"I'm sleeping over," says Scott as he climbs into the Jeep.
"Not gonna get much sleep, buddy," Stiles says, grim. He cranks the key and lets his forehead thunk against the wheel. "Freaking virgin sacrifices."
Scott's busy squinting out the window at the busy parking lot. Half his face is in shadow, dire and pensive. It’s not a look Stiles is used to seeing on him, and can’t decide exactly how to feel about it. "Your dad's gonna be late, right?"
Stiles grunts and picks himself up. His dad working late is nothing new, but since all this werewolf shit started going down, it's become pretty commonplace. And now it's virgins, what the hell. First it’s moon-crazy werewolves, then grudge-murdering lizards, next up: puritanical unicorns.
"Hey, Scott," Stiles says conversationally as he pulls into the street, "you don't have a new thing for virgins you might've maybe forgotten to mention? Y'know, it's cool, life's been kinda crazy. But now would be a good time to confide in your best friend." Stiles lets it hang there, and from the passenger's side comes a long, disgruntled silence. "I'm going to take that as a no." He risks a sideways glance. "It is a no, right?"
"Yes it's a no!"
"Okay, okay! I was just checking, geez." Stiles taps a couple fingers against the wheel. He checks the rearview, the time on the dash, then sneaks another glance Scott's way. "I mean, you did say you could smell all kinds of things. Like emotions. Sexual frustration has got to be pretty fragrant. Like locker-room fragrant. Eau de jockstrap."
Scott groans. "I can't smell virginity, Stiles, come on."
"Right, yeah, of course," Stiles says. "That would be stupid.” He shoulder-checks the turning lane before sliding into it, because obviously some werewolf-related disaster had to kill his side mirror, and mumbles, “Or maybe it would smell like cookies and wet cat, gross but tasty.”
"Really stupid," says Scott.
"Because defining 'virginity' has all sorts of--"
"And it's not like we've gotta spend the rest of the night figuring out whatever archaic and arcane definition of virginity some possibly supernatural serial killer is using to off kids, right?"
More disgruntled silence. When Stiles glances over this time, Scott's staring at him with wide eyes. "Fuck," says Scott.
"Yeah," Stiles agrees. "Fuck."
He pulls into the drive beside the dark house and cuts the engine. "Alright. Let's do this."
Scott rouses slowly, like he's been half asleep, blinking a couple times before opening the door and stumbling out onto the damp grass. Stiles grabs his backpack from behind the seat and goes to join Scott on the front stoop, keys jangling. All-nighters with his dad out were so much cooler when it was a Mario Kart marathon on the menu.
"Want a drink or something?" Stiles asks, fumbling for the light switch once they're inside.
"Maybe later," Scott says. He scrubs a hand through his hair and squares his slumped shoulders. "Let's just go upstairs."
"Atta boy," says Stiles, hooking an arm briefly around Scott's neck. "You work that go-getter attitude."
"Shut up," Scott grumbles, but he's smiling. A little lopsided, sure, but it's a smile. In these trying times, Stiles is gonna take what he can get.
"Alright," Stiles crows, slapping Scott's shoulder and bounding up the stairs two at a time to get his blood pumping. He flicks on all the lights as he goes, because one thing he has learned for sure is that pouring over the Bestiary is not a pastime that benefits from mood lighting. In his room, he flings his backpack into the corner and himself into his chair. "I figure we should start with the basics," he says, slapping the spacebar a couple times to wake up his laptop before spinning around to face Scott as he comes through the doorway.
"Right," Scott agrees, and strips off his shirt. "I think a couple handjobs'll do it, but just in case, do you wanna, uh, well." He pauses to tug at his belt. "I guess there's no such thing as a bad blowjob, but--” He stops with his fly half-open. Stiles has seen Scott at his craziest, and while this doesn’t look like that brand of crazy, Scott is still in the middle of taking his clothes off. “Stiles?"
"You," Stiles says, slowly, because he's really very sure Scott doesn't mean what Scott thinks he means, "you-- What?"
