Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

They have thirty minutes or less before the Sheriff calls them down for dinner, because pizza always takes thirty minutes or less. At least that's what the commercials promise. But the world is full of liars, and one of the best of them all is sitting on Stiles' bed, smiling at the the identical skeptical teen.

“I can make you forget,” Stuart says with the ease of someone who isn't a supernatural creature and who didn't just walk out of Stiles' mirror when summoned by a magic spell. It's almost admirable, his ability to code-shift like that, but Stiles has to assume it has everything to do with him being a freaking doppelganger and not actually his real flesh and blood, born of his mother's womb, split from his egg, brother. “I already broke all the rules the first time, so maybe I should do it right this time,” he chuckles.

Stiles hesitates, sitting with his back against the wall and Stuart's knees pressed against his, both sitting cross-legged across from each other like they've done since they were kids. “I don't know if I want to,” he admits, because it's a natural human reaction to cling to the truth, no matter how destructive it can be. “Considering from everything I know now, you 'doing it right' this time means me dying and you assuming my identity.”

“Don't worry about that,” Stuart grimaces, and Stiles can almost buy for a moment that he might actually be apologetic. “Seriously.”

“Look, I don't–”

“Trust me?” Stuart cuts him off with a nod as he picks fuzz off of Stiles' bedding and rolls it between his fingers. “Yeah, I know. But I'll earn it.”

Stiles sighs and leans back against his bedroom wall, fighting the urge to kick his legs out into Stuart's lap and joke with him about their current running tally of who owes who a foot rub, but he keeps his feet to himself. It's weird now, of course. Everything's weird now.

“Why?” he asks suddenly, canting his head before letting it rest back against the wall. “Why did this happen in the first place?”

Stuart shrugs. “You called me.”

“But, you had to have had a reason for answering.”

“Don't worry about it,” Stuart says dismissively as he unfolds his legs and climbs off the bed. “Let's go get some pizza. I think I heard the doorbell.” He holds out his hand to Stiles.

“Tau–”

“Nim,” Stuart counters with a sigh as he waves his hand around, unwilling to drop it until Stiles takes it. “Stop being such a baby. Come on, you know me. No one loves you more than I do.”

“I know the magical fake memories you syringed into all of our heads,” Stiles grumbles, eyeing his twin warily even as he grabs the offered hand and lets Stuart haul him off the bed and to his feet. “I don't know you. I don't even know what you are.”

Stuart is silent for several breaths, and Stiles' skin starts to feel a little tight. He feels self-conscious, like you do when you're playing hide and seek; when you're trying so desperately to stay still but all you want to do is move, run, because you're filled with anxiety and adrenaline. The fear of being found, caught. Of losing.

“What am I? I'm you,” Stuart finally sighs with a shrug. “It's as simple as that. I'm all the parts of you that you don't want to think about. All the weird little bits of your personality that you don't like.” He moves over to the clean laundry pile and grabs one of his shirts – one of the shirts that Stiles swears wasn't there just ten minutes ago – and tosses it on the bed.

“I'm the inappropriate thing you say when you're uncomfortable that earns you a dirty look from Scott,” Stuart continues with a little laugh as he strips the shirt he's wearing off and throws it into the laundry basket, and Stiles' eyes follow it because it's an exact replica of the shirt he's still wearing, except the little rip at the hem is on the opposite side. Mirror image.

Stuart's eyes darken a bit as he steps over and leans into Stiles, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “I'm that one thought you had last year after dad grounded you, that if you just keep letting him eat bacon, maybe he'll have a heart attack and die and then you’ll have the house to yourself.” His smirk is pronounced as Stiles shoves him off with a wounded, disgusted look.

“What the hell–?”

But Stuart doesn't stop.

“I'm the reason you've actually entertained the thought of taking the bite just so you can be strong enough to pin Derek down and fuck his ass raw,” he grins, his voice roughening a bit as he suddenly grabs Stiles by the front of the shirt and pushes him back against the now closed closet door, not hesitating to pin Stiles with his body. “And I'm absolutely the one planting the idea of you letting me fuck you while you're fucking him.”

Stiles lets a hot breath escape as his hands grab at Stuart's sides, bunching up shirt and skin in his fingers as he sets his jaw. He wants to push Stuart away, he wants to, but he doesn't, because he wants his brother close even more.

“Oh, and then there's this classic," Stuart murmurs as he leans in, letting his lips and words brush hot over Stiles' ear. "You eating dirt out in the middle of the woods, on your hands and knees while Derek's fucking you... as an actual wolf.”

“You are so fucked up,” Stiles grinds out through his teeth as he digs his nails into Stuart's sides, though the cotton of his shirt takes the majority of the brunt.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Stuart drawls ironically before leaning in and dropping an almost condescending peck to the tip of Stiles' nose. “You know, the sooner you accept the fact that you're a fucked up kid who wants fucked up things, the happier you'll be.” He steps away from Stiles, who draws in a long, deep breath, like Stuart had been sucking up all of the oxygen. “And really, can you seriously tell me that any of you are genuinely happier now than you were a week ago?”

“Derek maybe,” Stiles scoffs as he pushes himself away from the closet with a scowl, his eyes lingering sidelong on Stuart who's in the process of changing into his own jeans, now.

“Yeah, but Derek is generally a total dickhole,” Stuart states as he tugs the skinny denim up his legs. “Hot abs and sexy stubble do not forgive asshat behavior, and he was pretty much completely less concerned with the fact that you had gone off the reservation, and more concerned about how much you enjoy the dick.”

“That's kind of promising though, if you think about it,” Stiles says lamely as he steps around Stuart to linger by the door. “At least he didn't seem horribly disgusted by it.”

“Wow, yeah, and 'he only hits you when you make him angry', right?” Stuart rolls his eyes as he shoves his feet into a pair of Stiles' sneakers because he's too lazy to sit on the bed to lace up his own shoes, which are suddenly right there on the floor. “No bueno, Nim. Just fuck him and get it out of your system. Derek Hale is so not long-term-love material.”

“I guess,” Stiles sighs as he reaches up to scratch over the crown of his head, a habit he'd cultivated back when his head was still buzzed.

“Remember, Nim; I know everything that you know, and even some things that you don't even know you know,” Stuart says as he walks up to stand before his brother, finally reaching out to pluck the black frames off of Stiles' face; the glasses he'd forgotten he'd been wearing ever since Stuart stepped out of the mirror. “If anyone has your best interests in mind, it's me.”

The moment Stuart settles his glasses back onto his own face, Stiles just glances away toward the bedroom door, because he can't shake the chill in his stomach or the strange feeling of his brother's words being anything but comforting.

“Hey,” Stuart says in a hushed, almost hopeful tone as he reaches out to grab Stiles by the shoulder, turning his attention back. “If you let me kiss you, I promise it'll make you happy.”

“Stu–” Stiles says softly as his brother crowds him slightly, Stuart's other hand reaching up to stroke his thumb lightly along Stiles' lower lip, and despite the tightness in his throat like he suddenly wants to cry, Stiles leans into it. He resigns. He concedes.

Because he does want to be happy. Wasn't that the point of all this?

Stuart's hand slips down to curl under Stiles' chin, and all he can see is the bright flash of the doppelganger's eyes as Stuart's lips meet his, and the world tilts beneath his feet.

The doppelganger must kiss the human it wishes to transform into, Stiles remembers, a few strains of information from Deaton flashing through his memories as Stuart sifts through them, plucking out the ones he doesn't want Stiles to remember and rearranging the rest to suit him best. When the doppelganger's lips touch the human's, information about the human's thoughts, memories, physical abilities, skills, and talents are transferred to the doppelganger, thus marking the change.

The doppelganger must kill the human to make the transference complete.

“Boys! Pizza!” the Sheriff yells up, and the twins spring apart as if he'd walked into the room and tossed a bucket of ice water on them, while talking about the merits of safe sex.

“Dude, be careful,” Stiles hisses, shoving Stuart on the arm as he peers out the door which is still cracked open a bit. “What if he'd walked up here?”

“I would have told him you'd choked on your own spit again and I was giving you mouth-to-mouth like I had to do when we were eight,” Stuart laughs, easily ducking Stiles sharp shoulder as the younger twin tries to ram him playfully into the wall.

“Shut up, dickhead,” Stiles laughs as they spill out of his bedroom and head toward the stairs. “That was one time, and I couldn't help myself. That was the first time I ever saw Lydia Martin,” he grins. “Of course I had excessive drool.”

“Speaking of Lydia, think we can reschedule Go-Karts and mini-golf for this weekend?” Stuart asks as they head downstairs. “Getting sick this past weekend was a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, definitely. We'll make it happen.”

“Cool.”

“I call keys today!” Stuart yells out a few days later as they're both getting ready for school, and Stiles exhales an annoyed huff because it's too late for him to argue; Stuart's already grabbed the keys to the Jeep off of the little key-hook next to the door.

“Fine,” Stiles complains as he stomps out the front door after his brother, eyes narrowing in the morning light as he spies what looks suspiciously like Derek's Toyota parked down at the end of the block.

