Title: Awful Ideas and Not-Awful Results
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Character(s)/Pairing: Scott/Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: initial dub-con; minor blood-play; erotic asphyxiation; scratching, use of claws
Notes: Fill for Teen Wolf Kink Meme

"Scott? Scott, are you okay?"

Upon reflection, he realizes it was stupid to think handcuffs would be enough. He'd seen Scott's recent feats of strength, seen how powerful his fury made him; he should've known handcuffing him to the radiator would only stoke his anger, push him further to that dangerous edge.

Doing this in Scott's house had also been unwise - what if Melissa had unexpectedly returned home? What if she'd seen Scott's condition? What if Scott had hurt her? Stiles also realizes that maybe it wasn't the best idea to watch Scott himself, alone, with only a door between him and a werewolf. He also should've paid greater notice to the pang of anxiety that twisted in his belly at Scott's acceptance of his lycanthropy, having anathematized himself repeatedly since he'd been bitten – and now, all of a sudden, he seemed unfazed by it. He just wanted Stiles to uncuff him. That's all.

These realizations are all upon reflection, though, and they all occur to him at once when the sharp snap of breaking metal registers too late; the door opens in time for him to see Scott's rage swell up and out. With a hoarse, fell cry he lunges toward Stiles, teeth gleaming even in the subdued dark of the house. Stiles leaps up from where he's sitting and stumbles back; he accidentally brushes his hand against the light switch when Scott throws him to the hardwood floor and straddles his waist. His features are canine and furious and bearing down on him as if to eat him, and all he can focus on above him are a set of eyes, unforgiving and bright like yellow topaz.

"Scott!" Terror courses jaggedly through his veins, making his chest ache. "Scott stop!"

His arms are jerked above his head and he thinks he can hear the bones in his wrists creaking for mercy.

"Scott, please, you know who I am! You don't want to hurt me!" Stiles gasps panicked air as Scott leans down, growl bubbling low from his chest, and presses their foreheads together. The bright yellow of his eyes is almost blinding, but then it's gone, replaced by the darkness of the hallway, and then absolutely nothing as Stiles closes his eyes. Scott drags his face downward to his neck, and Stiles is shaking and nauseated. He can feel Scott breathing open-mouthed, hot air brushing over his skin, sharp fangs scratching along down to his shoulder when Scott pulls aside the collar of his shirt.

Stiles doesn't want The Bite, he doesn't want to be a werewolf, he doesn't want Scott to suffer the guilt of turning him while under the influence of the full moon.

He swallows, loud around the dryness of his mouth, and jerks his head away, stunned, when he feels something hot and wet drag along his jaw and just behind his ear.

"Scott what the fuck! What the fuck are you doing?" They're both breathing loudly, panting, and Stiles begins to realize where this is going. "No-no-no! Scott, wait!" Stiles wheezes and grasps desperately at something, anything he could say to Scott to jar him back to reality. "Scott – Allison! What about Allison!"

He pauses and Stiles feels his heart stutter. Scott pushes himself up on his arms, releasing his wrists, and seems to look off somewhere behind Stiles; but then he turns his eyes back, staring down at him. His canine features partly recede, leaving him just with claws Stiles can feel teasing his neck. Even though he's looking up into familiar brown eyes, they're staring back at him with something completely foreign in all the looks they've shared – hunger, unbridled and dangerous.

Stiles glances down and feels his heart thump harder against his chest; Scott is very obviously erect, telling Stiles exactly what kind of hunger is around his waist and easing downward, bringing their faces close together.

He can feel Scott's breath on his mouth. "Scott, listen." Stiles slowly brings his arms down from above his head and presses his shaking hands against the chest above him. "I know you're not really thinking clearly, and that's cool, but I know you don't want to do this – " Scott's nose brushes his, and his pulse seems loud in his ears. "I know you really want Allison and you're just doing this because I'm here – "

"Stiles."

Stiles pulls his lips between his teeth and stares wide-eyed up at Scott. His voice was deeper than he was used to, throaty and low and wanting, and at that single syllable Stiles feels a familiar, sultry shiver. Scott presses his face closer, not quite touching Stiles's mouth to his own, and Stiles realizes he's never seen Scott this close before.

