How Stiles ended up with two partners instead of just the one he was searching for when he went to that club, he didn't know. And how they ended up being Peter Hale and Chris Argent, well... Stiles had stopped trying to make sense of his life when Jackson turned into a lizard.
So here he was, kneeling on a nice cushion just under the dining room table in nothing but a deep blue leather collar that had been picked because it brought out the amber in his eyes. Peter and Chris were having dinner, chatting about their day. Anyone would think that he was being ignored, like he was a breathing piece of ornamental furniture, but they had fixed a dinner that would allow them to feed him bits of it by hand. They were always aware of his needs too, which was why he could stay still, stay quiet, and trust them.
Tonight's dinner was steamed veggies, cherry tomatoes, lightly breaded chicken bites and red potato wedges. That meant Peter must have cooked while Stiles rested on his cushion, head pillowed on his crossed arms on one of the chairs as he dozed lightly and listened to them talk. When Chris cooked, the food tended to be significantly more greasy, but that meant he got nachos. Stiles was always down for nachos.
Stiles was looking forward to when dinner was over, because that meant it was play time. Letting them feed him was nice, but let's be real here, Stiles wanted to get fucked, and they were so good at it. The thought of it tended to consume his brain. After staying in their home all day, there wasn't much else to think about. Sure, he had his coursework for his online classes, but that took like an hour at most. And as much as he liked his games, he had ADHD, and nothing could consume him for long.
But when they got home, usually minutes apart, they would kiss him hello. Then they would all sit on the couch, with Stiles always in the middle, and watch whatever new episodes of their shows were on Hulu, then they would make dinner. Stiles would sit, be patient, because it was only a matter of time before he was sandwiched between them.
Just a matter of moments, really, since Peter and Chris weren't even eating anymore, just... talking.
"I think I'm gonna have to let him go," Chris was saying, looking a bit tired. "This is the third time."
"I told you he wasn't worth it the first time he didn't show up, because he got arrested for possession," Peter remarked, elbow on the table and chin on his hand. "He's taking advantage of your leniency, Christopher."
"He's young," Chris replied.
Stiles looked between them over the edge of the table, hoping this conversation would end soon. They had been talking about this kid that Chris had hired--Dylan? Darren? Dumb Dumb?--for two weeks. What more was there to say?
But they were still talking, so apparently there was a lot to say. Chris asked if there was any legal reason that the kid might claim unfair termination, and he and Peter mused over that for a while. Peter was in law these days, so he had a lot of knowledge and seemed inclined to share all of it.
Stiles's knees were starting to get a bit stiff. He shifted so he could be on his butt, stretching his legs out under Peter's chair. That had him leaning toward Chris, and he pressed his forehead into the outside of his thigh, a gentle request for attention. Chris's hand almost absently came down to pet his hair, and while that was nice, it wasn't what he wanted, not entirely.
He turned his face so he could press a kiss into Chris's rough palm. He had been instructed not to speak during meal times if he could manage it, but there were other things he could do to get his message across. But even so, Chris continued to talk, gesturing with his other hand. The one on Stiles's face stroked his cheek, thumb brushing over his lips.
Stiles caught that thumb with his lips, sucking it into his mouth and trying to give it the proper amount of attention that would make Chris want to replace it with his dick. He hollowed out his cheeks, flicked his tongue over the calloused pad of that thumb and looked up through his eyelashes. Surely that was enticing enough?
But Chris still wasn't looking at him.
So Stiles bit his thumb.
It wasn't a playful bite either.
Chris jerked his hand away with a hiss, shaking it out before he looked at the red marks on his thumb. "The fuck," he said, finally turning his eyes down to Stiles.
Stiles gave him his best petulant look.
Peter laughed into the mouth of his beer. "I think he wants your attention, Christopher."
Glancing over the edge of the table at Peter, Stiles assessed his expression. Then he lunged over and bit into Peter's jean clad calf.
Peter let out an indignant squawk, and Stiles found himself face-first onto the dining room tile in half a second. "What is wrong with you tonight?" Peter asked him, hand on the back of Stiles's head.
Stiles managed to get his knees under him and wiggled his ass pointedly.
Peter gave a low hum. "Looks like our boy needs to be taught some patience."
