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The wind swirls around him and he feels dead cold, especially down his spine where everything prickles shallowly, something brisk and unsettling matching the frenzy of his nerves.
It's a Saturday night, of all nights, and he should be having some sort of fun, forgetting about the growing trail of corpses fallen behind him—but instead he heads towards the preserve, tucked under a red hoodie, head down and goosebumps breaking all over his skin. It's a full moon, and his wolf feels deprived, caged, starving.
Scott doesn't take too long to realize that trapping an entire slice of himself into the depths of his being isn't as manageable as he initially thought. There's an itch right where muscle meets skin that he can't seize or satiate like this. He knows what he needs, knows what has to be done so his head will stop feeling so heavy, and his skin so tight and worn—and the itch to stop burning tauntingly under his shell.
So he heads into the preserve, both thinking that enough is enough and that he hopes to god this won't end up with blood and lifeless eyes. (He might actually have prayed).
The hoodie is the first thing to go, followed by the shirt, his baggy jeans and black boxers. When he takes off the shoes, everything feels solid around him, his toes curling experimentally on the humid, cold layer of dirt under his feet. He feels connected, inexplicably sharper and broader, maybe meaningful in a way. The missing piece of a puzzle.
Scott inhales deeply and glances back at his belongings propped just by a tree, then back to the path before him, tight with trees. It's pitch black before his eyes burn bright red and light the way. The goosebumps increase by each second he lets go of his worries, taking over swiftly, making the palm of his hands grow warmer, teeth elongating—everything breaking free. His skin's soon breaking in an uncontrollable wavering, hot and unforgiving, eliciting a quiet growl from the back of his throat, demanding his claws, and fangs, and wolf—asking for what he needs and won't say.
Finally, releasing feels like drowning.
Scott sinks back deep, far, far down himself. It's a thrilling haze that lasts a second before there's cool air flooding his lungs, the animalistic sounds he tracks back to himself after a second, and then ownership. This is his—his town, his territory. Everything that dares live here is under his care and protection, his claws and wra—no. Not that. Not like this.
He shakes his head, leaping forward and feels the same connection a hundred times more effective. There's no way to describe the feeling. The smudges he leaves behind as he opens up the path with his paws—his paws—resonate. Everything hums in different frequencies, buzzing ever so slightly, but he catches it all diving into a kind of excitement he believed to be long gone.
In all truth, he’s never felt so free. Breathing has never been this intoxicating before, neither has been touch, because even the brisk brush of trees through his fur and skin are enough for him to know.
He doesn’t know what is it that evokes his attention out of his senses, but it smells like Isaac, then Liam, and it makes him stop abruptly, paws digging firmly into the ground, and he stands still on four paws. The ground’s too close, he realizes idly, and Isaac and Liam are most certainly nowhere around.
Scott sits back, sighing, feels his ears twitch comfortably, and relaxes.
No one knows he’s here, not one soul that’s not his own, and it feels good. Scott never thought that knowing he’s unaccounted for would actually feel this liberating. The crushing weight of responsibility doesn’t leave his chest anymore now—there are people counting on him, there are things to be done and places to be protected, and he’ll be there, for and through everything, but god, he wishes he didn’t have to be. And it kills him.
After all that’s happened, he shouldn’t feel this way, not as an Alpha—not as a True Alpha. But still, his heart clutches when he realizes he can smell all of them, all around their town, and hear their even heartbeats fast asleep. They’d all follow him into the dark; into their deaths.
Scott lowers his head, a whine caught in the back of his throat. He's not supposed to feel like this. He shouldn't be allowed, not with all this power—not when he can do so much. He could do so much more, if he would just—if he didn't feel like this.
His paw runs through the dirt once, dragging a print, before he's up and walking away.
A lot of things feel new with these eyes, his height and weight. A stroll through the woods hasn't ever felt like this before, and he's not even sure of how it actually feels, just that it's so drastically different it's almost unrecognizable.
His wandering leads him to the road, and he pats the ground experimentally, feeling a different kind of solidness to it, cold and tight, different from the grainy loose dirt. It feels good, even in ways the forest can't be, but it lacks something. Character, maybe. Scott sneers at that, walking a little faster, still no destination in mind.
