Stiles stared at the ceiling, his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, hands throbbing at his sides. The pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes, but he still had at least another two hours before he could take more medicine and the thought of just laying here with nothing else to focus on was enough to make one of his eyes overflow, a hot line leaking from the corner of his eye to the hair at his temple. He dragged in a shaky breath and turned his head, about to say something when he heard the sheets stir in the bed across from his.
"Stiles? You okay?"
"I’m…" He wanted to lie, wanted to say he was fine, but just that one little sound was enough for his brother to hear the unsteadiness of his voice and Stuart was across the narrow space between their beds in an instant, crawling into bed with Stiles. "It hurts and I can’t…" He sighed, eyes squeezed shut, hating himself a little for falling apart over something so monumentally stupid in the grand scheme of things.
"Tell me what to do," Stuart said, his voice soft.
Stiles just laughed, the sound slightly hysterical. Because that wasn’t how this worked between them, not really. Stuart was the bossy one, the one who led the way. He was the popular one, the one with a dating history longer than their perfectly identical arms. He was the one who came home smelling of perfume or cologne or both, who had to get the lipstick stain treater stuff for his shirt collars… and one time the front of his jeans.
Stiles was the idiot who fell into long-term infatuation once in sixth grade with Lydia Martin and stayed that way all the way up until he fell in love in junior year. The one who was so desperately, futilely, completely in love with people who were so laughably unattainable that he was destined to die a virgin.
So how could he, Stiles Stilinski, loser extraordinaire, tell his insanely together twin brother what to do?
Gently, Stuart shifted Stiles up, being careful of his bandaged hands, and slid in behind him, pulling Stiles back against his chest and sort of hugging him with his whole body. Stiles relaxed back, head lolling to the side, and smiled through the pain when Stuart said, “I’ve got you, buddy.”
"Thanks," he whispered and wished he had use of his hands so he could at least pat Stuart on the leg. His throat swelled with emotion, the kind that always blindsided him in times like this. For all their differences, Stiles knew without a doubt that Stuart had his back — as figuratively all the time as he literally did in that moment. They were, as their mother had been so fond of saying, two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same soul.
He shifted, needing a new position since Stuart’s bony hips were digging into his back, and then hissed, writhing, as the motion made him bump his left hand. A little, choking noise of pure hurt bubbled out of his throat and Stiles turned his head so that the side of his face was pressed against Stuart’s chest. Stuart made worried, shushing noises, arms tightening around him and one hand coming up to smooth Stiles’ hair back from his forehead.
"You… you need a distraction," Stuart said in a rush.
Stiles let out a tiny, wet-sounding laugh, wiping his face against Stuart’s shirt. “Yeah. Okay. A distraction. What’ve you got?”
He regretted asking almost immediately, because Stuart said, “Derek,” like that was his entire plan for distraction. And maybe it would work, but Stiles wasn’t going to let it. Not this time.
"Yes. You think I don’t notice the way you look at him? You think I don’t notice the way he looks at you? Why are you still holding out, Stiles? Why haven’t you…?”
"Yeah," Stiles laughed, and the sound was harsh, cutting. "Maybe it’s that easy for you, dude, but it’s never worked like that for me. Have you even met me?”
"We are literally identical twins. We have the exact same everything; if it works for me, it’s basically guaranteed to work for you too. You just have to go after what you want.”
Stiles scoffed, tried to make a motion with his hands — his go-to — but Stuart stopped him, grabbed his forearms and gently replaced them in his lap. Staring down at his brother’s hands on him, Stiles’ lips twisted in a grimace. “Going after what I want is historically guaranteed to either get me beat the hell up or humiliated. Shit works for you because the universe loves you. For me? The universe has nothing for me but chemicals that burn through my skin and leave me unable to even jerk off for weeks at a time.”
Stuart made a low, mournful sound, either at the memory of the beating that Jackson had given Stiles when he’d finally found the nerve to ask Lydia to the dance back in ninth grade — and they hadn’t even been dating then — or at the idea of not even being able to rub one out. “Shit, bro,” Stuart breathed, hooking his chin over Stiles’ shoulder and hugging him tight. “Okay, I’m doing a really shitty job of distracting you, huh? Sorry. But you… you haven’t come at all since the accident?”
