Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1278190.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Season/Series_03_Spoilers
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-06 Words: 2503
****** Love, Hunt me Down ******
by eudaimon
Summary
     Scott McCall knows more than most people about the things you hold
     onto when everything else is lost. Stiles is falling apart; it makes
     sense that Scott would be the first person he'd go to.
Notes
     So, recently, I inhaled every single episode of Teen Wolf over about
     a week and a half. And now there is fic. My first time writing these
     boys - I don't think it will be the last. This fic contains VERY
     VAGUE spoilers for episode 3x19, "Letharia Vulpina". In my head, this
     happens in the night between that episode and the morning after that
     we see in 3x20, "Echo House".
     (Title is borrowed from "Touch" by Daughter).
All his life (it feels like his whole life, even if he was six years old by the
time they met in the sandbox), Scott's known that Stiles has a problem being
still. It's kind of beautiful, actually - the way that he vibrates. Over the
years, Scott's made a study of Stiles' mannerisms; he knows everything that's
worth knowing, so he knows that Stiles' favourite flavour of ice-cream is plain
vanilla (with sprinkles); he knows Stiles' brand of toothpaste, deodorant,
underwear; he knows Stiles' porn preferences.
He knows Stiles.
So he can see that Stiles himself is shrinking - the nogitsune is getting
closer and closer to the surface. There are deep, dark, horrible shadows
pressed thumb-print deep under Stiles' darting eyes - a small, indefinable
tremble in his fingers as he picks through the stuff on Scott's desk. Scott had
been half asleep when Stiles came in through the window, still groggy and
blinking from the wolf lichen, but obviously, unimistakably Stiles, though,
sitting on Scott's desk-chair bouncing his heels and turning a pen over and
over between his fingers just to give him something to do with his hands. Head
bobbing. Narrowed eyes. Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.
Stiles. Oh, thank God.
"I...God, Scott. I'm so fucking sorry."
Sitting up, shirtless, Scott skims his hand across his own bare chest. Whole.
Healed, without even a scar. Sometimes, even he's surprised by the miracle in
his blood.
"It's okay, Stiles," he says, even though nothing really is. "It's fine. I'm
fine. We're fine."
"Do you swear?"
There it is - a flicker of a smile. Not much, not really, but something.
Reassuring. For a moment, Stiles lights up and, when Scott presses his hand
over his heart, his pulse is suddenly racing.
"I swear."
"Oh, thank God."
Scott notices the echo. They've been doing that their whole lives.
Stiles all but deflates, spilling forward across his own knees, his face
pressed into his hands. Scott sits there and watches him tremble. It's only the
width of his bedroom but, right then, it might as well be a million miles. If
Scott listens, listens really hard, he can hear his mom breathing down the
hall. He tunes that out, focuses in.
Listens to the racing of Stiles' wild, faithful heart.
"Come on," he says, lifting the blankets. "Come get in bed."
Stiles hesitates for a moment but, in the end, he gets up.
When Stiles sits down on the edge of Scott's mattress, bending to pull off his
sneakers, Scott reaches out and trails his fingers down Stiles' spine, the
knobbled road of bone that lead down to the waistband of his pants. This late,
Scott had been expecting sweatpants, soft and worn fabric, but Stiles is still
wearing chinos, the brown ones he had on earlier at the clinic. Scott hooks his
fingers over the back of Stiles' pants, feels the smooth skin of the small of
his back, the heat. Scott traces Stiles' tailbone with the tip of his thumb.
Little by little, inch by aching inch, he feels Stiles start to relax.
They haven't been doing this that long, only since Scott broke up with Allison
and Stiles started growing his hair out, but Scott already knows how it goes.
He pushes himself up to sitting and scoots in closer, a knee on either side of
Stiles' skinny hips. His arms slip around Stiles' waist and, for a moment, he
just holds onto him, his chin pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. Stiles'
smell is entirely familiar - sleepovers and school days mingled - his skin, his
hair, and then something unfamiliar, so faint Scott almost doesn't notice it.
A tiny, reedy thread of fear.
"What do you need, man?" he asks, slipping one hand under the hem of Stiles' t-
shirt, pressing his palm flat against the trembling muscles of his belly.
Stiles might be skinny, but there's substance to him, too. Somewhere inside,
there's steel.
"I need you to…" Stiles swallows, his free hand gripping Scott's knee, fingers
drumming against the fabric of Scott's pyjama pants. Scott fights to separate
that characteristic movement of Stiles' long fingers from the nogitsune, the
way it moved - so much stiller than Stiles, taking his mannerisms and twisting
them. Making everything about him weird and wrong.
"Stiles?"