The full moon, round, bright and hung high on the night sky doesn't feel so menacing right now, not like it's boiling every single cell of his body and steaming it into something that he shouldn't be. This is what he should be—is—all the time; belonging and whole, hurled into himself, because his body is home in all its shapes and forms, welcoming him, longing for his acceptance. Scott will drown deep and forgotten the voice that reminds him of Peter and Deucalion, the one that keeps taunting him with what if's and what when's. He can't fall prey to this, there's too much at stake, there's so, so much—
He doesn't realize where he is until he's sitting again, snout lining up towards Stiles' bedroom window. Scott growls first, outlining the howl that emerges naturally from the bottom of his lungs, filling him inside, then reverberating through the night. Stiles had always been a heavy sleeper, but Scott picks up on the spike in his heartbeat, loud and desperate, coming just a moment before the window's opened in a clearly brutal yank upward.
Stiles hangs his head outside, eyes searching almost blindly. Scott does happen to be a black furred spot out in the dark. He flashes his eyes, knowing they lit on cue when Stiles' jaw drops, the creases of confusion deepening all over his forehead. Stiles backs away just half a step before, "Scotty?"
Scott's tail bounces twice in excitement. There's something to the nickname that sounds so loving it floods his senses. It's nothing in comparison to everything, but it doesn't really matter right now, when he can hear every pump of Stiles' heart from afar better than he ever could when they were wrapped in each other's arms. He wants to know what that'd feel like now.
"...Awesome!" Stiles cheers in awe. He disappears into his room, and Scott can hear the fuss going on inside, the frantic and loud steps down the stairs, fumbling with keys and then the front door's opening just as carefully as the window was. Smooth. "Scott, look at you!" He gasps, thrilled to the bone. "You're like… all Twilight, buddy, all the fur and the—" Stiles pauses, grimacing, "Size? I mean, you're a really enormous wolf! There aren't any normal wolves like this are there? Because that would probably freak people out."
Scott huffs, the best shadow of a laugh he can muster like this, and gives a few steps into Stiles' direction. Stiles doesn't move back, crouching instead, and it feels instinctive, like it's natural to just level himself and reach forward, confident and utterly comfortable, like this is just something that they do—no questions asked. Scott relishes, though, because he's starved for touch, even just a little, just to see how it feels to have a warm, bluntly human hand lay upon him when he's testing his other skin.
"Yeah, buddy, there you go," Stiles whispers when Scott lowers his head. Stiles touches him like he Scott wants to be touched, no restraints, no hesitation. His hand dives further, petting gently, and it's like a drug running through Scott's system. His eyelids feel droopy and fluttery all at once, this contentment taking over every single part of him. Stiles scratches behind Scott's ear, running down and onto his neck. "You gonna come inside? Wag your tail once for no and twice for yes."
Scott wags twice without even thinking.
Stiles smirks fondly, eyes glinting, doey in a way Scott rarely sees, and finds it eventful, "I'm proud of you, Scott." He leans in, whispering, "I know you were afraid to do this, okay? I know." They're so close—too close—and their eyes are closing. Stiles' forehead touch his, hands on either side of Scott's neck. "I always knew you could pull it off. You've got Superman all over your shit, dude. You can do anything, right?" He pats Scott where his hands are, "I'm glad you came.”
Stiles rarely sounds this raw in his grace, almost never coats his voice in emotion this way, but when he does, god, Scott's heart sings, because it's such a beautiful sound, and it timbers in choir inside his mind. If he hadn't realized that touch isn't the only thing sharpened to the bone when he feels this whole, he does now, when Stiles guides them into the house and he follows like he's stepping on clouds.
This is enough, he decides, he's seen enough for tonight. He can't feel more than this, and if that's not entirely true, he isn't up to finding out right now. His skin trembles then flattens and it's all too fluid and natural for him to actually track the exact moment where his skin bares of fur and his two feet stand solid on the ground.
