
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/876834.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Post-Motel_California_Fic, Angst_and_Humor, And_also_smut, First_Time, A
      thing_I_wrote_that_went_into_a_million_directions, Prompt_Fic,
      Friendship, Sexual_Content, Hand_Jobs, friend_sex, Stiles_is_a_good
      friend, Gratuitous_LotR_references, Werewolf_depression_idek, Things_I
      will_regret_in_the_morning
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-09 Words: 5298
****** A Body's Heat ******
by Yina_Ke
Summary
     Stiles wonders if it's a werewolf thing or a Scott thing, the fact
     that what Scott seems to want and need the most is touch.
     Post-Motel California, S03E06.
Notes
     This is set about a week after Motel California, so yeah, it'll spoil
     you if you haven't heard yet what went down in that episode.
     This assumes that Derek did decide to keep his survival a secret for
     a while longer, that Scott and Stiles still don't know that he lives,
     and that the Scoobies all got home to Beacon Hills safely after their
     trip.
     Oh, and there's sex. Maybe. We're squabbling about the definition
     right now.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles is suprised, but not as surprised as he could have been when Scott
changes. It's subtle enough that he's sure that most people don't even
notice; Scott's jaw is locked just a little tighter, his smiles are just a
little more forced, his eyes just one step more distant. Stone-walled, somehow,
some of the innocence bound and sent off and paid for in fatigue and dark bags
scored under his eyes.
It's a bit like Scott's started off as a level 1 good foot soldier who's
levelled up to dark warrior in those online MMORPG's they used to play, only
with no way to pause the stupid game or reverse the levelling.
But Stiles isn't as surprised as he could have been, because he's has known
since he was pretty young that people dealt with trauma differently. Around the
time that Stiles lost his mother, there was another girl at school who also
lost hers. Back then, Stiles found it interesting, even intriguing, to sit and
observe sometimes, to let his eyes linger just a little bit longer when she
hurried past with bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair and a noticeable tremble in
her hands when she clutched her books to her chest. He saw her talk to her
friends on campus, watched as one of her friends brushed back a tear-streaked
lock of hair behind her ear, gazed as the tear drops tangled off her reddened
nose, and Stiles felt nothing.
Instead, he hardened. He swallowed it down, sharpened the prick of his sarcasm
to spires, developed the dichotomy that is his current world view, where
there's Scott and his father and Lydia and then there's everyone else,and who
mattered and who didn't cut into sharp focus and hasn't lost any since.
Scott's not been through the same as Stiles has, as that girl has, but it's
similar in more ways than it isn't. Scott's floundering, caught between the
rock of hardening and the creak of breaking, and Stiles isn't worried about
losing him, but Scott's mind is not as buoyant as it once seemed, not like it
was before when a single push could let it drift.
So, Stiles doesn't question it when Scott drops by in the middle of the
afternoon, unannounced. Doesn't comment on Scott's glassy eyes and the weights
at the corners of his lips. Stiles only looks at how the afternoon light drapes
over Scott's shoulders and tints his skin golden, and pauses for a few beats,
leaning against the door frame before he finally says, “Yeah, come in, not like
you haven't been here before,” and steps aside.
They lie down and watch Lord of the Rings, because they've already watchedStar
Warsand most of Star Trek twice since they've come back, and they've long since
decided that werewolf flicks are in proper poor taste considering the
circumstances. Stiles makes his usual cracks during the movie, comments on Liv
Tyler's looks and the epic battle choreography and how well it's aged, and
drowns them both in idle talk and a stream of words so Scott doesn't have time
to think. When Stiles comes back from the kitchen after making them a bowl of
popcorn, Scott's just lying there on his back with an arm thrown over his face
and Middle Earth uniformly forgotten.
Stiles wonders if it's a werewolf thing or a Scott thing, the fact that what
Scott seems to want and need the most is touch.
Because while Scott has been more reticent, more withdrawn, he doesn't move
back when Stiles climbs on the bed beside him, places the popcorn bowl between
them, and lets their feet touch. Scott moves toward Stiles, rather, mumbling
something under his breath that Stiles can't quite catch and pushing the bowl
of popcorn up along the sheets and away so he can wrap an arm around Stiles and
pull him closer, until they're touching, chest to chest. Scott's not meeting
his eyes, has his mouth drawn into a stubborn line, his eyes cast at the
