On second thought, why don't you screw each other?
Maybe those weren't the precise words. Stiles can't remember. His mind doesn't cling to details like that without a lot of persuading. His mind doesn't usually cling to anything without a lot of persuading. Every so often, though, every so often, something wedges itself into his thoughts and memories like a bruise deep under the skin; invisible until it's touched. It flares up unexpectedly. It catches him off-guard. This is one of those things, a bruise on his memory, maybe a hickey even. He finds himself considering it at odd moments, trying to take a mental tally of the pros and the cons of he and Scott. Doing the do. The horizontal mambo. Making the beast with two backs.
He doesn't actually know why he hasn't considered it before. There could definitely be advantages. It isn't like Scott is an unattractive guy. Puberty is in the process of being very good to Scott. All the lacrosse and the werewolf healing and the running for his life has done fantastic things to his legs. Stiles' imagination derails him with the image of those legs spread before him, glistening with sweat and clenching in anticipation and oh, okay, yes, there could definitely be advantages. Beautiful, muscular advantages.
The thoughts ambush him when he isn't expecting it. Scott leans forward in Econ class and presses a pen against his mouth and Stiles thinks of those plush, uneven lips wrapping around him, stretched and shiny and pink-red. Scott puts a hand at the base of Stiles' spine to guide him through a doorway and Stiles imagines those same hands on his shoulders, holding him down as he arches up against them, breathless and needy and begging. Scott's eyes flash alpha red and Stiles imagines them doing the same thing as he asks—doesn't demand, not even when he's being the Alpha—that Stiles kneel before him. Scott hits the showers after lacrosse practice and Stiles catches a glimpse of the water sluicing down the channel of his spine when Scott raises both arms to scrub at his hair. Stiles imagines his own mouth at the bottom of that runnel, half-drinking the rivulet and half letting it pour down over his chin. Scott's skin is the same color as the cinnamon sugar dusting over the snickerdoodles his mother used to make for him, a long time ago, and Stiles wonders if it tastes the same. He spends the rest of the day licking his own lips out of nervous affectation and expecting sweetness.
It's getting to be a problem.
Months pass. The sentence swirls up out of the ether of Stiles' crowded mind at random moments and he almost gets used to it. He makes a list, of the potentiality, the good and the bad, and he compares its length to itself. One side is longer but the other has more weight and he isn't sure how to convert them to the same measurements.
Stiles decides it's actually a problem when he has to abandon his research for the third time in one night to sprawl himself over his bed, fingertips skidding down his stomach, teasing and tugging and tugging and teasing at his rigid flesh with his mouth open and his eyes closed and the notion of Scott, Scott's steady palm and sweet grin, Scott who knows him so well, Scott who'd already know exactly where and what to touch, how to touch it, Scott, Scott, Holy God, Scott--
He whispers his best friend's name because he won't let himself scream it, he cleans himself up and he sighs, determining that tomorrow, tomorrow, he's got to say something.
Tomorrow finds Stiles knocking his way into Scott's room in the afternoon. Not knocking to announce his presence—he hasn't done that since they were seven, hasn't done that since before he became such a permanent fixture at Scott's house that even Scott's mother couldn't summon up any surprise over it—but knocking because he knocks into things, colliding with the wall and the threshold with knees and elbows.
He rolls up into Scott's room, rebounds backwards to close the door with his shoulders, and without any preamble announces, “I think we should have sex.”
Scott sits up straight on his bed and stares at Stiles with a shock that borders on incredulity.
“For science.” Stiles clarifies with a nod.
That doesn't seem to be the motivation that Stiles was hoping. Scott is still kind of staring at him in that way Scott has when the werewolf's brain isn't really keeping up, mouth a little open, head a little down, and Stiles mostly just wants to crowd up into Scott's space and taste the breath coming out of that mouth. He's still betting Snickerdoodles.
Scott's mouth works a few times while Stiles is daydreaming about what it would feel like pressed to the hook of his hips, and finally words start managing to form again. “Wh—Stiles, where did this even come from?”
“You still talk to Jackson?”