“Dude, is that–?” Stiles jerks toward the car with his chin, and Stuart glances behind him, his eyes narrowing as well to get a better look.

“That's... yeah,” Stuart snorts and climbs in behind the wheel, gesturing for Stiles to get in as he snaps his seat-belt on. “Maybe loverboy wanted to drive you to school today,” he teases as he starts the Jeep, making little kissy faces at the younger twin, who quite lovingly socks Stuart in the thigh as hard as he can.

“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles smiles cheerily as Stuart laughs and pulls out of the driveway, turning in the direction opposite Derek's car and driving down the street.

‹What's up, creeper?› Stiles texts to Derek, not really expecting to get a response as the werewolf rarely acknowledges the existence of technology. But much to his surprise his phone vibrates again in under thirty seconds.

‹Bad vibe last night. Just checking in on you.›

Stuart is too busy singing along with the radio at the top of his lungs to notice Stiles' weird expression as he stares at his phone, thumb moving over the keypad before setting it in his lap

‹This is the third night in a row, dude. Is something going on?›

‹ You'll know when I know. ›

“Hey, Scotty?” Stiles hedges as he picks up one of the lacrosse balls and tosses it to his friend as the two of them walk out onto the otherwise empty field, having lingered behind after school to practice on their own.

Scott catches it easily and slows his pace toward the goal. “Yeah, man?”

“If I ever asked you for the bite,” Stiles hesitates, his expression drawing in a little perplexed, like he's not exactly sure why he's bringing this up. “If I ever meant it, you know... would you give it to me?”

“What?” Scott straightens a bit and stops walking altogether, finally giving Stiles his full attention. “What do you mean?”

Stiles sags a bit and rolls his eyes, fingers slowly turning the other ball he'd picked up around and around in his fingers. “If I asked you to stick your little wolfy teeth into my arm so I could run with the pack and howl at the moon, would you say yes?” he presses his lips together in a tightish smile, as if trying to pass the question off as a random word vomit so Scott doesn't dwell on it too much, but it's Scott, so of course he will.

“I... don't know? Maybe?” Scott answers earnestly, because there's no other way to come at something like this. “I guess it would depend on why you wanted it.” Stiles feels a little bad for not keeping this to himself because Scott sounds confused, and he hates the idea of his friend dwelling.

“You've always been, like, really adamant about not wanting to be a werewolf,” Scott continues as he walks back over to Stiles, eyes squinting a little as the sunset starts glowing a bit brighter as it hits the horizon. “So, I guess if you suddenly one day wanted it, I'd need you to convince me.” He gives Stiles a bit of an apologetic smile.

“No, that's fair,” Stiles nods and gestures that Scott get back over into the goal, since they didn't have much time left before the security guard would wander by to sweep them off the field. “And a good idea, really. It would definitely save me from any stupid drunken antics in the future, you know. Like instead of drunk-dialing, drunk-asking-for-the-bite.”

They both laugh as Scott plants himself in front of the goal, no helmet necessary of course, and Stiles walks away to stick himself at the attack line.

“I'm pretty sure that drunk-asking-for-the-bite would end up being the worst hangover ever,” Scott grins.

“Seriously,” Stiles agrees. “'Dude, I had the worst headache when I woke up'. 'No, man, that's just your inner monster howling for blood'. 'Oh, shit... do they make aspirin for that?' 'Pickle juice, bro!',” he quips, sending them both into peals of laughter.

They screw around for a bit, Stiles chucking the ball at Scott as hard as he can, and every time Scott catching it effortlessly. Stiles complains and they finally settle on Scott blindfolding himself, which ensures he only catches about three-quarters of the balls, which satisfies Stiles.

It's not until they're packing their things up to leave that Scott brings it up again.

“So, why are you even thinking about the bite?” he asks as he carelessly shoves his pads into his bag, hoping Coach doesn't choose tomorrow to do an equipment check. “Did something happen?”

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugs it off, hoping an easy smile and a soft laugh will convince Scott that everything is fine, but they both know better. “Just curious. Stu and I were just bullshitting and it came up.”

“That's total crap,” Scott sighs, throwing a leg over the bench and straddling it as he looks up at Stiles, watching his friend's expression darken a bit; close off. “What's this all about, man?”

“Nothing.”

“Stiles–”

“Look, can you just–“ Stiles begins sharply, but cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, and Scott's eyebrows lift at the annoyance he hears in Stiles' tone. “Look, it's my prerogative to lie if I want to. Can you just let me lie?” His shoulders sag a bit as he finishes zipping his bag. “Just because you can tell when I'm lying doesn't mean I have to be a saint.”

Scott is silent for a few beats, concern written clearly on his face, but he simply nods because Stiles is right.

“I'll tell you another time, okay?” Stiles says as he hauls his bag up over his shoulder and nods to Scott. “Don't worry. I mean it.”

“Alright man, but you only get one free pass before I start stalking you,” Scott says with a little smile, because a bit of levity can't hurt right about now. He stands and follows after Stiles and they make their way back toward the locker room.

“You mean someone's actually going to let Derek clock out?” Stiles snorts.

“Oh...” Scott winces slightly before turning that puppy dog smile onto Stiles. “You noticed, huh?”

“I don't know if he's just being lazy or if I'm just a hell of a lot more perceptive than Stu is, but yeah, I noticed. So, what's up with that?”

“We think it's probably nothing,” Scott shrugs as he stows his duffel in his locker, Stiles doing the same beside him. “Derek says he and Peter felt some weird vibes the other night, so they went out sniffing around.”

“Then why the stakeouts in my front yard?”

“Well, we don't know what it is yet, and better safe than sorry since a lot of monsters like to kidnap humans, right?” Scott grins. “So someone needs to keep an eye on you guys.”

Stiles just rolls his eyes. “Could you imagine, though?” he says as he and Scott head for the door. “Anyone kidnapping me? They'd probably return me an hour later with a tear-stained apology note, and my nose would be broken from where they'd hit me in the face with a chair, trying to get me to shut up.”

“You don't have to get kidnapped for that, man," Scott says as he clasps a hand on Stiles' shoulder and giving him a loving, meaningful, and completely full of shit smile. "I would absolutely hit you in the face with a chair any time you wanted me to.” Complete with batting eyelashes.

“I love you, too, bro,” Stiles chuckles, shaking his head as the pair walk out of the locker room and toward the parking lot. “Oh, hey, uh... speaking of feeling like you just gpt hit in the face with a chair," he chuckles nervously. "About the other day at Deaton's...”

Scott winces a little inwardly, because as much as he and Stiles love each other as best friends, and even to an extent like brothers, the idea that Stiles has been intimate with his real blood brother still makes Scott squicky and uncomfortable. He was really hoping they were going to do the manly thing and ignore it, but guesses not and mentally braces himself for Stiles' words.

“That whole thing with Derek calling me out...” Stiles says, and Scott blinks and leans back a bit, giving him a slightly surprised look as he continues on. “I'm not into him into him. It's seriously just, like, a purely physical thing. Like popping a boner around boobs or leaning against a washing machine or, you know, a stiff breeze. I can't be held responsible for that, right?”

“Wait, Derek?” Scott asks, his face a pure mask of confusion, and he stares at Stiles like the taller boy is screwing with him. “What about Stu?”

“What about him?” Stiles gives him a weird look before shrugging. “He doesn't really get along with Derek. But, you know, who really does, right?” he chuckles. “But anyway, I just wanted to clear that up. It's no big deal. It's not even a thing.”

“O-kay,” Scott drags out before Stiles hooks an arm around his shoulders and drags him toward the Jeep, babbling something about Chinese take out, while Scott sifts through his memories of last Saturday at the animal clinic. Weird, because he swears he remembers Derek talking about Stiles and Stuart, but maybe he's remembering wrong. He must be, because there's no way that was an actual thing. He must just be remembering wrong.

It's not until Thursday night, after the Sheriff has gone to bed, that Stuart makes his move.

“I got some condoms,” Stuart breathes hotly against his brother's throat,

“Because, uh... because of Lydia?” Stiles asks, his voice a little strained both from the way Stuart's hand is shoved inside of his jeans and working over his dick, and the thought of his twin being the one to get to see that goddess in all of her glory.

“Uh, yeah, but also...” Stuart lifts his head to look at Stiles, pupils blown and glassy as he thumbs over the head of Stiles' cock, pulling a hard whine from the younger twin. “Also because of you, Nim. I think we should.”

“Yeah..?” Stiles breathes, his brow furrowing slightly as he rocks his hips up, his hands moving to grab at either side of his brother's hips as Stuart straddles him on the bed, Stiles' back up against the wall. “I mean... really? You think–”

“Yes,” Stuart says intently before tonguing over his lower lip, his eyes dropping to Stiles' mouth. “I want you, Nim. It's time to stop screwing around.”

“Wow, uh...” Stiles whispers, feeling himself nodding without any real expression or thoughtful permission put into the motion. “Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Stuart repeats with a lift of his eyebrows over his smudged glasses, and at Stiles' insistent nod he smiles.

“Hell yeah.”