sheets, but Stiles thinks he understands, a little.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, mostly to fill the silence. He clears his throat, takes a
breath. “I take it Eowyn's not your type?”
That does finally draw a chuckle from Scott's lips, and he tilts up his head to
meet Stiles's eyes.
Stiles stares into Scott's eyes, large and dark and framed by thick black
lashes, and something in Stiles's body, lower than neck but above his groin,
gives a bit of a jolt. Stiles licks his lips, says, “I mean, I forgot, no one's
your type but Allison,” and regrets it pretty much as soon as he does.
Scott just shrugs, but has the decency to sound sorry when he says, “I guess
I'm not in the mood for movies right now.”
And Stiles supposes that's fair. He lets Scott's fingers curl at the small of
his back, lets him place another hand on his waist, and it's only a rather
minimal part of Stiles that is offended at the fact that he has the girly
cuddle position here.
Stiles opens his mouth to say something, because Stiles finds it tempting to
talk when he's not sure what he's supposed to do, but then he stops and
swallows it down instead. He audibly shuts his mouth again and grins just a bit
at Scott when he sends him a quizzical look.
This isn't the first time, after all, that Scott has come to his room only to
hug and relax. They used to cuddle more when they were children, when they were
ten or eleven, right up until they grew older and expectations and puberty and
other things ground away the simplicity of affection. They've done it more
recently, too, since Scott has started showing up early and staying late and
Stiles's pillows and blankets have started to smell of him.
It's just a bit different now, all of it.
Silence settles in between them, though, quiet and comfortable. Scott's
breathing is even, his eyes are closed, his eyelashes dark against his skin.
Stiles finds that it's him who scoots a little closer this time, that it's him
who seeks the proximity. Scott obliges him, wrapping an arm around his torso
and pulling him in until they can't get any closer. Dry heat drenches the front
of Stiles's shirt where they touch; moist heat whisks against his cheek where
Scott is breathing against him. Stiles peeks up at Scott, wets his lips again,
and stays quiet.
For a while. “If,” he begins, then takes an immediate pause. Stiles is good
with words only when it counts, only when he has to be and someone's (Scott's)
life depends on him choosing the right words in the right moment, but time
allows for insecurity, and insecurity either chops up his words or floods the
gates and makes them spill out in torrents. He's not good at this, but he
should try, has to try, so he says, “If you want to talk about it, you know -
It's not like I'd not be able to do that, or anything.”
Scott's eyes flutter open. They're close enough right now that they take up
most of Stiles's vision. “Talk about what? 
“You know.” Stiles shifts. Or rather, attempts to; he abandons the endeavor
once he realizes that he and Scott are just too damn close together. “What
happened, and all. I mean, you know what I mean, when things started to go
really American Horror Story, and..” (The part where you gave up.) “And... then
you know, in front of the motel, and -” (The part where I said I needed you.)
“And what I, well, told you, you remember...”
(The part where I implied that I'd rather die than be without you.)
Stiles has been told that he has bulldozed all over social cues before. Scott,
though, he knows well enough to see the signs.
“Or... you know? Not,” Stiles says, slaps on a fake-smile that he hopes and
hopes doesn't look quite as exaggerated as he fears it does. Scott's just
looking at him with his eyebrows drawn together and a sharp frown cut across
his forehead, and Stiles scoots back just a bit, but not enough to severe the
skin contact.
“... Hm.” The frown eases from Scott's face, and he looks down, pressing his
cheek against the pillow. His skin looks darker than usual against the sheets.
Stiles has always liked the tone of Scott's skin. Stiles has always liked most
anything about Scott, and even when he hasn't it didn't matter one bit because
Scott's always been there.
“Well. I guess I haven't thanked you yet,” Scott says. “For – yeah.”
“Yeah,” Stiles says. “But hey, I mean – of course, it's a matter of course, and
well there was one 'of course' too many, but the thing is – like, how do you
expect me to deal with all the supernatural shit without you, yeah?”
Scott chuckles at that.
Stiles shifts a bit closer, echoing the chuckle. “Yeah. I mean – it's always
been the Scott and Stiles show, right? I mean that's what it was from the
start, and then I guess it became the Scott and Stiles and Werewolves show, but
hey, come on, we're both genre-savvy enough to see that the werewolves are
really just clever cameos, and, really, it's about us. Right, Scotty?”
Scott doesn't seem as impressed by Stiles's speech as he hoped he would be.
