At first, he thinks it’s a loneliness thing. Or a comfort thing. Or a nostalgia thing. It’s a… thing? That’s all Stiles really knows. But Scott keeps climbing through his bedroom window late at night, clambering over and tucking himself in around Stiles, burrowing under the covers like he’s paid good money to be there. He’s superlatively warm and snuggly, chest tight against Stiles’ back, one hand invariably sliding around Stiles’ waist, one foot curled up over his calf.
Stiles lies awake for an hour or more, listening to the rhythmic thump of Scott’s heart and thinking about how they were never this physically close in sleep-overs before, about how Scott’s been spending so much time with Isaac during the day, maybe this covert cuddling at night is his way of still getting his Stilesian quotient fulfilled.
In the mornings they don’t talk about it. Because it is strange and awkward and Stiles doesn’t know how to open the conversation. Somehow, “so, you realize this is overly dependent and creepy” feels like it would be a friendship ruiner, and he’s invested eleven difficult years into this friendship, he’s not going to fuck it up now. Scott leaves before Stiles’ dad finds him, pressing fingers gently into Stiles’ shoulder in a goodbye gesture that feels eerily reminiscent of a peck on the cheek and Stiles continues on with his day.
He should definitely say something, but Stiles never has been one to talk about the important things in life, is always keen to shy away from confrontation. At least, that’s what he likes to claim. He adds it to the collection of lies he tells about himself, alongside ‘I have low pain tolerance’ and ‘I’m a fan of ignoring a problem until it goes away.’ It’s easier this way, to pretend.
That he doesn’t love it.
That he hasn’t started looking forward to it.
That maybe it’s co-dependency.
He’s curious about Scott’s motivations, but he has a horrible feeling he wouldn’t be happy knowing the truth. Scott’s only just stopped talking forlornly about Allison. It’s been a short four weeks devoid of vacant stares and obvious pining, and you know, it doesn’t seem like it’s all that fair that Scott is using him as some kind of sentient pillow in lieu of having a girlfriend, but Stiles does always feel like he owes Scott the world, what with the whole getting Scott bitten dealio.
It’s entirely possible their friendship isn’t as healthy as probably no one else has ever thought to describe it as being.
The thing is, Stiles isn’t speaking up because it makes him feel safe and secure. Because it calms the twitching and thrashing down, keeps him from having another panic attack. He’s always been a fidget, but since the kanima and Gerard, at night, it sometimes feels like he’s unwittingly trying to jump out of his skin. It must be opposite month, because it’s wrong that having the wolfman choose you as a bedmate should settle your nerves, but with Scott’s arm pulling him close and nose nuzzling against his neck, the panic recedes for a while. To be replaced with a different kind of whole-bodied awareness, granted, but at least he’s not clutching and striving to catch his breath.
Which can’t be said for earlier or later in the day, depending on the perspective, when he’s in the shower and leaning against the tiles, stroking his cock with a too-firm pressure, imagining it’s Scott’s hand twisting slightly to the left.
He should absolutely be ashamed he’s turned something that’s clearly supposed to be platonic into something sexual, he knows. But, in justification, he’s a teenaged boy. There are jokes about his kind being turned on by, like, three-hole punches for a reason. He suspects he’s felt a disturbingly sexual thrill over Perry the Platypus at least once before. Ugh.
Except, this doesn’t seem like a simple proximity-boner, given how it’s all tied up with how much he misses hanging out with Scott and tends to involve elaborate fantasies about how they’d get together. Yeah. That’s happened. He’s managed to develop a crush on his best friend.
It’s just that, objectively, Scott has those eyes and that smile and this impressive body. That he is pressing. Against Stiles. On a regular basis. And subjectively, there was a long time there when he was the only person who bothered to understand what Stiles was going through and tried to support him however he could --- when his dad was struggling through his own emotional upheaval and working constantly, to blot out the pain. Scott’s been there for Stiles through thick and thin, soft and crusty, and while Stiles could make an awesome case that this hasn’t been exactly true for a few months now, it isn’t like Scott doesn’t have good reason to be too preoccupied to see that Stiles is on some kind of precipice with no obvious escape route or safe way to get down.
