
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/4556610.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Human, Alternate_Universe_-_High_School,
      Recreational_Drug_Use, Frottage, Anal_Fingering, Friends_to_Lovers, Best
      Friends, Pining, Porn_with_Feelings, Accidental_Voyeurism, Stoner_Sciles
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-08-12 Words: 6004
****** Love Me Right ******
by alexenglish
Summary
     Generally, people are attractive, all their bits and pieces. Stiles
     has always seemed to be attracted to everyone, which is why it isn’t
     a surprise when Stiles leans forward, eyes on Scott’s face as he
     passes the joint back to him, and says:
     “Why haven’t we made out yet?” in a very serious voice. It takes all
     of Scott’s self control not to burst out laughing. The look on
     Stiles’ face is so so so intent, eyes wide and wet and blinking
     slowly.
     It's only a surprise that it takes until they're 17 for him to ask.
Notes
     I was listening to Talking_Body_by_Tove_Lo and got overwhelming
     highschool!Sciles feels so this happened. Just. Porn with feelings.
See the end of the work for more notes
Honestly, if Scott thinks back over the history of their friendship, he should
have expected it. Stiles has always been obvious with his attraction,
especially sexual attraction. Girls since he knew what his dick was, and guys
more recently, eyes on asses and arms and tits at all times. A new person, a
new characteristic to appreciate.
Not that it ever mattered to Scott, he was right there with Stiles, just not as
vocal about it. There’s a lot to appreciate when it comes to people. Generally,
people are attractive, all their bits and pieces. Stiles has always seemed to
be attracted to everyone, which is why it isn’t a surprise when Stiles leans
forward, eyes on Scott’s face as he passes the joint back to him, and says:
“Why haven’t we made out yet?” in a very serious voice. It takes all of Scott’s
self control not to burst out laughing. The look on Stiles’ face is so so so
intent, eyes wide and wet and blinking slowly.
It's only a surprise that it takes until they're 17 for him to ask.
“Because you’re my best friend,” Scott says, automatically. Scott’s had this
conversation with himself before, part of his ever increasing list of Reasons
Why He’s Not Allowed To Want His Best Friend. The reasons are getting more and
more feeble, but being best friends is pretty much number one.
Of course, if Stiles is proposing they make out, it must not be a great excuse
to begin with.
“That’s why we need to make out,” Stiles says, sincerely. The weed is making
Scott hyper focus on his mouth, his pink pink pink bottom lip, begging to be
bitten. It makes Scott’s mouth tingle just thinking about it.
“That doesn’t make sense,” Scott says, taking a hit to distract himself,
filling his lungs with the sharp sharp smoke. When he exhales, he molds his
mouth so that rings escape, fat and white, floating away.
“It makes perfect sense,” Stiles says, tilting forward. He’s hanging off the
edge of the bean bag, eyes keen on Scott’s face, so keen. They’re boring into
Scott, insisting. Scott blinks at him, his eyelids feel like liquid.
He bursts out laughing.
“It doesn’t,” he insists. “That’s means it makes less sense, dude. Why would we
make out if we’re best friends?”
He wants to say that that’s not how it works, there’s rules. Rules that he’s
implemented on himself since he was 14. Rules about attraction, and whether or
not that’s something you tell your best friend of 9, 10, now 12 years. It’s
not.
“Because we can,” Stiles says. There’s a sideways smirk on his face, leering,
like a fish lure, drawing Scott in. It’s probably some unwritten rule of the
universe that when Stiles leans in, Scott leans in, chasing his breath.
Stiles is going to make him break the rules, Scott thinks.
The air is dense, heavy with smoke and tension. Their lips meet, pressing
together, and Scott melts completely, sagging forward. His mouth is buzz buzz
buzzing, tingling, starbursts behind his eyes.
Stiles makes a noise in his throat that sounds pleased, and shifts forward.
Scott feels the drag of Stiles’ tongue on his bottom lip, and he opens his
mouth easily, letting Stiles lick into him, tongues stroking wetly together.
His arms and legs are tingling with the excitement of it, veins quivering under
his skin, pulse humming at the back of his skull. He doesn’t realize Stiles is
touching him until Stiles chases the sensation of the buzzing with his fingers
around Scott’s neck, gripping all the way across. It makes Scott feel pinned
down, grounding him while his mind floats away and away and away.
