a tag to 4x02: I can't stand malia sorry not sorry.
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he's kissed girls before. he's stiles stilinski, not a leper.
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his first kiss is when he is young—so young—kindergarten in fact if they are going to get really technical, and they are because he's stiles and he always remembers every detail.
it's nothing special really, besides the fact that it's his first kiss. just a tiny slip of a girl with a red bow in her hair and patent mary janes on her feet and she dashes away giggling the moment that her eyes widen in disbelief behind the jungle gym. stiles wipes his mouth and spits on the ground. scott mccall with his big brown puppy dog eyes (yes, even then) shakes his mop of hair, punches stiles on the arm, asks what it feels like.
stiles makes a face, shrugs, and tells his mom all about it in the car that afternoon. she smiles behind cupped hands, nodding in all the right places and tells him oh honey, when you like the kiss, you'll know it. she ruffles his hair,
it'll be forever.
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he kisses heather who is the same girl that he kissed in kindergarten with the red bow and patent mary janes but this time his mom isn't here and he's pretty sure that since they're seventeen it is going to be a little different than when they were five. for one thing, she's got boobs now and they're pushing against his chest as she whispers in his ear, her breath hot on his cheek.
she's giggling as she leans into his tall frame—because somehow overnight he turned so lean and lanky and she is still just a little slip of a girl. still a little slip of a girl whispering her wants and desires and needs and he is more than happy to oblige because he may be stiles stilinski, but stiles stilinski doesn't want to be a virgin anymore.
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(this is the part that everyone kinda sorta maybe forgets, except for him and scott and basically the rest of the school and his dad from occasion to occasion, oh and coach when he is feeling vicious which is like ninety five percent of the time, and danny really knows too, and he once had to blatantly lie to Derek who rolled his eyes so far in the back of his head stiles though they weren't there anymore…
he's been in love with Lydia martin since the third grade. so truthfully, he can kiss a hundred girls and they'll never ever in this lifetime be her. but that doesn't mean that he isn't going to kiss a girl that is asking him to because even though he is stiles stilinski, he's also seventeen and a boy and really really really someone needs to sex him like right now okay.)
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he kisses a girl that likes other girls with strobe lights acraze and neon paint raining down from the loft's ceiling. his body is sandwiched between cool metal and the heat from her body, all the highway of curves pressed against him, her mouth aggressive and hungry and wanting so fiercely that he kinda feels inadequate because he's stiles and he asks if she wants some water because she's drunk and he's not going to take advantage of a drunk girl that even still wrangles her fingers in his mess of chestnut hair and trails her hands over his abdomen.
he gasps out a laugh and then sees her follow in suite until all the puzzle pieces falls into formation and then he just—werewolf stuff remember?
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Lydia kisses him with the sunlight streaming through the locker room windows and his breath caught in his throat. he doesn't know she is doing it until he opens his eyes and sees that her green ones are closed and concentrated, one sumptuous pink lip interlocked with his and good god, how they fit together, so similar almost like—
it's a tortuous process from the moment their mouths meet, innocent and deliberately done and she looks at him afterwards like the sky is caving in and the seas are overflowing and everything around them is going to hell, except where they are a splayed mess on the concrete floor, and she looks like an angel in a silky dress and he is so close that he can count the emerald flecks in her eyes and see the swipe of mascara attached to those long lashes. she's shy, tucked away into herself, so not like Lydia martin that he has known since he was eight and if that doesn't make him love her more, than he's just plain crazy already.
when I kissed you, you held your breath. and it comes out like an answer to a question because the way she is staring at him makes the whole circumstance seem full circle. he can hear his mother's words in his head.
a kiss is never just a kiss when it tastes like the rest of forever.
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he kisses malia with his soul being more burdened than he can recall in a while, the weight of darkness cloying and suffocating. she is beautiful even in the harsh slants of light from the filtering floorboard. the honey brown eyes and luxurious mane of amber hair, slight dotting of freckles across the bridge of her nose as she nestles into him. it's still not the forever that he had known. the kind that his mother talked about when he is five, but he wants to be something other than stiles stilinski, and in that moment, Christ, he is anything but him.
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malia kisses him time and time over and rakes her nails over his skin and marks him like he belongs to her, tries to secure her territory, and he isn't quite sure what from until he can really truly feel the weight of a kiss months ago that was forgotten in the following moments because banshees and alpha wolves and nematon and pack mentality because panic attacks and soft ivory blue dresses and strawberry blonde braids and since the third grade.
(it's always going to be Lydia martin.)
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he doesn't tell anyone. no one would believe him anyway. he' stiles stilinski. and he's not a leper and he has kissed fours girls, but when he kissed that one, the one forever his mother always reminded him of, he swore he could taste the next sixty years of his life.