Chapter Text
The bar had been a bust. Isaac had talked the recently-single Scott into going out that night. “Put yourself out there.” “See if you meet someone new.” Truth be told, Scott wasn’t exactly ready for something new yet, but getting out had been a good idea. Especially since Stiles was being cagey about his Friday night plans. Scott figured he was probably seeing someone new and didn’t want to rub it in his face. It was considerate. He supposed. Nice of Stiles not to remind him that he just went from near daily sex to no sex at all.
He was grumpy and now he would rather just curl up on the couch and have a movie marathon or play couch co-op until dawn.
“You’re young. And hot, Scott,” Isaac said. “You gotta put yourself out there.”
And Scott did. He put himself out there. But, after managing to talk up three different girls, managing to get each of them laughing, and then managing to drive each of them away when he reflexively started talking about his ex, he figured he wasn’t ready yet.
“Sorry,” Scott said over his beer to Isaac.
“Scott,” Isaac drew out, “there’s no need for that. You put yourself out there. You struck out. It’s okay. I just don’t want you all squirreled away.”
When Scott got home to his apartment, Stiles’ door was already closed. There was a ray of dim light spilling into the hallway, and Scott’s hand was halfway to Stiles’ doorknob so he could gripe about his night when he heard Stiles through the door.
“Let me take that off for you,” Stiles said, with a huskiness Scott had never heard tinge his voice.
Scott sighed and went down the hall to his own room next door.
He wasn’t bitter. Honest.
Okay. A little bitter. But not at Stiles. Scott couldn’t remember Stiles ever bringing a girl home since they started sharing an apartment. Stiles struggled with the ladies. A concept that both made perfect sense and no sense at all to Scott. Stiles came unfiltered. If he had a thought, everyone else got to know it too. If he liked something or someone, it was like he got a neon sign to point it out. That was a lot for people to take in.
But Stiles was good looking, and it had kind of bothered Scott that it often felt like he was the only one who saw that. Maybe he just didn’t have a clue about what people looked for in guys. Or maybe he was just biased. It felt like an objective fact though. Stiles’ face was uncannily symmetric. Way more symmetric than Scott’s. Symmetry being attractive was universal, right? He had good bone structure too. Not that Scott really knew what that meant, but he was pretty sure it applied to Stiles. A strong chin, a beautiful neck. Could you say that about a guy’s neck?
The only way that Scott could really square it was that Stiles’ low self-esteem was getting in his way.
Scott was glad that Stiles managed to get a date back home with him. He was just a little tipsy and a little horned up after spending a couple hours trying to put on the charm.
“Your body is just, so…” Stiles said through the wall. Stiles must have been lost for words, because he never finished his description of this unknown girl’s body. It was rare for Stiles to be lost for words. She must have been someone really special.
Scott could hear something like growling and then the wet sounds of kissing. Jesus. Did Stiles growl when he was turned on? That was not something Scott would have ever guessed.
There was fumbling, leather sliding through metal, and Scott pictured two belt-buckles crashing against each other as each belt was undone. Stiles’ bed creaked as the two of them shifted and then Scott heard sounds of one article of clothing after another hitting the floor.
“I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea,” Stiles said, followed by more growling. Almost purring, and then a thud and creaking springs as the two lovers must have traded positions on the bed.
Was it weird that this was kind of turning Scott on? Was this some unwritten violation of bro code? He cared about Stiles’ successes just as much as his own. It was just empathy, right? Happiness at his best friend’s apparently hot date. Right?
Well, maybe not just empathy. He was also pretty buzzed and just watched three different girls blush at him as they chatted. He was intoxicated by their respectively floral, fruity, and pumpkin-spice-latte-y perfumes, hypnotized by the way their hair framed her face or fell on her shoulders or stood high, and short, drawing his attention upward to her almost elfin ears.
None of those three were probably what Stiles’ date looked like. Scott’s type wasn’t Stiles’. Scott was always drawn in by eyes that looked up at him with an expectant innocence. The sheep to his wolf. Stiles, by sharp eyes. Eyes that, if you looked close enough, you knew saw everything that was happening better than anyone else. Eyes of a raptor.
