A/N: As with all my ridiculous, filthy porn, I would use this space to profusely apologize to you all, except I'm really not all that sorry. In addition, I am shifting any and all blame to kaleidomusings for the foreseeable future because she's the one who made me a kink bingo card, thus releasing the tide of increasingly shameful smut about to come your way. :P
This was all feverishly written in one sitting last night- ending at five in the morning. If it starts to get a little delirious at the end, that is why. I wish I could say it was beta'd, but I scare all my editors away, so... enjoy!
It's a kind of unspoken, but irrefutable truth that when a large group of hormonal boys shares a locker room, shit can and will happen. But what goes down inside those hallowed, stained, ignoble walls, stays within those walls. It just saves a lot of pain and effort and long, uncomfortable talks with too many people. And really, what is one to say about literal pissing contests, group tips on manscaping, and the occasional rat tail wars?
Once you sign up to be a part of a high school sports team, you're really signing away any rights you had to modesty, privacy, and a world ruled by logic of any kind. Scott had apparently known that from the get-go and was perfectly fine assuming the waiver. He took to the group nudity like a duck took to water, more than happy to bro-hug a guy (right hands clasped firmly between their chests, left coming around the back to slap twice on the opposite shoulder blade) while in the buff—effortlessly perfecting the hip-quarter-turn-to-avoid-unwanted-junk-contact maneuver.
Stiles, on the other hand, had been woefully uninformed, and wholly terrified, being of the changing in a bathroom stall persuasion since puberty. It wasn't exactly that he was self-conscious of what he had—sure he wasn't ripped, sure he didn't have thick thatches of hair, sure he was pale and freckled, but he was pretty damn rockin' in his own right—it was more that he wasn't quite sure how he wanted it to fit all in with the others. Because even if it probably was pretty simple to commit those gestures to muscle memory, Stiles found out quite early on, that he didn't want to.
Honestly, he kind of wanted to junk-touch every guy in there, maybe, occasionally, once in a dream, Scott too. He wasn't going to be able to keep his palm flat and his touch perfunctory when giving congratulatory slaps on the ass. His gaze wouldn't simply skim and skip across the miles of naked skin. And his dick sure as hell wasn't gonna stay flaccid when another teammate was running his fingers down Stiles' happy trail, feeling out just where and how much to shave! It was all just a fat, juicy, thick, throbbing, no.
Only thing was, he'd already made the team, made the commitment, made the room in his schedule and the argument to his dad that this would be a good thing for him. Boy, when he was wrong, he was wrong. The first few games had been played at home and it was easy enough to come from home, already changed and gearing to go—and then make his excuses and quick exits afterwards to dive into his jeep, push aside his jock strap, and fist himself to the remembered feel of a rival player tackling him from behind and grinding all up in it.
Away games were trickier—teammates wanting to go for food afterwards, carpooling being highly encouraged, no one finding concentrated levels of b.o. something worth tolerating, even for a night. Still, he manages it. There's close calls of course, but Stiles is determined and crafty and more horny than you'll ever know. It's enough to fuel a guy to go to great lengths, always has been, probably always will be.
But a month into this cat and mouse game, Stiles meets his match. The road games. Crammed on a bus, shoved into a locker room, coupled in motel rooms. There's no escape, and no matter how many times he tries to get out of it—how many colorful excuses and simulated substantiations—he still ends up sitting next to Isaac, changing in front of Jackson, and rooming with Scott. It's easily the longest day of his life, and oddly enough, the most fulfilling.
Stiles thinks he'll save himself, at least for a few hours, by sitting all the way in the back of the bus—where the seats are broken, the floors are covered in mystery liquids, and the exhaust from the tailpipe permeates through the cracks in the windows. Telling Scott that he spent the night dungeon crawling instead of sleeping, and that he needs a nice long nap, gets him out of any social obligations, and he heads straight for that extended row, tossing his backpack in the center and cramming up against the wall, preparing to ignore the chub already stretching his briefs. Danny just had to wear a tanktop and board shorts on the bus ride—couldn't chill in grungy sweats and flip flops like everyone else, no!
