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.