Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1039330.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Sheriff_Stilinski, Melissa_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Human_Scott, Outdoor_Sex, Hand_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Shower_Sex, Barebacking,
      Loss_of_Virginity, Sexual_Experimentation, Pre-Series, Fluff_and_Smut
  Collections:
      TW_Rarepair_November
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-11-27 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 10208
****** The List ******
by collie
Summary
     The list was Stiles' idea.
     On the back of the piece of notebook paper they'd been using to keep
     a tally of games won, he wrote down 'kiss me, dumbass' and crossed it
     off as a joke, laughing like it was something that they'd gotten out
     of the way, so now they'd never have to wonder what it was like. Now
     they'd never have to suffer through an awkward drunk moment when they
     were older.
     Scott, however, was the one that grabbed the list and wrote 'jerk off
     together watching porn' on the second line, before giving Stiles a
     challenging little smile and grabbing his laptop. Forty-five minutes
     later, Stiles had crossed that one off the list as well, with a very
     satisfied smile.
Notes
     Possible trigger warning? This story contains two boys getting down
     and dirty with each other from the ages of 13 to 16, so if pretty
     underage underage squicks you, then please move along with my
     blessings.
     This story is for Nixy, who got me into this 'ship in the first
     place. I didn't want it, I didn't like it, but she showed me the
     light and now I'm a believer. ;D
     No show spoilers because this takes place pre-canon.
     Kids_&_Heroes (Punk Rock fanmix)
     Edit: BK_DID_A_DRAMATIC_PORN_READING (spoiler alert tho) LOL. HAPPY
     VALENTINE'S DAY 2014 TO ME.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Handsies in the Back of a Squad Car *****
Scott and Stiles are fourteen, and this is the first time the sheriff has ever
thrown them into the back of a squad car for any reason other than just for
fun.
 This time it's maybe kind of serious, because Stiles and Scott might have
gotten caught attempting to steal a bunch of candy from from gas station down
the street from the Stilinski's house. The owner called the sheriff directly
instead of calling the station because it wasn't that big of a deal, but still.
 Stiles tried to argue. He tried to maneuver, he had excuses; he even tried to
make deals with his dad, but to no avail. The sheriff was firm. The boys were
going to be handcuffed (in the front, of course) and taken down to the station.
They would be fingerprinted. No charges were being pressed because the stolen
candy had been returned, and they werejust two dumbass kids, but both the
sheriff and Melissa McCall agreed that maybe they needed a little taste of what
breaking the law really felt like. Their first real, extreme act of tough love.
 Which is why they currently find themselves locked in the backseat of the
cruiser while Stiles' dad sits inside the gas station with the manager on
shift, enjoying a cup of coffee and chatting about baseball. Being stuck back
here is a punishment. It's character-building. It's for their own good. It's–
 “It's so hotin here,” Stiles whines, letting his head loll back against the
seat as his knees dig into the metal mesh that separates the backseat from the
front. He's already pretty tall for his age, having hit a growth spurt just
last year, which is pretty cool except when he's been handcuffed and squished
in the back of a squad car. They're not exactly built for comfort.
 “Shut up, Stiles,” Scott rolls his eyes, continuing to stubbornly stare out
the window just like he's been doing ever since the sheriff put them in here.
“It's all your fault we're in here so just deal with it.”
 “Oh, right, it's my fault you decided to steal M&Ms,” Stiles complains,
looking annoyed. “They're the noisiest candy. When you broke that bag it was
like you threw a billion BB gun pellets at a library window.”
 “We wouldn't have even been doing it if it hadn't been for you!” Scott
grumbles, open annoyance in his tone. “I'm telling you, Lydia Martin doesn't
want candy, dude. She wants flowers.”
 “She's allergic to flowers,” Stiles protests, twisting his body to jam his
shoulder as hard as he can into Scott's.
 Scott frowns and furrows his brow as he twists away from Stiles. “Oh.”
 “Yeah,” Stiles makes a face at Scott.
 “You're still a dumbass,” Scott rolls his eyes and turns to look back out the
window.
 “Whatever, at least I–” Stiles cuts himself off with a dramatic inhalation of
breath, like he's just remember the most super-important thing of all time, and
Scott can almost hear the gears shifting in his head. “Dude,” he whispers
suddenly, his eyes sliding from the window they're both peering out of to land
on Scott's profile. “Dude. Remember the list?”
 “What?” Scott asks as he turns to give Stiles a confused look. “List? What are
you talking about?”
 Stiles gasps softly, his mouth hanging open as he adopts an expression of
exaggerated offense. He shifts toward Scott and leans a shoulder against him as
he digs into his back pocket, pulling out his wallet a second later. “The list,
stupid.” he huffs, and from between the fold of his nylon Batman wallet he
pulls out an oldish, worn piece of several-times-folded notebook paper and
flicks it at Scott with two slender fingers.
 “Seriously?” Scott hisses, scrabbling to grab the folded note out of his lap
and curling his fist around it, before glancing around outside to make sure no
one's watching them; acting like they're in some sort of spy movie or
something. Like there's any way in hell anyone could possibly know what's on
that list except them.
 Stiles grins. Grins and waggles his eyebrows slowly. Grins, waggles his
eyebrows, and nods at Scott.
 “No,” Scott says emphatically as he slaps his hand against Stiles' chest, note
trapped between his palm and the warm material of his tee-shirt.
 “Oh, come on!” Stiles protests. “When are we ever gonna get a chance like this
again?”
 Scott turns a glare on him. “Hopefully never!” he says irritably. “I don't
want to get arrested again!”
 Stiles says nothing, only lifts his eyebrows and lets his smile grow again,
slower this time, as if waiting for Scott to catch on. Scott just stares for a
moment, his brow furrowing like he's trying to read Stiles' mind, before his
eyebrows shoot up and his face clears.
 “Oh!” he exclaims, leaning back again as Stiles laughs and nods, as well.
“Right, because this is hopefully going to be the only chance we get...”
 “Exactly,” Stiles says. “We've already done the first two things on the list,
and since we all of a sudden have the chance, we should totally do number
three. Plus, the handcuffs make it kind of kinky, so...” He grins and adopts
his best 'sexy' face, which only makes Scott snicker even more.
 THE LIST, which is in all capital letters to signify its' importance, is
something Scott and Stiles wrote when they were thirteen after a particularly
enlightening night of video games and sugar highs at the McCall's house. Mrs.
McCall had the night shift and Stiles had a new video game, so they stayed up
half the night killing zombies and stuffing their faces with pretty much
anything and everything in the kitchen that contained sugar.