"What should we do with him?" Chris asked mildly.
Stiles huffed out a breath. Anything, just... anything at all.
He was hoisted up, strong arms positioning him over Chris's broad shoulder. They left the dishes where they were and headed in the direction of the play room, and Stiles somehow managed not to grab onto Chris's ass and squeeze as he watched it. It was a good ass, and he liked when it sat on his face.
"What do you think is the proper punishment for a brat, hm?" Peter asked as they walked into the room.
“We'll come up with something.”
Upside down that he was, Stiles could see the St. Andrew's cross, the wall of impact play toys, the closet that held the restraints. He knew there were plenty of other things in the room, like a big ass bed, but they were blocked by Chris’s body.
The world tilted again as he was tipped and set on his feet, before Chris's strong hands whirled him about and lifted his arms up over his head. Stiles automatically cupped his elbows in his palms and held his arms there to the silent command. Chris kept his hands on his hips as Peter took his jaw in hand, looking him in the eyes. Stiles stared back, eager and unwavering.
"Hm, do you know what I'm thinking, Christopher?" Peter said, even as he continued to look at Stiles's face.
"I'm sure you'll tell me."
Peter smiled, before his eyes slid slowly and pointedly to his right. Stiles followed his gaze, eyes falling on the only thing he could possibly be looking at. The rack. Oh god, they were going to use the rack.
They must have thought he was very naughty indeed.
"Good idea, Peter," Chris murmured behind him.
Stiles opened his mouth, perhaps to say something, maybe to apologize, but he had no chance, because he was turned toward the rack and given a swift swat on the ass. He marched right over to it, looking it over. It had been a saddle stand once, but Chris had re-purposed it. He had covered it in padding and an antimicrobial fabric that felt and looked like smooth, black leather. It had been decked out with hooks and rings, perfect for tying someone to, in any position they wanted.
"Plant your hands, spread your feet," Chris instructed, and Stiles did as told.
Peter went over to their supply closet, while Chris started to run his hands over Stiles's limbs. Up and down his arms, rubbing gently and making him lose the tension there. He trusted them, he did, but being wound up as tight as a taut rubber band was his default setting. Also, if they were going to hogtie him or something, he would definitely need to be all loosey-goosey, or he wouldn't be able to move after.
Chris's hands were on his legs now, thumbs and fingertips digging in and working the muscles until Stiles kind of wanted to buckle. It must have been obvious, because Chris pushed him forward with his firm hands, and Stiles ended up draped over the rack, hands finding purchase on a tie ring. He let his legs droop a little.
Chris massaged his ass.
Peter's legs appeared next to him, before his hand came down to Stiles's eye level. He was holding a cock ring, and he rolled it slightly back and forth between his thumb and fingers. Peter let him get a good look.
Stiles groaned his acquiescence.
He was already hard, because he was twenty-two and insatiable at the best of times, while being a sex-crazed terror at the worst. Once Chris and Peter had gone on business trips at the same time . They should have known that Stiles wouldn't let them leave the apartment for three days once they got back.
The cock ring was slid along his cock. There was a bit of jiggling needed to get it under his balls, but then it was in place. Then hands--Chris's hands by the roughness of them--were spreading his cheeks, and Peter's long, clever fingers were sliding through the crack, wet with lube. A finger entered him, and he moaned, canting his hips back, wanting more.
He always wanted more until it was too much.
It wasn't long until he was gaping, sloppy wet and wanting. His asshole was practically trained to open to their fingers, like they had special access codes or something. It was easy to make him whimper, to make him pliant, and to make him forget that he was supposed to be getting punished here. He was mostly convinced they were just going to fuck him. He wanted them to chase the anxiety and urgency from his head.
But he should have known better.
The fingers--three of them--were pulled from his wanting hole, and he whined at their loss. He lifted his head and looked over his shoulder at them. They were regarding each other, seeming to be thinking in tandem. Stiles shivered as a particularly wicked expression crossed Peter's face.
"The Atlas?" he suggested.
The corner of Chris's mouth quirked up, and he nodded. "The Atlas."
