"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."
"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.
"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 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.