 Stiles woke abruptly on the couch at about 4:47am to find Scott splayed out
half on top of him, lips parted where they rested against his shoulder, and
boner rutting against his hip. Whatever dream Scott had been having, Stiles
found himself his best friend's real-life counterpart that night.
 Stiles kissed Scott for the first time that night, and it was kind of nice.
Actually, it was really nice and not weird at all, which warmed the awkward
roil in his stomach. That first kiss is always nerve-wracking, because you
never know if you're going to get kissed back or punched, but half-asleep-Scott
returned the kiss with enthusiasm...
 ...at least until he finally woke up.
 The conversation was a little embarrassing because neither of them had ever
expressed any sort of attraction for boys before, and it left them both sitting
around uncomfortably with obvious hard-ons and no idea what to do with them, or
with each other. So Stiles just threw caution to the wind and kissed Scott
again; kissed him completely awake and totally aware, and they both agreed that
their friendship was their friendship, and if they wanted to kiss sometimes
then that was their business.
 The list was Stiles' idea, too. 
On the back of the piece of notebook paper they'd been using to keep a tally of
games won, he wrote down 'kiss me, dumbass' and crossed it off as a joke,
laughing like it was something that they'd gotten out of the way, so now they'd
never have to wonder what it was like. Now they'd never have to suffer through
an awkward drunk moment when they were older.
Scott, however, was the one that grabbed the list and wrote 'jerk off together
watching porn' on the second line, before giving Stiles a challenging little
smile and grabbing his laptop. Forty-five minutes later, Stiles had crossed
that one off the list as well, with a very satisfied smile.
 As such, Stiles blames Scott for taking things to the next level, and as such,
Scott's not getting away with not giving him a handjob in the back of his dad's
cruiser. It's sacrosanct; written in stone. It's on the list.
 Stiles huffs and smooths the old, wrinkled piece of paper out on his thigh and
pokes a finger against it, just underneath the first scribbled item that hasn't
been crossed out.
1. kiss me, dumbass
2. mutual jerking off while watching porn
3. handsies in the back of a squad car
4. blowjobs???
 “You can't argue with that, man,” Stiles says with as much noble authority as
a horny, half-adult his age can muster. “Unless you wanna jump right to number
four.”
 “Your dad could come back any minute!” Scott protests, always the voice of
reason, to which Stiles responds with an annoyed twist of his lips.
 “Fine, I'll fix it,” he grumbles, lifting his hips up as much as he can to
once again gain access to his pocket. It's a few seconds of backseat gymnastics
but he finally manages to tug his phone out of his front pocket and quickly
swipes it on. The tip of his tongue plays over his lower lip as his thumbs fly
over the on-screen keyboard, and it's not until Scott thinks to look that
Stiles sends the text.
 He gives Scott a smug smile and holds out his phone so he can read the screen:
‹how much longer, dad? come on, this suuuucks›, and not a minute later the
chime of a return text sounds.
 ‹You'll be home in time to do your homework before you go to bed. Consider the
rest of your night, and many nights hereafter, spoken for.› the sheriff sends
back.
 “We have at least another hour before he comes out,” Stiles says with a
knowing smile as he lets his phone slide off to the other side of his lap,
caught between his thigh and the door. “I know exactly how my dad thinks. He'll
tack on extra time just because I sent him that text,” he snickers.
 “That's both brilliant and absolutely stupid of you,” Scott laughs, even as
he's scooting around as Stiles moves in, both trying to make a little room for
the other to maneuver. “Because now we're stuck in here for another hour, and
that sucks.”
 “Stop being such a whiner,” Stiles chews his lower lip, his cuffed hands
shooting straight for Scott's fly and managing to get it open with little
trouble. It's not like they're zip-tied or anything, and there's enough slack
on the connecting chain for them to be able to feel each other up to their
heart's content.
 Scott likes to kiss. He likes it slow, and he likes to do things with his
teeth like bite at Stiles' lips, and leave those tiny little hickeys on his
skin, and it's great. Stiles is more of a sucker; he sucks on Scott's tongue
and his lower lip, and he'd love to be able to suck on something else, but
there's just not enough room back here. Plus, it's just too risky. But Stiles
thinks about sucking Scott's dick a lot, and the fact that he's already hard in
his jeans is evidence of that.
 “Hurry,” Scott breathes as his hands mimic Stiles', and despite the taller boy
being the one stretched out over the smaller with a knee shoved up between
Scott's thighs, they're both too young to care about any sort of dominance
crap. This is about equal satisfaction and the thrill of forbidden fun.
 “Never a problem with you,” Stiles says, his grin mischievous as he shoves a
hand, shaking gently with nervous energy, into Scott's boxers to find his best
friend already just as hard as he is.
 “Shut up, jerk,” Scott half-heartedly grumbles, because his eyelids are
fluttering and squeezing shut with the distraction of heat crawling his skin.
His stomach twists with the deep, throbbing, and instant pleasure that comes
with things like this; things that are still new and amazing. Things that still
spark his brain awake and tickle his nerves in amazing ways.
 Neither of them have steady hands, and the rhythm they attempt is clumsy at
best, but they're definitely not looking for perfection. They're more obsessed
with the hot breath between their panting mouths, and how fucking good it feels
to almost kiss but not to. There's no way to keep emotions out of this; they're
both too young to be so jaded, but rocking against each other while hands tug
frantically at dicks still only sparsely-edged with hair isn't exactly
romantic.
 “Ow!” Stiles hisses, squirming a bit and glaring down at Scott's hand stilling
inside his jeans as his friend goes rigid beneath him.
 “Sorry!” Scott whispers dramatically, eyes wide. “Sorry.. what did I do?”
 “Too hard,” Stiles laughs weakly, tongue darting out over his own lips as he
stares at Scott's mouth, his hips rocking against Scott's hand and nudging at
it, like a cat bumping his head to be petted. “S'fine... don't stop.”
 “We should, uh...” Scott begins as he relaxes again beneath Stiles, his hand
sliding up along his best friend's smooth, rigid flesh and cupping around the
swollen head, earning him a choked sound from Stiles. “We should steal some
lube, or something,” he rasps softly.
 Stiles' hand mimics Scott's because they're both still learning, and if it
feels good to him then chances are it'll feel good to Scott. He drops his face
and buries it in his friend's neck, giving an irritated little sound as he ruts
against Scott's hand, because this is definitely more difficult than he thought
it was going to be. It's so hard to concentrate on getting off when he has to
concentrate on getting Scott off. Sometimes it's just better to be selfish...
or maybe they just need a little more practice. Either option works for him.
 Scott actually has his tongue caught between his teeth and looks a little
silly; well, he looks blissful, really, because he's not over-thinking things
like Stiles. He's just letting himself feel. Feeling the way Stiles' thumb
swipes over the tip of his dick and rubs precum slippery over his aching flesh,
and the way those long fingers curl around him with something that's not quite
confidence, but maybe an easiness. And maybe that's even better.