“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, across his mouth. It’s wet and hot between them, like
dragon’s breath, and Scott wants to reel him back in at the same time that he
is oh so afraid to.
The look on Stiles’ face is unfamiliar, eyes dark, it’s almost like he’s a
different person staring at Scott. It’s because Scott hasn’t had that look
directed at him before; Stiles looks like he wants Scott.
Scott doesn’t breathe properly until Stiles moves back, again. They stare at
each other for a long time before Stiles grins, breaking the tension with his
dimples, eyes smiling.
“Dude,” he says, rooting around in his pocket. He pulls out his silver
cigarette case, and produces another slim joint. “You’re a good kisser.”
Scott watches his hands, the way his knuckles flex under his skin, the way his
tendons jump. There are thick veins that run over and down his arm,
surprisingly small wrists with large forearms. Flick flick flicking the
lighter. Scott blinks. Once, twice.
“You too,” he says, pushing it past the lump in his throat. Stiles’ eyebrows
jump up, skeptical. “Seriously.”
“Right,” Stiles says, dragging out the ‘i’, tongue wetting his mouth. Scott
can’t stop watching his lips, they way that they move, replaying the warm
weight of them in his mind. When he finally looks away, Stiles is staring at
him, and everything feels different.
“Sorry,” Scott says, for no reason at all. Stiles smiles again, smaller this
time, and hands Scott the joint. Their hands brush, like they have a thousand
times before, but this time, everything is different.
“It’s not a big deal.”
 
 
After that, it’s like Stiles is looking for an excuse to touch Scott, be near
Scott. They spend a decent amount of time touching anyway, always anchored
together at their hands and shoulders and hips (once, lips, Scott remembers; he
can’t stop thinking about it, about their lips and the wet-hotness of it, the
darkness of Stiles’ eyes).
It might be a by-product of being friends from a young age, before the no-
touching rule of boyhood is established. They were so young. Young enough to
shower in their swimsuits together, young enough to sleep together. They share
drinks and food and joints and beers. They share inside jokes, laughing at
private things loudly while everyone around them looks on.
Stiles knows Scott better than Scott knows Stiles. Stiles is a natural
observer, taking it all in, cataloguing it in his mind. Information,
expressions, emotions, conversations; all filed away for later.
Scott feels encased by Stiles frequently. No one touches him like Stiles does,
no one bothers. No one knows his Taco Bell order without asking, not even his
mom. No one knows when he’s trying to hide his emotions; no one coaxes the
truth out of Scott like Stiles can.
Scott’s waiting for the confrontation, waiting for a sober Stiles to say, about
that.
About that day, about that kiss, about the way you couldn’t stop staring at me.
About the way I looked at you, what did you feel? Did you feel it, too?
It doesn’t come, it never comes. A day turns into a week, and everything is the
same except for the touching. Stiles’ hands dragging across his shoulder,
reeling Scott in. To get his attention Stiles used to snap his fingers at
Scott, sharp and loud. Lately, he’s been grabbing Scott: arm, hand, neck, jaw.
It’s all touching, and more touching, and every time, Scott’s heart thuds in
his chest, aching.
“What’s up with you guys?” Allison asks, leaning in to pitch her voice low.
Scott’s been watching Stiles talk with Lydia, his mouth moving faster than
Scott can process, eyebrows jumping expressions. Her voice startles him,
drawing him out of his trance.
“Sorry?” he asks, not sure what she means. Allison rolls her eyes, taps the
table in front of him.
“You and Stiles?” she asks. “Finally make a move?”
The question makes Scott’s gut sink like a stone, confused.
“What?”
“Everyone knows that you, oh --” Allison’s eyes are wide, and apologetic as she
cuts herself off. They dart between him and Stiles quickly, then to Lydia,
obviously.
“It’s not like that,” Scott denies, automatically. It’s been something he’s
been telling himself for three years. It’s not like that with Stiles. The way
it was with Allison and Kira, it’s not like that with Stiles.
(It’s not like that because it’s so much more, so much deeper. What he feels
for Stiles is indescribable, there aren’t words for it. He was created with
these feelings. They’re written into his very being. If he stops loving Stiles,
he stops existing; the world stops existing.)
