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It's the sound of the rain that masks the approach, the torrential downpour going on outside in a rival to Noah's flood that makes it possible for Stiles to scramble up the side of Scott's house unnoticed. It's the deluge that hides his arrival until he's already climbed in through the window, soaked to the bone and skin red-flushed with cold and exertion and arousal, chest heaving as he locks onto Scott's eyes and wheezes, “Scott, I need.”
Scott is on his feet before he realizes he's even moving, reaching out with both hands to brace them against Stiles' shoulders. Stiles is shaking, and although Scott isn't actually making skin contact, he's certain that he'd find Stiles to be too cold too. He needs to get the wet clothes off, but first he needs to know, “What, Stiles? What do you--”
The sentence doesn't finish itself, because Stiles makes a choked-off noise and surges forwards, reaching up to tuck his fingers in along the back of Scott's jaw. He pulls Scott forward and into his mouth, crushing out a kiss that should leave at least one of them bruised and flushed. Stiles was already flushed, so it's hard to really tell the difference. Scott rocks back to catch air between his teeth and Stiles is rattling out words, machine-gun gentle as they ricochet off of his teeth. “You , Scott, I need you, I just need...I need...I need something , I need your mouth, I need your hands, I need your voice, I need to be good for something, I need, I need, come on, Scotty, you gotta--”
It isn't the first time this has happened, although maybe it's the first time it happened during a thunderstorm, maybe it's the first time it's been quite this bad. Scott doesn't ask questions, because they don't matter. He can see the desperation in Stiles' eyes, feel it boiling under his skin. It could so easily turn into something else. It won't, because Scott won't let it. He lets his hands trail down along the edge of Stiles' arms and grips at his elbows, head inclining downwards. He tucks his chin and meets Stiles' gaze, letting his eyes bleed red slowly and at the edges. “I've got you.”
Stiles hiccups a helpless sound and nods, watching Scott's face with wide eyes, the whites showing all the way around the dark honey-amber of his iris. Scott tightens his grip faintly and turns Stiles towards the bed. “We have to get these wet clothes off of you, first.”
Pressure on his elbows allows Scott to actually move Stiles to the bed. He sits on the edge, breathing still heavy, and arcs his back as Scott begins to peel the sodden plaid off of him, one shoulder at a time. By the time Scott has it removed and wadded up into a wet ball on the floor, Stiles' whole spine has curved up, his t-shirt riding up his stomach to reveal a wide stripe of pale, damp flesh and dark hair. Scott slides one hand along that stripe and watches as Stiles shudders in response, pressing his fingers up along the muscles of his stomach and mapping the change in topography as he peels away the wet cloth. By the time he gets his fingertips as high as Stiles' nipples, Scott finds they've hardened for him, pebbled flesh responsive to the barest touch skated around one edge. He applies pressure with a nail and Stiles gives a bubbling moan that Scott is pretty sure was involuntary.
He pulls the shirt free and tosses it to the side, too, pressing down on the dip of Stiles' collarbone until the other boy relents to lay back against the bed. Stiles makes contact with the tops of his shoulders but can't seem to let the rest of him touch down; he keeps his back pulled taut like a bow, fingers digging into the air and then releasing it again like he could weave something out of pure ether. His belly ripples with every breath and Scott can't help himself, he moves to smooth both hands down the panes of Stiles' chest, trailing behind them with slow, soft kisses. Stiles' voice whispers around nothing and Scott smiles once he's reached the button of Stiles' pants. Undoing the clasp and winding down the fly means that Scott is suddenly well aware of how hard Stiles already is, a wash of the thick scent of his friend pouring out to fill the room and overlay the smell of water that Stiles brought in from the outside. He could drink that in, if he had time, bathe himself in it and wrap himself up in it until he'd been swallowed whole, the wolf in sheepskin. He didn't. Stiles needed something that couldn't wait for that kind of luxuriating, but that was okay too because Scott knew they'd have time for that later.
