
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/940345.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Isaac_Lahey, Melissa_McCall, Sheriff
      Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Friends_to_Lovers, Sharing_a_Bed, Isaac_and_Stiles_would_probably_burn
      down_the_whole_damn_town_if_left_to_their_own_devices, Isaac_Lahey_is_not
      a_Middle_School_Private_Eye, let's_be_real_here_who_doesn't_have_a_thing
      for_Scott's_hands, I_am_on_a_cocktail_of_pain_medication_because_wisdom
      teeth, please_ignore_my_entire_personality_thank, Rutting, Hand_Jobs,
      Riding, Bottoming_from_the_Top, Bottom_Scott, Attempted_Star_Wars
  Series:
      Part 1 of Hindsight_is_20/20
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-24 Completed: 2013-09-01 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 8627
****** And, And, And- ******
by captainkoirk
Summary
     Stiles likes to be sure of things, when he can be. It comes with the
     territory; growing up on the wrong side of gangly, complete with a
     late growth spurt and a nail-biting habit. Precocious as they come
     and constantly mistaken for being younger. An ex-prodigy child with a
     mean streak that grew up too fast because a broad vocabulary means
     hitting hard and getting your barbs hooked.
     Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, knows every Pre
     and Post iteration of himself, can pick at a moment and know his own
     inevitable shifting, from Mom's death to his first day of high school
     to his first brush with lycanthropy. And yet he can't pinpoint when
     Scott's leg pressed against his own changed from something he
     wouldn't even register to the sort of thing that twists in his gut
     and pulls the air from his lungs, because Scott's been his constant
     when the world won't stop spinning and Stiles wants off, and Stiles
     can't quantify any of it.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, picking at a frayed spot on
his jeans- one too many tumbles through the undergrowth, roots and rocks and
teeth- and figuring out the exact moments his own threads began unravelling.
 
It's arbitrary, of course. There's no real point to looking back on old wounds,
of which their are many-useless, of course. Worries reduced to whatevers,piles
of cigarette butts littering the ground during a snowstorm.
 
A snowstorm of murder, mayhem, and all that fun stuff. And Stiles? Stiles is
shin-deep in the stuff, unable to move fast in any direction, be it back or
forth.
 
So, problems; the inconvenient and spontaneous erections of adolescence
suddenly overshadowed by a palpable nighttime with both hands around Stiles'
neck, squeezing tight.
 
Stiles can't do much in the ways of preemptive striking. He's got some ice
packs queued up. Deaton's on speed dial. He keeps his eyes on his father's gun.
It's not much as far as werewolves are concerned; he may as well be shooting
grapes from a slingshot, but hey.
 
On second thought, the inconvenient and spontaneous erections of adolescence
aren't completely something Stiles doesn't worry about.
 
It's like that.Stiles thinks the universe has a sick sense of humour, like
that. Sure, he spends years wishing this wasn't a pressing concern, and it's
granted in one of thoseways; life spinning around and flipping and expanding
and becoming horrifically constricting, all at once. And suddenly Stiles has
enough mental images- in glorious HD, a 4-D experience- to make his balls crawl
up inside his body, if need be.
 
And yet, it's still a problem. It's a problem when he's half-sleeping on the
floor, Scott moulded against the desk chair, the expanse of his broad chest
rippling as it contorts to fit just there. It's a problem when he wakes up, and
the sunlight filtering through the blinds highlights the skin where Scott's
shirt has ridden up, making him glow like some kind of fucking cosmic deity.
It's a problem when Stiles wants to crawl on his hands and knees and drag his
tongue over that skin.
 
Elastic band snap back to reality, Stiles can line up endless slideshows behind
his eyes featuring all kinds of grisly, boner-killing material, but even that
sort of desensitized normalcy can't distract him from the distinct abnormality
that, hello,this is his best friend he's fantasizing about, and he shouldn't
need reruns of the high-budget horror movie that is suddenly his life to
unwillingly drag his thoughts, not to mention his dick, from the gutter.
 
Stiles likes to be sure of things, when he can be. It comes with the territory;
growing up on the wrong side of gangly, complete with a late growth spurt and a
nail-biting habit. Precocious as they come and constantly mistaken for being
younger. An ex-prodigy child with a mean streak that grew up too fast because a
broad vocabulary means hitting hard and getting your barbs hooked.
 
Scott, though- Stiles thought he'd always be sure of Scott. Scott is himself-
reliable, kind, and selfless to a fault. He expects the best from himself, but
isn't afraid to ask for help. Scott's the one with the Bite, sure, but Stiles
is the one that bites.
 
Stiles knows he's still sure of Scott, though. It's himself he's not sure
about. That tunnel vision isn't helping him figure out when Scott's knee
bumping against his own started making him feel electric. And that's a goddamn
problem, right there.
 
So Stiles lies on his floor, spiral bound notebook digging into his back, face
digging into the corner of his laptop, pretending to be asleep, trying not to
dwell.
 
Scott's awake, scooting out of the chair, stretching amiably- he does
everythingamiably, that's decidedly not new, Stiles just doesn't know when it
started making him squirm- shirt rucked up, golden skin and dark hair peeking
out from under his waistband, and, and, and-
 
Stiles has a defensive vocabulary because it's some kind of armour, but he's
not sure when he started trying his hand at writing amateur harlequin novels.
Specifically, about his best friend.
 
While Stiles has been busy crashing his own train of thought (bailing out the
window and over the bridge, in fact), Scott's been moving; bare feet padding
over to wear Stiles lies, and Stiles knows there's no point in pretending to
sleep, wiping grit from his eyes and pointedly not looking and the dip of
Scott's collarbone when Scott crouches next to him, gently prodding him in the
side.
 
"I can't believe we couldn't get an extension on our Econ essays. I guess
fending off the forces of darkness isn't a legit excuse, huh?" Scott sighs, and
Stiles ignores the the rise and fall of Scott's chest; concentrates, instead,
on keeping his heartbeat even.
 
"Ugh, what time is it?" Stiles asks, wincing at the sound of his face peeling
off his laptop.
 
"Just past seven. You wanna shower first?" Scott makes to stand, and Stiles
flings an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from Scott's thighs un-bunching
and lengthening. It's too fucking early to deal with that.
 