Scott couldn’t explain why, but the sound of the second person’s breathing, the second person’s heartbeat, matched the image he had of their eyes. Where Stiles’ heartbeat was fast and erratic, his date’s was steady. Not as fast as Stiles’, but no less passionate. Loud. Pounding.
He never heard her voice. She was quiet. Stiles seemed to do enough talking for the both of them. And growling too. Was that always his M.O.? How did Scott not know this about him?
There was more shifting and shuffling and then the wet sound of tongue against skin and the first hint of a higher pitched moan. Fuck. Scott was completely hard now.
Stiles wasn’t talking anymore. His tongue was busy now, Scott figured. Mouth too occupied between thighs to make sounds other than guttural growling noises. His constant litany of “fuck”s and “god you’re so sexy”s and “more”s replaced by syncopated moans and gasps an octave higher.
Scott was a bad friend. He couldn’t help it. What could anyone do? It’s not like he could close his ears. Turn off his superhearing. Well, he could have tried to restrain himself more. He could have tried harder not to reach into his boxers and touch himself. For whatever reason he hadn’t touched himself in a while, not since long before the breakup. And if he hadn’t been out, drinking specially-made wolfsbane-laced beer, he might have had the presence of mind or self-control to stop himself now. Alas.
“Are you ready?” Stiles’ voice sounded completely wrecked. It broke out of him in a low whisper. Like Scott had never heard him sound before. Was this what Stiles turned into after eating someone out? Throat dry with almost alpha-like resonance?
Scott could hear the sound of a head nodding against a pillow, shuffling, and then skin sliding against skin, breath hitching and then a sudden sigh coupled with another of Stiles’ completely un-Stiles-like growls.
“You feel so fucking incredible,” Stiles said, his voice back in his usual register.
For someone as haphazard and clumsy as Stiles, Scott was surprised to hear how even and steady his tempo was. He started off painfully slow. Aching. Carefully. Treating his date like she was fragile. Precious. The tempo built slowly. Gradually taking on momentum with the evenness of a steam engine.
Scott tried to copy the tempo with his strokes, but it took more restraint than he had. The pressure building inside him demanded more from his hand.
The moaning coming from the other side of the wall was obscene. It started out a woody alto. Rich and textured. And as his pace picked up so did the volume. The pitch dropped. Slowly at first, and then it was lower than Scott had ever heard a girl moan before. Was Stiles some kind of secret sex god? The sounds were cracked and based. Needy.
They were fucking fast and loud now, and Scott was matching them stroke for thrust. The pounding of his own heart in his ears was so loud that it was harder to pick apart the sounds the passionate couple on the other side of the wall were making. It built and built and built until Scott felt like he was going to explode, and just when he didn’t think he could take it anymore an obscene growl and a depraved moan mixed with his own strangled gasping as he shot his hot release onto his heaving chest.
He breathed.
Air steadily refilled his lungs.
He grabbed his t-shirt and cleaned himself off. Not even lifting his head.
He was so relaxed now. His climax and his drunkenness overtook him, and he fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
When Scott woke up in the morning he had a pounding headache. The world was too bright, and his throat was too dry.
He went to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
“Coffee?” Derek offered when Scott walked in.
Derek was there.
Derek was there!?
Scott replayed as much of the night as he could remember. Stiles had a girl over. Didn’t he? Well he didn’t see said girl, but he heard her moaning.
Unless…
Holy fuck.
Was that…?
No. It couldn’t have been.
Could it?
Stiles wasn’t— well, actually. Maybe. Now that he thought of it. He always had a lot of…questions. For Danny, and…
But, Derek?
Well, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised by that either. Derek was always staring intensely at Stiles. Plus the two of them tended to end up in…interesting situations together. A lot. There was always something between them, but Scott always thought it was mutual designs on murder, not mutual designs on fucking so hard they made the walls shudder.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks,” Scott finally said.
Derek grabbed a mug, poured him some coffee, and smiled: the cat who ate the canary.