Living Loz

Hi, I'm Loz. Known as Loz on Ao3 and Dreamwidth and lozenger8 on LJ and twitter. I am a fan of Life on Mars, Psych, and many, many other tv shows, including cartoons. Teen Wolf has currently eaten my brain. I give blanket permission for anyone wanting to create podfic, art, fanmixes etc. based on my fic and for anyone who wants to remix my fic.
Recent Tweets @lozenger8
i-found-you-justine-time:

assbutt-in-the-garrison:

therealbarbielifts:

letsgetfitanddancenaked:

size10plz:

tranquilskylines:

brattylifts:

chelseaparttwo:

toni-tan:

caliel:

niceoverallsloser:

PREACH IT GIRL

have you ever heard about condoms or other methods “to not get pregnant” girl

Have you ever heard of pregnancies as a result of rape and abuse? Have you heard of the failure rates on contraception?

Have you ever heard of adoption agencies or police stations that you can literally drop your child off at for free if you can’t/won’t take care of him/her?

Have you ever heard of the thousands of children that just get circled through social services/foster homes because there are too many kids and not enough families to adopt them?

Have you ever heard of the millions of parents wanting & waiting to adopt those children because they can’t have kids on their own?

Have you heard that a report by Unicef says there are 143 million and 210 million orphans worldwide, and this is not including abandonment, or sold children. It is estimated that 5760 children become orphans every day. So to try to make the case that it’s the responsibility of someone with a uterus to give birth against their will because other people want children is bullshit and absolutely ludicrous. 

Bam

Fucking bam

It’s absolutely ridiculous that there are people who think it is morally right to FORCE A PERSON TO CARRY A FETUS FOR 9+ MONTHS AND THEN GO THROUGH THE PAIN AND STRUGGLE OF CHILDBIRTH AGAINST THEIR FUCKING WILL LIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU

Also, it’s hilarious that you’re suggest birth control methods when one of the big problems is that most of the same people who are against abortion are also making sure woman don’t have access to good birth control. 

i-found-you-justine-time:

assbutt-in-the-garrison:

therealbarbielifts:

letsgetfitanddancenaked:

size10plz:

tranquilskylines:

brattylifts:

chelseaparttwo:

toni-tan:

caliel:

niceoverallsloser:

PREACH IT GIRL

have you ever heard about condoms or other methods “to not get pregnant” girl

Have you ever heard of pregnancies as a result of rape and abuse? Have you heard of the failure rates on contraception?

Have you ever heard of adoption agencies or police stations that you can literally drop your child off at for free if you can’t/won’t take care of him/her?

Have you ever heard of the thousands of children that just get circled through social services/foster homes because there are too many kids and not enough families to adopt them?

Have you ever heard of the millions of parents wanting & waiting to adopt those children because they can’t have kids on their own?

Have you heard that a report by Unicef says there are 143 million and 210 million orphans worldwide, and this is not including abandonment, or sold children. It is estimated that 5760 children become orphans every day. So to try to make the case that it’s the responsibility of someone with a uterus to give birth against their will because other people want children is bullshit and absolutely ludicrous. 

Bam

Fucking bam

It’s absolutely ridiculous that there are people who think it is morally right to FORCE A PERSON TO CARRY A FETUS FOR 9+ MONTHS AND THEN GO THROUGH THE PAIN AND STRUGGLE OF CHILDBIRTH AGAINST THEIR FUCKING WILL LIKE WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU

Also, it’s hilarious that you’re suggest birth control methods when one of the big problems is that most of the same people who are against abortion are also making sure woman don’t have access to good birth control. 

(via disillusioneddreamer)

individualmusings:

lozenger8:

biscottmccall:

lozenger8:

santanaisbitho:

lozenger8:

biscottmccall:

I was whining about beach!skittles friends-to-lovers on twitter the other day and tried to do something about it yesterday. Thanks to santanaisbitho and lozenger8 I managed to put it together, somewhat. 

Much of the mood and vibe here is inspired by Kat, hufflepunkscott ‘s, fic here seriously read it if you haven’t. Re-read it. It’s everything. 

Stiles and Scott spend the long weekend at the beach, because the people renting Lydia’s parents’ property canceled, and it was too good to pass up. Lydia didn’t really plan for them to go alone. She got a wax and pedicure and everything. Then Kira’s mom wouldn’t let her go, Malia couldn’t leave her behind, and it didn’t sound so fun without them. 

