
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/570354.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Blanket_Fic, BFFs
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-22 Words: 3741
****** Roadside Assistance ******
by autoschediastic
Summary
     "Ow, okay, what part of ow are you not getting? God, is this how you
     cuddle?"
     "I'm not trying to cuddle you," Scott says, rooting determinedly
     around. "I'm trying to keep you warm."
     Stiles gives him a long look. A really, really long one, because
     sometimes Scott needs the time to chug his way around to a
     conclusion.
     "Oh," he says.
Notes
     Happy not-as-belated-as-last-year birthday, baby! \o/ Now tell me
     what you want for Ficmas.
     (Your brain is the most excellent at titles. Mwah!)
"This is your fault," Stiles declares.
Scott's eyebrows scrunch together. "My fault?"
Stiles flails both hands at the Jeep (which is stalled), the desert highway
(which is empty), and the sun (which has set). "Yes, your fault! You're the
entire reason we're out here!"
"Well, it was your idea! You're the one who found the plant thing!"
"For you!" Stiles howls, stomping around in a tight little circle. "Because you
keep getting poisoned by crazy shit nobody else has to worry about and one of
these days I'm not gonna be around to save your stupid werewolf ass and you're
gonna die and your mom's gonna kill me and I have a vested interest in not
being dead."
Arms crossed, Scott hunkers against the Jeep and scowls. "Wolfsbane is
poisonous to humans too," he mutters.
Stiles crosses his arms and scowls right back. "Nobody tries to shoot me with a
wolfsbane-laced bullet every other Tuesday."
"How is that my fault?"
Stiles flings his arms wide. "Werewolf!"
"Not my fault!" Scott shouts, but with a horrible warble right in the middle
that stops Stiles cold. That's Scott's 'I'm about to cry like a great big
frustrated baby' warble. Which used to be Stiles's cue to slap him upside the
head and tell him to quit it. Except he's right. It's not his fault. Out of
everybody, from Hale to Argent to unwitting Stilinski and back again, Scott's
the one person whose fault it really definitely isn't.
"Okay," Stiles says. "Just, get in, alright?" He opens the door and shoves the
seat forward. "How long d'you think before Derek realises we're not following
him anymore?" he asks, squinting down the highway as far as the meagre light of
the headlights will go, where the dust of Derek's wake is settled.
"He probably already knows," Scott says, holding the seat so Stiles can climb
in after him, "and he's trying to teach us a lesson or something."
"'Stop trying to be a strong, independent member of society'?"
"Yeah," Scott huffs, almost a laugh, "something like that."
"Guy's really got a hard-on for this pack thing." Stiles tugs the sleeves of
his shirt down over his hands, then starts rooting around for the old itchy
blanket that's been crammed under the seat since forever. He thinks it might've
come standard with the Jeep. They probably shouldn't be sitting out here with
the dashboard lights draining what's left of the battery, but like hell Stiles
is gonna sit around in total darkness. "He better not forget I don't come with
a built-in fur coat."
"Wanna try Triple-A again?"
"Middle of the desert," Stiles grunts, finding a corner of the blanket and
yanking. "I've got one-quarter of a bar."
"It's caught," Scott points out helpfully.
"I know," says Stiles, gripping it in both hands as Scott says, "Here, lemme,"
and hauls on it so hard the Jeep rocks and the seat makes a disturbing clunking
noise right before the blanket rips free. Stiles holds up the two halves
connected by about a foot of frayed wool. Scott winces. "Sorry."
"Nah," Stiles says, flinging a half over each shoulder, "it's like a Snuggie.
Totally cosy."
Scott wrinkles his nose and says, "Those things are nasty," but he tucks the
blanket in closer like he's afraid, after all the nights Stiles spent running
for his life through the cold, wet woods, this is the night he's gonna catch
his death. "Though this is kinda nasty too. It stinks."
"Does not." Stiles takes an illustrative sniff, and chokes. "Okay," he wheezes,
"maybe a little, but if my choices are inhaling mould spores or losing a
testicle to exposure, I'm going with the spores."
For a minute, Scott looks honestly worried about the future of Stiles's junk.
He frets pretty visibly about it for another few seconds, then determinedly
scoots closer, dropping an arm around Stiles's shoulders and managing to jab a
knee into every single soft squishy part Stiles owns, including the bits he's
trying to protect.