Stiles nods, scrubbing sleep out of his eyes. A cold shower, sure. A standard
remedy for something Stiles never thought he'd be dealing with. Scott runs a
hand through his hair, and his bed head completely blind sides Stiles, and when
did this turn into thatkind of crush? Stiles scrambles to his feet, staggering
to the bathroom.
 
The cold spray jolts him awake, and Stiles scrubs with more single-mindedness
than would ever be necessary. It's not even Scott's fault, in any conceivable
way. It's Stiles that shifted the paradigm, because that's how it's always
been, between them; a push and a pull, shoving and reacting, two kids operating
on the scales of that unique brand of cruelty and kindness reserved for the
young and reckless.
 
Scott and Stiles had been finishing up their papers for Econ at Stiles' place,
reading and rereading and inhaling Redbull (well, Stiles was inhaling Redbull.
It doesn't do anything for Scott. Not anymore. Stiles would almost wish for
simpler times, but it's already near impossible not to think about the column
of Scott's neck, and how big and steady his hands are, and, and, and-).
 
He dresses, numb with routine and thankful for it all the same. Don't wish for
excitement, and certainlydon't wish for boundless leisure. Well, Stiles has
lived long enough toeing multiple lines as it is, so.
 
Scott's leaning against the counter when Stiles comes downstairs, eating All-
Bran (house rules, Scott knows) with a look of noble resignation that makes
Stiles want to laugh, want to kiss him-
 
Instead, he raises an eyebrow, smirks, tells Scott that his struggle is real,
if his face is anything to go by, and it's Scott who laughs, and that's
simultaneously better and much, much worse.
 
Of course Scott's got a struggle. Has the world on his shoulders, darkness
around his heart and a smile that reaches his eyes, and Stiles wants to, like,
spoon feed him Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Count Chocula, and Stiles wants-
 
Scott tips his bowl back, drinking up the milk dregs, and what was Stiles just
thinking about the column of his neck, because even that's struck out when
Scott grins at him, announcing that he's going to shower, that Stiles had
better have left him hot water.
 
Stiles doesn't consider himself a moper, or the sulky kind. Scott would take
his Best Friend duties very seriously if Stiles seemed unhappy in any capacity,
anyways. He always has.
 
So it's business as usual, then. Stiles focusing on the rough, grainy cereal,
pulverizes any thoughts of Scott in the shower (hisshower-).
 
They stop at the McCall residence on their way to school, Scott grabbing a
change of clothes and one Isaac Lahey. Stiles waits in the jeep, absentmindedly
fiddling with the hem of his shirt.
 
Stiles doesn't know when Isaac started making him jealous. It doesn't make it
better that things are so far from Isaac's fault that Stiles can't even seehim.
Stiles just imagine what it would be like to physically belongto Scott, to feel
him bone-deep, hear his heartbeat and breathe him in and, and, and-
 
The passenger door of the jeep opens, and there's Scott, right at Stiles' side
with Isaac scooting into the back seat, long legs sprawling over the
upholstery. Scott insists Isaac wear his seatbelt, and when Isaac wordlessly
complies, there's a little twinge of something in Stiles' gut.
 
Stiles forgot how slow the school day moves, between a relatively relaxing
summer vacation and the climax of everything that could ever possibly go wrong
in the history of everhappening.
 
Between Biology moving like molasses and Economics edging on and tripping back
and forth with on sidetrack or another, no thanks to Finstock, Stiles finds
himself focusing on the shell of Scott's ear, and, and, and-
 
Scott's waving a hand in front of his face, there's a bell ringing that isn't
some kind of alarm, and yeah, this is a problem.
 
Stiles is lying awake in bed, contemplating friendship, and it's feeling a lot
more like contemplating some kind of abyss. Scott and Him aren't best friends.
They are Best Friends, the dynamic underdog duo from every liar of a high
school movie, and Stiles wouldn't- couldn't- give it up for anything. Not even
the feeling of Scott's hands casually tucking into the back pocket of his
jeans, tilting his chin up to kiss Stiles' neck, and how is Stiles the taller
one? Definitelynot the feeling of Scott's mouth marking Stiles' skin up, purple
stains spreading under his tongue, and Stiles doesn't know when 'erotic
novelist' found its way onto his list of potential future careers.
 
There's a knock at his window, and Stiles stopped being surprised a long time
ago.
 
"I thought you were partial to taking the door. Picking up tips from the
Hales?" Stiles teases, unlatching his window and stepping back as Scott emerges
in his bedroom, uncurling his body in one fluid movement.
 
"It's, uh, kind of late. On a school night. And there's no emergency. And your
dad's sleeping, and I didn't want to disturb-" Scott has the good grace to look
sheepish, even if he and Stiles have been past guilt for a longtime.
 
"Scott. What's up?" Stiles asks, and he never thought he'd be the kind of
person that has to fight to keep their heart outof their voice.
 
The line of Scott's shoulders go all soft, though, and Stiles is cool with
finding success in his failure. "It's been a stressful few months." Scott
blurts out. "Besides everything else, I mean. I almost lost you, you're my Best
Friend-"
 
Stiles hears the capitals, there, and it does good and bad things to his chest,
because he shouldn't want-
 
Scott crosses over from the window in two big strides, but he hovers next to
the bed, forehead creased in a frown, and Stiles moves over immediately,
plugging up the geyser of thoughts welling up about Scott in his bed.
 
It's not like they haven't before. Sleepovers and passing out on the sofa or on
the floor, cradling xbox controllers or Math textbooks. They've never been
awkward about cases of Ye Olde Morning Wood, and Stiles is having a vague
flashback to them at eleven, Stiles panicking and Scott explaining in soothing
terms some of the nurse jargon his mother told him about puberty, how it's
perfectly normal to experience-
 
Scott settles into the mattress, socks and dark denim over shirt and all, arm
tucked under his head, and he's looking at Stiles with this intensity that
makes Stiles want to preen and wither at the same time.
 
They're lying on their sides, facing each other, and when Scott hooks an arm
around Stiles, broad palm against the small of his back, Stiles wants to arch
his back and melt against it, wants to jump up and run, because he loves it in
an achy, unrequited way that's making his throat go all tight.
 