"Oh." Scott slips out, looking down. He hadn't even meant to go back yet.
Stiles turns back, fast like a bullet, and his eyebrows shoot up, lips curling into an 'O', "You're human!" He remarks. "And naked. In my living room." His eyes narrow, hands waving all over Scott's vicinity, "Scott! My dad's home!" He cries, hiding his heating cheeks inside his hands and turns the other way again.
"I didn't mean to." Scott hisses apologetically, barely aware of Stiles' fist taking a grip around his wrist and yanking him upstairs. It's a firm grasp, tight and certain, and Scott's head spins, his nerves singing appreciatively when he struggles experimentally.
They still go, climbing the stairs with linked limbs. Scott can practically feel Stiles’ heartbeat washing through him, the hectic hammering vibrating in its frequency, humming in his ear. “My dad can do werewolf and, like, supernatural, but I think naked would be where he draws the line.” Stiles says, closing the door behind him. “I hope naked’s where he draws the line.” He mutters under his breath, risking a look down Scott’s body. It’s furtive, at most, and it doesn’t last long, but Stiles’ breath still hitches.
Scott swallows, and feels a little ashamed—a little disturbed that shame kicked in so late, “Are you gonna be less awkward if I go and we forget about this?” He asks after a while of uncomfortable silence. Stiles sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, and Scott tries brushing off the sting of having Stiles actually consider it for a second.
“Or you could just put clothes on?” He breathes out uncertainly, wincing, and shrugs in an ‘anything but casual’ manner. “I mean, it’s only logical.” His eyebrows arch up as if in some sort of understanding, and he's turning, making his way to his closet before Scott can say anything else. He doesn't shuffle for long, though he does take a few deep breaths before grabbing a handful of pajamas and throwing it Scott's way.
The wolf maintains the silence while getting dressed, the fabric sliding on his skin, erupting light shivers through its wake, and Scott sighs, finding the heightened sensations to be getting more than a little old. “I’ll go bring the other mattress.” He announces once he’s done.
Stiles pauses for a just a second, “There’s no other mattress anymore, actually, it’s just—uh, after, you know, sleep things... I threw mine away and took that one for myself.” He sits down on the bed, sliding backwards. “You can just sleep here, though. We’ve done it before, right? It’s fine. Plenty of space.”
Scott nods, remembering with a painful clarity how Stiles didn’t sleep at home for two straight weeks after the nogitsune, going back only to throw things away, burn it in the backyard with his and Malia’s help. Scott still thinks there’s something to his nonchalance about the subject that hides more than his usual shunning does. “Yeah, yeah, for sure.” And not another word as he climbs on the bed.
Lying down beside Stiles has always brought a not so foreign comfortable feeling to him, and it eases things around him, putting his worries to rest for at least a few long seconds. It worries him that not even that settles him this time. There’s something about the night and the things out to get them, hurled with the past and the blissful ignorance that sets a nostalgic tone to it. All they could’ve been—all they could’ve not.
He closes his eyes and tries drawing in an easy breath—just something to remind him of what it was like to not have all this loss and hopelessness lying on his shoulders, crushing every bone bearing his body—but instead he gets a heavy, slow intake, like molten glass. The knot that seems permanently logged on his throat by now makes itself present, calling for attention as Scott swallows hard.
He won’t cry. He can’t. If he does—if he lets go—
Stiles’ arm sneaks up his own, his hand not as cold as it was for a while there, pulling Scott closer like he can tell. Maybe it’s just the familiarity of choking on desperation, Scott doesn’t really know, but it feels right, and it helps. For tonight, anyways.
*
They don’t talk about it.
The weeks roll through them once and again, and there isn’t a word on how they cuddled, on how Scott shrunk in sorrow, or how he hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. There were lingering and knowing looks, causing all kinds of reactions Scott payed no mind to, and the one question that resembled the subject.
(“Are you going all out next week?” Stiles asked, barely looking up, overly concentrated on the paper under his pen.
Scott blinked twice before opening his mouth, dumbfounded, “I—yeah, I guess.”)