With the speed that only two horny teenagers can muster, Stuart grabs the lube from Stiles' nightstand drawer and the condoms from his backpack, and Stiles cranks the music that's been playing softly on his laptop. Wouldn't do for their father to hear them, right? They shed their clothes with a desperate ferocity, teeth catching at lips and tongues tasting any bit of skin they can, as shirts get tugged over heads, and jeans and boxers are wiggled out of and kicked off.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stiles gasps as the hand he'd just sunk into Stuart's hair slips up to grab his glasses off, and they go skittering onto the nightstand, leaving the two boys staring at each other like mirror images. “Um, so who...”

“Who?” Stuart frowns softly and furrows his brow before recognition lights his face. “Oh, right... who. Um... well, you, definitely,” he grins and crawls back over Stiles, pressing his lips firmly against his brother's in a vain attempt to distract Stiles from the inevitable question hanging heavy in what little air there is between them.

“No, you,” Stiles mumbles against Stuart's lips, and with a smirk turns his head so the older twin's mouth skitters along his cheek, leaving Stuart scowling.

“Okay, well it has to be one of us,” Stuart grumbles, tongue darting over his lips as he slumps back, sitting on Stiles' thighs. He drops his eyes and moves a hand to his own dick, squeezing firmly until a pleasurable shudder goes through him. “Come on, Nim... I really want to fuck you.”

Stiles feels uncertainty twist cool in his stomach, even as Stuart leans forward and presses hot and hungry against him. The sounds of their want for each other drag out of their throats as Stuart's hand moves to curl firmly around both of their hard lengths, squeezing them together almost to the point of painful. He drops his forehead against Stiles' and pants softly, and Stiles can feel Stuart's muscles tensing under his hands as he skims his palms and fingers over the skin of his brother's back.

“Flip a coin, jerk,” Stiles whispers, even as his hips roll up and he indulges in a slow push through Stuart's hand, shivering at the silky-hot skin of his brother's dick against his. He then completely pulls his hands off of Stuart and throws them up behind his head, resting back against them with a smile that's trying really hard to be cool and smug, but there's still a hand moving on his dick, so it more looks like he's just trying not to throw up; eyes wide and lips stretched to their limit. But Stuart knows better.

“I fucking hate you,” Stuart groans, deflating a bit as he drops to nuzzle at Stiles' collarbone. But he moves off of his brother and shuffles to his feet to quickly dip a hand into their joint change jar on Stiles' dresser, pulling out a quarter.

“Heads, you take it,” he announces as he walks back over to stand beside the bed. “Tails, me.” Stiles just nods, though the flush in his cheeks and lips matches the darkening head of his cock as his eyes drop to stare at his brother's dick, wondering what it would feel like inside of him.

“Flip,” Stiles says before licking his lips, his dick pulsing gently as he lifts his eyes back to Stuart's face.

The coin is flipped. It turns in the air for what seems like an eternity before landing amongst the folds of the bedsheets. Both boys lean in to peer closely at it, and with Stuart's hissed 'yes!' it's revealed to be heads. Stiles expected to feel less excited than he does, but he can't lie; he was secretly hoping it would be him.

“How do you want me, baby?” Stiles teases, pitching his voice falsetto as he slides onto his side and poses like Kate Winslet from Titanic. “Like one of your French girls?”

Stuart snorts and grabs Stiles by the ankles, dragging him around so he's laying stretched out on his back along the length of the bed. “You don't have the boobs to be Kate Winslet,” he teases, because both of them are a little nervous, and humor in the face of terror is a Stilinski family trait.

Stiles pouts a bit and digs his chin into his sternum as he stares down at his chest, lifting his hands to cover cover his nipples. “Don't listen to him, ladies,” he murmurs. “I think you're great.” The playfulness is short-lived, however, when a hot jolt of pleasure shoots through Stiles, from the base of his spine up to his hairline, as Stuart presses his tongue to the base of Stiles' cock and licks a slow, hot stripe along the hard flesh.

Stiles hisses sharply, hands dropping to fist into the bedding on either side of him as he lowers his eyes to watch his brother as about a billion thoughts fly through his head. He ignores them all and concentrates on how good it feels to flex his toes, to tense the muscles of his legs as Stuart laps at the head of his cock. He sounds softly at the tight coil of pleasure in his groin as his lips lift off the bed in a greedy gesture, and Stuart just grins lopsided before wrapping his lips around the dark head of Stiles' dick and sucks him wet and firmly.

“Do, uh...” Stiles breathes, dropping his head back with a soft groan as Stuart slowly sinks his mouth down around Stiles' cock, lips memorizing every ridge and smooth plane. “Do you know what to do?”

The two of them had jacked off to countless videos together over the past year, but most of the time it was straight porn. There was something that always felt weird about watching two guys fucking when they hadn't done that together yet, like they were worried it would sully that sacred unknown between them. Like they didn't want to be influenced by anything but their own passions and desires.

Stuart curls his hand around the base of Stiles' cock, resting the edge of his fist against his brother's pelvis as he sucks back up along his length, tongue pressing and dragging along the sensitive underside. He lifts his other hand and snaps his fingers at Stiles to get his attention, before pointing to the lube and condoms on the nightstand just so he doesn't have to take his mouth off of his twin's dick.

Stiles scowls a bit at the thought of having to complete such an easy, tiny task when all he wants to do is lay there and let the pleasurable warmth roll over him, but he does as he's told. His hand slaps around on the wooden surface a few times before grabbing the bottle, which he tosses down at Stuart's head, missing him. The condoms, however, do actually hit his brother in the face.

“You're such a fucking brat,” Stuart complains after pulling his mouth off of Stiles' with a lewd sucking sound, immediately reaching for the lube as he tries to retain some dignity by not rutting his own aching dick against the mattress.

“Good thing you love me, huh?” Stiles says, his voice thick as he props up slightly on his elbows to watch Stuart, both of their mouths hanging agape as if in intense concentration, and in a way, they sort of are. This is all completely new for them; exciting and intense. It's the last boundary to cross and it means something.

Stuart climbs up to kneel between Stiles' legs, his eyes gleaming strangely as he stares at his brother, one hand curled around the small bottle of lube and the other moving to squeeze Stiles' thigh warmly. “I love you more than anything, Nim,” he says in all seriousness. “You're more important to me than anyone else.”

Stiles feels his chest clench, because while he does love his brother with everything that he is, he knows that one day soon this is going to have to end. They can't do this forever, and he aches every time he thinks about how much that's going to break him. Break Stuart.

“Ditto,” Stiles whispers with a silly, love-struck and sex-dumb smile. He snickers and falls back onto his back as a pillow smacks him in the face, and before he can retaliate Stuart's hand is smacking him on the hip, telling him to lift up so he can shove the pillow under Stiles' ass.

“I read this this makes it feel better,” Stuart says, the tips of his ears going red because that's how Stuart blushes, as opposed to Stiles who just goes splotchy on his cheeks. “And I want to make you feel good.”

“I feel...” Stiles begins, scraping his teeth over his lower lip and squirming a bit as his back adjusts to the new curve of his spine and his eyes dig holes into the ceiling. “Yeah, I feel kind of really slutty like this,” he laughs. One of his hands reaches up to rub over his own hip, oddly appreciative of the hard curve of his hipbone and the taut, smooth stretch of skin there.

“You look slutty,” Stuart grins, swatting Stiles' hand away from himself as he finally opens the lube. “I like it.”

“If I look slutty then you look slutty,” Stiles throws back, feeling his cheeks heat, and he realizes he can't stop smiling. Nervous energy. Oh my god, oh my god, this is really happening.

“Cool,” Stuart says with a grin as he hunches over Stiles and nuzzles into his stomach, branding his smile, his teeth, and his tongue into his brother's skin. He distracts with hot, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dipping and prodding into Stiles' bellybutton as a hand reaches to grab under Stiles' knee, tugging a slender leg up and around his hip, lazily spreading his younger brother's thighs even more.

Stiles drops a hand down and scratches his blunt nails over Stuart's scalp, his skin thrumming with anticipation, but he doesn't have to wait long because Stuart is just as impatient as Stiles. A slick, clumsy finger bumps up against his hole and prods, rubbing firmly against the tight ring of muscle, and Stiles digs his heel into Stuart's back and unconsciously pushes up against it. Both boys moan softly as they pass that first barrier, because now it really feels like sex and not just two dumbasses teenagers screwing around.

“I wish dad wasn't home,” Stiles says, biting off the end of the word in a tight groan as Stuart's finger slowly pushes into him, angling into his body in a way that his own fingers never could. “–fuck... I don't want to have to be quiet,” he laughs silently, fingers gripping at his brother's hair as Stuart rests his cheek on Stiles' hip, intent and content to concentrate fully on the feel of slowly fingering his twin's tight ass open.

“I don't mind,” Stuart murmurs, his finger curling inside of Stiles and coaxing out a whimper that shoots straight down to his own cock. “I like you all pent up.” He slides his mouth in to kiss sloppy at the base of Stiles' dick, just as he pushes a second finger inside of his little brother.

Stiles winces slightly and squirms against the tight intrusion, but the pleasure of Stuart's lips and tongue sliding over his hard flesh could make anything feel better. “Mm... like that,” he sighs, lips parting around a few hot panting breaths as he slips his other leg up to curve around his brother’s back, heel digging and sliding along Stuart's spine.