There's traces of the look on his face that he sometimes wears when he can't
decide if he's amused by Stiles or a little skeptical of him – that look right
there, with the corners of his lips turned up a bit, eyebrows lowered – only
that today, it's weary. Not completely freed of the fatigue that seems to cling
to him since that day.
(But Stiles has known since he was very young that-)
Then Scott shrugs, his lips twitch into a tentative smile, and he surges
forward to brush their lips together.
A moment, then two, and Scott parts their lips with a breath, after what was
more of a peck than a kiss. “There was more,” Scott says, and there's some
energy back in his face right now, and he barrels on even as Stiles is still
distracted by the buzz on his lips. “There was more. Allison, and I – saw
things, and they made me think that I... was...”
Stiles can feel a smile on his lips. “Lachrymose?”
Scott blinks. A second. Two. Then his face brightens. “I know that one: sad,
tearful, weepy...” He pauses. “No, that's not what I meant, Stiles, ugh.”
“At least you'll remember 'lachrymose' now,” Stiles says dryly.
“No, but I meant like, I felt like...”
“Crepuscular?" Stiles suggests.
Scott frowns, pushing his lower lip forward just a little. “What's that?”
Stiles can't help it any longer: his lips snag back and release a couple of
short, barked laughs. “Fuck if I know, it just, it just, it popped into my
head. Funny word, though, isn't it?” Stiles feels light-headed suddenly,
whether from the peck or the talking or the speech he just gave Scott, the
lingering embarrassment, he doesn't know. He doesn't know much at all right now
other than that he feels good, knows nothing much at all until the world spins
and spins, and then kicks into crystalline (hah, another SAT word) focus.
He's on his back now, with Scott lingering on top of him.
“Stiles.” There's an edge to Scott's voice, but no real anger.
“Scott,” Stiles says. “What's the definition of that, huh?”
Scott pauses, leans in a little closer. “It's my name.”
“Yeah.” Stiles inhales, and exhales with a stuttery laugh. “Our Scott. The
leader.” He trails off. “And everything else.”
Scott's still on top of him. He doesn't budge.
Stiles used to think that Scott attracted attention naturally. Used to think
that he was a bit like atoms with all those electrons buzzing around, the core
of neon, maybe, or mercury. Effortless charm where Stiles is still awkward,
sweet where Stiles is abrasive. Scott, their Scott, and his Scott.
And apparently, Scott-who-doesn't-seem-to-be-budging Scott.
Stiles wets his lips, stifles his amusement, makes his voice go somber and
serious again. “You know, that thing with Derek, it's not...” He tries to say
it as gently as he can, which isn't easy since Stiles isn't good at the
soothing talk thing, but he flattens his voice as best as he can. “He's not in
your pack -”
“Don't,” Scott says. Just that one word, but it's firm enough to stop Stiles in
his tracks.
Stiles exhales through his nose. “... All right. Too, too soon, eh? All right.
Hey, I'm sorry, like maybe I should've just kept my fucking opinions to myself,
and I know you're not like me. You want to protect everyone, and you're always
trying, trying to do the right thing.” He is quite possibly talking too much.
“I just -”
Scott leans down to give him another kiss. Harder this time. “Just take the
thanks for now, yeah?”
“I – okay.” Stiles licks his lips. “No more saying anything, broadcast offline,
Stiles show over. Yeah.”
It's not the first time that Scott has kissed him; there have been several
times throughout the past year or so. The first time, Stiles remembers very
well, was when Scott realized he'd almost killed him when he'd been all wolfed-
out, and he'd grabbed Stiles by the jaw and hauled him in for a grateful, wet
smack right on the lips. Several occasions followed, pecks and kisses, fast and
quick with only a bit of tongue, and only that one time.
It doesn't bother Stiles. They've been friends for so long they're well aware
where they stand with each other, that it doesn't mean what it might if Stiles
weren't his best friend.
That doesn't quite explain why Scott leans in for another kiss. Stiles has his
lips parted and it's wetter than usual, and there's the solid weight of Scott
on top of him – on a bed – to go along with it. Stiles might've let out a gasp,
he's not sure; if he did, it was swallowed by Scott, because he's suddenly
there, there's a tongue rubbing against his, wet and insistent. Stiles is
suddenly pretty grateful that gasps aren't the only sounds that get swallowed
during kisses.
When Scott withdraws his tongue for a moment, the air rushes out of Stiles's
mouth. “I -” Then there's more lips and tongue, and Stiles's spine straightens.
He hears the echo of his own heart reverberate in the shell of his ears, and he
thinks it goes a bit like, badum, badum, badum, badum.
Scott breaks is the one to break the kiss, staring down at Stiles out of wide
eyes. “No?” It comes out almost harshly, sharpened by – something. “I just -”