"The boy to girl ratio has a strong negative correlation with your willingness to practice hygiene and table manners. I’ll pass." She doesn’t say she thinks they need this, because that’s boring. 

(They know)

(She knows they do)

They don’t pack towels. The grocery list is: eggs, bacon, ham+cheese+Wonderbread, Gushers (No, Stiles), and an exaggerated alcohol budget for any two boys, much less a werewolf with stubborn GABA receptors and a human who is too self-conscious to be the only one drunk. 

It’s the first night. The boys are slumped side by side on the couch wearing nothing but low-rise swim trunks that are still a little damp. Bodies  overexerted and sunbaked, with salty skin and fluffy hair. They alternated between the water and the sand, subconsciously dancing around each other all afternoon.

But now, Scott can feel everywhere their skin touched. It’s tingling and buzzing with the memory of picking Stiles up and throwing him into the waves. He sees the cute sunburns on his nose and the tops of his cheeks and how they render the lighter freckles he has there. 

Stiles is sitting close on the couch and he’s noticing his friend, too. All too aware of how his knees bump into Scott’s. The image of Scott bathed in fiery orange light is seared into his mind. All that glistening skin, competing with the sunset until he was just a perfect silhouette against the horizon. Stiles lost his breath then, when it could pass as general awe at the scenery, and again now, remembering how he looked.

Scott watches Stiles’ eyes travel from his chest to his neck, and meets him with a knowing little smile. He’s a complete fraud, though. He hopes his cool exterior can mask the fact that his whole world is shifting, like a Rubik’s cube being solved by an amateur, or someone who just really, really likes to fuck with him. Stiles returns his smile with, “What? You know you’re hot” and it sounds a lot more affected than he probably intended. Scott’s heart kicks up at that. He rolls his eyes, “So are you.” 

He thinks it’s the beach atmosphere or the romantic ambiance of the Martins’ condo that’s making him feel hornier than he otherwise would, or should, what’s left of Scott’s better judgement supplies. This is his best friend—looking better than he’s ever seen him. It only takes a few more glances for him to know this is mutual. Moments pass. Stiles fidgets with the tassel on a throw pillow and Scott looks at the TV, but isn’t watching. He is unbearably turned on, and just flirted with Stiles. So he hops up, excuses himself “to shower” and put his life back together. 

Note: There was outrage that it stopped here, so I started tweeting back.

Scott’s stripped off completely, is under the spray, and he keeps thinking there aren’t necessarily going to be days like today again, change isn’t always bad, life needs to go on. He’s naked, and dripping, and terrified, but he’s also resolved. He grabs the nearest towel - it’s more of a washcloth - he should’ve been paying attention - opens the door and stands, barely covering his junk.

Stiles is right outside the door, eyes wide, lips wet. He looks more predator than prey, somehow, eyes keen and focused. 

"I want you," Scott says, too honest to draw out the tension. "I want you to want me. Do you think you could ever—"

Scott’s next words are muffled by Stiles’ lips. And he’s thought about this, of course he has. He’s wondered about the taste and texture, watched Stiles gnawing on his own bottom lip and wondered about the sting of it. But this isn’t like any of his half-thought-out musings.

Stiles kisses him and Scott’s whole world narrows down to a pinpoint. Usually, his senses are always thrumming with a low-grade background catalog of information. Normally, Scott’s overwhelmed by sensory overload. But here, now, he can taste the salt spray freshness of Stiles’ lips, smell seaweed in his hair, feel the touch of his fingers, hear the beat of his heart — and that’s it. Stiles’ fingers slide against his sides, grip in tight. Scott lets go of the washcloth and doesn’t think about it.

And Scott can’t help but make a low, needy sound when Stiles presses even closer, when they’re completely skin to skin. 

It’s around this time when Stiles pulls away—forehead still against Scott’s—and brings up the fact that he probably smells so much like beach and sand and surf. It must be hurting Scott’s poor sensitive nose.

"No, you smell grea—"

Nope, totally offensive right now, I get it. I should wash it off. Right about now.”

(Right now, in that shower right behind them. Now.)

They make-out against the shower wall as they wait for the water to get to the right temperature. Stiles rubs his leg against Scott’s and the texture of grit and leg hair does weird things to Scott’s stomach. It takes some creative angling to get under the shower spray, kiss and not get a mouth full of water, and honestly sometimes they don’t succeed, but Scott sure as hell doesn’t care and he’s judging by the sounds Stiles is making he doesn’t either. This kiss is hotter than the last, a contrast to the cooling of Scott’s skin. His chest is tight, but for once he loves it.