Stuart drags his lips along Stiles' cock before sucking lightly at the swollen head, his fingers scissoring and stretching his brother as he tongues at the slit, groaning softly at the salty musk of precum. “Hn... can I do three?" he husks, his toes digging into the bedding, curling as he gets a knee under him to lift his hips, relieving the pressure against his groin.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, his voice roughened with want. He slips his fingers out of Stuart's hair to give him more freedom to move, before sliding both of his hands up over his head and grabbing his pillow, half-tugging it over his eyes as he rocks his hips restlessly against Stuart's thrusting fingers.

The air between them is hot and scented with barely-constrained hunger, and by the time Stuart eases a third digit in past Stiles' rim, the younger twin is whining with each slick slide. He's not completely open yet, he's not totally ready yet, but they both know that his first time won't be without pain, and Stuart just knows that Stiles would rather ride it out on his cock than on his fingers. He can feel it.

“I'm gonna–” Stuart murmurs, cutting himself off with a few slow drags of his tongue along the full length of Stiles' cock, his pupils blown as he stares at his brother's length, at the sheen of precum and spit that slicks his stomach.

“Yeah,” Stiles groans, swallowing thickly as his hands tighten in the pillow before shoving it back off of his face with a heady exhalation of breath as Stuart gently slides his fingers out. “Fuck, this is–”

“Perfect,” they both say in tandem. Stiles grins lazily as Stuart moves up, dropping a hasty kiss to his lips as his hands tear the condom wrapper open, the sound like a shotgun blast in the room. They're both suddenly acutely aware of what's about to happen, and Stiles holds his brother's gaze the entire time Stuart's fingers move over himself, rolling the latex down over his own dick.

“Okay, Nim?” Stuart whispers, his dark eyes nearly black as they bore into Stiles', and the younger man just nods and grins a weak, silly grin.

“More than,” Stiles says as he leans up to steal another kiss. “Now get inside of me before I roll you over and take you like the bitch you are.”

Stuart draws back a bit, his eyebrows hitching up as he matches that grin, but there's promise in his; promise and challenge. “Oh, you're gonna get it, now,” Stuart laughs as he slinks back down Stiles' body and settles back on his heels, grabbing the lube and slicking himself over the condom. “I'm gonna fuck your brains out.”

“That might take a really long time,” Stiles smirks, curling his long legs loosely around his brother once more as he drops a hand down his stomach to tug lazily at his own sensitive cock. “I'm pretty damn smart and I don't think you can last that long.”

“You're such a shithead,” Stuart laughs softly as he lines himself up with his brother’s stretched hole, nudging the head of his own neglected length against it as if in search of some unspoken permission. They both tense a bit and hold their breath, staring at each other for a few seconds before Stuart leans down and presses his lips against Stiles' in a hard, searing kiss just as he pushes himself inside.

The sound Stiles makes is guttural, and Stuart feels him immediately tense up, muscles going rigid as if trying to instinctively push Stuart out. “Relax, Nim,” he gasps against Stiles lips, his own head swimming as he summons all of his willpower not to just fuck into Stiles, because he doesn't want to hurt his brother any more than he knows he has to. “You have relax.”

“Fuck, fuck, I'm trying,” Stiles strains as he pulls his legs up higher, opening himself up wider and rocking his hips against Stuart's cock. One hand grabs his headboard as the other clutches at the back of Stuart's neck and forces the kiss deeper, trying to distract himself by sucking hard at his brother's tongue.

It takes a few painful thrusts before Stuart is in completely, and by the time he stills inside of his brother, Stiles is shaking gently, his lashes wet with the kind of tears that spring up when you stub your toe or slam your fingers in a door. The kind that dry up just as quickly as they well.

“Y'okay?” Stuart murmurs, lips brushing over Stiles lower lip, chin, his jaw; kissing him absently, everywhere.

Stiles sucks in a long, deep breath through his nose and just nods a few times, his nails digging with affection and determination into the meat of Stuart's shoulder. “It's not gonna feel any better until you start to fuck me,” he whispers, and they both laugh softly at the obvious wisdom of that.

Stuart drops to rest his forehead in the crook of Stiles neck and nods, pressing his lips against his brother's collarbone as he pulls out and pushes back in slowly, both of them groaning low in their throats as heat crawls their skin.

Within a minute Stiles is rocking his hips up, meeting each of Stuart's thrusts with an equal passion. He's open and his body is receptive, and every slick-tight thrust feels fucking amazing. They're grunting and hissing out each tightly-constrained sound, because the fear of being found is ever present, and covers them like hot pricks of pleasure over their skin.

One of Stuart's hands is tight on Stiles' thigh, gripping so hard they both know he'll have tiny finger bruises tomorrow. His other hand slides up to cup the side of his brother's face, thumb pressing against Stiles' open lips before slipping inside of his mouth and stoking along his tongue, earning a desperate groan from Stiles before he closes his lips around it and sucks hard.

“Fuck, Nim,” Stuart gasps, feeling the wrap of those hot lips twisting tight in his groin, sending his thrusts into hard, erratic rhythm. Stiles whines and drags his nails down the length of his brother's back before grabbing a handful of Stuart's ass, his legs hanging open wantonly, heels hooked and digging into Stuart's lower back. His other hand shoves between their sweat-slicked bodies and grabs at his own cock, a shuddering moan tonguing around Stuart's thumb as he starts jerking his own dick, feeling himself filling back to full hardness in seconds as he works himself exactly how he likes it.

They can take their time when they have the time, but right now it's just a desperate race to get off before they're discovered.

“Yeah, god...” Stuart groans, lifting himself up a bit and ducking his head so he can watch Stiles' hand moving quickly over his cock, trying to time his thrusts with the pace his younger brother is setting for himself. “Come on, Nim... wanna see you come,” he says, his voice rough and throaty as he bites at Stiles' shoulder, his own orgasm building quickly at his groin. “Want to feel you lose it around me.”

Stuart knows Stiles' sounds, knows how his voice pitches when he's getting close, and the smell of sex is so ripe in the air he can hardly keep from just fucking into Stiles until he begs for release. He's a little surprised when Stiles comes so suddenly, his body tensing and shaking as his hips stutter and buck. His cock twitches in his hand as he slides his fist up to squeeze just beneath the head, jerking out his come with short, fast tugs.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles gasps, his eyelids fluttering furiously as he slicks his own stomach with release, and Stuart makes no apologies as he presses their torsos together so he can feel it against his skin, too. Stiles grits his teeth and keens lowly as Stuart fucks him through his orgasm, both hands now gripping at the older twin's ass as Stiles encourages his brother to come with each rock of his hips and soft cry that catches in his throat.

Stuart fills his condom with a hot, panting moan that's muffled against the side of Stiles' throat, and within seconds he's stretched out bonelessly on top of his little brother, cock twitching through the vestiges of his orgasm because Stiles is still so nice and hot and snug around him.

“Damn, that was fun,” they both whisper at the same time, before letting out weak, surprised chuckles and making a pathetic attempt at eye contact that really just consists of them rolling their heads lazily in the vague direction of the others' head.

“Jinx, dick,” they both mutter in tandem, before their lips meet in a soft, warm kiss.

Stuart sleeps in Stiles' bed that night, their limbs intertwined and faces close. They breathe the same air and maybe even share the same dreams. And somewhere during the darkest time of night, the time when magic wants to come out and play, something happens.

Something changes.

"Uh, hey dad? Is there any for me?" Stiles asks as he walks into the kitchen on Saturday morning, glancing at his dad's empty plate and the one Stuart's currently eating off of, and then over at the pan that's very empty of either eggs or bacon.

"Oh, crap," the Sheriff groans as he's shrugging into his jacket and edging toward the door. "Sorry, kiddo; I'd make more but I have to run. They called me in last minute. I think there's some Pop Tarts in the pantry?"

He yells a good-bye to both of his sons before rushing out the door, leaving Stiles staring blankly at the space where his father had just stood, before looking back at Stuart who smirks up at him.

"There aren't any Pop-Tarts," Stuart says with the innocence of nothing innocent at all.

"What the hell," Stiles grumbles, giving his smug brother the side-eye before stealing his last piece of toast and cramming it into his mouth until his cheeks bulg like a chipmunks.

Stuart just smiles pleasantly and lifts his eyebrows a bit before taking the last bite of his eggs. “What time are we meeting up with everyone?”

“Ten,” Stiles mutters around his mouthful of food, and he casts one last annoyed look at his brother before moving into the kitchen to scrounge for something more substantial to eat.

 And as if to add insult to injury, Stuart once again calls keys to the Jeep before Stiles can.

The air's crisp, the sun's bright, and the parking lot smells vaguely of crappy pizza, cotton candy, and something sour and kind of rotten as the group of Beacon Hills teenagers descends on the family fun center.

“These probably weren't the best shoes to wear for mini-golf,” Lydia says as she glances down at her heels, then back out at the expansive miniature golf course. Connected to it is a huge Go-Kart track, and then a large building that contains a restaurant and an arcade, as well as a shop for trading tickets in for prizes.