Stiles squints, confused by the question, tips his head to the side as he studies his best friend's puzzled face. “What? No, of course not, Jackson's a douche. You were there when he said it, he told us to go screw each other.”
Scott's stance relaxes a little bit, his legs coming up to press his feet flat against the bed so that he can drape his arms over his bent knees. He's wearing athletic shorts and it's everything Stiles can do to keep his eyes on the werewolf's face. “...Stiles, that was over a year ago. Have you been dwelling on that this long?”
He's beginning to feel like he might not have had the right response to this whole thing. Like maybe a different person, a normal person, for whatever value that word could ever hold, wouldn't have spent over a year obsessing over the minutiae of the concept. But, doubt is for people with more common sense than Stiles has ever had, so he shrugs, mostly with one shoulder. “I...had to make a list. Of all the pros and cons.”
“You made a list?” Scott has definitely moved into the realm of skepticism, the stunned shade having faded away from his features to something more familiar, something Stiles has seen a hundred times. It relaxes him.
It gives him a certain amount of confidence. He twists around to grab at his backpack, previously hanging carelessly off of one arm, and digs in it with one hand until he can pull a rumpled sheaf of papers out of its depths. The bag gets tossed to the side and Stiles holds the papers up in front of his own face as if he needs any sort of reminder about what's on them, tapping at them with the backs of his other hand's fingers. “Yeah. I made a list. I said. For science. Starting on the list of pros, first of all, you're hot, I'm hot, so. You know. Got the obvious out of the way--”
Scott straightens his legs, unfolding along his bed and rolling to the side to put his feet against the floor instead. “Stiles.”
“--we've known each other for years, so we've got a pretty good synergy going on, I figure we'd have a minimum of awkward fumbling 'cause we're so good at the non-verbal communication thing--”
“Stiles.” Scott repeats, standing now and taking a step towards the human with his hands held out low by his hips, palms up.
“--I'm very creative, I mean I'm very creative, I have a lot of talent with my general mouth area. As for Cons, give me a second, let me get the...okay. Cons. Big one, maybe a dealbreaker, never really seen any evidence that you're into dudes--”
“Stiles.” Scott's voice adds a little bit of bass boom, trying to distract Stiles from his course of action, but Stiles—Stiles is determined. He isn't going to be distracted, because this is important, even when Scott takes another few steps and enters his personal space, the heat of his body radiating into the small bones of Stiles' hands and God, wouldn't it feel good deeper in the pit of him.
“--plus there's the whole making things awkward thing, which I personally don't think would actually be a thing, but, uh. It should be noted. That some people might think it would be awkward, but I think we could overcome, we've been really good at overcoming in the past and--”
“Stiles.” Now, Scott's hands have come up to grip Stiles' face by its sides, tipping it upwards with a gentle firmness so that Stiles is forced to look at Scott instead of the bullet points between his fingers. His eyes are half-hooded and his mouth is now doing the funny, quirkily lopsided smile it does when Scott's feeling comfortable and amused but not radiantly happy. It's not his radiant smile. Stiles prefers the radiant smile but he takes what he can get. Even one ray of sunshine is worth savoring in a raincloud existence. “Shut up.”
The bluster falls out of his sails, and Stiles' hands fall, papers rustling. He doesn't quite drop them, but it's close, arrested only at the last second by the idea that Stiles doesn't really want this list scattered all over Scott's floor if Scott...if Scott isn't-- “Oh. Oh. I get it. You're, uh. You're not into this kind of science. It's...that's okay.” Or it will be, eventually, if it isn't now. “I understand, I just--”
Scott's eyes roll, that dopey smile never leaving his face, and his fingers tighten, pulling Stiles' jaw forwards. In the same instant, the human is pulled off-balance, onto his toes, and Scott's dopey mouth is suddenly, electrifyingly, pressed against his own. He stumbles, he does drop the papers, he lifts one hand to brace it against Scott's shoulder and try to find his balance. He doesn't, but his feet set squarely against the floor again at the very least.
Not snickerdoodles. Cherry chapstick, unevenly applied. Heavier on the sticky-outy side of Scott's jaw.