Plus, the nightly visits, they prove something. Even if it’s only that Scott still trusts Stiles the most that he’ll take what he can’t ask for.
It all comes to a head one morning when Scott’s nuzzling becomes less adorably sweet and more blindingly hot, lips opened just around the soft part of his neck that is ten times more sensitive than the rest of him. Stiles is still three-quarters asleep, so he’s shifting back unconsciously, rolling into the warm body behind him with stuttering hips. It feels, it feels so… He slowly wakes, realizes what he’s doing, panics with a flail that moves every muscle in his body and falls out of bed with a crash that would send his dad running in if he wasn’t working the night-shift. He. That. That was an innocent mistake.
Scott stares down at him, bleary-eyed. His hair’s gone crazy in the night, there are pillow-imprints down the left side of his face, and he has this half-smile, half-frown thing working for him. Stiles jumps up and attempts a casual pose that feels like it doesn’t succeed, not knowing what to do with his hands.
And that’s when he sees that Scott is hard. That there’s a blush visible at his neck, rising up his sleep-warm skin as he obviously realizes this himself. Yeah, good old Scotty-boy is suffering from the common affliction of morning wood, something that Stiles has endured a couple times since these nightly visits, but thankfully he’s always awoken before Scott and stumbled off to the bathroom. And because Stiles is officially the worst of all time, he says the first thing that pops into his head.
“Want me to take care of that for you?”
Because if he makes this a horribly embarrassing and inappropriate joke, it’ll never be obvious he wants it. Because he has to cut the silence somehow and propriety is for the weak. Because he thinks it’ll make Scott laugh, make him duck his head, react like he does all the other times Stiles has come on to him. Which is a lot, actually. Stiles started saying these kinds of things as soon as he knew what any of them meant, at first because he wanted to feel brave, and then because he gained sick satisfaction in Scott’s responses.
Scott dips his head, sure, but then he peers up at Stiles with a look that is calculating and curious.
“Really? Would you?”
And. Stiles does not know the answer beyond: he would, he absolutely would. “Yeah,” he admits, blinking and surreptitiously pinching the inside of his elbow.
“But do you want to?” Scott asks next, and that sounds like a totally different question, like a pop quiz, the difference between an A and a B in life. Stiles finds it hard to focus, but he’s always studied hard because he wants an A. He wants the best. To be the best.
He spreads his hands out wide, rocks back on his heels. He talks to the decals on his wall. “If you want me to?”
“Yeah,” Scott says, breathy, and out the corner of his eye, Stiles sees a flurry of movement.
Stiles’ heart sounds like he’s got Gene Krupa sitting behind his ribcage, this steady swing-beat that mixes up with a cymbal crash or two, and he just… he seriously never imagined Scott would ever say yes to one of his jokes. That’s how they were jokes. Yet here is Scott, saying yes to him, and as he finally looks back down at him, he’s sitting up now, this intense combination of terrified and determined.
They should probably definitely talk about this, discuss the merits and downfalls of their loosely cobbled together plan. But. Jumping in feet first to danger has become their major lot in life. So. Instead, Stiles drops down between Scott’s knees. He rests his hands on Scott’s legs, thumbs curling down against his inner thighs. In his loose sweatpants, Scott is over-heated and practically trembling.
“How do you…” Stiles begins to ask. Do this? his mind finishes, “want this?” he forces himself to say.
“I don’t know? Any way you’re comfortable?”
Scott intones like he’s asking, but it feels too earnest for that, like he’s giving Stiles an out.