Stiles shook his head, sighing heavily. “Not even a wet dream.”
"God, so you’re all… backed up. Horny as shit, huh?"
Raising his eyebrows, Stiles shifted his eyes to try to look at Stuart — a stupid thing to attempt with someone sitting right behind him, but still. “Um?”
"It’s just, you know. Think about it. Think about how hot it would be, if Derek were here right now. If he crawled through the window, saw you like this. Just helpless, unable to even touch him because of how much it would hurt. But unable to touch yourself too. He’d come in, in that leather jacket, a dirty tank underneath—”
"The white one," Stiles said, unable to help himself. He licked his lips, thought about telling Stuart to stop, but for the first time in almost a week, something was taking precedence over the pain of his hands.
"Yeah," Stuart breathed, and Stiles wriggled a little with guilt when the feeling of his brother’s warm breath over the sensitive place just under his ear made his dick twitch in his sweatpants. "The white one. The one that shows every fucking line of his ridiculous chest. The tight little nubs of his nipples. The way the neckline just accentuates all that fucking hair. You just want to bite it with your teeth, get it on your tongue—"
"You too, huh?" Stiles asked, his stomach sinking. Because if Stuart decided he wanted Derek, he’d get him. That’s just… how it worked.
But Stuart chuckled, the sound a little dark and a whole lot dirty. “Not really. But just because dark and brooding doesn’t do it for me doesn’t mean I’ve lost the ability to see. And there is… a lot to see. That ass. Those arms. Can you imagine them? Holding you down, barely even having to use any of that superhuman strength because his big hands are strong enough without it? Just pressing into your skin, making you want to struggle to see what it’d feel like. And he’d let you… for a while. But then he’d growl, because he can’t handle you getting hurt. Not even a little. And he’d know, just from smelling the air, what your pain level was at. But he’d smell something else. He’d smell how your dick was filling, pushing up against the front of your pants, all aching and needy just from having him that close. Just from seeing him and smelling him, a little bit sweaty, like he’s been running or working out. Like he’s been pushing himself too hard, trying to get thoughts of the sheriff’s jailbait son out of his head.”
Stiles’ gasps turned a little hurt at that, betraying the thought in his head that it was Stuart Derek was running from.
"Not me," Stuart assured him. "Never me. When you’re in the room, everything else just disappears for him. You get under his skin like no one else. And he’s got that martyr complex that runs so deep. The brooding hero. The Heathcliffe to your Jane Eyre."
"Rochester," Stiles said, licking his lips.
"Jane Eyre. The male protagonist was Rochester, not Heathcliff. That was Wuthering Heights and—"
"And I don’t care." Stuart laughed gently in his ear, squeezing his arms again to dull any insult Stiles might have felt. "That’s not the point. The point is that he watches you, all the time. He knows the sound of the Jeep, he can hear your heartbeat before you’ve even entered a room. He has never, not once, been confused as to which one of us I am. He doesn’t even see me, but even when you’re not there, he’s looking for you. Thinking about you.”
Stiles laughed, a bitter little sound. “You’ve gotten better at bedtime stories.”
"You don’t have to believe me; it’s the truth. But even without all that, I’ve seen the way you look at him. And you might not believe what I saw about him, but I’ve known you long enough to know exactly what you’re thinking when you look at him. You’re thinking about those hands, touching you. Those fingers wrapping around your dick, sliding up inside you. Opening you up for his dick. You want that, don’t you?”
Stiles closed his eyes against the truth of that, heat blossoming in his cheeks because of course he wanted that. He wanted anything, everything. He wanted nights where they just bantered back and forth, Derek getting a little pissy and snide with each of Stiles’ quips. He wanted to touch Derek. Put his hands on that firm, warm skin, touch him until he stopped flinching. Touch him until he no longer expected the touches to hurt him. He wanted to make Derek smile. A real smile.