"Hey," Scott says, and Stiles has built a liar out of himself, and where it
counts, he is very, verygood. It's not when he's flailing behind some flimsy
cover- physical cover or cover story or otherwise- but it's right down to the
lines of his body and the muscles of his face, and Stiles never thought he'd be
using these weapons against Scott (or rather, himself).
 
"things are okay, I think." Scott continues, and the hand on Stiles' back is
circling, warm and solid and under his skin, and, and, and-
 
"We're safe." Scott says, for Stiles and himself, and Stiles believes him.
 
"I thought, when you left with Deucalion, and I couldn't- I'm the one with the
plan,Scott-" Things are crawling up out Stiles' throat, unbidden; shoving past
his vocal chords in a messy spew, and Stiles wishes he could hate that Scott
makes him gut-wrenchingly honest.
 
Scott pulls him in, then; sharing his air and keeping him grounded with that
fucking hand, burning through Stiles' pyjama shirt and right out the other
side. Stiles isn't a stranger to Scott's proximity, though neither of them are
exceptionally-well, huggy. They don't have secrets from each other, and Stiles
doesn't count his own, because a secret is between two people, and what he has
is a silent fact he's hardly sharing with himself.
 
The body moves while the conscious is otherwise occupied, though; and that's
kind of essential for Stiles, with internal narration and geriatric murderers
on the loose hardly mixing, but now he's got one hand curled tight in the
fabric of Scott's shirt, and Scott's breath is a warm rush against his nose,
and it tingles.
 
"Hey." Scott starts again, and his arms are strong around Stiles' waist, and
Stiles' growth spurt doesn't even register when Scott tucks him under his chin.
Stiles has a handful of reasons- not excuses, he's sure- for his runaway pulse,
but Scott's heartbeat is steady, and this is somewhere Stiles can follow him.
 
"Don't go where I can't follow." Stiles says, muffled against Scott's chest,
and Scott hums with a kind of reassurance, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut,
because this is good and bad, and, and, and-
 
His dad doesn't bat an eyelash when he wakes them up for school, and Stiles
knows waking up wrapped in Scott isn't even something he should be considering
anything,anyways- because it's them, and they don't have boundaries because
they're not supposed to feel thatway about each other.
 
And yet.
 
Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, knows every Pre and Post
iteration of himself, can pick at a moment and know his own inevitable
shifting, from Mom's death to his first day of high school to his first brush
with lycanthropy. And yet he can't pinpoint when Scott's leg pressed against
his own changed from something he wouldn't even register to the sort of thing
that twists in his gut and pulls the air from his lungs, because Scott's been
his constant when the world won't stop spinning and Stiles wants off, and
Stiles can't quantify any of it.
 
So when Scott mumbles "five more minutes" and keeps his eyes screwed shut
against the invading sunlight, Stiles keeps his own eyes on the length of
Scott's dark lashes, and how his lips are parted (the thin line of saliva
stretched out in Scott's mouth, and that shouldn't be pornographic in any way,
but-).
 
Stiles rolls out of bed, and Scott's noise of protest makes Stiles
simultaneously smug and and hopeless and angry at himself about both.
 
Stiles can remember the first time he lied to an authority figure (got the ball
rolling), but he can't remember when Scott being his first kiss (they were
eleven, wildly nervous about middle school girls and social expectations, how
do you kiss?) stopped definitely not-counting and started being something he
holds onto with a misplaced sense of ownership, because he was first,with
Blistex brand chapstick, scabs on his knees and dirt on his nails on a sticky
summer day.
 
Sometime after first period, Isaac doesn't quite corner him. Isaac's just a
tall guy that lopes instead of walking.
 
"So, did you guys finally fall into that whole we-almost-died-I-almost-lost-
you-sudden-surge-of-emotionally-charged-sex-haze? Because that's two nights in
a row. Nice."
 
Stiles isn't entirely sure what he and Isaac have qualifies as wholesome
friendship. It's like they had a mutual realization that if Scott left them
alone together they'd, like, get burgers and rob a bank and quite possibly kill
a man together. It's a little weird, but Stiles can get that morally grey
thought process. He's sure the main reason that they don't join forces and use
their combined powers and prowesses for some kind of dodgy activity is that
Scott would be disappointed in them. So they have weird banter instead.
 
"What?" Stiles blinks, and okay, maybe 'banter' isn't the right word.
 
Isaac raises bothhis eyebrows, and he looks just as surprised at the fact that
he can as he is at Stiles' response. "Seriously? But you both smell like each
other and- oh, god- I'm, like, eighty percent sure Ethan can smell it too, and
seventy percent sure he's gonna ask for advice,on the whole werewolf-to-human
issue- well, shit."
 
Stiles just fixes Isaac with a B-Grade glower, and Isaac smirks, because that's
what they do.
 
"Well, do you want to?" Isaac asks, with his honest kind of directness that
still makes Stiles jealous, because Scott's not the lying type, and Isaac isn't
(weirdly enough), but Stiles is, and-
 
"Want what?" Not like Stiles doesn't know.
 
"A we-almost-died-I-almost-lost-you-sudden-surge-of-emotionally-charged-sex-
haze. With Scott. Obviously." Isaac crosses his arms over his chest, and Stiles
is jealous of that broad chest and that jaw and those cherubic curls, even
though he really shouldn't be, because it's not like Isaac's had it easy, or
anything.
 
Stiles lets out this long-suffering sigh. "Human lie detector, what's even the
point-" and Isaac fixes him with this equally long-suffering stare, and their
friendship isn't wholesome, but it's got real substance.
 
"I stilldon't know how you two losers survive," Isaac sniffs. "and this isn't
middle school, but I'm willing to put off that Biology questions package and
play private eye. You owe me."
 
"I didn't even ask-" Stiles starts, but he and Isaac are, surprisingly, not the
arguing types, even if they hate admitting the other is right. The closest
thing they come to fighting over is Scott's approval, and Stiles can pinpoint
the moment when he started being jealous of the Egon Schiele sketch-turned
Michelangelo statue giving him a look that says shut up, I'm doing you a
favour.
 
