
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1275292.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Best_Friends, Ass_Play, Fingerfucking, Boys_Being_Boys, Kissing, Hand
      Jobs, Mutual_Masturbation, Pining, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-06 Words: 2925
****** Everything is Horrible and Great ******
by wangler
Summary
     "You wouldn't know a vulva if it fell on your face," Stiles says,
     grumpy.
     (The one where Scott and Stiles have sleepovers and get riled up and
     fingerbang. Like you do.)
Notes
     They're 16.
See the end of the work for more notes
"Scott, have you ever? You know," Stiles asks one night when they're watching
reruns of Friends at Scott's house because Mrs. McCall had the cable cancelled
and Scott broke his DVD player when they were wrestling the weekend before.
(Technically Stiles broke the DVD player but it's Scott's fault for tickling
him.)

Scott rolls onto his side on the bed and gives him a look.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Okay, descriptors are lacking. It's um," he clears his
throat. "Private."

"Like privates private?"

"Yes like, privates private also are we third graders? Come on." They're tenth
graders and this shouldn't be so difficult. He expels a heavy breath and says
in a rush, "Have you ever touched your butt?"

Scott squints at him. "Are you asking me if I wipe my ass? Because yes, Stiles.
I'm not an animal."

"I mean outside of common hygiene practices," Stiles says, suddenly super aware
of how close they are to each other on the bed. He gets like that, flustered
and hot, when they accidentally or not so accidentally start talking about sex.
Okay, when he brings up sex, because it's usually him because he's a hot-
blooded young man who just happens to be interested in knowing whether or not
it actually feels good to have things in your butt the way it appears to in the
truly ludicrous amount of porn he's accumulated while researching human health
and sexuality. He honestly doesn't understand how Scott's musings about sex end
somewhere along the lines of do you think boobs taste good?

Scott's just looking at him, patiently questioning. It's one of the frustrating
aspects of having a best friend who knows you too well — knows your sleep
patterns and personality flaws and favorite ice cream flavors and passwords and
blood type and your completely normal, insatiable quest for carnal knowledge.

"In your butt, Scott. Have you ever touched," Stiles cuts himself off with a
sigh to try to cover the way his face goes so scarlet-hot it makes him dizzy,
"in your butt. Your anus, if you will."

"Are you going to talk to girls like that when you hook up with them?" Scott
asks, giving one of his crooked, self-satisfied smiles. It's insanely cute and
will probably get Scott laid up and down the California coast once he gets over
his painful shyness around people who give him erections. "You're going to say
vulva and secretions and you're going to get shut down."

"You wouldn't know a vulva if it fell on your face," Stiles says, grumpy.

"Like you would!"

"I watched a six hour DVD series on cunnilungus. Taught by women, Scott. Women
who know their way around vulva and other sundry girl parts."

"Is vulva the plural of vulva?" Scott asks, with what might be actual
sincerity. Sometimes it's hard to tell.

(It's a little scary how Scott is the actual best person on the planet.)

(Stiles spends a not insignificant amount of time wondering when Scott's going
to realize that and stop wanting him around.)

Scott punches him in the arm, which is a lot like being punched by a kitten.
"What?" he asks.

"What what," Stiles says

"You got frowny. Are you freaked out by vulva?" The smirky grin comes back,
followed by Scott's long, pink tongue wagging between fingers spread out in a
V. He says something else, but Stiles can't make it out because he's talking
with his tongue out and actively giving air head to an imaginary pussy. It
makes his fingers all wet and Stiles want to die a little because it's like the
billionth time Scott's given him an erection just by being Scott. At least
they're not at school this time.

"I'm not freaked out by vulva. When finally given the opportunity, I will go
downtown and stay downtown as long as it takes. I'll rent an apartment down
there. I'll get a job waiting tables to support our downtown lifestyle."

"What does this have to do with butts?" Scott asks abruptly, absently wiping
his wet hand off on the bedspread.

