16. having some “private time” and the other accidentally walking in
"Goddamnit, Stilinski,” Boyd seethes through his teeth, coming with a jerk into the fleshlight, the muscle in his arm quaking.
Stiles just stands there in the middle of the loft gawking, dropping his book on the floor so it thuds open.
He thought he was going to be alone all day, finally alone and he wasn’t even trying to keep an ear out, was just going to mate the fleshlight, get all those post full moon urges out of him.
"I didn’t—" Stiles starts stammering and then gasps "Is that a fleshlight?!"
Caught off-guard, he’s knotting the thing before he can slick it off him.
“Fuck,” he breathes and seizes with it, body flashing white-hot with pleasure. Knotting orgasms come strong and electric, shoot like bright bolts through him and make him clench his teeth, arch and arch into the fleshlight as he goes off again and again.
"Oh shit, what—?" Stiles chokes out, stinking like fear and arousal all at once.
"I knotted it," Boyd growls at him, his fangs dropped. And then he’s coursing with it again, face twisting up. He can’t fumble-hold onto the fleshlight for long because it hurts too much, his sensitive dick lurching and pumping too hard inside the fleshlight’s soft suction. He claws up his alpha’s couches trying to bear it, to stand the feeling of being knotted fast. The fleshlight bounces on his leg as the strong spasms of his cock lift it.
Eyes closed against it, he tries to catch his breath between orgasms and then inhales sharply when he feels the fleshlight grasped and tugged slightly.
Stiles is hunkered down in front of him, breathing shallowly, mouth slack.
"Stiles," Boyd says, voice gravel and Stiles angles the fleshlight just how he needs it and then—oh fuck yes—rolls it right around Boyd’s knot, teasing him.
Boyd rolls his hips in counter-point, groaning.
"God, let me just—" Stiles breathes and starts gently twisting the fleshlight down on his further, chafing his knot, making it harden up on instinct, making it swollen.
“Stiles,” Boyd begs and then arches and arches, coming his brains out, his knot humming with it. There’s so much come, it drips out the bottom of the fleshlight all down Stiles’ arm.
"Fuck your come is hot, dude,” Stiles hisses and Boyd’s eyes close in pain, come surging so strongly out of him it patters the inside of the fleshlight noisily, starts squelching like porn sounds.
He sleeps. Comes awake with a whimper when he feels the fleshlight just barely tugged off him, his knot popping out, still fat. It’ll probably stay swollen like this for the rest of the day.
Drained, he rolls his head to watch as Stiles drops on the couch beside him and starts scrabbling to open his fly, teeth in bottom lip.
He barely gets the fleshlight on his own, needy dick before he’s giving these harsh, sharp gasps for breath and pressing up on his heels into it, orgasming, adding to the hot mess Boyd left inside.
Stiles has this…lotion.
"Hey, heyyyy,” Stiles says awkwardly, almost tipping his desk chair when Boyd follows Derek through Stiles’ bedroom window. Boyd ignores them as they do their weird, snarky back-forth thing that drives Derek crazy.
He’s still getting used to his nose, the wolf’s sense of smell. He always finds himself getting lost in scenting new places, sniffing around, learning what his nose can tell him.
Stiles’ bedroom smells like a whole lotta spunk. Spunk and captain crunch and dirty lacrosse gear and this lotion that’s all sweet flowers.
He picks it up from Stiles’ bedside table and sniffs it curiously. The bottle says FREESIAS on it.
"Woah, uh. That’s for…you might want to not—" Stiles stammers, trying to take it back but when Boyd just looks at him and sniffs again, Stiles drops his hands impotently and blushes.
Boyd smirks a little. “Put it down,” Derek says gruffly, so Boyd does. But not before getting a scent memory.
He smells the faint scent of lotion on the kid all the time. On his hands. All over his hands. When Stiles is talking, gesticulating everywhere, Boyd has to look around at the other wolves and wonder if they can smell that sweet lotion all over his palms too.
Boyd wonders how often the kid beats off. Once a day? Twice a day? His hands are probably all soft from rubbing off so often with that stuff. The way he smells, he has to do it all the time.
It’s not something that makes a big impression on him until one day they’re all pack piling a little (more like play-wrestling with lots of hugging and scent-marking) and Erica drags Stiles into the mix and somehow, Stiles ends up with his little, corduroy-covered butt in Boyd’s face and Boyd can smell him for a heartbeat of a second. And Boyd realizes, as Cora gets wrestled into the pile, that Stiles’ ass has been all sweetened up with that lotion too. How it’s there, inside him, all sweet and flowery.
He has to get up, go outside. Breathe without the pack all around him.
So he has this thing…about Stiles. And what he must have done to get the lotion all fragrant and heady inside him.
The first time he knots, it’s thinking about Stiles’ lotion and his tight insides all sweet with it and then he’s gasping down at himself, eyes wide as the base of his cock swells all hard and fat with his mating instinct.
Which can’t be good, Boyd thinks, hand cupping it helplessly.
He wakes up from healing in Stiles’ bed, the kid talking rapidly on the phone, hand worrying his hair. When he tries to sit up, Stiles comes over and places a hand on his chest, stops him.
"You’re still feverish from the aconite. Don’t."
With a huff, Boyd falls back again and drifts. Listens to Stiles talking to Chris Argent about where the hunters went off to after they shot Boyd in the shoulder.
He touches his own bare chest, finds the wound healed, a little sensitive but closed over with new skin.
Stiles hangs up the phone and plops down on the edge of the bed beside him, looking him over with critical eyes like he wants to make sure Boyd is not actually going to die.
From here, Boyd can smell the bottle of lotion strongly. Takes a deep breath and lets his eyes fall closed.
"—like the way you smell," he murmurs, too exhausted to stop himself.
Stiles is silent for a second, like he thought he heard wrong, and then he breathes out “What?”
"You smell like that lotion," Boyd murmurs. "Like you put it up your ass. Like you like something inside you when you—"
Stiles drops a trembling hand over Boyd’s mouth to stop him.
Boyd opens his eyes, looks.
"F-fuck," Stiles exhales. His face is all blushed brightly.
"Smells good," Boyd croons under his hand and kisses it.