"Ow ow ow," Stiles says, slapping his leg. "Ow, okay, what part of ow are you
not getting? God, is this how you cuddle?"
"I'm not trying to cuddle you," Scott says, rooting determinedly around. "I'm
trying to keep you warm."
Stiles gives him a long look. A really, really long one, because sometimes
Scott needs the time to chug his way around to a conclusion.
"Oh," he says.
Stiles nods. "Oh," he confirms.
"But it's, this isn't the same," Scott insists. "Sharing body heat is what
you're supposed to do. You saw the video in class."
Stiles nods again. "Yep, I saw it. And you, buddy, are doing some pretty fierce
cuddling right now." He jerks his chin at where Scott is holding his hands all
tangled up snug in the blanket. "Pretty sure I've never been cuddled harder,
including that time you woke up from a nightmare at my place when you were
eleven."
It takes a long second for Scott to say, "You promised you wouldn't bring that
up. Ever."
"You promised you wouldn't bring up that you crawled into bed with me while I
was humping the mattress and only woke me up after I jizzed on your thigh
because you were afraid we were gonna get glued together."
"It was raining. I didn't want to have to run around the block in my
underwear."
"When you pick 'truth' you're supposed to tell things about yourself."
Even through the deep shadows inside the Jeep, Stiles catches the blush
creeping its way up Scott's neck. "Whatever. You're the one who told me I could
get my hand stuck in it."
"You're the dumbass who believed me," Stiles says, grinning. It's a good thing
Scott doesn't go full-on wolfman when he turns, or he might've thought it was
the whole hairy-palms thing coming true.
Scott shoves his shoulder. "Shut up or I'll let you freeze."
"Great, now you're starting to sound like Derek," Stiles says, grinning harder
at the look of shocked horror that skitters across Scott's face. He lowers his
voice to gravely rumble. "Shut up or I'll rip your throat out, Stiles. I'm
gonna kill you myself if you don't shut it, Stiles. Stop talking, Stiles, or
I'm gonna--"
"Okay, okay," Scott cries, laughing, his cheeks flushed dark. "I'm sorry, you
don't have to shut up!"
"S'right," Stiles sniffs, "I don't. I just choose to. Occasionally."
"Usually when Derek suggests it," Scott says, almost a giggle.
"Shut up and cuddle me."
Obediently, Scott scoots in a little more, even though there's no more for him
to scoot, and hugs Stiles close to his chest. The wolves all put out heat like
blast furnaces, but it's never just plain hot that they pump out. Derek's heat,
when Stiles is unfortunate enough to be clinging to him for dear life, is
vaguely menacing, like you'd better warm up or else. Erica's is the sort of
heat you find in the dark corner of a club. Stiles hasn't gotten a chance to
really get to know the others, but he suspects Jackson's heat is the same
scathing burn of humiliation he doles out on a regular basis.
Scott's heat is like a giant bundle of towels fresh out of the dryer.
"Man," sighs Stiles, "you should come sleep at the foot of my bed for real.
I've got bad circulation, you know, my toes get cold."
Scott's grumbled, "I know," is warm on Stiles's ear.
"Is that a complaint?" Stiles tries to sit up a little, but Scott's holding him
fast. "That sounded like a complaint. You know who doesn't complain? Me. I'm
too busy running for my life to complain."
There's an uncomfortable pause, just long enough for Stiles to worry if he
might've gotten carried away that time, then Scott says, "All the exercise
should help that circulation problem?" with a tiny little lilt on the end, like
he's sorry, and he's hoping Stiles isn't going to get out the fire extinguisher
again.
"You tried to eat me," Stiles says, hamming it up only a bit. Not as over it as
he thought he was, maybe. Eaten is not a state he's ever aspired to.
"Not for like, months," Scott says.
Unless he's gonna count the sexy kind of eaten. In which case, hell yeah, he's
got aspirations. And a ten-step plan.
"And I don't think, uh." Scott shifts like he's trying to put some distance
between them, enough to get a look at Stiles's face and pull that earnest I'm
sorry puppy face thing he does that's only gotten worse since he's become a
part-time member of Canis lupus, how is that fair, but he doesn't seem to want
to let go of Stiles long enough to do it, so it doesn't really work out. "I
mean. Stiles?"