Scott pulls back, mouth now more pursed than anything, and lifts his eyebrows in a way that Stiles learned years ago means 'are we good?'
The thing is, in this instant, Stiles doesn't even know. He feels like the entire equation changed, because he can't tell if that was a yes let's do this kiss or an oh my god shut up already kiss, and he suspects the latter given Scott's former words, but oh my god shut up already was never something communicated by kiss between them before, rarely has anything between them been communicated by kiss, which makes Stiles' brain swing back around towards yes let's do this and his wheels are spinning, he's stuck deep in the morass that is Scott's gravitational field—can't call it mud, that's far too common for what Scott is and has always been—and Stiles can't figure out what the right answer is, so all he answers with is, “Uh.”
Scott, who is both amazing and insufferable in equal measure, laughs. “Dude, if this is how you approach the scientific method, your grade in chemistry suddenly makes a lot of sense.”
Fuck it, Stiles thinks, with all the conviction of a creature that has lived most of its life as a stranger to deliberation. Fuck it. Or maybe fuck Scott, if Scott will let him, which Stiles—Stiles is about to find out. He makes a bubbly gasp of sound and surges forward again, invading Scott's personal space while the wolf is still making that smug expression, battering at him with shoulders and elbows, palms raising to smooth against the sides of Scott's face and draw him in for another kiss. Scott flows like water, soaking through Stiles and giving, giving, yielding, until the backs of the wolf's knees hit the edge of his own bed and suddenly the pair of them are a waterfall, tumbling, falling, laughing.
Somehow they end up with Stiles sprawled out beneath Scott, blinking upwards in surprise. There's the faintest hint of red fading away from his friend's eyes and Stiles figures that explains a lot about their current position, even as he's feeling that color spark a fire inside of him, below his chest, somewhere near the pit of his stomach. So alpha kink is a thing, he thinks to himself, and he accepts that, because, hey, this is for science.
Scott holds a little distance between their bodies and Stiles is surprised he can't see literal, physical electricity arc from point to point between them. There's a question in the wolf's eyes that begs answering, but the only response Stiles has is to dig his fingers into the shape of Scott's hips. He drags his fingertips up under Scott's shirt and lets the cloth gather up against his wrists, bunching up until it meets Scott's arms. He doesn't even have to ask, he doesn't even get to the concept of asking before Scott is rocking his body to the side, and dipping one shoulder so that he can use the roll of it to pop the shirt up over his head. Stiles pulls the thing free completely and immediately forgets about it when confronted with the bare expanse of Scott's chest.
It's not like he's never seen Scott shirtless before. He's seen far more of Scott than that, even fairly recently. It's the change in intention and permission that has Stiles uncentered, trying to examine every inch of skin presented to him with no ability to focus on anything at all. It's flawless and it looks delicious, less like cinnamon-sugar now that Stiles is in close and more like caramel. He wets the tip of his upper lip with the end of this tongue, trying to decide where to even start. It isn't until he tries to find one of his hands to graze its fingertips across Scott's collarbone that he realizes that his own shirt has been pulled up along his body and Scott looks a little like he's going to shred the thing to eliminate it. Stiles coughs a laugh and squirms with his shoulders against the bed until they can work the fabric free. It gets forgotten along with Scott's shirt.
“Did I mention that you're really, really hot?” Stiles pants, reaching up to spread the long fingers of his right hand against the left-middle of Scott's chest, fingertips digging in faintly like he can pull something up through the warmth of the skin. Maybe he can. He doesn't know. This is for science, after all. Scott smiles but there's an emotion in his eyes that Stiles isn't sure he can identify, isn't sure he's ever seen turned towards his own face, and it makes him slip those fingertips up to the edge of Scott's jaw, maintaining pressure as if to keep the wolf from getting any closer but also to keep him from getting any further away. “...Scott, seriously, if you're not into this, I get it. I get it. Just tell me. We don't...you don't have to...”