 Scott turns his head and presses his lips against Stiles', prodding his tongue
against his teeth before pushing fully into his mouth. The soft groan he eats
shoots a zing straight down to his balls, and there's nothing that makes Scott
feel like more of a man than when Stiles bucks his hips up, desperate, and he
can feel his best friend's cock throbbing against his palm.
 There's certainly no grace to it; it's clumsy and desperate, and leaves both
boys gasping and crushed together, with sticky hands and thudding hearts, but
they finally manage to make each other come. They're both hot and flushed, and
Stiles snickers without a filter and can't stop grinning, his eyes bright and
pretty. Scott's a little more shy about it, and doesn't like to make eye
contact right after they get off, but he's usually the first one to talk. To
break the silence.
 “Uh... socks?” he offers as he slips his hand out of Stiles' jeans, holding it
aloft like it's either profane or sacred, because the last thing he wants to do
is get the sheriff's son's spunk all over the backseat of the cruiser. That
would be... well, there would be bad questions.
 “Yep,” Stiles chirps cheerily as he toes off one of his sneakers, and Scott
does the same. They both know how this goes, and oddly neither is embarrassed
to clean up in front of the other. They're boys; the gross things don't affect
them, it's the intensity of eye contact when they're jerking off that's the
real killer.
 It means things that they're just not ready to consider.
 
When sheriff Stilinski finally gets into the cruiser and drives Scott and
Stiles down to the station, he doesn't comment on any weird, lingering smells.
He was a teenage boy once, and he knows that it's the God-given right of every
teenage boy to just smell weird, no matter what the cause, but he does crack
the window a bit. Scott turns purple and Stiles chokes on a laugh. The sheriff
doesn't ask because he doesn't want to know.
 When the sheriff marches Stiles and Scott into the station, no one notices
that both boys are each one sock short.
***** Blowjobs as Apologies! *****
Chapter Notes
     Blame Nixy for the Shania Twain. That was all her fault lol.
Scott and Stiles are fifteen and too old to call what they do 'sleepovers'
anymore. They're all night gaming sessions, or movie marathons, or pretending
like they're working on a group projects for school, but are really watching
porn and eating all the bad food they can sneak out of the kitchen. Sometimes
all of the above, like last night at the McCall's.
It's summer break, so nights like these happen pretty often.
Scott always takes the first shower when he's at Stiles' place, just like
Stiles always gets the first one at Scott's. It's just nice to be polite.
Stiles is cool with the second shower any time, though, because he knows he
lags. He screws around in the shower, makes mohawks and Santa beards out of
soapsuds, and plays water drop races with himself. And also just plays with
himself. But his favorite thing to do at the McCall's house is shower serenade.
 Mrs. McCall had one of those awesome detachable showerheads installed in the
guest bathroom, and Stiles currently has it in hand and is splashing the inside
of the shower curtain like a sprinkler as he wails along with Shania Twain.
He's not especially into country music, but he's not adamantly against it;
Shania Twain just happened to be what's currently blaring on the water-proof
radio Scott has heaped on the counter, along with a bunch of his other junk.
 There's a knock on the door and Stiles' stomach flips, because he's still
self-conscious about his body and the thought of anyone but Scott seeing him
naked fills him with cold dread. Ironically, it's the same cold dread he feels
at the thought of dying, which he thinks could make an interesting psychology
study, or something.
 “It's me,” comes Scott's voice, and Stiles can tell just from the sudden
change in air pressure that the door is half-open and he's poking his head in
the bathroom. “I have to pee.”
 “So, go downstairs,” Stiles rolls his eyes, pointing the shower spray toward
the tiles in front of him once he notices he's been watering the shower
curtain.
 “The neighbor lady's over and I don't want to get dressed,” Scott hisses, and
Stiles smirks because he can practically imagine Scott doing the pee-pee dance
in the doorway.
 “Okay,” he laughs, before bringing the showerhead back up and belting out the
chorus. “You're still the one I ruuuuuun to, the one that I belong to,” and he
honestly sounds like a back alley reject from some third rate knock off of
American Idol. American Dying Cat Being Drowned in the Shower.
 “Dude, you need to shut up,” Scott laughs. “I can't even pee. Like, my pee is
scared of your singing and won't come out.”
 “Everyone is a freakin' critic,” Stiles calls out over the shower spray and
the radio, his voice echoing slightly in the small bathroom. “I could have been
great!” he exclaims dramatically, and Scott laughs because he can see the
shadow of Stiles' hand, gesturing out in front of his face as he reaches for
the Grammy he'll never, ever win.
 Scott's grateful for the noise, though he still blushes a little at the sound
of his stream hitting the water in the toilet. It's stupid to be shy about
basic biological functions, especially around someone like Stiles, but he still
is. He can't help it. He can't help a lotof basic biological functions around
Stiles these days, which he tries not to think about while he's peeing and
while Stiles is wailing Shania Twain, because those aren't two things he ever
wants to associate with sex later on in his life.
 “You're still the one that I loooooove, the only one I dream ooooof,” Scott
rolls his eyes and laughs as he puts himself away and flushes, grinning even
harder when Stiles squawks at the sudden temperature change of the water.
“You're still the one I ki–” he chokes suddenly and flails a hand out to bat at
the shower curtain, and Scott's stomach drops as his best friend starts
coughing violently.
 “Dude!” Scott says as he twists away from the toilet and grabs the curtain,
yanking it back just in time to see Stiles bent over and spitting out a
mouthful of water. “Are you okay?” One of Stiles hands is pressed against the
wall in support of his coughing body, the other is still gripping loosely
around the detached faucet, which is facing the wrong way because he'd sucked
in a lungful of water when he sprayed himself in the face.
 As if to illustrate why Scott's pretty sure Stiles will never make a good
driver, the moment the lanky teen glances over at Scott with wide eyes, he gets
hit full-on in the face with warm water, because where Stiles looks, so goes
his entire body.
 It's like one of those movie moments where the audience howls with canned
laughter. Scott goes perfectly still and squeezes his eyes shut, scrunching up
his face a bit as the entire front of his body gets drenched by a cascade of
water. Stiles' face, by contrast, goes comically wide; eyes showing whites and
his mouth dropping open like a fish.
 “Oh, shit,” Stiles hisses as he turns the showerhead back into the shower
stall, while at the same time reaching for Scott's arm and tugging at him. “Get
in or your mom will kill us for getting water everywhere.”
