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Roadside Assistance
Teen Wolf. Scott McCall/Stiles Stilinski. NC-17. ~3700 words. BFFs. Blanket!fic.
"Ow, okay, what part of ow are you not getting? God, is this how you cuddle?"

"I'm not trying to cuddle you," Scott says, rooting determinedly around. "I'm trying to keep you warm."

Stiles gives him a long look. A really, really long one, because sometimes Scott needs the time to chug his way around to a conclusion.

"Oh," he says.




*

Roadside Assistance


"This is your fault," Stiles declares.

Scott's eyebrows scrunch together. "My fault?"

Stiles flails both hands at the Jeep (which is stalled), the desert highway (which is empty), and the sun (which has set). "Yes, your fault! You're the entire reason we're out here!"

"Well, it was your idea! You're the one who found the plant thing!"

"For you!" Stiles howls, stomping around in a tight little circle. "Because you keep getting poisoned by crazy shit nobody else has to worry about and one of these days I'm not gonna be around to save your stupid werewolf ass and you're gonna die and your mom's gonna kill me and I have a vested interest in not being dead."

Arms crossed, Scott hunkers against the Jeep and scowls. "Wolfsbane is poisonous to humans too," he mutters.

Stiles crosses his arms and scowls right back. "Nobody tries to shoot me with a wolfsbane-laced bullet every other Tuesday."

"How is that my fault?"

Stiles flings his arms wide. "Werewolf!"

"Not my fault!" Scott shouts, but with a horrible warble right in the middle that stops Stiles cold. That's Scott's 'I'm about to cry like a great big frustrated baby' warble. Which used to be Stiles' cue to slap him upside the head and tell him to quit it. Except he's right. It's not his fault. Out of everybody, from Hale to Argent to unwitting Stilinski and back again, Scott's the one person whose fault it really definitely isn't.

"Okay," Stiles says. "Just, get in, alright?" He opens the door and shoves the seat forward. "How long d'you think before Derek realises we're not following him anymore?" he asks, squinting down the highway as far as the meagre light of the headlights will go, where the dust of Derek's wake is settled.

"He probably already knows," Scott says, holding the seat so Stiles can climb in after him, "and he's trying to teach us a lesson or something."

"'Stop trying to be a strong, independent member of society'?"

"Yeah," Scott huffs, almost a laugh, "something like that."

"Guy's really got a hard-on for this pack thing." Stiles tugs the sleeves of his shirt down over his hands, then starts rooting around for the old itchy blanket that's been crammed under the seat since forever. He thinks it might've come standard with the Jeep. They probably shouldn't be sitting out here with the dashboard lights draining what's left of the battery, but like hell Stiles is gonna sit around in total darkness. "He better not forget I don't come with a built-in fur coat."

"Wanna try Triple-A again?"

"Middle of the desert," Stiles grunts, finding a corner of the blanket and yanking. "I've got one-quarter of a bar."

"It's caught," Scott points out helpfully.

"I know," says Stiles, gripping it in both hands as Scott says, "Here, lemme," and hauls on it so hard the Jeep rocks and the seat makes a disturbing clunking noise right before the blanket rips free. Stiles holds up the two halves connected by about a foot of frayed wool. Scott winces. "Sorry."

"Nah," Stiles says, flinging a half over each shoulder, "it's like a Snuggie. Totally cosy."

Scott wrinkles his nose and says, "Those things are nasty," but he tucks the blanket in closer like he's afraid, after all the nights Stiles spent running for his life through the cold, wet woods, this is the night he's gonna catch his death. "Though this is kinda nasty too. It stinks."

"Does not." Stiles takes an illustrative sniff, and chokes. "Okay," he wheezes, "maybe a little, but if my choices are inhaling mould spores or losing a testicle to exposure, I'm going with the spores."

For a minute, Scott looks honestly worried about the future of Stiles's junk. He frets pretty visibly about it for another few seconds, then determinedly scoots closer, dropping an arm around Stiles's shoulders and managing to jab a knee into every single soft squishy part Stiles owns, including the bits he's trying to protect.

"Ow ow ow," Stiles says, slapping his leg. "Ow, okay, what part of ow are you not getting? God, is this how you cuddle?"