Stiles moves to cup Scott’s face, his fingers hover and twitch there for a second, still too shy to just take. Because this is all so much, because this is Scott, and Stiles doesn’t believe he gets to touch him like this. That he gets to be the one that— he stops his own brain when his hands find that skin and he’s kissing Scott harder now. 

"What do you want? Tell me. I—" he says against Scott’s mouth.

"I just want fucking you.”

"Is that… did you make a pun in the middle of sex?" Stiles asks, drawing back, eyes alight with mischief.

Scott’s too far gone to be nice, too needy to be patient. “This isn’t the middle, it’s only the start. Now shut up and touch me.”

"Such a pushy alpha," Stiles teases, tone and gaze so fond Scott wants to take this memory and lock it away forever. He wants to always be this: loved and loving, wanted and needed and held. He pushes in again, kisses again, slides his hands wherever he can reach. He learns what Stiles likes, guides him  into giving him what he needs, and it’s so good.

(Later, they’ll laugh at how quickly they came by each other’s hands, how easy it was, how messy, but in the moment all Scott can concentrate on is the way Stiles pulls his lower lip between his own and sucks.)

(I spent two hours in a car yesterday and I couldn’t get this premise out of my mind. Here are the results.)

This went on for another good 48 hours. The wanting, kissing, the groping… As well as the mutual understanding that neither would really address what was happening between the two of them. Perfectly content to stay in there little vacation bubble.  

Eventually they got around to visiting that seafood place Stiles had wanted to eat at since the second they started planning the trip. 

'Bibs Scott. They give you bibs,' he said in a flourish. 'I can finally be at one with my pre kindergarten eating habits!' 

And it shouldn’t be a problem. For any self-respecting person it wouldn’t be. Stiles wearing a bib with a giant crab on the front and some cheesy promotional slogan, butter dripping down his chin – it really shouldn’t be a turn on. 

But Scott wasn’t really noticing all that. He was much more focused on the way Stiles’ hands would move and flex as he would crack and shell each bite. Placing it gingerly into the warm butter and then into his mouth. The small sounds of pleasure as he ate weren’t exactly helping things either.  

And at first Stiles is completely oblivious of his effects on Scott. But once he catches on he starts smirking and playing it up. Sucking on his fingers a little more and slowing down his motions ever so slightly. Totally basking in silent victory as Scott has to look away and take a long pull off his beer – clearly starting to lose it a little bit.  

Somehow they make it through the meal without one of them caving and climbing over the table to get to the other. And although they’re both unbelievably full, it’s a failure to both of them if they leave without at least trying to get down some sort of desert.

‘We can split something,’ Scott suggests. And after their water brings them a piece of chocolate cake to share Stiles teases by saying, ‘If we’re not careful everyone here is going to think we’re on a date.’ 

'Would there be something wrong with that?' Scott mumbles out.

Making Stiles blush but also beam with pride at the idea. ‘Of course not. I just didn’t know if that was something we were planning on doing…’ 

It’s unbelievably heavy handed. What he’s asking, what he’s hoping to get confirmed from Scott. But it’s as close as he can get to speaking the actual words. He needs to know what’s going on between them. They’ll be going home in just a few days…

 ‘I was hoping so,’ Scott speaks slowly. ‘I mean, if you’re up for it. I don’t want this to end here,’ he says so earnestly. And of course Stiles doesn’t want them to end here. He wants to drag Scott home and take him apart. Layer by layer, piece by piece… 

Maybe that’s the vacation house for now – but Beacon Hills can be their future. The place doesn’t really matter to Stiles, as long as it’s his best friend who he’s with. They can figure out the rest along the way. 

whippit-princess:

lasso:



Guys seriously would you LOOK at mini Adam Scott from Boy Meets World circa 1994



was this when he was mayor

whippit-princess:

lasso:

Guys seriously would you LOOK at mini Adam Scott from Boy Meets World circa 1994

was this when he was mayor

(via sailorscottmccall)

sweetmarigold:

star-anise:

kissingcullens:

…”And more importantly, is he single?”

Steve and Natasha in unison: "NO."

Sam looks like he’s having a religious experience.