He follows through, a lot more conscious of his way when he’s stopped at the Stilinskis’ front door this time, the knot on his throat tightening torturously, hurting in more ways he can spot or account for.
Tonight nothing feels like a dull ache, instead tipping to alive and pulsing—right there, inside of him, pulling his strings and poking at his wounds. He’s not okay. He’s so far from okay—god, they’re all so—
“Scott?” Stiles calls, opening the door. His eyes catch the wolf and he closes them for a brief moment, like he’s taking the situation in. “Come inside.” He sounds ready for this, like he’s prepared, the evenness in his tone saying it all. His words wash through Scott giving him a mind numbing sense of reassurance, and he listens, getting up and walking forward.
Scott goes in a little more hollow than the last time, paws moving slower and steadier. The way back to his human skin doesn’t convulse through him now, leaving no thrill to it, even though every inch of his skin feels just as sensitive, almost aching as his nerves assault his shell. “‘M sorry.” He slurs, not sure what he’s apologizing for. There are a million apologies lodged inside of him, but it’s hard to tell them apart—where one starts and the other ends.
Stiles takes a grip on Scott's arm, one hand laid flat against his back, and they go up the stairs together. “Nothing to be sorry about.” He whispers cordially as they make their way into his room.
Scott wants to disagree, open his mouth to list a number of things he's guilty of. Lydia, Liam, the countless people that've gotten hurt because of decision he took. Allison. God, Allison, "Everything's s-so fucked up now." He sobs, unable to hold back, head falling into his hands in an attempt to hide the tears as his shoulders shake. Scott can't shake the thought that they're too far gone now, the remnants of their good, normal lives disappearing in a distance. They're a shadow of who they were, patching the light to feed the dark.
"Hey, hey—" Stiles tugs half gently at his wrists, pulling Scott's hands away from his face. "I know." He captures Scott's eyes with his own, darting them all over his face, "I know, Scotty, I know." He whispers, stepping forward and taking Scott into a warm embrace. Stiles hugs him tight like both their lives are on the line, tipping towards the edge of a cliff. That's how he feels all the time now, so it's nothing if not fitting. "S'not your fault. Don't say that, okay? T's not." Stiles slurs, his lips just against Scott's neck. He drags them, then places a kiss, trailing up to Scott's jaw, his hands making their way up to the back of his friend's neck.
Scott feels entirely immersed in the feeling, one thousand questions filling his mind, but his mouth parted and silent as he takes it in. "Stiles," He mumbles after a few beats, eyes fluttering close when Stiles nibbles on his ear. It feels good, so good—too good—even if he doesn't really know what's going on.
"M'gonna take care of you, Scotty." It's the answer he gets, followed by, "You're into it, right? I didn't read you wrong?" Stiles asks, even though it doesn't sound too questioning when his hand's going down again, open and strong, pulling Scott by the small of his back.
The wolf intakes a shallow breath, barely paying attention anymore. Stiles' entire body vibrates against his own, buzzing and humming and, most of all, welcoming. They're warm against each other, Scott's skin having never been this wake in his life, as if it's been dormant all this time and just came out to play, setting him alight while at it.
"Scott?" Stiles murmurs against his ear, low and husky. He licks the shell of Scott's ear, working his hand to the curve of Scott's ass, then stopping abruptly. Scott's making a small noise of disapproval before he can do anything about it, but Stiles only takes a firm grip on his hair in response, pulling his head back, baring his friend's neck, "Tell me." He presses, tone demanding.
"Yes." Scott replies steadily, not a hint of doubt in his voice.
"Yeah?" Stiles pulls away, smirking before finally pressing their lips together. Scott lets his mouth open as soon as Stiles touches him, licking eagerly into it. He can taste every aspect of Stiles' personality into this kiss, overwhelmed by the relentlessness, and yet soothed by the certainty it's got to it, like nothing has been so right until this very point. Scott doesn't realize his hunger until Stiles breaks them apart, teeth grazing on his bottom lip. "I haven't been the best, Scotty," Stiles whispers, stealing a chaste kiss, "But I'm working on it, 'kay? I'm gonna be better." He promises, landing a kiss in the corner of Scott's mouth this time. "M'gonna make you feel good."