 “Us?” Scott grumbles as Stiles drags him into the shower. “Sorry, bro; I will
totally sell you out to avoid the wrath of mom.” The steam curls around him,
raising goosebumps on his arms and tightening his nipples almost painfully. He
reaches up to absently rub his palms over them with an annoyed look.
 “You freaking traitor,” Stiles scoffs, and without hesitation he raises the
showerhead and points it straight at Scott's face again.
 What follows is a flurry of sliding feet and grabbing hands, and water
spraying all over the inside of the shower as both boys wrestle for control of
the showerhead. Water even sprays over the top of the shower curtain and hits
the wall, the bathroom mirror, and the counter, completely negating Stiles'
attempt at keeping them out of trouble.
 The sudden knock at the bathroom door has them both freezing, standing like
statues as Mrs. McCall's voice comes through the thankfully locked door.
 “Scott? Is that you in there?” she calls out, and it's obvious she's trying to
keep the tight annoyance out of her voice for the sake of the neighbor that's
still downstairs.
 They exchange frantic looks, to which Stiles nods vehemently and sticks the
showerhead back up in its cradle.
 “Yeah, mom!” Scott calls out. “Uh, sorry... I almost slipped. Sorry.”
 “Oh,” Mrs. McCall's tone immediately shifts, and is glazed with maternal
concern. “Well, be careful, sweetie. I'll pick up some of those rubber thingies
that stick to shower floor later on today, okay?”
 “Great! Thanks, mom!” Scott says cheerily, through he's rolling his eyes at
Stiles while the other boy is leaning back against the wall, snickering
silently.
 “Bet she gets you cute little duckies,” Stiles whispers as they listen to Mrs.
McCall's footsteps carry her back downstairs. “Or pretty little flowers.”
 “Shut up,” Scott laughs as he reaches past him to shut the water off. “Come
on, we should get out.”
 “Wait,” Stiles says, grabbing Scott's wrist as he chews at his lower lip, his
eyes narrowing slightly as his tongue chases the scrape of his teeth over his
own pink skin. He doesn't say anything else, just steps in and presses Scott
back against the warm, wet tiles and kisses him.
 Just like that. The atmosphere changes just like that.
 Scott almost protests, because his mom's downstairs and if they stay in here
much longer she's going to knock again. He almost protests, but this is more
important. The warm stretch and press of Stiles' lips against his, their hot,
searching tongues, and the haste with which they both shove his now soaked and
useless boxers down to splat heavy against the shower floor is the most
important thing in the world right now.
 “I... I want to suck you,” Stiles murmurs against Scott's lips, his hands
kneading at the leanly-muscled skin at Scott's sides. “Been wanting to for,
like, ever.” As the dark-haired boy's breath draws in for courage and his dick
twitches with an enthusiastic amount of interest, he watches Stiles' pupils
dilate and can't help a shy, little grin. Both of their faces are flushed as
they crush mouths together again, the kiss more out of self-defense than
anything. Scott just nods into it; nods and reaches for Stiles' hand, pressing
his palm against his quickly hardening dick.
 “You sure your throat can take any more abuse today?” Scott snickers, and
though he's blushing like crazy he tries to keep some sort of cool, even as
Stiles drops down to his knees in front of him. His best friends lips twist up
in a smirk and amber eyes peer up lazily, like Stiles has all of this
completely under control.
 And it's easily one of the hottest things Scott's ever seen.
 Stiles snickers softly and licks his lips, taking hold of Scott's dick in a
warm, slender hand. He vaguely wonders if the shower floor is uncomfortable
under Stiles' knees or if he feels claustrophobic because of the warm shower
spray beating down on his back and raining water over his head, but his
thoughts blank out pretty much the moment he feels Stiles' tongue curiously
graze over the tip of his dick.
 The back of Scott's head hits the tiles with a dull thud, his fists balling up
so tightly his nails dig into his palms as he hisses in an almost surprised
breath. They've never done this before, but they've seen it plenty. Videos and
videos and videos; jerking off while imagining your hand is a mouth. But no
amount of lube in your palm is going to prepare you for the way it really
feels.
 Scott's teeth grit and his throat is tight as he fights to suppress the noises
that threaten to echo through the shower. He doesn't know what to do with his
hands, because it feels weird to put them in Stiles' hair, on his shoulders, so
he just flattens them against the wet tiles behind him. The slick, hot slide of
his best friend's lips stretch around him, tongue pushing clumsily up against
the underside of his embarrassingly hard cock, and Stiles' hand compensates for
what he's too anxious to take into his mouth. He sucks firm at the head,
humming softly the entire time like a cat purring, while his much more
confident hand fists along Scott's length, and it doesn't take long for the
shorter boy's hips to start bucking gently.
 “Stiles–” he breathes through clenched teeth, and that's all the warning
needed.
 Scott is a mess of throaty whines and tense, trembling thighs, and neither one
of them is prepared when he suddenly comes hard, choking a surprised Stiles off
of his cock. Scott's too blissed-out to notice his friend slump to the side and
slide from his knees to his ass, silent as he spits out the bitterness in his
mouth with an almost drunk-sounding laugh. All Scott can concentrate on is the
feel of Stiles' hand, still moving languidly over his twitching, throbbing dick
as the rest of his milky release disappears down the drain.
 They don't even have time to say anything, because it's not even fifteen
seconds later that they both hear Mrs. McCall calling Scott's name from the
bottom of the stairs. She's yelling something about him being in the shower for
way too long, and if he wants to start pitching in on the water bill then
she'll stop complaining.
 “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Scott hisses, almost slipping in his haste to shut off the
water and get out. “Sorry, man,” he whispers to Stiles, who's still sitting on
the floor of the shower and laughing as silently as he can while Scott throws
back the shower curtain and climbs out, grabbing the towel Stiles had brought
in for himself. “I'll bring you another one in a sec,” he says, and Stiles just
waves him off before folding over himself with the kind of bubbling, welling
laughter that only comes from situations like these.
 
 Two days later and the boys are at Stiles' place, and Scott is in trouble
because he's eaten Stiles' leftover pizza. There's a rule, you know; you can't
eat someone elses' leftovers for two days. Two whole days. That's just the way
it is. After that they're fair game; everyone knows that.
 “Without rules, all we have left is chaos,” Stiles sighs dramatically, sagging
back against the counter with his arms folded, glaring at Scott who at least
has the good grace to look chagrined. “You knowthe two day rule, Scott. I swear
it's, like, a law.”
 “It's not a law,” says the sheriff, who's avoiding this argument as much as he
can by sticking to the perimeter of the war zone that's his kitchen, just
trying to get his coffee before he leaves for work.
 “Well, itshould be a law,” Stiles huffs. “Dad, make it happen.” Scott
snickers, which only earns him some more eye daggers from Stiles.
 “I can't just make new laws, kiddo.”
