
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/602406.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall_(Teen_Wolf), Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Step-siblings, Pseudo-Incest, Frottage, Oral_Sex, Masturbation
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-12-21 Words: 4478
****** Whatever the mess you are (you're mine, okay?) ******
by queerly_it_is
Summary
     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’?
Notes
     So, haha, apparantly all it takes for me to start shipping these two
     is for someone to turn to me and say "but what if they were
     stepbrothers?". Yeah.
     All you need to know is Melissa and Sheriff got married when Scott
     and Stiles were 14 or so, and now it's ~2yrs later and they all live
     together.
     I've left the werewolf question deliberately ambiguous here, in case
     I decide to revisit this idea later.
See the end of the work for more notes
Scott has no idea what they’re doing.
Well, okay he knows whatthey’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 reallyrelated’?
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 alwayslike 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 Stilesthing, 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 touchingStiles, hisStiles - 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 everywhereuntil 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 needright 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 doneanything, 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 enoughfor 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 Stilesis 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
lovewitheach 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.
End Notes
     Title from The New Pornographers
  Works inspired by this one
      [Podfic]_Whatever_The_Mess_You_Are_(You're_Mine,_Okay?) by Jinxy
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
