Stiles purchases three werewolves for the house.
Derek is large and looks glowery so the only people who want him want to break him—but Stiles notes in the auction that Derek's obedience is too quick to be anything but voluntary. So Stiles purchases him and is pleased to note that he's very well behaved for all his outward projection is that of violence too strong for repression drugs to tame. He's even sweet really, and he makes these tiny, fragile sounds like genuine want when Stiles takes him, mouth already wet and ready when the Sheriff comes home to see their new pet.
The sheriff sighs, of course, because, "Stiles, we can't afford this."
But Stiles says, "No, we can, I've got it, Dad. Go sit down, okay? You just worked a hard day and you need some relief."
And the Sheriff sits because he is tired and Derek is shuffling in between his legs before his ass hits the sofa, breathing hot and warm over his cock like he can't wait to suck it down and provide a little bit of pleasure, of escape to this careworn man with big, rough hands that exert the right measure of pressure when they ruffle Derek's hair and clasp his shoulder with awkward, if genuine affection.
Derek is so happy that he gets to please these two men who treat him with absent kindness and warmth even as they put metal tight around the base of his cock and talk distractedly about how they'll punish him if he needs it.
That's their right, after all. Werewolves are there to serve.
Derek is most happy that he gets to see his sisters.
They're only trussed up a few hours a day so they get to spend so much time together. Derek loves that he gets to take care of them, to give them their shots and more. Sometimes Stiles will take him out to the barn where Cora and Laura are both strapped into their harnesses, shoulders and chest supported, hips caught in a soft leather band and their feet just brushing the floor. The cups on their breasts—Stiles calls them udders—aren't the noisy, too-powerful kind that Derek has seen before and both his sisters respond to the kindness by producing so much of their valuable milk.
"I blew all my savings. That's how I was able to get the three of you," Stiles tells him several weeks in, one hip propped against a stall door as he toys with Laura's hair, watching avidly while Derek kneels between her legs and licks and sucks until she squeals and lows with delight, his other hand wielding the ever-present vibrator until Cora makes the uhnuhn noises that means she, too, is coming. Derek loves that he gets to make his sisters feel good, to teach them to love their role. They are un-pupped so they'd never been considered milkers, never sought after. But Stiles had seen better and he always makes sure Derek's sisters are well-pleasured as they fill jug after jug for sale.
"Happy cows are healthy, producing cows," he likes to quip, tapping upturned asses lightly and smiling when the sisters low in appreciative affection in return, "and nobody's happier then when a family stays together."
When the girls aren't trussed and working they get to sleep a lot. There's talk of breeding them but Sheriff seems reluctant and Stiles has his own misgivings. Sometimes, though, he'll let the girls put their heads on his shoulders, making soft, loving sounds as they're pet and praised, Derek slurping eagerly at Stiles' cock in between. He'll catch Stiles's hands wandering down to taut, flat bellies like he's wondering what they'll look like when they're round and full. But nothing ever comes of it and the only one to receive the Stilinskis' seed is Derek, who would bath in it until he drowns in the scent, if he could.
He doesn't, though. Stiles prefers him clean so every morning Derek scrubs himself unscented.
It's a nice life. The milk sells well and the hard, anxious lines in Sheriff's face have started to ease with his home happy once more. The regular orgasms probably help. Derek has taken to waiting by the door whenever Sheriff gets off shift. Sometimes he keeps his mouth open, sometimes he presents his rump for a man frustrated by his job and now comfortable that he can undo his belt before he finishes turning the key. Still others he follows Sheriff to the sofa or the kitchen, a beer already prepped and waiting, or up to the master bedroom, heeling like the good puppy he is. Sheriff calls him that a lot, tousling his hair even as he thumbs open Derek's wet mouth and slides in with a sigh. He prefers blowjobs. Derek is never sure if that's because Stiles is so enamored with the wet softness of Derek's cunt or because Sheriff still wears a gold band on his finger. Either way he seems happier, laughing more and teasing his sarcastic son.
It's a good home. Derek is so happy here. He nuzzles into Stiles' thigh with a soft huff of love one afternoon, watching as his sisters rock back into their vibrators and come until they exceed their milk quotas for the day. It's nice to have a purpose once again. Stiles says they may start milking him as well, although demand for werewolf come is not nearly as high, and Derek is placidly accepting. Stiles has a thick cock that he uses with precision and Derek knows he'll come buckets like his sisters do if he gets to be fucked with it while the machine suctions out his release. Or maybe it'll be the fuck machine? Stiles likes those, sometimes rewarding his sisters with a visit when they've been very good.
