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Whatever the mess you are (you're mine, okay?)

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Scott has no idea what they’re doing.

Well, okay he knows what they’re doing, it’s just… how do you wrap the right definition around ‘I’m screwing around with the guy who’s my brother except we aren’t really related’?

Six months - half a year - and that’s as close as he’s gotten.

Stiles laughs against his mouth as they fall back into the closed bedroom door, the air knocking out of Scott’s chest and going right down Stiles’ throat as he opens his mouth to the slick press of Stiles’ tongue.

“What’re we doing?” he mumbles against Stiles’ lips like an echo of where his thoughts were going, distracted by Stiles’ mouth, hot and wet and Scott’s so hard in these stupid shorts that’re digging into his thigh where his dick’s pulling them up his leg.

They came home to an empty house less than ten minutes ago, sweaty and buzzed from lacrosse practice. Scott’s body’s still humming all over from Stiles pressing up behind him at the sink, teeth scraping at the knobbly top of Scott’s spine like he was gonna leave a mark, even if they can’t do that where Scott’s mom or Stiles’ dad might see it.

Scott almost asked him to do it anyway.

They’d skipped showering because it’s always like this after practice now, and Scott knows there’s no way he could’ve stopped himself from popping wood if he’d had to stand in the showers with Stiles right there, all wet and lean, water dripping off his lashes and clinging to the trail of hair underneath his bellybutton.

Stiles moans into his mouth, big hands running up Scott’s sides underneath his jersey, shifting his mouth to the side of Scott’s jaw and mumbling “Wassit look like?” against his skin. Scott’s forgotten what the question was.

His head drops back against the door with a thunk, skin feeling like it’s on fire and his pulse hammering in his balls, breathing fast and loud in their quiet room.

His fingers wind in Stiles’ jersey, sweaty and grass stained and smelling way better than it should, trying to pull him close and move them to one of their beds at the same time, tight-desperate tugging that gets them nowhere as Stiles licks and sucks on his neck.

“N-no marks,” he makes himself say, even though he really doesn’t want to. They talk about it a lot, or at least Stiles talks about it because he knows how crazy it makes Scott. He doesn’t know if it’s the sex thing or the teenage boy thing or just another Stiles thing, but he wants marks and bruises and fingerprints all over him from this, ones that people can see, wants it all the time and sometimes so badly it’ll be the thing that makes him come.

Stiles grumbles into his neck, breath huffing hot-cold over Scott’s skin. “I know,” he says, rough and like he hates not doing it as much as Scott hates not letting him. “Want to though,” he adds, with a puff of air like a laugh he can’t finish, narrow hips knocking into Scott’s and driving shivers up his spine.

Scott moans again, eyes clenching shut as he tries not to beg for it. “Me too. But we can’t, not unless we-”

“I know,” Stiles says again, quicker and softer, reassuring. “I won’t, okay? I just…. fuck dude you taste so good.”

Scott laughs a little, the sound turning into a wobbling groan when Stiles’ tongue draws a stripe up his neck. “Can’t taste that good,” he mumbles, hips jerking into Stiles’ again. “Still haven’t showered.”

“No showering,” Stiles tells him, hands pushing Scott’s jersey up to his ribs and long fingers spreading into the gaps between the bones. “Not yet. Not until after.”

“Weirdo,” Scott laughs, shaky and weak, voice strung-out as his fingers go to Stiles’ back and drag him in closer, chests bumping and knees knocking, the obvious tenting in both their shorts grinding together.

“You love it,” Stiles says, leaning up to kiss him again, sloppy and off-angle and mostly enthusiasm. They’re both a lot better at this now, even when it’s fumbling and over way too fast. Stiles knows just where to flick his tongue to make Scott leak in his briefs, and Scott knows how much Stiles loves teeth pressing into his bottom lip. Scott’s always known Stiles better than anyone, and learning the places to touch and kiss and scrape teeth or nails over to drive him over the edge just feels like more stuff he’s supposed to know.

I love you, Scott thinks, but he doesn’t say it because it would probably be weird to throw that on top of what they’re doing right now, when it’s not being said like a best friend or a brother. He thinks it more and more though, a little louder every time they do this. One day it’s gonna slip out of him, sneak past his lips and into the air. It’s not like Stiles will be surprised.

He unclenches his fingers from Stiles’ clothes, puts a hand on the back of Stiles’ buzzed-short hair to keep their mouths together like either of them were going anywhere. Stiles makes another sharp noise in the back of his throat, like a whimper, and Scott can’t stop the answering hum against the sleekness of Stiles’ tongue.

