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There’s something to be said about packing up your whole life into neat, square, cardboard boxes and praying everything fits in there, from your socks to your books to your eighteen years spent in the same room, same house, same old neighbor yelling at you to stop blasting that crappy music all day long. Something poetic, maybe sad and honeyed about endings and new beginnings and colleges as a metaphor for life.
Stiles has never been too good at saying things in pretty, ornate ways.
Or at saying things, full stop.
Heartfelt goodbye letters and lovely poems—on paper that looks fancy enough to be called parchment instead—are far from being something he’s even remotely good at. He wouldn’t even have the guts to try, he knows he’d screw it all up.
He’s more of the I’m definitely gonna make a big joke about this and then go cry in the car type.
Or he thinks he is, at least.
Turns out that making an effort is a terrible, troublesome thing that Scott’s rubbed off on him, which is why he spends several days meeting up one-on-one with each member of the pack; or those that are still in Beacon Hills, at least.
He talks to Lydia, who is as cheerful as she can be, with all the worry she still constantly carries within herself, and he tells her all about the stupid thing he had for her and then tells her about Scott, and she jokingly says she hasn’t gossiped about boys since she was sixteen and her main concern was dating the star of the Lacrosse team—Stiles just grins at her and smugly says that he’s the one dating the captain, now, and Lydia laughs brightly. Stiles tells her that he’s proud of her, and that she has to promise him she’ll leave this town: he knows that she won’t, but she lies to him nonetheless—says yes, Stiles I promise with a roll of her eyes and a quiet smile—and he pretends to believe her.
Him and Malia go for milkshakes at the old, dingy diner, and she convinces him to get the most ridiculously sweet one on the menu, something with more whipped cream and sprinkles than anything, and a bright red cherry on top of it. He ends up forfeiting it to her; she happily drinks both hers as and his monstrosity, and he asks if she’d been planning that since the start. She bluntly answers yes, obviously. Then Stiles talks about the FBI program, and Malia nods along and then divulges her carefully crafted tour of France. Stiles thinks everything’s good and sugary, and he pays for both of their orders.
It goes on like that, him making pit-stops all around the town until he thinks he’s said more goodbye’s and thank you’s than anyone’s ever said before. But it’s fine, because this is a big, huge, thing for all of them in ways that it wouldn’t be if they were just a friend group rather than a pack. Everyone understands.
He hugs his friends clumsily and tries telling himself to man up and that it’s just university.
He gets wind that even Derek is passing through and hanging around for a while, so he awkwardly shows up at his loft, barges through the door entirely uninvited and stares at the werewolf like he’s the one in the wrong place. When it becomes clear that Derek is all too happy to keep having a silent staring contest with him, he blurts out the first thing on his mind, because it’s been established that Stiles doesn’t deal well with awkward silences.
“I thought you were hot.”
He wants to subsequently beat himself on the head with a hammer.
Derek contemplates him for all of a few seconds, before raising his eyebrow and settling the book he’d been reading face down on his coffee table. East of Eden is printed in big cursive letters on the cover, which strikes Stiles as both amusing and incredibly odd. He had no idea Derek even read books, in fact, he has no idea about what Derek does aside from being, well, Derek. He realizes, possibly several years too late, that he’s never bothered to ask, and no one else had bothered, either. He feels guilty all of a sudden, and it puts his earlier embarrassment to shame.
“Okay.” Derek finally answers, painfully flat and slow, like he always does.
“I meant… Scott- me and him-” Stiles takes a deep breath, steadying himself, “me and Scott talked. We… figured some stuff out. And you were kinda… on the list? Of stuff we figured out, I mean.”
Derek is giving him his best I have no idea what you’re saying to me look, or at least that’s how Stiles interprets the slight twitch of his left brow. He really doesn’t have much to go off of: Derek’s always been painfully unexpressive whenever he wants to be difficult, which Stiles has no doubt is what’s happening right now.
“I kinda had a thing for you, back then.” He doesn’t specify what he means by back then, because he’s fairly sure Derek will know exactly what he’s referring to. He wrings his hands and determinedly takes a few steps towards the couch. He thinks briefly about how empty the loft had always seemed, and wonders if Derek has any place left that he can even call home. Stiles suddenly wishes he could give him the kind of friendship he probably should’ve offered since the start, but he has no idea how to bring it up.
“I know I acted like a a bit of an asshole towards you-” he starts, and the ex-Alpha is giving him such an animated, really?, look that he feels sort of annoyed, “-yeah, okay, fine, I was the worst type of asshole. A real piece of work. Soak it all up, because this is the only time I’m gonna say it, dude.”
Derek’s mouth twitches upwards.
“Go on.” He prompts.
“As I was saying,” he begins, with a glare, “I know I gave you a ton of crap. You most likely didn’t deserve it, so-”
“Most likely?”
“-what I’m trying to say is… I’m sorry. It was probably because I was mad that I liked you.”
He plops down onto the couch, next to the werewolf, and looks at him, grimacing and ready to get yelled at, or maybe laughed at. He can’t decide which one would be worse.
“That’s fine.”
He might be developing hearing issues in his late teens.