Scott's about to protest when Stiles shuts him down by pulling him onto the bed. Scott lands comfortably, barely realizing Stiles' shirt being thrown the other side of the room. They're pressed flush against each other, Scott's back resting against Stiles' chest. His friend kisses his neck, inhaling carefully, like he's fabricating a memory, and lets his hands roam through Scott's chest. "You're good." Scott stammers breathy when Stiles flicks his nipple.
"Sometimes." Stiles agrees, humming idly. "You're perfect." He completes, his other hand slowly sliding south, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Scott sucks his bottom lip in between his teeth, eyes closing and brows creasing. Everything feels so much more, like he's ten people crammed inside of one, ten times more nerves, all teased and reacting. He wants to writhe, and moan, claw at Stiles' thigh touching his—but instead he breathes in, harsh and warm.
"Y-you're wro—ah!" Scott's head falls back when Stiles takes his cock into his spit slicked hand, no previous question or warning. Scott bites back a groan, takes fists full of Stiles' sheets and arches forward, feeling his insides burning in an intensity he hadn't braced himself for. Stiles strokes him lazily once, never ceasing the slow dotting of kisses at Scott's nape.
He nuzzles his nose behind the wolf's ear, breathing him in, "You're perfect, Scott," Stiles insists firmly, "You are. You're everything," He fasten his movements, making Scott whimper with his bottom lip secure in between his teeth—it's starting to hurt, but he doesn't mind, he doesn't mind it one bit, "Please believe me." Stiles whispers, voice wavering.
Scott can feel the precise moment his emotions and sensations clash—pleasure, sorrow and this small crack of sipping happiness and satisfaction coming together as his heart races bullet fast, eyes screwing shut. He wants to believe—he wants to tell Stiles that, spill out the words stuck inside of him, but there's this deafening white pleasure burning behind his eyes, and he's completely lost, given up to the heat coiling in the small of his belly and the feel of his balls tightening just as Stiles guides him by the jaw, aligning their faces—even if awkwardly—to steal an open mouthed kiss from him.
It's heavenly, to say the least, the intensity of his orgasm bringing tears to his eyes all over again. He's as overwhelmed as he's overcome with feelings just washing through him, demanding to be felt, under and on his skin. They've been buried for too long, much like his wolf had been.
"You back to me?" Stiles asks softly, running his free hand through Scott's hair.
Scott tries and catch his breath, swallowing dry, "Yeah," He replies in a hurried breath.
Stiles kisses the corner of his mouth, "Up for more?" He follows up, and Scott nods dazedly, a barely there hesitance that holds fear as nature. Stiles doesn't seem to share of Scott's concerns, though, moving away from Scott's back and onto his knees, by his friend's side. His hand's covered with come, but, for all Scott knows, he doesn't seem to mind, "Lay down, Scotty."
Scott blinks once before following the request, and scrambles back, the friction against the sheet prickling on his skin. Stiles leans down right when Scott's head hits the pillow, and he props a kiss on Scott's inner thigh, supporting himself by the elbows.
"I didn't know what was happening," Stiles confesses in between kisses, his touch tender in a way Scott didn't know it could be. "I should've seen it—I should've seen you." He breathes out, spreading Scott's cheeks with both his clean and messy hand. Scott doesn't mind this either—he doesn't seem to momentarily mind much of anything that isn't Stiles' finger slicking his hole up with his own come.
"St-Stiles—" Scott stutters, feeling the tip of Stiles' finger trace his rim, coaxing him. "Go ahead." He encourages, choosing to brush off everything Stiles just said. He doesn't wanna argue when Stiles' emotions are all flooding his scent, smelling broken and sour.
The human sends him a hooded look, licking his lips, and presses a finger inside. Stiles climbs up Scott's body as soon as his entire finger gets swallowed, and Scott moves his hips experimentally, testing the strange burn. Stiles kisses his chest, clavicle and jaw, breathing a little heavier than he had been before, "You look so good like this," He says conversationally, "Always look good, but just like this," The whispers feel absent, like musings that aren't supposed to be heard, and Scott's cheeks burn under them, much like the rest of his body.
