You know that feeling where you wish you could go back in time and have a moment to do over again? Be brave, be smart, be funny, and just generally not fuck it up? Stiles’ life is largely composed of these moments and this feeling and the general urge to kick his own ass. Anyway, that moment when he was alone with Derek, Scott and the blow torch? It would have gone something like this—
Derek says, “Hold him down,” and Stiles does. This time, though, there’s no blow torch around.
Stiles wants to be thorough, so he just climbs right up onto Scott’s lap and pins his shoulders to the back of the chair with both hands.
Then he’s magically able to achieve that really cool smirk he’s in reality never quite mastered, and he turns it on both of them in turn. “And then?”
Derek’s facial expression doesn’t even change, he just continues to smoulder attractively and says, “Try not to move too much. This might hurt a little.”
Stiles feels his heart-rate pick up as with a flood of adrenalin his body reminds him that he is now the meat in a predator sandwich. “Wh-what?”
His only answer is the teasing scrape of Scott’s teeth down the arching curve of his neck. Scott gets both hands on his ass and pulls him in until Stiles’ hard-on is pressing painfully against the metal of his zipper and the heat of Scott’s own erection, obvious even through the layers of fabric between them. It must be pretty clear that Stiles has been thinking about this for a while – or maybe tattoos just get him hot – but Scott doesn’t stop sucking on his throat, and Derek seems to approve.
Stiles starts to whimper without conscious consent, can’t help rubbing his aching dick against the bulge in Scott’s jeans, trying to get some relief.
“Don’t worry,” Scott whispers, hot and intimate between them, before he licking a wide wet stripe up the side of his neck.
Derek strokes a hand through Stiles’ hair and smiles. “We’re going to take care of you.”
“Oh, fuuuuck,” Stiles says, because Scott – with previously undisclosed ninja skills – has got Stiles’ zipper down, and wriggled a hand inside so he can squeeze a fist around Stiles’ eager cock, hot and tight.
In a blur of superspeed, superstrength, and mind-numbing pleasure, Stiles is splayed naked on Scott’s lap and Derek is teasing lupine claws down the length of his spine. Scott’s retained his hold on Stiles’ dick, and he’s squeezing it tenderly now, stroking him like a treasured pet, and all Stiles can do is sit up and beg. Somehow shy, despite or because of the unbalanced nudity, he presses an open mouthed kiss against Scott’s cheek, gives a little flicker of his tongue – hot, wet – that makes Scott groan and strip his cock faster, harder, and then turns his head to look at Derek over his shoulder.
Derek’s got his t-shirt rucked up, jeans around his knees, one hand twisting around the head of his cock and the other pinching at his own nipple. The look on his face is nothing but hunger, and Stiles’ stomach gives and answering jump.
“Touch me,” he says as boldly as he can, kneading at Scott’s shoulders and just hanging on.
Derek bares his teeth and Stiles feels sweat prickle all down his back. “What do you want?”
Stiles can barely think, let alone speak, and he can taste his own desperation thick on his tongue when he says, “Anything you’ll give me.” In his head something dark and sibilant whispers, I wanna be dirty.
“Good boy,” Scott says, nipping playfully at Stiles’ earlobe with pointed teeth and giving his dick a fond little squeeze.
Stiles swivels back around and feels his eyes drawn magnetically to Scott’s mouth, lips red and slightly swollen; wants to sink his own blunt human teeth into that soft-looking flesh, wants to taste and be tasted and kiss and be kissed until their flesh becomes one.
The corner of Scott’s lips lifts in recognition of Stiles’ hunger: a teasing invitation. All Stiles has to do is tilt a little to the left and they’re kissing, soft and wet. Scott’s lips are faintly chapped, or maybe bitten absent-mindedly, but they slide tender and slick against his all the same, parted with welcome and heated breath. The touch of tongue against tongue, that slick soft intermingling, is a revelation – a religious experience – and Stiles feels born again.