For the first hour or two it's fine—mission going according to plan. Stiles keeps his earbuds jammed in, a book on deck, and a healthy supply of cold shower images at the ready (that time he'd hidden in the stalls after practice, thinking everyone was gone, only to walk in on Greenberg bent over Finstock's knee, all too gleeful in his punishment). He gets lazy though, gets bored and starts convincing himself that he's overreacting.
With half-open eyes watching the crowd of guys in front of him, Stiles lets his hand drift down his chest, underneath his sweatshirt to rub at his stomach, and then down to the front of his sweats to cup at his balls. With a breathy sigh he spreads his legs and sinks lower into the seat, thumb scratching just below his navel, teasing at the wiry hairs. He bites his lip, and is just about ready to give up the ghost and grope himself in earnest, when he hears someone clear their throat just to his left, and he jumps out of his seat, suddenly very much aware of how bad this looks.
Isaac is standing with a duffel slung over his shoulder, eyebrows inching up towards his hairline, self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Am I interrupting something? I can come back?" Stifling a laugh, he hooks a thumb over his shoulder and looks pointedly and the still-wide vee of Stiles' legs.
"Ah! Uh, no—not at all. Nothing going on here." Stile shakes his head violently and claps his legs shut, feeling his face grow beet red. Lying never really was his strong suit. If it's even possible, Isaac's eyebrows climb even higher and the amusement falls from his face, replaced by something almost curious. He wipes at his bottom lip with that hitched thumb and looks back over his shoulder, shifting his weight back and forth for a moment before tossing his stuff beside Stiles' and sitting close enough that their thighs touch.
Stiles can't help himself from staring at their point of contact, throat going dry and dick getting harder, curving up towards his stomach and tenting his pants. He clenches his hands together, white knuckled grip, and lays them over the bulge, eyes going wide as he swallows, hard. Feeling like his face just might melt off, he goes to stare out the window, place his cheek against the cool glass, but stops when Isaac's fingers creep from his own knee onto Stiles'.
His breathing starts getting hard and without his permission, Stiles' leg presses into the touch, rubbing against Isaac's. Isaac's eyes are bright and innocent and he catches Stiles' gaze and he whispers, breathily. "I'm a little nervous too—could use some distraction… relief." His fingers creep higher up Stiles' thigh, applying more pressure.
All Stiles can do for a moment is stare back, dumbfounded, until he gets a little of his wits back, and nods furiously, cramming himself back into the corner—Isaac following into his space, so neither of them are in the line of sight of the open aisle. So utterly smooth and practiced and nonchalant that Stiles finds himself wondering if this isn't his first time, Isaac keeps his head and shoulders level—gaze straight ahead—as he slips his own sweats down past the swell of his ass, but still above his knees, revealing a tight pair of grey boxers, sporting an elephant's smiling face—a loose sleeve in the place of its trunk.
At any other time, Stiles would be busting his gut laughing, maybe even busting his bladder depending on the last time he'd went, but as that sleeve starts to fill, starts to raise up, he finds himself utterly grave. Throwing shifty glances towards the front, but unable to keep his eyes away from Isaac lazily stroking his own hip bones for long, Stiles mirrors the movement—infinitely less graceful, but ultimately just as successful—baring his own sky blue briefs with over-easy eggs, bacon, and other breakfast foods on them, so old they have skid marks in the back from a less self-aware time.
Smack dab in the center of a stack of flapjacks a wet spot has started to form, and Isaac's gaze is drawn to it instantly. Without any semblance of a preamble, Isaac reaches out to rub the pads of his fingers along it, caressing Stiles' swollen cockhead through the thin material, causing embarrassing amounts of precum to bead and then soak into the fabric. He keeps his arm low, barely telegraphing any movement past his elbow, but rubs feverishly, his mouth hanging open and his breaths hot and wet.
Stiles lets his head fall back against the vinyl seat, his own jaw working to keep back the wanton moan that is trying to claw its way from his throat and his hips circling and pushing up into the pressure. Lolling his head to the side, eyes glued to the now-full elephant trunk, Stiles slides his own hand along Isaac's sinfully sharp hipbones, caressing the hard spurs and scratching at the sensitive skin, pride swelling in his chest as the grey pillar twitches and jerks.