Scott rolls his eyes, rolls his fingers downwards to tuck them in under Stiles' waistband, overheated skin against overheated skin. “Stiles,” he says, trying to work the clasp of the human's pants as he speaks, “I wouldn't have gone this far if I wasn't into this. I know you think you're always dragging me into things I don't want to do, but the truth is, I've always gone willingly. You don't force me into anything. I don't know why it's so hard for you to understand that I actually want to be around you and do things with you, even your crazy ideas, even the ones that turn out to be really bad ideas.”
Something stings suddenly at the back of Stiles' eyes, despite his position, despite his growing awareness of Scott's body pressed against his and the relative state of arousal of them both. His words catch in his throat, tangle up into a mass he can't move past his molars, and he finds himself struggling just to breathe around them, blinking up at Scott's honest, erstwhile face.
“So basically—yeah. If you want to try this, we can try this.” Scott is continuing, his voice tender and warm, patient the way it always is when he's trying to explain to Stiles that Stiles is being kind of a twitchy idiot about something that's simple and obvious to everyone else. “I trust you. I trust us. If it isn't something we wanna do again, okay. Nothing has to change if we don't want it to.”
Stiles lets his fingers tighten against Scott's jaw, digging pale pads into the darker skin, and he turns his head, just a little on its most upright axis. “What if we do want things to change?”
Scott's smile is more lopsided than it isn't, a counterbalance to his jaw. It's probably an expression he learned from Stiles, and it seems just faintly weird to see it reflected back at him over his best friend's features. “We'll figure it out.”
It's a phrase that's passed between them hundreds of times over the years, it's sacred ground being offered as a place to lay on as they explore this new (it's old, actually, it's so old, he's realizing) potential between them. As brusque as it may have sounded from the outside, Stiles recognizes it for what it is—a promise that regardless of what happened, they would remain themselves. It's an arrow of wanting fired straight through his chest to pin him to the bed for Scott's taking. It's the perfect response, and Stiles has no recourse of his own but to use the hand on Scott's jaw to drag him downwards into a kiss. He's so focused on it, so dedicated to the idea of showing Scott with the press of his lips or the slide of his tongue how much he wants this, how much he appreciates Scott, what Scott is on some deep and fundamental level, that the feeling of Scott's fingers on his dick--
--that catches him completely off-guard.
His voice pops out of him, two parts surprise and three desire, and Stiles can't help himself, he bucks his hips up into Scott's hand. Scott presses down as he does, giving both friction and pressure, and the bubble of voice turns into a stretched-out whine, a shameless quiet sound that promises there will be more, later, where Stiles isn't nearly so quiet. Scott's grip tightens and he gives Stiles one or two firm, tantalizing strokes before he's pulled his hand away to finish pulling Stiles' pants and underwear off of him. Stiles feels a little bit like he's been pulled out of sight of the sun, half-disappointed and heady, and there's a tiny voice in the back of his head that wants to scold him because Jesus, that was just ten seconds of Scott's hand, how is he ever going to make it through this?
Sucking in a steadying breath through his teeth, Stiles squirms beneath the alpha, helping to work himself out of his jeans (why are they so tight, what the hell is wrong with him, it's almost impossible to get them off) just so that he can concentrate on returning the favor for Scott. It's easier given that Scott isn't in actual jeans; the soft fabric of his athletic shorts has proven no match for the impressive tent he's made in the front of them, and it proves equally no match for Stiles' clever, insistent fingers. Stiles likes getting into things, he likes getting into presents, and here is no different. The moment he's got Scott's shorts down far enough, he's reaching to catch the other boy's cock as it pops free and oh God, all the imagination in the universe couldn't have prepared him for the hot weight of it in his palm.
Scott is thicker than he is, Stiles thinks, but not quite as long, more of an upward curve but less of a lean to the left. His skin is hot everywhere but the wolf seems to pool heat here, blazing hot every time Stiles touches him, skids his fingers along the rigid flesh and pulls his thumb from the head down along the vein beneath. The sound that Scott makes when Stiles does that is amazing, a low rumble that crawls down in under his skin and sets bonefires. It makes Stiles want to do it again, so he does, smearing down a line of Scott's precome. Scott groans louder and leans down to work open-mouthed over the sweep of Stiles' shoulder in something Stiles couldn't rightly call kisses but couldn't rightly call biting either. Whatever it is, it's electric. Stiles decides he likes it. He especially likes whenever those lips make it to his neck.