Stiles had almost forgotten about that. Remembering the butts part makes him
harder. He rolls his hips down into the mattress hoping that'll help. It
doesn't. It actually makes him hyper aware of his hard-on and his butt. In
fact, this is how he imagines doing it, when he imagines being the receiving
end of doing it — when he pictures what it might feel like to have a heavy body
on top of him and a slick, hard thing pushing into him.

"Nothing. Not that I'm ruling out that downtown neighborhood. There are tons of
nerve endings." His voice goes hoarse. "There."

"You're getting horny," Scott says, half-laughing and looking ultra pleased
with himself. He looks over his shoulder at the door, the same way he has for
the past six years, whether they're about to open a porn magazine they stole
from under his mom's bed or they're about to talk about ways to vandalize
Coach's office. The door is shut. "You wanna jerk off?"

They've only done it together a few times. Those few times have been enough to
crowd Stiles' memories with hot-warm-pink-fast images of Scott's fat dick and
his pretty fingers and the way his cum smells different from Stiles' which is a
thing he'd never considered until the first time it accidentally got all over
his fingers.

Stiles' throat goes dry. He's the idea man. He has the plans, and the
contingency plans, and the escape plans. Whenever Scott decides what they
should do, like this, it throws him off and he feels unbalanced and — at the
moment, completely overwhelmed by want.

"Okay," Stiles manages, keeping his hips firmly against the bed.

"Do you want me to jerk you off?" Scott asks in a whisper, getting close. He
touches Stiles' shoulder. His eyes look darker. He's getting horny too and
that's even worse.

"Could you, do you wanna?" Stiles starts to ask, surprised at his own sudden
lack of language and processing capabilities. His brain got ahead of things,
skipped to the idea of Scott fingerfucking him, and sent everything spiraling
offline.

"What?" Scott asks, licking his lips.

Stiles moans and presses his face into the bed, so that maybe only the box
spring will hear him when he says, "Will you touch my butt?"

Scott laughs, husky and quiet at his ear, and casts an arm over his back the
way he does when they're sleepy and cuddling, and Stiles damn near comes from
the hot weight of it and the stupid soul-encompassing world-rending amount of
horniness he's under the influence of.

Stiles barely registers Scott dragging him off the bed or the way he follows
him at a stumbling pace, clinging to Scott's warm, sweaty hand. It honestly
feels like he might trip over his own dick. Every last coordinated part of him
is shrieking to take matters into his own hands, hard and dry and fast and
whatever it takes to get some relief. Bodies are so weird life is weird Scott
is pretty.

The door locks with a conspiratory click and then Scott is kissing him and
they've never kissed before, and Scott's hard too, apparently, because Stiles
can feel it like a rod against his hip and that must be why people say that in
the romance novels he steals from the bookshelf in his dad's room. Rod. Rod's a
funny word. Scott has a big rod, which he knew already, but it feels a whole
hell of a lot bigger when it's right there, jammed up against him and then,
with a nudge, jammed up against him.

"Oh my God," Stiles says, mostly into Scott's mouth, but also kind of against
his cheek, because they're pretty terrible at kissing. "Oh my God."

He's grabbing Scott's butt for dear life, trying to angle his narrow hips so
there's more dick-to-dick dry humping action, and then Scott starts giggling
against his face, sweet breath and wet lips, and Stiles asks, exasperated and
half-blind, "What?"

"I thought you wanted me to touch your butt."

"Why are you so calm!" Stiles frees one hand from Scott's pajama pants and rubs
the back of his head, a friction-generating tic that's always soothed him
marginally. It does absolutely nothing in the current situation. The five alarm
dick-rubbing your best friend situation that Scott's infuriatingly chill about.

"I don't know," Scott says, grinning. "I'm just happy. Your cheeks are all red,
dude. Is the kissing okay? Am I good at it?"

"Yeah," Stiles says, maybe falling in love just a little, a revelation he'll
file away to deeply consider never. "How, uh." He's as out of breath as Scott
is about 20% of the time. "How do you want to do this?"