“This is copacetic,” Stiles assures him, and maybe he does it this way because he wants to see the adorable scrunch of Scott’s nose, or maybe it’s because sensible, intelligible words have apparently left him. But then there’s hesitation on Scott’s part, bewilderment and nervousness that can be ascertained without wolfy senses, so he grapples for a semblance of normal. “I’m good.”
He tugs on Scott’s sweatpants, and because, as best friends, they’re often on the same wavelength, Scott raises his hips and lets him pull them down. They slide to his ankles and Stiles is left looking at Scott’s boxers. Which have a very clear wet spot. He actually thinks his mouth waters and he gazes up into Scott’s eyes, startled, only to find the same shock mirrored back at him.
Yes, they’ve seen each other naked countless times in the past and they’ve been cuddling every night for three weeks now, but this is so intimate. This is something he’s never seen in Scott before, something secret and precious. He’s never wanted to admit how much he’s wanted to be in this position, on the verge of getting to have every little last inch of Scott. They’re friends and that’s supposed to be enough, has been enough, but maybe he wants more than what’s sufficient, perhaps he wants to be better than adequate.
Stiles leans forward and mouths at Scott through the fabric, eliciting a throaty moan that is completely obscene. Oh, this is new. Stiles is not the biggest fan of change; he doesn’t hate it, but it’s been known to bring complications. This transformation is one he can get on board. All the dirty things he’s thought about doing to Scott during his daily showers crash together in his mind as he clutches tighter into Scott’s firm thighs and licks and licks. Scott smells the right kind of musky and his taste is all salt-sweet and as first times go this is the most of everything. Scott’s clearly trying to restrain himself. He hasn’t clawed out, but when Stiles looks, his fingers are deep, deep into the bedclothes and his jaw is clenched, looking even more uneven and overwhelmingly kissable.
So Stiles does. He slides up and kisses Scott’s jaw. He thinks he could be breaking some kind of code --- that morning blowjobs between best friends is acceptable, but this kind of affection is crossing the line --- until Scott tilts his head to the side and captures Stiles’ lips with his own. Stiles loses himself in the kiss. It’s simultaneously nothing like he imagined and everything he ever wanted. Scott sucks on his lower lip and then licks into his mouth, and not even morning breath can destroy the sweetness in how Scott angles to kiss him deeper, surer. He’s got skills and intent and they both seem to instinctively know how to push and shift against each other. Stiles has so much he wants to communicate in this kiss, about how he understands if this is a one-time need thing, that Stiles is available and not his endgame, about how he won’t let the fallout from this drive them further apart. But it’s just a kiss, and it doesn’t say much, all it does is make his blood circle faster around his body, causing his pulse to increase in speed and volume.
Stiles pulls away to gasp for breath. He’s new to this, he forgot he could breathe and kiss at the same time. Scott follows him, standing up shakily, cradling the back of his neck like it’s imperative, a must. He edges forward again, obviously intent on another kiss, but Stiles shakes his head. He gets his fingers under the waistband of Scott’s boxers and pulls them down, insists Scott removes his t-shirt. And if he thought Scott was impressive in his boxers, he’s overwhelming when he’s totally naked. Though they’ve showered near one another and the natural curiosity in Stiles has had him looking, he’s never seen Scott aroused like this. The idea that he did this, that Scott’s cock is curving up against his abdomen, hard and leaking, because of Stiles makes him moan and he can’t help but clutch at his own cock in his pajama pants, squirming in desperation.
Scott rubs his fingers between the slice of skin where his shirt has ridden up, and it tickles, provokes a shiver. Then Scott’s dipping under his waistband as well, pushing pants and underwear down at the same time and Stiles is hopping on one foot to extricate himself from the garments. Scott’s kissing him, slowly, slowly spinning them around so now it’s Stiles with his back to the bed, back of his knees catching on the mattress.