“Sure,” Allison says, with a shrug. She smiles at him, wane. She doesn’t
believe him.
It’s irritating, but he doesn’t know why. He’s the one lying to her, the one
minimizing it. It wouldn’t change anything to admit to what she already knows,
so why is he reluctant? He almost takes it back, words pushing out behind his
teeth, but then, there’s a hand on his arm, heavy and warm.
“Hey, you comin’?” Stiles asks, fingers tugging. Scott feels it in his bones,
nods with a slow drag of his head. He waves goodbye to Allison, and lets Stiles
pull him out of the cafeteria, hand on his wrist (hand on his heart).
“Where are we going?” Scott asks, because he didn’t actually catch that, too
intent on Stiles’ skin against his.
“Library,” Stiles says, but it sounds like a question, a tilt at end. “Maybe
the roof -- Maybe we should --” Stiles stops and turns, hands on Scott’s
shoulders, pulling him in. The only noise is Scott’s sneakers squeaking on the
linoleum as he goes to Stiles, closer to Stiles, always closer. The sound of
their breathing fills the air, fills the space between them.
“We should ditch,” Stiles says, teeth on his lower lip, eyes darting around,
landing everywhere but Scott’s face. Scott feels off kilter, too big in his
skin. There’s butterflies in his stomach, and he doesn’t have an explanation
for them.
“Let’s go smoke or something,” Stiles says. “I dunno, get out of here.”
“Sure,” Scott says, with an easy shrug. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” Stiles says. When he meets Scott’s eyes, he’s that different person
again; the person Scott can’t read, who he doesn’t know, not really. He’s the
person that’s looking into Scott, through Scott, like he’s seeing parts of
Scott for the first time.
It feels terrifying.
 
 
When they get to Scott’s, they don’t smoke because Scott is down to stems, and
they’re both too lazy to do anything about it. Instead, they grab snacks and
watch a movie in Scott’s room, shoulders pressed together.
There’s a clinging tension around them, making Scott’s heart pound heavy in his
chest. He wonders if Stiles can hear it, but Stiles is focused straight ahead
on the movie. After that, Scott scoots away, suggesting video games so there’s
a little space between them to breathe.
Mario Kart is an easy rhythm to get into, trash talking as they take turns
beating each other. Stiles goes on a winning streak due to well-timed shells,
and perfectly placed bananas, so Scott picks Rainbow Road in retaliation.
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, as he drops off the edge for the fourth time as Scott
easily makes the lap. Scott worked for months on being able to drive Rainbow
Road, it’s his secret weapon. “This is cheating, by the way. This doesn’t mean
you’re superior at Mario Kart.”
“That’s exactly what it means,” Scott says, eyes tracking Stiles’ kart on the
map. Scott’s close to lapping him. As long as no shells come his way, he’ll
pass Stiles in the next minute. “It’s the hardest level, I am king.”
“Bullshit,” Stiles grumbles, leaning forward in concentration. Scott grins at
his back, kart coming closer. Stiles isn’t paying attention, too busy trying
not to fly over the edge, that he doesn’t realize it’s Scott coming up behind
him. Scott bumps their karts together, and Stiles goes flying as Scott cackles,
racing past him.
“Cheater!” Stiles says, and pounces on Scott, 150 pounds of solid weight across
his lap. Scott tosses the remote, and scrambles for purchase to push back at
Stiles. They wrestle around, Stiles’ elbow in Scott’s side, Scott’s arms
locking around his torso.
It’s hot, the hard press of Stiles’ body is the only thing Scott can
concentrate on. The room fills with the Mario Kart music, their harsh
breathing, and the pounding of Scott’s heart as he tries to pin Stiles down.
Stiles is squirmy, though, wiggling out from under Scott, shoving him down,
hands locking around Scott’s arms. Scott’s pinned before he realizes it,
adrenaline surging through him.
Stiles looms over him, a heavy weight against his body. Scott's hard and aching
between them. He doesn't know when that happened.Without thinking about it,
Scott arches up into Stiles, breath stuttering out from between his lips;
Stiles is solid and yielding and Scott can feel that he’s just as hard as Scott
is.
Stiles’ hands tighten on Scott’s arms, eyes darker than Scott has ever seen
them, mostly pupil. He looks like that different person again, the lines of his
face sharper at this angle, staring at Scott like he wants to do something.