"Turn around," Scott says, suddenly sounding, thankfully, a lot less sure of
himself. It makes Stiles feel better about the way his whole body starts
trembling when he turns and faces the sink counter.

"All right." Stiles splays his hands out on the granite and refuses to look at
the sweaty blur of his own reflection in his peripheral vision.

"You okay, man?" Scott rubs his back, the gesture familiar and warm and great.

"Yeah, I'm fine." The back rubbing gets lower and Stiles starts to whine. He
doesn't even mean to, at all. It just comes out of him. "Oh God. Scott."

"You're shaking," Scott says, not really sounding concerned, just a little
awestruck.

Stiles can picture Scott's expression without having to see it, and he smiles
to himself as he wipes the sweat out of his eyes with the inside of his arm.
"It's because all the blood in my body is currently in my junk. Carry on."

"Like this?" Scott asks, working his hands into Stiles' pajamas. It takes a
moment of awkward squirming, and then his hands are inside of Stiles' boxer
briefs — both hands, reaching down and carefully cupping Stiles' ass with open
palms.

"Y-yeah," Stiles manages. His breathing is loud, kind of moan-y and porny and
it's totally involuntary, which is nuts. Do porn stars do it on purpose or does
sex actually make people sound like distressed animals? "I think. Scott."

"Can I take your pants off?"

"Uh, sure? Dude you're a sex-savant. How. Are you. You suck — oh — my God."
Stiles blanks out, loses time, only knows that his pants and briefs are long
gone and Scott has one hand on his dick, stroking without rhythm or finesse —
really more like he's holding onto a handle. "Rod — ah — ha."

"What?"

"Nothing. I think I'm going to fall down."

"You're not going to fall down," Scott says, before he gently kicks Stiles'
legs open wider like they're in some cliche cops and sexy robbers porno what is
life.

"Shhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit," Stiles says, hoping he's not being as loud as he
feels like maybe he is, because there aren't any episodes of Friends that sound
like this and Mrs. McCall will be 100% weirded out if she catches them in the
bathroom with the door locked and doesn't smell weed.

Scott's close to him, hot against him, his clothes still on and rough and warm.
Everything's so sensitive. He can feel every bump and nudge of Scott's palm and
fingers against his dick. He can feel his own tee shirt against his nipples,
rustling like dry kisses. "You're soft here," Scott says really quietly, when
his brushing, exploring fingers find the spot between Stiles' balls and his
hole.

Stiles tries to say something, but only manages to garble out hoarse sounds as
he bats Scott's hand away from his dick and takes over, giving it a long, slow
pull in the hopes that it'll clear his mind enough that he doesn't full on
shout or have an aneurysm.

He didn't really think that through, though, because now Scott has two free
hands again, and he uses them both at the same time, cupping and feeling
Stiles' ass, fondling his balls, spreading his cheeks really gently, his
breathing loud behind Stiles, his mouth briefly there, pressing a wet sloppy
kiss that leaves a damp spot on Stiles' shirt.

"I don't have anything to... " Scott's finger comes to rest right at Stiles'
hole, a place that he's touched plenty of times. It's never, to Stiles'
recollection, caused him to experience seizure-like levels of weak-kneed
trembling until now. "I could use my—"

"Eucerin," Stiles gasps out. There's experimenting and then there's
experimenting and there's a time and a place for that and it's probably the
shower and maybe a beer or two to make him less self-conscious about where
Scott's tongue might end up.

"Uh, what?" Scott asks, his finger drawing circles along Stiles' rim like he's
fiddling with an X-box controller.  

Where is the goddamned Eucerin? Stiles knows he hid it somewhere in the
medicine cabinet behind the hair product and allergy stuff. It's just really
hard to operate his limbs, and his right hand is currently fastened to his dick
like a lifejacket.

A plastic bottle of body spray clatters onto the counter.

"Uh?"

"The greasy lotion stuff," Stiles says. "I put some in here."