Stiles is always noisy, even when their parents are home, so many times Scott’s had to push a hand over Stiles’ mouth to stop the sounds when one of them climbs into the other’s bed at night, grinding and rutting together and clinging to each other until they’re two seconds from falling asleep. Scott doesn’t know if Stiles would be noisy with other people, or if other people would be noisy with him, because neither of them has ever done this with anyone else.

The thought of Stiles doing any of this stuff with someone who’s not him - of someone else touching Stiles, his Stiles - makes him wanna tear through walls and bite a claim into Stiles’ long, arching neck. It makes him twitchy, on-edge, strain harder into the tight wall of heat of Stiles’ body and run his fingernails against Stiles’ scalp, feeling the prickle of short hairs like electric shocks up his hand and along his arm.

“Off,” he bites out, one hand pulling at Stiles’ shirt again.

Stiles pulls back enough to nod quickly, his lips red and swollen and so wet-looking Scott has to shove the heel of his hand against his hard-on to ease the ache a little.

“You too,” Stiles says, jerkily nodding at Scott again as he takes a tiny step back and drags his red lacrosse jersey up over his head, pale chest flushed pink and nipples gone tight, biceps and shoulders rolling with the movement of his arms, dick standing out against his shorts in a hard line away from the wings of his hipbones, bright blush on the lower half of his cheeks as his head reappears and he throws his shirt across the room onto Scott’s bed.

“Hey,” Scott complains, pulling at his own jersey until it rolls up over his head and lands on the floor.

Stiles laughs and shrugs as he steps back in, both of them hissing when their skin rubs together at the same time their cocks fit side by side between their bodies, the friction drag of their shorts and shift of their hands along each other, Stiles’ on Scott’s sides and Scott’s on Stiles’ thighs in a tight, possessive grip.

Scott’s hands wind their way up Stiles’ back, from the dip of his spine near his ass right up to his shoulders, digging in and pulling Stiles close before he runs them back down and squeezes the tight swell of Stiles’ asscheeks with both hands, dragging another moan out of Stiles’ throat.

“Gonna do this here?” Scott asks, maybe a little teasing, fingers stroking down the space between the mounds of Stiles’ cheeks until Stiles shivers in his arms. They haven’t actually gone that far, not yet, even though Scott’s had his fingers in Stiles a couple of times and Stiles has rimmed him in the shower even more than that. It just… doesn’t feel like something they need to run towards, not like with Jackson or some of the guys they hear talking in the locker room like fucking’s the only thing that counts.

Doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about it. He thinks about it a lot.

Stiles groans careless and loud, his forehead resting against the jut of Scott’s collarbone, breath puffing down his chest and tugging his nipples into hardness like the pinch of fingers instead of just air.

“Not gonna have much choice if you keep doing that,” Stiles says, kind of high-pitched and choked as Scott leans his hips forward harder and rubs his fingers deeper into the heat between Stiles’ cheeks.

Scott kind of loves the idea he could make Stiles come just like that, from nothing but the scraping pressure of their shorts and his fingers getting nearer to Stiles’ hole. He could make Stiles soak through his underwear and go pliant as Scott holds him up and works him through it, make him lose it right here against their bedroom door, Stiles clutching at him until his fingers leave bruises whether he means them too or not.

But he wants more than that. He wants skin and Stiles underneath him, on top of him, all around him, just everywhere until he can’t suck in a breath without it being full of Stiles’ smells and voice and taste.

He groans and grits his teeth as he takes a step forward, hands roaming up to Stiles’ hips to move him back in the direction of Stiles’ bed. They stumble, laughing and drunk-stupid on each other, Stiles turning to walk forward before he faceplants into the carpet. Scott keeps touching him, Stiles walking slow on purpose, totally stopping as Scott steps right up against him, arms going around his waist and tugging him back, pulsing-hard dick against Stiles’ ass and hands on Stiles’ belly, fingers playing in the wiry hair leading to the waistband of his shorts.

Stiles’ head drops back a little onto his shoulder, reverse of where he was less than a minute ago, and Scott turns into the taut lines of his neck, nips his teeth up to the curve of his ear, Stiles’ breathing so loud Scott can hardly his own heart pounding in his ears.