"I'm not trying to cuddle you," Scott says, rooting determinedly around. "I'm trying to keep you warm."

Stiles gives him a long look. A really, really long one, because sometimes Scott needs the time to chug his way around to a conclusion.

"Oh," he says.

Stiles nods. "Oh," he confirms.

"But it's, this isn't the same," Scott insists. "Sharing body heat is what you're supposed to do. You saw the video in class."

Stiles nods again. "Yep, I saw it. And you, buddy, are doing some pretty fierce cuddling right now." He jerks his chin at where Scott is holding his hands all tangled up snug in the blanket. "Pretty sure I've never been cuddled harder, including that time you woke up from a nightmare at my place when you were eleven."

It takes a long second for Scott to say, "You promised you wouldn't bring that up. Ever."

"You promised you wouldn't bring up that you crawled into bed with me while I was humping the mattress and only woke me up after I jizzed on your thigh because you were afraid we were gonna get glued together."

"It was raining. I didn't want to have to run around the block in my underwear."

"When you pick 'truth' you're supposed to tell things about yourself."

Even through the deep shadows inside the Jeep, Stiles catches the blush creeping its way up Scott's neck. "Whatever. You're the one who told me I could get my hand stuck in it."

"You're the dumbass who believed me," Stiles says, grinning. It's a good thing Scott doesn't go full-on wolfman when he turns, or he might've thought it was the whole hairy-palms thing coming true.

Scott shoves his shoulder. "Shut up or I'll let you freeze."

"Great, now you're starting to sound like Derek," Stiles says, grinning harder at the look of shocked horror that skitters across Scott's face. He lowers his voice to gravely rumble. "Shut up or I'll rip your throat out, Stiles. I'm gonna kill you myself if you don't shut it, Stiles. Stop talking, Stiles, or I'm gonna--"

"Okay, okay," Scott cries, laughing, his cheeks flushed dark. "I'm sorry, you don't have to shut up!"

"S'right," Stiles sniffs, "I don't. I just choose to. Occasionally."

"Usually when Derek suggests it," Scott says, almost a giggle.

"Shut up and cuddle me."

Obediently, Scott scoots in a little more, even though there's no more for him to scoot, and hugs Stiles close to his chest. The wolves all put out heat like blast furnaces, but it's never just plain hot that they pump out. Derek's heat, when Stiles is unfortunate enough to be clinging to him for dear life, is vaguely menacing, like you'd better warm up or else. Erica's is the sort of heat you find in the dark corner of a club. Stiles hasn't gotten a chance to really get to know the others, but he suspects Jackson's heat is the same scathing burn of humiliation he doles out on a regular basis.

Scott's heat is like a giant bundle of towels fresh out of the dryer.

"Man," sighs Stiles, "you should come sleep at the foot of my bed for real. I've got bad circulation, you know, my toes get cold."

Scott's grumbled, "I know," is warm on Stiles's ear.

"Is that a complaint?" Stiles tries to sit up a little, but Scott's holding him fast. "That sounded like a complaint. You know who doesn't complain? Me. I'm too busy running for my life to complain."

There's an uncomfortable pause, just long enough for Stiles to worry if he might've gotten carried away that time, then Scott says, "All the exercise should help that circulation problem?" with a tiny little lilt on the end, like he's sorry, and he's hoping Stiles isn't going to get out the fire extinguisher again.

"You tried to eat me," Stiles says, hamming it up only a bit. Not as over it as he thought he was, maybe. Eaten is not a state he's ever aspired to.

"Not for like, months," Scott says.

Unless he's gonna count the sexy kind of eaten. In which case, hell yeah, he's got aspirations. And a ten-step plan.

"And I don't think, uh." Scott shifts like he's trying to put some distance between them, enough to get a look at Stiles's face and pull that earnest I'm sorry puppy face thing he does that's only gotten worse since he's become a part-time member of Canis lupus, how is that fair, but he doesn't seem to want to let go of Stiles long enough to do it, so it doesn't really work out. "I mean. Stiles?"

Sometimes (most of the time), when Stiles is feeling adventurous in his sexy-kind-of-eating fantasies, teeth are even involved. Just a bit. Like that little catch when a hangnail grazes slick, sensitive skin.