Stiles’ tongue darts out, a slow swipe that leaves his bottom lip glistening.
Their hips rock together as he grinds down, and Scott screws his eyes shut.
Stiles drops his weight over Scott, rocks into him again. Scott can feel
everywhere they’re pressed together, every point where Stiles shifts. Their
hips knock together, dicks rubbing in their jeans, their thighs touch, their
stomachs brush. Stiles’ dick is hot, and so hard against Scott’s. The denim is
uncomfortable, but it’s tight around Scott’s dick, and he knows he could come
like this, with Stiles rubbing against him.
They pant in unison. Stiles moves his hands, loosens his grip, so that he can
drag them down Scott’s arms and grab Scott’s wrists. He pulls Scott's arms up
so they’re next to Scott’s head, hands tightening on his wrists once Stiles has
him pinned down. The movement rucks Scott’s shirt up, and Stiles looks down,
watching their bodies thrust together.
He moves his hips in a tight circle, deliberately. Scott exhales, trying not to
make a noise, worried he’s going to disturb the moment. They’re not talking,
not looking at each other. It’s like they’re pretend this isn’t happening. The
fragility it all is so terrifying.
They’re breaking every single rule.
It doesn’t take long for the pressure to start to overwhelm Scott, the friction
just right when Stiles shifts his hips. They rock together, faster and harder.
The air is warm, too warm, the tension mounting, drawing taut like a rubber
band.
Stiles is the one who makes a noise first, a tight whimper in his throat as he
thrusts against Scott, needy. Scott lifts his hips, presses back hard, feels
the orgasm draw his balls up tight. When Stiles comes, he’s looking down, but
Scott can see the way his eyelashes flutter in relief; he can feel Stiles’
fingers tighten on his wrists.
Stiles doesn’t stop moving, just drags their dicks together until Scott tenses,
eyes screwed shut tight. When he comes it’s a crash of relief like a tidal
wave, warm and wet in his pants.
His fucking pants.
They don’t say anything.
Stiles rolls off him, and lays on the floor, chest rising and falling sharply
with every breath. A tightness sneaks into Scott’s chest, and Scott can’t bring
himself to look at Stiles because he has no idea what to do. He slings his arm
over his eyes, and concentrates on getting his lungs to regulate oxygen.
That was intense, weird, even. They're changing everything.
It’s only a few seconds before Stiles gets up, and goes out the door, into the
hall. When the bathroom door shuts behind him, Scott strips down quickly,
grabbing a new pair of boxers and pulling his pants back on before Stiles is
out.
Everything feels different when he stands up. He feels bigger, somehow,
heavier. It’s all wrong, Scott thinks, looking at the TV. The demo keeps
playing over, and over, Yoshi bouncing in his kart happily.
They should talk, they should --
Scott turns towards the door the same moment Stiles comes out of the bathroom,
and they stare at each other, frozen. Scott opens his mouth to say something,
anything --
“I should go,” Stiles says, licking his mouth, fingers pointing to his backpack
on the floor. Scott’s stomach lands somewhere around his feet, heavy like lead.
“R-Right,” he says, grabbing Stiles’ backpack and handing it to him. Stiles
looks at his hand on the strap, shifts forward nervously, and grabs it from
Scott. Their hands don’t touch.
“I just told my dad I’d cook,” Stiles says, pulling on his backpack. His eyes
roam from the TV to the floor, down the hall, already turning down the hall to
leave. A getaway if Scott ever saw one.
“Okay,” Scott says, unable to say anything else. Not that he had a speech
prepared, but Scott wants to know why and how, all of the important details of
orgasming with your best friend. Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it,
apparently, waving at Scott awkwardly, before trotting down the stairs. Scott
doesn’t bother following to walk him out, just stands there as the door closes
behind Stiles.
 
 
Scott wakes up feeling sick, and jittery with anxiety. There aren’t any texts
from Stiles, no explanation waiting to greet him when he wakes up. That isn’t
reassuring. Scott doesn’t know what to do, it feels like he fucked up. He was
willing to talk, though. After making out, Scott figures it has to be normal to
want to explore more.