The Otherness of Scott’s body is a palpable thing. His hands map the burgeoning expanse of Scott’s shoulders, familiar territory made strange and exciting by newly muscled thickness and conspicuous strength. Palm to chest feels like holy palmer’s kiss (prayer and answer both); Stiles may be naked on the alter of Scott’s body – bared to both their gazes - but he is definitely a willing sacrifice.
The gentle press of their lips belies the thrumming tension in the air, a contrast as sharply delicious as the rough abrasion of warn denim against his inner thighs, where they spread wide and press close over Scott’s bulging crotch. Stiles’ skin feels strangely sensitised; he’s alive to sensation and trembles at the rasp of Derek’s stubble at the nape of his neck, the vulnerable curve of his throat. Stiles releases Scott’s tongue with a reluctant curiosity and turns his head only to find his mouth possessed again, by a new pair of lips.
Derek kisses like a force of nature, a wild thing that knows the truth of this mad hunger for flesh, who has tasted death and revelled in desire. They revel in each other, and Derek takes his mouth like he would take Stiles’ whole body – to be used for pleasure alone. Scott starts to suck on the earlobe in front of his mouth, and Stiles can’t help but moan into Derek’s mouth, a strange reverberating chain of wet hot sound. Scott laughs and rubs the tip of his nose against Stiles’ cheek -- Eskimo kiss –- noses his way into a three-way meeting of mouths and tongues and lips: filthy-messy-wet in the best possible way.
Too soon, Scott leans back and Stiles is torn away by the insistent press of Derek’s palm against his throat – gentle but firm, a command echoed with the pulse of Stiles’ blood.
Scott grabs at his wrists, fingers circling like cuffs, and holds on while Derek uses that hand on his throat to bend him back, back, until Stiles is staring at the floor and the massive curving length of Derek’s cock. There’s blood rushing to his head already, and he feels like he’s balancing on a metaphorical and literal edge because he’s being supported only by the bruising ring of Scott’s hands on his wrists and the broad palm Derek slips beneath his head. So Stiles is panting, stretched and splayed naked across Scott’s lap, but it’s only when he feels the slick press of a thumb beneath his balls that he realises what this position means – how open he is, how Scott can see, can take, everything.
“Please,” Stiles pants, breathy and wet, “please, please plea--”
With his neck bent back like this, the curve of his throat matches Derek’s cock perfectly, something like beauty; all Derek has to do is bend his knees a little a and the fat head of his cock is bump-sliding against the roof of Stiles’ mouth, a teasing rub against his tongue, and then sliding right past his gag-reflex and deep into his throat. He actually gets jolted forward a bit, Derek cock shoving just an inch deeper, by the jerking thrust of Scott’s denim-clad hips against his ass. The idea that they’re both watching Stiles taking Derek’s cock like this, that Scott likes it, is so incredibly hot - so almost painfully filthy - that Stiles has to moan, writhe himself naked and sweaty and wild back and forth between their hands and hope that they’re going to let him come –- soon.
Derek sets up an easy rhythm, sliding deep into Stiles’ throat and then just prodding gently into his mouth, letting Stiles suck and lick and cling desperately until he pulls out and surges in deep again. They’re kind enough to give him a moment or two to get used to it, then Scott transfers his wrists to one hand, strokes Stiles’ belly briefly in a reassuring way, slicks his fingers with Stiles’ own profusely leaking precome, and slides them right down between Stiles’ forcibly spread cheeks to his exposed hole.
Scott only has two hands and he’s clearly more interested in playing with Stiles’ ass (and not letting him fall) than giving Stiles what he really needs, so he leaves Stiles’ cock untouched and starts painting concentric circles, smaller and smaller, narrowing in on the tight furl of Stiles’ virgin hole. The pads of his index and middle fingers are slightly rough, calluses catching the tiniest bit against that soft, puckered skin. He taps gently at the centre of it, knocking like he wants to come in, and Stiles almost cokes for real around the fat bulge of Derek’s cock in his mouth. There is sweat, or maybe tears, stinging at his eyes but he’s moaning, begging upside-down; Scott gives him what he wants and pushes the blunt tip of his middle finger into Stiles’ ass. Just that, but it feels huge inside him where no one has ever touched before.