“It's, it's fine,” Stiles says, and only realizes when he says it that he means
it. “It's cool, man, for real. Go on, yeah.”

If this is what Scott needs, Stiles is good with it. It feels good, anyway, and
it isn't as awkward as it could be, and Scott is physical, always has been, and
touchis the language he understands best. “You'd get a great score if they they
measured physical SAT's of some sort," Stiles says. A beat. “'Kay, forget I
said that.”

Anyone else probably would've rolled their eyes at that. Scott's maybe not even
heard it, or else is too used to it to care, because he's leaned down and is
kissing Stiles again, and it's between the second and the third peck that
Stiles decides to hell with it,and just wraps his arms around Scott, pulling
him closer. He enjoys it, enjoys the slide of their tongues the slick heat of
Scott's mouth, the nip of his teeth. Stiles gives back as much as he can,
unwilling to be submissive in this; he matches the speed of Scott's mouth,
chases Scott's tongue with his own, gives it as much force as he gets. He is
only half-aware of how his body reacts, doesn't even notice at all how he
instinctively thrusts up against Scott, but he knows he must have because what
he isaware of is that when his groin meets Scott's thigh, he --

Freezes.

Scott stops, breaks the kiss with a wet smack, and blinks down at Stiles.

For some inane reason, Stiles feels like he has to defend himself. “I'm
sixteen, okay?” he sputters. “Inappropriately shaped kitchen utensils make me
hard.”

Scott grins and says, “I didn't say anything,” and ah, there it is: that
lopsided grin of his, courtesy of his crooked jaw. “And I don't mind.”

“Oh.” Stiles slumps back against the mattress. “Okay, then. Yeah.”

Stiles gazes up at Scott.

Somewhere behind them, TheLord of the Rings is still playing. Stiles idly
thinks that that must have been some pretty A-grade making out if he was able
to tune that out like that, 'cause ignoring Lord of the Rings would be pretty
blasphemous otherwise.

Scott leans in again, brushes his lips against Stiles's mouth. Scott's hands
travel downward, over Stiles's shirt down to his navel, circles down along his
side and moves up again, except -

That's only one hand on his chest right now. The other is rubbing against his
cock, and Stiles jerks in surprise, only at the very last minute reins in a
squeak, and very nearly chokes on his own saliva.