Sometimes (most of the time), when Stiles is feeling adventurous in his sexy-
kind-of-eating fantasies, teeth are even involved. Just a bit. Like that little
catch when a hangnail grazes slick, sensitive skin.
"Stiles!"
"What!"
Scott's face glows stoplight-red. "M'not sure I was gonna eat you," he mumbles.
"You were for sure gonna bite me, buddy. I saw those teeth."
"Yeah," Scott says slowly. Uncomfortably. His nose twitches. "Yeah, um. No?"
"No?" Stiles echoes, as Scott leans in just a little more, nose-first. "What,
no? Are you-- Are you sniffing me? What the-- Whoa!"
"Sorry," Scott says, sounding stricken, but not like he's gonna extract his
nose from the crook of Stiles's neck. He starts snuffling around in earnest,
dodging Stiles's flailing hands and tugging at the blanket like he's gonna
Toucan Sam his way beneath it. "I'm sorry, just--"
"Oh my god!" Stiles tries to scramble backwards, but between the cramped back
seat, the blanket, and Scott's fucking octopus arms, he's trapped. "You're
trying to eat me right now!"
"I'm not!" Scott shouts, muffled because his face is shoved into Stiles's
chest, the edges of his teeth digging in, "I promise, I'm not, I'm-- I'm--
" shoving a hand inside Stiles's jeans to grab onto his half-hard cock, that's
what he's doing. "Sorry?" he tries, and squeezes.
Stiles gurgles.
"You smell different," Scott says, almost conversationally except for the
strain in his voice, and his hand on Stiles's cock, "not like when you think
about Lydia different, I'm used to that. But, um, is this okay? It's okay,
right?" His fingers wiggle through the slit in Stiles's boxers, stroking bare
skin really, really deliberately. He says, "We jerked off in the shower
together that one time," like it's precedent for the very intimate things his
thumb is doing.
"One time," Stiles squeaks out, "that was one time, and you bitched at me for
watching."
Scott looks straight up, and with his hand still on Stiles's junk, it's kinda
awkward. "You told me I was doing it wrong."
"I was trying to offer helpful suggestions! I-- oh my god." Stiles stares down
at the subtle shift beneath the blanket. Scott's jerking him off. And Scott's
good at it. Stiles's toes are curling in his beat-up sneakers, his thighs are
tense, almost shaking, and Scott's got this pleased little smile quirking the
corner of his mouth like when he nails the math question Stiles was sure was
gonna stump him.
Scott slings one of his legs over Stiles's knee to keep them spread. Stiles
chokes out, "Is this a werewolf thing? This feels like a werewolf thing."
"Probably," Scott says, with way too much ease. And confidence, holy shit, when
did Scott become a fucking sex ninja? Five seconds ago he was fumbling all over
the place.
"This is weird." Stiles sinks down lower in the seat, trying to lift his hips
at the same time to get a bit more of a rhythm going. "I hope you realise how
weird this is."
Scott nods vigorously. "Totally," he says, back to nosing around Stiles's neck.
"But I don't have to stop, right?"
Stiles pretends to think about it for a minute. "Naw," he drawls eventually,
and waves a shaky hand. "I think we're good."
"Oh good," Scott says, and flings the blanket back to climb into Stiles's lap.
"I really hate it when you freak out. You kinda freak out a lot lately."
Weakly, Stiles says, "Werewolves."
Scott glances up from where he's tugging at Stiles's fly, a quick flash of too-
bright eyes, and then he's got his own jeans open, his dick in his hand. He's
thicker, longer than the quick glimpses Stiles remembers. The tip glistens
wetly in the shadows.
Stiles swallow hard. "You want me to, uh." He makes an aborted grab for it,
hand stalled mid-air by a low, trickling growl. Both his eyebrows shoot up.
"You don't want me to jerk you off?"
"That was a yes," Scott says, planting one hand firmly on Stiles's chest,
pushing him back into the seat. He puts the other one back on Stiles's cock,
tight around the base and dragging slowly up, his weight more than enough to
keep the sudden jerk of Stiles's hips under control. It doesn't help much with
the strangled noise Stiles can't swallow.
"Okay," Stiles says. He flexes his fingers a few times, gearing up. "Okay, I'm
gonna," and he slaps his hand right on it.
