The Howling

Rating: M

Disclaimer: Teen Wolf would be a full out XXX porno if it belonged to me.

Caution: Underage male/male relations, adult language/themes.

A/N: This story is AU, meaning "Author's Universe". The story is my own, but I will stay true to the characters as much as possible. Thank you for reading and/or reviewing. :]

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Either Scott was really heavy or Stiles was really weak. He decided to blame it on his own fatigue and dragged his friend carefully to the stairs. When the first step proved problematic, Stiles switched to a piggy-back ride.

"Nice," he heard his father's voice somewhere behind. The teen looked back at his half-uniformed father, leaning with ease on the kitchen counter, arms crossed and face sporting a smirk.

"Remember what I said about the carpets."

Stiles' nose scrunched up as he turned forward, Scott's head resting perfectly against his left shoulder. "Thanks for all the help Dad."

"Let me know if you need a bucket or any newspaper."

He tried not to think about his father laying newspaper down everywhere, like if they owned a new puppy or something, and continued up the stairs. His weight shifted carefully from foot to foot, occasionally pausing to haul Scott upwards. And then halfway Stiles paused and shifted Scott again, a bit uncomfortable. His back was sore with another person's equal (perhaps more) weight, and his knees were starting to shake.

It was Stiles' following stifled groan that woke Scott, sort of; his eyes seemed to keep shutting. "Ah, sleeping beauty, we're almost to my room," said Stiles as low as possible. He almost didn't recognize his voice, but continued with "Please don't turn into a werewolf before we get there. My Dad would kill you, then me."

Scott's eyes closed and stayed that way, but he mouthed a smile into Stiles' shoulder. "I am so sorry man, so, so, sorry," he managed to hoarse back. The stairs below creaked with their combined weight. Stiles sighed and leaned forward into the next step.

"Thank me after we overcome staircase-mountain."

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He bent low, beside Scott's lurching body, and scooped up his dark hoodie and discarded sneakers. Stiles never realized how lucky he was to have his own bathroom. Apart of him felt guilty. He shouldn't have let Scott get hammered like this.

"Allison," Scott breathed, quickly jerking his head from the toilet, though his hands remained glue on either side of the porcelain.

Stiles blinked, hesitating for a moment. "Her aunt picked her up outside the party." He really didn't want to mention that the woman had been shooting daggers at Scott. Maybe she just didn't like drunken slurs he'd been spewing. Maybe she was just a bitch.

Scott's head twisted back down, and Stiles wasn't sure if it was because he realized now how much of an ass he looked or because he had to throw up again. Stile felt his stomach turn.

"I'm…gonna go put your stuff in my room. Be back in a few," Stiles said cautiously, eyeing the small pointy nails that were beginning to reveal themselves on Scott's fingertips. He shut the door tightly and kept a firm grip on the handle, his body pressed to the side.

"Hey, don't tear that place apart, remember I live here," Stiles called through the wood. Scott moaned something in return, which Stiles' took as an 'I'll try'.

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The room was no longer spinning, so that was a good improvement, but Scott still was fighting the sick sensation in his stomach. He was sprawled out on Stiles' twin bed, eyes half open, legs hanging off the end. His head was throbbing to his pulse, and his spit felt sticky and unnatural.

There were other problems more concerning to Scott. He couldn't smell as well, and could barely walk let alone jump out a bedroom window. What if he was attacked? Though in his current state he didn't give a flying fuck about the Alpha, about Derek, not even about his mom or Allison. He just wanted Stiles to get back and take care of him.

"Wow, that was selfish," Scott thought, fighting off another wave of nausea and guilt.

He groaned and quickly brought his hands to his face. Maybe if he suffocated the sound Mr. Stilinsky wouldn't kick him out. The man wasn't too keen on underage drinking.

"Hey," Stiles said softly, poking his head through the door. "I did some research and totally have the answer to all your problems." Scott laughed, actually laughed, and removed his hands from his face. He looked down, over his stained t-shirt and half-hanging legs to Stiles in the doorway.

He watched, half-out of it, as the other teen closed the door quietly—it was interesting to see Stiles act quiet—and carried a plastic jug of water and a hand palming three pills. Stiles walked around to the right side of his bed and set the jug and pills down—the noise, though minimal, made Scott physically wince—then sat on his bed beside him.

"Alright, I've got two Ibuprofens and one vitamin B. The gallon of water should hydrate you, but just let me know and I'll get more."

Scott sighed and looked from Stiles to the nightstand, then back to his friend's troubled face. "Sorry for worrying you." And just like that Scott's words changed Stiles' face. He watched his eyes roll and shoulders shrug, and if Scott wasn't fighting a headache he might have said something else.

"I ain't worried, just you know, hoping you don't get so fucked up with having a hangover that you turn all wolf on me…"

Scott chewed his lower lip, lost. "Not that you will," quickly added Stiles, who then turned away and reached for the pills and jug.

"Um, you wanna cup, or is this—" he motioned to the perspiring jug. Scott shook his head "It's fine, really. I'm sorry."

A small smile tugged at Stiles' lips. "Stop apologizing, you sound like a chick."