Scott pauses. Waits for Stiles to make another move, to rip his hand away or
grind into it, or possibly to say something, but Stiles can't think of anything
to say that wouldn't be enormously awkward right now, so he just sinks back.
Their lips are barely touching now, fluttering against each other in butterfly
kisses with each breath.
A rush of sudden, sharp clarity washes over Stiles. His eyes are wide, and
Stiles looks at Scott and Scott looks at Stiles, and Stiles says, “Will it be
awkward?”
Scott considers that. “You think so?” and bless Scott McCall, sincere about
everything and anything, including the entire of moral and ethical paradigms
used to determine the correct answer to whether or not he should probably be
touching his best friend's dick.
“Well,” Stiles says. “I suppose maybe the fact that we're having this
conversation while you have your hand on my cock is already sufficiently
awkward.”
“We've done it before,” Scott points out, pressing another kiss to Stiles's
lips, and squeezing down there. “Like, dozens of times.”
Stiles hates how the sound he just let out was dangerously close to a moan
already, but fuck, it feels awesome. “Yeah, but next to each other, not to each
other, dude. That's different. Like, there's a difference to be spotted.”
“So...” The prompt lingers in the air. Scott still doesn't remove his hand.
“... No?” And damn if he doesn't look downright disappointed at that.
Stiles finds it hard to say anything in edgewise, and he's feeling pretty good
besides. “Well, okay, so like, I guess it's not too bad.” Vertigo spins
somewhere behind his eyeballs, but not enough for him to lose his footing – he
can still make a decision, and it's not a hard one. “Yeah, okay, cool.
Whatever. After everything we've been through. Won't change anything, ri – oh.”
His eyes widen. “Dude, some warning,” he huffs, but the protest is half-hearted
at best, and he doesn't stop Scott when he pushes his hand beneath Stiles's
boxers, and still doesn't stop him when Scott wraps his hand around his cock.
It strikes Stiles how different it is from jerking himself off. The angle is
different, and Scott doesn't pick just the right rhythm and the right grip,
goes a bit softer than Stiles likes, a little slower, but the bit of
frustration that builds up at that is blown away at the realization that it's
all because it's someone else stroking his dick, and hey, this might just be a
really good day right now.
It's then that he realizes that Scott is hovering above him jerking him off
while Stiles is just lying there with his arms pressed to his sides and gasping
against Scott's mouth, and so he reaches for the front of Scott's jeans,
unbuttons it, and slips a hand inside.
The smile on Scott's face right now looks different now from the ones he's been
sporting for the past few days. Not wider, not larger, but freer somehow, more
sincere, with his eyes creasing in the corners, pupils blown but focused.
Scott's not thinking about what happened at the motel right now, and Stiles
knows he can't make the demons go away forever, but this is good for now, it
helps, it's all good.
Scott's cock is hot when Stiles touches it, but he's had enough practice with
dicks (or well, a dick, singular) before that his hand fits around it
naturally, thumb swiping over the tip and fingers tightly wrapped around the
shaft, and wow. Wow, right, Scott's sixteen, too.
Stiles wonders if it should feel weirder than it is to have his best friend's
hard cock in his hand, but soon realizes that the quest for any sort of
examination requiring cool mathematical thought is doomed to go the way of The
Ring (which is down), so he's just going to follow the Argent policy of 'shoot
first, ask questions later' here.
“Yeah. Fuck, yeah.” Stiles rocks his hips into Scott's grip, and drops his
forehead down to Scott's shoulder, pressing his face against the side of his
neck and closing his eyes. “Fuck – little harder, come on, little harder, just
a bit more tightly – oh yeah, just like that, yeah.” Scott chuckles somewhere
above him, but obliges and - wow, fuck, oh, yeah, good.
Scott's tugging on Stiles's jeans, and it takes Stiles a while to figure out
that he's supposed to lift his ass so Scott can pull them down and get better
access. Stiles does it enthusiastically enough that his cock ends up slipping
out of Scott's grasp, prompting Stiles to give an impatient groan until Scott's
hand finds it again.
“Yeah, ah.” Stiles tries his best not to forget to jerk off Scott at the same
time, and squeezes him a bit more tightly. “Hey – you like it? Like it? Want it
harder, slower, how?”
“Good, it's – good,” Scott says, and lowers himself on top of Stiles. Stiles
can feel Scott almost lie down on top of him, and he dares to shoot a look
down, to the hands they have wrapped around each other's dicks, both of which