Peter went over to their dildo cabinet and pulled out the toy. He then secured it to the spot on the rack that had adapted to hold toys in place. As Stiles was lifted up by Chris's strong hands, legs spread, he whimpered as he was lowered down onto it, slow and steady. Seated to the hilt, Stiles practically wheezed as he got used to its girth, straddling the rack and leaning forward, hands planted. The Atlas was aptly named, because he felt like the whole world was up his ass.
Stiles wasn't sure what they wanted him to do. Maybe ride the toy to completion? No, that wasn't it, because they were getting the soft silk rope from the cabinet too. Chris tied his arms behind his back, bent with his hands cupping his elbows again. Peter worked on his legs, and he ended up with his heels up against his ass and his knees pointed down.
He whined, trying to move, but he found he couldn't at all. He had zero leverage to rock on the toy. All he could do was sit there with it invading his lower intestines. He gave them both a pouty, unimpressed look.
Peter chuckled at his expression, before he took his face in hand and kissed him. "Do not speak unless you need to safeword," he told him, his thumbs moving gently along Stiles’s cheeks though his words were firm. "Understand?"
He nodded. "Yes, sir."
"Good boy." With a sweet kiss to Stiles's forehead, Peter moved away.
Chris gave the back of Stiles's neck a squeeze, before he moved off too.
Stiles could do nothing but watch them as they pressed close together, Peter dragging his nose along Chris's neck. Their lips met and stayed there, sliding together with the barest glimpses of tongue between them. God, they were beautiful.
Stiles didn't know exactly how long they had been together. He figured, by their familiarity, it had been a while. Perhaps even before the fire. Maybe before Chris had been married? He had heard them talk about high school once. Had they been sweethearts? It was all so romantic, and they were perfect for each other.
Stiles had once, joking, told them he felt like he had been intruding. But they had just pulled him between them and reassured him that three was definitely better than two.
They seemed to spend long minutes just kissing. As beautiful as it was, Stiles was quick to restlessness. They weren't going to make out all night, right? Oh, now Peter was lifting Chris's tee over his head and running his fingers through the salt and pepper carpet on his chest. Stiles was stupidly jealous. His fingers itched to touch that fur, and he flexed and curled them. He got to touch Chris all the time, but not right now, and that was just painful.
Chris's hands went to the button's of Peter's dress shirt, undoing them one by one. He left it tucked into Peter's dress pants and leaned in, mouthing along Peter's chest. He had hair too, though not as much, and he tended to manscape, though he would lie about it even under oath. Chris's teeth caught one of Peter's nipples, and Peter's breath caught at the back of his throat.
And now Stiles was envious of Chris for getting to play with Peter's nipples. He was having all sorts of feelings.
Peter put his hand on the back of his head, sliding his eyes over to Stiles, who whined softly in protest. Peter just smiled and put his head back as Chris's mouth found his neck--his glorious, thick, bite worthy neck. Peter liked to be bitten too. He liked it rough. Even though the bites and bruises didn't stay, Stiles liked to make his mark as much as he could. Chris was better at it, because he could wield a flogger or cane with more efficiency than anyone Stiles had seen.
Chris's hands found Peter's belt, and he slid it out of the loops with a smooth hiss. He tossed the $400 Salvatore Ferragamo belt away like it was nothing, and Peter didn't complain, because Chris had his pants undone and his cock out in moments. Okay so, Peter's cock? Guh, so good. He was thick, curved to the left, with a Prince Albert, so going down on him always tasted a bit of steel with the heavy musk of man. He was also uncut, unlike Chris or Stiles, and when he was feeling lazy, he'd let Stiles play with his foreskin. He had informed Stiles, however, that if his dick was ever referred as a "shy earthworm" again, privileges would be revoked.
As Chris stroked Peter to full hardness, they exchanged biting kisses. It wasn't long before Peter was pulling open Chris's faded Levi's, exposing his dick. It was a near opposite of Peter's. Though it was thick too, it was cut. He had the twisted circumcision scar under the flare of the cockhead, which was always a near angry color when he was hard. He was long too--a bit longer than Peter, though neither of them were foolhardy enough to ever say it aloud--so he could reach all the places that Stiles needed beaten into submission. Stiles loved to warm that cock deep inside of him during leisurely movie nights. He had yet to fail at his mission to make Chris want to interrupt the movie to fuck him.