“Sorry, it’s what? I think you just said that’s fine,” he mocks, making his voice deeper “which isn’t possible because, like, it’s definitely not fine?”
“It’s fine.” Derek repeats, seemingly exhausted. He’s never dealt with Stiles’ rapid-fire talking all that well. It makes Stiles feel the slightest bit smug.
“I knew you liked me, so I figured that was what was happening. I’ve… done the same before. A long time ago.” The words sound almost painful, and Stiles has all but two seconds to think oh, because of Paige, before he’s connecting his brain and cluing in as to what Derek’s just told him.
“You knew?!” He shrieks out.
Derek pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and pointer finger, a silent but firm way of letting Stiles know he's loud and a headache of a person. Stiles knows. He does not care in the slightest.
“Because of your scent.”
“Scent?”
“Yes.”
“What the hell are you on about?”
“Werewolf senses.” He shoots back, monotone, which doesn’t help at all because Stiles needs words, he loves words, actually, would appreciate it greatly if Derek used more of them, sometimes.
“Liking people has a… scent?”
“No.”
Stiles waits, and then waits some more for an explanation. And Derek just unhelpfully stares back at him like his job’s done and he doesn’t know why Stiles is still here.
“Derek, my guy, can you just talk and explain things every once in a while? Like, y’know, any other normal person?”
He swears Derek’s expression turns almost amused and he can see a twinkle in his eyes, like he knows exactly how annoying this is and enjoys it. He probably does, the bastard.
“It was your heartbeat, most of the time.” He relents, and Stiles feels utterly mortified again, “Sometimes it was the way you smelled, though, like…” he trails off, looking to the side in an almost bashful way.
“Like what? You just said that liking someone doesn’t have a-”
“Arousal.” Derek says, suddenly, possibly because he can’t handle the conversation anymore. The werewolf can be a lot more awkward than he lets on, sometimes.
“Aah…” Stiles . There’s nothing really to say about that. It’d be silly for him to try and deny it, especially since Derek would know he’s lying either way. He might as well accept the humiliation and get it over with.
So, he thought the hot guy was hot. Big deal. Although he’s discomforted over the idea of not being able to hide a part of himself that he hadn’t really decided to share until now. A guy can’t even have secrets anymore, all because the universe had decided to make werewolves with their stupid werewolf senses a thing and had then pushed them all towards Stiles, like some big cosmic joke.
Wait.
“Wait.” Stiles repeats, out loud. “Wait, does that mean that you guys all just- you can always smell when someone’s turned on? Like, all of you can just do that?”
“Pretty much.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
“Even-”
“Even Scott.” Derek intercepts, with some finality and a smile that Stiles can’t really place right now.
Stiles thinks he deserves some sort of compensation for all the emotional turmoil he’s been going through since he was sixteen. It just never ends, he thinks, and promptly starts mentally freaking out, because he’s pretty sure he’s wanted to jump Scott’s bones for an eternity, or—at the very least—every minute of every day for the past week and a half since they started dating. He’s done. His whole life is over and he will never be able to look at his best friend (his boyfriend, he thinks, triumphant and a little mad) in the eyes ever again. Stiles also thinks he’s going to strangle Scott and become the first human to kill a True Alpha, because he can’t figure out why he wouldn’t just say something.
He wonders how Scott had managed to never bring it up. Or how that hadn’t been enough of a clue that Stiles was very much into him.
“This is terrible.” He declares with dramatic flourish as he covers his face with both of his hands and groans.
Derek laughs softly, and Stiles grins despite himself.
“Is it? You said you guys figured stuff out, I thought that meant you finally got your shit together and started going out.”
This might be the longest sentence Stiles has ever heard coming out of his mouth, and he finds that this easy-going and gossip-hungry Derek is much more pleasant than the guy who typically acts like he’s holding the whole weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Yeah, well, we did. But I wasn’t aware he could just tell... like, fuck, has he… the whole time? And I’m not even going to ask how you knew that I liked him. Werewolf thing again, I guess. Ugh. Yup, this is terrible.”
“I knew Scott was into you.” Really, Stiles should stop assuming he knows what Derek is going to say to him, ever.
“Right. Yeah. Of course you knew. If you’re about to tell me that you smelled it on him please don’t, because I don’t think my brain or heart could handle that right now.”
“No it- that, too, but I also just figured it out.” Derek looks almost embarrassed, to his credit.
“The way he always came to you first or how he looked at you… I figured you were already together the last time I saw you-”
“That was, like, almost two years ago, Derek.”
“Well… yeah.”
“Epic.”
The conversation ends, and they both sit while Stiles determinedly looks anywhere except at Derek’s face. His cheeks are flaming and he almost regrets the whole visit. He realizes, suddenly, that he still hasn’t actually said anything of what he’d planned to.
“I came here to say goodbye.”
Derek just hums, and Stiles figures he’s probably exhausted his daily word count.
“I’ll be in D.C. for the FBI program thing. So, like, I’m not just vanishing, but I figured since I’m moving, and you’re just never around… I would, I don’t know, come tell you. It’s stupid, really.”