They tease each other for a while—enough to get flushed and wet and desperate—but eventually Isaac's fingers begin to dig at the network of seams on Stiles' crotch, searching for that little opening to push open. When they find it, they spread the fabric and usher it down, down, to the base of Stiles' cock, cushioned by dark hairs. For just a brief second, Isaac loses all his careful composure—eyebrows drawing together, teeth pulling harshly at his lips, high whine escaping his throat—as he gazes almost reverently at Stiles' erection. "Jesus, man. Lookit—oh."
Stiles doesn't have time to wonder over that reaction because the next instant Isaac licks his palm and closes it over Stiles' shaft—firm and slick and sure. He twists his wrist and starts pumping up and down at a speed that leaves no space for thinking. Stiles takes a moment to enjoy it, thrusting weekly up into the sensation, but knows not to be selfish.
He lets his own hand slide beneath the waistband of Isaac's boxers and pull his dick from its covering, overly pleased with the strawberry blonde pincurl pubes and soft pink button head. It's notably smaller and thinner than his own, but feels amazing in his fist—hard and hot and slick. It's difficult, at first, to find a way to move without making those tell-tale squelching noises, but he follows Isaac's lead and grips onto the skin, working it along the shaft instead of letting his hand fly along it.
Stiles tries out all the tricks he knows, sweeping his thumb across the open slit, pinching and rolling the head between his fingers, pulling against the natural bend and then letting go. It's enough to get Isaac to join him in the eager roll of their hips and appearance be damned—Stiles find himself switching to jack at Isaac with his left hand, while his right dives back into his boxers to clutch at his tightening balls. After that it only takes a few tugs and Isaac is tensing up, pressing himself hard into the seats as Stiles points his dick forward—ejaculation spattering against the seat in front of them.
He works Isaac through the aftershocks—gentler and slower, but not any less lewd—and finds himself not wanting to let go, even as his dick grows soft. But Isaac bats him away casually, compromising by leaving himself still untucked as he grabs back hold of Stiles, this time with both hands. Stiles spreads his legs as wide as he can manage, discreetly reaches beneath his sweatshirt to pinch at his nipples, and curls his toes when he comes, spilling all over Isaac's fists and in-between his fingers.
He goes to apologize—eyes wide and heart thundering—but Isaac just sticks them in his mouth, cleaning them deftly and without pause. Wordlessly, they pull back up their sweats, try and catch their breath, knock knees and share a nervous smile. A few minutes later Isaac presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Stiles' mouth—brief and moist and smelling of spunk.
The bus ride doesn't seem all that long from there.
Stiles doesn't have the space in his head to worry about changing when they get there, and plays the best first half of his life. It doesn't last long though when Isaac breezes by and gropes his ass on the field, fingers digging well into the cleft of his ass, and Stiles stumbles, collides headfirst with Jackson. He sprains his ankle and Jackson pulls his groin and the both of them are taken out right as they break for the half. During Finstock's zealous, aspirationally motivating speech in the locker room Isaac mouths 'Sorry!' at him and shrugs his shoulders, looking absolutely anything but apologetic.
Jackson shoots daggers at him from the opposite side, and if looks could kill, Stiles would be stabbed a half dozen times and maybe even chopped into pieces. Everyone files out once the buzzer sounds, Scott clasping his shoulder as he goes, and leaves the two of them amongst the sticky tiles and dirty laundry. Jackson continues to stare, Stiles smiles as wide as he can manage, and the stalemate of the century begins. "We should probably get back into training gear—at least head out and cheer them on, y'know?"
Jackson stares. Feeling awkward the whole time, but unsure what else to do, Stiles undoes the laces on his cleats, peels away his socks and shin guards, stands and pulls his jersey up over his head. He stops undressing to put in his combination, open the locker and shove the sweat soaked pieces into a separate, zippered compartment of his duffel. Rolling his shoulders and nervously bouncing on his heels, he sneaks another look at Jackson—still glaring.