Scott somehow managed to prop himself up, his whole body screaming for him to stay still, and eventually he realized his body was refusing to cooperate. He would've kept falling onward to the mattress if Stiles hadn't caught him.

One hand was clasped on his farther shoulder—his left one—while Stiles' other hand pressed against Scott's chest. His hold was warm, sturdy, friendly.

"You are so fucked up," Stiles laughed and removed his hand from Scott's shoulder to hand him the pills. Scott took them dry, or at least tried to, but Stiles shoved the jug in between his legs. He probably should've held the jug to Scott's mouth too, because soon his entire front was damp with water. Even the pale sheet beneath him had a few dark specks.

Scott sighed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then turned to Stiles, whose hand still remained on his chest. They didn't say anything, just smiled goofily like the weirdoes they were, and then Scott leaned in his direction—and Stiles got up, gently pushing Scott back.

Their eyes locked, only Scott failed to realize his were glowing. Stiles tried to play it off.

"I'm sleeping in the guest room, if you need anything. It's right down the hall—well, you know." Scott blinked and felt his eyes change back—when had they changed—and watched Stiles' mouth move, partially comprehending what he was saying, partially wishing he'd sit back down so his neck didn't have to hurt.

"What…?" asked Scott, squinting up towards his friend. "I'll be in the other room," Stiles annunciated, making Scott roll his eyes.

"Wait, just stay a little longer," he said and grabbed Stiles' wrist, just in case he decided move from the bed and bump into his desk.

Stiles' face was unreadable for a moment, but Scott wasn't worried. His thoughts were clearing up, pain draining from all possible places. He could smell Stiles again, really smell him, everything that made up his scent. "I think I'm…healing," Scott finished, flashing a light grin. Stiles' breathed a sigh of relief and sat back down. He didn't let go of his wrist, just in case.

"I thought you were gonna bite me. But I guess those pills and water sped up your badass healing abilities?" Stiles asked, and Scott was really relieved that Stiles was relieved. He could feel his relief, feel everything.

"I guess so," Scott chuckled and applied a bit of pressure to Stiles' caught wrist. It felt good, like every nerve ending on his body was focused on the one sensation. "Scott? Hey, seriously," Stiles began, but Scott wasn't listening. His eyes didn't hurt anymore either, and so they zoomed in on Stiles' wrist, and beyond. He could feel—no, hear—Stiles' pulse, smell his scent. Then he caught a flash of, yes, red skinny veins, flowing and pumping, giving life to Stiles.

"Stiles. This is you? Is this how you really feel and smell and taste—"

"You're hurting me," Stiles' voice was small, the first traces of adrenaline seeping into his bloodstream.

Scott's renewed senses came flooding back all at once; it felt like he was meeting Stiles for the first time. Almost, since Scott had felt this way around Stiles before, but this time was somehow…new. He wasn't even sure if that made sense, and he realized how little he cared. His grip on Stiles' wrist worsened, causing the other boy to gasp and twist his wrist in an attempt to break free.

"Dude, what're you—" Scott didn't want to know what he was doing, so with his other hand he latched onto Stiles' shirt collar and dragged him closer. Wait, no, he knew exactly what he was doing, he just wasn't going to think about.

Stiles' heart was pounding, eyes wide and body tensing. Scott sensed all this and more, bent his head down and sniffed, long and hard. The hidden scents of disgust and shame and—yes, arousal—flooded his nostrils, causing them to flair.

"Stay," was all he managed to get out his mouth before dragging Stiles down.

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Stiles had never been one to complain when it came to sex, especially if the other person was attractive—better yet, more attractive then he'd ever be. However, this usually applied to soft and sweet-smelling redheads who were into asshole jocks, not tan brunette boys he hung out with.

Now as he lay on his back on his bed, hands pinned above his head with an inhuman amount of force, Stiles realized he was about to have some form of sex. He wasn't sure how it was going to work, and felt he should since he spent an ungodly amount of time on the internet, but then his straight factor kicked in. Panic and rage followed.

"This isn't happening," he thought as loudly as possible. "No, no, why? Why? This isn't happening, Scott's being an asshole, he's going to stop, oh God please make him stop—"

"Hey, calm down."

Stiles' and Scott's eyes locked, only his eyes were glowing, no, burning bright yellow. "And I don't think God's listening," continued Scott, and his eyes, they pierced into Stiles, into his subconscious and somewhere else, somewhere deep and hidden.

"S-Scott," he managed to shakily get out. "Please. Don't do this." And since when had Scott been telepathic? Who was he, a fucking x-man?

Scott leaned down, pressing a knee further in between Stiles' legs. He then cocked his head to the side and Stiles watched his nostrils flair for the umpteenth time. Was he…smelling him? Again?

"You want this as much as me."

Stiles felt his pupils dilate, literally fucking dilate and his muscles filled with a different sort of energy. It was strange, didn't feel natural, and Stiles suddenly felt very fuzzy. He couldn't think coherently. For a moment he thought he might be drooling.