So far neither of his sisters have experienced a Stilinski cock and Derek is trying to figure out how to make that happen. He doesn't want pups if Stiles and Sheriff do not—and they don't seem to, still, however odd that is—but Stiles is so good at dicking, at finding all the ways to make sure Derek feels nothing but pleasure as he rocks and flutters and works for Stiles' come. His sisters should experience it for themselves instead of listening to Derek tell them, wide-eyed with their hands stuffed into their cunts, heavy udders rippling as they rock. Maybe he'll ask? Stiles doesn't mind when Derek asks for things, usually tugging first his own earlobe and then Derek as he mulls the request. They're even often granted, which only confirms to Derek that he's the luckiest werewolf in the world to have owners who listen to their pets. Derek loves the Stilinskis so much.
"I know you do," Stiles laughs and scrubs Derek's hair even as he tilts Derek so his face is in the soft floor and the base of the plug within his cunt is exposed. Stiles tugs at it lightly, making the rim stretch and Derek can't help moaning, his cock drooling in pleasure down his chest. Cora likes to lick that clean. "We love having you here too, puppy. You were an excellent purchase. So. What do you think about becoming an uncle, hm? Laura's getting a little too old to be without a pup of her own."
Derek honestly isn't sure whose moan is louder: his or Laura's.
"I'll have to take her first, of course. Then Dad and I have a list of wolves who are ready for stud for you three to go choose from. We've already done a first pass. There's a McCall wolf that seems sweet enough. We might even take him in permanently? His mother is so past prime that we can probably get her thrown in the deal and they're very attached. But that doesn't matter if you don't like him. So think about what kind of bull you would."
That's address to all three of them and Derek knows he's not the only one to think pack. Three isn't bad for pack, especially when they're family, but—pack. A growing, thriving pack under the Stilinskis’ comforting hand.
Laughter like bubbles fills the barn as Derek risks everything to sit up and wrap his arms around Stiles' waist, hugging him as tightly as he dares. It's the best response—at least right up until Stiles puts a big, long-fingered hand over Derek's nape and squeezes affectionately. "Yeah, we're adding this, big guy," Stiles says, happy. "You give good hugs."
Only because Stiles has taught him, Derek thinks, remembering nights when Stiles turns limpet with his bedmate. It's a good lesson.
Late in the dark there are monsters. Derek catalogs each one within the shadows even he can't parse. The new moon is always a bad night and Stiles chuckles fondly, but never agrees to a small light when Derek asks. Even his computer is turned off completely—the rarest of rare occurrences.
"What?" Stiles asks. He's mostly asleep, drowsy and contented, arm slung across Derek's middle. "Your hearts goin' too fast."
"Mm. Didn't ask for apologies. What's wrong?"
Now Derek has to close his eyes because only in the dark, in that safety, can he manage this. But Stiles asked. Derek promised himself when he stood on an auction block and saw the boy with piercing eyes and no scent of cruelty or pain on him that Derek would do anything for him, be the best, most obedient pet he could possibly be so long as this boy took him and his family home. And Stiles did. He bought him, and Laura and Cora. He found Peter, so horribly damaged that he was far more animal than werewolf, reassured him with touch and come and simple, easy tasks to perform, affection freely given so long as Peter leans against the Sheriff's leg, tongue lolling as he waits to be needed again. He gave Laura Scott McCall so a pup heavily rounded her belly and all of them a mother through Melissa, folded into their house so simply and completely, until Sheriff mutters about building an addition since they’re currently bursting at the seams.
Stiles gave him everything a werewolf could possibly hope for plus all the things they never let themselves even dream possible.
Derek owes him an answer. No, Derek wants to answer him, give him any and everything he can.
Just. This is...private.
In the near pitch-black there is no light to catch on Stiles eyes but Derek knows they open all the same. He can hear the lashes fluttering, the wet of skin sliding together and then open once more. "What, big guy?"
It's Stiles' favorite nickname for him. It's ironic, Stiles says, waving a hand to take in a werewolf that stands taller than all of them, more heavily muscled and threatening—to those who don't know him, anyway. His sisters call him a marshmallow and they're not wrong.