He's not used to hands that aren't his own on him, but as it turns out, Stiles was right about a lot of things. His list of pros is more than just supposition, because Scott already seems to know exactly where to touch his fragile skin, exactly what pressure and direction sends jolts down his spine. Teeth here causes Stiles to stutter a moan through clenched teeth, his neck extended to press its length into Scott's mouth, a sweep of the tongue there causes a deeper growl and an arch to Stiles' spine, nails over here reduce him to a high-pitched whimpering keen, shaking beneath the alpha's body. He can't focus on one sensation before another one is ripping through him, galloping straight into his belly and then whirling lower like Valkyries on the hunt. He can feel his cock tapping against Scott's hand every time Scott touches him, he knows he isn't reciprocating as much as he should (shit, was he a lousy lay, how unfair was that?) but there's just so much, so much. Stiles reaches up, digging his fingers in against Scott's shoulderblades, and presses himself upwards, panting half-sensically, “Scott, Scott, Scott, I need, Scott, I...I...”
Immediately Scott's hands turn their flat palms against his flanks, smoothing along his skin in a way he's sure is supposed to settle him down. Stiles imagines it might have, if the scent of sex hadn't already started to creep into his nose, if he wasn't already a dial turned to eleven on a scale of one-to-five, if Scott's hands didn't leave fire in their wakes when Scott wasn't looking. “Shh, shh, Stiles, tell me. We can go slower. What do you need?”
“Fuck no we can't go slower, don't you fucking dare, Scott, I just...I need you. I want you. I don't want to just...without...Scott come on.” The words seem so clumsy and Stiles is suddenly so completely unsure of them. He gives a frustrated noise and rocks his body downwards, reaching his hand around to wrap it around Scott's arousal again, tugging in a quick rhythm like that might express his need better than clumsy syllables fallen from his lips. He starts to do trigonometry badly in his head, trying to find the math he needs to locate the right angle, to square the root or solve the equation that results in Scott's sweet heat inside of him.
Scott laughs, and then he groans, and he laughs again more breathily this time, leaning in to ghost his mouth over Stiles' lips and mutter into them, “Hold on, okay, okay, hold on. You're not ready yet. We've gotta--”
And then he's gone, rolling out of Stiles' desperate grasp and off of the bed entirely. The moment shimmers like a soap bubble and threatens to pop just as easily. Stiles gasps, frowns, rises up on his elbows to squint uncertainly across Scott's room to figure out what's going on.
It should be ludicrous, the way Scott's bent over at the waist, hard-on digging into his stomach as his hands dig through the contents of one of his desk drawers. It isn't. It isn't ludicrous at all, it's maddeningly attractive, it makes Stiles throb between his legs with an intensity that would have had him scrambling for the tissues if he'd been alone. Which says nothing about the intensity of his wanting when Scott turns around and Stiles realizes he has retrieved a ribbon of condoms and a bottle of lubricant from the drawer that is now and will forever be labeled in Stiles' mind as the carnal pleasures drawer. His eyes flick to the condoms, to the bottle, to Scott's face as his friend comes back to reclaim the space above Stiles' body.
This was really happening. (For science, goddamnit it's for science...)
Scott uses one knee to nudge Stiles' legs further apart, settling the condoms down on the bed next to Stiles' hip. He squirts some of the lube out into his hand, spreading it around on his fingers and warming it with the heat of his own body, and Stiles finds himself wetting his lips before looking back at Scott's face, hazarding, “Uh—You kinda look like you've done this before, man...”
The smile, the chuckle that come from Scott in that moment should be illegal, Stiles decides. Not that those things being illegal would stop him from indulging in them—not even a little bit, not at all—but that wicked promise he can see in the back of the alpha's eyes, that's something that should be kept away from innocent, law-abiding citizens. Something that should be reserved for hardened criminals, those who have always wandered away from the restrictions of the straight and the narrow (especially the straight). Like Stiles. They should be reserved for Stiles. “...A little. Allison liked...she was a little experimental. Don't worry, it's good.”