(via disillusioneddreamer)

shawnshpencer:

Junior Detective Buzz McNab :’)

(via gladdecease)

allhailthehutch:

Taking naked pictures of yourself does not make you a bad person. People who share them without your permission are bad people.

(via aneedlikebreathing)

Chuck a u’ey
Australian proverb (via aristophania)

(via disillusioneddreamer)

skinnydefenselessheroism:

So I finally finished that fanfic! (whoa, alliteration).

It was completely based on a post/psuedoconversation with lozenger8 and ended up being 6k long, which was at least 3k more than I was expecting. I am never convinced I write hanky panky so well but I think the beginning is good and just…read it, would you? There’s a pal.

It is here: i only need to get half an excuse

On second thought, why don’t you screw each other?

Maybe those weren’t the precise words. Stiles can’t remember. His mind doesn’t cling to details like that without a lot of persuading. His mind doesn’t usually cling to anything without a lot of persuading. Every so often, though, every so often, something wedges itself into his thoughts and memories like a bruise deep under the skin; invisible until it’s touched. It flares up unexpectedly. It catches him off-guard. This is one of those things, a bruise on his memory, maybe a hickey even. He finds himself considering it at odd moments, trying to take a mental tally of the pros and the cons of he and Scott. Doing the do. The horizontal mambo. Making the beast with two backs…

biscottmccall:

lozenger8:

santanaisbitho:

lozenger8:

biscottmccall:

I was whining about beach!skittles friends-to-lovers on twitter the other day and tried to do something about it yesterday. Thanks to santanaisbitho and lozenger8 I managed to put it together, somewhat. 

Much of the mood and vibe here is inspired by Kat, hufflepunkscott ‘s, fic here seriously read it if you haven’t. Re-read it. It’s everything. 

Stiles and Scott spend the long weekend at the beach, because the people renting Lydia’s parents’ property canceled, and it was too good to pass up. Lydia didn’t really plan for them to go alone. She got a wax and pedicure and everything. Then Kira’s mom wouldn’t let her go, Malia couldn’t leave her behind, and it didn’t sound so fun without them. 

"The boy to girl ratio has a strong negative correlation with your willingness to practice hygiene and table manners. I’ll pass." She doesn’t say she thinks they need this, because that’s boring. 

(They know)

(She knows they do)

They don’t pack towels. The grocery list is: eggs, bacon, ham+cheese+Wonderbread, Gushers (No, Stiles), and an exaggerated alcohol budget for any two boys, much less a werewolf with stubborn GABA receptors and a human who is too self-conscious to be the only one drunk. 

It’s the first night. The boys are slumped side by side on the couch wearing nothing but low-rise swim trunks that are still a little damp. Bodies  overexerted and sunbaked, with salty skin and fluffy hair. They alternated between the water and the sand, subconsciously dancing around each other all afternoon.

But now, Scott can feel everywhere their skin touched. It’s tingling and buzzing with the memory of picking Stiles up and throwing him into the waves. He sees the cute sunburns on his nose and the tops of his cheeks and how they render the lighter freckles he has there. 

Stiles is sitting close on the couch and he’s noticing his friend, too. All too aware of how his knees bump into Scott’s. The image of Scott bathed in fiery orange light is seared into his mind. All that glistening skin, competing with the sunset until he was just a perfect silhouette against the horizon. Stiles lost his breath then, when it could pass as general awe at the scenery, and again now, remembering how he looked.

Scott watches Stiles’ eyes travel from his chest to his neck, and meets him with a knowing little smile. He’s a complete fraud, though. He hopes his cool exterior can mask the fact that his whole world is shifting, like a Rubik’s cube being solved by an amateur, or someone who just really, really likes to fuck with him. Stiles returns his smile with, “What? You know you’re hot” and it sounds a lot more affected than he probably intended. Scott’s heart kicks up at that. He rolls his eyes, “So are you.” 

He thinks it’s the beach atmosphere or the romantic ambiance of the Martins’ condo that’s making him feel hornier than he otherwise would, or should, what’s left of Scott’s better judgement supplies. This is his best friend—looking better than he’s ever seen him. It only takes a few more glances for him to know this is mutual. Moments pass. Stiles fidgets with the tassel on a throw pillow and Scott looks at the TV, but isn’t watching. He is unbearably turned on, and just flirted with Stiles. So he hops up, excuses himself “to shower” and put his life back together. 

Note: There was outrage that it stopped here, so I started tweeting back.