Trying not to feel like a peep show, Stiles wiggles his waistband past his hips and lets his shorts fall to the floor, stepping out of them, and bringing them up to his hands with his good foot—not wanting to bend over and let Jackson's steely eyes meet his singular brown one. He tosses those in as well, and when Jackson still hasn't moved, rolls his eyes and goes for broke, plucking his dank cup out the front of his jockstrap with pointed fingers and then sliding the undergarment off itself.
He hears a sharp intake of breath to his right, and when Stiles straightens back up, hanging free, Jackson is staring, but not at his face. For some reason, it takes Stiles a second to parcel it out, actually having to physically follow Jackson's line of sight, but when he realizes his junk is being ogled at, he feels strangely… empowered. It's a little bit because Jackson looks like he just swallowed his tongue, but mostly it's because he does a little looking of his own and Jackson's shorts are beginning to stir. "Stilinski—you—you're—I—you've got to be fucking kidding me."
Stiles smirks, slow and saccharine, before stepping forward and bracing himself against Jackson's spread knees, straddling the bench. "I already said I was sorry out on the field, but if there's another way I could make it up to you…" He lets the sentence hang, and feels a thrill go up his spine when Jackson gulps, unconsciously spreads his legs wider, checks over his shoulder.
Taking that as a yes, Stiles starts massaging Jackson's inner thigh with one hand, letting it trail up into his shorts and pinch at the muscle. The other pulls his cleats free, and on impulse, he lifts one to his nose—sniffs experimentally and feels his cock twitch when the ripe odor filters through his nostrils. Jackson groans, low and broken and Stiles grins at that, throws the shoe over his shoulder, and moves both hands down to massage his still socked feet. His thumbs press at the arches, his fingers work at the ankles, and he presses his nose to the splayed toes, feeling dirty and delighted as he feels his cock wet at the scent.
Jackson's fully hard now, leaning back against the bench and holding on for dear life as Stiles guides his foot between his legs, brings it to rest, nestled in his crotch, erection pressed all the way from heel to toe—cockhead peeking over the top. Jackson puts varying levels of pressure against it, rubbing and clenching around it, and Stiles bites the inside of his cheek as he pulls the other boy's shorts down, nosing at the hair along his thighs and sucking raspberries into the soft skin.
Feeling raunchy and wrong and so, so right, Stiles just keeps going and buries his face between Jackson's legs, groaning wide and open mouthed at the heady musk—so thick he can taste it along the back of his tongue. He doesn't half to pull Jackson's jockstrap very far before he can nip at his taint, reveling in the way it makes Jackson shudder and squirm and whine. He gets lost in the scent and the taste and lets his deft fingers pull out the unforgiving cup, freeing Jackson's dick to burst from the small pocket of ribbed, yellowed fabric and out into the open air.
It's longer than Isaac's, but not really thicker and certainly not as pretty. The head is a darker color—not quite red, but not pink either—and has a swooping indent on the top—flare exaggerated in the middle and almost non-existent on the sides. It has thin veins that run along its length and instead of running straight like a rod, it curves towards his belly, like Stiles'. He's hesitant to say that it's gorgeous, but delectable could certainly be used and Stiles finally finds himself coming up for air, only so he can go down on it. One of his hands curls around Jackson's hips and comes to squeeze at his comically, but endearingly small ass and the other runs all the way up his stomach to his chest and down again, needing to rub against all that smooth skin.
Jackson waxes—Stiles had heard all too much about it already—except for his legs and his pubes, which he trims himself, into a neat, short plateau that mirrors the line of his muscles. It looks clean and put together, and Stiles appreciates the way his stomach feels so tender beneath his hands, but he kind of wishes there was something to nuzzle into on his way down, and the inhumanly round balls weird him out.
Still, with the way Jackson is moaning his name, the way his foot is pressing against his cock, the way his sweat sheened body smells, the way his cock tastes and feels against Stiles' tongue, there's not much room for complaining. Spit gathers at the corners of Stiles' mouth and soon enough it starts to get loud and sloppy as he bobs up and down, immeasurably turned on by the way Jackson's body vibrates when he moans. Jackson is close—he can tell by the way his ass cheeks alternately quiver and clench on each downward slide.