It’s not like they’re getting laid all the time, both of them single and
seniors and they have each other. There’s some level of attraction, there has
been for a long time. Apparently, that’s enough to have Stiles running away
with his tail tucked between his legs, though. Scott doesn’t know what to do
with that, doesn’t know how to feel about it.
Of course, that doesn’t stop him from rolling over, and pulling the lube out of
his drawer, intent on getting rid of his morning wood before he gets up. He’s
already down the rabbit hole when it comes to his rules about Stiles, so why
not? The memories of the afternoon before are at the forefront of his mind as
he slicks his hand, and rubs himself, fist tight and familiar.
He’s not going to forget Stiles’ hips against his anytime soon. The way the air
in the room was warm and tense. Scott thinks about Stiles over him, pressing
him down, grinding their hips together expertly. It was tight and controlled,
body waving as they rocked together.
Scott thinks about Stiles actually fucking him, and moans outright, hand
tightening on his dick before he thinks, fuck it. His hand drops down, back
over his balls, eyes screwing shut as he teases his hole with his middle
finger, thinking about Stiles and Stiles’ hands on him. He exhales, and his
finger sinks in, slick with lube.
It’s warm, and it feels so fucking good when he gets his hand back on his dick,
rocking up into his fist and back onto his finger. The sensation isn’t what he
expected, it’s better, pressing in and pressing in, making him throb and clench
for more. Scott thinks about Stiles between his legs, hovering over him like he
was yesterday, fucking his fingers into Scott. He thinks about the way Stiles
would look at him, dark and wanting and demanding.
Would Stiles watch, leaning back so he could see his fingers disappearing
inside Scott? Would he press them close, kiss Scott through it, as he added
more fingers, as Scott got desperate and fucking back on his knuckles?
He’s so caught up in the feeling, the pressure sending pleasure skittering up
his spine, sparking behind his eyelids, he doesn’t realize that his door is
opening until he hears Stiles say, “oh fuck.”
Scott’s hand moves off his dick and out of himself immediately, dragging a
pillow over his lap, but he’s pretty sure the damage is done already. Stiles’
eyes are wide, but he hasn’t left, gaze firmly on Scott’s face; deliberately on
Scott’s face, maybe.
“What --” Scott asks, heart rabbiting in his chest. He’s still hard, and
aching, trying to blink away the fog of horniness and concentrate. Stiles is
hovering in the doorway, staring at him, and Scott is only half convinced he’s
not a fantasy lovingly rendered in 3D for Scott to jerk off to.
“I wanted to talk,” Stiles says, eyes darting down and back up, widening at
Scott. “About last night, since I knew your mom worked early and --” Stiles
digs his spare key out of his pocket and wiggles it frantically, before shoving
it back in his pants. His eyes dart down to the pillow again, before meeting
Scott’s gaze again, wincing. There’s a stain of blotchy red on his cheeks.
“We should talk,” Scott says.
“Maybe after?” Stiles suggests. “I mean, I can leave, or --”
“You should stay,” Scott says, shifting back, so that he’s sitting up more, not
as obviously splayed on the bed. The pillow presses into his persistent hard
on, and Scott tries not to groan at the contact, eyes fluttering.
“I’m not having this conversation while you’re under distress!” Stiles says,
teeth biting into his bottom lip.
“The only distress I feel is just how fucking turned on I am,” Scott grumbles,
lifting the pillow to squeeze the base of his dick. His hard on is waning, but
it’s not completely gone. Not even close. This boner could weather a snowstorm.
“Distressed, and aroused.”
“Would you say you’re disroused?” Stiles asks, shifting towards Scott.
"I really wouldn't," Scott says, eyes on Stiles. The way Stiles is looking back
at him feels like a physical weight, sending shivers over Scott’s skin. He’s
all too aware of his nakedness; there’s goosebumps on his skin from the air
conditioning.
“I should do something about this,” Scott says. Stiles’ eye widen, wetting his
lips with his tongue.
“Do you want help?” Stiles asks, shifting closer. Scott grins at him, relief
making his stomach feel fuzzy, full of cotton.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Smooth,” Stiles says. He steps closer, toeing off his shoes as he goes.
Without being prompted, he drags his shirt off, revealing his surprisingly
broad shoulders, and his pale, smooth skin. Scott inhales sharply when Stiles’
hand goes to his button, and pops it open.