Scott’s stripped off completely, is under the spray, and he keeps thinking there aren’t necessarily going to be days like today again, change isn’t always bad, life needs to go on. He’s naked, and dripping, and terrified, but he’s also resolved. He grabs the nearest towel - it’s more of a washcloth - he should’ve been paying attention - opens the door and stands, barely covering his junk.

Stiles is right outside the door, eyes wide, lips wet. He looks more predator than prey, somehow, eyes keen and focused. 

"I want you," Scott says, too honest to draw out the tension. "I want you to want me. Do you think you could ever—"

Scott’s next words are muffled by Stiles’ lips. And he’s thought about this, of course he has. He’s wondered about the taste and texture, watched Stiles gnawing on his own bottom lip and wondered about the sting of it. But this isn’t like any of his half-thought-out musings.

Stiles kisses him and Scott’s whole world narrows down to a pinpoint. Usually, his senses are always thrumming with a low-grade background catalog of information. Normally, Scott’s overwhelmed by sensory overload. But here, now, he can taste the salt spray freshness of Stiles’ lips, smell seaweed in his hair, feel the touch of his fingers, hear the beat of his heart — and that’s it. Stiles’ fingers slide against his sides, grip in tight. Scott lets go of the washcloth and doesn’t think about it.

And Scott can’t help but make a low, needy sound when Stiles presses even closer, when they’re completely skin to skin. 

It’s around this time when Stiles pulls away—forehead still against Scott’s—and brings up the fact that he probably smells so much like beach and sand and surf. It must be hurting Scott’s poor sensitive nose.

"No, you smell grea—"

Nope, totally offensive right now, I get it. I should wash it off. Right about now.”

(Right now, in that shower right behind them. Now.)

They make-out against the shower wall as they wait for the water to get to the right temperature. Stiles rubs his leg against Scott’s and the texture of grit and leg hair does weird things to Scott’s stomach. It takes some creative angling to get under the shower spray, kiss and not get a mouth full of water, and honestly sometimes they don’t succeed, but Scott sure as hell doesn’t care and he’s judging by the sounds Stiles is making he doesn’t either. This kiss is hotter than the last, a contrast to the cooling of Scott’s skin. His chest is tight, but for once he loves it.

Stiles moves to cup Scott’s face, his fingers hover and twitch there for a second, still too shy to just take. Because this is all so much, because this is Scott, and Stiles doesn’t believe he gets to touch him like this. That he gets to be the one that— he stops his own brain when his hands find that skin and he’s kissing Scott harder now. 

"What do you want? Tell me. I—" he says against Scott’s mouth.

"I just want fucking you.”

"Is that… did you make a pun in the middle of sex?" Stiles asks, drawing back, eyes alight with mischief.

Scott’s too far gone to be nice, too needy to be patient. “This isn’t the middle, it’s only the start. Now shut up and touch me.”

"Such a pushy alpha," Stiles teases, tone and gaze so fond Scott wants to take this memory and lock it away forever. He wants to always be this: loved and loving, wanted and needed and held. He pushes in again, kisses again, slides his hands wherever he can reach. He learns what Stiles likes, guides him  into giving him what he needs, and it’s so good.

(Later, they’ll laugh at how quickly they came by each other’s hands, how easy it was, how messy, but in the moment all Scott can concentrate on is the way Stiles pulls his lower lip between his own and sucks.)

 

derevko:

last-snowfall:

Steve name me one time between Basic and going into the ice that you actually followed orders. ONE. TIME.

image

(via hpchickisms)

santanaisbitho:

lozenger8:

biscottmccall:

I was whining about beach!skittles friends-to-lovers on twitter the other day and tried to do something about it yesterday. Thanks to santanaisbitho and lozenger8 I managed to put it together, somewhat. 

Much of the mood and vibe here is inspired by Kat, hufflepunkscott ‘s, fic here seriously read it if you haven’t. Re-read it. It’s everything. 

Stiles and Scott spend the long weekend at the beach, because the people renting Lydia’s parents’ property canceled, and it was too good to pass up. Lydia didn’t really plan for them to go alone. She got a wax and pedicure and everything. Then Kira’s mom wouldn’t let her go, Malia couldn’t leave her behind, and it didn’t sound so fun without them. 

"The boy to girl ratio has a strong negative correlation with your willingness to practice hygiene and table manners. I’ll pass." She doesn’t say she thinks they need this, because that’s boring. 