"I need you to make me feel something good, Scott," says Stiles, as Scott turns
his head and presses a kiss against the side of Stiles' neck, right against his
pulse. He hears Stiles' voice catch. "Something really, really good."
"Got it," says Scott, his free hand sliding down to cup Stiles' cock through
his pants, squeezing gently. Stiles whimpers - it's almost a moan.
For a moment, they're just holding on.
"God, Scott, please fuck me. Jesus. Please."
It's all that Scott can do to swallow back a growl. Instead, he knots his
fingers in the hem of Stiles' t-shirt and drags it up over his head. Scott's
own chest is smoother than Stiles' and Scott takes a moment to drag his nails
through the sparse hair.
"Stiles," he says, letting a little tiny bit of authority leak into his voice.
"Yeah, Scott?"
"Get your pants off and get into bed. Now."
Stiles' grin is sudden and unexpected. Beautiful - it's beautiful.
"Sir, yes, Sir," he says, flicking a salute as he stands up to get his belt and
Scott falls back on the bed and, for a moment, he feels like his heart is
exploding with the realisation that, maybe, everything isn't completely lost.
For a moment, it's like they both forget that there's anything wrong at all.
He lies there watching Stiles get naked, the long, smooth lines of him. Pale
freckled skin. Tiny imperfections. Scott knows every single one by heart. He
lifts the sheet for Stiles to slid into bed beside him. It's warm in his room
and it gets warmer when they lean in close to kiss. They make out, lazily at
first but increasingly urgent, increasingly desperate. Stiles squirms closer,
pressing his cock against Scott's thigh, grinding forward. Scott's fingers curl
around the back of Stiles' neck. HIs other hand curls around Stiles' wrist,
pinning his hand next to his head as they kiss. He shifts, so that he can
thread his fingers with Stiles'. They hold on as tight as they can. They hold
on for dear life.
Scott presses both of Stiles' hands up over his head and then he pulls away.
"Leave them there," he says, shooting Stiles a warning look. There's a pair of
boot laces on his dresser and Scott grabs them, looping them around Stiles'
wrists, lashing him to the bedframe with his wrists crossed over his head. It's
not enough to keep him there, not if he doesn't want to be. It doesn't have to
be, though, does it? They both know that Stiles isn't going anywhere. Because
here, in Scott's room, in Scott's bed is where Stiles feels safest and Scott?
Is going to give him exactly what he needs.
"Jesus, Scott," says Stiles, teeth touching his lip. His fingers flex but he
doesn't try to pull his hands out of the loops of the laces. He lift his head,
watching as Scott moves around the room, fetching the things he needs. Lube. A
condom - they don't need one, sure, but it's tidier. There's a bandana on the
back of Scott's desk chair and, on impulse, he picks that up too.
Stiles' eyes are dark and watchful as Scott comes back to the bed. He pauses,
dropping stuff on the bed so that he can free up his hands and shove his
pyjamas pants down. Elastic drags along the underside of his cock and he grits
his teeth, stares at Stiles and thinks of him, for the moment, as an anchor.
"You going to be a good boy, Stiles?" asks Scott, getting back onto the bed
with him, swinging a leg across Stiles' thigh, straddling him like that with
the bandana stretched between his hands. "You know you want to."
"Fuck," breathes Stiles, shifting his hips, pushing up against Scott. "Yeah,
yeah. I'll be good. Promise."
"Good," says Scott, and then he leans forward, pressing the bandana like a
blindfold across Stiles' eyes. In the brief moment of silence that follows, he
can hear Stiles' crazy long eyelashes scraping against worn cotton.
"Okay?"
"O-kay," says Stiles, breathes it, draws it out into an unnatural number of
syllables. Scott feels him tense, for a moment, but then Scott feels him relax,
feels him all but melt. "I'm ready, Scott. I'm good."
"You're more than good, man," says Scott, leaning down to kiss Stiles. It's
wet, hot, slightly off-centre and he spills more kisses down the side of
Stiles' neck, sucking lightly on Stiles' pulse. His hands graze up Stiles'
ribs, thumbs rubbing over his nipples, teasing, making him squirm. Mostly, when
they do this, they fuck around. Jerk each other off. Make out. Sometimes,
Stiles gets down on his knees and sucks Scott off.
(At times like those, Scott can believe that he's known this mouth, the one
sucking him off like Stiles wants to swallow him whole, his whole life. What he
figures is that, ultimately, all of this is just another way of saying I love
you and nobody in the whole world knows me as well as you do).
Because, of course, Stiles gives the best head that Scott's pretty much ever
had.
Not that he has that many people to compare him to, or anything.