Stiles tips to the side, reaching for Scott's shoulder, but dodges, diving his hand under his pillow and retrieving a small bottle. He doesn't even throw a look, or crack a joke, like Scott believes he would weren't they this immersed in such a palpable intensity. Stiles pulls away and Scott hears the flick of the cap right as the one finger inside of him is screwing deeper into his hole, eliciting a lazy whine out of him. He closes his eyes and turns his head the other way, sinking into the pillow.
Scott doesn't watch as Stiles feeds him a second finger, just knows it feels cold at first, and that it takes more effort, his muscles contracting around it. He's still hungry for it, though—for a lot of things—and he minds asking, doesn't want the words to leave his mouth when Stiles is already giving him this, all of this, so much, so—
"More." Scott croaks out despite himself, losing his internal battle.
Stiles' eyes glint and he leans back down, stroking Scott's temple with his thumb, motioning his fingers in and out of him at a punishing pace, "Tell me what you want." He utters, brushing their lips together. "S'ok to tell me what you want, Scotty," Stiles mumbles carefully, "Ask me for it. You deserve it—anything,"
Scott almost chokes, sliding a hand up Stiles’ arm, “One more,” He says quietly, even though his body rages from the inside out, pulsing against his walls, "Then you.”
Stiles doesn't speak another word, licking his lips as he looks down, brows creasing in concentration when he slides in another finger, struggling against the ring of muscles closing it in. Scott moans in response, feeling full and stretched, the taste of virtue and sin laid dry on his tongue altogether, linked through a visceral bond that sends sparks down his spine. It’s not enough yet, and the sense of emptiness calls once from the back of his head, but then Stiles crooks one of his fingers, biting down on his bottom lip, and the world falls silent around Scott.
He gasps, screwing this eyes shut and Stiles works him a little rougher, his thumb sinking on one of his cheeks and he goes in deeper, movements grow jabby and quicker as Scott's walls open up to his fingers. He feels tight even so, the feeling of his cock rubbing against Stiles' lower belly not helping in the slightest, only contributing to the buzzing in his ears.
"S'enough," Scott stammers, feeling his nerves on edge, screaming at every piece of friction. Stiles breathes out and it sounds—smells—glad.
The bed feels like the only thing keeping him grounded when Stiles moves away, as if the entire world has shrunk into itself, taking away everything. Scott doesn't like the feeling of emptiness it gives him, but something twisted inside of him does—doesn't mind one bit, even enjoys it, crawling for a second of peace of mind, just a sip to drown the thirst.
"Hey, look at me," Stiles coos, and Scott snaps back to a kiss on his chin. He doesn't miss for a second the way Stiles' cock curves up against his belly without restraints, red and leaking, maybe a little demanding. Stiles licks into Scott's mouth before he can say anything, kissing him filthy and quick, and Scott can barely hold back the broken sound traveling through him when he starts being filled again.
The fresh memory of fingers doesn't feel like much now, as Stiles slides into him slowly, filling all of his gaps at once, stretching him with a continuous burn that’s weirdly thrilling, “Stiles, I—“ Scott chokes, knees folding upwards, touching Stiles’ sides.
“Fuck, Scott,” Stiles curses as he brings their foreheads together, sinking further into Scott, “I don’t deserve you—I don't,” He babbles, dropping sloppy kisses down Scott’s cheek, “But I’m selfish, Scotty, a-always been, could never say no to this if you let me.” The words drip from Stiles’ tongue wet and heavy, but he doesn’t stop, “I'm still g’nna take care of you, though, I—” Stiles gasps, dropping a quick kiss on Scott’s cheek.
There’s an argument lost inside of him, a bundle of words entangled within each other, but they’re knocked down and straight up gone as soon as Stiles pulls back and thrusts in, stealing air from Scott’s lungs, heat coating his skin and barring his throat. It’s a haphazard movement that shakes the both of them, and Scott maybe should ask for a little bit of time—would ask for it—but this is what he needs; the mind numbing feeling that fills him just as Stiles’ cock does, pulsing hot and wanting inside of him.