(They know)

(She knows they do)

They don’t pack towels. The grocery list is: eggs, bacon, ham+cheese+Wonderbread, Gushers (No, Stiles), and an exaggerated alcohol budget for any two boys, much less a werewolf with stubborn GABA receptors and a human who is too self-conscious to be the only one drunk. 

It’s the first night. The boys are slumped side by side on the couch wearing nothing but low-rise swim trunks that are still a little damp. Bodies  overexerted and sunbaked, with salty skin and fluffy hair. They alternated between the water and the sand, subconsciously dancing around each other all afternoon.

But now, Scott can feel everywhere their skin touched. It’s tingling and buzzing with the memory of picking Stiles up and throwing him into the waves. He sees the cute sunburns on his nose and the tops of his cheeks and how they render the lighter freckles he has there. 

Stiles is sitting close on the couch and he’s noticing his friend, too. All too aware of how his knees bump into Scott’s. The image of Scott bathed in fiery orange light is seared into his mind. All that glistening skin, competing with the sunset until he was just a perfect silhouette against the horizon. Stiles lost his breath then, when it could pass as general awe at the scenery, and again now, remembering how he looked.

Scott watches Stiles’ eyes travel from his chest to his neck, and meets him with a knowing little smile. He’s a complete fraud, though. He hopes his cool exterior can mask the fact that his whole world is shifting, like a Rubik’s cube being solved by an amateur, or someone who just really, really likes to fuck with him. Stiles returns his smile with, “What? You know you’re hot” and it sounds a lot more affected than he probably intended. Scott’s heart kicks up at that. He rolls his eyes, “So are you.” 

He thinks it’s the beach atmosphere or the romantic ambiance of the Martins’ condo that’s making him feel hornier than he otherwise would, or should, what’s left of Scott’s better judgement supplies. This is his best friend—looking better than he’s ever seen him. It only takes a few more glances for him to know this is mutual. Moments pass. Stiles fidgets with the tassel on a throw pillow and Scott looks at the TV, but isn’t watching. He is unbearably turned on, and just flirted with Stiles. So he hops up, excuses himself “to shower” and put his life back together. 

Note: There was outrage that it stopped here, so I started tweeting back.

Scott’s stripped off completely, is under the spray, and he keeps thinking there aren’t necessarily going to be days like today again, change isn’t always bad, life needs to go on. He’s naked, and dripping, and terrified, but he’s also resolved. He grabs the nearest towel - it’s more of a washcloth - he should’ve been paying attention - opens the door and stands, barely covering his junk.

Stiles is right outside the door, eyes wide, lips wet. He looks more predator than prey, somehow, eyes keen and focused. 

"I want you," Scott says, too honest to draw out the tension. "I want you to want me. Do you think you could ever—"

Scott’s next words are muffled by Stiles’ lips. And he’s thought about this, of course he has. He’s wondered about the taste and texture, watched Stiles gnawing on his own bottom lip and wondered about the sting of it. But this isn’t like any of his half-thought-out musings.

Stiles kisses him and Scott’s whole world narrows down to a pinpoint. Usually, his senses are always thrumming with a low-grade background catalog of information. Normally, Scott’s overwhelmed by sensory overload. But here, now, he can taste the salt spray freshness of Stiles’ lips, smell seaweed in his hair, feel the touch of his fingers, hear the beat of his heart — and that’s it. Stiles’ fingers slide against his sides, grip in tight. Scott lets go of the washcloth and doesn’t think about it.

And Scott can’t help but make a low, needy sound when Stiles presses even closer, when they’re completely skin to skin. 

It’s around this time when Stiles pulls away—forehead still against Scott’s—and brings up the fact that he probably smells so much like beach and sand and surf. It must be hurting Scott’s poor sensitive nose.

"No, you smell grea—"

Nope, totally offensive right now, I get it. I should wash it off. Right about now.”

(Right now, in that shower right behind them. Now.)

They make-out against the shower wall as they wait for the water to get to the right temperature. Stiles rubs his leg against Scott’s and the texture of grit and leg hair does weird things to Scott’s stomach. It takes some creative angling to get under the shower spray, kiss and not get a mouth full of water, and honestly sometimes they don’t succeed, but Scott sure as hell doesn’t care and he’s judging by the sounds Stiles is making he doesn’t either. This kiss is hotter than the last, a contrast to the cooling of Scott’s skin. His chest is tight, but for once he loves it.

biscottmccall:

I was whining about beach!skittles friends-to-lovers on twitter the other day and tried to do something about it yesterday. Thanks to santanaisbitho and lozenger8 I managed to put it together, somewhat. 