His fingers flex against Scott's chest, which is warm and moving as he breathes, and then Scott's mouth presses fully to his own. A hand brushes down his neck and onto his chest and across his ribs, and rises again to rest on his neck. Scott's lips part and Stiles's own relax and respond to the tongue teasing his mouth. Scott bites his lower lip and Stiles opens his mouth in an inaudible gasp, and then Scott's tongue is in his mouth, and Stiles is pushing back with his own; they're breathing roughly through their noses, trying to swallow each other down. The hand on his neck clenches, claws gently pricking his flesh, and suddenly it occurs to him whose shirt he's tugging and who he's kissing.

Stiles pushes at Scott's chest and jerks his head to the side. "Scott!" Scott kisses his way across his face to nibble and lick at his ears. "Fuck, Scott, listen!" His voice sounds light and needy; he chokes back a groan when Scott tilts his hips and presses their erections together. Stiles turns his head up, the side of his face pressing against Scott's. "Listen to me!"

Scott pulls back and eyes Stiles, mouth wet and still very slightly moving his hips.

"You wouldn't be doing this if it weren't the full moon, okay? Which means it shouldn't happen, which means we should stop, which means you need to get off of me, okay?" Stiles hates how breathless he sounds.

"Stiles," Scott's supporting himself on his hands again, but his weight had shifted lower, the pressure teasing, "I want this. I really, really want this, okay? As myself, not just as freaky full moon me." He moves his legs, and Stiles thinks he might be getting up, but then Scott is knocking Stiles's legs apart with his knees and sliding between them and moving his hips, and Stiles can't stop himself groaning. Scott kisses him full on, all mouth and tongue and teeth, and Stiles feels his body move unbidden against Scott.

Scott sets his mouth beside Stiles's ear and says, "But, even though I really, really don't want to, if you really, really want me to stop, I'll stop. I swear to God I'll stop." Scott bites his earlobe. "All you have to do is say so."

Scott's breathing against his ear, and Stiles's mouth forms the words, but he can't make the noises, can't say what he knows he should want to say, but absolutely doesn't. So he spreads his legs wider and presses his hips up.

Scott growls, the deep rumble loud and terrifying and exhilarating. He sits up and leers down at Stiles, his eyes glowing yellow and following the length of his body and the rise and fall of his chest. Stiles is breathing quick and shallow with his arms resting limply above his head, and as Scott pushes his fingers under his shirt and rucks it up under Stiles's armpits, he feels his flush deepen. Scott discards his own shirt and flattens himself back down against Stiles. He wetly kisses his mouth, along his jaw, down his neck, over his chest, across his ribs, and drags his hands down Stiles's torso to meet his mouth at Stiles's stomach. Stiles feels hot and buzzing, and the tightness in his stomach and between his legs has turned into an ache.

Scott grabs the waistline of his jeans in his fists and pulls them down, but doesn't pull them off. He presses his face to Stiles's pelvis and breathes and bites and licks like a dog marking his territory, and Stiles is enraptured. Scott's hands are rubbing him through his jeans, and he can feel his precum wet against his boxers. He reaches down and runs his hands in Scott's hair, thick and soft, and then sets his hands over Scott's.

Scott pulls his jeans and boxers down around his thighs and Stiles sucks in a gulp of air. He never thought he'd be looking down at his best friend with his dick in his mouth and his balls cupped in his hand, but as he groans through his teeth and arches his back and runs his hands along his stomach and his thighs, he decides he likes it. He's still afraid, and even though it's definitely Scott sucking his dick, this is a dangerous side of Scott – one that could hurt him – and, to his disbelief, the fear seems to make him hotter, seems to make him want Scott more.

Scott sits up, and Stiles find himself completely bare below the waist and feeling overly warm in his jacket, but Scott doesn't make a move to take it off, and Stiles is afraid to do it himself. Scott's between his legs and his claws are beginning to dig into his thighs – and suddenly, when they break the skin and he starts to bleed, he's overwhelmed by feelings and thoughts and sensations that aren't his own, and he realizes they're all coming from Scott. Scott's unconsciously making him feel what he feels, and as something hot, wet, slick, sweetly fucking amazing presses against him, he can almost taste himself in his mouth.