“It’s not stupid.” Derek cuts in, voice gentle in a way Stiles doesn’t think he’s ever heard it be before.
“Sorry for being gone, it’s just- there’s nothing here.”
There’s nothing to forgive, not anymore, and he doesn’t blame Derek for not wanting to stay: the wolf has no family in Beacon Hills anymore, at least none that he wants to see. Stiles thinks Peter is probably still creeping around somewhere, like the weirdo he is.
“Are my ears deceiving me? Is Derek Hale actually apologizing for something?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Stiles laughs out loud at that, and Derek doesn’t join him exactly, but he’s smiling and he seems more relaxed than he had been at the beginning of their conversation. Stiles thinks he probably could be friends with Derek, now—hell, he might even want to.
“So. University.”
“Yup.”
“Scott, too?”
“Different one, obviously, but yeah. Almost all of us… did you know Malia’s going to France?”
“I didn’t.”
“‘s because you’re too busy brooding all the time, dude.”
“It’s my favorite activity.”
Stiles grins at him, and Derek snorts, shaking his head.
The silence that settles between them this time is easy, comfortable. Stiles likes it.
He looks at his phone briefly, realizes it’s way later than he thought, and remembers he was supposed to be at Scott’s probably ten minutes ago. He abruptly gets up, stretching his arms above his head and groaning. Derek doesn’t move, but he raises an eyebrow at him, questioning.
“Need to go. Helping Scott with packing. Can you believe he’s still not done? We leave in three days!”
Derek nods in understanding and gets up as well, moving towards the door as Stiles follows behind him.
“This was a good visit.” Stiles proclaims, once he’s stepped out.
“It was.” The werewolf agrees.
“Let’s talk again sometime.”
The other seems surprised, like he hadn’t expected Stiles to say anything else to him, or more like he hadn’t ever imagined Stiles of all people to say that to him.
“Alright.” He responds, finally.
Stiles regards him for a moment, holds out his hand and says “Phone.”
Derek tilts his head curiously.
“Don’t have one.” He tells him, matter of fact.
“How do you not- you know what, don't answer. Give me, like, an address I can reach you at. An e-mail. Name of your carrier pigeon. Anything.” Stiles rambles on as he takes out his own phone instead and opens up the Notes app. Derek makes a funny face that Stiles can’t interpret, but thinks might be close to appreciation, and acquiesces. Stiles nods resolutely once he’s done, and gives Derek one last, meaningful look.
“Don’t be a stranger, Derek. Keep in touch.”
Seconds go by without either one of them saying anything, but then Derek pulls him in for a half-hug, which takes Stiles by surprise so profoundly that he sputters and awkwardly pats his shoulder like he’s never hugged anyone in his life before. It lasts a good while, longer than Stiles would’ve imagined. When Derek pulls back, there’s a carefully grateful expression on his face.
“Say hi to Scott for me. I’ll get a phone, mail the number to you or him.”
“You better, dude.”
They say their goodbyes at last, and Stiles feels like a weight has been lifted from his chest.
──── ✦︎ ────
It takes him a little less than twenty minutes to rush—if asked, he’d refer to it as meticulously and strategically ignoring the speed limit—from one end of Beacon Hills to the other, until he reaches Scott’s house and parks the Jeep in the little garage that’s been cleared out specifically for him.
He looks at the front door, and knows if he tried he’d find it open—despite the fact that Scott’s the only one home and Melissa has tried to tell her son to lock it ever since he was little, to no avail—but he ultimately decides to head for the back of the house and start the climb towards Scott’s window, instead.
Stiles hasn’t really done this in a while, but he knows he won’t get many chances to do it anymore after they both move into their respective dorms, so he wants to treasure this the same way he treasures a thousand other little things about their lives here.
It sends a small thrill down his spine, reminds him of all the times he’d secretly sneaked in the house at night to drag Scott off to the Lacrosse field, or to the reserve. To the forest to find a body, his treacherous mind supplies, but he squashes the unwanted thought down and finishes his climb.
Scott isn’t surprised at all, since he’d probably just heard the Jeep anyway, and he opens the window for Stiles with a roll of his eyes. Stiles just grins and rolls through, falling unceremoniously on his ass and grunting in pain.
“You could, you know, just not do that.” Scott says, looking at him with a fond expression.
“Where’s the fun in- oww- where’s the fun in that, Scotty?” He replies easily, getting to his feet and putting his hands on his hips.
Scott starts to smile, but stops suddenly and frowns, instead.
“You’re really late.”
“I know, I know,” Stiles pleads, “I just got caught up, I was with-”
“Derek.” Scott finishes for him, crossing his arms, “I can tell.”
Stiles doesn’t remember telling Scott about going to see Derek today; not for any particular reason, it just hadn’t crossed his mind. He scratches his neck and tilts his head.
“Yeah, how d’you know-” he starts, but the look Scott is giving him and the way his nose keeps twitching gives him a pretty good idea. That’s right. He’d almost forgotten, had gotten to live all of a few minutes blissfully unaware of the whole scent thing. He tries to resolutely not think about his earlier conversation with Derek, wills his mind to not even conjure up the words arousal and Scott within the same sentence. He fails.