"Stiles!"

"What!"

Scott's face glows stoplight-red. "M'not sure I was gonna eat you," he mumbles.

"You were for sure gonna bite me, buddy. I saw those teeth."

"Yeah," Scott says slowly. Uncomfortably. His nose twitches. "Yeah, um. No?"

"No?" Stiles echoes, as Scott leans in just a little more, nose-first. "What, no? Are you-- Are you sniffing me? What the-- Whoa!"

"Sorry," Scott says, sounding stricken, but not like he's gonna extract his nose from the crook of Stiles's neck. He starts snuffling around in earnest, dodging Stiles's flailing hands and tugging at the blanket like he's gonna Toucan Sam his way beneath it. "I'm sorry, just--"

"Oh my god!" Stiles tries to scramble backwards, but between the cramped back seat, the blanket, and Scott's fucking octopus arms, he's trapped. "You're trying to eat me right now!"

"I'm not!" Scott shouts, muffled because his face is shoved into Stiles's chest, the edges of his teeth digging in, "I promise, I'm not, I'm-- I'm--" shoving a hand inside Stiles's jeans to grab onto his half-hard cock, that's what he's doing. "Sorry?" he tries, and squeezes.

Stiles gurgles.

"You smell different," Scott says, almost conversationally except for the strain in his voice, and his hand on Stiles's cock, "not like when you think about Lydia different, I'm used to that. But, um, is this okay? It's okay, right?" His fingers wiggle through the slit in Stiles's boxers, stroking bare skin really, really deliberately. He says, "We jerked off in the shower together that one time," like it's precedent for the very intimate things his thumb is doing.

"One time," Stiles squeaks out, "that was one time, and you bitched at me for watching."

Scott looks straight up, and with his hand still on Stiles's junk, it's kinda awkward. "You told me I was doing it wrong."

"I was trying to offer helpful suggestions! I-- oh my god." Stiles stares down at the subtle shift beneath the blanket. Scott's jerking him off. And Scott's good at it. Stiles's toes are curling in his beat-up sneakers, his thighs are tense, almost shaking, and Scott's got this pleased little smile quirking the corner of his mouth like when he nails the math question Stiles was sure was gonna stump him.

Scott slings one of his legs over Stiles's knee to keep them spread. Stiles chokes out, "Is this a werewolf thing? This feels like a werewolf thing."

"Probably," Scott says, with way too much ease. And confidence, holy shit, when did Scott become a fucking sex ninja? Five seconds ago he was fumbling all over the place.

"This is weird." Stiles sinks down lower in the seat, trying to lift his hips at the same time to get a bit more of a rhythm going. "I hope you realise how weird this is."

Scott nods vigorously. "Totally," he says, back to nosing around Stiles's neck. "But I don't have to stop, right?"

Stiles pretends to think about it for a minute. "Naw," he drawls eventually, and waves a shaky hand. "I think we're good."

"Oh good," Scott says, and flings the blanket back to climb into Stiles's lap. "I really hate it when you freak out. You kinda freak out a lot lately."

Weakly, Stiles says, "Werewolves."

Scott glances up from where he's tugging at Stiles's fly, a quick flash of too-bright eyes, and then he's got his own jeans open, his dick in his hand. He's thicker, longer than the quick glimpses Stiles remembers. The tip glistens wetly in the shadows.

Stiles swallow hard. "You want me to, uh." He makes an aborted grab for it, hand stalled mid-air by a low, trickling growl. Both his eyebrows shoot up. "You don't want me to jerk you off?"

"That was a yes," Scott says, planting one hand firmly on Stiles's chest, pushing him back into the seat. He puts the other one back on Stiles's cock, tight around the base and dragging slowly up, his weight more than enough to keep the sudden jerk of Stiles's hips under control. It doesn't help much with the strangled noise Stiles can't swallow.

"Okay," Stiles says. He flexes his fingers a few times, gearing up. "Okay, I'm gonna," and he slaps his hand right on it.

Scott spits, "Fuck," and hunches forward, blocking Stiles's view. "Don't just-- Stiles, please."