Derek figures he could be threatening, if his defense is needed. Sheriff's job is occasionally dangerous, after all, and if someone tried to hurt him or Stiles, Derek is pretty sure he'd burn through his daily repression vitamin to find the claws and fangs werewolves are supposed to have immediately. But usually on nights when Sheriff goes out on a bad call Derek's too busy with Stiles anxiously waiting up all night until his father returns home hale and whole once more.
Those nights Derek is usually not so whole, criss-crossing red marks latticed over his back and belly, face swollen with palm-prints before the sun dawns, for the scant few hours they'd last.
(That Derek maybe likes it, all of it, is a thought he never allows himself. It's irrelevant whether he does or not because Stiles never reaches for electricity or sharpened blades, any of the toys that line the walls of stores catered towards werewolf owners, just like Derek knew he wouldn't. Stiles doesn't own anything more dangerous than the knives in his kitchen and his father's regulation wolfsbane bullets, always kept locked away. These nights, Stiles isn't punishing Derek or even really hurting him in bad ways. Stiles just needs release and it's Derek's job to see Stiles gets it. So if Derek does happen to like the method, to blink wet up at Stiles and wish he could offer more, choking on emotion that leaves him breathless and euphoric—no one has to know that, least of all Derek himself. It simply is.)
"Why don't you milk me?"
The words are rushed but Stiles' sudden stillness means he's heard. Derek closes his eyes and tucks his face towards the blankets in time for Stiles stretch over him and click on the bedside light. Golden warmth pools around them in ways that ought to be reassuring but Derek is too busy flushing in heavy shame to notice. Stiles may allow the occasional request and often spoils Derek and his family outrageously but this—this is different.
Stiles's fingers are long and spidery but very strong. They slide across the sheets to touch Derek's belly, then up to his chest where his pecs distend, cupping the muscle and tweaking the nipple he finds there. "You wanna be milked too, hm? Want to be hooked up like your sisters?"
No. Yes? Male lactation isn't completely unheard of and among buyers of werewolf products it's often highly prized. Derek imagines sliding a needle into his skin the same tender way he does for his sisters, accepting the hormone injection like the repression vitamins they all so eagerly take. He'd crawl into a harness set up beside theirs but with three cups, the addition deeper and wider, waiting for him. He'd pose the same way, probably, metal bars adjusted to apply delicate pressure to his udders just in case the suction wasn't enough, hips held aloft and toes just brushing the floor so he couldn't do anything but lay there, completely helpless. Dependent.
Laura and Cora both talk about how soothing it is to lay there and let their heavy, painful udders drain while their cunts are tended to by vibrators or, more frequently, Peter. The damaged werewolf has dedicated himself to ensure his nieces enjoy their milking sessions, spending hours licking at their cunts and sucking on their clits, using vibrators and dildos, massaging their bodies with oils and unguents that will help increase the quantity or texture of their yield, make them crave being milked beyond the druggingly addictive release itself. He's particularly attentive to Laura, starting to round with her pup. He can often be found sliding three fingers inside her cunt, thumb flicking restlessly above while he presses his ear against her belly, hunting for the heartbeat of the newest member of their pack, murmuring that she'll be such a good mother, he'll help, yes, come Laura, feel so good, let the baby enjoy it too like a good werewolf.
Derek's panting by now, his cock straining against the metal band encircling it even as he pushes his chest into the rhythmic squeeze of Stiles' palm. "I could help produce," he says. It's a demure deflection he knows Stiles won't buy.
And he doesn't, if the low, richly warm chuckle means anything. "Uh hunh. You can help produce. You mean what you do now isn't helping?"
The sting of words is nothing against Stiles sharply tugging Derek's nipple. Derek groans, can't help it when Stiles is touching him. "I—I just see to them. Make them comfortable." They're his sisters, what else could he do?
"And that's pretty important to production. There's a reason our dairy is considered a sought-for delicacy now, big guy. Dad's gonna be able to build that extension for Scott and Melissa. We bring in contractors next week. And that is definitely in part because you help production."
Derek can't dispute that without accusing Stiles of lying. The very thought is terrifying. Instead, Derek shifts so that Stiles' hand slips to his other pec and starts the same circling, tugging massage. It feels so good. Like Stiles isn't just kneading the muscle and glands underneath but his cock, too, making nerves sizzle against skin gone too tight. Derek loves him so much. "I—I just—"
"Do you want to be milked? Is that it? Are you jealous of helping or how good it feels? Not every werewolf likes it, after all."