Scott's eyebrows scrunch together. "Are you sure you wanna do it in the chair?"
"Do what in the chair?"
"You know," says Scott, and does something dirty and impressive with his fist.
“Oh no. No, no, no.” Stiles folds his arms across his chest. "Nope."
This time, Scott's eyebrows make for his hairline. "Nope?"
Stiles nods. "Nope."
"But you're a virgin!" Scott shouts, loud enough to make Stiles wince. All things considered, the neighbours probably already suspected, but they didn't need to know. "You're a virgin, Stiles, and it could get you killed."
"Probably," Stiles agrees. He's certainly felt so on a number of occasions.
"And you said--"
Stiles leans forward, head cocked to the side. "I said?"
"You said that we weren't gonna, you know, sleep," Scott says, waving a hand in the air, "and it was gonna take all night to figure it out, and, and..." He trails off and drops his hand. "You weren’t propositioning me?" he asks, his voice lilting uncertainly.
Stiles stares. Scott has got to lay off the word-a-day calendar. "Like a hooker?"
"Well, I don't know!"
"Obviously you did know, because you had a plan! A plan, Scott. That you didn't tell me about!" Stiles clambers out of his chair and paces around it, muttering, "The one time, the one time you have a plan, you don't tell me, and it's about freaking blowjobs."
"Handjobs," Scott corrects weakly. Stiles slumps over the back of the chair, one hand slapped to his forehead, and Scott shrugs. "I was gonna go first?"
"Go first, huh?" Stiles levels a finger square at Scott's chest. "Your cherry is beyond popped, buddy." To help illustrate, Stiles twirls his finger at Scott's half-open zipper and swoops around to point out the window. "Long gone, left the building, goodbye."
"Look," Scott says, in exactly the same tone of voice that he uses when he says, yet again, that no, they're not killing anybody, so stop suggesting it, "are you going to let me blow you or not?"
"That," says Stiles, finger stuck in mid-air, "is not what I expected you to say."
"Because it makes sense, okay? You're my best friend, and the only reason you got tangled up in everything was because of me, and I know you need to research and figure things out and you're really good at that, but this time there's a way to make sure you're not in danger while you do it."
One hand on his hip, the other scratching at the back of his neck, Stiles says, "So you're gonna do me."
"Yes," Scott says firmly. "I mean, if that's okay with you."
"Sure," Stiles drawls, "why not, what's a little oral sex between friends," not at all serious, which Scott should know by now, except Scott breaks out into a hugely relieved smile and says, "Great, you should get on the bed," and shucks his jeans and shorts like it's no big deal.
Scott's junk is not actually a new thing to Stiles. Scott's junk when he has intentions about it is, and it gives Stiles a moment's pause, kinda like huh.
Kinda like getting on the bed might not be such a bad idea, even with the possible life-saving connotations aside. The only thing he’s gonna lose here is his v-card.
Stiles sits on the edge of the bed and scoots back, belatedly realising that if he wanted to take his clothes off, he should've maybe done that while he was still standing. Scott's always been a little allergic to his clothes, even before the whole werewolf thing, and following Scott's lead right now puts way too much emphasis on the out-of-his-depth feeling Stiles already has knocking around his chest. It's not like full nudity is required for a blowjob, anyway. He's seriously considering a friendly compromise by taking off his shirt when Scott gets on his knees on the bed, straddling Stiles's legs, and says, "Move up a little more, okay? Closer to the headboard."
Stiles eyeballs the distance between his face and Scott's junk. Scott's definitely got some wood happening, which is flattering, sure, but also a lot more nerve-wracking than Stiles thinks is fair. This wasn't even his idea. "You are going first, right?"
"Yep," Scott says, and just kneels there, radiating a particularly annoying sort of calm while he waits for Stiles to wriggle up against the pillows and settle gingerly down. Then Scott reaches for Stiles's fly, and Stiles has a wisecrack about foreplay he's ready to fire off except he ends up struggling not to choke on his own spit as Scott unzips his jeans. Scott hesitates with his fingers on the waistband of Stiles's boxers. "D'you wanna pull it out?"