“This okay?” he asks, pulling down his zipper. Scott doesn’t understand the
hesitation, but he doesn’t ask, just nods, eyes glued to Stiles’ long fingers
on his waistband. He doesn’t bother drawing it out, pushing down his briefs and
jeans. He’s chubbed up, thickening against his leg as he kneels on the end of
the bed.
His right hand circles Scott’s ankle, left anchored on the outside of Scott’s
thigh, the brief touch sending shivers up Scott’s spine. It’s the anticipation,
it has to be. Stiles doesn’t look at him, moves his hand from Scott’s ankle,
trails his fingers up Scott’s leg, carefully, slowly.
The only sound in the room is their breathing, heavier from Scott, expectant.
Stiles runs his fingers up the inside of Scott’s leg, trails his fingertips in
circles on the inside of Scott’s knee. It’s tender in a way that Scott wasn’t
expecting, deliberate. He dips his head down, runs his lips in the same path
his fingers took, pressing a chaste kiss to Scott’s knee.
“I want this,” Stiles says, almost too low for Scott to hear. Scott feels the
confession on his skin, it hangs in the air around them.
“What?” Scott asks, exhaling as Stiles’ hand skitters up his thigh, closer to
his dick. He heard, he just doesn’t know if he believes Stiles.
“I want you,” Stiles says, looking up at Scott. The pink on his cheeks is even
more noticeable up close, spreading down his neck in that familiar irregular
pattern. There’s a flush on his knuckles when he drags them on the inside of
Scott’s thigh, so close -- “I’ve wanted you.”
There’s a hard knot in Scott’s throat that he has to swallow around before he
speaks, mouth too dry. His heart is fluttering fast like a hummingbird’s, he
has no idea how he missed that. Were there clues? Has Stiles said anything?
Done anything? No, he doesn’t think so; he doesn’t know.
“For how long?” Scott asks. The answer doesn’t come immediately, Stiles is too
busy dragging the pillow off Scott’s lap, exposing him. Scott fights the urge
to cover himself, forces himself to stay still as Stiles’ eyes rove over his
frame.
“Remember when we were 13, and you spent the summer at your dad’s?” Stiles
asks, he shifts so he’s centered between Scott’s legs, both hands on either of
Scott’s thighs, stroking and gripping, like he doesn’t know what he wants to
do.
“You came back with muscles, and tan,” Stiles licks his lips, and his hand
comes up to grip Scott’s dick lightly. It’s the barest of touches, but Scott
still hisses and arches into it. “That was the summer you buzzed your head.”
“Because I missed you,” Scott reminds him, because he had missed Stiles, so he
took a pair of clippers to his hair on the patio of his dad’s condo, looking in
the sliding glass door so he didn’t miss any spots.
“Because you missed me,” Stiles says, jerking Scott’s dick slowly. His erection
had waned, but Stiles’ hand makes Scott instantly hard again, aching. Stiles is
hard too, cock red and swollen between his legs. It’s long, and skinnier than
Scott’s, fat at the top, and glistening with precome already. Scott wants to
put his mouth on it, wants to taste Stiles.
“What about it?” Scott asks, impatiently. Stiles smirks at him, tightening his
hold and twisting his wrist, harder and faster than before.
“That’s when I figured out I was bi,” Stiles says, scooting closer, leaning
close to Scott, face-to-face.
They don’t kiss. Stiles breathes over his jaw, and runs his nose across Scott’s
neck, teeth nipping every so often. It’s electric, making Scott’s skin break
out in goosebumps. Stiles’ hands aren’t doing anything with intent. He’s
tugging at Scott’s dick, then moving over his hips, gripping, trailing over his
side.
Every touch feels like so much more than just a touch, like Stiles is reaching
into him, soothing him over. His fingers move over his pelvic bone, the crease
of his thighs. His knuckles nudge up against Scott’s balls, as he drags his
fingers further back.
“You’re covered in lube,” Stiles says, lips dragging over the shell of Scott’s
ear. Scott doesn’t comment, brain short circuiting as Stiles sucks his earlobe
into his mouth. It’s wet and hot, making his whole body tingle as Stiles drags
his teeth over the skin, sucks it into his mouth. Stiles’ fingers dip lower,
teasing the swell of his ass. Scott exhales, shaking, every nerve standing at
attention.