Scott, certainly, is one who does not. He's a cheerful soul who is stunned and starry-eyed at getting to stay with his mother and loves helping the local vet, Dr. Deaton, in exchange for services at the barn and the occasional supply of repression or hormone drugs. The doctor has mentioned hiring Scott as a real assistant since he's good with the animals—pets and livestock both—as well as making Dr. Deaton's customers feel at ease. For all that skill, though, he certainly gets no enjoyment out of being milked. Melissa had fretted over that before the Stilinskis bought them. Now she spends a lot of time trying not to beam.
"I'm not jealous," Derek protests because he isn't. Of that, at least, he's certain.
"So? What, hm, big guy? You want to let your cock cream more?"
Derek shakes his head because no. Stiles allows him to come so much that sometimes Derek thinks he's in a fever dream and any minute he'll wake up back in the cold, hard basement room of the Argents, waiting for the eldest daughter and the cruelty that'd she'd coated on herself like perfume to come back down the stairs. She'd liked electricity.
"No? Are you saying I should let you come less?" Stiles flicks open the latch holding the metal around Derek's cock and balls, easing it off with the skill of familiarity. "Because I'm pretty sure you don't get to make those requests. I like feeling you come when I'm inside you."
Derek's breath rasps hot, glittering glass dust in his lungs. He lifts his outer leg because Stiles is using the same massaging, encircling tug on his cock now and Derek is afraid he's going to come before Stiles gives him permission. It feels so good. A soft command from Stiles has him clambering up onto all fours, belly angled and tucked in so that Stiles doesn't have to contort himself awkwardly to reach him. "Good boy," Stiles tells him. "Can you low like your sisters do? Hm? If you can, go ahead. I'm pretty sure Dad won't mind hearing that."
Not with Peter sleeping curled around the Sheriff's feet. After all that's happened to him Peter doesn't sleep well and nothing calms his disorientation upon waking faster than the taste of the Sheriff's cock. It's a good cock, too, Derek agrees, thick and clean-salty. With that in mind Derek does low, the soft, plaintive sound that is nothing like what wolves supposedly sound like but comes so naturally to most of them that Derek is half-way certain that wolves—not werewolves, real wolves—and their snarling growls are completely mythical. Because just letting the noise rise up from his belly, filling his mouth before it reaches the air makes his cock pulse with even greater need, jumping against Stiles' palm eagerly.
That makes Stiles laugh. Derek will do a lot to hear Stiles make that bursting, abrupt laughter. So, too, the chuckle that comes from the Sheriff's room, right before the sound of a body uncurling, the Sheriff saying, "Yeah, good boy, let's listen to my son milk your nephew. Will you take care of him the same way you do your nieces once he's hooked up? I'm sure you will. Open your throat and I don't want to hear you choking this time. Mm, yes. You're such a good boy, Peter."
If there's more—and there probably is; both Stilinskis are very verbal—Derek doesn't hear it. Not with Stiles breathing in his ear, murmuring about how Derek is going to make such fine product for them. "Not all the time," he cautions. "There's a glut of werewolf come on the market and I don't feel like sharing you too often. Plus, my days would be boring without you bustling around with your chores and all those times you know when I'm horny and do something to entice me. You've gotten very creative, big guy, don't think I haven't noticed. But this? Oh, this is something special. Okay, Derek. We'll get you stall in the barn like your sisters. We'll hook you up to a cup for your cock while your sisters tug your nipples and lick your cunt just like you do theirs. I'll fuck you through it the first couple of times. Would you like that?"
Derek can't help but low again, the sound stuttering with lack of control.
"I know, you do love my cock, big guy. Like you were made for it."
And oh, Derek thinks that too. That he's made for Stiles, all of him, and he never wants to go anywhere else. Plenty of werewolf packs are handed down within families. The Hales had been, once upon a time, and Derek wants that again so badly. The Stilinskis aren't as wealthy as the family Derek grew up in but with him and Laura and Cora producing, hopefully they could make enough that the Sheriff wouldn't have to risk himself every night, defending people who didn't deserve it and Stiles would let Derek grow old with him, cherished and utterly devoted.