It's like unwrapping the best kind of present, the way he has to work the soaked jeans—skinny and tight even when they're dry—down Stiles' legs. It's almost exercise, and Stiles is no help, moving his hands from skywriting to working them down the newly bared length of his thighs over and over again, like he's trying to dry his fingertips on damp flesh. Every motion has him murmuring, quiet but still loud enough for a True Alpha to recognize his name in it. “Scott, Scott, Scott...”
“Almost,” Scott assures him, discarding the pants and reaching up one last time to dig his fingers in along the line of one of Stiles' hips, following the flow of the joint until he can grasp the fabric of the boxer-briefs and pull them down, too. Stiles sighs as he's made fully naked, nose and elbows and knees and pretty, long cock all flushed red and bright-contrast against the paleness of the rest of his skin. He's carved of rose-marble and for just the barest of moments, Scott wonders if he should be allowed to touch a masterpiece like this. He decides when Stiles rolls his eyes open and looks down at him to catch him in that dark amber that there's no museum on earth that would know what to do with this gift. Not like Scott knows.
He rises back up along Stiles' body, making space between his legs and shunting him up along the bed until Stiles is no longer dangling precariously off the edge of it. Scott dips his head and buries his face into the inner crook of one of Stiles' legs, pressing kisses along the sensitive skin until the pitch of Stiles' voice tells him it's time to use his teeth. He's thorough, laving over the flesh with his tongue, and maybe if his nose bumps up under Stiles' balls and unlocks the musk of him for Scott's own pleasure, maybe that's not an accident at all. He tips his head to the side and lips carefully up the seam and to the base of Stiles' cock, rewarded by the way it dips down briefly towards him and Stiles tries to roll his hips downwards like he's been magnetized. “Come on, come on, I can't, I can't...”
Scott doesn't let Stiles press too fast or too hard. He swirls his tongue lazily around Stiles' leaking head and then rolls the bead of precome around on his tongue like he has to savor its taste. “I told you, almost. I've got you.”
Stiles whines in response, clutching at Scott's body with his knees. He's stretching his body out, reaching for something on the squat end-table beside the bed, and it takes him actually getting it in his fingers for Scott to realize he was trying to find the bottle of lube. Stiles' hands are shaking when he tries to pass it to Scott, eyes wide-edged and wild. “I need you, Scott, now, now, before--”
Before what, neither of them will ever know. Scott has a feeling Stiles doesn't know, that all the boy knows is the burning in his veins and the name of the only pool of cool water he's ever been near. His fingernails scrape against the cloth of Scott's nightshirt and he growls, like it's Stiles with the wild animal in his heart that can't be tamed. Maybe it is.
Scott strips. There's no point in equivocating about it. Stiles is in no state to appreciate a tease. He bares himself before his boy and tries not to let his heart trip up so much it gets tangled when he sees the hunger in Stiles' gaze, feels it in the fingertips that dig into his hips, the bite of bitten-down nails. Instead, he concentrates on doling out the lube over his fingers, maybe too much but maybe too much is always better than maybe not enough. He slides his arms up under Stiles' legs, hooking them up and hiking them open, and carefully begins to persuade Stiles' body open.
Stiles tips his head back, mouth open, and makes that bowman's arc of his back again, hands scrabbling downwards to pat and grasp in desperation at any piece of Scott they can touch. He's a little rough when he threads his fingers through Scott's hair, clutches too hard and pulls too far, but that's Stiles in his essence, a little too rough when he should be gentle and a little too few apologies about it in the aftermath. Scott likes that part of him, mostly, or at least the part that he's the one Stiles comes to when he can't trust himself to be precise, that it's Scott himself who gets trusted with the broken, jagged edges and the beautiful, beatific groans and everything in between. Everyone else can get the middle parts—although Scott gets plenty of those too—but only Scott gets the extremes of a boy made of extremes. It feels sacred somehow.