“Probably not,” Stuart laughs. “But they look nice. And if your feet start to hurt, I'd be more than happy to carry you around on my back.”

“Right,” Lydia looks at him with a playful impassiveness. “And I'm sure the fact that I'm in a skirt has nothing to do with that offer.”

“Hey, I am the very model of innocence and naivete!” he protests, holding his hands up with a grin. “I'm wounded that you would try and turn my chivalrous offer around and make it something dark and perverted.”

Lydia just snorts and rolls her eyes before turning and marching toward the entrance, her well-manicured fingers gesturing for Stuart to follow her, which he very obediently does.

“I don't like it,” Stiles says to Scott from a good twenty feet behind as they meander slowly after Stuart and Lydia, Stiles' arms folded and his eyes narrowed as he peers after his brother and his long-time crush. "I don't like him going out with her." Scott's trying to pretend like he's not watching Isaac and Allison the same way, and neither one of them is commenting on the fact that to the outsider observer, the two of them look like the happy gay couple out with all of their straight friends.

“Are you still into her?” Scott asks quietly, their shoulders bumping as they try and keep their conversation quiet, though Isaac does glance over curiously, in a really awful attempt at appearing nonchalant. Can't escape werewolf hearing.

“Yes and no?” Stiles frowns a bit and shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe it's more that I just kind of don't trust him with her. Does that sound crazy?”

“No,” says a voice behind both of them. Scott turns smoothly, his eyes only a little wide as he thought he'd smelled Derek, but this only confirms it. Stiles, on the other hand, trips over his own foot in his haste to spin faster than a professional figure skater, but before his ass meets the concrete sidewalk out in front of the ticket booth, Derek grabs him easily by the front of the hoodie and hauls him back upright again.

“What's up?” Scott asks, his tone hushed as he steps in closer to Derek, his eyes darting between the older wolf and his best friend; watching the two of them watch each other for a little longer than necessary before Derek lets go of Stiles' hoodie, leaving the younger man to straighten himself out.

“Nothing,” Derek says with a look to Scott. “I just really love mini-golf.”

“You do not,” Stiles scoffs with a laugh.

“Yeah, I do,” Derek says defensively.

“No, seriously, what's going on?” Scott asks again, letting out a short laugh because it's always funny when Derek jokes around. Because he has to be joking around, right?

“I'm seriously here for mini-golf,” Derek says again, his expression as serious as any other time Derek is conscious. Or maybe even unconscious.

Stiles tongues ones of his back molars and narrows his eyes slightly before throwing a thoughtful look at Scott. Scott just lifts his eyebrows and shrugs a bit, canting his head at Stiles.

“Yeah, okay big guy,” Stiles says before making a sweeping gesture toward the ticket booth. “Let's see how long you last with the mighty plethora of blue balls jokes I plan on making today.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow as Scott snickers and jogs over to grab a bucket of golf balls for them, tipping it to show Derek that all of the balls inside are a dark blue.

“Scott! Be gentle, man!” Stiles yells out before making a wibble face. “You should never handle blue balls like that.”

“Oh! Sorry, bro,” Scott says, trying not to laugh as he pretends to be chastised before pulling two golf balls out and tossing them to Stiles, both of them ignoring the annoyed harried-looking mother who's herding a birthday party of young kids in the opposite direction. “Here, show me how to hold them.”

Stiles catches them easily and holds them both gently in one hand before slowly rolling them around in his palm like they're a pair of Baoding balls. “This is how you handle blue balls,” Stiles says before he and Scott dissolve into the sort of immature laughter that only two sixteen-year-olds can find endearing.

Derek just rolls his eyes and ends up paying the entrance fee for all three of them.

Twenty minutes later and Derek is losing horribly, but that's to be expected since he's absolutely terrible at mini-golf. There's also the fact that he can't keep his eyes off of Stuart, so much to the point that Stiles finally lifts his putter and smacks the werewolf in the middle of the chest with it.

Not hard. Well, maybe a little hard.

“Dude,” he hisses in annoyance, giving Derek his best 'what the fuck?' look as he finally reclaims the former alpha's attention. “If you want to see him naked so bad, just go ask him. He'll probably put out.”

“What?” Derek asks, his expression pinching up like he's just tasted some sour.

“You keep staring at Stu like you want to chew his clothes off,” Stiles retorts, trying to keep the sullen tone out of his voice.

“I'm not–” Derek begins to protest, but stops talking just as Stuart turns and makes eye contact with him, giving him a wink. A fucking wink. Derek growls low which earns Scott's attention, his hand moving to grab Derek's shoulder.

“Okay, you lied earlier about being here for mini-golf,” Scott says softly as he encourages Derek's eyes away from Stuart and onto his own. “But I let it slide because it wasn't a big deal. Now it's apparently a big deal, man. So what the hell is going on with you?”

“Is something wrong with Stu?” Stiles asks, looking concerned as he glances between Derek and his brother, who seems to be having a great time pulling out all the cheesy romance movie moves on Lydia, including wrapping his arms around her from behind to help her putt her ball.

“I don't know,” Derek lies, flashing his eyes at Scott in an attempt to silently plead that the young alpha not say a word. “It might be nothing. I just keep getting a–”

“A vibe,” Stiles sighs with a nod, before shaking his head at Derek. “Yeah, Scott told me. But seriously, we're fine. Nothing's come to try and eat us, okay?”

Derek huffs and gives a curt nod, which apparently satisfies both of the boys who turn back to the huge plastic and wood castle, each arguing the best strategy for getting their blue balls into the hole with the least amount of strokes. Derek glances away when Stiles starts fisting his hand along the shaft of his putter and looks back at Stuart, who's staring straight at him, Lydia happily distracted by chatting with Allison.

Derek blinks and worry creases his brow as Stuart's body fuzzes out, like a watercolor painting bleeding past the lines. He looks away and shakes his head a bit before glancing back up through his lashes and cocking his head, only to see Stuart's lips curve into a grin as his expression jolts away like a bad film edit, revealing nothing but a smooth, featureless, flesh-colored egg sitting on top of the older twin's body.

“Gotcha, fucker,” Derek whispers to himself, before casting a look at Scott who gives him the 'this is the last time I'm gonna ask you' look, but Derek doesn't let it go that far. He tosses his putter at the alpha and gives a nod to Stiles before turning and walking off toward the park's exit without a word, leaving the rest of the kids staring after him in confusion.

“You were right, he's back,” Derek announces grimly as he walks resolutely into the veterinarian's office, staring at Deaton who's seated at an old desk, doing what looks like paperwork.

“You're sure?” Deaton asks as he looks up, his expression as near unreadable as usual as his hand tightens around the pen he's holding, but there's something behind his eyes. Something despairing.

“Positive,” Derek nearly growls through his teeth as he folds his arms, his body tense.

Deaton nods a few times before very pointedly setting down his pen and shuffling the papers into a folder, before setting them aside and standing with a sigh. “Then you know what to do. I'll start preparing things on my end.”

Derek simply nods before turning on his heel and walking out.

"Lydia and I are going out again tonight," Stuart boasts as he catches up with Stiles Monday after school. Both of the boys dart their eyes to the side to peer at the pretty redhead who's standing by her locker, talking to Allison. "I might see if she wants to come over after, since dad's going to be working late. What do you think?"

"Do what you want," Stiles mutters and distracts himself with his locker lock, and indulging a quick fantasy where he has werewolf strength and can rip his locker door off and smack his brother cartoonishly upside the face with it.

"I mean, you know... invite her over," Stuart practically air-quotes as he leans in conspiratorially, giving Stiles a pointed look.

"Uh... okay," Stiles cocks his head, returning a look of slight confusion. "You invite her over as intensely as you want to. But I recommend not bugging your eyes out so much. I don't think she'd be into that."

Stuart rolls his eyes and shoulders into his brother. "Dumbass, I meant for us. You know, for both of us? See if she's into that?"

Stiles turns his head so fast he considers suing Stuart for whiplash. "...Seriously? Are you freaking crazy?" Stiles hisses, looking around paranoid. "We can't tell people."

"Don't worry, little bro; I will handle it,” Stuart says as he wraps a hand affectionately around the back of Stiles' neck and draws his face in close, sending a warm little crawl over Stiles' skin. “She'll never say a word to anyone, okay? Trust me."

And Stiles does to an extent. He trusts Stuart to protect his own ass first and above all, but that typically means protecting Stiles' ass, too. He's gnawingly curious to know how Stuart is going to maneuver this one, because if he can manage to get Lydia to agree to this without her going ballistic on them both and without endangering their friendship, Stiles will give him a freaking trophy.

There's a little guilt, sure. It's manipulative and kind of unethical. But it's Lydia, and sometimes it's a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. She'd totally understand, Stiles thinks as he walks to class. She's kind of a dude when it comes to sex, right?

“Yeah, she'll understand,” Stiles murmurs to himself. “Right after stabbing me in the eye with one of her pointy little shoes. Dumb. I am so dumb.” He groans softly and runs a hand through his hair before slipping into chemistry.