“W-what happened to the bed?” Stiles pants out, mostly ragged breath when Scott leans back and presses kisses between Stiles’ shoulder blades, runs his tongue over the bumps of moles and into the valley of Stiles’ spine.

Scott hums against Stiles’ musky-warm skin, lips trailing shiny wetness in blotches halfway down Stiles’ back, until Scott’s almost on his knees behind Stiles.

“In a second,” Scott says, sliding his hands from the curve of Stiles’ ribs to the waist of his shorts, pulling them down a little at a time and pressing his lips to the dimples just above Stiles’ ass and lower, until he’s on his knees and Stiles’ shorts are around his calves, hands clenching at his sides and his body rising and falling quick with his breathing.

He pulls Stiles’ shorts right down the narrow bones of his ankles, gets him to step out of them and runs his hands up the coarse hair on Stiles’ thighs, up to the sides of his ass and over the cheeks, squeezing and spreading him until he hears Stiles’ breath catch.

“Could put my tongue in you,” he says, just for the way he knows Stiles’ dick will twitch and drool precome everywhere, wetting that thatch of hair and messing up his shorts. “Or my fingers. Know how much you love that.”

Stiles swallows so loud Scott can hear it from down on his knees behind him, dry click of his throat and crack in his voice.

“Yeah,” Stiles manages, hoarse like he’s been screaming. “Yeah, you… you could.”

Scott’s hot-bruised lips pull up into a little smirk. Yeah, he knows Stiles, knows he likes it that little bit more when Scott takes over, tells him what he’s gonna do and how Stiles is gonna take it. They both do, but when Stiles does it it’s more the sound of his voice gone sexy and low that does it for Scott, instead of knowing Stiles is in charge of whatever happens next.

Knees cracking as he stands, Scott presses close to Stiles again, so much heat pouring off him Scott just wants to fit every line and curve together like a puzzle with only two pieces. It was easier when they were the same height, but they weren’t doing this back then, Stiles naked and all but melting back into Scott’s chest even if he’s taller.

Stiles whines a little when Scott grinds against his ass, the rub of his shorts lighting hot sparks that scatter outward from his dick even with them still between him and Stiles’ skin. They’ve done that before too, one of them pressing between the other’s thighs and muffling curses and moans into the nearest patch of skin as they thrust and rub until they pulse wet and sticky into the grip of it.

“On the bed,” Scott says, fitting his knee to the back of Stiles’ and pressing forward until they move together, Stiles turning as he falls onto the unmade sheets, Scott standing over him and looking down into Stiles’ eyes.

Scott’s shins meet the edge of the bed frame, and Stiles reaches out until his hands are on the outsides of Scott’s thighs, fingers creeping under the legs of his shorts.

“You’re nowhere near naked enough, dude,” Stiles says, pulling one hand back enough to tug on a hem.

Scott laughs a little as he peels his shorts off, sticky-wet patches showing through on the dark fabric of his briefs and the head of his dick shining sticky in the light. They’re Stiles’ underwear anyway, tugged on that morning because Scott saw Stiles’ cheeks darken when Scott picked them. He deserves it if he makes Scott leak in them now.

Stiles reaches down and strokes himself while he watches Scott get naked, leaning back on one arm, hand moving slower and fingers slacker than Scott knows he likes when he’s trying to get off. He likes that Stiles wants to drag it out, wants to use the time they’ve got with the house to themselves.

He sees Stiles’ eyes dip to his cock as he steps back up to the bed, pausing when he was gonna lie down and line their bodies up, the sight of Stiles licking his mouth unconsciously, like he doesn’t know what that does to Scott, drives a boiling spike of need right to the base of Scott’s skull. It’s weird how he never feels naked around Stiles, like it’s not enough to take off his clothes; like he wants to strip out of his skin and bones until there’s nothing left of him Stiles’ eyes haven’t taken.

“What do you want?” he asks, slow and back to teasing, fingers trailing up his dick and head tipping back a little as he finally rubs his fingertips over his slit.

Stiles’ blinks up at him, owlish and wanting, and Scott almost wraps a tight circle of his fingers around the base of his cock in case he suddenly shoots too soon.

Stiles doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes drop again when Scott’s hand grips himself a little harder, dry and warm and not as good as Stiles touching him.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes like he didn’t mean to when Scott tugs down on the fullness of his balls and his slit leaks another glob of precome. “I wanna suck you,” he says, eyes never leaving the movement of Scott’s fingers even while he shuffles forward to the edge of the bed a little more, like he’s impatient to have Scott in his mouth.