 “What's the point of being the sheriff's son if I can't take advantage of it
for my own benefit?” Stiles complains, watching his dad walk toward the door
that leads out into the garage, travel cup of coffee in his hand.
 “Oh, come on,” the sheriff says with a grin as he opens the door, glancing
back over his shoulder at the boys. “You know you love all the paperclips I
bring home. And the drunk driving awareness keychains.”
 “Oh my god, goodbye,” Stiles verbally shoos his dad out the door, rolling his
eyes because they can still hear him laughing even as the garage door opens and
they're finally left alone. The only sound in the house as Stiles looks back at
Scott is the TV in the living room, which is playing an old re-run of Buffy the
Vampire Slayer.
 “Can I make it up to you?” Scott asks, cocking his head and giving Stiles an
inquisitive smile.
 “I don't know, Scotty,” Stiles responds with a sigh as he folds his flannel-
clad arms. “Cold pizza is the best pizza. My mouth was all ready for that pizza
when I woke up this morning.”
 “I think I can make it up to you.” Scott grins a little before walking out of
the kitchen and jogging up the stairs, leaving Stiles to putter around the
kitchen in search of anything else that comes even remotely close to cold pizza
for breakfast. Scott isn't gone longer than a minute though, before he comes
bounding back into the kitchen.
 He slaps a piece of paper down onto the kitchen counter, eyes mischievous as
he watches curious recognition light Stiles' features as the taller boy reads
the newest scribbled addition to the list.
1. kiss me, dumbass
2. mutual jerking off while watching porn
3. handsies in the back of a squad car
4. blowjobs??? (shower ftw)
5. blowjobs as apologies!
 Stiles' lips twitch and he immediately presses them together as tightly as he
can, because blushing and smiling right now will totally ruin the nice head of
steam he's worked up. Granted it's a totally pathetic head of steam, and he's
not nearly as upset about the pizza thing as he's making out to be, but no one
could ever accuse Stiles Stilinski of not being a little histrionic.
 “Intriguing offer, my friend,” Stiles says with his usual penchant for
theatrics as he picks up the list between his index and middle finger. “I'm
definitely open to hearing you out.”
 “You're definitely a dumbass,” Scott snorts, before grabbing Stiles by the
wrist and dragging him toward the stairs, leaving the sounds of vampire slaying
downstairs behind them.
***** Sex in the Woods, Baby *****
Scott and Stiles are sixteen, and it's not like Stiles is jealous of Allison
Argent as much as he's just really worried about Scott.
“Her dad's a hunter, dude,” Stiles sighs as the two of them tromp through the
woods, backpacks hanging from their shoulders as the smell of stale air and
general education linger on their clothes. “There's probably a weird message
about self-loathing teenage angst in there somewhere. You're not secretly
suicidal, are you?”
“Don't be a dumbass,” Scott scoffs.
“I'm not the one trying to kill myself for a little T and A,” Stiles teases,
before stumbling off to the side at Scott's shoulder check. “Hey, watch the
super strength, buddy,” he snickers as he drops his backpack in a tiny
clearing, not too far from civilization, but not too close, either. It's a
place he and Scott found when they were kids; a place they'd hidden out
countless times to pretend to be anyone, anything they wanted.
This is where Stiles had spent nearly two days after his mom had died, hiding
out in a tent and existing on gummi worms, an entire box of Cap'n Crunch, and
warm Capri Suns. This is where Scott had broken the pinky on his right hand
punching one of the really big cedar trees after his dad walked out on him and
his mom. This is where they'd pretended to be superheroes, cowboys, hobbits and
elves. It's where Stiles tried to tell Scott all about Star Wars when they were
ten, but he was cut short when Scott had his first real asthma attack after
trying to climb that same cedar tree. It had their names carved into it, now.
This is where they'd come to screw around sometimes, to kiss or to do other
things they never wanted to get caught doing. The discovery of each other was
like an addiction. Just like other kids their age would huddle around in
alleys, sneaking cigarettes, booze, or coughing on joints, Stiles and Scott
would secret away out here to indulge in their own mutual self-discovery.
And because of the circular poetry of it all, this is where Stiles is going to
end their chapter.
“So, you really like her, huh?” Stiles sighs as he drops down to sit on a
fallen log, one of many, but this one is special. Half of it had been scorched
black three years ago after Scott started a fire in it, assuring Stiles it
would be perfectly safe. He'd seen the bald guy on Bizarre Foods do it, and it
hadn't gotten out of control for him. Yet another lesson in the magic of
television.
“Yeah,” Scott says as he sits next to Stiles, and the taller boy just rolls his
eyes and snickers because Scott can't wipe the dreamy smile off his face. “I
mean, I must really like her if I'm willing to chance it, right?”
“A violent, bloody, and humiliating end at the hands of her dad?” Stiles perks
cheerily. “I don't know if boobs are worth that. There could be shock collars
involved, Scott. There could be government experiments. We don't know anything
about this guy.” He lowers his voice and leans in close, giving Scott his 'very
serious' eyes. “Dude, there could be anal probing.”
“The only anal probing I'm worried about is with you,” Scott snorts.
Stiles snickers before falling quiet for a few seconds longer than Scott
apparently thinks he should, because he gets a nudge to his shoulder and an
encouraging look from Scott for his troubles. Stiles grants his friend a
lightly strained look before pushing to his feet and rubbing his hands against
his thighs.
It's occurred to him in these past few minutes that he might not exactly be
ready to let this go, but he also knows that they really need to. Stiles isn't
sure about his own sexuality if he's being honest with himself, but he does
know that Scott's not gay and that he wants to be with Allison, so what could
this possibly turn into for Stiles? Nothing good, that's for sure. Nothing that
won't have him seeing a therapist in a year.
“I bet people get burglarized a lot less in the winter than they do in the
summer,” he says completely randomly as his eyes drag over the rooftops in the
distance; the houses that line the edge of the preserve. He's suddenly nervous,
and embarrassed that he's nervous, and he knows Scott can probably tell that
he's nervous which only makes it worse. Like a horrible loop of nervous
stupidity.
“What are you talking about?” Scott asks, looking confused as he watches Stiles
fidget.
“You know, you're less likely to go bar-hopping in a torrential downpour,”
Stiles explains lamely. “So people don't leave the house as much when it's
raining. So, less robberies.”
Scott's 'what the fuck, Stiles?' face is a thing of legend in some circles.
“Where did this even come from?”
“I have no idea.” Stiles sighs and sags, but off course he does. He's stalling.
“There are so many forks in the road of my mind. To be honest, I kind of
brought you here to seduce you.” He laughs weakly and reaches up to rub at the
back of his freshly-shorn head. “But I have no idea how to do that.”