are red and glossy at the tips by now, and fuck, the sight shouldn't be as hot
as it is.
“Is it?” Stiles pants out the words. “Good?”
“Yeah, yeah, just keep going – hah.” That right there was definitely a
moancoming from Scott, and Stiles feels the visceral thrill of masculine
smugness tug up the corners of his mouth into a smirk. He's good at this.
Scott's good at it, too. Maybe a bit too good, really.
It's embarrassing that Stiles can already feel himself get close, and he bites
down on his lower lip to keep himself from coming for just a little while
longer. He sucks breath in through his teeth and moves his hand a little bit
faster, tightens his grip. He thinks he can feel Scott's heart beating down
there, just faint little vibrations that pulse against his palm. He starts to
stroke Scott a little faster still, herded on by the sudden need to see Scott
come first, because hey, this is still Scott, this is still his best friend,
and they've always had a friendly rivalry thing going on there in most parts of
their lives.
Scott seems to know what Stiles is doing because he lifts himself up a little
straighter, fuses their eyes together. “Really?” Scott raises an eyebrow,
grins, and gives Stiles a little twist coming from his wrist, and fuck, Stiles
really likes it like that, and that's just freaking unfair is what it is.
“Hah.” Stiles clenches his eyes shut. “God -” He attempts to pick up speed for
the finish line, but finds that he can't cross it right now; Scott has him at
his mercy, strokes him just hard and fast enough that Stiles can only moan, and
he's almost there, almost, almost -
Stiles comes with a shudder and a groan, and can't resist but look down at his
own kicking cock, can't do anything but watch how he spills into Scott's hand.
One, two, three spurts – oh no, and a fourth – and then it's done, and Stiles
slumps back against the bed, says, “Goddamn, McCall,” and lavishes in post-
coital bliss for a couple of beats before he remembers that Scott's not done
yet.
Scott lets go, pulls himself up on his knees so he hovers a little higher up
over Stiles. He's got a smug, satisfied look on his face, and Stiles makes a
'tsssk' sound at the back of his throat.
It won't take long for Scott to follow now, Stiles thinks, not now that Stiles
can focus all the attention on him, even has a better angle now that he can sit
up himself. Fatigue drips through Stiles's bones, and the whole thing is not as
hot now that he's already come, but he refuses to think of it as awkward now,
when it's already as good as done. He watches Scott get closer, listens to his
breathing get faster and more shallow, feels his cock swell and get harder.
Watches how Scott rolls his eyes before he closes them. Sees how he bites his
lower lip.
When Scott comes, his moan is quiet but drawn-out; he's not trying to cut it
short but really riding it out, letting his head fall back and thrusting into
Stiles's hand in broken motions. Stiles feels the warmth splatter against his
hand – and yeah, this much is definitely familiar, that feeling of the spill –
and when he's squeezed it all out of Scott, he removes his hand and holds it
out to the side so as not to soil his sheets, and scoots up along the bed a
bit.
Stiles doesn't say anything. Neither does Scott.
Stiles keeps tissues in the drawers of his bedside table, of course, so he one-
handedly opens one and fishes out some tissues to clean himself with. He hands
some to Scott, throws his used ones away when he's done, and then he collapses
on his back and stares up at the ceiling, lazily pulling up his jeans and
zipping them shut.
His hand still feels sticky.
Now would be the time for awkwardness, Stiles supposes, if it's going to come
at all. He listens to Scott lie down on the bed somewhere below him, and here
they are, spread out like little snow angels on the pure white sheets, peaceful
and spent and angelic and all.
They actually did once make snow angels together. It's sort of wrong, and at
the same time, it's not.
The first thing that Stiles says to break the silence is a long, heartfelt,
“Fuck.”
Stiles can actually hear Scott flinch at that. “Huh? What? Where?” 
“Fuck,” Stiles repeats. “Did we just – did we just – was that sex?” Stiles is
torn between laughing hysterically and submitting an entry to fuckmylife dot
com. “Did you just de-virginize me?”
Scott looks as if he's about to say that that's the most ridiculous thing he's
ever heard, but then pauses. “I – well. Maybe, I don't know? Was it, did that
count?”
"I don't know," Stils says hotly. "Did it?"
"Maybe, but if so, then, um...accidentally?"
“Accidentally?” Stiles sits up at that. Some sort of hysteria laps at his nerve
endings. “'I accidentally a sex' is not a thing that really exists. It's just
an internet meme.”