Something cold bumps the head of Derek's cock and he jerks, his cock swinging abruptly free, crying out. "Sh, sh, big guy, it's okay." Stiles soothes him with an absent pat to his rump, right where the hormone injections will go. "You wanted to be milked so that's what we're going to do. That's all, big guy, settle."
A light tap at the same place has Derek meekly obeying. Or maybe it's that he can see Stiles holding the now-empty night time water glass against Derek's cock, poised to catch, and Derek wants this so badly. He loves that Stiles is talking him through it, gentling and encouraging him the same way he did the very first time Laura and Cora were hooked up, one at a time, so each one would get all that focused attention without having to share. Stiles is enjoying this more, though. Derek can see his cock, stabbing proudly into the air, the head shiny with precome Derek is going to lick up later. With Laura and Cora it was more about making them enjoy the process so Stiles had contented himself with Derek's mouth and cunt as he worked, not theirs.
Derek hadn't at all minded. Only maybe he had been jealous. Because Stiles hands are clever and strong and they're tugging away at him like pieces of his soul are going to drip free instead of useless ejaculate better suited for market.
Then Stiles says, "Come, come on, big guy. Let me see you produce for me."
And it is his soul that comes, Derek realizes. Pieces of himself tearing away until his insides have to rearrange into something new, something different, better, than before. Because he fills half the cup in an impressive display Stiles praises him for, sounding slightly awed while he does so, cock throbbing in hard, steady pulses that seem painful and perfect and endless.
When Stiles squeezes out a pained sound instead of more come, he chuckles and draws the cup away. "I'm gonna go store this. We'll get it tested for quality tomorrow. You stay right where you are, big guy, okay? Don't move."
Not moving sounds pretty excellent. Even with a werewolf constitution Derek is trembling and feels weak. The repression drugs, probably, although maybe not. It could just be Stiles and being used in this new, more perfect way. Derek loves being of use. All werewolves do, if they're properly repressed.
Derek moans—lows—when Stiles comes back and runs his hands fitfully over Derek's legs. Derek tilts his hips in invitation because he can hear the rest of the house and all of them are drunk off the scents and sounds of the Sheriff rutting Peter on his bedroom floor, of how much Stiles wants what Derek has given him. Cora and Laura are twined together in their comfortable bed, although with Laura's big belly in the way Derek isn't sure how their normal arrangement will work. Not that it matters. They'll be taken care of it, if not by each other than Peter once the Sheriff is finished with him, or Melissa who is stealthily creeping up the stairs like she's certain she'll be punished for wanting to reassure his sisters.
"You're so perfect," Stiles murmurs to him, rubbing him from neck to rump and back again. "God, I chose so well that day. I'm never letting any of you go. We're gonna make that addition, big guy. We're gonna build more rooms for Melissa if she doesn't end up in bed with Dad before the week is out," a soft gasp comes from the hallway and she'll learn that Stiles is a lot more observant than people usually are without werewolf noses, "and for Scott, and that pretty little girl he saw, what was her name-- Allison? Yeah. She's new-bit, there's drama there, I think. But when Scott went by I saw her. She breathed in so deep and lifted her rump up, all wet and swollen just from knowing he was near her. That's right, Scotty, you've been good for us so we're gonna buy her for you. Give you and my big boy here some more pups to raise. She's got the most amazing dimples, too. She'll look gorgeous in a harness."
Downstairs, Scott starts fisting his own cock frantically. Derek understands, already hard again because Stiles is kneeling between his legs and lining up, a grin like moonlight spilling out into the room. He'd feel bad that Scott is all alone, still quarantined because Laura is full of his pups, but Stiles—amazing, perfect Stiles—laughs breathlessly as he slides all the way inside Derek, skin pressed tight to skin, and says, "Everybody gets to come tonight, okay? Except if you're with my dad. You wait until he tells you."
Peter makes a whimpering noise that's only slightly petulant.
But Scott is crying out in exultant relief and the girls are curled together, trembling and happy, and Derek—Derek is going to get the fuck of his life out of this, spreading his knees for balance, head dropped because Stiles won't be gentle and Derek doesn't want him to be, wants each punishing, greedy thrust, his cock fat enough to burn inside Derek's cunt, because Stiles should have anything and everything he wants.
Just like Derek has.
Two days later when Stiles leads him into the barn where a third stall and harness waits, Derek cries he's so happy.