It works for him, as Stiles ruts against the scratchy-soft material of his sock and hollows out his cheeks. "Fuck, ya. Just like that!" Jackson practically mewls and thrusts against the wet pocket of Stiles' cheek, laying down against the faux wood so he can finger at Stiles' cheek and throat with one hand, and rub at his taint with the other. Thinking that, if he's gonna get this down and dirty, he may as well do it right, Stiles pulls off of Jackson to lick a thick stripe all the way up his shaft and linger at the tip, mouth wide as he furiously jacks at the spit saturated skin.
Moving to complain, but changing his mind when he saw what Stiles was doing Jackson kicks at Stiles' crotch and lets himself go completely. "Always knew you wanted me Stilinski, could see you thirsting after my cock at the urinals, checking out my ass at practices. Got me so damn horny I thought my balls were gonna burst. If I woulda known you wanted it this bad, I'd have let you on your knees years ago, let you suck my cum through my shorts with those pretty lips of yours." Stiles feels offended and hideously turned on at the same time—about on par with the rest of this frenemy fuck—and redoubles his efforts.
"Woulda loved that, wouldn't you? Probably stolen one of my cups—sniffed at it while you touched yourself in the stalls, come in it and put it back." Jackson's getting himself more and more riled up, ass lifting clean off the bench as his words grow faster and closer together. "Does it get you hot, thinking about our cocks touching—your cum in my pubes and my sweat in your nose?"
Stiles can't help himself, needs to finally fucking come, needs Jackson to so he can feel that hot fluid shoot down his throat and drip down his lips and cling to his eyelashes. As much as he wants to say that Jackson was the only one making embarrassing confessions, Stiles ends up shouting, "Fuck, yes! Wanted your stupid, hot dick since we were twelve." Jackson makes a sound like he's dying when he comes, and splatters mostly down Stiles' throat, salty and only a little bitter.
Stiles shoots all over the sole of his foot and up onto his shin—some of it missing the sock and sticking in Jackson's leg hair. When it's all over, they don't share cum-scented kisses and gentle smiles, like he and Isaac did, but a silent shower, phone numbers and promises of booty calls, and one cum soaked sock.
Stiles thinks he just got himself a fuckbuddy.
After their win, the team goes out for pizza and milkshakes and a little well-earned contraband booze. The coach keeps an eye on them and no one gets more than tipsy, but both Isaac and Jackson cop a feel while they have the excuse and Stiles feels a little like the king of the world. Late, after getting kicked out of the pool for being too loud and ushered into their rooms, Scott heads into the bathroom for a shower and Stiles splays out on the bed, buzzed and full and happy.
He dozes off for a bit and dreams of drilling Jackson's ass while Isaac watches, rubbing one out. It's a nice enough dream that he ignores the itch of his consciousness—the far-away echo of someone calling his name. He's just about to turn Jackson around, get him on his hands and knees and offer Isaac a spit roast, when someone shakes his shoulder and his eyes fly wide open.
Scott is standing over him—hair dripping, steam curling off his skin, towel clutched tight to his waist. "I get the feeling you're a little hard up?" There's a laugh in his voice and he's smiling goofily, eyes drifting from Stiles face, down to where he's fondling himself through his pants. Stiles blanches and clenches his legs, not quite mortified (being best friends through puberty means sometimes you see things, and sometimes, when you fall asleep on the same couch at sleep-overs, you feel things, digging into your back in the mornings, and those you just have to brush off and move forward from) but maybe a little ashamed.
How in the hell can he still be gunning for a go after this morning and afternoon? Stiles slowly drags his hand out from between his legs and shrugs, trying not to let his odd nerves come through. Usually he's the first one to make causal comments about spanking the monkey—it would be weird if he was awkward about it now. "What can I say—you're never more aware of your penis than when you're trying to ignore it—mainly when you're in stranger's beds and know you're not supposed to masturbate, but suddenly you've never wanted anything more."
