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Stiles has had it with werewolf bullshit, he is completely and utterly done. Golden brown, toothpick-comes-out-clean done. He does not give one flying fuck for the tragic story of Isaac Lahey or the cozy little partnership that seems to have sprung up between him and Scott out of nowhere. Stiles remembers that he wanted to kill Lydia and that he attacked them at Scott’s house, even if some people appear to have conveniently forgotten that beneath Isaac’s slouching smirks and dumbass sweaters is a hot-tempered kid who wanted to be turned into a vicious creature of the night.
No, Stiles is not being unnecessarily harsh. Scott is just being excessively nice and forgiving, like he always is. Now instead of hanging back during Coach’s runs and keeping Stiles company, Scott races Isaac at the head of the group, the two of them occasionally body-checking one another and grinning as they outstrip everyone else. Even outside of practice, Isaac is constantly showing up and hanging around Scott’s elbow like he thinks the idea of personal space is somehow beneath him (hypocrite a part of his mind remarks: shut the fuck up the rest of it thinks).
He has the irrational urge to tell Isaac to back off, that he was there first and no amount of googly eyes will make a difference. Stiles doesn’t care if they’re packmates or wolf bros or some shit, Isaac needs to tone it down or Stiles really will turn him into a fur coat. He’ll find a way.
The straw that broke the camel’s back was coming out of math class to see Scott and Isaac by the lockers, Isaac leaning unnecessarily close and speaking into Scott’s ear, like they aren’t both fucking werewolves who could hear each other even if one of them was whispering from the other end of the hall. Scott had just nodded to whatever Isaac said and looked up into the face that was so near to his own, holding his gaze for a long moment that made Stiles want to punch someone. Preferably Isaac.
Later, as Stiles drives them to his house for a Friday homework-and-pizza session, the tension is so thick inside the Jeep that Stiles is sure Scott can smell it: he almost thinks he can. But it isn’t until he’s pulled the car into his driveway and killed the engine that he acknowledges the wordless, questioning look Scott’s been shooting at him every few miles.
"Just- c’mere," he huffs, and reaches over the passenger side to pull Scott close by the back of his neck, their lips meeting in the middle. It isn’t the first time they’ve done this, or the second, or the eighth, so Scott responds eagerly enough, even if he pulls back to say reprovingly (though breathlessly), “That still doesn’t tell me what’s up with you today."
Stiles really hates how perceptive Scott is: it makes it more likely that he’ll force Stiles to confront whatever issue he’s currently avoiding sooner rather than later.
Stiles answers by kissing down Scott’s neck, at least until Scott says "Stiles," in a way that unfortunately isn’t completely due to arousal. “Tell me."
Stiles drags his teeth over the jut of Scott’s collarbone, making him gasp. He wonders if there’s a trace of Isaac on his skin, and if he could sear it away with his own heat.
"D’you wanna fuck Isaac?" he mutters against Scott’s throat.
"What?" He can practically hear Scott blink in confusion.
"Do you want to fuck Isaac?" he repeats, lifting his head to meet Scott’s wide eyes. His grip tightens at the back of Scott’s neck, and he barrels on without waiting for him to respond. “Because if he gets any more obvious about wanting to fuck you he’s going to start humping you in the hallways and I can’t lose you to someone just because I’m not a werewolf, I can’t lose you at all-"
Scott interrupts him with a soothing "Hey, hey," and kisses him softly, threading his fingers through his hair: Stiles kisses him back not at all softly, desperate now to stake a claim no matter how many times he’s done it before, desperate to feel Scott completely devoted to him.
"Backseat," he pants into Scott’s mouth a few minutes later, and drags an unprotesting Scott with him as he clambers into the back. His dad won’t be home for hours yet and the neighbors aren’t quite close enough to scare him away from semi-public sex.
Besides, he wants the Jeep to smell like the two of them for weeks, to shove it in Isaac’s face if he ever ends up in the car or even passes by it. Hell, Stiles will offer him a ride out of the goodness of his heart.
He lands heavily in the roomier seat with Scott half-falling in his lap, the two of them colliding in a tangle of eager hands and ungentle legs. Scott leans down to kiss him again, one of those steady, lingering, blisteringly hot kisses that he seems to have mastered, possibly under Allison’s tutelage. Stiles bucks his hips up and the friction is almost painful with his hard cock trapped in his jeans, but it also makes it that much easier to feel just how hard Scott is too. Scott moans into the kiss and Stiles is pretty sure he’s made some embarrassing noise along the way, but the drum of his heartbeat in his ears and the satisfyingly slick sound of their lips has drowned it out.