“Oh.” He offers, unhelpfully, which seems to irritate Scott further.
The werewolf seems determined to act like nothing’s amiss, however, so he shrugs stiffly and turns away from Stiles, going back to messing with something in one of his drawers, doing what Stiles thinks is the worst job at pretending to be fine that he’s ever seen.
“We just- we talked about, uhm, stuff.” Stiles continues, and he realizes too late that his unexplained caginess about exactly what him and Derek discussed isn’t doing him any favors, and he immediately tries to switch tracks.
“Derek says hi?” He tries.
Scott has stopped rummaging in the drawer, but his back is still turned, and Stiles can hear him inhaling and exhaling deeply.
“Cool.”
“No, Scott, listen-”
“It’s cool, Stiles. You guys talked. About something. Then he apparently got so close that you smell like him all over, but it’s fine, really.”
“It doesn’t sound fine.”
“Well it is.”
Stiles winces at the aggressive tone, and wonders if maybe Scott is being slightly too overbearing, then remembers he had acted pretty much the same on more than one occasion, and he doesn’t even have a supernatural excuse for it. Scott hadn’t even been his at the time.
“We really just talked, Scott. I wanted to say goodbye before we left. Nothing happened, you gotta know I would never-”
“I know! Fuck!”
He doesn’t hear Scott yelling or swearing much, generally speaking, so it shocks him a bit, and he shuts up.
“I know you wouldn’t-” Scott turns around to look at him, and his expression is pained, frustrated, “-I’m not mad at you, not really. I’m mad at myself, ‘cause I’m being all weird about this because you admitted you were kinda into him for a while and now you smell like him and it’s a stupid wolf thing and I hate it. You should smell like- like you’re-”
“Yours?” Stiles supplies, face flushed, and he knows his heart is picking up speed even as the words leave his mouth.
Scott nods tightly, but doesn’t look away.
“He just hugged me at the end. That’s all.”
The werewolf keeps nodding, but doesn’t speak, and Stiles won’t have any of that.
“We, uhm, we actually talked about scents, which is totally on theme-” he swallows and tri and about how he kinda already knew we were into each other,” he says, indicating the space between himself and Scott, and moving the slightest bit closer, shuffling on his feet, “that’s it. I didn’t mean to seem… dodgy. I just- got embarrassed.”
Scott’s eyebrows tilt downwards, and he looks at Stiles sideways at that.
“Why would you be embarrassed?”
“That’s- I- Derek said…”
Stiles doesn’t know if he’s built for this. No one had prepared him for how utterly mortifying his very existence would become after getting involved in the supernatural.
“Stiles?” Scott asks, coming closer to him.
“Because of the scent thing.”
He knows for a fact that Scott will make him say it out loud, and he hates him for it.
“You mean, like-”
“Oh my God, I mentioned I used to be into him and he said he knew because he could smell whenever I was turned on, which made me realize you could probably smell that too, so I asked him and he said you can, and I’ve been around you practically everyday and how have you never said anything about it, Scott? You know how humiliating it is to realize I must always smell like, like… I don’t even know what that would smell like, fuck. Can we change the subject, now? Please? Let’s never talk about this again?”
But of course Scott never actually listens to him when he asks him to, so he doesn’t change the subject at all, but instead he widens his eyes and stares straight at him.
“He- You- Wait, you told Derek you were into him?”
“So not the point, man.”
“Right...”
“I don’t know, Scott, okay? I just kinda said it, I don’t even know why. God. He practically thought we were already dating, like, two years ago.”
“He did?”
Stiles throws his hands in the air, in a ask him! motion, and crosses the rest of the room to plop himself down on Scott’s bed, face-first. He feels warm, warmer than usual, and he knows it’s got nothing to do with the weather.
“Just drop it, Scott. I’ve done enough self-flagellation for today.”
“You can’t just tell me to drop it after-”
“I can. I just did. In fact, I’m about to do it again. Drop it.” Stiles tries to sound as intimidating as he can while splayed out like a starfish. It must not work, because he feels the mattress next to him dip as Scott settles down on it and keeps talking, for some otherworldly reason.
“It’s… You don’t need to be embarrassed, Stiles.”
“Jesus.”
“No, listen, hey-” Scott starts, pushing on Stiles’ shoulder as to make him look at him. Stiles wants to do anything except that, but he lets Scott manhandle him nonetheless.
“It’s alright, dude. If I complained that my- that my boyfriend was into me then I’d be an idiot.”
Stiles shakes his head and groans, but a part of him is so very pleased at hearing Scott talk about him this way. It still doesn’t feel entirely real.
“It’s not that… it’s just that I’ve been into you for a while. Like, as you were dating other people. That must’ve been weird. Like, you’re just there, definitely not interested, and here I am, horny out of my own mind because you’re licking a stupid fucking popsicle and I’m a creep who creeps.”
It’s Scott’s turn to blush now, apparently. Stiles berates himself for thinking about how beautiful he looks. Talk about creeping.
“Who says I wasn’t interested? Also, why do I feel like you’re talking about something specific…”
Nothing that Scott tells him ever makes sense anymore.