He reaches down to circle one slicked-up fingertip around the puckered skin of Stiles' hole and already, before Scott's even really done anything at all, Stiles decides that yes, yes, it's good. He gives a quiet sound of approval, taking a deep breath in as Scott mimes wordlessly that he should. It's while he's breathing in that Scott applies the pressure and pushes his finger in to the first knuckle. He holds it still there, thumb stroking down the seam of Stiles' balls as he waits for the human's body to adjust.
He'd imagined this a hundred times, what it might feel like to have someone else's body invade the inside spaces of his own. He's thought about it and thought about it and thought about it, and somehow, for all of Stiles' mighty powers of imagination, it doesn't compare, not even to the tip of one finger. He furrows his brow, expression going distant as he analyzes the sensation, tests against Scott with his body and finds it yields but does not surrender. Slowly, Stiles realizes that he's shifting his legs against the bed, trying to squirm downwards against the sensation, and he pulls his bottom lip into his mouth, nodding faintly.
Scott responds by working his finger into Stiles entirely before beginning to pull it out again, a slow and deliberate rhythm that allows Stiles to feel every drag of skin against skin, the way Scott knows just how to persuade his body to relent. When Scott adds the second finger, Stiles becomes almost hyperaware of Scott's fingernails; they're cut, they're short, they aren't hurting him, but he can tell how they might have hurt him if they'd been any longer. It isn't quite right. It isn't quite what he wants. The conclusion of the hypothesis is: fingerfucking is good but there's got to be something better. Every sensation is half of what he wants it to be, every sensation is all tease without follow-through. He raises one hand to try and wrap it around himself and find some release but Scott makes a sudden disapproving sound and dashes his fingers away. “Scott—Scotty, come on, come on, I need, I need...I can't just...You've gotta...”
Words. A mess. Fuck language, fuck science, he just wants to be fucked.
When Scott, infuriating Scott, beautiful Scott,leans back to ask a second time what it is that Stiles needs, Stiles picks up the ribbon of condoms and throws them right at Scott's stupid glorious face.
The wolf catches them, because of course he does, putting them aside again just long enough to snatch one of the pillows from the head of the bed and to slide his hand under Stiles' hips, lifting half of the human's weight with a casual effort. He slides the pillow beneath, re-arranging Stiles' body as he sees fit and making another pass around Stiles' rim, ever-so-carefully, with the edge of one thumb. Stiles has never felt so open and peeled-apart in his entire life, so stripped of his capacity to make words. He tries to move into the touch, voice rising along a scale of desperation.
Scott rips one of the condoms free of the ribbon, leaning forward to cap his mouth over Stiles' suddenly as he tears it open. The kiss is brief but it feels like a promise, it lingers on his tongue and between his lips when Scott leans back and begins to line himself up. The breadth of him pressing against Stiles' entrance, lube-slick and magma-hot, almost seems like an impossible obstacle. Stiles can feel his heart begin to rocket upwards through his chest, into his throat, the roof of his mouth, and Scott must hear it too because he makes a quiet, calming noise with air through his teeth, using the fingers and thumb of his free hand to stroke at the skin of Stiles' hip. He takes a deep breath in and, just like before, Stiles mimics him in time for the first thrust.
This time, Scott doesn't pause. He rolls himself forward, inwards like the tide, until Stiles can feel the soft skin of Scott's scrotum brushing against his own and he feels full, he feels so full, like Scott is suddenly occupying every piece he'd opened up. Which is good, it's good, because Stiles has had other things hide themselves in the shadows of his soul before and he doesn't want them, God, he doesn't want them, all he wants is Scott, for Scott's bright, unconquerable light to fill him up and chase those dark places away. His body strains and then accepts Scott as if he were a part of it, and Stiles finds he can't help the sudden hiccup of voice he gives the air between them (there's so little of that, holy shit, there's negative space between them, how's that for science?) when Scott's hips move in slow figure eights. “Oh, oh man, okay, okay, that's...that's you...that's...oh, that's good, that's...”