"You put lotion in my bathroom?"

"I spend the night a lot?"

"Do you jerk off in my bathroom a lot?"

Stiles finds the little jar. It clinks against the counter and he turns enough
to look at Scott. "Yes? Don't you?"

"Mostly in the shower. With shampoo." Scott is sweaty. "Except that makes it
burn when I pee."

"Exactly. Eucerin is hypoallergenic. Super dick friendly. Oh my God, Scott,
keep going before I lose my nerve."

"Are you nervous?"

"No. A little."

"I won't hurt you," Scott says. "Tell me to stop if you don't like it, okay?"

"Wait a second." Stiles squints at his own hand, studies the way his knuckles
have gone white where he grips the edge of the counter. "You've done this
before," he says, his dick giving a solid twitch as he pictures it.

"Only with shampoo." Scott lets out a breathy laugh. "It burned too, though.
 Not the um, fingers. Just the shampoo. The fingers were good."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"I don't know. I didn't know if it was weird, getting off with my fingers in my
butt."

"Is it. Weird?"

"No. I'll show you," Scott says, scooping a lot of the greasy, clear lotion
onto his fingers. It's a little crazy how calm he sounds. Horny, for sure. But
also self-assured and affectionate and kind of perfect.

"Should I do something? Uh, breathe out? I don't know. Meditate?" Stiles asks,
knowing he's tensing up. It's impossible not to, even though Scott's fingers
are warm and gooey and nice, running up and down his crack, getting everything
slimey the way girls look when they're aroused. Which, Stiles thinks, must be
pretty damn convenient.

Scott strokes Stiles' hip with his free hand. "Your skin feels really hot."
He's babbling softly. "It's hotter inside, um. It feels like, anyway. With me.
Soft and hot. Sort of squishy, but tight. I wanna feel you, Stiles."

"Oh," Stiles says, still trying to process the fact that Scott's been
withholding information that's relevant to his interests. Not that he can
handle any more fuel. "Oh."

"I think about fucking, um, having sex, with you," Scott says, using his thumb
now, pushing it, not in, but pressing, pressing, rubbing. It feels fantastic.

Stiles tugs at his dick, feels a thread of wetness catch on his knuckles.
"Scott."

"I think about you doing it to me too. You know, when I'm..."

"Scott."

Scott kisses his back again, breathes on him through his shirt, moist, harsh
pants. He's shaking a little too, but his fingers are steady when he lets the
push become a burn, and one finger slides in, faster and more easily than
Stiles expected. It's uncomfortable and wrong-feeling for a breath or two and
then he likes it. He really likes it.

"I'm just gonna do one," Scott says, moving his finger, working it in and out
slowly. He's humping at Stiles at the same time, and he's hugging against him,
and it feels the way Stiles imagines sex must feel, or maybe this is actually
sex. Maybe he's having sex with Scott. He feels prickly hot all over and he's
going to come soon. They can discuss whether or not this counts as sex later.
Or never. Whatever.

"Scott, Scott. Scott." A sound that's dangerously close to crying. "Can you —
harder. Scott. D-don't stop. Scott. Please please."

Scott says something that doesn't make it all the way past the sound of Stiles'
blood pounding in his ears and his own harsh, panting pleas. It's a private
thing though, Stiles knows that much, feels it in his belly, and it pushes him
over the edge. He comes hunched over, trying to muffle a cry against the back
of his hand.

He comes in wet ribbons all over Scott's bathroom cabinet.

He doesn't even know where he is after that, not for a while. Not until he
dazedly feels the cold tile against his bare ass and sees Scott there, kneeling
right against him, flushed and in his own world, one hand fisted in Stiles'
shirt and the other a blur at his crotch.

Stiles wipes his nose with the back of his hand. He chews at a chapped spot at
his lower lip, watches the way Scott's face scrunches up when he starts to
come. "You too, dude," he says quietly, covering Scott's hand with his own.

End Notes
     they just love each other so much send help
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