And yes. Yes he wanted Derek to fuck him.
"Stiles. Talk to me. Tell me what you want. It’s just us in the room right now. You can tell me."
Stiles shook his head, shivering as he pushed the thoughts down inside himself. “I… I can’t. I’m not like you.”
"Then just answer me this: Do you want him?"
"Yes!" The answer burst out of Stiles, anger propelling it. "God, of course I want him. But it’s more than that. It’s not just… it’s not just the way he looks, you know? He’s so—" For the first time in recent memory, words fail Stiles. "He’s good.”
"I know. But I think sometimes, it’s okay if he wants to be bad. If he wants to come inside instead of always watching from outside."
Stiles was nodding, then stopped and frowned. “Wait, what? That doesn’t make sense.”
He felt the way Stuart’s cheek bunched against his and knew his idiot brother was smiling. “It makes so much sense. It makes sense that he’d want to watch over the things that are precious to him. The things that it would hurt him to lose. It makes sense that he’s this great big protector. It makes sense that he’s a bit of a creeper who can’t help himself and watches from the roof outside a certain window to make sure you’re safe. And if he watches you sometimes when he shouldn’t… when you’re in here alone, the lights dim, and the sheets pushed low. Well, who could blame him? He thinks he’s not allowed to want, but he does anyway. Wants to touch and taste and smell. Wants to mark what’s his. Put his scent on all that pretty skin until—”
None of this was making sense, and Stiles’ head was spinning with confusion. “Stu…what?”
"Come in, big bad. You’re not fooling anyone. Well, maybe just one person.”
The soft shushing sound of the window gliding up made Stiles’ breath catch in his throat and he stiffened in alarm before he saw the outline he’d recognize anywhere. “Derek?”
"He watches you," Stuart said, his voice still low, still soft in the darkness, but matter-of-fact. "Watches you every night; watches over you to make sure nothing else can get you. But he doesn’t have to worry about that, does he, Stiles? He doesn’t have to work himself up into a froth at the idea of all those people at the school brushing up against you every day, leaving little hints of themselves on your skin. He doesn’t have to worry that your eyes are following anyone else they way they follow him. It’s like you’re drawn to each other. It’s fucking Twilight-level bullshit."
Stiles made a low, gagging noise in the back of his throat at that, but he wasn’t really paying attention to Stuart anymore. Couldn’t, really, because Derek was here. Derek was here in his bedroom, had probably heard everything Stuart had been saying.
And fuck, he’d thought no humiliation could possibly trump what he’d felt in ninth grade.
He tried to push himself up, forgot for a split second the damage to his hands, and cried out, the pain making him white out for a second. When he blinked his eyes open again, tears clouding them, Derek was there, his hands wrapped gently around Stiles’ wrists.
"Don’t," Derek murmured, thumbs smoothing over the thin skin on the undersides. "Don’t hurt yourself."
"What are you doing here?" Stiles whispered, feeling a little… betrayed.
"I can’t help it. I have to… Stiles, you…"
"God, you two are idiots." Stuarts voice made them both start, Derek’s fingers tightening on Stiles’ wrist. "And because you’re idiots, you’re going to shut up and let me do the talking."
"Shut it. You’re so fucking gone on each other, the sun could implode and neither of you would even know it." Stuart’s hand dropped down, grabbed the hem of Stiles’ t shirt and pulled it up, held it in place with his other hand. "Derek wants to touch you, baby bro. He wants to get those big ol’ paws all over you, but he’s afraid. He’s afraid to take what he wants." Stuart let the fingers of his free hand dance down Stiles’ stomach, circling from one mole to another in a random pattern that Derek’s eyes tracked, the look on his face pained. “He’s afraid of breaking you, but you’re not so easily broken.” Stuart’s fingers stopped at an old scar that sat inches from Stiles’ belly button. “He could bend you in half and you wouldn’t break.”