They’re all that exists inside the room, the feel of skin sliding together, slamming louder as Stiles’ thrusts grow faster and stronger. He slides a hand under Scott’s knee, fucking up into him like the world’s in the verge of ending and he’ll never get to again, panting against his friend’s neck, saying his name over and over. Scott utters for a kiss, whining shamelessly for it, moaning like no one can hear them until Stiles shuts him up by sealing their lips with urgency, tongues working brisk and loose.
Stiles fucks him hard and fast, his balls slapping obscenely against Scott’s skin as he sinks his teeth down his friend’s neck, keeping himself as silent as possible. He licks at Scott’s collarbones, nice and tender, even as he thrusts with all he’s got, abandoning all restraint. Scott revels in it, panting and gasping and pleading, lets his hand travel down Stiles’ back and pulls him closer encouragingly. There are rockets inside of him, and it feels like they’re being set alight slowly, one by one, getting closer to exploding every time Stiles hits the right spot, his body singing with anticipation.
Everything fastens its pace when a hand wraps itself around Scott’s cock, the spasms of Stiles slamming against his ass being the only source of movement—but god, it already makes him see starts. “Stiles,” Scott calls hopelessly, like the single word will do the job of telling everything he needs to say. Stiles, I’m coming; I love you; I’m not okay; I don’t know how to fix us; Myself; I don’t know if I'm worth it.
Stiles looks at him, though, and it feels like he knows, just for a second, when his hand starts stroking Scott just as fast and merciless as everything else he’s doing. “I got you,” He leans down, sucking Scott’s bottom lip into his mouth before taking him for a full kiss. Stiles doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down, seeming determined to drive Scott right over the edge of everything, working him tirelessly, “C’mon, Scott,” He coos, kissing his jaw just under his ear, “Come for me. You’re so good, so beautiful, you deserve it—everything,” Stiles whispers low and persuasive.
Scott almost chuckles at how vital Stiles makes it sounds like this is, but he’s too busy boiling inside, exploding and spilling in between them, white, hot and messy. His entire body trembles helplessly, and the sounds become distant, including his own voice reverberating with this neediness he’d never heard before, and he’s all on his own, riding bliss for as long as he’s allowed.
He’s back to himself in time to catch just when Stiles himself comes undone, his movements growing erratic and primal. He curls into Scott just as he fills him up, groaning low in his throat, the blush on his cheeks as pink as Scott's ever seen. “Fuuuuck.” He curses under his breath, kissing Scott one more time. This kiss is lazy and dazed, their orgasms getting the best of them, wrapping them both in a cloud of haze.
When their breaths are all caught, Stiles slips out—making a mess, no doubt—and falls to the side, one arm crossing over Scott’s torso, hinting him to turn the other way, and the alpha abides.
“You said a lot of things.” Scott comments, fake idly, the heaviness upon his shoulders slowly coming back into place.
Stiles sighs, pulling him closer, “You didn’t.” He retorts, “Guess we were just being ourselves.”
The chuckle suppressed once before comes out now, muffled and rigid—all wrong, a little bit like them, “I guess so.”
“I was serious, though. I’m gonna be better. I’ll remind you that you don’t have to be in charge all the time.” Stiles promises, his easy tone manifesting again, “I'll tell you that you’re seventeen and that this fucking town doesn’t get to have the best of you.” He grabs a hold of one of Scott’s hands, linking their fingers together. “I'm gonna need you to listen to me.” Stiles nuzzles his nose just behind Scott’s ear, inhaling slowly.
He’s silent for a while, taking the words in as best as he can. He wants to believe, has been for a while now, ever since he realized dying should be an issue—that he should fight for life, instead of fighting to death. “Okay.” Scott whispers quietly, squeezing Stiles’ hand on accord.
His tiredness catches up to him as he watches the moon, the glistening silver slipping through Stiles’ window, but the sun is the last thing he thinks of before giving in to sleep. There’s hope in our days, he thinks. We’ll be okay.