He moans loud, cutting into the silence of the hallway, and grabs Scott's hair tight in his hands and presses himself upward. He's got this feeling now, this quavering feeling just below the surface of his skin, something verging on anger and twisting with desire, and it makes him grit his teeth and dig his fingernails hard into Scott's scalp. Scott growls, and Stiles can feel it, right up through him along his spine and his thumping heart and into his head, and he feels his thoughts beginning to slip away from coherence and into bursts of color and feeling and sound.

He's breathing hard and opened-mouthed and craning his head up to stare down at Scott; he can feel his body twitching and trembling in anticipation. Scott kisses his way up Stiles's thigh to his knee, and stares down at Stiles with this dark, furrowed expression, like he doesn't know if he wants to pummel Stiles to a bloody pulp or pummel Stiles to a shuddering mass of sweat and spit and cum. Stiles can still feel this coming from Scott, feel the indecision and the desire for sex and violence, and Stiles feels wrong for wanting some mixture of both, for honestly believing that there has to exist some perfect combination of the two.

Stiles feels Scott press his finger, slick with spit, against him, and then push inside past the tight ring of muscle. Stiles bites his lips and Scott breathes out through his nose, watching what he's doing. Two fingers, and Stiles squirms watching Scott's arm move against him, muscles tense. Scott starts curling his fingers upward and at first it feels like something, but he doesn't know what, but then he's breathing out in shuddering gusts of air and curling his toes and wanting more, wanting Scott to crawl inside him and make him writhe and make him his own.

"Scott, Scott I'm ready." His voice sounds distant, and when Scott's above him on all fours and looking down at him like a predator does its prey, he doesn't cringe away or rethink what he's doing, he spreads his legs a little wider and licks his lips and open his mouth for Scott, who's not so much kissing him as he is consuming every bit of him.

He feels the blunt press of Scott's head and tilts his hips up in response. Scott hisses and holds himself there, and Stiles is waiting for him to move, waiting for him to push himself in. Moments pass, with Scott holding himself still and Stiles presses his hips higher, but still Scott doesn't do what Stiles wants him to do. Stiles turns his eyes up from between his legs to Scott, whose forehead is brushing his, and who's staring down at him with a smirk.

"Scott…" Stiles feels his face flush, but still Scott doesn't move, just rubs the head of his dick against Stiles, and Stiles huffs. "Please Scott, just do it!"

"Say it." Scott's voice is deep and nearly foreign.

"What?"

"Say it. Tell me what you want me to do. Beg me for it."

Stiles blushes harder and chokes on his words, and is inexplicably more aroused. "Scott – " He licks his lips and looks down at Scott's smirking mouth. "Scott please." Scott licks his lips and Stiles returns his eyes to Scott's. "Fu – " He swallows. "Fuck me. Scott, please, fuck me, please… " Scott's smirk falls as his lips pull back over his teeth. He rubs his hands on Scott's chest and says, "God please, please fuck m – " He gasps as Scott pushes in, hot and wet with spit, and it burns, feels indescribable.

His mouth is open and moving as if to say something, but no words are formed, only choked noises from the back of his throat. Scott presses fully in and Stiles can't help but grunt. He pushes his hands up under Scott's arms and clings tightly to Scott's shoulders.

"Okay?"

Stiles nods, the side of his face pressed against Scott's, and wraps his legs around Scott's thighs. Scott pulls out and Stiles breathes in a desperate gasp, and grunts again, louder this time, as Scott presses back in. He likes it and he doesn't like it and he hates it and he wants more, and as Scott forms an in and out rhythm, the warring urges give in to the other and blend so that he grits his teeth and starts to pull Scott harder into himself with his legs around Scott's thighs.

Scott groans and moves harder, but not faster, and Stiles hears himself making noises he'll likely feel embarrassed about later. He scratches his fingernails roughly across Scott's shoulders, and as he does so, something in Scott's demeanor changes; his growl cuts through Stiles's high pitched moans, the kind of moans that sound almost surprised, and he starts to fuck him hard enough that every thrust seems to knock and noise from Stiles's mouth. He pushes himself up on one arm and nearly glares down at him, eyes burning yellow and teeth bared.