"Yeah," Stiles wheezes, and goes for it, sticking his hand in and tugging his cock out like Scott can't hear how hard his heart is beating, "no problem."
"Cool," Scott says, and Stiles wants to ask what, what's cool here, that he's a total loser who gets hard at just the mention of blowjobs? That his cock is suddenly in Scott's face? Cool is not the word Stiles would choose. A sudden and unexpected turn of events, that's what this is.
Obviously, word choice is not something Scott's hung up about. Scott's not displaying a hell of a lot of hang-ups about anything at all here, not with the way he flops down on his belly, arms hooked over Stiles's thighs, and his mouth open like he's just going to do it. Stiles chomps down on his lip and holds really, really still.
"It is cool, right?" Scott asks, peering up at him.
Stiles nods tightly and tries out a squeaky, "Sure." When Scott just keeps looking at him, intent and way too earnest, Stiles lets out an explosive breath. "I mean, your gung-ho attitude towards cocksucking is a little surprising and frankly something I think you should've told me about before now, but oh, oh, okay, that's your tongue, oh my god."
Not just Scott's tongue, but his lips, his whole mouth, wet and hot and unbelievable. The fact that Scott's a werewolf is so, so much easier to believe right now than the fact that he's sucking Stiles's cock.
And he's smiling when he lets it slip free, slyly pleased as he catches it in his hand before it slaps against Stiles's belly.
Stiles swallows a couple of times, trying to keep his voice from trembling like his thighs when Scott starts smoothly jacking him, like it doesn't matter to Scott one bit that it's Stiles's cock and not his own he's got his hand on. "Who knew impending doom was all it would take for you to finally agree to fool around with me."
Scott's easy strokes falter as he jerks back. "I would've," he stammers out, "you never asked!"
"My twelfth birthday?" Stiles prompts. "After Emily wouldn't kiss me at Spin the Bottle?"
"We were kids," Scott says, scowling. "How was I supposed to know?"
"That time we caught Danny and his boyfriend making out behind the school and I asked if you wanted to find out what that kind of kissing was like?" Warming up to the topic, Stiles licks the tip of an imaginary pen and starts down the list of Opportunities Missed Because Scott's Dumb. "After you scored your first ever lacrosse goal and I asked if you wanted to score again? When we got drunk at one of Lydia's parties and ended up locked in the closet and you were freaking out and I offered to help take your mind off it? At the--"
"I thought you were kidding!"
"I was kidding, but only after you blew me off!"
"Okay, okay!" Scott yells, half-laughing, like he'd maybe already figured that out but he still wasn't too sure. "I'm sorry. Am I off the hook if I swallow?"
"Gah," Stiles gurgles, all the smug satisfaction he'd built up falling right off his face and onto Scott's. He grabs up two tight fistfuls of rumpled bedsheets and concentrates really, really hard on not losing it all over Scott's broad grin.
"You good?" Scott asks after about a minute of nothing but Stiles's frantic breaths. "I'm pretty sure it's not gonna count if you come now."
"Were-- Are-- Did you-- No, no," Stiles says, sinking down and slapping a hand over his eyes. "Don't tell me. Just."
"Just..." Scott gives the head of Stiles's cock an inquisitive and slightly apologetic flick with his tongue. How Scott is suddenly able to convey emotion via lick is something Stiles is going to have to look up when he's not busy experiencing it first-hand. "Keep going?"
Half his bottom lip caught between his teeth, Stiles nods.
He's got this vague notion, half-formed beneath the oh my god that takes over his brain when he tries to really think about what's happening to him right now, that if he can't see it, he won't blow his load in Scott's face right off the bat. When Scott goes down on him, honest-to-fucking-god down, sucking the whole way and doing this thing with his tongue that Stiles tries to feel bad for suspecting he learned from Allison, whatever tiny sliver of Stiles's grey matter that hasn't already turned to total mush divebombs right out the window, along with all hope of surviving tonight with his dignity intact. He goes off exactly like the desperate horny teenager he is, hips jackknifed off the bed and his knee banging into Scott's shoulder, shout barely muffled by the meat of his arm.