Much of the mood and vibe here is inspired by Kat, hufflepunkscott ‘s, fic here seriously read it if you haven’t. Re-read it. It’s everything. 

Stiles and Scott spend the long weekend at the beach, because the people renting Lydia’s parents’ property canceled, and it was too good to pass up. Lydia didn’t really plan for them to go alone. She got a wax and pedicure and everything. Then Kira’s mom wouldn’t let her go, Malia couldn’t leave her behind, and it didn’t sound so fun without them. 

"The boy to girl ratio has a strong negative correlation with your willingness to practice hygiene and table manners. I’ll pass." She doesn’t say she thinks they need this, because that’s boring. 

(They know)

(She knows they do)

They don’t pack towels. The grocery list is: eggs, bacon, ham+cheese+Wonderbread, Gushers (No, Stiles), and an exaggerated alcohol budget for any two boys, much less a werewolf with stubborn GABA receptors and a human who is too self-conscious to be the only one drunk. 

It’s the first night. The boys are slumped side by side on the couch wearing nothing but low-rise swim trunks that are still a little damp. Bodies  overexerted and sunbaked, with salty skin and fluffy hair. They alternated between the water and the sand, subconsciously dancing around each other all afternoon.

But now, Scott can feel everywhere their skin touched. It’s tingling and buzzing with the memory of picking Stiles up and throwing him into the waves. He sees the cute sunburns on his nose and the tops of his cheeks and how they render the lighter freckles he has there. 

Stiles is sitting close on the couch and he’s noticing his friend, too. All too aware of how his knees bump into Scott’s. The image of Scott bathed in fiery orange light is seared into his mind. All that glistening skin, competing with the sunset until he was just a perfect silhouette against the horizon. Stiles lost his breath then, when it could pass as general awe at the scenery, and again now, remembering how he looked.

Scott watches Stiles’ eyes travel from his chest to his neck, and meets him with a knowing little smile. He’s a complete fraud, though. He hopes his cool exterior can mask the fact that his whole world is shifting, like a Rubik’s cube being solved by an amateur, or someone who just really, really likes to fuck with him. Stiles returns his smile with, “What? You know you’re hot” and it sounds a lot more affected than he probably intended. Scott’s heart kicks up at that. He rolls his eyes, “So are you.” 

He thinks it’s the beach atmosphere or the romantic ambiance of the Martins’ condo that’s making him feel hornier than he otherwise would, or should, what’s left of Scott’s better judgement supplies. This is his best friend—looking better than he’s ever seen him. It only takes a few more glances for him to know this is mutual. Moments pass. Stiles fidgets with the tassel on a throw pillow and Scott looks at the TV, but isn’t watching. He is unbearably turned on, and just flirted with Stiles. So he hops up, excuses himself “to shower” and put his life back together. 

Note: There was outrage that it stopped here, so I started tweeting back.

Scott’s stripped off completely, is under the spray, and he keeps thinking there aren’t necessarily going to be days like today again, change isn’t always bad, life needs to go on. He’s naked, and dripping, and terrified, but he’s also resolved. He grabs the nearest towel - it’s more of a washcloth - he should’ve been paying attention - opens the door and stands, barely covering his junk.

Stiles is right outside the door, eyes wide, lips wet. He looks more predator than prey, somehow, eyes keen and focused. 

"I want you," Scott says, too honest to draw out the tension. "I want you to want me. Do you think you could ever—"

Scott’s next words are muffled by Stiles’ lips. And he’s thought about this, of course he has. He’s wondered about the taste and texture, watched Stiles gnawing on his own bottom lip and wondered about the sting of it. But this isn’t like any of his half-thought-out musings.

Stiles kisses him and Scott’s whole world narrows down to a pinpoint. Usually, his senses are always thrumming with a low-grade background catalog of information. Normally, Scott’s overwhelmed by sensory overload. But here, now, he can taste the salt spray freshness of Stiles’ lips, smell seaweed in his hair, feel the touch of his fingers, hear the beat of his heart — and that’s it. Stiles’ fingers slide against his sides, grip in tight. Scott lets go of the washcloth and doesn’t think about it.

And Scott can’t help but make a low, needy sound when Stiles presses even closer, when they’re completely skin to skin.