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Stiles started shaving his head again halfway through junior year. When Scott’s mom first saw she went all sharp sad and said “Aw, honey,” but Scott was actually surprisingly relieved and happy about it. It looked right, and the texture had always been cool to rub but now he would really zone out doing it, all his senses focusing down to the slick sharp bristle against his fingertips, his tingling palm.
He’d been working hard on becoming one with his wolf, something Deaton and Derek actually agreed on. “What would the wolf do,” Stiles liked to ask, when they ordered pizza or had to choose a movie, and Scott would pick pepperoni or pepperoncini or Anchorman and never give in, say the wolf wants what the wolf wants, who can argue with the wolf?
The work was paying off, he thought, cause he was feeling kind of balanced and powerful? Although sometimes in weird ways, like how he’d been kind of off in the locker room after practice, itchy and irritated with the smells of bleach and B.O. and the clang of the locker doors, and he’d gone to give Stiles a noogie and ended up scenting him against the lockers, rubbing his cheek into Stiles’s hair and making a sound like a purring cat while Stiles laughed like he was being tickled to death.
Danny’s eyebrows had gone all the way up, but Stiles had smelled toasty warm with amusement and satisfaction, and Scott was good and focused again, and you know, who can argue with the wolf? He felt good, the wolf felt good, they were good.
They stripped down to their shorts in the upstairs bathroom at Stiles’s house for Scott to buzz Stiles’s hair, regular maintenance, and when he was done there were little hair bits everywhere, stuck to his fingers and his bare toes. Stiles had been talking loud over the clippers and hadn’t lowered his volume yet even when Scott brushed his shoulders, knocking the hair off. Stiles had a birthmark on the back of his neck, pink, and he stopped talking and shivered when Scott touched it, leaned in to smell it.
Stiles always smelled ready to go, had been a horny kid, it was part of him, but this was -- Scott took a deep breath right up against the nape of his neck, getting off like crazy on the scent.
“You dick,” Stiles hissed, tensing, and Scott ignored him, pressed a kiss behind his ear. As he nuzzled Stiles relaxed, and his scent went all rich and sexy in a way that was better than a yes, that made the wolf -- made him -- feel supercharged all the way through, 100% unified in wanting Stiles, his best and brother and favorite, fuck he was so happy, grinning into Stiles’s pokey hair.
He was thinking about turning Stiles around, touching his chest, his pointy little nipples, going for their first kiss on the mouth since sixth grade, but instinct had him penning Stiles in against the sink, letting him feel the hardness in Scott’s shorts for him.
“Oh holy shit, yes,” Stiles said, still loud, pushing back against him.
“I know, right?” Scott said, distracted by pushing his shorts down, then Stiles’s, marveling at Stiles’s skinny hips and ass, how perfectly he fit into Scott’s hands, how perfectly Scott’s cock slid between his ass cheeks.
Stiles was talking still, sounding scared and sharp, but he was still hard and smelling spicy with sex and his back arched so nicely when Scott mouthed his shoulder and prodded at his balls and the crack of his ass and then his tight little hole with the damp head of his dick.
He was dimly aware of Stiles pushing at him, pushing a bottle into his hands, and he twisted it open, dripping slick wetness on Stiles’s back and working it right into his hot little asshole.
Somebody was making a high, keening sound, and Scott knew exactly what to do. He pinned Stiles down at the small of his back and pulled his ass high, worked his cock in, deeper, making room for himself inside.
All the way inside Stiles was hot and tight, sweet and welcoming. Scott let his teeth feel Stiles’s neck, the throbbing vein in his throat, the sharp edge of his jaw as he gasped for air. In the mirror Scott’s eyes were red next to Stiles’s tipped-back head and exposed throat. He watched them move together, watched Stiles take it, one hand white-knuckled, bracing both his weight and Scott’s weight, the other protectively cupping the head of his dick.
Scott grabbed Stiles’s thigh, pulled it up to wrench him open further, folding him half onto the sink and shoving himself closer, used his grip on Stiles’s body to pull him back, forcing himself deeper, until Stiles cried out and his scent went salty hot with tears and snot and the astringency of precome.
He was aware of the strength of his thighs and back and arms as he held Stiles where he wanted and rode him hard, the hurt hot sounds he knocked out of Stiles, the dark shine of his cock as he pushed it in and ground it deep, the searing goodness of coming in Stiles and keeping it there.
He remembered all of it, including how good it was.
He didn’t black out or anything, but. His eyes widened in horror.
Stiles’s hips and back were edged with red welts and blood-dotted scratches where Scott’s claws had caught and dug in. He looked in the mirror at Stiles’s chest and neck, saw more damage, couldn’t meet Stiles’s eyes. There was a come-smeared palm print on the mirror.
“Oh my god,” Stiles said, his voice hoarse. He had blood on his lip. Scott didn’t remember doing that.
“Stiles,” he said, and his voice sounded stupid and scared and human.
Stiles said, “Could you, um?”
And Scott said, “Oh god, sorry,” and pulled out, his dick still sensitive and not all the way soft.
Stiles swallowed, nodded sharply. “It can not usually be like that for you. That is not. Scott. Foreplay.”
Scott burrowed his face against Stiles’s neck, still scratchy with bits of hair, feeling Stiles’s heartbeat, his aches where Scott had hurt him. He shook his head, voiceless.
“You okay, man?” Stiles asked, and Scott shook his head again, eyes still squinched closed and stinging with tears. His wolf was a smug, satisfied little shit, but the rest of him felt like a monster, felt like the first days when he thought he’d bust out and eat somebody.
“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, then pulled his knee off the sink with some effort. Scott held on, clenched him tighter around the middle, and after a minute Stiles grabbed his hand, held it tight.