At 8:17pm that night, Stiles is almost close to regretting not stopping this before it began, but he doesn't have the chance to change his mind, flee, or hide, because suddenly Stuart is down the stairs and at his side on the couch, his eyes bright, lips swollen, and cheeks flushed.

“We're in,” he whispers intensely, hands grabbing at Stiles' shoulders and giving him an excited shake before grabbing him up to his feet. “She's down. I knew she'd be down. Damn, she's so cool.”

“Tau,” Stiles whispers in return, unsure of why they're whispering but okay, he can go along with it. “What did you say to her? Is she seriously okay with this? You better not be springing some screwed up surprise on her.”

Stuart snorts and shakes his head as he straightens Stiles' clothes, despite the fact that he's hoping to have them off some time in the next five minutes.

“I legitimately just asked her how she felt about twins,” Stuart snickers. “She gave me this look like I'd gotten her a pony for Christmas, no lie. She's so into this so let's go.” He smacks Stiles on the chest and grins, before tugging at his brother's arm and dragging him up to Stiles' bedroom – of course – where the goddess of all of Stiles' fantasies, both pre- and post-pubescent, is stretched out on his bed like an unnaturally gorgeous pin-up queen.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes, his mouth hanging pen as he takes her in; the dewy almost-glow to her skin, the amazingly radiant shine to her hair, and the way her eyes burn with a fire so intense he's almost afraid to step forward. Her dusty rose bra and panties, which are basically more lace than anything else, almost seem to meld with her creamy skin, and it's all Stiles can do not to bolt from the room, so thank god for Stuart behind him.

“Right?” Stuart whispers in his ear, grinning fiercely against Stiles' cheek as his hands snake around to grab the hem of his twin's shirt so he can tug it off of Stiles.

“Uh... hey, Lydia,” Stiles manages, saying the only words he's ever really managed to say whenever he feels flustered around her, because when it's just them and there's no monsters to kill, then he has to remember how he feels about her. He's almost detached as Stuart drops his shirt on the floor and unfastens his jeans, though his skin heats with a flush and his pulse flutters fiercely at the hot, wet lick-scrape of his brother's mouth over his shoulder, and the possessive press of a hand against his stomach even as Stuart’s yanking his jeans and boxers down with his other hand.

“You know,” Lydia murmurs as she rolls onto her stomach and kicks her legs up to cross daintily at the ankles, her chin resting in her hands as she watches the twins. “I actually thought Stuart was lying when he told me about you two. I would have bet money on it just being a ploy to get me into bed, and though I generally don't like surprises...” she trails off, perfect red lips parting in a soft breath as she watches Stuart's hand move down to curl around Stiles' quickly hardening length, eliciting a soft hum and shiver from the younger twin.

“You like this one?” Stuart asks with a smirk as he reaches to the dresser and grabs a condom from the box he'd bought the other day and slaps it against Stiles' chest, sniggering softly as his brother reaches up automatically to take it, though his eyes never once leave Lydia.

“You sure?” Stiles asks her, because she's his friend now and he's actually really happy with that. He'd be crushed to lose her, but the very real chance to get to be with her is way too good to pass up.

Lydia just shrugs and smiles prettily before beckoning Stiles closer with a curl of her perfect little fingers. He knows that should bother him, her languid reaction, but the human brain has a very bad habit of being a little too protective. The way we can talk ourselves into even the stupidest situations by making them seem like great ideas in our own heads is just incredible.

Her skin is soft, just like he knew it would be. Warm on her stomach, her thighs, her throat, but her breasts and arms are a little cool to the touch. He spends a little overly long tonguing at her nipples, because the sounds she makes as he drags his hot, slick tongue over her cool, sensitive skin is pretty much addicting.

He's forgotten Stuart is even still in the room by the time Lydia's legs wrap around the backs of his thighs, her heels digging in as she demands he give her what she want. His relief that they can grin at each other, that they can laugh at her bossiness and his nervousness; it makes all the difference. And the fact that she exhales heavily when he finally sinks inside of her, that she'd been holding her breath... Stiles buries his face into her throat so she can't see him blush.

It's not until he's lost in her that he notices the lingering smell of incense in the air, in her hair, on her skin, and the slight haze that's giving everything that dreamlike quality. The veil over their eyes. His stomach suddenly lurches as his brain floods with knowledge he doesn't actually know, but he's suddenly acutely aware of. Knowledge that maybe Lydia didn't actually want to do this; that maybe Stuart compelled her with mild-altering incense. That maybe Stuart air-roofied one of Stiles' best friends, and then he air-roofied Stiles.

Stiles doesn't know how he knows this, but he thinks... he thinks that this shouldn't be happening.

With a heavy breath and an almost apologetic brush of his lips against her's, Stiles pulls out of Lydia and clambers to his feet, and has Stuart pressed up against the wall quick as a flash. His palms press firmly against Stuart's shoulders, his fingers digging into the skin around his brother's collarbones as his eyes flash dangerously dark.

“What the hell did you do to her? To us?” he hisses, knowing he's probably acting and sounding crazy right now, and as if to further cement that dark thought, Stuart merely cocks his head and lifts the side of his mouth in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“I don't know what you’re talking about, Nim,” Stuart lies. He just bold-faced lies right to Stiles' face, but the younger twin starts losing his resolve the moment he feels Stuart's fingers pressing and sliding along his achingly hard cock, his latex-encased skin hot and tight and slicked with Lydia fucking Martin.

“Uh, boys?” Lydia says from the bed, her voice a little thick and tight as she pushes herself up a bit. Her eyes are glassy and her skin is all perfect and glowy in the low light, and Stiles' suddenly can't think of anything other that the twitch and throb of his own dick, the way Stuart's palm and fingers always fit so perfectly around him, and the way Lydia's cunt felt so amazing and hot and tight, and goddamnit. Fuck. “I get that there's some unspoken macho brother thing happening here,” she smirks. “But I'm not ready to be done yet. In fact, I'm pretty far from, so..."

“Stiles, I really need you back right here, okay?” Lydia licks her lips and reaches to pat the bed right between her spread thighs. “And Stuart, you're free to join us any time, because I am really enjoying that thing you're doing to Stiles right now.” She leans back on her elbows and rolls her hips a bit, toes clenching against the bedding as she watches the two brothers together with a glassy sheen to her eyes. “I wouldn't mind watching more of that.”

Stiles makes a sound, halfway between choked and whining as he stares at Lydia, one hand slipping away from Stuart's shoulder as he half-turns, but can't bring himself to step away from the familiar hand that's working over his cock. Stuart takes this opportunity to grab his brother's other wrist and tugs his hand away, before turning Stiles back around to face Lydia.

“Go finish her off like a fucking man, you dumb shit,” Stuart murmurs, nipping at Stiles' earlobe before shoving him back toward the bed. “I'll be right behind you.”

Stuart watches as Stiles climbs back into the bed, all reverent touches and kisses to Lydia's pretty pink flesh before she grabs him and yanks him back on top of her, like she can't believe he'd ever want to be anywhere else. She kicks her slender legs around his hips and squeezes him back down firm against her, and while her moan is throaty and a little wanton as he thrusts back into her heat, she's the one that sets the pace.

Lydia likes control in all the walks of her life, Stuart can tell, and as he tugs off his clothes and walks over to the bed, he's definitely eager to see where she'll put him.

The next day at lacrosse practice, Stiles is racking his brain trying to think of a way to tell Scott about Lydia while managing to leave Stuart out of it completely, when Coach's shrill whistle cuts through the air.

"We have a new player,” Coach announces, and both Stiles and Scott glance up from their spots on the bench. On the bench now only because the team hasn't started practice yet, not because the bench is their only option. Not anymore.

“Uh, coach?” Scott calls out, lifting his hand a bit awkwardly before dropping it and looking slightly confused. “How come we didn't know about this before? Shouldn't I have at least been consulted?”

“Don't be a dictator, McCall. You all already know Stilinski,” Coach Finstock says as Stuart comes walking out wearing a lacrosse pinny, shorts, and pads... just like everyone else. “You know, he's brothers with the other Stilinski–” he points to Stiles. “–and he's already scrimmaged with us enough times that I didn't think a try-out was necessary. He's good, and you guys know it. So stop whining like little girls and let's get going!” Coach claps his hands a few times before blowing his whistle.

"Wait, wait, wait; why am I the other Stilinski?!” Stiles calls out in protest as he stands, waving his hand in the general direction of his brother, who's practically lounging next to Coach and smirking. “I've been on the team since Freshman year!"

"Because this one is actually gonna score some points for me this season," Coach states with a smiles that has Stiles wanting to throw lacrosse balls at his teeth.

"I won a game!” Stiles exclaims, looking around at all of his other teammates who are climbing to their feet, feeling major annoyance crawling his skin as most of them are rolling their eyes at him; some are even muttering to each other and throwing amused looks his way. “I won a game for you! An entire game!"

“Stop being so needy, other Stilinski,” Coach says. “If you want to cry and talk about your feelings, then do it with Greenberg after practice. Now get your ass out there, unless you'd like to reclaim your rightful seat on the throne for another season?” he points to the bench Stiles has just stood up from before following the rest of the team out onto the field.