Scott spits, "Fuck," and hunches forward, blocking Stiles's view. "Don't just-
- Stiles, please."
"Oh man," Stiles says, staring hard at the Jeep's roof as he fumbles his hand
around, trying to find a grip that doesn't feel foreign and weird and so much
like he's jacking his best bud, "oh man, oh man, oh man."
"Stiles."
"I'm working on it!" Stiles shouts, eyes snapping shut when Scott starts
rooting around in Stiles's jeans again, hauling his cock out so every half-
assed tug Stiles gives his cock makes them rub together. "Oh god."
"Wow," says Scott.
Stiles cracks an eye open. "Wow?"
"You're wet." Scott drags his fingertips over Stiles's slit, making Stiles's
hips jump, because that fucking tickles at the same time it absolutely doesn't
tickle at all. "You're really wet. You don't smell like come, but you're-- Oh."
He looks straight at Stiles's face."You got this wet for me?"
"Great," says Stiles, and rolls his eyes. "We're officially in a bad porno.
Yes, for you, you dumbass, your hand is on my dick!"
Scott smiles, big and bright and like an idiot, and says, "Okay," as casually
as he wraps one wide hand around both their dicks, his cockhead brushing
Stiles's belly and Stiles's bumping up against his balls. The smile fades a bit
as he concentrates on figuring out how to jerk them both off at the same time.
Thanks to Stiles's diverse interests, he has a couple of suggestions. He even
manages to gurgle half of one before Scott mutters, "Fuck it," scoots in so
close Stiles's face is right in his chest, points their cocks straight up and
starts jerking them off that way.
"Better," Stiles stutters, thighs flexing uselessly beneath Scott's weight. He
gropes around for something innocuous to grab onto and ends up with two
handfuls of Scott's bare ass where his clothes are shoved down. He's pretty
sure he's got more to say, probably about Scott not getting jizz all over the
seats, but the subtle flex of Scott's ass in his grip is fascinating. So is how
fucking smooth it is. He runs his fingertips closer and closer to the crack,
searching for the teensiest shred of normalcy in this incredibly abnormal turn
of events, and breathes a gusty sigh of relief when he finally finds a tiny
dusting of hair.
Scott makes a noise like, "Ugh," and shoves harder against him, grip slipping
until it's just Stiles's cock he's working. "Fuck it," he says again.
Stiles gapes, and gasps, and naturally, chokes. "Your, you, what?" he wheezes.
This kinda moved fast, sure, but there's a couple friendly handjobs and then
there's--
"Come on," Scott says, obviously not paying attention. "Come on, Stiles, just--
"
"Just what!"
"Come," Scott snaps. "It never takes you this long in the shower!"
"Maybe because I'm not distracted!"
"So stop being distracted!" Scott hollers, like it's Stiles's fault. Fuck that.
Fuck that, Stiles thinks, twisting a hand in Scott's hair to yank him down and
kiss him.
It occurs to Stiles, somewhere between the startled noise Scott makes and the
softer, almost sweet one that follows when Stiles licks at his tongue, that
Scott's had a lot more practice at this than him. What Scott doesn't have,
though, is Stiles's excellent grasp of theory. And Stiles's tendency to throw
himself headfirst into something. Or Stiles's sudden fascination with
discovering all the weird new textures inside someone else's mouth.
"Mmph," Scott says, twisting his wrist slightly, which makes Stiles shiver and
try to kiss him harder. It takes him a couple seconds to figure out Scott's not
really with him on that last part anymore, even when he tries to push it, so
Stiles breaks away and pants out pissily, "What? What now, seriously, you said
focus, I'm focused."
"Yeah," Scott bitches back, scrubbing at his chin, "on trying to eat my face."
"Oh, well," says Stiles, and waves his hands around, "excuse me for having some
enthusiasm."
"Try having some enthusiasm in my fist," Scott says, squeezing pointedly.
"Okay, oh my god," says Stiles, and wriggles around determinedly, finding the
leverage he needs to manage a little thrust. And yeah, okay, that feels pretty
good, duh, so he does it again, a couple more times, and tries not to yelp when
Scott's teeth graze his lip.
"Thought we weren't gonna, y'know," Stiles says, shivering again when Scott
licks between his lips, unconcerned that Stiles is trying to use his mouth to
have a conversation here.