Scott rocks that finger back and forth a little, twists, until the first knuckle slides in and he’s got the whole thing deep up inside. Scott’s fingers are long and thick and clever, and soon enough that finger is joined by another, scissoring and stretching Stiles’ hole wide, prepping him for someone’s cock. Stiles can’t even be ashamed that he really doesn’t care whose dick is in him, just so long as one of them gets in him, and soon.
By the time Scott is three fingers deep in his ass, and Derek is rubbing his dick against Stiles’ lips and tongue in small hypnotic circles, fingers outlining the head where it presses against Stiles’ distended inner cheek, Stiles is sobbing with need for this -- for anything -- for more. His face is wet with tears and spit and Derek’s precome but when Derek pulls out and leaves him waiting too long he keeps his mouth open, tongue extended, begging silently for another taste.
What he gets instead is Scott hauling on his wrists, reeling him back in and right-side-up; for a moment there the world seems all topsy-turvy, turned inside-out.
“On your knees,” Derek orders, and with Scott’s reassuring hands on his shoulders it’s all too easy to comply.
The floor is cold and hard against his knees but Stiles is allowed to rest his cheek against Scott’s thigh and just breathe for a moment while Scott generously pets at his hair.
A minute, maybe two, and then Scott pats his cheek and says, “I want you to suck my cock while he fucks you.” The sound of his zipper being done is really loud, this close to Stiles’ ear.
“Sharing is caring,” Derek murmurs in a filthy sing-song, somewhere behind, and then there are two unmistakably strong hands spreading his cheeks to expose his already lubed and stretched hole.
Scott is already rubbing the swollen head of his cock against Stiles’ cheek, leaving a fresh sticky trail in Derek’s mess. Stiles cracks open an eye but leaves his head resting on Scott’s solid thigh, just licks his lips and touches the tip of his outstretched tongue to Scott’s slit, coming away with a fine string of come.
Derek shuffles in closer until they’re chest-to-back, gets his knees in between Stiles’ and forces them wider, makes him stick out his ass and present like a bitch in heat, ready and wet and waiting. With one hand clutching at his hip, Derek pushes the thumb of the other against the rim of Stiles’ puffy hole, circles once and pushes right up into his eager clinging heat.
Stiles keeps sucking at the head of Scott’s dick, juicy-thick and awkward between his stretched lips, and doesn’t even try to stop the steady stream of moans and grunts coming from his own throat because they just make both the wolves thrust a little harder into him.
Derek’s not playing around though, no teasing now, because he only gives Stiles a couple searching twists of that thumb before he’s empty again. Stiles wants so badly he has to arch his back, suck a little more of Scott’s cock into his mouth (showy) and roll his hips up, trying hard as he can to get Derek’s dick in his ass.
“Such a happy slut,” Derek says with what might actually be approval, as he bends his knees and drives his cock home – one long powerful thrust into Stiles’ spasming hole.
Stiles is electrified, rears back until his head is touching Derek’s collar bone and keens like a wounded animal, wild with the pain and the pleasure and the mind-bending power of being possessed so completely. His belly and ass and thighs are all clenching, his body not sure if it wants that massive dick deeper or gone, so he starts humping himself back and forth is a weird tug-of-war between the need to escape and the need for more. Derek’s hands are bruising on his hips, holding Stiles still and spit firmly on his dick until he starts to calm down, until he starts to moan low and hoarse and cry out for what he wants –
“More, more, more.”
Scott slides two fingers into his open mouth, flattens his tongue and makes him stop, makes him open his eyes and see the way that Scott is looking at him, watching his eyes and not the thrust of his fingers into the wet softness of Stiles’ mouth. So Stiles holds his gaze as he starts to suck on Scott’s long fingers, run his tongue between them, and resists the urge to let his eyes roll back in his head when Derek pulls out until just the head of his cock is stretching the rim of Stiles’ hole then thrusts smoothly balls-deep once, twice, and again and again…
Scott uses his fingers to urge Stiles’ jaw wide open again, keeps them pressed there over his bottom teeth and tongue as he guides his dick back between the ‘O’ of Stiles’ lips. Then Stiles is being fucked from both ends, spit and split open on their cocks – completely owned.