"Oh man," Stiles says, staring hard at the Jeep's roof as he fumbles his hand around, trying to find a grip that doesn't feel foreign and weird and so much like he's jacking his best bud, "oh man, oh man, oh man."

"Stiles."

"I'm working on it!" Stiles shouts, eyes snapping shut when Scott starts rooting around in Stiles's jeans again, hauling his cock out so every half-assed tug Stiles gives his cock makes them rub together. "Oh god."

"Wow," says Scott.

Stiles cracks an eye open. "Wow?"

"You're wet." Scott drags his fingertips over Stiles's slit, making Stiles's hips jump, because that fucking tickles at the same time it absolutely doesn't tickle at all. "You're really wet. You don't smell like come, but you're-- Oh." He looks straight at Stiles's face."You got this wet for me?"

"Great," says Stiles, and rolls his eyes. "We're officially in a bad porno. Yes, for you, you dumbass, your hand is on my dick!"

Scott smiles, big and bright and like an idiot, and says, "Okay," as casually as he wraps one wide hand around both their dicks, his cockhead brushing Stiles's belly and Stiles's bumping up against his balls. The smile fades a bit as he concentrates on figuring out how to jerk them both off at the same time. Thanks to Stiles's diverse interests, he has a couple of suggestions. He even manages to gurgle half of one before Scott mutters, "Fuck it," scoots in so close Stiles's face is right in his chest, points their cocks straight up and starts jerking them off that way.

"Better," Stiles stutters, thighs flexing uselessly beneath Scott's weight. He gropes around for something innocuous to grab onto and ends up with two handfuls of Scott's bare ass where his clothes are shoved down. He's pretty sure he's got more to say, probably about Scott not getting jizz all over the seats, but the subtle flex of Scott's ass in his grip is fascinating. So is how fucking smooth it is. He runs his fingertips closer and closer to the crack, searching for the teensiest shred of normalcy in this incredibly abnormal turn of events, and breathes a gusty sigh of relief when he finally finds a tiny dusting of hair.

Scott makes a noise like, "Ugh," and shoves harder against him, grip slipping until it's just Stiles's cock he's working. "Fuck it," he says again.

Stiles gapes, and gasps, and naturally, chokes. "Your, you, what?" he wheezes. This kinda moved fast, sure, but there's a couple friendly handjobs and then there's--

"Come on," Scott says, obviously not paying attention. "Come on, Stiles, just--"

"Just what!"

"Come," Scott snaps. "It never takes you this long in the shower!"

"Maybe because I'm not distracted!"

"So stop being distracted!" Scott hollers, like it's Stiles's fault. Fuck that. Fuck that, Stiles thinks, twisting a hand in Scott's hair to yank him down and kiss him.

It occurs to Stiles, somewhere between the startled noise Scott makes and the softer, almost sweet one that follows when Stiles licks at his tongue, that Scott's had a lot more practice at this than him. What Scott doesn't have, though, is Stiles's excellent grasp of theory. And Stiles's tendency to throw himself headfirst into something. Or Stiles's sudden fascination with discovering all the weird new textures inside someone else's mouth.

"Mmph," Scott says, twisting his wrist slightly, which makes Stiles shiver and try to kiss him harder. It takes him a couple seconds to figure out Scott's not really with him on that last part anymore, even when he tries to push it, so Stiles breaks away and pants out pissily, "What? What now, seriously, you said focus, I'm focused."

"Yeah," Scott bitches back, scrubbing at his chin, "on trying to eat my face."

"Oh, well," says Stiles, and waves his hands around, "excuse me for having some enthusiasm."

"Try having some enthusiasm in my fist," Scott says, squeezing pointedly.

"Okay, oh my god," says Stiles, and wriggles around determinedly, finding the leverage he needs to manage a little thrust. And yeah, okay, that feels pretty good, duh, so he does it again, a couple more times, and tries not to yelp when Scott's teeth graze his lip.

"Thought we weren't gonna, y'know," Stiles says, shivering again when Scott licks between his lips, unconcerned that Stiles is trying to use his mouth to have a conversation here.