Stiles pulls his own lips over grit teeth and digs his fingers hard into Scott's waist. Scott moves faster now, a little harder, and Stiles knows his thighs will be bruised from Scott's hips slamming against him. Stiles moans louder and tosses his head to the side, feeling his face and neck burning, and feels himself being fucked into some kind of primal state of being. Then a hand wraps loosely around his neck. For a while, as Stiles keeps his head turned to the side and his eyes clenched shut as he drifts further into something nearly perfect, the hand just rests on his neck, warm and unassuming.

Then claws pierce his flesh and Stiles yelps, gruff and breathless, and is completely overwhelmed.

"Fuck!" Stiles scrambles for purchase with his hands and ends up grasping onto Scott's forearms. He's nearly screaming; he can feel what Scott's feeling – the almost unbearable heat and tightness of being inside him, the sight of him writhing and moaning loud and wanton on the hardwood floor in the hallway like some kind of whore, and he can feel how much that turns Scott on, how it makes Scott want to fuck him into some kind of gibbering, senseless mess, but he can also feel a lingering darkness. It's pulling at Scott, making him move and think a certain way, like the moon pulling at the tides; the moon is pulling at Scott, at the wolf itching to tear him apart.

Stiles arches his back and opens his mouth in a silent shout, and he feels himself inching toward something, some kind of intoxicating accumulation and spill-over of feeling. The claws are still embedded in his flesh, but the hand on his neck begins to tighten, and suddenly Stiles can't breathe. He twists his head and looks up at Scott, whose fangs are white and dangerous.

He scratches at Scott's forearms and tries to say something, anything, but he can't get the words past the hand around his neck. Scott keeps fucking him, and Stiles can still feel all of it, and God everything feels perfect and he's never realized he wanted anything as bad as this, and he's teetering on a precipice. What they're doing feels iniquitous and painful and perfect, really, and he wishes he could stay there forever, keep himself feeling this good as long as possible; but the urge to fall over into the void nudges him on past the precipice, and he's cumming.

He'd be keening and wailing and screaming Scott's name if he weren't being choked. His body tenses all over and he's almost burning he's cumming so hard. His surroundings are hazy and distant and he feels high, euphoric and perfect, shuddering and beginning to relax in all the right places, his heart thundering in his chest and humming along his veins, and it seems to last and last. As his vision starts to darken and his hands relax around Scott's forearms, the hand on his neck lifts and Stiles sucks in ragged mouthfuls of air. He's barely aware of Scott groaning loud and cumming on his stomach.

Scott collapses on the floor beside him, and they lay there on their backs, Scott topless with his pants around his knees, and Stiles bottomless with his shirt bunched up and the inside of his jacket damp with sweat. He begins to come to his surroundings, his breath less frantic and his heartbeat more stable, and looks down at himself. He's covered in his and Scott's cum; blood that trickled from the claw marks has dried; his neck and thighs are almost certainly bruised or bruising.

He looks over at Scott, who's staring blankly up at the ceiling, flushed and breathless.

Stiles clears his throat and pushes himself up, but winces and tilts himself toward Scott. It wasn't excruciating, but it wasn't exactly comfortable and it certainly wasn't a feeling he was accustomed to.

"Are you okay?"

He jumps a little and says, "Uh, yeah, I'm fine." He grabs his boxers, leans back and lifts his hips up to slide them on, and stands, wincing again at the semen dripping along his stomach as he tugs down his shirt.

He grimaces and reaches for his jeans. He hears Scott pulls his own jeans up and buckle his belt as Stiles rights himself up and looks around for his socks.

"I'm sorry…"

Stiles pauses and turns around to stare at Scott. He reaches a hand up to scratch at his neck and sucks in a breath when he touches his wounds. He pulls his hand down and looks at the blood on his fingers, then up at Scott, who's looking at the blood with unchecked horror.

"It's okay!" He puts his hands in the air and says, "You didn't hurt me – well, you didn't hurt me in a way that I didn't like – fuck." Stiles blushes and wipes his hand on his jeans and again starts searching for his socks.

Scott moves closer and Stiles pauses.

"I think I know how to, like, fix it."

"Fix it?"

"Yeah, the claw marks. The cuts."

Stiles raises his eyebrows and says, "Uh, yeah, it's called hydrogen peroxide and band-aids."

