Intro to Investigative Virginity
by extantecstasy

Summary: Suddenly, it's imperative that Stiles get rid of his virginity. Luckily, Scott will keep him safe no matter what, even if it means a hand job or two between friends.

Notes: This contains spoilers through 3x03. This is unbeta'd, so all errors are mine. And I'm actually looking for a beta for a few other long fics I'm working on. If you're interested, hit me up here or on tumblr under the name extantecstasy!

"Wanna head out?" Stiles asks, hushed. Scott hesitates, but nods and casts one last glance around the hospital morgue, like there's something else for them to learn. Like there's another shoe that's going to drop, except it's less 'footwear' and more 'giant crushing boulder.' He's silent but Stiles can hardly blame him for that. More trouble, more life-altering madness, more dead people.

Four months of recovery and it all feels useless. Four months of getting to the point where he's sleeping again and not jumping at shadows, not pressing morbidly at his bruises, and when they faded, digging a fingernail into the skin to remind himself how fragile he is. Four months just to rocket back into this supernatural melee all over again.

As they pass the admitting desk, Scott raises a hand at his mother, who nods but doesn't move to catch them or say anything. She must sense the weariness hanging across their shoulders and gives them a smile laden with encouragement and concern.

The morgue was cold, but the hallways are not. Stiles wants to roll the sleeves of his plaid shirt up but they feel like armor right now. He doesn't want to keep thinking about the jagged lines across- her throat. He doesn't want his mind to keep scrolling through what he knows about the three victims. He wants to shut down for a few hours, block it all out, but his brain keeps running like a rabbit on stimulants, trying to find other links and patterns, something he might be missing-

His keys are poised in the lock when he stops dead.

"They're going after virgins."

Scott cranes over the hood to look at him. "Yeah? That's what you said."

"Scott. I'm a virgin."

He hears the faint noise of Scott pulling the door handle and letting it snap back when it doesn't open. "What are the chances it'll come after you though?"

"The fact there's any chance is too much!"

He fumbles the key and twists it the wrong way first before the doors unlock. Stiles flings it open and spills into the car, slamming the door closed behind him quickly, and his heart is going a little crazy with adrenaline, like he's going to turn around and someone is going to bash his head in and garrote him with Scott right there-

A large hand lands on the nape of his neck, firm but calming. "Stiles. It's okay."

Stiles jams his key into the ignition with more force than strictly necessary and feels a sick satisfaction when the engine turns a few times before starting. He's on autopilot as he pulls out of the parking lot and starts down the road to Scott's house, hands turning the steering wheel down familiar streets.

"This is so stupid, virginity is just a social construct," he mutters. Scott makes a sympathetic noise. "I just need to find someone to fuck me, that's all."

"Sure, dude. It's not gonna be that hard."

Stiles snorts. "Not that hard? There's not exactly a line of people waiting to bang

me."

They lapse back into weighted silence, but there lies a dark path. It's obvious from his response that Scott's off somewhere else, thinking his heroic thoughts, coming up with plans to save everyone, and Stiles needs to deflect, now, for his own mental health.

"Hey, you think your mom would help me out?" He waggles an eyebrow at the road for dramatic effect, but Scott misses it on account of the fact he starts choking on his own salvia, face turning comically red.

"Oh my god, dude, no!" Scott groans. "I know you think it's funny, but it's not!"

(The biggest fight Scott and Stiles ever had happened a few months after they became friends. It's Stiles' fault, really, mostly because the first time he met Melissa McCall, he developed a gigantic crush on the spot. She was the hottest mom, like Stacy's Mom level of hotness, and the inappropriateness of it never deterred him. He'd kept it under wraps - well, kind of, he only picked her fresh flowers twice a week, instead of everyday like he did for Lydia in sixth grade even though they went straight into the trashcan. It would have been fine, except he accidentally described his infatuation with Melissa in explicit terms to Scott during a sleep-talking incident.

Scott ignored him for an entire week over that.)

It's far enough in the past that Stiles can think about it without cringing. He's a bit deficient in the self-preservation area, however, since he still brings it up to watch Scott squirm despite the whole… werewolf of it all.