“Who says-? Scott. You. You said you started liking me-”
“I know what I said. It’s not untrue… but liking and finding you attractive are different things. I just realized the first a while later.”
“You’re going to kill me.” Stiles declares, eyes round and looking up at the Scott, who is in turn leaning slightly over him, now, trapping him, though Stiles has no intention of escaping.
Scott’s hair is neat, freshly cut, and Stiles sort of wants to run his hands through it and mess it up, maybe tug on it a little to see what kind of face he would make, if he’d like it or if he’d get mad and reiterate, pulling on Stiles’ hair in turn. Stiles wouldn’t mind it either way. In fact, he thinks he’d be very open to letting Scott go ahead and do whatever he wants, maybe even make it hurt a little to really teach Stiles his place-
“Derek was right.” Scott says, all of a sudden, and Stiles is startled out of his little daydream.
“Uh?”
“I can. Smell you, I mean.”
“Oh.”
Stiles gulps, because something about Scott’s tone of voice tells him he’s not all that put off by it. Or maybe it’s the way Scott’s eyes are looking over him like he wants to eat Stiles, and the prospect isn’t too unappealing, as long as it's the sexy kind of eating that Stiles sometimes fantasizes about in his own room.
“Like right now. I don’t know what you’re thinking about, but you smell- good, like, so good, it’s kind of like vanilla? But also sort of warm and woody, and like you want me, and it drives me crazy. But you also still smell like Derek, and the wolf is just- It’s restless. I’m restless.” Scott takes a couple of deep breaths, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s straight up just sniffing Stiles, now, and then he says, frantically, “God, Stiles, you have no idea how many times I wish I could just- claim you, somehow.”
“Do it.” Stiles replies, breathless despite the fact that he hasn’t done anything to render him so.
He cranes his neck towards Scott, but doesn’t dare getting up or moving any further, scared to break the spell between them.
“Stiles…”
“Scott, do it. I’m- you know I’m yours, right? Yours. I’ve always been, right from the start. So claim me.”
It feels like Stiles is confessing to more than just what he’s saying out loud, but neither of them is in the right mind to think about it too much.
Scott moves forward, lowering his head to Stiles’ shoulder, forehead resting just above his collarbone, and he inhales deeply, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’ neck the same way an actual wolf would. Stiles feels like a prey. He bares his throat further. He’d probably let Scott sink his fangs into it if he demanded it.
“Stiles.” Scott says again, and then turns to look at him in earnest, eyes glowing red like he can’t help it, hasn’t even noticed his control slipping. Stiles feels drunk off of the knowledge.
“Why didn’t you say something?” He manages to ask, voice so soft he might as well be whispering.
“I didn’t want to assume anything.” Scott replies, ever the gentleman.
“I think we’ve established that we’re idiots. Please, assume all you want from now on.”
“Duly noted.”
The air around them feels charged, and the room is bathed in an orange-and-pink light from the sun setting outside that turns everything romantic and lovely. Stiles feels like he’s going to explode if Scott doesn’t do something within the next five seconds. Instantly would be preferred.
Thankfully, Scott seems to have had the same idea, because he finally, finally, kisses him, and Stiles swears he might actually be the luckiest man on Earth after all.
Scott’s mouth is urgent on his, like he’s genuinely trying to devour Stiles, and he understand it entirely because he’s not doing any better, either. Their lips slot together perfectly and Stiles lets out the softest of pleased little sounds that get instantly swallowed by Scott.
He moves his hands up to tangle his fingers in the werewolf’s hair so he can test his earlier theory. He pulls—probably harder than he’d meant to, because his mind and body are entirely separate units currently, and Stiles is being kissed within an inch of his life, so he’s not all there—and Scott lets out a hiss as they separate briefly, then proceeds to lean into Stiles’ hands and pant a little, and Stiles thinks it’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen.
He chases Scott’s mouth instantly, using this chance to nip at Scott’s bottom lip, and he’s rewarded with the Alpha pushing his tongue inside of Stiles’ mouth, exploring and prodding like he’s trying to memorize all the ways that will make Stiles whine and lose his mind altogether.
They kiss for what feels like hours, but is realistically only a few interminable minutes. Stiles feels mildly dizzy, and he knows that if he tried getting up now, his knees would buckle embarrassingly.
Scott is grinning down at him, and the angle makes him look all sorts of goofy, and Stiles loves him. He says it in his own head, once, twice, before he remembers he’s allowed to say it out loud, now, so he does.
“I love you.”
Scott’s smile gets even bigger.
“Me too. Sorry for being weird earlier.”
Stiles shakes his head firmly.
“It’s okay. You don’t see me complaining, do you? Feel free to have your weird wolf freak-outs more often, actually. Our first fight was to-otally hot, so as long as you keep this up afterwards then we’ll be happy forever.”
He says it as a joke, but Scott always has to one.up him somehow, even though it’s unintentional most of the time, so he answers with a completely serious:
“No more fighting. But yes to the forever, if you mean it.”
“I do.” Stiles answers, honestly, because he’s powerless to do anything but.
“Good.”
