Sort of continuation from this drabble
"Dude!" Stiles shouts, running with flaily legs before he trips over his boots, accidentally tackling Kurt into the grass. Yeah, he’s graceful as fuck, he knows. "Fucking shit, I tell you. Bastard of the decade scores the winning goal while I single handedly humiliated myself."
"Stilinski," Kurt snaps. It’s fond, Stiles can tell because he’s still grinning, eyes all crinkled, so yay. Point to him. Kurt has deep father issues, not the bad kind, just the whole ‘yeah I’m a hardcore football jock that will kick your ass while I stare at it lustfully’ is a total act and he actually is total loser who babies his father.
It’s cute, Stiles can’t deny. He does the same, without the ass kicking part, of course.
"Mind that mouth or I’ll shove socks into it when you’re asleep, again."
"Shut up, you just scored the winning goal! I get to diss your shit until tomorrow for stealing all my amazing bench warming glory. What about the whole ‘bros before goals’, what, it doesn’t apply any more? So you’re all tough and jerky again? Mm, jerky, beef. Let’s go get some, like, right now.” Stiles pushes himself up, easing a hand out to help Kurt.
Kurt stares at him. “Why. Me.”
Stiles flips him. “Please, we both know you write love sonnets about me. So, c’mon, time be a-wastin’ with yo ass be a-lazin’.”
Kurt cringes and smacks his head. “Dork, that didn’t even rhyme.”
"Aha!" Stiles cheers, fist bumping into the air. "So you do write sonnets.”
"Shut up and walk."