That night, Scott's at his bedroom window again, and Stiles resists the urge to
run across his room and fling open the window, drag Scott in by his collar,
and, and, and-
 
Instead, Stiles walks over to the window, unlocks and opens it with minimal
fumbling, and when Scott says "I'm afraid of there being nightmares, after-
" Stiles hugs him first, quashing the guilt he feels at curling a hand around
the bare skin at the base of Scott's neck.
 
Stiles walks them backwards, and when he falls back, Scott's right there next
to him.
 
"My dad's still hanging around."
 
Stiles wrinkles his nose, and Scott snorts at his expression.
 
"Yeah, basically."
 
Stiles doesn't know how anyone couldn't love Scott and Melissa, especially
someone with the supposed smarts of an FBI field agent. Doesn't get how anyone
could feel anything less than unabashed adoration for them (his own un-
unabashed-ness, something beyond sheepish that Stiles doesn't like thinking
about, in regards to Scott is totally different, it's because that's not what
they do, he's the Best Friend with capital letters).
 
"He's such a tool." Stiles says, because he can't say anyone that can't look at
you and Melissa and be completely bowled over and filled with admiration and
love doesn't even register,because that's not for him, but then again, it's not
really for anyone else, either. So Stiles pushes, just a little.
 
"I mean," Stiles starts, and he feels a flush on the back of his neck. "it's
you.It's Melissa.How could anyone, not- just, he doesn't deserve you two."
 
Scott's looking at him, and Stiles knows there's something distinctly flutter-
y going on in his chest.
 
Scott rests one of those broad palms on Stiles' cheek, and Stiles can feel his
heart stop and start all at once, all again when Scott rests his forehead
against Stiles' own. When Scott breathes in, Stiles hopes he's in that rush of
air, hopes he's stuck inside Scott's lungs forever, how Scott's been in his
veins since Stiles' can't remember, and, and, and-
 
Stiles wakes up on the horizontal side of the bed, and taller he may be, but
he's the little spoon. Scott's mouth is pressed against the skin where his neck
meets his shoulder, and Stiles will steal his moments where he can, keeping his
breathing slow, pretending to sleep.
 
He's partial to his rule of threes, but the first night was just a homework
session, and this is Scott.
 
Scott shifts, splaying a hand over Stiles' chest, and Stiles is sure that it's
Scott's hands that are stopping him from taking this crush with his usual
resignation, that make it impossible to ignore the constant ache, Scott
invading every crevice of his mind because he's always been there (Stiles can
be a little honest with himself, at least).
 
When Scott opens his eyes, lashes tickling the column of Stiles' neck, Stiles
back arches, just a little, and Scott follows him, flush against Stiles' back,
all the from shoulders to hips and knees and oh, hips-
 
"S'Saturday." Scott mumbles, lips moving against the nook of Stiles' neck, cool
against the heat Stiles is sure is rising on his skin. Or maybe it's like a
little burn.
 
"Yeah." Stiles breathes out, and this is the first Saturday in a while that he
hasn't spent holding off some evil or another.
 
Scott kisses Stiles' temple, then, a sloppy thing that makes Stiles feel
electric all the way down to his toes, and when Scott makes to move, Stiles is
sure his hand reaching back to hook in the belt loop of Scott's jeans is
involuntary.
 
Scott puts his hand over Stiles' like he's making to move, and when he does,
swinging his legs over the side of the bed and spreading his toes on the floor,
Stiles can't, because this is inconsistent with their constance and Stiles
won't.
 
"You can't just-" Stiles starts, and his face is hot, buried in his hands, and
he's curling in to his centre, and when he peeks at Scott between his fingers,
and, and, and-
 
Scott's looking at him some kind of curious, and it's all too much, and when
Stiles breathes get back here, you can't just-(there's some kind of whine in
his voice, and) Scott springs, with the traces of something lupine bunched in
the muscles of his thighs, and oh.
 
He's bracketing Stiles' head between those hands- big and capable and too
gentle hands- and when Stiles meets his eyes, squirms- just a little, Scott
says can I,and it's Stiles who growls, and everything is a mess of the werand
the wulf.
 
Scott sinks against him, jeans sleep-warm, and Stiles wants him under his skin,
inside his chest cavity, and he can't figure out the when or the where or the
how or the why, but Scott's mouth still tastes like Blistex chapstick.
 
Stiles can do tunnel vision with the best of them, and he knows that Scott's
got a long tongue (summer of the eighth grade, it had been a contest to see,
and Scott's tongue had been Gatorade blue, Stiles knows), and the drag of it
against his mouth is all he needs to focus on, and the whens and wheres and
hows and whys don't matter at all.
 
Scott sits back, hands still tight on Stiles' hips, and Stiles' crawls onto his
lap, chasing Scott's mouth and bracketing Scott's hips with his thighs. He's
not hovering, not at all- pressing down with his usual brand of insistence, and
when Scott's hands squeeze, Stiles grinds down, and when Scott responds from
deep in his chest- that's delicious.
 
"When did you…?" Scott asks, and it's breathless and small and too much,and
Stiles shoves him into the mattress.
 
"Don'tknowdon'tcare." He mutters against Scott's mouth, and when Scott's lips
curve into a smile, bending Stiles' tongue a little weird, Stiles is sure he
sees fucking fireworks behind his eyelids.
 
"Me neither."
 
Stiles stops, then; narrows his eyes, and when Scott smiles bright and
blinding, pushes his tongue under the jut of Stiles' jaw, Stiles knows he can't
go backtrack (but he always knew, with Scott).
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
When Scott bucks his hips up, meeting Stiles in the middle, hands pressed on
Stiles' bare hipbones under his shirt- everything sort of hitsStiles, right
square in the chest. Scott leans up, curving off the mattress, pushing his open
mouth against Stiles' neck, humming with content. He's giving Stiles all his
attention- teeth barely-there, hands pointedly above the belt- like they have
all the time in the world, like Stiles doesn't need more than two hands and
several minutes to list off their near-death experiences with any degree of
accuracy. It's grounding and dizzying, and Stiles doesn't know how- how he's
supposed to keep it together, like this, and, and, and-
 
Scott nips him, light and playful. "You with me, dude?" He asks, and his eyes
are so dark and warm and they're making Stiles' mouth go dry.
 
