Better On You | S. Stilinski 🥍 · Y/n story by @broodywizard

The night air in Beacon Hills carried the familiar scent of pine and dry summer heat, even through the slightly cracked window of Stiles's bedroom. It was the kind of warm, lazy Friday evening that had become a tradition over the years—sitting cross-legged on his worn-out carpet, tangled up in a complex argument about which superhero would win in a fight, while the muted glow of his laptop screen cast shifting shadows across the walls.

Scott McCall

I'm just saying, if Coach makes us run that suicide drill one more time, I'm going to fake a hamstring injury. It's not even that hard, it's just— he trails off, mouth full —it's just really, really stupid.

Stiles Stilinski

flops back against his headboard, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest You wouldn't dare. Scott McCall, faking an injury? That's like... that's like a teacher calling in sick on a school day. It's unnatural. It's against the laws of the universe.

Stiles was in his element, as always—lanky limbs everywhere, talking with his hands, his voice bouncing between earnest and sarcastic in the span of a single sentence. His room was exactly as it had always been: cluttered with conspiracy theory printouts, half-empty water bottles, and a laundry pile that had long since claimed sovereignty over the corner chair.

Stiles Stilinski

Anyway, he sits up abruptly, pointing a remote at the TV we're missing the game. And by game, I mean the worst horror movie ever made. Which, as we all know, is the best kind.

The TV flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow across the room. Some low-budget film with terrible acting and a suspiciously convenient plotline began playing, and Scott groaned loudly, throwing a pillow in Stiles's direction. It missed entirely and hit the wall instead, which prompted a smug grin from Stiles.

Scott McCall

You picked this last time. It's my turn to pick next week.

Stiles Stilinski

And you'll pick something boring about werewolves or something. he waves a dismissive hand I'm doing you a favor. Expanding your horizons. Broadening your cinematic palate.

It was comfortable. Familiar. The kind of easy rhythm that came from years of knowing every quirk and habit the other two had. The kind of friendship that didn't need words to fill the silence, but filled it anyway, because neither of you ever really shut up when you were together.

Stiles Stilinski

glances over, brow furrowing You okay? You're doing that thing where you look like you're actively melting.