title: ain't no lie (bi bi bi)
summary: "don't freak out about it. if i actually cheated with anyone, it'd be lydia first." —stalia, drabble.
word count: ~720
cw: gratuitous pda, tooth-rotting fluff, shameless self-indulgence on behalf of the author
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"Danny Mahealani."
"The guy on your lacrosse team? I thought he was gay."
"Yeah, I'm not asking him about you, I'm asking you about him. So, Danny Boy, gimme the verdict."
Malia scrunched her nose thoughtfully, casually reaching across Stiles to steal his Slurpee from his end of the bench. He was too used to such transgressions by now to bother arguing about it. "Five," she said, and Stiles made a sharp little noise of indignation.
"Five? Harsh."
"What? He's not really my type."
"Why not?"
"I'm not really into jocks."
"But I'm a—" Stiles stopped abruptly, mouth flapping as he tried to articulate his defence. Malia raised her eyebrows at him until he gave up. "Point taken. But I swear Danny's a solid eight. Sometimes nine after practise. You go."
Malia picked her feet up from the grass, tucking her legs to her chest and leaning heavily against Stiles'; he shifted semi-automatically to pillow her better, arm draping around her shoulders and lacing fingers idly with hers. The PDA should've been embarrassing, probably, but there weren't nearly enough bystanders in the park to give a shit. "Kira?"
Stiles winced. Honest-to-God winced. "Malia, that's Scott's girlfriend!"
"I thought this was hypothetical."
"Yeah, but—but it's a matter of principle, y'know? The bro code. I couldn't look Scott in the eye for a week if I mentally cheated with his girlfriend. Could you?"
"Sure I could," Malia replied breezily. A little too quickly. Her hair tickled his chin as she twisted her head to give him an unobstructed view of her far-too-earnest face. "Kira's pretty hot. Seven."
"So you'd mentally cheat with Kira behind Scott's back?"
"Well, yeah."
"And mine?"
Malia shrugged, nudging his chest with a bony shoulder.
"Great." Stiles swiped back his Slurpee, draining it with exaggerated sullenness. "Never figured Kira for competition before, thank you so much."
"Don't freak out about it. If I actually cheated with anyone, it'd be Lydia first."
He gaped down at her for a moment. "God, somehow that's worse."
Malia snorted gracelessly, tucking herself closer into the hollow of his shoulder. "Please. Like you haven't thought about Scott."
And Stiles choked on frozen black cherry at that, sputtering. "Haven't—what? About, uh. What?"
"You know what." Her eyebrows were arched and a grin lifted her mouth, and the late afternoon light caught her flyaway hair in a yellow glow, and shit, she had absolutely no business looking this cute while exposing him like this. It was a dirty trick, from where he was standing.
"You can admit it," she persisted, regrettably, stubbornly. "He's got great hair. Nice arms. He's probably a nine, right?"
He cleaned his chin with the back of his free hand, muttering darkly. Something along the lines of I absolutely do not think of my best friend that way and he barely even bothers with his hair and nine-point-five on a good day, I guess. "Alright, alright! Kira's a seven. Can we move on, please?"
"Your turn."
He sighed, tipping his head back in consideration—then grinned. "Stiles."
She blinked at him. "Seriously."
"Hey, there's no rules."
Rolling her eyes, Malia pulled back a little to appraise him, as if she needed to. He did his best to look charming. Which, admittedly, came more naturally to the likes of Scott than Stiles.
"Three," she concluded.
"Three!"
Her grin turned wicked. Stiles held his cup away at arm's length. "No more Slurpee for you."
"I mean. If you want me to lie."
"Um? Boyfriend?"
"Oh yeah?" Suddenly—coyote-quick—she was straddling his lap, that (adorable) smile inches from his face, and. Uh. Wow. Thank God the park was empty. "Wanna earn an eight?"
"Um," Stiles said, brain shorting a little. Not that Malia gave him a shot at conjuring anything eloquent before her lips were on his, and he had just barely enough presence of mind to put down the Slurpee and avoid a very cold, very red makeout session before Malia's hands were in his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp, and his were hugging her flannel to her waist and there was just a little tongue. Just a little. Eleven. She is so an eleven.
When they broke apart to breathe, Stiles was blinking, dazed, and Malia's caramel eyes sparkled. Then:
"Nearly a six."
Stiles spluttered. "Come on!"
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