Stiles slips his hands into Scott’s back pockets and cups his ass, encouraging his rough grinding, and god he could get off just like this with Scott above him, shoot in his pants like every stereotype of a horny teenager. He wants it to last though, wants to get out of his clothes, so he’s glad this isn’t the first or second or eighth time they’ve done this because just a month or two ago he definitely would’ve come in his boxers by now.
"Wanna fuck me?" Scott breathes, nipping at his lip, and wow he’s pretty sure he just got harder hearing that.
"God yes, it’s a day that ends in a Y, isn’t it?" he says, grinning. “I have lube in the glove compartment."
"Of course you do. I’m shocked." Scott twists himself around and stretches across the divide to fumble at the glove compartment. Stiles playfully slaps his ass.
"Did I say you could be sarcastic?"
"Sarcasm isn’t a finite resource, Stiles, you don’t have to hoard it all to yourself." Scott wriggles back, lube in hand. As soon as he’s properly situated in Stiles’ lap once more they start kissing again, quick greedy kisses full of teeth and tongue. They barely disconnect to pull their clothes off, lips meeting clumsily in between the awkward shifting of their bodies.
Shoes, pants, underwear and shirts end up in a pile on the floor, and Scott immediately takes advantage of the bared skin by kissing down Stiles’ chest.
"You’re not gonna lose me, you know," he mumbles into Stiles’ skin, little puffs of air like warm static. “I’m not going anywhere."
It’s odd to suddenly feel so tender about someone when you still really want to fuck them senseless, Stiles thinks, and wonders if this is normal.
"Better not," he says, aiming for levity. “I’ll just have to chain you up again if you try."
"Is that a promise?" Scott’s voice is wicked, and there’s a playful little smirk on his face. Stiles groans.
"Gonna be the death of me. Metaphorically and probably also literally."
Scott sobers in an instant, rising up to kiss Stiles soundly. “Never," he vows. “I’m not letting you go anywhere either, got it?"
Stiles feels hips lips tug upwards. The hard knot of jealousy that’s been riding behind his ribs seems to loosen a bit. “Got it."
Scott retrieves the lube from where it had fallen on the seat, but Stiles takes it from him before he can open it. “Let me," he says, nudging Scott to straddle him in the right position. It brings them close enough for their dicks to touch, and Stiles has to tamp down on the urge to just rut against Scott. He focuses instead on coating his fingers with the lube while Scott busies himself with his neck, kissing and sucking with just the right amount of force to not leave any hickeys. For a werewolf he has astonishing amounts of self control, and he’s nothing if not conscientious.
Stiles spreads his ass with one hand and teases a slick finger against his hole. Scott makes an encouraging noise and moves into it. Honestly, Stiles loves fingering him. He’s so fucking responsive, and these days it’s the only way to get Scott- easy-going, responsible, always ready-to-save-the-day Scott- to fall apart.
Stiles works a finger into him, curls it, and Scott’s lips print his name below his ear. He shifts his hips a little, rubbing their hard cocks together and making them both groan. Stiles adds a second finger with less teasing than he normally would, too worked up to take his time: he wants to be in Scott now, wants to relieve the aching hardness of his dick.
Scott curses as Stiles thrusts his fingers, stretching him open, and his teeth catch on Stiles’ neck. His hands slip down, grab the discarded lube, and the next thing Stiles knows there’s a slippery hand stroking his cock.
“Fuck, Scott," he hisses, unable to resist bucking into Scott’s fist.
"I, ah, I think that’s the point," Scott says, giving his cock a squeeze. Stiles crooks his fingers in retaliation and is rewarded with a shudder.
"Stop getting mouthy and get on my dick."
"Wow, so romantic." Scott playfully swipes his tongue over his upper lip and nips it. “You love when I get mouthy."
Stiles smirks and snaps at Scott as he draws back, thrusts his fingers roughly one last time before pulling them out and grasping Scott’s hip instead. Scott obligingly positions himself closer and starts to lower himself onto Stiles’ cock.