The weird silence is back as they pull into the McCall driveway. The jeep rolls to a stop but Scott doesn't get out; instead, he pauses, his hand hovering over the handle. Stiles sighs and his head thumps against the headrest as he shifts into park. He sighs a second time, missing Scott's appraising look. "I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Why don't you come in?" Scott says, but he sounds strange. When Stiles rolls his head to stare at him, he looks resolute. There's a peculiar tension in the air but Stiles shrugs. He'll take the tension over obsessing and worrying and researching until he either has to take another Adderall and deal with the nausea or crash face first into his pillows and drown in his own drool.

"Sure, I guess. My dad's gonna be late tonight anyway," Stiles says and follows Scott up the porch.

Just inside the door, Scott backs Stiles into the wall until they're pressed together, Scott's big brown eyes meeting his, dark, unfathomable. He's hyper aware of Scott's hands resting on his hips, fingers playing at the waistband of his jeans, the little puffs of air ghosting on his cheek. This is more than their casual intimacy, way more, especially when Scott's hands move to the fly of his red jeans.

"Dude, wha-?" Stiles chokes, right before he puts it all together: his friend's contemplative silence, the nature of the killings, and Scott McCall's need to save everyone.

Scott's hand hovers, a barely there heat that Stiles feels like a brand even through two layers of fabric. "Is this okay?" he asks.

Stiles searches his face. Nothing about his posture reads anything but determination and resolve. "Yeah," Stiles says, practically an exhale.

Scott has his pants open and dick out so quickly that Stiles suspects werewolf powers, distantly, in the parts of his brain far removed from this surreal experience. He's not hard yet, but it doesn't deter Scott, who grasps his cock and rolls it into the palm of his hand. It sends curls of pleasure up his spine. He doesn't think getting hard is going to be a problem.

Stiles isn't sure what to do with his hands or how to position his legs so that he doesn't feel huge and awkward and foreign. This is brand new territory, the type of territory porn didn't prepare him for – he feels so betrayed – and even though in theory it should be the same, just a hand and a dick and a repetitive motion, it isn't like jerking off. Not even a little bit. Stiles knows what jerking off feels like because he's the freaking gourmand of jerking off, and so far the only comparable thing is that he's going to blow at the end.

He thinks it's a control thing. He can't predict how Scott is going to move, can't influence speed or pressure or rhythm at all, and it keeps him coiled in anticipation, the kind of anticipation he feels staring down a precipice, not sure if he'll fall or fly. It's just a sex thing, Stiles knows, a saving-your-life-with-sex thing, but it's still another person's hand on his dick with the intent of orgasm and it feels fucking incredible.

Scott releases him and his cock bobs into his stomach, smearing pre-cum on his shirt. He'd protest, but his throat is dry and mouth sore from biting at it and it turns out that Scott is spitting into his hand. When his fingers curl around his cock again, Stiles jumps and thrusts up into it.

"Oh, fuck, Scott," Stiles groans into his shoulder. "Oh god. I haven't - Derek bruised my hand with the- the punch - it's been like, an entire day, shit."

He gasps when Scott tightens his grip and things get so much better, slick and hot and tight in a way his own hand never is. The little places Scott's skin catches and drags results in bright bursts of friction. Scott isn't looking at him, thank god, because Stiles isn't sure how he'd respond if the full intensity of Scott McCall's caramel eyes were zeroed in on his sex face. He's self-conscious enough as it is, not sure if he should move his hips or make noise, mouth open and panting while he watches the slide of his cock through Scott's grip.

"Fuck," he bites out. He can't keep his eyes open anymore.

"Are you close yet?" Scott says, right in his ear, breath tickling a sweet spot he didn't know he had.

"Uhh, -ish?" he says and his voice sounds destroyed already even though only scant minutes have passed. He can feel a flush climbing down his neck. "Like, the train is approaching the station, but the passengers aren't disembarking yet?"

"Oh." His mouth quirks down. "Can we relocate? This is making my wrist hurt."

Scott is already moving away when Stiles' brain catches up. He mutters an affirmation and stumbles over to the couch, uncomfortable with his dick hanging out of his pants, red and shiny, to where Scott sits expectantly.