"I- it's a lot to take in." Stiles admits, and the tips of his ears are
burning, because he can't get anything past Scott, and it's unnerving and
liberating all at once.
 
"Do you want me to stop?" Scott asks, hands lifting from Stiles' hips, and the
noise that claws it's way up Stiles' throat is some kind of animalistic.
 
"Oh-don't you dare, fuck, Scott, I'll-" Stiles snarls, grabbing Scott's hands
and shoving them into the back pockets of his jeans, biting Scott's lower lip.
 
Scott grins, then; squeezing Stiles' ass, nudging open Stiles' mouth with his
tongue, rolls his hips under Stiles with intent. Stiles pushes down, trying to
pick up some kind of rhythm, and how are they both still fully clothed? Stiles
can't even focus on that, though- not with Scott's tongue slick against his
own, caught up in a blisteringly hot kiss like he's the centre of Scott's whole
universe.
 
Scott kisses like Stiles is his everything; dipping down to suck on Stiles'
pulse points and tease Stiles' collarbones with his teeth, trailing his way
back up to Stiles' mouth and sucking Stiles' brain out through his tongue.
Stiles melts against Scott's body, just letting himself sink,and his skin is
tender and red and blotchy with Scott's single-mindedness and purposeful mouth
(of courseScott's a kisser), and the friction of Scott's jeans feels good, but
it could feel better, if-
 
"Stiles, you gotta- Stiles." Scott groans, and it rumbles from his chest
through his body, like Stilesis making him fall apart, and that's happening,
that's actually happening- Stiles is making Scott fall apart under him, and,
and, and-
 
Stiles pushes Scott down into the mattress, and he's not sure what any of his
limbs are doing, but when he writhes against Scott, it's all denim and gravity
and thosehands on his body.
 
"Stiles." Scott gasps, and it's drawn out with the arching of his back and how
his hands- wide, callused palms and spread fingers- scramble for purchase on
Stiles' shoulders, clutching at Stiles' face. "Stiles, how d'you want- doyou
want-"
 
It clicks, then, and Stiles feels caught in his own sweat-slick skin. Scott
kisses like they have forever- that's a concept, the time spanning forward that
Stiles gets to have Scott, and he can't think about anything beyond that,
because Scott's his fucking pivoting point- like Stiles is his lifeline; it's
not desperate, but there's drive and intent and all of Scott's intensity, and
it's focused on Stiles.Scott wants- Stiles can't call it fucking; certainly
can't call it love-making,for all that he wants to; sex sounds clinical, but
it's in the middle, sort of- Scott wants sex with Stiles. Scott McCall, who is
a fucking Disney prince inside and out, wants to engage in honest-to-god
intercoursewith Stiles,and is looking at Stiles like he hangs the moon, and
it's making Stiles' brain shut down and compact and self destruct, and Stiles
hasn't replied yet-
 
"I want to, Scott, I- I don't know how we're gonna, I never let myself think
about how we'd-"
 
Scott sits up, one smooth shift of muscles under skin, and he's wrapping broad
arms Stiles' waist, kissing him small and gentle, just noses bumping and lips
brushing. "You never let yourself- oh, Stiles." There's nothing like pity in
his voice, just warmth that Stiles wants to wrap himself in, and he basically
can, so.
 
"It's you,it's like I'd be completely changing the playing field, and you
didn't sign up for that." Stiles buries his face in Scott's shoulder, and he
remembers spring of the tenth grade, when he finallywas the taller of the two.
 
"Hey," Scott says, stroking the back of Stiles' neck. "hey, Stiles, look at me,
okay?"
 
Stiles bumps his forehead against Scott's, and his face is a blur, but Scott's
at it again with tender, chaste kisses, and it's almost enough to make Stiles
forget how horny he is. Sort of almost, maybe. Stiles is veryhorny. He's almost
positive Scott could bring him off just by kissing him enough.
 
Stiles could get off just like this, rutting against Scott's jeans with Scott's
mouth soft on his own. Sex,though- the two of them could- Stiles isn't sure how
he wants this, whether it'll be achingly slow and brain-meltingly passionate or
desperate friction and Stiles' nails down Scott's back, and, and, and-
 
Stiles doesn't register that he's still moving, grinding against Scott's lap
and clutching at his shoulders, until Scott squeezes the back of his neck, just
on the right side of firm. Stiles stills, then, leaning back just enough to
clearly see Scott's face.
 
Scott's eyes are heavy-lidded, and his stare makes Stiles' skin feel too tight.
Scott nudges his nose under the corner of Stiles' jaw, worrying Stiles' earlobe
between his lips, and Stiles doesn't know why that feels so amazing- it's an
earlobe,for fuck's sake.
 
"D'you want your cock in me?" Scott asks, mouth tickling the shell of Stiles'
ear, and his voice is something sweet that Stiles could drown in, like a vat of
dark chocolate, or something.
 
Stiles tries to respond- a nod, a 'yes', anything-but he can't manage anything
beyond a strangled stutter that could loosely be construed as Scott's name,
because Scott's smoothed a hand under Stiles' shirt and splayed it over his
ribs, and it covers so muchof his chest. Scott laughs into Stiles' mouth, and
it's friendly,and Stiles can't quantify their relationship at all, because
Scott's been his everything longer than Stiles cares to know, and now they
have- Stiles doesn't know, but he can't think about anything beyond it, it's so
much.
 
Scott shifts, then; tipping his hips up and chin back, smiling so easily
against Stiles' mouth, like this is just some kind of simple happiness, and
Stiles just can't with this.
 
Stiles comes in his jeans, hands scrambling for purchase in the fabric of
Scott's shirt, spewing a chain of expletives and affirmations, hips spasming in
Scott's lap. Scott's looking up at him with some kind of unabashed awe, eyes
bright and mouth slack, and Stiles makes to apologize because he just-and
Scott's rolled them over, pulling off Stiles' shirt and pressing the length of
his body fully against Stiles, hands pushing at the small of Stiles' back,
canting Stiles' hips forward.
 