Stiles sends an appalled look at his brother, who just smiles and winks at him before jogging out to be greeted with handshakes and back-pats from Stiles' – no, now their – teammates.

"What is happening here?" Stiles asks Scott, the look on his face one that he's pretty sure the only remaining sane person in the world would adopt.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Scott says from next to Stiles, an encouraging smile on his face. “Coach is right; Stuart's pretty good, and you guys get along great. So what's the big deal? Should be fun.”

“Fun?” Stiles protests, watching Scott's back as he runs out to join the rest of the team, leaving Stiles to sigh dramatically before trudging out like he's walking to the executioner's block. “Yeah, fun like getting my face smashed in with a brick.”

“That's pretty kinky, other Stilinski,” snickers Danny, and Stiles just throws a mocking laugh at his sort-of-friend before smacking him on the arm with a lacrosse stick.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Stiles asks as soon as Stuart climbs into the Jeep after practice, freshly showered and smiling; a stark contrast to Stiles' who's moping and still smells like two hard hours of running, sweat, and dirt since he'd opted out of team bonding in the locker room.

“What's the big deal?” Stuart asks, immediately slipping an arm around the back of the driver's side seat and leaning in to press his forehead against Stiles' temple. “I just wanted to spend more time with you, okay?”

“I just wish you'd told me,” Stiles sighs, feeling his little head of steam dissipating the moment Stuart's lips graze his ear. “I looked like a jackass out there.”

“Not to me,” Stuart nuzzles at the soft skin behind Stiles' ear, and in the otherwise quiet air of the Jeep, Stiles' breath catches softly. “Maybe I just hate not being around you all the time.”

“That's right... addicted to the Stiles,” Stiles jokes distractedly before turning to catch his brother's lips in a warm, chaste kiss.

Stuart smiles against Stiles' lips as his hand lifts to curve around the side of Stiles' neck. “You have no idea, little bro,” he murmurs. “No idea.”

‹So, Stu and Scott are hanging out buddies now.› Stiles texts to Derek, not really knowing why he's bothering trying to engage the werewolf in conversation. If there was an award for Most Laconic Guy With Great Facial Hair, Derek would be a shoe-in.

That being said, he's a little surprised when he gets a response back, especially considering it isn't along the lines of 'stop texting me if it isn't important', though ‹And I should care why?› isn't exactly a giant leap from it.

Stiles taps his fingers on the side of his phone before finally shrugging and hitting 'call'. What the hell?

“What if they become bestest friends in the whole world and Scott gives him the bite?” Stiles says into the receiver the moment Derek picks up on his end. “You'd have to deal with Stu forever.”

“Thanks for the nightmares.” Stiles smiles because he can practically see Derek's face right now, all scrunched-up and irritated.

“No problem,” Stiles chirps as he slowly paces the downstairs of his house, wandering aimlessly as most people do when they're on the phone.

“Is that the only reason you called, Stiles?” Derek asks, and Stiles imagines there's something else there; maybe a hopeful tone under-riding the completely disinterested monotone. Maybe just hopeful on Stiles' end. Dumb, more than hopeful, really. Quite happily delusional.

“I'm bored,” Stiles says. Or, really, lonely and unwilling to admit it. “Just felt like complaining to someone who doesn't think the sun shines out of my brother's ass.”

“I wouldn't know. Out of the two of us, I'm not the one who's familiar with his ass.”

Stiles balks as ice trails down his spine. He pulls his phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second, before bringing it back up, his hand suddenly shaking a bit. “What the hell are you talking about, Derek?” he asks quietly.

No one's supposed to know. No one's supposed to know. How does he know?

Derek's end is silent. It's silent for so long that Stiles checks to see if the call is still connected, which it is. “Derek,” he spits out, his grip on his phone causing his palm to sweat.

“Sorry,” Derek says a little distractedly. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”

Stiles wants to ask. He wants to ask so badly. He wants to know if him and Stuart have just been fooling themselves this entire time thinking that none of the wolves could smell them on each other, but Scott's never said anything. Never even implied that he knew. His head spins and he sits down at the kitchen table, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah, whatever,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab the saltshaker and shaking some salt out onto the table top. “I hope Peter molests you in your sleep.”

“Knowing him, he probably already does,” comes Derek's dry response.

Stiles snorts. “Well, I hope you start liking it, jerk.”

“Stiles, why did you really call?”

He's silent for a few beats, and sighs heavily before speaking again. “I don't know... I just keep getting this weird feeling in my gut about Stu.”

“Tell me,” Derek replies, and Stiles is a little taken aback at how curious he sounds all of a sudden, but he's certainly not going to look a gift wolf in the mouth.

“He went out with Lydia a couple times,” Stiles sighs as he presses a fingertips into the tiny grains of salt, though immediately regrets saying it because the last thing he wants Derek to think is that he's still hung up on Lydia. “And it just bugs me because we were just getting to be good friends, and I don't want to lose that with her...” he adds quickly, hoping it doesn't sound too much like backpedaling.

“You won't.”

“I guess,” Stiles sighs. “He also transferred into my A.P. History class.”

“So?”

“It just throws off our thing,” Stiles says with an adamant shrug as he rubs the salt off his fingers with his thumb. “We've always had this thing where he helps me with math and I help him with history, that way we're both equally smart.” Saying it out loud makes Stiles realize how kind of juvenile it sounds, though. “It's just, I don't know... annoying that he wouldn't tell me beforehand. Oh, and then there's lacrosse.”

“He joined the lacrosse team?” Derek guesses.

“He joined the frigging lacrosse team,” Stiles complains, a bitter edge to his tone. “No tryout, no nothing. Coach didn't even run it by Scott first, which he should have because, you know, he's still team captain. Just boom! Stuart Stilinski, new team member, automatic first line. And now I'm the other Stilinski,” he sighs, sagging back into his chair. “It feels like pre-werewolves all over again, I swear.”

“Have you confronted him about it?” Derek asks, and Stiles could swear he hears a little apprehensive curiosity in the werewolf's voice, but it's probably just wishful thinking.

“Yeah,” Stiles says before chewing on his lower lip, cheeks heating a bit as his dick gives a little twitch of remembrance. “He said he just felt like we were drifting apart and wanted to spend more time with me.” And then he sucked my dick in the parking lot while I tried not to look like I was getting head because people were still out there, and it was so fucking hot I forgave him for everything. He doesn't say that out loud, of course, and thank fucking god Derek isn't here to see him right now.

“What do you think?”

“I guess... I don't have any reason to think he's lying,” Stiles says before bringing his thumbnail up for some heavy-duty chewing. “It's just... I don't know," he says around the nail. "It's like he's invading my space, but it's not bad enough for me to say anything because then I'll sound like the jerk.”

“Get your fingers out of your mouth,” Derek chides, and Stiles lets his thumb fall away with a bit of a wide-eyed stare at the table. “Look, if it's bothering you, then tell him. Nothing's going to change if you don't make it change.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Don't let him take advantage of you, Stiles,” Derek says. “You're better than that.” There's something behind those words that Stiles can't quite grasp; a bit of weight. It makes him blink a bit and smile.

But Derek hangs up before he can say thanks.

Peter Hale glories in being asked for help.

So when Derek sits him down and thumbs the ash over his eye, lays out the truth, and then asks for his advice, Peter can't help the giddy little feeling that runs through his body. He's been trying to choke down his megalomaniac tendencies ever since the Darach issue, but it hasn't been easy just existing without anything to do. Without anyone to play around with. So he's oddly warmed by the fact that Derek has decided to bring this to his attention.

“I always knew there was something off about that kid,” Peter says as he rubs at the white smear of ash over his eyelid, trying not to get any of it into his eye because he has a feeling it would sting. “Did you ever notice how he'll sometimes glance off into middle-distance? Like he's addressing an invisible audience?”

“No,” Derek says with a frown, and a look at his uncle like Peter's a little off. Typical, really.

“Hm, must just take one to know one, then,” Peter says with an indifferent smile. “Go grab us some dinner. I'll have an answer for you by the time you get back.” And with that he grabs his laptop and walks over to one of the large bookshelves he'd insisted Derek get for him, because the remnants of the Hale library were too precious to be kept in cardboard boxes.

 With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, Derek does as asked. He's gone nearly half an hour before returning with sandwiches from a deli, and is greeted with the hopeful sight of Peter seated at the long table, with a few books open before him and his fingers moving over the keyboard of his laptop.

“Hope you like pastrami,” Derek says as he drops the bag on the table.

“As long as it isn't too peppery,” Peter replies, half-distracted as his eyes scan whatever it is he's reading for a few more seconds, before he shuts the laptop with a punctuated click and leans back in his chair, giving Derek a satisfied smile.

“Well?” Derek prompts, arms folding.

“What's the difference between reality and perception?” Peter asks and Derek just huffs softly.

“I don't want games, Peter,” he grumbles, already impatient. “I want a solution.”

“Derek, as always, you'd prefer to swing a sledgehammer when a ball-peen would do,” Peter sighs as he reaches for the bag and digs into it, pulling out a sandwich for himself and then a second, tossing it to Derek who catches it easily. “Sit. Listen. Learn something.”