The alpha begins to move over him, slowly but assuredly, confident in a way Stiles feels he might never be, fluid motions of his spine that seem to bump him up against every single sensitive place Stiles might have been hiding inside of himself. His own cock is trapped between their bellies, dragging along sweat-sweet skin, and every time Scott rocks up into him, it ruts him against the warmth of Scott's abdomen. Stiles doesn't know what to focus on or how to let go and feel it all at once (is the Adderall getting in the way? Should I skip it next time, is there gonna be a next time, I hope so, I need to better than this for Scott) so he settles on latching on. Both arms come up to wrap around Scott's shoulders, fingertips digging into the werewolf's hair. He hooks his calves around Scott's and finds that gives him enough leverage to help pull himself down on the cock inside of him and oh, that's so much better, even when before was so good. Sparks ignite up and down his spine with every forward shock and Stiles has lost track of what he's saying other than the idea that most of it isn't words and most of it means Scott and it doesn't matter if he turns and presses his face into Scott's neck, digs his teeth in just a little bit, because Scott will understand him anyway.
The rest of the world blurs into white noise. Scott becomes all Stiles knows, maybe all he's ever known, certainly all that matters. He stretches his own neck to the side when Scott starts to lip at it again, his voice shuddering. His whole body begins to tense in waves, working from his crown downwards, and suddenly Scott is panting his name, his voice a dusky growl, putting his hand around the human's aching erection, squeezing and pulling and pulling and squeezing, “I know you're close, come on, come on...”
Scott gives his wrist a particular twist and the bottom falls out of the world.
Stiles arcs upwards, pinning Scott's hand and his suddenly leaping cock between them as he spills out of himself. His fingernails scrabble down Scott's back, leaving marks that stay like vanishing ink, and lets the tsunami of his orgasm wash Scott's name up from the pit of his stomach and offer it up like a half-shouted pearl, tossed into the room like something both precious and profane.
Scott pulls himself in close and circles his hips again, grinding against Stiles' hypersensitive flesh like a livewire until his body gives a sudden jerk and he's clutching at Stiles and that liquid warmth of his is finally loose inside of Stiles, to dig into his bones and chase a cold that's months old.
They lay there for more time than Stiles cares to put any measure to, Scott draped over the pale, bespeckled body of a human who still hasn't quite relaxed his grip. By the time one of them moves—it's Stiles, of course, it's always Stiles, squirming and wiggling and still caught on Scott, deliciously caught up around him—the sweat has transmuted just to salt and everything feels just a little tacky. Stiles decides he likes it, as he puts his fingers into the hair at the back of Scott's neck. It's an opportunity for more research, to ask for help in getting clean. He's never had anyone to help before. “So, uh...” He starts, almost surprised that he has a language to clip back into his voice again.
The hum Scott makes is mostly contented but just enough curious to let Stiles know he's being humored.
“Science. How—how'd that go? For science. Better than chemistry? Lab results in yet?”
“Definitely better than chemistry. As for the rest of it...'one' isn't a statistically relevant sample size.”
Stiles groans a little, frowning at the top of Scott's head. “Oh my God, did you seriously just say something like 'statistically relevant' while you still have your dick in me?”
Scott grunts, rolls his head around so that he can fix one eye on Stiles' half-scandalized face. “You're the one talking about science. I'm just saying, for a study to mean anything you have to have lots of tests. Lots of tests.”
He can feel his heart skip in his chest, he knows Scott can hear it, but he isn't sure he cares. Stiles frees a hand to cradle Scott's face in it, the lopsided sticky-outy-side, his question somehow far more serious than he really thinks the actual words merit. “So does that mean you want to do more tests?”
The sun comes out in the middle of the room: Scott McCall smiles that radiant smile, and he smiles it just for Stiles. “So many, dude. So many.”
Stiles can't help the skip of laughter in his voice, wouldn't want to even if he could. “Yeah. Yeah. I just decided. I fucking love science.”