Stiles knows he's flushing all over, across his shoulders and down his chest,
and he hasn't been embarrassed in front of Scott in years,but this is sort of a
whole different ball game.
 
"Oh, god. I can't believe I just-" Stiles chokes out, but Scott's mouthing at
Stiles' crotch, and that's not what Stiles was expecting.
 
Stiles props himself up on his elbows, and Scott's unzipping his jeans with his
teeth, grinning sharp and white, and Stiles needs a moment. Or ten.
 
Stiles falls back into the mattress, and the noise he makes must be some kind
of hysterical, because Scott stops- Stiles' jeans and boxers  shoved halfway
down his thighs, Scott's tongue on Stiles' dick- and shimmies up Stiles' torso,
resting a sticky chin on Stiles' stomach.
 
"Stiles?"
 
Stiles lets out a distressed half-laugh, flinging an arm over his eyes. "I
totally just came in my pants. In our first sexy encounter. And you're- you're
unzipping my jeans with your teeth like some kind of sex god and licking up my-
fuck, Scott."
 
Scott's looking at Stiles all soft, and he kisses him just under the navel.
"It's not like… I'm not a sex god-" Scott blushes, and Stiles isn't sure how
he's supposed to get used to this. "-like, sex isn't… just do what feels good,
and don't feel embarrassed or anything."
 
"Are you missing the part where I came in my pants?"
 
"It's not- I mean, I thought it was really hot, so."
 
"You think I- when I, you?"
 
"I wanna taste you, and… it makes me smell like you." Scott stumbles, and
Stiles doesn't know how Scott's flipped it, how Scott's acting like he's the
embarrassing one.
 
"You wanna smell like- oh my god,why are you still wearing clothes?"
 
Scott shrugs, peeling off his shirt and tugging off his jeans, crawling over
Stiles and sprawling on his chest. Stiles is really onboard with how Scott's
ass looks in his black boxer briefs. And the bare muscled planes of his back.
 
"You're still hard." Stiles mumbles into the crown of Scott's head, and the
smell of Scott's shampoo is so familiar, but Stiles never thought about it in
the context of we could shower together, if we wanted.
 
Scott shrugs again, muscles rippling down his back. "You don't have to-"
 
"Stop being the personification of a salted caramel mocha, for like, one
minute."
 
"-That doesn't make sense?"
 
Stiles sits up, pushing a hand down Scott's stomach. "I wantto touch you, you
fucking- oh, remind me to say 'hello' to each of your abs individually, later-"
 
Scott writhes,leaning into Stiles' touch and making all kinds of desperate
noises, eyes and cheeks some kind of feverish, and oh.Stiles can read Scott
better than anyone, he's sure. It's years of existing without personal space,
and Stiles knows what Scott likes, even if he's only just learning what Scott
likes in the context of sex.
 
"You like- you asked if I wanted my cock in you- fuck, Scott-"
 
"I always have to… when I'm with you, I can let go."
 
"Oh my god. Lie down."
 
Scott rolls off Stiles, lying on his back propped up on his elbows, legs
spread. Stiles kicks off his jeans, crawling over to straddle Scott's thighs.
He has a vague idea of what to do- not that he's bragging about his
masturbatory skills, or anything- and he's pretty sure he can make up for his
lack of experience with enthusiasm. It works in real life- except holy shit,
this isStiles' life, now. Stiles' life is inhaling vanilla Oreos and playing
Halo and ignoring Econ homework with Scott, and it's kissing Scott and sex with
Scott and Scott letting go with him, and, and, and-
 
Scott's saying his name like some kind of prayer, and when Stiles finally
touches him, he doesn't stutter. His body arches, and it's so seamless, and
Stiles wants to drag his tongue over that skin, doesdrag his tongue over that
skin when he realizes that he can.
 
Stiles wants to mark up Scott's skin, frustrated that he can't no matter what
he does. He's got his teeth in the dip of Scott's shoulder, palm dragging up
the length of Scott's cock, and Scott isn't even trying to stay quiet.
 
"I'm just touching you, and you're- I haveyou, Scott. Your hickies all over my
neck, too high up to- your skin smells like me. Everyone's gonna know that you
belong to me, fuck. We get to… you could pin me against a wall like I didn't
weigh anything, suck me off, swallow my come- or would you like it better on
your face?"
 
"Stiles-" Scott's voice is high in the back of his throat, heels digging into
the mattress.
 
"-You would,and you'd lick it up, and- fuck, Scott, you've got all this power
and you want me to, want me… what if I bent you over you over that fucking
motorbike, and-"
 
"-Stiles, I need-"
 
"What do you need? Anything, Scott, you know that I'm yours, right?" Stiles
curves his wrist, tries to mould himself right against Scott's body, doesn't
stifle his groan when Scott digs blunt, human nails into his bicep.
 
"Oh, that's-" Scott keens, hooking an ankle over Stiles' calf. When Stiles
thumbs his slit, Scott throws his head back, lewd and delicious, and Stiles
doesn't stop himself from licking all the way up the column of Scott's neck,
flicking his tongue over Scott's mouth.
 
When Scott comes, he contorts in the sheets, and the sound of slick skin
against skin makes Stiles lightheaded. They're just two gross teenagers on a
Saturday morning, getting off with grinding and handjobs, and when Stiles
cleans Scott's come off his hand with his tongue, Scott pounceson him, leaving
a hickey on the inside of his left knee.
 
"You're-hey, I meant it when I said I'd say 'hello' to each of your abs
individually." Stiles shoves playfully at Scott's chest, and it's reminiscent
of all their horsing around over the years, and that's sweet and more than a
little hot.
 
"What- oh."
 
Stiles pushes his mouth against Scott's stomach, licking up his come in slow
tugs, feeling Scott's muscles clench and spasm under him.
 
"You'd better've also meant it when you said you'd bend me over my motorbike."
Scott growls, hand tight in Stiles' hair while Stiles hums appreciatively
against his abdomen, and again it occurs to Stiles that he gets to haveScott,
as much as he wants.
 
"Oh, my god!"
 
"Stiles?"
 
"It's a Saturday, and we're- we get to have so much intercourse.With each
other. Oh my god." Stiles is laughing in a feverish, frenzied way that sounds
more than a little more maniacal.
 