They thrust in tandem, working him over together so that as Derek slams his dick home hard Stiles is forced face first onto Scott’s cock, drooling and choking and clutching at his own thighs like a good boy because he doesn’t want to come until he’s told, until he’s coming for them. When Scott pulls out and screws his dick back into the tight, hungry clutch of Stiles’ throat, Derek lets the head of his dick pop free of Stiles’ clinging hole, just so he can feel it all the more when Derek thrusts up into him again.
They’re rocking and swaying together again and Stiles gets lost in the rhythm, mind gone blank and animal with need until all he knows is sweat and spunk and cock. They’re both so huge in him it’s a wonder he isn’t splitting apart at the seams, getting fucked so deep and right he’s going to be feeling this for days.
Minutes or hours and an eternity later, Derek starts to up the speed of his thrusts, the power behind them, until Scott has to pull Stiles’ mouth of his dick because Derek’s hips are slamming against his ass, Derek’s balls are slapping heavy and hot against his thighs, and Stiles is shaking with the force of it. What ever breath he’s got left is forced from his lungs in pathetic little ‘uh, uh, uh’s and Scott has to brace his shoulders to stop them all from falling over.
Derek is vicious in his need, digging his nails into the meat of Stiles’ thighs and ass, pulling him back onto that cock even as he flexes and drives home. Stiles is going mad with it, just a body to be used, and has no conscious control over his mouth when his ‘uh, uh, uh’s turn to desperate ‘yes, yes, yes’s – only realises after the fourth or fifth repetition that he’s begging because he hears what Derek is saying, chanting with every thrust--
“Take it,” he snarls, “Take it, take it, take it, bitch,”
-- and all Stiles can think – can say – is YES.
Derek hears him because his words turn into one long growl, deep and feral until it’s more or less an ululating howl and Derek is coming, thighs tensed and shaking as he pumps load after load deep in Stiles’ ass.
Derek stills and just pants wetly for a beat, pulls out eventually and rubs the sticky-wet head of his cock against Stiles’ lower back, the tight, round curve of his cheeks; the last dribble of Derek’s come slipping down his crack obscenely. There’s a pause, as if Derek is admiring his handy-work – his spunk painting Stiles’ naked ass – and then comes the hard, sharp crack of Derek’s palm against his ass. It’s shocking, more the sound of it than the feel: loud and overtly sexual, even over the eager choking noises Stiles is making around Scott’s cock.
The next smack is open-handed and blunt, a bright hot burn of sensation as the broad flat of Derek’s hand makes contact.
“Yeah,” Scott responds - call and answer - and Derek does it again. “Fuck,” Scott snarls, “Yes,” and he’s tugging on Stiles’ short, thick, hair (just long enough now, a definite selling point) and ramming his fat cock as far in as it can go, forcing Stiles’ throat to flutter helplessly around the impossible thickness of it.
They both keep pounding away: Derek’s hand slapping against his burning ass, making Stiles clench and release spasmodically until a thick string of Derek’s jizz runs obscenely down his thigh, and Scott’s balls slapping against his chin as he makes Stiles take everything he’s got.
Even though his ass is nearly numb after a while, hot and throbbing with the shape of Derek’s hand, Stiles still feels the sudden red-hot sting that has to be a needle penetrating that tender skin; hears the buzzing in the air and knows that Derek is taking this tattoo thing to whole new level. He tries to move, tries to see – to stop it maybe – but Scott’s got both hands locked around his jaw, keeping him helplessly still and open as Scott shoves his dick down Stiles’ still-willing throat again and again, until he has to give up breathing to swallow, swallow, swallow.
And if Stiles were to look in the mirror, later when he’s alone, he’d see their mark (yeah, that’s what tattoo means) right there in bold black ink across both cheeks; one side saying ‘PACK’, the other ‘PROPERTY’. Just the sight of it, just the thought, is always enough to make him come.