Ups! Tento obrázek porušuje naše pokyny k obsahu. Před publikováním ho, prosím, buď odstraň, nebo nahraď jiným.
( LVI. I'LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU )
THERE WERE MANY THINGS AMELIE LIKED ABOUT STILES— his hyper-fixation on flannels to the point where she'd find some in her own wardrobe, his Jeep which he called Roscoe, his room, which was dark and matched Stiles' personality very accurately. She liked the way his hair was always messy, but she would always bring back memories of his buzzcut, which he hated with a passion. She liked his hugs, his rare public displays of affection, the way he cared about everyone but himself.
One thing; however, Amelie was frustrated about was how Stiles was suspicious that something supernatural was occurring in Beacon Hills... again. He was so sure something off was happening, when there was no evidence.
But, maybe he was right.
One night, when Amelie was in her room at Argent's apartment, she received a call from Liam, whom had become her non-biological little brother in a sense. She was always giving him advice about his relationship with Hayden, even though a tiny part of her felt like she was betraying Karly.
"You're ruining my me time, Liam," Amelie groaned over the phone as she plopped herself back into her bed, her brown hair with newly done highlights sprawling across the silk pillowcases.
"Is Stiles not doing a good job?" He chuckled through the phone and memories began to flood her brain.
"Stiles, your dad is downstairs," Amelie whispered softly, tugging at the hairs on the back of Stiles' head. His lips trailed down her neck slowly, to her collarbones, and Amelie held the urge to make a sound.
"So?" he said against her neck, his hands caressing her exposed thigh. She could feel his smile.
"So, he might hear us," she bit her lip, wrapping one arm around his neck. "This is wrong."
"You're right, so wrong." He did not stop. In fact, one hand was now sneakily making its way under her shirt. He lifted his face to hers, eyes half-lidded as he pressed his swollen lips to hers harshly, which she returned.
"You are horrible," she said through the kiss, sighing. Wrapping her legs around his waist tightly, she mustered her strength and flipped them so she was on top. "You can't keep your hands to yourself."
"Like you can," he scoffed. Her hand was absentmindedly tracing the hem of his sweatpants. The hand on her waist suddenly pulled her down, so that her body was touching every inch of his, feeling every crevice. The hand under her shirt was getting brave, tugging the thin material upwards.
"He's going to hear us," she whispered, her pouty lips millimeters from his. He just shook his head, as a smirk etched onto his face.