"He’s thought about it, you know," Stuart continued, and somehow Stiles knew without even being able to see it, that Stuart’s gaze was locked on Derek’s. "He’s sat here in the room where we grew up, and touched himself. Thought of you the whole time." Stuart’s hands started moving again, fingertips of one hand circling the slight puffiness of one of Stiles’ nipples, the others dipping beneath the stretched-out elastic waistband of his sweats. "Put those long, mesmerizing fingers up inside himself, fucked himself open with them, closed his eyes and imagined it was you."
"Shh. Look at him, Stiles. Look at him and see how much he wants you. That big dick straining so hard against his jeans. Those slutty jeans that are about two sizes too small, that cup him too tight but show off his dick like it’s a package he wants to deliver to you. Watch how he bites his lip, trying to stop himself from moaning your name like a whore. He wants you so bad. Wants to bury himself in you. His fingers, his tongue, his dick. He’ll take anything you’re willing to give."
"Stiles," Derek breathed, suddenly so close Stiles could taste his name on the air.
"And there isn’t anything you wouldn’t give him. Every untouched part of you is his, isn’t it? Your dick, your ass… your mouth."
"Yeah," Stuart said, a little laugh bursting from him. "Yeah, I’ve seen the way you stare at his mouth. You’ve got him and everyone else believing it’s because you want him to shut up, but that’s not it, is it? No… you want to shut him up. You want to sink into his mouth so far his lips are straining around you. You want to feel his throat seizing up around your dick, watch his eyes stare up at you, all wide and impossibly innocent even with a mouthful of your dick."
Stiles shifted his hips up, a small, broken noise falling from his lips. Licking them, he let his breath puff out, drying them off so he had to lick them again. And again, as Derek’s eyes tracked the movement of his tongue. “Derek.”
"There’s nothing stopping you." Stuart shifted behind Stiles, shoving up with his hips until Stiles rose up enough for him to push the waistband of Stiles’ sweats down, freeing his achingly hard dick. "He wants that too, Derek. Look how much he wants it. He’s all wet for you." Stuart drew his finger up the underside of Stiles’ dick, catching a bead of come and then smearing it over Stiles’ bottom lip. "Taste him."
With a broken sound, Derek fell forward, though Stiles couldn’t help but note in some small corner of his mind that he didn’t so much as brush against Stiles’ hands, guarding him from hurt even in this. His tongue lapped at Stiles’ lips, brushed over Stiles’ tongue and then came back for it, more purposeful. Stuart let that continue for a long while, his voice washing over Stiles, though he couldn’t really catch anything Stuart was saying, too wrapped up in finally, finally getting to taste Derek, to feel the scrape of his beard over Stiles’ sensitive skin, rough and bristly and still somehow unbelievably soft.
Stiles tried to raise his hands, wanted to touch Derek, to run his fingers through the hair that lay thick and over-long on his head, but Derek’s hands tightened on his wrists, reminding him that he couldn’t. A frustrated noise broke from him, and Derek pulled back, breathing hard, his forehead rolling against Stiles’.
"Help me," Stuart said, and Stiles didn’t know what he was talking about until Derek pulled back, released his grip on one of Stiles’ wrists and brought that hand up to the neckline of his sleep shirt. There was a ripping sound and then another and another, and the scraps of Stiles’ shirt were being pulled from him by his brother.
His sweats fell away easier, were pushed to his feet and then stripped from him, thrown to the floor to drape over a pile of schoolbooks. Stuart hooked his ankles around Stiles’ legs and jerked, pulling Stiles’ thighs wide, exposing him in all his pale nudity to Derek, who somehow didn’t run screaming from the room.
"He’s yours, Derek," Stuart said, voice a little gravelly. "He’s always been yours."
Stiles felt Derek’s fingers spasm where they still held onto one wrist, but he continued to hold back, even though Stiles could see now, could see the way Derek’s gaze was burning hot as he dragged it over every inch of Stiles’ naked body. “Derek,” he bit out, whining a little as he tried to shift his hips but couldn’t, trapped in Stuart’s hold. “Derek, please.”
"Touch me." He let his head fall back against Stuart’s shoulder, baring his throat to Derek, and that was all it took.