"You should take your jeans off."

Stiles strips the red denim off but leaves his boxers on, even though his dick is already pulled through the opening. He feels even sillier when he stands there and gestures at the couch and asks, "So… how do you want me?

Scott saves him from potentially embarrassing or hurting himself flailing onto the couch and braining someone trying to get his limbs settled in place by pulling Stiles onto his lap. His legs fit awkwardly over Scott's and he shimmies until he slots comfortably against Scott, straddling him with his knees pressing into his sides and Scott's head resting in the crook of his neck.

This time, Scott starts slowly. He flexes his fingers and then drags a callused thumb twice across the cluster of nerves at the base of his head, right where it meets the shaft, and the spark is so electric, Stiles' hips can't decide if they want to thrust closer or shy away from the pressure.

His hand moves lower to stroke Stiles' balls, pressing up until Stiles is gasping and grinding against Scott's stomach, burying his face in Scott's hair to breathe in his faint eucalyptus scent.

"Yeah," he says, low and breathy, when Scott thumbs across his slit. His cock pumps another drip of sticky pre-cum that smears across Scott's stomach when he rolls his hips. His shirt is a mess of sweat and come, sticking to his abs in obscene ways.

He twists his fingers into the hem and tugs a little. "You should take this off."

Scott's voice, when he replies, sounds strained. "Yeah, okay."

Stiles pulls back far enough so Scott can get his shirt up and over his head. He lobs it behind the couch, where it gets stuck on the bannister railing. Stiles stifles a laugh because the unreality of this situation, but things don't seem as ridiculous when he settles back in and his dick rubs up against Scott's bare skin. Also, there is something pressing into the curve of his ass.

He wonders, distantly, how this encounter switched from "get Stiles off to save his life" to "get Stiles off really hard until he's a gibbering mess" but it happened.

"This escalated quickly," he says into Scott's hair.

Stiles gulps, rocks back against the bulge in Scott's jeans and feels his pulse jump when Scott exhales a not-quite moan. His ass is flush with Scott, so he rocks back again, then forward, settling into a grinding rhythm that has both of them gasping. Small electric spots dance across Stiles' nerves every time he rubs against Scott's skin. He feels like he's mindless with it, writhing and close, so close-

"Shit, Stiles," Scott mutters into his neck. His teeth scrape across his throat at the same time he gets a hand back on Stiles' cock and Stiles can't help the warbling moan, his first real one, and he's too far gone to even feel self-conscious about it.

The grip tightens and Scott speeds up until he hits a rhythm approximating what Stiles likes on his own, except with a little twist at the end that swipes right across the head, and Stiles moves restlessly into each down stroke, dragging wetness across Scott's stomach.

"Is this okay?" Scott asks because Stiles hasn't said anything in a while, brain to frazzled to form words.

"Yes," Stiles says, and then a few moments later, "Scott, Scott, Scott, I'm gonna-"and Scott furrows his brows in concentration and doubles down on his rhythm and it's really that look of total focus that causes Stiles' thighs to seize and tremble, his muscles winding tight and hot until the tension snaps through him like a livewire.

Stiles drops his head to Scott's shoulder, bites down hard, and comes.

He ignores Scott wiping his hand on Stiles' t-shirt, too caught up in endorphins to feel grossed out. He's still panting as he flops off of Scott's lap and onto the couch cushion, sweaty and tired and relaxed all at once.

"Dude," Stiles says.

Scott nods and squirms a little, like he's trying to readjust himself without sticking a come-wet hand down his pants. It would be polite to offer some kind of reciprocation, but the lines are so blurred and the territory so new that Stiles doesn't want to push, doesn't want to make the one move that tips them into the truly awkward. He settles for pushing his own cock into his boxers, pointedly not looking at Scott's crotch.

"I think that should keep you safe," Scott says quietly. He toes off his shoes, one at a time, and kicks them into the coffee table with a thump.

"Okay, but is that enough? I mean, am I properly devirginized?"

Scott frowns. "I dunno. Do you feel devirginized?"

"I don't know!"

"Maybe I should blow you just in case?"

Stiles' mouth drops open. "You- I- oh my god!"