Scott rolls off of him and settles next to Stiles instead, laying down on his side and looking at him, head propped up by his hand. Stiles shifts so he’s mirroring the position, and he decides to be bold for once and begins trailing his fingers along Scott’s hips, drawing little shapes with a feather touch, just so he can watch Scott squirm around.
“Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
The werewolf grunts, trying to hide what Stiles thinks is definitely a giggle. He continues the light touches up and down Scott’s side.
“Stiles come on, y’know I’m ticklish, stop!”
“Make me.” Stiles says, and it’s such a cheesy comeback that he almost laughs at himself, but Scott smirks and grabs his hand, instead, dragging him roughly towards himself so he can plan a kiss right behind Stiles’ ear, making him gasp in surprise.
“Cheater!”
“How’s that cheating?” Scott mumbles, still mouthing at Stile’s neck, nipping with blunt teeth right above his pulse point.
“Jus’ is- ah- Scott-”
“Hmm?”
Stiles would generally be self-conscious about the way he’s reacting right about now, but he feels like he’s entered a different reality, so he doesn’t care much about anything beyond Scott’s lips on his neck still, and Scott’s body pressed almost entirely against his, and Scott’s free hand traveling under his shirt and woah when did that happen?
Scott halts briefly, maybe because he felt Stiles stiffen next to him, and he pulls back just enough to brush their noses together. Stiles can feel the werewolf’s breath against his cheek and he finds himself transfixed by Scott’s eyelashes, which he doesn’t think he’s ever paid much attention to before, but he determines he definitely should starting from now.
“Is this okay?”
Stiles’ throat feels scratchy and glued together when he speaks, but he can’t make himself be bothered about it.
“It’s more than okay.”
“Okay.” Scott whispers, and then they’re kissing again, and everything around Stiles disappears.
He takes back his relinquished hand and grips Scott’s shirt, tugging at it roughly, trying to mentally signal the to the other to take it off. Scott thankfully understands him, the way he seems to always kind of do, and breaks apart to fling it off somewhere, and Stiles is suddenly reminded of just how jacked Scott had become in the last few years, what with the wolf business and being captain of the Lacrosse team. He’s not too bad himself, if the look Scott gives him after helping Stiles out of his own shirt is anything to go by, but he has a brief moment of inadequacy run across his mind.
His mind is all but wiped clean when Scott honest-to-God growls and whispers you’re so fucking hot against his skin and begins leaving a trail of kisses down his chest.
Stiles has officially exhausted his seemingly never-ending ability to yammer on and on about practically anything. They’ve finally found a way to shut up him, and it only took them several years and some less-than-brotherly bonding.
He hears himself moan, or whimper, or something strange in-between when Scott’s lips reach one of his nipples, and the Alpha’s head tilts up as he rests his chin on Stiles’ skin.
“Good?”
“So fucking good, Scotty, you’re good, you’re so good.” He babbles, semi-incoherently.
He thinks Scott’s about to go back to his earlier task, until he sees him reposition so their foreheads are touching, and Stiles’ eyes have gone so glassy he can barely focus on his features anymore.
“Wanna touch you. Can I, Stiles? Please, say I can.”
Stiles thinks he’d do just about anything if Scott asked him with like that, so he nods dumbly and tries (and ultimately fails) not to yelp when Scott’s hand unceremoniously clutches his pants and unclasps the belt with nimble fingers; Stiles' promises to himself that he’ll carefully and appropriately think about how disproportionately sexy he finds that whole display later on—whenever he can think like a normal person again.
He gasps and stutters his hips towards Scott on instinct when he feels those same fingers wrap around his cock and pull it free, stroking it slowly and it feels so distinctly different compared to Stiles’ own hand that he feels dizzy all over again. He doesn’t even realize he’s essentially humping Scott’s hand until he chances a glance downwards and sees himself moving.
“Fuck.” He says on an exhale.
“Yeah. Yeah, come on.” Scott answers, goading him.
Stiles suddenly realizes he’s just been laying there, helplessly letting Scott do all the work, and he decides to get a move on himself. He’ll be damned if he doesn’t touch Scott after agonizing over the mere thought of it night after night.
So, he resolutely moves his own hands towards Scott’s sweatpants—thank God, he interjects in his mind, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to be as smooth as Scott was if belts and zippers were involved—and pulls them down along with Scott’s underwear just enough to free his dick.
Stiles gulps, and starts pumping him with a shaky hands, overwhelmed by the feeling of him, the weight, the way he can feel each twitch right under his fingers.
Scott moans so loudly that Stiles almost worries someone might hear them, then remembers Melissa is on her shift at the hospital, and then promptly stops thinking about her altogether.
“Oh fuck-” Scott says harshly, voice dark and almost echo-y, and Stiles has to glance back up at him to see if he’s wolfed out—he hasn’t, and he feels a quiet disappointment over that fact that he knows he’ll have to unpack later. “-Stiles, God, please, please.” Stiles has no idea what Scott is pleading for, but he’s determined to find out.
“Like that?” He asks as he tightens his grip on Scott and pumps him slow and hard, deliberate, like he would with himself. Scott gasps and his hips stutter as he thrusts deeper into Stiles’ hand.