Scott just smiles, shoulders shaking with a laugh, while he looks at the floor a moment before meeting Stiles' eyes again and getting shy. "Me too, actually." Scott moves his wrist from where it's been hovering in front of his groin, and Stiles can see that he's actually hard too—poking at the towel only just clinging to his waist. "When I came out of the room you were making all these noises, and touching yourself, and…" Scott twists his lips before clutching at his elbow, biting his lip, and slowly, slowly letting his towel slip out of his hands.
His dick is shorter than Isaac's, but the thickest one Stiles has ever seen, and bends aggressively to the left. The perfect mushroom head is a dusky tan that suits his skin, and though he talks the talk, Scott has clearly never walked the walk—his pubes wild and untouched. His balls hang low, low and uneven and make Stiles' mouth water. Scott takes slow steps forward, keeping eye contact as he crawls onto the bed and over Stiles—eyes dark and hungry. "Do you remember, in ninth grade, when we found our first porno in the dumpster behind the grocery store?" Stiles nods, throat clicking as Scott unbuttons his jeans and drags his zipper down, tooth by tooth. "We slept over at your house—a night when we knew your dad would be working the late shift—and put it on the big screen in the living room. The picture skipped and they were totally faking it, but we both got boners and ended up staring at each other's laps more than the movie."
Stiles nods and licks his lips, moaning lowly when Scott gets him naked, pushes him up the bed, grabs his thighs and ushers his legs to rest on his shoulders. "I don't remember which one of us moved first, but we took off our pants and touched ourselves through our underwear. Yours were tighty whitey's and mine were Power Rangers I hadn't gotten rid of yet." Scott slots their groins together and starts to grind, letting their dicks bump and slide as their balls mash and his thighs part Stiles' ass cheeks.
"We started out on opposite ends of the couch, but slowly moved closer and closer until we were sitting together in the middle. You stared at me when I put my hand beneath my waistband, but hurried and looked away every time I caught you. You were so nervous I thought you were going to hyperventilate, so I just went first and pulled my dick out. It was just the head, just above the elastic band, but I remember your eyes got real big and you stopped touching yourself to watch." Scott skims his hands down Stiles' thighs and along his hips and up his ribs to brace against the bed—changing the angle so when he thrusts again, this time he slides between Stiles' ass cheeks, catching on his rim.
They're both breathing hard now, panting against each other's skin and sweating just a little. Stiles reaches to tangle one hand in Scott's hair and uses the other to play with Scott's balls, pulling at the loose skin and rolling the testicles between his fingers. Scott has to stop his narrative for a moment, groaning and closing his eyes as he works at Stiles' hairy crevasse—the crook of his cock and the ease of his pressure enough to keep it from doing anything but glancing, even as precum starts to build up and ease the way.
"I licked the tip of my fingers and rubbed at the edges and slit, which made me leak like crazy. Most of it was pre, but I think some of it was piss and it gathered in my belly button and started to spill over. I wasn't doing enough to make me orgasm, but that was because I liked the way you were watching me and didn't want you to stop. It made me feel like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have and that made my balls tight and I just wanted to see you too." Scott lifts one of his hands to caress Stiles' face, fingers starting at his temple and dragging all the way down to his chin, but before he can pull back, Stiles jerks forward, catching two of them with his teeth and suckling them into his mouth.
Scott makes a noise like the air just got kicked out of him and starts bearing down with purpose, hips snapping and balls making an obscene slapping noise as they smack against Stiles' ass. "But then you reached over and dipped your hands in it and the second you touched my stomach it was too much. I came all over myself and you blushed all over because you didn't even have to touch yourself, but you creamed your shorts right after I did."
Scott's starting to get a far-off look in his eyes and Stiles reaches with one hand to start fisting himself, setting a break neck pace, trying to catch up with Scott, whose hips are stuttering as the tip of his dick keeps finding purchase against Stiles' rectum, catching on the muscle and stretching it before springing away. "We felt real guilty afterwards and hid the tape under your bed, along with our soiled underwear. You stared at me while we dressed, but tried to keep a hand over yourself and I wanted to see—" Stiles can't take any more of their frotting, any more of Scott's confused, pained look, any more of this story, remembering how he felt and why. He puts a hand on Scott's stomach, just like before, and scratches his nails along the rippling muscle, catching along the pliant rim of his belly button.