Scott rolls his eyes and steps closer. "No I mean – " He cuts himself off and sets his hands on Stiles's upper arms. Stiles feels his heart beating hard again, and Scott leans forward, his breath warm against Stiles's neck, and Stiles finds himself wishing Scott wasn't in love with Allison. Scott's mouth is on his neck, and he's licking at the blood and cuts, and Stiles's brow furrows and he swallows down the noises that want to come from his mouth.

Scott sighs and steps closer, pressing their bodies back together, one hand cupping the side of Stiles's jaw and the other wrapping around his side and holding him close. Stiles is afraid to move, afraid to break the spell and make Scott step away, so he holds still. Scott trails his lips up Stiles's neck to the corner of his mouth; Stiles stands frozen.

Scott pulls away with a sorry and Stiles regrets not tilting his head and kissing Scott back. He finds his socks and his shoes and stands there with them in hand.

Scott's looking at the floor and the wall and the ceiling and basically everything that isn't Stiles.

"Um, are you okay?" Scott finally looks at him and nods. "For the rest of the night, I mean."

"Yeah, I feel a lot bet – uh, well, I feel fine."

"Okay." Stiles looks around the hallway one last time and says, "Well, uh, I need to go home… uh, see you tomorrow?" Scott nods and Stiles laughs nervously and edges around him, down the hall, down the stairs, and shuts the front door behind himself.

Outside, he sighs and rubs a hand over his face. With a shake of his head he walks to his car, tosses his shoes and socks somewhere in his back, and cringes at how loud the door creaks.

"Stiles." He jumps with a yelp and jerks around. He breathes out through his teeth and wraps his arm around his car door through the open window, the asphalt cold beneath his feet, and eyes Scott, who's still bare-chested under his hoodie. "We have to talk about this."

Stiles clears his throat. "About what?"

Scott throws his hands up and says, "I don't know, either we can talk about fucking in my hallway, or about us fucking in my hallway, or about me fucking you in my hallway, or – "

"Okay! Jesus." Stiles leans back against his car and says, "So, what? What's there to say?"

Scott frowns and says, "Was it that bad?"

"No!" Stiles pulls his arm from around the window and sets his hands over his face. "Not at all. Which is the problem."

"I… don't get it."

Stiles crosses his arms and looks at Scott, who, in typical fashion, looks confused. "You're not gay. You have a girlfriend. She's the love of your life or whatever. I like Lydia. You kissed Lydia. I chained you to your radiator because I was pissed off at you for being an astronomically shitty friend. Then you tackled me and fucked me into the hardwood, and I liked it way, way more than I should have, but now my butt hurts and I want to go home so you can go back in your room and pretend it was Allison you just humped into a state of retardation. Okay?" Stiles claps his hands together and says, "Okay."

He turns around and slides into the Jeep, but Scott holds the door open and goes to say something, closes his mouth and looks away, and Stiles says, "Scott. Let go of my door."

Scott turns to stare at him. "I'm sorry." Stiles sighs and looks out through the windshield. "I'm sorry about everything. I… I've been an asshole to you all year and you don't deserve it. Any of it. And kissing Lydia today… I mean how often am I gonna use this werewolf crap as an excuse to be a piece of shit?" Stiles is still staring out at the road, but he's listening closely. "And up there… I mean, even though it had a lot to do with the full moon, it wasn't all the full moon. I mean, it wasn't even mostly the full moon. It's was mostly, just, you know, me… wanting you." Stiles turns to look at Scott, who's staring down at the ground. "And that's what's making me feel bad – not because I didn't want it or because I wolfed out or whatever, but because I really did want it, which makes me feel bad for like… a thousand different reasons."

They're quiet for a moment, Stiles looking at Scott and Scott looking at the ground.

"Scott." He looks up and Stiles says, "We'll talk about it tomorrow, okay?"

Scott eyes him for a moment, then pulls back from the Jeep and shuts the door. Stiles starts the engine as Scott turns and walks back to his house, and realizes as he drives off that he's going to have to make up an excuse for his dad's missing handcuffs. He brings his hand up to tiredly rub the back of his neck and realizes the blood and cuts are gone. He also realizes he's going to have make up an excuse to get Scott to fix the cuts on his thighs, too. Finally, he realizes that all of these realizations tonight have led him to his final realization, which is that he's guiltily happy that he'd thought handcuffs and a radiator would be enough to deter a werewolf.

Which he still feels stupid about, but everyone's allowed brief lapses in judgment.