The only thing not being able to see helps with is he's got a whole seventeen seconds before he's faced with Scott's stupid smug smile. Except, when he finally manages to pick his head up to mumble thanks or sorry or just plain whoa, he hasn't decided yet, it registers that his jeans are somewhere down around his ankles and Scott's face is in his crotch. And Scott's breathing is really, really deep, slow and tightly controlled.
"Uh." Stiles reaches out cautiously, his hand hovering a few inches above Scott's bowed head. If Scott wolfs out with Stiles's junk in his face, they're both gonna be scarred for life. "Buddy? You okay there?"
Scott drags in another thick, shuddery breath. Stiles can't help shivering when he lets it out again, hot against wet skin, and Scott laughs.
"You suck," Stiles says, without thinking, then huffs and rolls his eyes as Scott laughs harder. He struggles around a bit, managing to get his pants off one leg and dislodging Scott for a brief satisfying second before Scott faceplants back in his crotch. "Virgin, okay, cut me some slack."
"Sure," Scott drawls. The word tickles Stiles's freaking balls, making his leg jump, and then his leg jumps again as Scott's pointy nose pokes him in the crook of his thigh. Scott inhales again, quick and shallow this time.
"Are you-- You're sniffing me," says Stiles.
Scott murmurs an absent-minded, "Yeah," and keeps snuffling away, adding a little lick here and another there and nibbling--nibbling--when Stiles can't contain a squeak. Scott's hands slipping under Stiles's thighs earns him a slightly choked gurgle, because that seriously tickles at the same time that it really, really doesn't, and Stiles is thinking about all the strange places on the human body that don't normally get touched, even by best friend werewolves with personal space issues, when Scott shoves his legs up and holy shit, Stiles’s knees are in his face and he had no idea his body could do that.
"Wait," Scott says, muffled by the cheek of Stiles's freaking ass, "don't move, I just," and he trails off, his tongue too busy for words.
"That's, uh," Stiles stutters, "one of those, um, those places, and uh oh my god." He struggles up onto one elbow, because his shorts are in the way caught around his knees and this he needs to see, and it doesn't matter if it kills him because just feeling it is gonna kill him anyway--so much for Scott's life-saving efforts, but man, what a way to go--and Scott growls, his grip on Stiles's thigh tightening to keep his legs up. The part of Stiles that prevents him from shutting his mouth when he's digging himself deeper is absolutely to blame for the way Stiles half-heartedly tries tugging his leg out of Scott's hold, just to see what Scott'll do.
What Scott does is yank him back into place about three times as hard as necessary, growl, "Stay still," under his breath, and shove his face right back in Stiles's ass.
"Oh my god," Stiles gasps, since running his mouth is way easier than letting his entire consciousness fill up with the weird pressure of Scott's tongue dragging slow and steady and with a definite goal up between the cheeks of his ass, "oh my god, you are, you're making me your bitch, aren't you? Is that what's happening here? Is this even about saving my life anymore oh my fucking god don't stop, okay, don't."
Scott lets out a satisfied grunt and licks again, hard enough that Stiles can feel his body open up a bit under the pressure. He can't help squirming away a little, surprised enough when Scott lets him that he settles right back down. Sorta. With his head spinning, and his insides all twisted up with confused pleasure because it's strange and hot and he just came, okay, like thirty seconds ago, it's tough. It's usually tough when all those things aren't happening to him. His mouth is running off without him this time, spouting all sorts of trash that, when he tunes in, makes his face flame. He never, ever even considered it a slight possibility that one day he would be calling his best friend's tongue his new favourite magic trick.
When his brain chugs its way around to where the hell did Scott even learn this, he snaps his mouth shut so hard his teeth clack. Grinding them together hurts like hell but he’s got to stop thinking about exes. Also the extremely filthy mental image he’s got going on about Allison getting involved here. He’d be ashamed of himself if he weren't so busy trying to figure out viable limb placement.