"... There's a meme like that?"
“Did it count, though? I mean there wasn't any – hey, you're the not-virgin
here, you're supposed to know that stuff.”
“It's not like I ever did this with another dude before," Scott says, frown
etched into his featured. "Anyway, it's your virginity, so shouldn't you
determine if it's still there?”
“How? It's not like I can exactly just ask my body if it would prefer to still
be virginal. 'Hello Stiles's body, do you determine that the sexual encounter
that ended in orgasm does, indeed, constitute as sex?'”
“Jesus,” Scott says. Then he pauses, and Stiles can see that the chuckle starts
somewhere in his belly, works its way up his chest, and spills out in small
breaths. “Oh my God, I just – sorry for, uh, accidentally your virginity?” A
pause. “I … guess?”
Stiles stares at him. Scott looks so disgustingly sincere that Stiles can't
help but chuckle in return after a few more beats, shaking his head to himself.
“Doesn't really matter, I guess." The words actually sit right. "The virgin
sacrifice thing is done with, anyway.”
“Well, it matters...” Scott looks uncertain. He catches a look from Stiles, and
amends with a, “Or maybe not.”
They spend a few moments looking at each other, and Stiles suddenly remembers
that the fucking TV is still on and that it's evening by now. “Gonna take a
shower,” he says, and if he leaves the room a bit too quickly after that, it's
entirely by accident.
Stiles doesn't think of much while he's showering. He washes his hair, and he's
got the radio playing in the bathroom, so he sings along to it, low and growly
and overdramatic like he always does in the shower. Enjoy the Silence is the
song, ironically enough, and when the song ends, Stiles decides that no, he
really wouldn't.
Scott's sitting on the bed when Stiles comes back, all proper with his hands
folded in his lap.
“Shower's free now,” Stiles says, unnecessarily.
So Scott goes and then he comes back, and Stiles is on the floor rifling
through his DVD collection when he does.
Scott peeks at the DVD's with a certain look of foreboding on his face, and
Stiles shrugs. “I think we've finally seen everything. I'm proud of you.”
Scott gives a smile in return and sits down on the bed, drying his hair with
the towel. He hesitates, takes a look at Stiles. “So, about that -”
Stiles shrugs. “It's fine, dude. Sorry, temporary freak-out back there. Not
gonna change anything. I mean, it was actually pretty, well." He pauses. "Okay,
it was pretty awesome, kinda, and like I said, with all we've been through and
all. How stupid would that be if that were to be the thing that was, like,
game-changing?”
“Yeah.” Scott seems to let that sink in, absently rubbing his hair. “All
right.” He pauses again.
And Stiles knows that look, he knows that fucking look: it's the guilty look,
the look of the chronic hero character whose self-esteem hinges on doing
everything in the fucking world right. It's just like that face that Scott once
wore, that one time when they were in junior high and a bunch of jocks stole
Stiles's comic books and Scott couldn't help him get them back because of his
asthma, only a thousand times worse.
Stiles doesn't know what to do. They've already tried talking about it; they're
fine, mostly. No, they are, but -
Stiles looks down at his DVD covers, even though he knows them all by heart by
now. “You're dealing. In your own way. That's what counts. You're fine, and
we'll be there, right? Okay?”
Scott doesn't quite believe him, Stiles can tell. Doesn't quite believe him,
but he knows that Scott believed him back then, outside that motel.
And that's enough, and always has been.
Stiles gets up and walks back over to Scott.
 
 
 
 
 
 
End Notes
     So after Motel California, I took to my tumblr, and basically
     banshee-screamed about my Sciles feels. I wanted to write something
     with Sciles, but couldn't think of any specific scenario I wanted to
     do for them, so I asked for prompts in the Sciles tag. I received
     several prompts, which were all slightly different in the tone they
     were asking for, but what they had in common was that they were all
     asking for post-Motel California Sciles, so naturally I was like,
     WOW. THAT SOUNDS LIKE A BRILLIANT IDEA, I'M TOTALLY GONNA DO THAT /
     o/, and then I, well, did.
     Needless to say, it all went downhill fast.
     I - well, this is my first Teen Wolf fic, so that's a bit exciting. I
     definitely plan on writing more for this fandom; maybe I'll do a
     prompt thingy again on my tumblr. The url is beacockhills.tumblr.com,
     by the way.
     Anyway.
     Yeah.
     Thanks for reading!
     P.S.: What happened to the bowl of popcorn on the bed? This fic's
     greatest mystery tbh.
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