Scott's silent for a few moments; just long enough to let a myriad of emotions
play over his face, but none of them stick around long enough for Stiles to
catch them.
“Oh, yeah?” he says finally, unable to keep from smirking, because his 'smug
fuck' face is also a thing of legend, though maybe only just a little more
recently and definitely on a much smaller legend scale.
“Yeah,” Stiles grins softly, dropping hands and shoving them into the pockets
of his hoodie. “I figured, maybe one last hurrah before I give the bride away
.”
“Okay,” Scott says with no hesitation, and that sort of throws Stiles. “Go for
it. Seduce me.” He leans back and rests his hands on the log, attempting to
recline seductively but failing and laughing when one of his hands slips on the
charred wood.
“Shut up,” Stiles laughs, both at the situation and at Scott's clumsiness.
“No, seriously,” Scott protests as he stands, wiping his hands off on his
jeans, though he never once takes his eyes off of Stiles. “I really think I
need to see this before I die.”
Scott is fully invested, because he can hear his best friend's heart beating
heavy and quick, and he can smell the change in the air, and it's pretty
amazing. It's amazing. He knows when Stiles is lying and when he isn't, and he
knows when Stiles is turned-on and when he's angry or sad or happy. It's like
he knows Stiles better than he ever has, and it's kind of incredible how
connected he feels to his best friend these days.
“Dude, you know I have no game,” Stiles laughs, shuffling over toward the big
cedar tree that has their names roughly carved into the old, gnarled bark. “If
I actually had game, I wouldn't still be a virgin.” He prods a long, bony
finger against the S in his name, which only comes up to mid-chest now since
they're both quite a bit taller than they were when they first carved the
letters. “So I'll let you go to Allison with my generous good graces and
substantial blessings–”
Scott rolls his eyes.
“–if you complete the last item on the list,” Stiles smiles and turns, folding
his arms with what could only be construed as a flourish, as if a person could
actually fold their arms dramatically.
“The list is complete,” Scott argues with a laugh.
“Clearly you're still not wise to my ways,” Stiles smirks and pats himself on
the chest, clearly playfully puffed-up and smug. “Which both delights me and
makes me hate you a little.”
Stiles reaches into his back pocket and pulls out both his wallet and a pen,
and Scott just shakes his head fondly as he watches Stiles scribble one last
item on the very well-worn, stained, and about-to-crumble-into-dust-at-any-
moment piece of notebook paper. With a smile he stands and holds the list up,
his finger pointing right at the newly-penned list item for Scott to see.
1. kiss me, dumbass
2. mutual jerking off while watching porn
3. handsies in the back of a squad car
4. blowjobs??? (shower ftw)
5. blowjobs as apologies!
6. sex in the woods, baby
Scott's eyebrows shoot up as he takes the piece of paper from Stiles and runs
his eyes over the words a second, even a third time. “Hm,” he hums, neither in
the affirmative or the negative. Just 'hm'.
“'Hm'? That's all I get?” Stiles asks, starting to feel that awful nervous
sweaty palms thing beginning to happen. He's setting himself up for the
potential of some massive rejection here and he knows it, and as casual as this
might appear to the outside observer, this could very possibly be the most
important moment in Scott and Stiles' relationship. Stiles is suddenly
terrified and has to heave out a deep breath to keep himself from bolting.
“You really–?” Scott asks, cocking his head as he regards his best friend with
a look of both incredible affection and just a bit less skepticism. “With me?”
Stiles feels his shoulders drop in visible reaction, and his head clears. He
shrugs and gives Scott a lopsided little smile; almost shy. “Yeah.”
“But we're not–” Scott's forehead furrows a bit as he gestures between them. “I
mean, you know I love you, but shouldn't our first times be with people we're
in love with?”
“I don't know,” Stiles admits honestly. “I've thought about that, but I've also
thought about how putting way too much significance on something like losing
your virginity can totally ruin it,” he laughs softly. “So why not you and me?
Get through it with someone I trust? I mean, if you're gonna run off and make
little werewolf puppies with Allison, then I just think that we should do this
with each other first.” He grins. “Dicks before chicks, right?”
“I'm not going to answer that because it might jinx me,” Scott laughs.
“Well, it's true,” Stiles smiles and gestures grandly with his hands. “Bros
before hos, poles before holes, et cetera, et cetera, and so forth, ad naseum–”
Stiles' rambling is cut off when Scott steps in and grabs his hands, silencing
him with a kiss. And this is no lame, pathetic, chaste kiss. This is a full-on,
hands in the hair, bodies pressing, you-have-to-tilt-your-head-or-risk-a-
bloody-nose, you-should-probably-check-to-make-sure-you're-not-pregnant kiss.
It's hot and dirty, and Stiles feels Scott's invading tongue and nipping teeth
all the way down in his cock, and by the time they break apart, his shallow
breath is slightly shuddery.
“Damn,” Stiles breathes, lips parted as he opens his eyes to peer at his best
friend who's still way too close not to touch; whose eyes are glinting and
darker than usual with a lust Stiles' hasn't really ever been on the receiving
end of before. “Should I take this to mean that you'reseducing me, now?”
“Looks like I am,” Scott leans back in, murmuring against Stiles' lips before
stealing another kiss; this one warm and soft. His hands slide down to grab at
his best friend's waist, at his hips, gripping at the layers of bunched fabric
as he slowly begins walking the now only slightlytaller boy backwards.
“Man,” Stiles rambles softly, his voice a little on the anxious side as his
pulse speeds, his blood racing to pool between his legs. “I remember when you
used to be so–”
“Constantly worried about everything?” Scott says, mouth dropping to brush over
Stiles' chin before latching briefly to the warm, smooth skin on the side of
Stiles' throat.
Stiles trips over something, a root probably, but Scott holds him steady and
doesn't break stride. “Yeah,” Stiles lets out a nervous laugh, because the
simple fact that his formerly asthmatic friend could now hold him up with one
hand tied behind his back is so strangely hot, that Stiles is embarrassed to
think about what that might mean about him.
“When you used to call all the shots?” Scott grins, dragging his lips back up
to Stiles' jaw, just as the taller boy's back meets the huge cedar tree. “And I
always just went along with everything?”
“Yep,” Stiles smirks lightly, his own eyes now just as dark as Scott's in the
dappled late afternoon sunlight that plays over the angles on their faces.
Features that are sharpening, losing baby fat; shedding the signs of childhood.
It wasn't too long ago that they had discovered each other, but now they're
both on the cusp of adulthood, and neither wants to deny the fact that they
have real, adult urges.
“Yeah, that's not gonna be a thing anymore,” Scott whispers, and Stiles shivers
deliciously in the werewolf's arms as Scott's eyes give an unnatural gleam, and
suddenly they're both less interested in the banter and much more interested in
getting each others' clothes off.