“Were you fingering yourself?” Stiles asks, forehead pressing against Scott’s
shoulder, as his fingers prod, nudging against Scott’s rim where he’s still
slick with lube. Incriminating, really. His breath fans over Scott’s skin,
humid.
“Maybe,” Scott says, whimpering as the tip of Stiles’ finger sinks into him
slightly.
“Can I finger you?” Stiles asks, head popping up so he can look Scott in the
eye. The blush on his cheeks is dark, eyes hooded and wanting. There’s that
person again, but Scott’s beginning to recognize that look; the pure,
unadulterated desire. This is a Stiles that wants Scott, and doesn’t try to
hide it.
Scott nods quickly, grabbing at the lube that’s half shoved under the blankets.
Stiles licks at his lips again, hand clenching at the bottle.
“You should turn over,” Stiles says. “I think it’s more comfortable that way.”
“Are you going to fuck me, Stiles?” Scott asks, trying to ignore the way his
pulse jumps in excitement at the idea. Stiles on top of him, inside of him,
covering him, claiming him. Connecting with Stiles like that.
There’s a heavy pause, Scott watches Stiles’ adam’s apple bob in this throat,
once, twice.
“If you want me to.”
“Yeah,” Scott admits, feeling too hot, embarrassed. The air around them is so
tense, it feels like he’s swimming, underwater, ears ringing with how hard his
heart is pounding.
“Awesome,” Stiles exhales, and grabs Scott’s hips. Scott flips easily, feeling
his stomach fizzle with embarrassment as he presents his ass to Stiles. If the
strangled noise is anything to go by, Stiles doesn’t mind.
The cap of the lube cracks loudly in the silence, over the sounds of their
breathing.
“Are you sure?” Stiles asks.
“Yes, just fuck me, Stiles,” Scott says, hips twitching back. He’s on edge,
waiting for any kind of touch. He’s too keyed up to wait, desperately wanting
something to happen. He wants Stiles inside him, it feels like he’s been
waiting his whole life for Stiles to just fuck him.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles’ fingers run down his crack, cold with lube, but so
slick. There’s a copious amount, Scott feels it on Stiles’ fingers as they
catch his rim.
“One at a time,” Scott says, but Stiles is already sinking a finger into him.
His body gives with little resistance, probably just from how turned on Scott
is; his whole body is aching, shaking, wanting it. Stiles grabs his hip, smears
lube on his skin. It’s hotter now, that it was before, sweat prickling at
Scott’s hairline and his lower back.
“Fuck,” Scott says, as Stiles slides his finger back and forth and back and
forth and back -- So slowly, Scott thinks he’s going to combust, the drag of
his finger so good inside of him. It’s not enough, though, not enough to fill
Scott up, to make him come.
“Can I do another one?” Stiles asks, reading Scott’s mind. Scott nods fiercely,
throat closing up as he feels Stiles’ second finger bump up against his rim. He
breathes slowly as Stiles pushes in, whimpering as he’s stretched and filled.
“You look so good, Scott,” Stiles whines, as he fucks his fingers in and out of
Scott. “I could do this all day. You take it so well. Fuck. Have you done this
before? Have you fingered yourself before?”
“N-no,” Scott says, resisting the urge to slam back into Stiles’ hand, letting
him control the pace. He needs it harder, faster, but it’s better to let Stiles
decide, let him dictate when Scott gets to come. “Just today.”
“Why today?” Stiles asks, startings fingering him faster. There’s a zap of
pleasure up Scott’s spine when he nudges deeper, making Scott’s legs feel
watery and shaky. Vaguely, Scott thinks prostate. Less vaguely, he moans
loudly, thighs trembling.
“Thinking about you,” Scott says. It sounds like it’s been torn out of him,
ragged around the edges. Scott’s vision is going blurry with pleasure. He can
feel his body responding, loosening for Stiles’ fingers. It’s so good, so
fucking good, and he needs more.
“Oh fuck, Scott,” Stiles says, groaning. His forehead feels slick when he
presses it to Scott’s back. It’s scorching in the room, sweat and lube
everywhere. Scott is hyperaware of his dick between his legs, begging to be
touched.