Scott never realised how awesome Stiles’ oral fixation was until they started this… whatever it is. Now he’ll suck on Scott’s fingers while Scott jerks them both off in one hand, or he’ll blow Scott for as long as Scott can hold off coming, or mouth at the curve of Scott’s neck or shoulder as they align their hips and grind together until they come. Scott loves sucking Stiles, but for Stiles it’s like a whole other level, desperate and needy in a way that takes him over.

Stiles’ dick is thick and hard and curving up against his belly as he takes his hand away and reaches for Scott, dotted marks of precome on his skin. He doesn’t leak as much as Scott does, something Stiles still gets weirdly fascinated with.

The air’s thick and almost liquid in Scott’s throat when Stiles licks his lips and thumbs over the head of Scott’s cock, smearing slick down the burning skin and running his fingers over the round curve of Scott’s balls.

“Yeah,” Scott sighs, trying to spread his legs when Stiles sits at the edge of the bed and leans further forward, forcing his eyes to stay open so he can see Stiles’ eyes go hungry and hot, darting up to his face just slowly enough for Scott to see how much of the liquid brown’s been swallowed by his pupils.

They’ve both gotten the condoms lecture about five times each since they turned fifteen over a year ago; Scott’s mom actually brought pamphlets home from the hospital once. Stiles said he’d already read them all. If they were with anyone else they’d be using them, but it’s different with them. Everything’s different with them.

Stiles asked him once, the first time they got far enough past awkward handjobs and rubbing off on each other for Scott to admit he wanted to try sucking Stiles’ dick. He’d thought about it, and then said they couldn’t have anything since they’d never done anything, and anyway they were brothers so it was okay, right?

Thinking about that, Stiles wide-eyed and open-mouthed when Scott tried sucking a wet kiss to the spot under the head of his cock for the first time, we’re brothers so it’s okay still ringing in his ears, still gets Scott so hard so fast he sometimes gets dizzy.

Stiles’ lips meet the deep-dark flare of Scott’s cockhead, purse a little then go slack and suck him in, welcome. Scott hisses a breath through his teeth that tumbles out of him again on a shuddery moan when Stiles’ tongue presses to the underside, runs up to that spot under the head, swirling around and pressing at his slit until he gives up more precome that makes Stiles moan around him.

They learned to do this together, between downloaded porn and practicing on each other, learning how hard to suck and where to press hardest with tongue, how to cover up their teeth. Stiles can almost take Scott’s whole dick now, and sometimes he gets off harder when he pushes past that and chokes himself a little, throat fluttering and spasming as he pulls up.

Scott’s hands brush the hollowed dips in Stiles’ cheeks, roam around the curves of his ears and go the back of his head, not pulling him down deeper or holding him still, just touching the burning-hot flush on the back of his neck, the bristle of hair starting higher up, his thumbs slotting into the spaces behind Stiles’ ears.

Stiles’ mouth moves lower, Scott’s knees trembling a little when Stiles sucks him down and his eyes close. His eyelashes are so long and dark when Scott looks down onto them like this, the vacuum pressure of Stiles’ lips singing up Scott’s whole body like putting his hand on a speaker and feeling the vibration.

A deep noise gets tugged out his chest when Stiles’ hand wraps around the base of his dick, tugs and twists syrupy slow on the part he can’t get his mouth around. Scott’s eyes dance across the freckles and moles spread over Stiles’ shoulders, skin tinged pink like his cheeks and his neck, moaning when Stiles pulls up so just the head’s in his mouth and sucks harder.

“Yeah, feels good,” he says like it needs saying, like Stiles doing this to him doesn’t always feel amazing. But Stiles hums around him like he’s pleased, works his lips down further again, all tight and hot, slippery brush of tongue almost making Scott’s eyes cross.

There’s a shuff of skin when Stiles starts to touch himself too, and Scott cranes his neck slightly to watch Stiles squeeze and stroke as his mouth slides up-down on Scott’s cock, sucking and slurping noises that sound filthy-hot to Scott no matter how many times they do this.

He isn’t gonna last, not this time, not after watching Stiles run around the field and having him pressed against his back and pulled to his front and now open and willing between his legs with his lips wrapped around Scott like the best thing he’s ever freaking tasted.

“Close,” he mutters, hips twitching and shivering when he tries not to shove forward, to fuck Stiles’ stretched-out mouth more full than it already is.

