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While You Were Sleeping

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It’s not like he has no idea.

It’s one of two people, but it’s still nice to lay there for a few blissful seconds when he doesn’t know whose hand is pushing his leg up or who is radiating heat above him with their fingers pressing at his asshole.

The illusion only lasts a few seconds, even if he’s exhausted, because Chris and Peter touch him entirely differently.

Peter shatters the peace like glass.

Stiles thinks it's a goal for Peter to get three fingers shoved up his ass before he wakes up. And he does shove them in. The first time Stiles actually started to yell before Peter's hand was slapped over his mouth. It burns every time. It's brutal and rough, every single time, almost to the point of Stiles telling him to stop, but it's hard to consider saying it when he's biting Peter's palm to keep from screaming while Peter keeps nailing his prostate with his fingers and he's streaking the blankets with globs of precum without being touched. He must be able to smell it when he's pushing Stiles to the brink, because it's never too far. 

He can't help it. He likes that Peter starts when he's unconscious, when he doesn’t have a say, he likes Peter calling him a whore, and a bitch. He likes Peter choking him too hard and making light spots spiral in his eyes in the dark room. He even likes how much it makes his ass burn, how every joint in his body hurts when he wakes up, he likes that the first time it happened, he was actually afraid for a few seconds. That Peter's smooth low voice actually sounded dangerous. 

It feels good and it makes his heart beat like he’s sprinted by the time Peter has fucked him boneless and they're slumped together in a sweaty gross pile. They cuddle, but it's a sprawled sort of their-arms-are-over-each-other-and-that-counts, kind of cuddle. Peter will mumble ask if he's ok, then give him a sloppy kiss. They both pass out, fucked out and panting. 

More often than not, Stiles wakes up in the morning, stuck to Peter, and stuck to the sheets.

 

Chris isn’t like that.

After living with them a year, Stiles was starting to think Chris wasn’t into it at all. He was never with Peter when he initiated, which could be fun. Stiles had jacked off a few times to the thought of Chris holding him down while Peter did whatever he wanted. It was fucked up, sue him, but it made him come so hard he fell in the shower. But the months went on and it was never Chris, or never Chris and Peter, it was just Peter. That sounded awful, but Stiles was slightly disappointed.  

The first time he woke up and it wasn’t Peter, he knew it immediately.

For one, a cockhead was already pushing into his ass when he came awake. For a moment, he felt actual fear as he came awake and felt someone against his back. Peter was at his sisters. Chris was supposed to be on a plane, on his way home after three days away. But almost right on top of that thought, was that, it didn't hurt. 

Then he felt the rough drag of a beard against his neck.

“It’s okay,” Chris had mumbled against his ear.

The whimper surprised Stiles a little. It came out of his own throat. He was whiney in his sleep and he was whiney when Chris fucked him, so mix the two together and he shouldn't have been surprised at all. He shifted until Chris's hips were flush to his ass. Chris’s hand had trailed down his side before he squeezed and ground his body down.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he said quietly, his chest rumbling against Stiles’s back. “You looked so sweet.”

Stiles felt his lips drag against his ear just before Chris bit the edge, like Chris couldn’t keep from doing it, instead of when Peter did it to make it hurt. Both ways sent tingles, but these pooled low in his stomach as Chris shifted his weight and fucked into him slowly.  

“I missed you,” Stiles mumbled, half asleep.

“I missed you too,” Chris said.

Stiles still remembered shivering when he said it, how his hot breath had felt in the comfort of their bed while his arms and legs were still heavy with sleep. His body was so relaxed Chris’s thick shaft hardly burned sliding in and out with the slow roll of his hips.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered, “Always so fucking good, Stiles.”

Then Stiles’s spine was playdoh. He worked to spread his legs wider under both their weight and worked down against the pillow Chris had somehow gotten under his hips. He could feel the slick trails of precum tacking him to the pillowcase.

“Love it,” Stiles said, half hoping Chris didn’t hear him.