With another weak sound of protest, Stiles could only watch as Peter and Chris pressed close. They both got a hand around their dicks, sealing their lips together as they pumped, slow and purposeful. They were completely in sync. Stiles wondered if he would ever be like that with them, if it was possible with three people. They would be together forever, and Stiles wanted to be right there with them.
Stiles needed them. He needed them so bad. He wanted to touch them, to be touched, to be anywhere but on this stupid rack, unable to do anything at all. He tipped forward a little, trying to get a better vantage point--if possible--of the way the heads of their cocks appeared and vanished in their hands while they rolled their hips. But the change in motion startled a sound out of him, one of a kind of pain that he didn't actually enjoy. Fuck, his ass was cramping.
Chris and Peter instantly looked over, and Stiles, the manipulative little shit that he was, let his lower lip wobble, eyes wet with tears--not entirely insincere--that threatened to spill over. He released the tiniest sob. They parted and came over to him immediately, and he heaved a ragged sigh. If there was one power he had over them, it was that they couldn't stand to see him cry. Even when it was a good cry, they had a deep need to soothe him.
"Oh, darling," Peter cooed at him, cupping the back of his head and pressing sweet kisses to his scorching cheeks.
Chris's hands ran up and down his arms, over his trembling thighs. "Are you going to be more patient next time, babe?" he asked, rubbing his thumbs over Stiles's sore knees.
Peter laid a kiss on Stiles's damp eyelashes. "We hadn't forgotten you, pet. We could never forget you. If you had waited just a bit longer, we could have avoided this."
Stiles whined, nodding rapidly, before he pushed his face into Peter's thick neck. "Y-yes," he gasped, his voice lost somewhere else. He tried again. "Yes, Sirs." Still a bit weak, but better.
Peter nodded, his forehead moving against Stiles's, before he brushed Stiles’s sweat damp hair back from his forehead. He looked to Chris. "I think he's been waiting long enough, don't you think, dear?"
Chris nodded, and in tandem they moved to release the knots of his bonds. With his arms dangling like limp noodles and his legs falling down like he had zero control, Stiles had to lean into Peter as he and Chris slowly and gently lifted him off of the colon wrecking girth that was The Atlas.
Peter chuckled as he held Stiles. "I'm not sure we can get him to the bed in this state," he mused, nuzzling Stiles under the ear.
"Guess we'll have to do it right here," Chris remarked, and there was a painfully obvious smile in his voice.
Stiles barely had the time to get out a quizzical 'buh?' before he was being shifted. Chris took hold of his legs, and Peter handled his shoulders and head. In no time, he was in position on his back over the rack, a high arch in his spine. Chris got to work tying his legs up, knees pointed toward his belly and feet apart so he was on full display. Peter gingerly lowered his head so it drooped down, right at crotch level.
Oh. He licked his lips. He was definitely down for this.
His arms were tied straight out. He flexed his fingers, feeling a little unbalanced but sure that they would never let him topple over. (That and the rack was bolted to the floor.) A silver ball bell was laid in his palm, and he closed his hand over it. It was an alternative way to safeword, since his mouth would be otherwise occupied.
Peter's dick appeared right in front of his face. Upside down, sure, but he was used to this vantage point by now. Peter got a hand on himself and angled his dick down, tip in line with Stiles's mouth. Stiles obediently opened up, but Peter didn't push in immediately. He was so close. Stiles strained his neck, trying to reach him, but he stayed just a breath away. Stiles stuck out his tongue, catching a taste of metal and precome as he managed to lick the piercing.
Peter laughed softly, and Stiles almost swore at him, but then he felt his hole being impaled by Chris's huge, slick cock. He slid right in to the hilt with no resistance. Stiles let out a cry, but it was cut short by Peter's cock taking up residence in his mouth.
He swallowed as best he could, glaring at Peter's fuzzy balls. Fucker.
His Masters took a moment to adjust, Chris's broad hands hooking on Stiles's hips, and Peter's hands fanning out across Stiles's ribs. Then they moved, and Stiles immediately lost himself in it. This was what he had been searching for that night at the club. He had wanted someone to take him out of his head, to chase away the constant buzzing--sometimes shrieking--in the back of his mind. He wanted to be overwhelmed by sensation and pleasure, that way his brain just checked out for a while. Then he could just... be.