Stiles' cock is aching hard and flushed dark. Maybe not as big as Coach thinks
it is, but Scott thinks it's beautiful, like the rest of Stiles as he lies
there, pale except for the blush in his cheeks that spills down onto his chest,
his cock, his lips. His fingers flex. He lifts his hips. It looks like an
invitation. Scott slicks his fingers and shifts, slipping his hand down between
Stiles' thighs, rubbing him with the tip of one finger, starting to work it
inside. At first, doing this, it had felt strange - sort of ridiculous - but
now Scott finds himself getting lost in Stiles' body, in the tightness of him,
and the way his hips start to rock. Stiles' head turns from side to side,
biting his lip.
"I need need more than that, Scott," he says, voice tight. "I need it right
now."
"Greedy," says Scott, smiling, bending forward to press a kiss against Stiles'
chest, his free hand on Stiles' hip, holding him still as Scott starts to fuck
him with two fingers instead of one. When he manages to graze Stiles' prostate,
he does it mostly by accident, but he loves the way it makes Stiles almost
yelp, his hips jerking. His breath sobs in and out. His cock twitches. Scott
does it again, holds Stiles down and sucks up a mark on his pale hipbone. Mine,
he thinks. Mine. Forever. And it isn't up for negotiation.
They fuck slowly, with Stiles' hands still tied to the bed, with the blindfold
still stretched across his eyes, with Scott's weight caught on a bent arm on
either side of his head. They don't kiss, not the whole time, but Scott stays
close enough that their lips are almost touching. Sharing breath. Stiles
breathes out, Scott breathes in. He shifts his hips, thrusting into Stiles'
body slow and deep. Every movement is a reminder.
Scott knows, better than almost anyone else, about the things that you hold
onto, when you can't do anything else.
"Undo my hands," says Stiles, a note of pleading in his voice, his breathing
harder, harsher, as he gets closer to coming. "Please, Scott."
He could pull himself out of the laces if he wanted to, but the fact that he
waits makes Scott's eyes sting. Once his hands are free, Stiles pushes one of
them into Scott's hair, tugging lightly, the other working it's way down
between their bodies, through the press and the sweat to curl around his cock,
jerking himself off as Scott fucks him. His fingers, long and beautiful, always
in motion, slip through Scott's hair and down, cradling his jaw to pull him
down into a kiss. Stiles' thumb swipes across Scott's bottom lip and Scott
opens his mouth and sucks on it. In the blindfold, still, Stiles is
unbelievably beautiful - his damp lips, flushed cheeks, the way his head falls
back as he comes. He bites his lip over a moan.
Scott swallows that down too.
Stiles comes, hot and sticky between them, and Scott's barely holding on. He
shoves the blindfold up, off, so that he can look Stiles in the eyes, so that
he can see him looking back at him. Best friend. Brother.
"Tell me you love me."
"I love you," says Stiles, instantly. "God, I fucking love you."
It's not in love - might not be, anyway - but maybe it's bigger than that. The
only person that Scott loves more than Stiles is his mom and he's not always
sure that it's a case of more, just different - both as similar and at once
distinct as longitude and latitude on a map.
He comes so hard that he can feel the wolf in his blood stirring. He keeps it
down. Keeps it back. He sobs into Stiles' mouth as he comes.
Afterwards, after Scott's dealt with the condom, gone to the bathroom in
nothing but his boxers, he comes back to find Stiles curled on his side, his
nose pressed into a pillow that's already damp with tears.
"Hey," says Scott, softly, getting back into bed. They've been sleeping in beds
together since they were kids, but he hasn't always wrapped his arms around
Stiles like he does now, hasn't always pressed himself close against his back,
bare skin to bare skin. "Hey. It's okay, okay? I've got you. I'm right here."
Stiles nods, sniffles, lifts one hand to rub at his eyes.
"I know," he says, quietly. "Sometimes, it feels like it's all I know, Scott."
He sighs, leaning back into Scott's arms around him. "Think your mom'll mind if
I'm here in the morning?"
Scott laughs, a warm huff of sound against the back of Stiles' neck.
"When has she ever cared?"
Hearing Stiles laugh too is like the purest relief in the world.
"Point."
"What about your dad."
"I texted him. It's cool. He…" He turns his head, kissing Scott's jaw. "He
knows I'm safe with you."
Scott just hopes that's true.
They fall asleep like that, Scott with his arms around Stiles, pulling him in
close, only one piece of clothing between them. Skin on skin. Heartbeat to
heartbeat. Close. Safe. A few times, Scott wakes to Stiles mumbling in his
sleep. Every single word sounds like sorry.
(What Scott knows is this: that he's had worse things done to him, but not by
people he loved more. That seeing the nogitsune looking out through Stiles'
eyes is terrifying. That, despite that, he could never love Stiles any less).
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