Scott smiles at him, and it's so sweet and happy, and he pulls Stiles against
him with this contented sigh, and he kisses his temple, and, and, and-
 
"D'you have any lube?"
 
"What? You're- already?"
 
"No! No, nope. I need, like, minutes. But. It would suck if we got into it and
we didn't have any. Preparedness."
 
"You're a handsome Boyscout. A handsome Boyscout that belongs to me."
 
Scott blushes, rubbing the back of his neck and lowering his lashes, and Stiles
pulls him in for one of those all-consuming kisses, cradling Scott's face in
his hands. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles' waist, holding him close, and
Stiles could never get used to this.
 
"I don't have any."
 
"What?" Scott asks, sleepily, pressing sloppy kisses across Stiles' cheeks and
over the bridge of his nose.
 
"Lube."
 
"Mhm. I do. Just lemme-" Scott pins Stiles against the mattress, slotting his
body against Stiles', digging his face under Stiles' jaw and inhaling,open-
mouthed and wet.
 
"Oh-" Stiles breathes, and when he squirms, Scott growls, and his whole body
tingles. "You're such a weirdo." He laughs, Scott's lips tickling his neck.
 
"You smell amazing." Scott smiles, all innocence, as he sits back, and Stiles
bites at his mouth.
 
Scott grabs jeans from the floor, tugging them on over his bare ass, and Stiles
hooks a hand in his belt loop, refusing to let go until Scott kisses him
compliant. Scott puts on Stiles' shirt, and it's far too tight across the
chest, and there's what feels like miles of skin between the hem and the
waistband of Scott's jeans. Stiles grabs at him again, laving a tongue over the
trail of dark hair under Scott's navel, and Scott lets out an indignant squeak.
 
"You do know I'm trying to enableyour dick up my ass, right?"
 
"You look so sexed-up in my clothes, though. And I'm responsible." Stiles
smirks against Scott's stomach, grazing his teeth over Scott's hip.
 
Scott hauls Stiles up by his shoulders, stumbling back into Stiles' bed when
Stiles hooks his legs around Scott's hips, tugging.
 
"Stiles." Scott groans, wriggling away when Stiles presses insistently against
his thigh. "Stiles. I want to ride you until you forget your own name. In order
to facilitate-"
 
"Facilitate? Nice. SAT word?" Stiles cups Scott's ass with both hands. "And I'm
sodown for that, by the way, but you don't get to rub up against me and
inhaleme, before leaving wearing my way too-tight shirtwithout me getting in
some weirdness of my own."
 
"I'll be back in five minutes."
 
"I hope you run into Isaac on your Walk of Shame." Stiles teases.
 
"Walk of Shame? Nah, I'm calling it my Stride of Pride." Scott laughs, kissing
Stiles on the nose, and that's all it takes to make Stiles completely melt.
 
"Five minutes. I'm timing you." Stiles says, but he's breathless, and Scott's
smile makes something warm bloom in his chest.
 
Scott's back in four minutes and fifteen seconds, and he's red in a way that
has nothing to do with physical exertion.
 
"Oh, you- you didrun into Isaac, didn't you? Oh my god. I'm gonna ask him to
imitate your face, later."
 
"I wouldhave been back in three minutes, but he let out this abrupt scream of a
laugh. I thought he was possessed."
 
"At least you didn't run into your mom."
 
"Oh my god."
 
Scott practically runs across the room, stumbling out of his jeans and peeling
off Stiles' shirt before barrelling into the bed, supplies in hand. Stiles
curves into him, getting his hands on Scott's bare skin as Scott straddles him.
 
"So, I've still got my V-Card. Even if I'm holding onto it very loosely, at the
moment. Have you ever… with a dude?"
 
"No, but Allison and I… we didn't exactly, but we tried. Stuff. We tried
stuff."
 
Stiles expects to feel a pang of some kind of jealousy when Scott talks about
Allison, but he doesn't. Stiles likesAllison, cares for her like a sister, and
he's kind of figured out that her and Scott are in different places, now.
"That's hot, dude."
 
Scott blushes, failing at trying not to grin. "Are you comfortable? With all
this?"
 
Stiles stretches, arching his back and spreading his legs. "Do I
lookcomfortable?"
 
Scott pointedly doesn't look at Stiles' dick. "Well, just, uhm-"
 
"Yeah. I am. I want to."
 
Scott takes a deep breath, squirming a little in Stiles' lap. "Okay, okay.
Just, if we need to stop, for any reason, tell me."
 
Stiles gives Scott a lazy, two-fingered salute, and that's all it takes.
 
Scott grabs the plastic bottle, popping the cap. He's kneeling over Stiles, one
hand braced against the headboard, thighs shaking a little. Stiles reaches to
touch him without thinking, soothing his hands over Scott's tensed muscles.
 
"Hey, hey, would it be easier if I helped with anything? You could talk me
through it, 'cause I gotta learn some time, right?"
 
"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good. Give me your hand?"
 
They fumble a little, Scott warming the lube against Stiles' fingers and
guiding Stiles' hand between his legs. Scott gasps when Stiles pushes a middle
finger inside of him, body curving concave, shoulders bunching. Stiles rests a
hand on the small of Scott's back, and all the blood from his brain rushes to
his dick when Scott whines, high in the back of his throat, all visceral
frustration.
 
"You gotta move, gotta do some- oh,your fingers are really long-"
 
Stiles tries to work methodically- this is more necessity than foreplay- but
it's the two of them, existing in each other's space and madly tuned in with
each other, and when Stiles notices Scott's breath hitching when he crooks his
fingers just there,it's in his blood and muscles and brain to chart that
course. He holds himself back when he can, focusing on what they both really,
reallywant.
 
Scott's hands are steady when he rolls the condom and drags lube-slick hands
over Stiles' cock, but he's breathing fast and off-tempo.
 
"You freaking out a little? I'm freaking out a little." Stiles tries to laugh,
but he sounds wrecked,and Scott kisses him hard and sharp when he settles onto
Stiles' cock.
 