As it turned out, it was a task for two someones.
It was almost zen the way Peter and Chris fell into a rhythm. Chris would push forward as Peter pulled out. He wasn't being smashed into Peter's crotch, which he appreciated, because crushing his nose or choking really took him out of the experience. This way he could breathe when Peter pulled out of his throat. There was no uncomfortable accordion feeling either. It was like a wave, undulating back and forth, back and forth.
Stiles closed his eyes and let the feeling take him, giving up the very concept of time in the process.
Their sounds too, they were lulling. Soft grunts and gasps. Chris was rarely ever loud. Though Peter could be a screamer when he wanted, this wasn't one of those situations. This was a rearranging of their dynamic. Rather, putting the pieces back in place. Stiles was theirs. That was the message. He didn't need to bite them for attention. He sometimes forgot, because he was young and stupid. They would remind him each time, he knew.
Chris came first, his rhythm stuttering. He slammed in as far as he could, fingers digging into Stiles’s hips and drawing a kitten mewl out of him, as muffled as it was. He felt Chris twitching as he released stream after stream of hot come deep within him. Stiles's toes curled at the feeling.
Peter followed soon after. He pulled almost all the way out, so the gush of come from his twitching cock would fill Stiles's mouth. He hurriedly closed it once Peter withdrew, trying to swallow all of it. He felt a droplet sliver past his nose and toward his eye like a reverse tear. Peter's thumb caught it, and Stiles opened his mouth to suck on it when it was offered.
When they untied him, he gracelessly flopped like a sodden rag over the rack. He felt perfectly used and completely content. He hadn't even come yet. He was waiting for permission. That was the rule.
Firm but gentle hands gathered him up, and he was carried. He wasn't sure where until his Masters sat down with him still in their arms. The bed. He turned his head into Chris's neck, feeling the soft scratch of his beard across his cheek.
He vaguely wondered when they had removed the bell from his hand.
"We've got you, pet," Peter murmured to him in dulcet tones. "You did perfectly."
"We're going to get you off now, okay?" Chris said.
Stiles nodded, but otherwise didn't try to move.
There was a hand on his dick--rough, Chris's--and another hand--smooth, Peter's--went to his hole, two fingers slipping in. It was nothing compared to The Atlas or Chris's cock, but it was enough to curve and rub against his prostate as his dick was stroked.
When had they removed the cockring?
They didn't tease, and that was good, because Stiles was pretty sure he couldn't have handled it. It felt like he had been on edge for hours, days even. So he came in very little time at all. He wasn't sure if he even made a noise. It felt like his eyes rolled back in his head.
He couldn't have been out too long, because when he came back to himself, he was only just being wiped clean. He shuddered as the warm wash cloth brushed over his well-used and puffy hole. He made a soft noise, and almost immediately there were lips against his face.
"Wonderful, sweet boy," Peter said, and Stiles looked at him. His eyes were so blue, his face so open. Stiles gave him a little smile. That got him a soft kiss on the lips. Peter leaned his forehead against Stiles's, breathing him in.
When Peter pulled back, Chris was right there, giving Stiles a slow, lingering kiss. Then he kissed Stiles's nose, making him let out a soft, broken chuckle. "I'm proud of you, kid," he said.
All the air seemed to whoosh out of Stiles, and emotion blocked up his throat. He sniffed and blinked a few times, eyes flicking between them. He pressed his lips together and lifted his brows.
"You have permission to speak, sweet one," Peter told him, combing his hair back from his eyes.
"I love you," was the first thing that came out of Stiles's mouth. His voice was hoarse from the beating his throat had gotten. It almost hurt to speak. Still, it needed to be said.
It wasn't the first time he'd told them, but it felt profound every time. It wasn't a habit either. He meant it with every fiber of his being. They were everything to him. They took care of him. They let him fall apart. They helped him put himself back together again.
Warm smiles crossed their faces, and then he was being pulled into the warm, comforting circle of their arms, pressed between their chests. He let out a bone-deep sigh and closed his eyes, happy to be held, happy to be loved.