“That werewolf thing is so unfair,” Stiles groans against Scott's mouth,
because neither of them is willing to break the kiss until they absolutely have
to, kicking off shoes and shoving down jeans and boxers, even shedding jackets,
and in Stiles' case a flannel shirt, before finally breaking apart to yank
their tee-shirts off and tossing them in the pile.
“It mostly sucks,” Scott admits, unwilling to take his arms from around Stiles'
waist as he reaches out with a sock-clad foot to fashion a makeshift nest of
their discarded clothing. “But sometimes it has its perks. Like right now.”
Stiles has no chance to protest as Scott's hands slip down and grab at his ass,
gripping him tight and hauling him up off his feet. The sound Stiles makes is
totally undignified, and the way his quick hands grab at Scott's shoulder and
into his hair bring a smile to the wolf's face. He's only in the air a few
seconds before Scott settles him on his back in the clothing nest, as gently as
he can, which isn't actually very gently considering Scott overbalances them
both and ends up dropping Stiles, before landing on top of him with an 'oof'.
“Smooth,” Stiles laughs, and his cheeks are flushed a brilliant pink that just
makes Scott want to kiss him. So he does.
“Right?” Scott grins, his eyes crinkling at the edges the way they only do when
he's really happy. “This is, like, some professional-level porn star seduction
happening here.”
“I'm definitely feeling swoony,” Stiles nods solemnly. “But it could just be
from your B.O.”
It's not until that moment, when their mutual laughter dies down to almost
awkward snickering, that they both realize they actually have no idea what
they're doing. Not really, anyway. They've seen plenty of videos, but they've
never really gone this far with each other. Never full-naked, full body-
pressing, with the promise of actual sex looming on the horizon... they'd never
even considered taking things to this level until now.
“You really okay with this, Scotty?” Stiles asks softly, his face wearing a
rare expression of seriousness as he hitches one slender leg up and pressing
his bent knee against Scott's hip, noting that he's still on his hands and
knees and hovering above Stiles; not quite touching him yet. “We don't have
to–”
“No, I want to,” Scott says, his voice a little rougher than usual as he stares
down at Stiles, pink tongue darting out to moisten his lips. “I just... I want
this– ”
“Yeah, me too,” Stiles smiles softly and reaches up to slide his fingers
through Scott's hair, as his other arm loops around Scott's middle and tugs him
down, finally closing that gap between them as their hot, naked skin connects
fully for the first time.
I want this to be good for you, are the words that hang unspoken between them
as their lips meet again.
It isn't elegant. It isn't sensual. It's clumsy and a little silly, and even a
little painful as Scott slowly works a finger into Stiles, and latter having
hidden some lube away in his backpack before he'd gone to school today, because
he had this plan, you see. It's raw and intense between them, and unlike
anything they've ever shared before. None of the countless handjobs or blowjobs
or dry-humping they'd engaged in over the past few years could have possibly
prepared them for this; that all felt like child's play compared to the the way
it feels when Scott finally presses the blunt head of his cock against Stiles'
stretched hole.
He kisses his best friend through the pain, through the whimper-whines and the
nails digging into the meat of his back. Kisses him and hums softly as he
clamps down on a shudder, trying not to lose himself in the insanely tight heat
of Stiles' body, because Stiles is trembling and has his legs wrapped like a
vice around Scott's ribcage. Scott thinks that maybe this is just one more perk
of being a werewolf; no cracked ribs and at least he can still breathe.
“You okay?” he gasps once he's all the way in, and Stiles is panting heavy and
his eyes are glazed, pupils blown like he's either in a tremendous amount of
pain or pleasure, but they both know it's both. Stiles nods almost like an
afterthought, and Scott's eyes squeeze shut as he feels his friend's body
tighten around him, an almost stomach-twisting lance of pleasure shooting
through him. “God, Stiles– fuck...”
“Please don't think less of me in the morning,” Stiles breathes suddenly,
catching Scott's attention and pushing his eyes open again. It takes him a
second before he chokes a laugh, face dropping to press against Stiles' cheek.
“Like that's even possible when I think so little of you already,” he teases,
rolling his hips in an experimental thrust that has Stiles' body tensing and
arching gently beneath him, a throaty sound gracing the darkening evening air
around them.
“I hate you,” Stiles groans as he digs a heel into Scott's lower back, and the
werewolf takes that as a green light and pushes into Stiles again.
“I love you, too,” Scott grins, lips pressing against Stiles' pulse-point
before he pushes himself up to an elbow, hips rocking slowly as he drags
himself back out, feeling the telltale swell of nerves inside as the ridge of
his cockhead catches on it, and Stiles' hips jerk and he chokes on a moan. “Oh,
thank god,” Scott actually whispers to himself, feeling himself relax almost
instantly, because he'd both read and heard horror stories about sex with other
guys being painful and awkward if you couldn't find the sweet spot.
“Th-that–” Stiles stutters as his legs tighten around Scott, the wolf picking
up a bit of a faster pace because he's very, very quickly getting addicted to
the feel of Stiles' body, so hot and tight around him. “Yes, that is... yes...”
“God, right?” Scott groans, licking at Stiles' collarbone before latching his
lips to it and sucking at the skin. His toes dig into the dirt as he reaches
for one of Stiles' hands and shoves it between them, pressing it against his
erection. “You should touch yourself,” he mouths hotly along Stiles' taut skin,
fumbling as he tries awkwardly to curl his friend's hand around himself, but
Stiles is aware enough to get a good grip, the touch setting him squirming
slightly beneath Scott, and both teens gasp hotly at the sudden jerk of Stiles'
hips.
“Scotty,” Stiles says, his voice tight and gravelly as he lifts his other hand
to Scott's shoulder and squeezes, as if to get his attention. “Where's the
lube?”
Scott grunts and throws his hand out to the side, smacking it on one of their
pairs of jeans before finding the bottle. With an almost reluctant scrape of
his teeth over Stiles' skin, he pushes himself up a bit and glances down at
where they're joined, humming low in his throat as his skin heats and prickles
with another wave of arousal. His grip on the bottle tightens a bit as he
watches himself sink into Stiles' body, then slide slowly back out again, his
shaft shiny and slick as Stiles' body clings to him like a vice.
“Fuck,” he whispers, giving his head a bit of a shake as Stiles' grumbly whine
snaps him out of it, and he presses the bottle into his friend's hand before
reaching down to grab Stiles' hips. “I'm gonna lift–” he mutters half to
himself, barely giving Stiles the chance to pop the lid with his shaking hands
before he drags Stiles' hips up and holds him, both boys letting out near-
unison groans as that makes all the difference.