"Oh god," he stutters out, tipping his head back as the slick, tight heat slowly envelops him. Scott’s teeth dig into his lower lip, but there’s more than enough lube to ease the way. Stiles can’t keep his hands still while he waits, smoothing his palms over Scott’s thighs and sides, up the ridge of his spine. Finally Scott bottoms out and starts to move with a choked whimper and Stiles cups the back of his neck again, dragging him close to kiss.
Scott’s hips rise and fall slowly, driving him crazy. Stiles starts to thrust into him, picking up the pace until Scott is riding him hard. His head is thrown back and his eyes are closed, one hand tangled in Stiles’ hair and the other splayed against the window. Stiles is going to remember this the next time Isaac starts breathing down Scott’s neck, the unashamed way he moans when he’s stuffed full of Stiles’ cock.
"Fuck, fuck," he whines, and Stiles bites at his collarbone to feel him clench around him. He peppers kisses up Scott’s throat, latches on to his pulse, wishing he could leave hickeys. But every mark he manages to make fades after a few seconds. It actually distracts him a little, because he keeps trying, as if he’ll magically find a new spot on his neck or stumble across just the right amount of pressure that will allow him to give Scott a bruise werewolf healing won’t touch. Before he realizes it Scott’s skin is shiny with spit and Stiles keeps biting harder and harder and Scott is a writhing mess, hands cradling the back of Stiles’ head and holding him there.
"Stiles, h-holy god," Scott groans.
"Like that, just like that," Stiles rambles in return, guiding Scott’s hips to slam down onto him. “Gonna fill you up, gonna come so deep inside you that you smell like me for days and Isaac and all the other fucking werewolves will know you’re mine-"
“Stiles," Scott says, and there’s the pieces of a laugh in a voice otherwise wrecked by lust. His fingers drag down Stiles’ back, human nails leaving pleasurable scores and making him jolt. He gets a hand between them, starts pumping Scott’s cock. Scott’s moans break into a waterfall of curses and desperate notes and then he’s coming hard, spilling over Stiles’ fist.
Scott curls against him and Stiles continues to fuck him, riding out the shocks of his orgasm until he reaches his own climax. His muscles burn and his heart races as he comes inside Scott with a few last rolling thrusts, one hand splayed against Scott’s sweat-slick back.
They’re both breathing shallowly, although Scott recovers quicker. His hand comes up to cup Stiles’ jaw, and for a few quiet minutes he just strokes Stiles’ cheek while his pulse gradually return to normal.
"Not that I want you to be jealous all the time or anything," he says eventually, “but I have to admit, you’re kind of hot when you get like that."
"Excuse me," Stiles retorts. “I resent the implication that I am not always more than ‘kind of hot.’ I know I like to downplay it, but I’m something of a stud."
"Yeah, I’ve seen your shirt." Scott’s smiling at him, an incongruously innocent expression when added to the rest of his thoroughly debauched state: hair mussed, lips kiss-swollen, and oh, yeah, Stiles’ dick still in his ass.
Scott kisses his nose, because he wasn’t absurd enough before.
"You’re right. You are downright gorgeous, all of the time."
"That’s more like it," Stiles says with a grin, trying to ignore the warmth spreading in him from the earnestness of Scott’s praise. “You’re not so bad yourself, hot stuff."
"You should write erotica," Scott says, slipping off of Stiles with a groan. He collapses bonelessly beside him. “Make readers everywhere go nuts over your poetic compliments."
"Oh, it’s poetic you want?" Stiles turns to him. “I can always write a 'woeful ballad' to your eyebrows. I'll do it right here with your jizz still all over my hand, it'll be beautiful."
Scott raises the aforementioned eyebrows, which, really, are eloquent enough to deserve their own Shakespearean ballads. Without a word he reaches below the seat and holds up the spare box of tissues Stiles has started keeping in his car. Stiles has to laugh before he takes a few and cleans up his hand. When he's done he leans over and kisses Scott softly.
"It’s a promise," Scott murmurs suddenly. “I’m still not going anywhere."
Stiles looks into his eyes and presses his hand over Scott's chest, as if to prove the sincerity in Scott's voice with the steadiness of the heartbeat beneath his palm- or just as an anchor to weigh him down, fix him to this place and this moment; here in Stiles' Jeep with Stiles' breath in his lungs and his come on his thighs, irrevocably his.
"Me neither."