The air is completely gone from Stiles' lungs, and for a moment, the two of
them are completely still and staring.They've crossed all these lines, and
they're something more, now- on the crest of something Stiles can't think
about, can't let his imagination run wild. Stiles is the first to move- another
part of their endless cycle of push and pull- and Scott follows like he always
does, hands curled tight on Stiles' shoulders.
 
Scott rocks against him, and his thighs are still shaking, and the skin across
his knuckles is taught, but when Stiles rests a hand on his cheek, his lines go
all soft, and it makes something in Stiles' ache,at his very centre. Scott
kisses him, then, loud and wet and filthy,and Stiles can see stars.
 
"Can you talk, again?" Scott asks, pressed to Stiles' mouth, so sweet, and
Stiles grabs at his hips, needs to touch.
 
"Like… before?"
 
Scott nods, nose bumping against Stiles', grinding into Stiles' lap and
lowering his lashes. Stiles bites Scott's lower lip, and Scott laughs, and it's
such a clear, familiar sound that Stiles can feel right through him, and this
is them-ScottnStiles, moving with each other- and it's sweet and lewd and
desperate by turns, and Stiles wants allof it.
 
"You like it when Italk dirty to you- oh, my god,come here-" Stiles wraps his
arms around Scott's waist, and that's a goodangle, and when Stiles bucks his
hips, still trying to find the right rhythm, Scott thrashesin his lap,
lascivious noises and stronghands dragging down Stiles' back.
 
"Stiles-"
 
"-Of course I can talk- anything you ask, you know that, right? I'm yours-you
have me, always-"
 
"Stiles-" Scott's hands are on his face, spread from jaw to temple, and his
eyes are locked on Stiles'.
 
"-lookat you, filled up with my cock, you're so good,you know that, right? You
feel amazing, and we're- it's us,it's always been us- god, I meantit when I
said I'd bend you over that fucking motorbike, and you'd betterpin me against a
wall and- you could bring me off just with your hands, those hands,holding me
down, I'd-"
 
Stiles gasps when Scott squirms, and their movements are erratic, now. Scott's
cock bobs against his stomach, and when Stiles touches him, he wants the sound
of Scott coming undone (with him) to be as clear and familiar as his laughter.
 
Scott's moving his hands over Stiles' skin, but it's not so much roving at it
is placement; slow and frantic by turns, palms resting feather-light and
pushing insistently in the dips and swells of Stiles' body. Stiles blushes,
then, and he can't look at the wonder on Scott's face; focuses instead of
bringing him off, hands slow and deliberate.
 
Scott's saying his name like a mantra, and it's making heat coil in Stiles'
belly.
 
"I-" He chokes out, and Scott cups his face in both hands, making Stiles look
at him, and Stiles' brain shorts out, words lost somewhere in the back of his
mouth. Scott's looking at him, and Stiles is sure he's mirroring his
expression, and they're both so starstruckwith each other, with the safe
familiarity and the unexplored possibility of them,and, and, and-
 
Scott comes shouting Stiles' name, wide eyes dark and wild, and it makes
something in Stiles' head explode like cartoon dynamite- how much Scott
wantshim- and Stiles kisses Scott with an edge to his teeth and a hand tight in
Scott's hair. Scott says his name, again, soft against his mouth, back arching
and hands searching, and Stiles comes when he yanks Scott's head down by the
hair, on the right side of rough, tongue in Scott's mouth trapping Scott's name
in the back of his throat.
 
They're lying side by side, facing each other with arms tucked under their
heads and bent knees; two halves, always. The sun's higher in the sky, now, and
there are gold bars spread over Scott's stomach, filtered through the slats of
the blinds. Stiles reaches out and touches because he can, and Scott smiles
sleepy and small, and runs a finger down the curve of Stiles' nose.
 
"You're nose is like a ski slope. It's cute."
 
"Poetry, dude."
 
Scott pulls him against his chest, laughing, and they're more than a little
gross, but Stiles melts into it, moulding himself against Scott's bare skin as
Scott kisses the crown of his head. Scott tucks him under his chin, and Stiles
loves the gesture, feels so secure, even if his feet stick out.
 
"Okay, then let's hear some of yourpoetry."
 
"Hey, I could write balladsabout your gorgeous dick-"
 
"Gorgeous dick?"
 
"It comes with the territory. You know, eyes like hot coffee on a starry night,
smile that puts the sun to shame, gorgeous dick-"
 
Scott kisses him so gently, tipping his chin up with his thumb and forefinger,
and makes Stiles feel so debauched with the intimacyof it, and he can't
breathe, and it's not scary, it's wonderful, and, and, and-
 
"Mhm. D'you want cookies?"
 
"What?"
 
"There's chocolate chips at my house. I could bake you some."
 
"Wow, your house has lube andchocolate chips. Maybe I should just live there,
dude." Stiles wants to shove the words back into his mouth, because that
must've sounded weird,because Best Friends ScottnStiles would joke about living
together, but this is, does Scott need space now that they're-Stiles hasn't
quantified it, yet-
 
"I think my Mom's already got a tax claim on you. May as well get some benefits
of our own, dude." Scott laughs, so easy, and Stiles laughs with him, and his
he's so happy.
 
"Just amazing sex and fresh-baked cookies all the time. I love you." And again,
Stiles wishes he hadn't said anything, because Best Friends ScottnStiles love
you, man,but this isn't planned and scrutinized yet, and Stiles has always been
able to bare himself to Scott, but this is-
 
"I know." Scott says, and Stiles doesn't understand.
 
They're silent, and Stiles' heart is hammering, because he doesn't understand
what Scott meant when he said I know,and he can't brush this off and laugh and
play it down, and he can't meet Scott's eyes.
 
"I was trying to quote Star Wars." Scott mumbles, and, and, and-
 
"You, oh-no, you're too upstanding to be Han Solo, that scoundrel. You're
Princess Leia, and oh my god, I loveyou." Stiles knows he must sound completely
unhinged, but Scott is kissing his cheeks and the curve of his nose and the
corner of his mouth, and, and, and-
Chapter End Notes
     hello! I'm fully recovered from the removal of my wisdom teeth, and
     back to lucidity. You guys have been wonderfully sweet (as always).
     Air kisses for all!!
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