“Shit,” Stiles gasps, his eyes wide as he lifts his head and stares down,
watching as Scott's hips thrust a little faster, harder, and each drag of his
cock slides roughly along Stiles' prostate, sending the taller boy into a
trembling mess. “God, Scott...”
“Lube, Stiles,” Scott says with a breathy chuckle, because now that he's found
his rhythm, and now that Stiles is a gasping mess of noodle limbs and gripping
heat beneath him, he can't help feeling a little badass.
“Fuck off,” Stiles gasps, his lips curving up at the corners as he breathes a
soft laugh and doesn't even make the effort to keep clean and classy, just
turns the bottle over and sort of squirts it in the direction of his dick,
which is hard as hell and bobbing against the concave of his stomach with each
of Scott's hard thrusts.
“What are you–?” Scott asks, before dissolving into giggles that stutter his
thrusts, and the sound Stiles makes he'll be swearing Scott to secrecy over for
the rest of their life.
“Shut up,” Stiles grits through his his teeth, before smearing a hand through
the lube and tossing the bottle aside. “I'm distracted, okay? You're doing
things– all these things...” And when he gets a warm, slick hand back around
his cock, Stiles groans so loudly that Scott actually feels his stomach drop
with sudden apprehension, his ears pricking as the paranoia sets off his
werewolf senses.
Stiles is blissfully unaware, because his hand is slick and his cock is aching
with each firm stroke, and Scott almost misses his window. It's only the sudden
sharp scent of Stiles blood rushing and his skin musking that re-focuses the
wolf. His hands squeeze a little too tight on his Stiles's hips as he darts his
eyes back down, mouth hanging open as he catches his breath in a few gulping
pants.
“Not yet,” Scott implores, thumbs rubbing in the hollows of Stiles' hips as
Scott slows his thrusts a bit, but brings them in harder, setting the sound of
skin smacking and bodies coming together into the air around them. “Don't come
until I tell you to.”
Stiles slides a hand down to squeeze tight around the base of his own cock, his
eyes squeezing shut tight as he digs his head back into his own tee-shirt, a
tight, controlled sound in his throat as he curbs his building pleasure. “Ugh,
why?” he demands, thighs tight and trembling around Scott' hips as the wolf
leans back over him, hands catching on the ground on either side of Stiles.
“Because if you come first, it won't feel as good,” Scott murmurs, before
catching Stiles' lower lop in his teeth and sucking on it, his cock driving
easily into his best friend's perfect, receptive body, all taut and hot and
smelling like need and shaking with want.
“Bullshit–” Stiles whines, his protest mumbled near incomprehensible against
Scott's mouth, and Scott can feel, can smell how close Stiles is, and it's
almost too distracting for him to keep himself under control.
“I swear,” he gasps, dropping his forehead to rest against Stiles' as he feels
his groin twist and coil with hot pleasure. “I read it– ahh, shit,” he gasps,
letting out a guttural groan as his orgasm takes him by surprise, shooting from
the base of his spine and through him, hips stuttering and jerking hard against
Stiles as he fills his best friend with hot release.
“Fuck, Scotty,” Stiles whimpers, the muscles in his neck straining as he pushes
his head back into the ground, his body whip-tight and trembling as he works a
shaky hand over his own cock. The smell of Stiles' precum fills Scott's entire
being, and he doesn't even realize that he's shot a hand down to cover over
Stiles', forcing his grip tighter and jerking him harder, faster, until Stiles
is gasping for breath and spilling over both of their hands.
They lay there in the gloaming for a good five minutes before Stiles starts to
squirm a bit, his tongue darting lazily out over dry lips, and a soft sound of
protest in his throat. Scott doesn't need to be told; he lifts himself up
wearily, just far enough to shift his hips back and gently pulls out of Stiles,
before rolling over to sprawl out alongside him, completely uncaring of the
fact that he's laying mostly on the forest floor while Stiles is still on their
clothes. He is a werewolf, after all. Rolling around in the woods is a thing
for them, right?
“How are we gonna explain all the dirt and grass stains?” Stiles asks, his
voice languid and heavy and tinged with satisfied amusement.
“Spontaneous lacrosse practice?” Scott offers, as he brings a hand up to comb
fingers through his sweaty, messy hair, before turning to grin lazily at
Stiles. “Seems to work for most things, right?”
“Yeah,” Stiles chuckles. “Yep.”
More silence passes, but it's comfortable and nice, and it proves to them that
this was the right thing to do. There's no awkwardness, no haste to get dressed
and rush off; only companionable togetherness, which brings a smile to Stiles'
face.
“Okay, we should get up because I'm starting to get really gross and sticky,”
Stiles says with a shameless laugh. Scott snorts and sits up, not hesitating to
tug off one of his socks and offering it to Stiles. “Fuck you,” Stiles laughs
harder, but he does take the sock, and Scott pulls off his other one, and
together they make a poor attempt at at least wiping up the majority of their
mess.
 
“So, you're okay with Allison, right?” Scott asks after their clothes are back
on and their feet are planted firmly on the ground, because a little part of
him knows that after all these years, the last thing he wants to do is to lose
Stiles over a girl.
“Yeah, totally,” Stiles says with a lopsided grin, as he runs a hand over his
freshly-buzzed head. “With the exception of you guys having some ridiculous and
potentially fatal Buffy and Angel relationship thing, I think you're good
together. She seems like cool people.” He drops down on the log to put his
shoes on and grins. “All this stuff between you and me is just been getting in
the way of my ten-year-plan for Lydia, anyway.”
Scott snorts and rolls his eyes, but Stiles' smile is sincere.
“So, uh... what do you say we send this thing off like a viking?” he asks,
grabbing up the half-crumpled list, now complete with a mud-stain and half-torn
from whichever one of them stepped on it in their haste to get at one another.
“A proper burial,” Scott says with a smile and a nod. “No less than it
deserves.”
Stiles crosses off the last item on the list with no ceremony before producing
a lighter from his backpack. The two boys crouch down right across from each
other, and in a tiny little dirt hole dug into the ground by both of them, they
burn the list and watch the ashes of that chapter of their life float off on
the breeze.
“You want to grab a burger, or something?” Stiles asks as he straightens back
up and grabs his backpack, squinting a bit in the direction of the now almost
fully-set sun. He doesn't want to say anything because this is a turning point,
sort of, and Stiles isn’t the type to romanticize things the same way Scott
does, but he can definitely feel a change in the air.
“Totally,” Scott says with a smile, his hand moving to rest warmly on the back
of Stiles' neck and giving a squeeze as they walk back toward civilization.
“Just don't forget to take your leftovers home this time.”
End Notes
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