Eager and impatient, Stiles tries to fuck himself down onto Scott's hand but finds it's almost impossible given their position. That was intentional. The great display this gives Scott of Stiles, spread out and hard against his own stomach, was also intentional. He leans down and licks a line from the base of Stiles' cock all the way to the head, nudging in a third finger as he does. Stiles spreads open voice-first. “Now, now, ready, come on, come on...”
Scott decides to take his word for it, even if Stiles' words are barely even coherent things, if only because his own need has started to keep time between his legs to a song he cannot ignore. He pulls his fingers free slowly only to pinch them around the bottom of his own erection. He needs the ring of pressure to be able to focus enough to nudge himself inside.
Stiles lets out a sound that's less of a growl and more like it could have been a roar in some other creature's chest. For just a second, Scott thinks he's hurt him, but then Stiles is bearing down around him and trying to force him deeper. His fingers try to dig into Scott's collarbone and pull it out and Scott gives his own faint growl, eyes flashing red. He slips his arms out from beneath Stiles' legs and rides up until he can wrap his fingers around those sturdy-delicate wrists and put them over Stiles' head. Stiles' voice gutters low and he writhes, eyes rolling up in time with his chin. He bares his throat and Scott's got his teeth along Stiles' pulse before he even knows he's going for it. He's gentle, but in the most maddening of ways. “I've got you.”
Those rose-marble legs and knocking knees come up and lock around Scott's waist, like he was trying to get away, like Stiles has to keep him where he is. He doesn't need the encouragement. He braces his knees against the bed and drives himself down into Stiles' body.
They aren't gentle. Gentle isn't what Stiles needs, and Scott can handle that at least for a night. He lets the alpha go remain in his eyes as he works a merciless rhythm, hands just loose enough on Stiles' wrists that there probably won't be bruises later. He rolls his hips at the end of every inwards thrust and Stiles grunts, then huffs, working up to shouting and wailing as the pace quickens and he becomes helpless to do anything but submit to Scott's body, to his fingers and tongue and the quietly murmured words of affection, all but inaudible beneath the slap of their skin coming together and Stiles' own throaty noises.
When he comes, Stiles is bellowing, or maybe he actually is roaring, shooting high and long. Scott fucks him through it, waiting for the howling to stop, waiting for the tension to start to relax out of Stiles' body. It isn't until Stiles squirms one hand free and guides it downwards to the small of Scott's back, holds him in while he moves his hips in slow, lazy circles like he's trying to unlock some arcane secret that Scott's own release hits him. The heat that pours out of him feels like it could have had no other home but the safe haven of Stiles' body.
There's silence in the aftermath, for a long while. Scott releases Stiles' other wrist and instead gathers up his loose limbs to roll them over. Scott stretches out beneath Stiles and Stiles reciprocates by scooting down on Scott's body until he can place his head over the steady thump of the alpha's heart. The separate in some ways but somehow grow closer in others, and neither of them bothers to clean up the mess they've made. Not yet. Scott likes the scent of it so heavy in his nose anyway.
“You are good for something, you know.” He says, knowing it will seem like it comes out of nowhere. Stiles' eyebrows furrow and he looks up, but when he meets Scott's eyes it's with more focus than he's had all night. “You said you wanted to be good for something. You are. You're good for so many things. So many things. I can't list them all out. But mostly, you're good for me. I want you to know that.”
Stiles makes an unreadable noise and puts his head back down, tries to burrow into the safelocker of Scott's chest. “You're—something else. You know that? I come in here and basically demand what I want from you with no preamble and you're telling me that I'm good for you?”
“Stiles, you know better. I wouldn't have given anything I wasn't willing to give.” A beat, like he wants to hope it'll sink in, and then Scott asks, “Are you feeling better?”
The warm air of Stiles' sigh cools a patch of the sweat on his chest as it moves by. “Yeah. You're pretty good for me, too, Scotty.”
Scott just smiles.