With a relieved groan, Derek surged forward, licking a long stripe up Stiles’ throat before he dragged his chin down, raising red marks all over Stiles’ chest. “Need to,” he whispered, the words muffled into Stiles’ belly. “Have to,” and then he couldn’t talk any more, tongue too busy wrapping around the head of Stiles’ dick, licking up the come that slicked the tip.
Stiles cried out, whole body bowing up into the heat of Derek’s mouth, unable to stop himself. His hand flailed out, but Stuart caught it, curled his arm into his chest, held him tight. Tears formed again, from the achingly sweet pleasure, from the sorrow that came from not being able to touch. He needed to touch Derek like he needed air, but he couldn’t.
Derek let out a soothing little rumble of sound, dragging his lips down the length of Stiles’ dick in a sliding little kiss, placed sucking kisses to his balls, and then his hands were under Stiles’ hips, leaving Stuart to grab his other hand and tuck it up next to the first, wrapping too-thin, not warm enough fingers around the place Derek’s had been. And then every thought was forced from Stiles’ mind when Derek dragged the flat of his tongue between the cheeks of his ass, rubbing it over the spasming muscle there. Stiles screamed when Derek drew back and pointed it, pushing, pushing, easing the tip inside Stiles and withdrawing. Over and over, he fucked his tongue into Stiles’ ass, his entire face buried there, beard scraping the skin raw until he was so sensitive he was vibrating with it.
Only then did Derek pull back, his face wet, lips red and eyes wild. “I need… need to…”
Stuart let Stiles go long enough to root around on the bedside table, then a bottle went flying through the air. “Open him up good,” Stuart said, his voice way too cheery for what they were doing. “You’re going where no man has gone before.”
That brought Stiles back to himself long enough to snap, “This isn’t fucking Star Trek, you dork.”
But Derek wasn’t stopped by a bit of sibling banter, and no sooner were those words past Stiles’ lips then he had to suck in a sharp breath because Derek was pushing a finger into him, his hairy knuckle catching against Stiles’ rim. “I want… God, Stiles. You’re so good. So hot and tight. I need…”
"Derek," he gasped, choking on his own need. "Please,” he keened, legs fighting to break free of the spider monkey-like hold Stuart’s had on them. But Stuart just laughed and tucked his legs up closer, yanking Stiles’ legs further apart.
"He wants you to fuck him, Derek. Can’t you see that? Can’t you tell? I can smell it on him, so I know you can.”
But those words made Derek pause what he was doing, his head turning to the side, pressing against the inside of Stiles’ thigh like that would help him call back his scattered thoughts. And Stiles… Stiles was too close to everything he’d ever wanted to let Derek stop now.
"I do," he said, voice quivering slightly with the force of his need. "I want you in me so bad, Derek. I feel so empty, all the time. Please—"
"Just…" Derek’s eyes flickered up, met Stiles’, and the resolve that had been building crumbled. "Maybe just a little. Just… not all. Not all the way. I can’t…"
Stiles nodded, jagged motions of his head. He’d take it. He’d take anything. Anything Derek wanted to give him. Rolling his hips, he nudged Derek back to what he’d been doing, and then he relaxed back, let Stuart take all his weight as he gave himself over to the sensation of Derek’s fingers moving inside him, opening him up. He felt them tremble occasionally, like Derek was shaking, but he couldn’t see any of that. Couldn’t see anything past the blazing color of Derek’s eyes.
"Please, Derek," he whispered, and then Derek was there, big body crowding up against Stiles’, pressing him harder against Stuart, who moved Stiles’ hands, mindful of them even now.
Derek’s fingers slipped free and Stiles keened at the loss of them. Even as Derek kissed the sound off his lips, sucking all traces of it from his mouth, Stuart’s voice was in his ear, shushing him, telling him it was okay. And then something hot and blunt was pressing against him, just resting where he was so empty, and Stiles writhed, pushing with everything he had to get it in him.