He’s letting out tiny hm-hm’s and whiny little gasps that Stiles thinks he’ll never get enough of. He wants to hear more, wants Scott to lose control, to be loud, to rut into his fist until he’d desperate with it.
With newfound confidence, Stiles pushes himself closer to Scott, and slides his other arm under the werewolf’s head until he can reach back and tug at his hair roughly, exposing the column of Scott’s throat. He knows he can’t mark him, that Scott’s werewolf powers will heal him before any hickeys or bruises might even start to form, but nothing stops him from trying. And trying he does. In fact, he bites and sucks harder than he probably would normally, spurred on by the knowledge that Scott will heal even the worst of it, and because the wolf is letting out the most delicious of noises in encouragement.
Stiles angles his hips upwards, and he lets out an obscene moan when the head of his cock brushes against Scott’s own. The latter stills imperceptibly and then lets out a broken sound that Stiles has never heard him make before now.
He relents his grip on Scott’s hair and angles his face down to kiss him messily. It’s all teeth and tongues sliding together and Stiles licks the roof of Scott’s mouth filthily, drawing out a moan from him.
“You like when it hurts?” He says, and he has no idea where this side of him has come from, but he certainly doesn’t mind it, and neither does Scott.
“Uh-uh— Stiles, I- I need- want-”
“Tell me. Scott, tell me, what d’you need?”
Instead of answering him with words, Scott huffs out a frustrated breath and slaps Stiles’ hand away from his dick, moves impossibly closer, and lines both of their cocks together and ruts against Stiles roughly.
Stiles is mesmerized. He doesn’t know if he wants to look at all the ways Scott’s face moves and flushes or if he wants to stare at the red tip of Scott’s dick that’s steadily leaking precum against both of them. He wonders if it’s a werewolf thing, how wet Scott gets.
He must say the words out loud instead of just in his head, because Scott whines low in his throat and says:
“‘s not a wolf thing. It’s you, it’s only you.”
Stiles is left picking up the various scrambled parts of his brain from the walls of his skull after that.
“Scott. Scott. Holy fuck, you can’t just say that-”
“Shut- oh shit- just shut up.”
It’s comforting and familiar, the way they’re still bickering even while doing this. It’s a confirmation that they’ll always be Scott and Stiles before they’re boyfriends or partners or anything before and after and in-between that. Stiles gives him a loopy grin before spitting in his hand—to Scott’s wide-eyed disbelief—and gripping the both of them roughly as he jerks them both off in sync with Scott’s own hand.
Each of their movements is erratic, and they’re both silent for a long while as they pant into each other’s mouths; the only sounds in the room are the slick slaps of skin-against-skin and a low, steady rumbling coming from somewhere within Scott.
Stiles doesn’t know how he’s managed to be even slightly normal about him for so long: if he’d known what Scott looked and sounded in this state, he would’ve risked it all roughly three to four years earlier. Would’ve saved them both so much time, honestly.
He doesn’t know whether it’s the delicious drag of their cocks against each other that does him in, or if it’s merely the idea that he’s doing this with his best friend, of all people, or maybe it’s a mix of both, but he can feel himself getting closer and closer, tethering right on the edge without tipping past it, and the only thing he can think about is that he wants to see Scott fall apart entirely.
Thankfully, it seems that the wolf is of the same mind, because he groans loudly and starts jerking the both of them off with his hand, chasing release.
“Oh fuck, just like that—”
Stiles must mutter some more empty words, sweet nothings and encouragement to Scott, but he’s not in charge of his mouth anymore, just letting out every little thought that passes through him the way he’s held back from doing for so long, and Scott answers him with shallow breaths and whines and rumbles deep in his chest that make Stiles feel like the luckiest guy in the world.
They’re both being driven by a desperation that they might not have felt were they not with each other. The type of desire—sheer, naked, need—that can only manifest when two people have gravitated towards each other for their entire lives, running towards something they didn’t even understand. It’s messy, sticky, slick, and Stiles wishes so badly he could take his time and slow down, show Scott just how deeply he cares for him, but there will be other chances, he tells himself, and so he keeps holding on to him.
“Stiles, I’m—”
“Me too.”
It’s all he can get out before he feels himself tense up and shake, letting out a long moan that he barely recognizes as his own, and suddenly his mind is completely blank, eyes glossy. He keeps shallowly thrusting into Scott’s fist as he tries to keep his eyes open and take him in.
If he’d thought Scott was a vision before, the way he looks now is beyond Stiles’ wildest dreams: his eyebrows are drawn together and his eyes are squeezed shut, tongue curling against his top teeth, cheeks flushed a pretty red and a bead of sweat running down his temple; Stiles reaches out to wipe at it, and Scott opens his eyes the slightest bit smiles, his body still trembling as he rides out his orgasm.
“Hey, you.” Stiles whispers.
“Hi.” Scott whispers back, as he removes his hand and wipes it carelessly across Stiles’ stomach, which should, by all means, gross him out or at least offend him in some fashion, but instead Stiles feels a shiver run down his spine. He’s half convinced that anything that Scott does might be able of turning him on in some weird, inexplicable way.