They tumble down onto the unmade bed in a tangle of limbs, and fate is sometimes a beautiful thing; they’re pressed so tight their cocks slide perfectly together, side-by-side. Scott plants a hand down by Stiles’ waist, lifting the trunk of his body up, and, hey, it’s not like Stiles has never imagined the awesomeness of wolfy superpowers in bed before, but this is ridiculous. Scott’s essentially doing one-armed push-ups to drag himself down and up against Stiles, adding a roll to his hips that should be illegal. It’s rhythmic and intoxicating, but a little too passive for Stiles’ tastes. Stiles stops Scott with a bite to the juncture between his neck and shoulder, peppering kisses over his collarbones, and nudges up, tipping Scott to the side.
Like this, he can thrust against Scott too, which he does with an off-beat cant of his hips. He grinds and stutters, muscles flexing. When Scott drags a hand down and wraps firm fingers around them both, Stiles shudders uncontrollably. Scott twists his hand up in the opposite direction to how Stiles imagined, but he still twists, and this is important, somehow, that though Stiles couldn’t have seriously predicted this, he knows Scott so well.
He isn’t going to last much longer, he can feel his skin drawing tight and sweat’s making what was a loose gray shirt cling over his arms and chest. The rest of the shirt is bunched up somewhere just below his armpits. Scott’s chin is sharp where it’s digging into his shoulder, and he’s making these low grunting sounds that turn Stiles’ limbs to jelly. They’re rubbing against each other even as Scott continues to stroke, and this is everything at once, contrasting and complementing information, a constant and compelling thrum, so much so that Stiles can only guess how it feels with heightened senses. If he’s dazed and boneless from the bitter smell of sex in the air, the drag of sweat-slick skin, every astonished groan or grunt, how must Scott be feeling?
Pretty damn awesome, if the way he comes is anything to go by. Scott’s cock seems to get harder and then he whines, shakes, rattles the bed. He pulses high between their bodies, fingers clutching against Stiles’ arm. Stiles watches Scott’s expression go from scrunched to blissed out and that’s it, he’s gone, incapable of human thought. Stiles arches back and comes like he never has before, skin fever-heated, breath skittering out unevenly, nerves pulled taut and tingling. He flops down, flat onto his back, a sprawl of limbs and a muddle of emotions.
Minutes later, Scott’s still lying next to him, idly playing with the mess of them on his stomach, which is both gross and weirdly hot. Scott’s fingers feel soft and slightly tacky, but also reassuring. Stiles can’t stop his mind from racing, though, twenty conflicting thoughts attacking him at once. He wants to say something, but can’t think of anything that isn’t inept.
“So, that was something that happened,” he settles on. It’s not the most eloquent he’s ever been. It is, however, true.
He’s trying to preemptively stop himself from doing something he assumes will be disastrous. Stiles has a horrible urge to lie and omit and act like they can go back to what they always used to be. That hasn’t been the case for half a year now.
Scott hums an affirmation and then kisses Stiles again, which is a surprise. A not unwelcome but no less shocking surprise.
“How are you feeling?” Scott asks afterwards and Stiles opens and snaps his mouth shut twice, because there are paragraphs and poems’ worth he could say.
“But you’ve been sleeping better, haven’t you?” Scott asks next, voice sleep-thick and closer to wrecked than Stiles has ever heard it. “I mean, I wasn’t sure, but you always fall asleep eventually and you seem a lot calmer.”
For the first time since this began, Stiles starts to think that Scott’s been sneak-night-time-cuddling for him, on his behalf, not taking, but giving. It is an odd kind of epiphany, a confronting revelation. For weeks he’s thought Scott was using him, was happy to be used, but thought that’s where the balance lay. And that’s not it.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, slowly. “But my body’s not used to this kind of strenuous exercise so early in the morning.”
Scott noses up under his chin and mumbles into his neck. “You’re just gonna have to have more practice.”
“… with you?”
Scott moves again, now appearing totally awake. He looks him in the eye. “Unless you don’t want that?”
“No, I do.”
Scott grins, beatific. Stiles softly, slowly, grins back.
It’s a… thing.