Scott groans, wounded and loud and guttural and comes all down Stiles' ass crack and the small of his back, dick pulsing violent and shooting thick, long spurts—seven, eight times. When Scott finally shudders and collapses, mouthing at Stiles' neck, Stiles comes between them, semen squelching in the limited space between their skin as he goes limp, boneless. They laid in the wet spot far longer than was probably appropriate—trading kisses and gropes and jokes. But eventually they get up and wipe themselves off as best they can with the already soiled sheets before moving to the other, untouched bed.
They're just starting to drift off, Stiles spooning Scott from behind, when Scott perks back up, squirming to turn his head and look Stiles in the eye. "Why didn't you let me see? I mean, I kinda get that it was weird and embarrassing, but I came all over your hand—showing me your penis didn't seem like that big a deal after that." Stiles feels himself heat up again, but this time not in a pleasant way, and for a long while he just stays quiet.
But Scott doesn't look to be drifting off any time soon, and considering they just became Extra Special Best Friends, he doesn't really think he can lie to Scott. He shrugs minutely, tracing Scott's chest and playing with a nipple, trying to figure out how he can say this without sounding like the stupidest kind of douche. "When I saw yours it was so… cool? Not cool, but like—I want to say pretty, but that's not right." Scott quirks his lips, but doesn't laugh, doesn't try and interrupt him or patronize him, just lets him take his time to speak.
"It just—it suited you and it was… manly. You already had tons of hair down there and it was thick and when you came there was so much of it." Stiles lets his hand drift to idly finger through those pubes, but he keeps his touch relaxed. "I didn't know then that Stilinski's were late bloomers and I was still small and pretty bare and… I just felt stupid." Scott stretches up and kisses him, just a little tongue, and then burrows in against his shoulder.
"Well, I don't know if you noticed, but I guess delayed gratification really is a thing." Scott's smile is playful again and he bites his lip, looking up through his lashes.
"I—what?" Stiles pulls away from him a little, completely lost and feeling like he's out of the loop. It's not something he feels a lot, especially around Scott, and he really, really doesn't like it.
Scott's face goes completely blank for a second before he busts out laughing—gasping for air, clutching his stomach, wiping away tears and everything. "Dude! I don't know how you haven't noticed, but you're seriously hung. Like, biggest I've ever seen, hung and I accidentally walked in on Derek showering while he was home over the holiday break."
Stiles lets that information slowly sink in—honestly believe for a second that Scott has to be shitting him. Stiles—Stiles Stilinski—as in him, had a big dick. Wait, no—not just a big dick, the biggest Scott has ever seen, including a whole high school locker room and a half-brother that was a sophomore in college. That—"Hold on…. so let me get two things straight." Scott's still fighting to compose himself, but he nods from underneath Stiles' armpit, face radiating with glee. "One—I have a seriously big dick—" Scott's eyes go dark again and he bites his lip, squirming against Stiles, nodding. "And two—Derek's got a seriously big dick.
Stiles voice turns contemplative at the last bit and when Scott catches on, he scrunches his nose and tries to worm away. "Whyyy? Why did you have to go and ruin that?"
"I'm not hearing a no—in fact, what I heard is that you thought Derek had some mutant sized genitalia until you saw mine. You gotta tell me man, it's part of the Extra Special Best Friends code. I'm writing it in my head as we speak—page nine, subsection three—cute curly Q dicked younger brothers must diverge all pertinent information about their older brother's glorious cock, if they are in possession of such knowledge."
"Oh my god. You're the actual worst! Why did I do this to myself?" Scott pushes Stiles away half-heartedly as they wrestle and get tangled in the sheets.
"Okay, okay—just one, very important question. Just one. Is he cut or uncut?"
"Stiles!"
"You can end it all if you just answer."
"…."
"You know you want to."
"Uncut."
"I knew it! Oh Jesus, that's sexy as fuck."
"I'm going away forever now."
P.S. Depending on how the comments go, I may or may not be open to a Sterek-y sequel... and/or semi-incestuous threesomes. Soooo... lemme know.