Stiles’ head bobs quicker between his thighs, Scott’s muscles pulling and aching, sweat rolling from his neck and down his chest, knees rattling as he feels himself winding tighter and tighter like a thread about to snap.

His breath’s getting stuck in his chest, breaking out of him in pieces as Stiles hums around him, spit on his lips and all over Scott’s cock, hand working what he can’t swallow and jerking himself off.

Scott makes a wrecked noise when Stiles’ hand goes from the bottom of his dick to under his balls and the tight skin behind them, two fingertips finding his ass and rubbing over the muscle, catching and pulling just enough for it to ricochet everywhere Scott can feel like a pinball and a kick to the chest.

He comes just after Stiles spills over his fingers, so hard he almost drops down onto the bed, thick pulses that tighten his balls against his body and wrap hot fingers around his stomach, almost painful jerks of his cock with every one. Stiles’ tongue works at the underside of his dick, pressing and rolling, drawing it out of him, two fingers still resting against Scott’s hole and his other hand soaked with gobs of his own come.

Scott’s whole body narrows to a perfect, hot curl of tensing muscle and sweat-damp skin, cock twitching in a few more fiery-slick pulls that ache in his spine and make his eyes roll back a little in his head, gasping as Stiles swallows and swallows and keeps swallowing until Scott’s empty and silvery blankness buzzes behind his eyes like mercury.

Stiles looks up at him, damp sticking his lashes together and the black pupils still warm with how much of Stiles is shining out of them. Again Scott almost says something he doesn’t feel ready to say, the words fitting not-quite-right at the back of his throat.

His dick slips free of Stiles’ lips with a last, sucking pop, and Stiles aims a smug little smile up at him that’s kind of ruined by how swollen his mouth is, red and gleaming, with a thin trail of Scott’s come running down the side of his chin that Scott’s collecting on the tip of a thumb, and pressing into Stiles’ open mouth before he knows he gonna do it.

Stiles bats his hand away, but only after his tongue laves Scott’s thumb clean, teeth scraping over the print as Scott lets his hand fall down by his side, trying to breathe and stitch his brains back together.

“Dude,” Stiles says. “That was awesome.” His voice is even rougher now, throat used and raw, and Scott doesn’t know why he’s grinning like he’s proud, finally letting his weight carry him down into a curled-up flop on the mattress.

Stiles rolls onto his side, straining one arm to reach for the Kleenex. Scott watches the bunching of his thighs and the curve of his ass, not quite ready to get hard again but looking anyway. Sometimes he feels like all the years he spent watching Stiles he was missing something, so now he has to catch up.

The ball of tissue paper gets dropped off the side of the bed, and they collapse into a mess of criss-crossed limbs and comfortable silence. Sometimes Scott will talk right after, or Stiles will, fill the space with whatever either of them are thinking about. And then sometimes they’ll just slump against each other like that says everything anyway.

Stiles is Scott’s brother, but he’s a brother he chose instead of one he was given. He thinks that’s why he clings as hard as he does, why they guard each other as fiercely as they do. Why they can love each other and be in love witheach other, and not have to say any of it for it to be true, for it to sink into them both too deep to ever scratch out.

Like they’ve already made their most important choice.

Scott’s hand finds the centre of Stiles’ chest - finds his heart, the rhythm thumping up through his bones and into whatever goes deeper than cells and DNA.

Stiles digs his fingers into Scott’s hair, fingers of his other hand wrapping around Scott’s wrist, like they used to do in middle school when their parents told them not to lose each other in the press of all the other kids.

He shifts himself up the bed on jellied legs, and plants a kiss to Stiles’ chin, then his neck, then the skin between his collarbones. Stiles’ hand’s a warm weight against his scalp as he trails back up and flicks his tongue against the traces of come and spit that catch the light.

Scott kisses Stiles slowly, deliberately, because it feels important. He remembers Jackson talking in the locker room, bragging about girls giving him head and how gross it was that they wanted to kiss him after. His eyes had caught on Stiles’, in that way they do when you put magnets close together and they just pull each other in. So Scott kisses Stiles like it’s important, because kissing Stiles has always felt important.

Stiles turns into it, almost sleepily, like he usually is just after he gets off, lazy snicks of their lips together and the taste of Stiles’ mouth gone a little bitter, proof that Scott was inside him settling warm and heavy in Scott’s gut.

They pull apart, and Scott smiles because he can’t help it.

Stiles smiles because Scott does.

And that’s the way things are.