Scott says, "I like kissing," and keeps going, pushing his tongue further into Stiles's mouth, somehow keeping it delicate even when it gets really dirty. Stiles gives taking notes a good ol' college try, but giving as good as he's getting takes way too much effort, and if Scott is willing to do most of the work, Stiles is absolutely willing to let him. So Stiles lets go, melts into the seat and lets Scott suck on his tongue while he fucks Scott's fist, just lets it happen. Like that flips a wolfy switch in Scott's brain, Scott goes for it, all out, muttering, "Come on, almost, almost," between kisses not like he's asking Stiles to hurry up and blow it but like he knows Stiles is there, like he can feel it, smell it, taste it on Stiles's tongue.

Stiles garbles out, "Oh fuck," losing it hard. His head snaps back and Scott latches onto his throat, teeth grazing, digging in, layering a quick shot of panic over pleasure that Scott's not being careful, that Scott's gonna bite him, for real. Then it's a quick swipe of Scott's tongue over the sting, like Don't worry, maybe a little I'm sorry, and Stiles struggles to lift his head. The first thing his gaze lands on is his own cock, Scott's hand pumping it slowly, both shiny-slick. "Fuck," he breathes. "Scott, fuck."

Making an agreeable noise, Scott switches hands, his left clumsy on Stiles while he jerks himself off with his right. No way would Stiles keep jacking so soon after blowing, he's too sensitive, it almost hurts, but when he tries asking Scott to ease up for a minute, all he manages is a gurgle. And Scott's not holding back on his own dick at all. It hardly takes more than a couple tight, concentrated tugs close to the head for him to lose it too, with Stiles trying to look everywhere at once. At the hot splash on his belly, his gaze jumps from Scott's pleasure-slack face to the mess he's making all over Stiles's junk.

"Oh my god," Stiles says. Scott grins, lip caught between his teeth, still coming. Stiles keeps staring. And staring, because fuck, fuck, that is a lot of spunk. "Oh my god."

Scott laughs, quick and sharp, cut off by a low grunt as he gives his dick a few more long, slick pulls, giving it a little shake at the end of each one so the come squeezed out drips onto Stiles's balls. He smears his hand through it after, laughs again when Stiles's thighs jump, and when Stiles grumbles, "Gross, double cleanup," darts in to shut him up with his tongue.

"Seriously," Stiles says around Scott's stupid mouth, "look at this mess. Look what you did."

Obediently, Scott looks down. He shrugs and says, "Eh."

"Werewolves," Stiles mutters. He scoops a glob of come out of his belly button, glancing around for somewhere to flick it that isn't Scott's smug face.

"At least I didn't get it on the seat," Scott says, flopping down beside Stiles. Cock hanging out of his jeans, he stretches, good and long, and heaves a satisfied, "Ahh," before slumping down.

"Really," says Stiles.

"It was good," Scott says, scratching caveman-like at his belly. He pauses, eyebrows scrunching together. "It was good, right?"

Stiles goes, "Pfft," around a grin, nodding and elbowing Scott in the side until Scott relaxes and starts nodding back. Then he slaps Scott upside the head. "You asshole."

Shocked, Scott clutches at his head. "What!?"

"You ambushed me with a handjob! And then you jizzed all over me!"

"Only after you jizzed all over yourself!"

Stiles jabs a come-smeared finger at Scott's face. "Handjob."

Scott scowls. And huffs. And doesn't telegraph at all before he swoops in and sucks Stiles's finger into his mouth straight to the knuckle.

"Gaa-ah," says Stiles, clutching at a twisted corner of the blanket with one hand while Scott's tongue does really dirty, dirty things to his finger. "Uh."

Scott pulls off with a hilariously obscene pop. "Okay?"

Stiles looks down, then up, then around. The highway's still totally empty. It's really dark out there, and way colder than in here, where Scott's doing his impersonation of a space heater. He looks from his finger to Scott's mouth to his cock and back again. "Now?"

Scott shrugs. As Stiles stares at him, he scratches sheepishly at the back of his neck. "You're getting turned on again. I can smell it."

"Oh, of course," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "You can smell it."

Scott tries out a smile. "Sorry?"

"You better not be," Stiles says, grabbing at him, "because you're going first."

*
End
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