Stiles has decidedly less experience than Scott does when it comes to this sort of thing—by virtue of spending most of his teenage life possessed, or forgotten, or drifting through life and whatnot—and so he’s not sure what he should say, or if he should say anything at all.
Scott must sense his apprehension, and he grins, all teeth, and pecks him sweetly on the lips, a kiss that’s so innocent compared to what they’ve just done that is feels almost more sinful, by comparison.
“I love you.” Scott tells him, speaking normally now, and Stiles will never get used to that.
“I love you too.”
He wants to lay here with Scott until the end of time, if given the chance, but he knows as well as the werewolf does that Melissa might pop into the house for a quick break soon, and so he gets up and sets about finding both of their shirts and a towel to clean them both off.
Scott lazes around on the bed and watches him walk around the room, in and out of the bathroom, and just leers at him the whole time. Stiles keeps feeling like a prey that’s been caught. He doesn’t mind.
“Know you said it was fine-” Scott starts, while Stiles is wiping himself down as meticulously as he can, “but I do still feel bad for freaking out. It’s just new, this thing. Us. And Derek’s scent is stronger than normal people’s. I won’t be like that all the time, I swear.”
Stiles considers shrugging off again and joking, but knows better than anyone that Scott won’t be satisfied with just that, so he nods instead and offers him a warm smile.
“Really, it’s okay, I understand. We’re alright.”
Scott seems happy with that, so he says “Yeah, we are.” And to Stiles it seems like there’s more behind the words than either of them let on.
He spends a few moments just openly staring at Scott, who’s still shirtless and whose pants are hanging low on his hips, slightly askew, and then he resolutely throws his shirt and the towel away and approaches the edge of the bed.
Scott extends an arm towards him, inviting. Stiles bends down, settling in between Scott’s knees, and starts placing butterfly kisses all over his neck and chest.
“Watcha doin’?” Scott asks, in-between soft sighs.
“When’s your mom coming home?” Stiles questions back, in lieu of an answer.
“Uhm-” Scott begins, neck arching towards the ceiling to give Stiles more access, “like- in an hour? Hour and a half?”
“Okay, then we have time.”
“Time for what?”
Scott keeps giggling and squirming under him, and Stiles is oh, so weak.
He climbs his way back up through kisses and little bites, just to rile the Alpha up, and when his lips are close to Scott’s ear, he leans in and says, gravelly:
“I wanna suck you off.”
He hears Scott choke on air, and he can’t help but laugh at him a little as he leans back and settles his weight atop Scott’s middle.
“Right. Yeah, that’s- yeah, uhm- that’s cool.”
“That’s cool?” Stiles mocks, biting the inside of his cheek.
Scott doesn’t acknowledge him beyond a roll of his eyes, and instead he settles his hands on Stiles’ hips urging him to rock back and forth from where he sits atop him. Stiles goes along with it for a while, until he can feel the werewolf getting hard again under him.
He gets up, suddenly, and Scott makes a dejected noise like he doesn’t know what’s going on.
Instead of explaining himself, Stiles, in the midst of this new surge of confidence, slides his jeans all the way down and kicks them aside, then he cocks his head towards Scott, smiles brightly at him as he turns his back to him, bends, and takes off his boxers. He hears Scott’s sharp inhale as he straightens himself back up and walks towards the bathroom, not even bothering to look if the other is following him as he turns on the shower and waits.
There’s only a few seconds of delay as Scott softly curses to himself when he bumps his knee into the doorframe, and then strong arms are circling Stiles’ waist, pushing him towards the shower and under the spray. Stiles can feel Scott’s skin all over his, making his head spin with all kinds of wonderful ideas.
When they’re both under the water, Stiles turns around and kisses Scott. He thinks he will never stop wanting to kiss him. This time it’s less urgent, but not any less passionate, and it makes Stiles’ mind swim and melt, go soft and round at the corners in all the best ways.
He leans back, and Scott’s hair is plastered all over his forehead ridiculously, so he says as much and laughs, tilting his head back, while the other grumbles something about how Stiles doesn’t look any better.
“Yeah but yours is funnier.” He claims.
“And why’s that?”
Stiles grins wildly, and he can see Scott’s eyes widening with realization.
“Wet dog.” He answers, simply.
“Let go of the damn dog thing!”
“Dude, and with the scenting earlier? And then the whole-”
“You said it was fine!”
Scott’s laughing with him as he argues back, so Stiles knows he’s not actually upset. He shakes his head, and brushes his hair back.
“Alright, calm down, you big bad wolf.”
“That’s right. I’m bad.” The words are punctuated with a growl that Stiles enjoys all too much.
“Yeah you are. Come here.”
They’re forehead to forehead, and Stiles swears he could get lost in Scott’s eyes, find trails and paths and travel them for eons.
“This is real.” He says, almost without realizing it.
“It’s very real.” Scott confirms.
Stiles closes his eyes and circles his arms around his best friend’s neck, and he thinks that right here, right now, there’s nothing wrong with either one of them or with the world they live in. They’re simply themselves, together, and it’s more than enough. So much more.
He breathes out.
Everything is right how it should be.