“I wanted to see if I could open myself up,” Scott continues, biting his lip as
Stiles speeds up, fingers banging against his prostate. His arms start shaking.
The sensations are overwhelming. Scott wants to crawl away and push back, wants
less and more at the same time. “For you.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles says, exhales loudly against Scott’s back, fucking into him
harder. Scott’s back arches as Stiles draws back, plunges in, lifts his
fingers, nails his prostate. He sinks another finger into Scott, and that’s
tighter, so much more. Stiles tugs against Scott’s rim until Scott’s body
yields, and then goes back to driving into him.
“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Scott says, desperately; needy and breathless and
wreck. “I’m going to come.” He shoves his hips back, trying to nudge Stiles
deeper, trying to get the right friction. Stiles pulls out completely, and
Scott gasps at the loss, body clenching down on the air, needing more.
“Sorry, shit, sorry,” Stiles says, shoving at Scott’s hip, so that Scott turns
over. Scott goes easily, head too fuzzy, body too sensitive to protest. Once
Scott is on his back, Stiles’ left hand slides slick, under his hips, lifting
him up, while he sinks two fingers back into Scott.
The pressure builds up again, body taking and taking and taking. Stiles is
watching him with wide eyes, and a slack mouth. Scott can’t meet his gaze as he
squirms on Stiles’ fingers. It’s easier to slam his eyes shut, throw his head
back. Stiles’ face is branded behind his eyelids, though: almost surprised that
he’s here with Scott, and god, Scott gets it.
It’s almost surreal to think that it’s Stiles fingering him open; Stiles’ name
that he can’t stop saying, choking the word off in his throat when Stiles drops
his hip, and grabs his dick. He jerks him off and fingers him in tandem,
awkward and off kilter, like he can’t quite figure it out, but it’s the best
thing Scott has ever felt. He groans, unable to keep quiet, body keyed up,
about fall over the edge.
“Fuck, you should come,” Stiles says, voice rough and deep. “Scotty, you should
come for me.”
“Please,” he adds, desperately.
Scott comes.
 
 
“We didn’t fuck,” Scott says, breathing heavy. He’s covered in come, both his
own and Stiles'. It hadn’t taken much after Scott came, Stiles just shot up and
jerked off quickly, Scott’s name on his lips as he added to the mess on Scott’s
stomach. The room is hot, and smells like musk and sex and Stiles and lube and
Scott is so fucking happy it feels like there’s sunshine in his rib cage.
Stiles is on his side next to him, fingers dragged lazily up and down his arm,
kissing and biting his shoulder absent mindedly. Stiles hums, laces their hands
together.
“There’s time,” he says, lowly. His voice still sounds like cigarettes and
whiskey, and Scott is tempted to goad him into dirty talking, just to get them
riled up again.
“Is there?” Scott asks, sitting up so he can grab a discarded shirt from the
floor and wipe himself up; jizz thick and sticky and gross. When he looks bad
at Stiles, there’s a guarded expression on his face, body tense. He looks like
he wants to bolt again.
“That was a serious question,” Scott says, wadding the shirt up and throwing it
in the corner. He moves closer to Stiles, kneeling on the bed, so he’s looming
over him. He lays his hands on Stiles’ cheeks, cradles his face in his hands.
The moment feels soft and intimate, Scott feels like he's floating.
“Of course,” Stiles says, as his eyelids flutter shut. He misses Scott’s grin,
but not the kiss Scott presses to his mouth, gently.
“I broke my rules,” Scott says, when they pull apart. He doesn’t go far,
Stiles’ hand circles his wrist, keeps him close. Scott wonders if Stiles can
feel the way his heart is jumping under his skin.
“What rules?”
“My rules about not being attracted to my best friend,” Scott admits, sinking
down so he can bury his head in Stiles’ neck, nudge the hot skin with his nose,
drag his lips over his adam’s apple. Scott’s going to touch him all the time;
he’s going to touch Stiles in ways he never thought he would; he’s going to
touch him so much, neither of them will know where one ends and the other
begins.
“There’s new rules now. Boyfriend rules,” Stiles says, jostling Scott so that
his head tips back, so that Stiles can grab his jaw, steer him into another
kiss. This one is more, full of intent and promise.
Scott can deal with new rules, especially if they’re Boyfriend Rules.
End Notes
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