Scott says, "I like kissing," and keeps going, pushing his tongue further into
Stiles's mouth, somehow keeping it delicate even when it gets really dirty.
Stiles gives taking notes a good ol' college try, but giving as good as he's
getting takes way too much effort, and if Scott is willing to do most of the
work, Stiles is absolutely willing to let him. So Stiles lets go, melts into
the seat and lets Scott suck on his tongue while he fucks Scott's fist, just
lets it happen. Like that flips a wolfy switch in Scott's brain, Scott goes for
it, all out, muttering, "Come on, almost, almost," between kisses not like he's
asking Stiles to hurry up and blow it but like he knows Stiles is there, like
he can feel it, smell it, taste it on Stiles's tongue.
Stiles garbles out, "Oh fuck," losing it hard. His head snaps back and Scott
latches onto his throat, teeth grazing, digging in, layering a quick shot of
panic over pleasure that Scott's not being careful, that Scott's gonna bite
him, for real. Then it's a quick swipe of Scott's tongue over the sting, like
Don't worry, maybe a little I'm sorry, and Stiles struggles to lift his head.
The first thing his gaze lands on is his own cock, Scott's hand pumping it
slowly, both shiny-slick. "Fuck," he breathes. "Scott, fuck."
Making an agreeable noise, Scott switches hands, his left clumsy on Stiles
while he jerks himself off with his right. No way would Stiles keep jacking so
soon after blowing, he's too sensitive, it almost hurts, but when he tries
asking Scott to ease up for a minute, all he manages is a gurgle. And Scott's
not holding back on his own dick at all. It hardly takes more than a couple
tight, concentrated tugs close to the head for him to lose it too, with Stiles
trying to look everywhere at once. At the hot splash on his belly, his gaze
jumps from Scott's pleasure-slack face to the mess he's making all over
Stiles's junk.
"Oh my god," Stiles says. Scott grins, lip caught between his teeth, still
coming. Stiles keeps staring. And staring, because fuck, fuck, that is a lot of
spunk. "Oh my god."
Scott laughs, quick and sharp, cut off by a low grunt as he gives his dick a
few more long, slick pulls, giving it a little shake at the end of each one so
the come squeezed out drips onto Stiles's balls. He smears his hand through it
after, laughs again when Stiles's thighs jump, and when Stiles grumbles,
"Gross, double cleanup," darts in to shut him up with his tongue.
"Seriously," Stiles says around Scott's stupid mouth, "look at this mess. Look
what you did."
Obediently, Scott looks down. He shrugs and says, "Eh."
"Werewolves," Stiles mutters. He scoops a glob of come out of his belly button,
glancing around for somewhere to flick it that isn't Scott's smug face.
"At least I didn't get it on the seat," Scott says, flopping down beside
Stiles. Cock hanging out of his jeans, he stretches, good and long, and heaves
a satisfied, "Ahh," before slumping down.
"Really," says Stiles.
"It was good," Scott says, scratching caveman-like at his belly. He pauses,
eyebrows scrunching together. "It was good, right?"
Stiles goes, "Pfft," around a grin, nodding and elbowing Scott in the side
until Scott relaxes and starts nodding back. Then he slaps Scott upside the
head. "You asshole."
Shocked, Scott clutches at his head. "What!?"
"You ambushed me with a handjob! And then you jizzed all over me!"
"Only after you jizzed all over yourself!"
Stiles jabs a come-smeared finger at Scott's face. "Handjob."
Scott scowls. And huffs. And doesn't telegraph at all before he swoops in and
sucks Stiles's finger into his mouth straight to the knuckle.
"Gaa-ah," says Stiles, clutching at a twisted corner of the blanket with one
hand while Scott's tongue does really dirty, dirty things to his finger. "Uh."
Scott pulls off with a hilariously obscene pop. "Okay?"
Stiles looks down, then up, then around. The highway's still totally empty.
It's really dark out there, and way colder than in here, where Scott's doing
his impersonation of a space heater. He looks from his finger to Scott's mouth
to his cock and back again. "Now?"
Scott shrugs. As Stiles stares at him, he scratches sheepishly at the back of
his neck. "You're getting turned on again. I can smell it."
"Oh, of course," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "You can smell it."
Scott tries out a smile. "Sorry?"
"You better not be," Stiles says, grabbing at him, "because you're going
first."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