With a little sigh, Derek rocked forward, and his dick pushed closer, opened Stiles up. He tensed, squeezing his ass tight around it, trying to trap it inside him, but Stuart made an angry sound and bit his earlobe, startling him so much he relaxed completely. And then, because Stuart had the same “little shit” genes that Stiles did, Stuart bucked his hips up, starting a chain reaction that caused Derek to sink further inside Stiles. They both gasped, Stiles’ tinged with the tiniest amount of pain — the stretch was incredible — and then Derek was pushing forward more, until he was all the way in, like he just couldn’t help himself.
He breathed out a thousand “I’m sorry”s, pressing kisses to Stiles’ face until Stiles grumbled about idiots and wriggled under him. “Fuck me,” he demanded, snapping his teeth. Derek pulled back, his dick dragging deliciously against everything inside Stiles, lighting him up until he was shouting, begging for more.
Stuart held him tight, held him safe, as Derek whined and began to thrust, a little too hard, a little too forceful. But just exactly what Stiles needed. He wanted to feel this for days, to delight in the soreness of muscles worked too hard for the first time. And even then, the pain drained away, left nothing but pure, black pleasure in its wake. He was nothing in the face of it, couldn’t even make articulate sounds, just punched out groans that felt dragged up from his toes.
Stuart let go of Stiles’ wrist, reached down, and grabbed a handful of Derek’s hair, yanking on it until he pulled Derek’s face from Stiles’ throat. “Touch him,” he growled, protective as always. “He’s waited long enough.”
Stiles wanted to second that sentiment, but couldn’t, too lost in sensation. But the second Derek’s hand wrapped around his dick, everything inside him clamped down tight. His breath got trapped somewhere in his throat, escaping on a scream of Derek’s name as Stiles’ orgasm was yanked out of him, almost painful in its intensity.
Derek gasped, hips stuttering as his eyes went wide, bright, locked with Stiles’ as Stiles writhed through his orgasm, his come wetting Derek’s hand and landing in haphazard splatters all over his chest. “Stiles,” Derek breathed, his hand dropping Stiles’ dick to cup his cheek, intense emotion darkening his features.
"Yes," Stiles croaked, too shaken still to speak properly. "Derek. I want you. Please."
Eyes fluttering shut, Derek slid deep, hips snapping forward in a move that rocked the whole bed, and Stiles could feel the way his dick pulsed in his ass. A new little ripple of intense sensation rushed through Stiles, like a mini-orgasm, just from the thought of Derek’s come flooding inside him.
They lay like that for a long time, Derek collapsed against Stiles who just luxuriated in the weight of Derek’s body. But eventually, Stuart let out a strangled squeaking sound, breaking the spell.
"Okay, I’m all for moments of pack bonding and all," he said, "but I’m pretty sure I’m not meant to be squashed like this."
Derek made a grumbling sound, but pulled out slowly, shivering a little as Stiles instinctively tightened up, trying to keep him inside. As his dick popped free, Stiles felt a rush of wet run down his thighs, and Derek’s nostrils flared, his eyes burning blue.
"Aaaand, I’m out of here." Stuart wriggled around, still mindful of Stiles’ hands, and helped Stiles roll into a good cuddle position before he clapped his hands together and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Pretty sure you crazy kids can take things from here. Derek, glad you finally extracted your head from your ass. Stiles, watch the hands, okay? Trust me that a little pain has its place but a lot of pain is just bad." Scooping up a handful of clothes and his shoes, Stuart was halfway out the door before he poked his head back in and said, "Oh, and dad won’t be home ‘til noon tomorrow. So, you know. Woo. Round two is a thing that can happen. Without me. I think I’ve done enough. Name your first kid after me or something."
"Stuart," Derek growled.
"Right. Leaving now! I’ll be at Danny’s if you need me."
Stiles watched through heavy-lidded eyes as his brother pulled the door closed, then he turned his head, nuzzling his face against Derek’s. “So was that weird?”
Derek shrugged, ducking down to nibble on Stiles’ throat. “I’m a werewolf. I kinda figured we threw weird out the window.”
"Right, yeah." Shifting his hips, Stiles winced a little. "Okay. Round two then?"