Slowly, Scott released his wrists, which were heavy and unwilling to punch to Scott. His hands instead slid down to either side of Stiles' head, a few fingers grazing against his cheek. No, wait, those were Scott's fingers, tracing his jaw line and tipping his chin up.

"You can't lie to me."

Their lips touched for the first time, Scott tilting his head while Stiles' remained frozen in place, lips moving without his permission. Panic washed over Stiles, and he knew everything and nothing simultaneously. He closed his eyes and whimpered, tears he refused to shed sliding down his face.

Scott was wrong but right—and oh God, Scott was so close. Heat and smells were being swapped, the air was different too. Everything was different, he could only focus on Scott.

Stiles couldn't breathe and broke the powerful kiss, mouth gaping and eyes wide.

"You're always lying to me," he retorted, and the boy on top pulled back, back, and shed his shirt. And—fuck, he really had been working out. "About your powers, hanging out when you're with Allison, about—" Stiles cut himself off, glaring. Scott was marveling at him, obviously not listening, and that alone was infuriating.

"And right now something else is going on! Stop fucking with me—"

Scott mumbled, a little softer, "You always know when I'm lying, don't you? Even though—"

"I'm not a werewolf? Like Derek and you? You are such an asshole." Stiles' chest heaved upwards, a new, stronger burst of energy calming him. He wanted to scream, very badly, for his father, but when he opened his mouth nothing happened. The energy, it was overpowering and illuminating from Scott, it had to be, or Stiles had been slipped an extreme date-rape drug.

"What are you gonna do to me?" he managed to asked, and maybe that wasn't the best question, because Scott gave no answer. He just smiled in a way that could be serene but came off as extremely creepy, predatory.

Stiles shut his eyes and waited for pain, only to feel Scott leaning in closer, closer, much too close until their lips pressed together a second time. His eyes in turn decided they wanted to see this for themselves and popped open. Because now Scott was kissing him a second time, chests were still barely touching, strong hands slipping down to Stiles' waist.

The kiss deepened. Scott gained more confidence. Stiles began feeling so many things he knew and sensed were wrong. But he didn't move away, couldn't. Together their lips opened for short breathes, tongues exploring each other's mouths, bodies shifting and pulsing as one. Scott should taste bitter, a mixture of vomit and tequila, but Stiles realized he could only taste something sweet and buttery. He didn't like it but couldn't stop. His body started feeling warmer, aroused.

And so his eyes fluttered shut, hands shakily making their way to Scott's bare shoulders. They were taut, and thick with lean muscle. He let his fingers press and dig in to them, receiving a low growl from Scott. It wasn't a warning to stop, because Scott kept kissing him, almost urging him on to explore.

And so Stiles became increasingly distracted with the smoothness of the other boy's skin, and the sweat that was causing his hands to stick didn't help—not that anything could help him at this point—and then Stiles' arms were wrapped around Scott's neck, his hands tugging and teasing the boy's curls, enjoying themselves even more.

Scott's hands moved too, gripping Stiles' waist and jerking him upwards to meet his own hips.

Stiles gasped and broke the kiss, head slamming back and spine arching as Scott grinded into him. It was an unknown rhythm to Stiles, full of intense sensations he'd only experienced briefly with girls. He could really feel Scott, how hard he was, how much he wanted him, just him—

"Fuck," swore Scott, his head tossed back, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. His whole body went rigid and shook, briefly, before Scott came back down and collapsed onto him.

As Scott's breathing slowed down, something broke inside of Stiles. The warmth and smells and sensations were all gone. Reality came crashing back, sparking his brain back to life. Scott, his best friend and a fucking fairytale werewolf, had just grinded on him and came in his pants, not to mention they'd kissed and said some very fucked up…but true things.

But this didn't explain how Stiles was feelings now. His own dick was softening, fast. It was as if now that Scott was done all the sex and pleasure went with him.

Now instead of confused bliss, Stiles felt exasperated, like he couldn't breathe, and jerked his head to his left. He wanted to get away from Scott, who had his head in the crook of his right shoulder. Like that was the normal course of action to take. His heart was pounding, rage building.

"What the fuck did you just do?"

Scott's eyebrows arched, in a manner that infuriated Stiles further.

He closed his eyes, screwed and scrunched them tightly, trying to calm himself, but Scott was up and moving a hand down between them, to Stiles' fly zipper—

"Don't," Stiles snapped, eyes opening. "Don't. Touch me." He sat up and pushed Scott back, who landed on the edge of the bed, and simply sat there.

He looked hurt. Stiles didn't give a shit. He wasn't stupid. He knew Scott had just used some sort of werewolf mind-whammy-pheromone thing on him. He remembered now, he'd read it somewhere on a website, and that was some major bullshit to pull. And it hurt, God, did it hurt, whatever Scott had just done.

"Get out of my room," he said, face blank and body aching. He threw his legs over the side of his bed and escaped to the bathroom, fists clenched. He told himself he wasn't crying as he slumped to the floor, back against the cool door. After two hours of staring at his socked feet, he returned to find Scott—and his scattered shirt, hoodie, and sneakers—were gone. And he'd left the window open too.

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