“It’s so sweet,” Chris said.

Stiles could probably live on that tone of voice. The same one that could make him red and pissed off in the daylight or when he wasn’t into the headspace enough. It grossed him out and made him cringe, or made him think he should cringe, that he should be grossed out.

At night though, or when he was drinking, and horny, when he had been worked on a little, his mind slipped right to it.

He moaned and bit back words. It was right on the edge of his tongue. He was so tired, it was so warm, he felt so safe.

Chris slid his arm under his body then his fingers were loosely pressed against his throat. There weren’t even a threat. They were just there, solid, and hot the way Chris’s body was pushing him down into the mattress, covering him up and making him feel smaller.

“Say it, baby.”

Then there was cold sweat prickling at Stiles’s hairline. The soft floaty feeling started to reel away, but Chris pushed down with his chest, trapping him even as he kept pushing into his body, massaging against his prostate.

“It’s okay. I want to hear it,” Chris said against his skin.

Stiles whimpered and shook his head. He didn’t even realize he had done it until Chris stopped moving. Stiles shifted back, but Chris held him down, his fingers digging in to his hip just enough to hurt.

“Ask.”

“Please, Chris,” he said, trying to push back again. 

“Not like that,” Chris said. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking-.”

“You’re not going to surprise me,” Chris said.

Stiles bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes closed before he tried to push back again. Chris still held him down, but he kissed the back of his neck and rubbed the aching finger points on Stiles’s hips.

“It’s just us, baby boy.”

Stiles was breathing harder before he gripped the pillow in front of him and held it to his face. He scooted back at the same time that Chris pushed forward just a little bit.

“I won’t make you-.”

“Daddy, please,” Stiles said for the first time, in a breath, holding his pillow tight and not opening his eyes. “Please, fuck me.”

Chris dropped back down against him at the same time, holding him close. “Perfect, sweetheart.”

Those few seconds of tension completely vanished. Saying it felt good, it felt right, maybe not all the time, but when Chris was over the top of him and making him feel safe and small, it felt perfect. He could smell his own breath against his pillow as he moaned with each push of Chris’s hips.

He almost felt like he could cry. It felt so fucking good to lay there and let Chris fuck him, to let him be in control, when he pulled back onto his knees and pulled Stiles up with him, keeping his chest flat on the bed, it felt good to have Chris fucked into him hard. It made him whimper and Chris just kept rubbing his hands over his body, kept telling him what a good boy he was and groaning when Stiles called him daddy.

When it was over, Chris slumped to the side with him, easing out his softening dick. There was still so much lube it squelched as he wrapped Stiles in his arms and held him tightly. His ass didn’t hurt at all. He just felt like a marshmallow, weak and soft, in Chris’s arms.

Stiles didn’t remember falling asleep the first time, but he remembered waking up to the bathroom light spilling on the bed and Chris rubbing a wet rag over his stomach then between his legs.

“Everything alright?”

“Mhm,” Stiles said, smiling slightly with his eyes wanting to drop closed again. “You should do that more.”

Chris smiled back, “You think so?”

“Definitely. Tie Peter down, do it to him too.”

“And hear him bitch? No thanks.”

“He’s a hypocrite,” Stiles croaked.

“I know,” Chris said, standing up and give Stiles a glass of water from the bedside table.

Stiles drank and handed it back before lifting up the covers. Chris crawled in beside him and pulled him against his stomach. 

"Should do it to Peter," Stiles mumbled. "It'd be hot to hear him call you that."

"He's five years younger."

"Still a brat," Stiles said, nosing closer. "Or you could both do stuff maybe, at the same time."

Chris slid his hand down and cupped Stiles's ass before he pinched. 

"Demanding," Chris said as he squeezed him closer. 

 Stiles hummed against Chris's skin. He couldn’t sleep like that, but he loved it for a few minutes, loved feeling the hair on Chris’s chest against his cheek and burying himself in his smell as his warm floaty afterglow slowly faded away.