right, yes, thank you?” He’s got one eye closed to save his night vision and he knows he looks ridiculous, but he also knows he doesn’t want to stumble blindly around smashing valuable artifacts. “It’s a delight to have you as well.” She’s never been to his house. Stiles is an idiot.
“You bring such a calming aura.” Stiles has been described as many things, some of them even positive, but none of those descriptions included the word calming. He wonders if the loss of her tails has given her, like, kitsune dementia. He hopes not.
She squeezes his arm before striding back down the hallway. Stiles mouths what the fuck to himself and heads back to the living room, where he plays games on his phone til he’s so tired that his body forces him to fall asleep, as he usually does.
This grumpy little werewolf kid that Stiles hadn’t even really talked to until Scott bit him will fight Scott to sit next to Stiles on the couch when they have pack movie night, squishing their bodies together. Stiles looks down at the top of Liam’s head, feeling a strange sort of fondness. He’s never had a little brother, but he always wanted one.
“Uh, Liam, bud, are you in love with me or something?” He’s pretty sure the answer is no, Liam’s pretty obviously gone on Hayden.
Liam wrinkles his nose; his face is so expressive, Stiles likes that about him. “No. I just want to be around you all the time.”
“We all want to be around you all the time.” Liam gestures at the other supernatural creatures; Lydia, Scott, Malia, Kira. Malia and Kira nod, like it’s obvious what Liam’s talking about. Scott looks confused. Lydia, on Stiles’ other side, looks a touch embarrassed. Stiles has noticed that she’s been even friendlier to him since she discovered she’s a banshee, always putting her head on his shoulder or giving him hugs.
Malia shrugs. “You feel good. And smell good. Don’t you know that?” He has been careful to shower every day... Stiles doesn’t want to waste time thinking about it. He does let Liam fall asleep with his head on Stiles’ shoulder, though.
Theo shows up, and is evil, and no one believes Stiles, until finally, Stiles is right, and Theo turns out to be very evil. He grins at Stiles from across the room, where Stiles is very unsure why they have to work with him even if it means defeating the Beast. Is it worth it, when Theo makes a point to be all creepy, all the time? It was worse when he was pretending to be nice, but it’s still pretty bad.
“I have a good feeling about you, buddy,” Theo had said when he first came to Beacon Hills, and he was always sniffing the air when Stiles was around. Which was somehow fine when everyone else does it, but very much not fine when it’s Theo. Stiles is so glad he gets sent to skinwalker prison.
Stiles is so not glad when Theo comes back from skinwalker prison, while Stiles is in the Wild Hunt and can’t vehemently disagree, and it only gets worse when Theo starts dating Liam. He really hates that guy.
Monroe attacks the town, and no one lets Stiles know, not even his fucking girlfriend, so he decides to come back and stay around for a while so Scott doesn’t make anymore dumbass decisions like blinding himself to fight the Anuk-Ite instead of wearing a blindfold like a normal person.
And that’s how Stiles ended up here, in a dive bar, with Lydia’s hand in the back pocket of his jeans, and Derek’s mouth at his neck. “You smell so good,” Derek says against his skin; Stiles is drunk off his ass and can only laugh delightedly because he’s, like, living his teenage fantasies as Lydia brings Derek’s face to hers and kisses him, slow and deep. It’s like porn designed especially for Stiles.
“You only like me for my weird special aura,” he teases them, although he knows it’s not true. They like him for plenty of other reasons, like his sense of humor, and the things he can do with his tongue.
“We love you for your weird special aura, among other things,” Lydia corrects, pulling away from Derek to kiss Stiles instead. He tightens his hand where it’s curled in the back of Derek’s shirt, uncaring of anyone else in the bar. Right now, he’s going to enjoy being supernatural catnip.