"Don't," Scott growls, sending Stiles into a panicked flail as he tries to sit up, babble apologies, and also figure out when mind-reading became a werewolf superpower. "Your dad’s not home, it’s okay to be noisy.”
"Oh," Stiles says, first in relief, and then again, longer and much more drawn out as Scott's meaning sinks slowly in. A lot like how Scott's tongue is sinking in. Which is something he's seen in porn, sure, who hasn't, but a flat image on a computer screen, 1080p or not, isn't nearly enough to prepare anyone for how it really feels.
Stiles is pretty sure he does a good job, though. As long as 'good job' is defined as losing his mind. By the time Scott gets up on his knees, Stiles is ready. So, so ready. He grabs onto the backs of his knees, stares hard at Scott's cock, at Scott's hand wrapped around it, and can't quite imagine what it'll feel like. But his body is hard-fucking-wired for this, he can feel that no problem, and he is ready.
"Stiles," Scott groans, staring right back at him, wild-eyed and flushed.
"It's good, it's great," Stiles says, "it's super great, buddy, you just, you go for it, okay? Just, fucking, just do it, right now, c'mon, come on--"
Scott drops down over him, one hand splayed on rumpled sheets and the other working fast on his cock. There's enough time for Stiles to think condom!, a second to rethink it--duh, werewolf, not an STD--before Scott hunches over, groans, and comes all over Stiles's ass and junk and bed.
After, Stiles says, "Huh."
Scott slumps over in a lazy, undignified heap, one of Stiles's legs caught beneath him. He gives it a friendly pat and pants out, "Right?"
Stiles screws his mouth up to one side. His other leg is stuck awkwardly in midair and trying to get it down is fraught with danger, mostly because of the way his underwear is twisted around his knees. Scott lets out a few disgruntled noises as Stiles wriggles around. "This is your fault," Stiles tells him.
Scott lifts a clawed hand. Stiles freezes.
"Stiles," Scott sighs, and rolls to the side, freeing Stiles's leg. He tugs Stiles's underwear down and off with the rest of Stiles's clothes and gives the heap a careless toss into the corner.
"What?" Stiles demands. "You're the one who brought the claws to bed."
"They're attached to me!"
"Yeah, well, I thought you were gonna, y'know." Curling his fingers into puny human claws, Stiles makes a vague slashing motion.
"Uh," Scott says, and darts a guilty glance sideways.
"You totally thought about it," Stiles crows triumphantly. "You were gonna rip my clothes off! I try very hard not to reinforce the teenaged male stereotype and prefer undies without holes in them, thank you."
"Hey, don't worry. I don't blame you. I am one hot piece of Stilinski." He gives Scott's bare, sweaty shoulder a comforting knuckle punch, which, with all the post-coital nudity going on, feels a lot different than when he does so in the locker room after a game. He leaves his hand there, fingers curled lightly against warm skin. "Also, did you see how freaking bendy I am? I am impressive, buddy. You just got so lucky."
"I totally did," Scott says, completely sincere.
"Yeah, you did," Stiles agrees, and ignores the blush trying to take over his face. He gingerly pokes at the copious amounts of jizz all over his junk. "Definitely not a virgin anymore."
Scooting a little closer, Scott rests his cheek on Stiles's chest, watching as Stiles tries to wipe the mess off his fingers onto his t-shirt. Sex alone is just not this messy. "Well, if there's any doubt, we could always. You know."
Stiles chomps down on the tender inside of his cheek to keep from blurting that he was absolutely ready to go there. That's an ego boost the giant dopey grin on Scott's face doesn't need. "Oh, sure," he says instead. "Now you're ready to sex me up like HBO."
"That's me," Scott says, and drops an arm around Stiles's waist like he's settling in for a good, long cuddle, "always ready to take one for the team."
"Or two, or three, a couple dozen, whatever," Scott adds, with a casual shrug.
"You're lucky my legs are jelly right now, that's all I'm saying," Stiles mutters.
Scott lifts his head, his grin huge and delighted. "Really?"
"Oh god," Stiles groans, and drops his arm over his face.