Derek grudgingly sits and unwraps his sandwich, a little grateful that he has something to do with his hands and something to chew on so he won't be tempted to argue with his uncle at every turn, which would only be counter-productive. He did go to Peter for advice, after all. As horrible and obnoxious as Peter often is, he knows that his uncle is smarter than him. So he listens.

“First of all,” Peter begins as he unwraps his sandwich and pulls it apart, checking to see if there are, indeed, pickles. “There is no difference between reality and perception, just like there is no difference between solid fact and a consensus reality, because people are the ones who invented the concept of reality.”

Derek gifts him with a blank stare, already a little lost. But Peter has his way, and there's no win in trying to get him to be concise, to the point, or really even linear most of them time. 

“As a people, all sentient life on this planet decided together that red is a color, or that cheese tastes like cheese,” Peter continues as he meticulously rearranges the meat on his sandwich so it's perfect; just the way he likes it, ignoring Derek's deprecating stare. “The problem with doppelgangers is that they use those laws against us; they use the laws of reality to their advantage.”

“How?” Derek asks before taking a large bite of his sandwich, not bothering to fix anything on it. Food was fuel; for Peter, it was pleasure. One of their base, fundamental differences.

“You say you know for a fact that Stuart Stilinski is actually a doppelganger that Stiles created through will and magic,” Peter states with a gesture before putting his sandwich back together again. “That he's a shadow-man from the other side of the mirror. Okay, say I accept that into my paradigm. But let me ask you this; who told you that Stuart was not real? Deaton. And what did he use to prove this to you? He used magic.”

Derek swallows and lifts an eyebrow, expressing his curiosity of the point his uncle was meandering to get to.

“He manipulated the same unidentifiable matter that floats through our reality and bent it to his will, just like Stiles did,” Peter continues. “So from a completely objective, scientific viewpoint, they both basically held out a handful of dust to you and asked you to see each of their handfuls as a completely different thing. What you have to ask yourself is; who has more of a right to work magic? Stiles or Deaton? Because that's the only thing happening here. Who do you want to believe in more?”

“Deaton's magic is harmless,” Derek says in a tone that suggests he believes himself completely, though the cinch of his eyes and draw of his eyebrows suggests otherwise. “It just allowed us to see that magic was being used. Stuart is a menace. He's hurting people.”

“Maybe,” Peter shrugs as he picks up his sandwich. “Or maybe he's just trying to hurt you because he sees you as a threat. Maybe if you backed off of Stiles and washed the ash off, then things would go back to whatever 'normal' passes for around here.”

“I can't just do that,” Derek huffs before finishing off the last of his sandwich before Peter had even taken the first bite of his own. “I need to protect him, and I can't voluntarily unsee something I already know to be true.”

“I understand,” Peter says. “I like to think I'd make the same choice as you were I in your shoes, but knowing me, if offered harsh reality verses blissful ignorance, I'd most likely chose the blue pill. Hence why you're the hero and I, most certainly, am not,” he chuckles. “I'll give you what you need to destroy the doppelganger for good, but you have to promise me that you'll talk to Stiles before you use it. You are the one I care about in this situation, not him. If you do this without his consent and he ends up seeking revenge because of it, then I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

“Peter–”

The older Hale simply shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as he watches Derek out of the corner of his eye, the struggle written plainly on his nephew's face.

“Remember that we always have a choice, Derek,” Peter says after swallowing. “You can attempt to make peace with Stuart and try and convince him to live as Stiles' twin without the killing and assuming of identities, or you can simply eliminate the monster and ash everyone's eyes back to the harsh light of presumable truth. But either way you might lose Stiles. So it all boils down to less about your excuse for what's good and right, and more about how you're going to spin this to him to get what you want.”

Before Derek has a chance to answer, his phone buzzes on the table beside him. He grabs it without thought and checks the text message without looking to see who it's from, and is greeted with a short video that very nearly makes him regret the fact that he just ate.

“Fuck, Nim... you look so fucking good with my dick in your mouth,” comes Stuart's voice, tinny and sounding a little faraway on Derek's phone's speakers.

“What the hell?” Peter says as he looks up from his sandwich just in time to see Derek's eyes grow as big as quarters and glue themselves to the small screen. All thought of Peter's stomach are abandoned, just like his pastrami, and he pushes out of his chair to step up behind his nephew, his eyebrows lifting at the video on the screen.

It's Stiles' bed, from what little the small resolution shows, but the screen is crowded with Stiles' face. His eyes are covered with one of Stuart's hands, the heel of his palm pressed into one and his fingers curled over the other, and from the pressure of Stiles' head indenting the pillow, it looks like Stuart is supporting his weight on Stiles' face.

But that's not the worst of it. The worst is the way Stiles' keeps choking a bit each time Stuart shoves his cock between his brother's lips, the way his throat constricts and bulges like he can't get enough air, and the way his cheeks keep filling each time the head of Stuart's cock misses the back of Stiles' throat.

“Jesus,” Peter hums, folding his arms and leaning back a bit, as if even something like this is a little too much for the older werewolf to witness, despite all of his past transgression. “This is a bit much to make a point, isn't it?”

“You love me so fucking much, don't you?” Stuart purrs, his voice rough and throaty, and Stiles responds with the most desperate sound either of them has ever heard him make. Derek can feel the back of his neck heating with embarrassment, anger, and some sort of sympathetic arousal, because both the boy's tone and the erratic rock of his hips are enough to suggest how close he is to coming straight down Stiles' throat.

“If I wanted to choke you to death right now...” Stuart breathes as his hand slips away from his brother's eyes and drops down, long fingers curving tight around the long length of Stiles' throat. “You'd just let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking gone...” Stuart's tight chuckle is like nails on a chalkboard to Derek, who grips the edge of the table so tightly Peter's shocked it hasn't splintered.

It's then that Stiles' eyelids flutter open to reveal amber eyes that are so glassy and pupils blown with lust, that the wolves have to wonder if he's been drugged. Peter can practically hear Derek's teeth grinding as Start's breathing goes harsh and panting, his fingers digging indents into Stiles' corded throat as he mercilessly fucks his brother's mouth.

“Alright, that's enough,” Peter says suddenly, his tone hard as he snatches the phone away from Derek and shuts it off, rescuing it before it ceases to be a phone and ends up a misshapen brick of broken phone parts on the floor. “Stop torturing yourself. Message well-received.”

“Damnit,” Derek growls and pushes up to his feet, hands shoving onto his hips as he prowls around the large, empty loft space. “What the hell is he trying to do? What was that?”

“A power-play,” Peter says calmly. “He obviously knows you know, and he's trying to get you to go after him. Because what will happen if you do?”

Derek snorts derisively and shakes his head. “I immediately lose Stiles' and Scott's trust.”

“Exactly. Don't let him bait you.”

“This ends tonight,” Derek declares, his eyes flashing with an angry, protective light as he walks back up to Peter. “No way I'm giving that thing another day with Stiles. We're taking care of this tonight.”

Peter's expression is unreadable as he regards his nephew, but after a few moments he simply nods. “Well, don't forget the brains of your operation,” he drawls as he opens up a blank text to Stiles before slapping Derek's phone back into his hand. “I'll call Scott. We'll work out a plan and I'll text you the details before you meet up with Stiles.”

Derek growls softly in frustration and texts Stiles, asking to meet him in the parking lot of the animal clinic; that he has something to tell Stiles before talking to Deaton. “Okay, so how do we kill it?” he asks, looking back at Peter.

“We don't,” Peter says, tilting his head. “Stiles does. The only person who can truly kill a doppelganger is the one the doppelganger has come here to kill. It's now up to you to inform Stiles that he has to murder his twin brother with his own bare hands.”

Derek feels his stomach go cold. “Bare hands–”

“It has to be,” Peter says with a shallow nod and an impassive expression. “It's symbolic. Remember, it's magic. Stiles has to show both an uncharacteristic strength of will and physical strength, or the doppelganger will be able to overpower him. He essentially has to surprise himself. He must take the life of the thing he created back into himself, and that requires skin-to-skin contact. Symbolism, and all that.”

“He's just a kid,” Derek frowns, ignoring the fact that this is all hitting him a little harder than he's comfortable with. “He shouldn't have to do that.”

“We were all 'just kids' once,” Peter says meaningfully. “He'll just have to consider it a growing pain. Stiles doesn't have the luxury of ignorance anymore. He missed his chance for the blue pill.”

Derek glances away and forces a nod before walking over to the couch to grab his keys, wallet, and jacket. The set of his shoulders and the hastiness of all of this, not to mention his reaction to the video; they all suddenly solidify and hit Peter in the chest like a medicine ball.

“Please don't tell me you have feelings for him,” Peter groans softly as he watches Derek walk toward the door of the loft. “Nothing good could possibly come of that.”

“Since when does anything good ever happen to me, anyway?” Derek calls back, shooting Peter a slightly bitter smile as he drags open the sliding metal door and steps out, not waiting for a response before shutting it behind him.

“Yes, yes, touché,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”