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If John thought Stiles becoming Pack Bitch–sorry, Focal Point–would lead to non-stop orgies, he was sadly disappointed.
John suspected at least some of that was Derek’s doing, letting John and Stiles get used to this new shift in their own relationship before anything else with Stiles. John was certainly getting used to the freedom of fucking his son in every room of the house.
Not that he’d made the first move. The day after the ritual in the Preserve was one of the most awkward of John’s life, with Stiles and he avoiding eye contact and John on the verge of drinking, thinking he sacrificed his entire relationship with his son for one night of fucking him, which would have been the worst trade of all time.
That worry was quickly put to rest, though, when he woke up the following morning to Stiles lowering himself onto his father’s morning erection and promptly riding him through the mattress.
"Fuck, Stiles," he said, consciousness coming on like a freight train, as Stiles settled on him, as flush to his pelvis.
"If I'd waited for you," Stiles said with a smirk, and a shimmy which made John gasp, even as he clutched at his son's waist, "we'd die of sexual frustration. Thought I'd take the bull by the metaphorical 'horn.'" At which point he squeezed his ass muscles tight enough for John to see stars.
Ice: thoroughly broken.
Since then, they’d managed to fuck in Stiles’ bed, in John’s bed, in the shower, on the kitchen counter, halfway up the stairs, in John’s favorite chair in the living room, and one memorable blow job in the front seat of John’s cruiser while it was parked in front of the house. (That was over John’s, okay not so vehement protests. It was after dark and they fortunately did not have neighbors close enough to see in.)
John felt like he was the teenager again, shocked that he could manage to keep up with an actual horny teenager. Sure he’d had several years of pent-up forbidden fantasies, but he wasn’t 20 anymore. Hell, he wasn’t 40 anymore. Yet, he found himself constantly reaching for his son and able to follow through multiple times a day. He started to wonder if the spell in the Preserve wasn’t just for Stiles and the Pack, but if it did something for him, as well.
“It did,” Deaton told him, when John broke down and finally called, slightly confused and embarrassed as hell, but more than a little concerned. “The intent of the spell is to put Stiles in synch with the Pack, but having to deal with so many, shall we say, young and exuberant males, means he needs to be able to keep up with their needs. The spell increased both his sex drive and his resilience. And some of that will have spilled over on to you, by sheer dint of proximity and your role as Trainer for the Focal Point.”
John wrinkled his brow in concern, even as Stiles came into the kitchen, reaching into the fridge for a bottle of water. “But wait,” he started. “The spell didn’t do anything to his ability to consent, right? I mean, he can say no and mean it?”
Stiles rolled his eyes, even as Deaton chuckled through the phone (somewhat condescendingly, John thought irritated). Stiles dropped to his knees in front of John’s chair and reached for his fly, pulling out his cock to start sucking even as Deaton continued, “Of course. A Focal Point is used as a release valve, certainly, but they’re not a mindless sex toy. And any wolf caught doing something against the Focal Point’s will is faced with serious repercussions from the Pack.”
John hoped his gasp sounded closer to a sigh of relief than because his son had just taken him as deep into his throat as he could in one swallow. Yes, Deaton knew what he was doing with and to his son (obviously), but that didn’t mean he really wanted to “share” this moment with the man.
He said his goodbyes and dropped the phone, grabbing Stiles’ head to give it a few thrusts until he gagged as “punishment” (not so punishing, when Stiles had begged John to skullfuck him just that morning), but then pulled Stiles’ head back until he’d pulled off his cock.
Stiles pouted, even as he continued to mouth at the head of John’s dick.
“Stiles,” John said, trying to keep his head clear and not give in to the temptation to drop this and take what he wanted. Yet. “You know that if you don’t want to do something, you can say no, right? I mean, if anyone asks you to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with…”
Stiles rolled his eyes again, and sucked the side of John’s dick, and John fought the urge to just drop his head back and moan.
“Dad,” Stiles said, still close enough to John’s cock for him to lip his glans with every word. “When have I ever done something I didn’t want to do?” he asked.
True enough, but that tone was not one he wanted to hear coming from his son, whether he was currently contemplating fucking his mouth or not. Reassured and giving into the urge to do something he had only ever seen done in porn movies, he pulled his dick away from Stiles’ mouth and slapped his cheek with it.
Stiles’ eyes glazed over slightly. “Do that again,” he demanded.
John complied. So, that was a new kink.
Maybe it was weird that after a week of not only getting to fuck his own son, but waking up each morning to blowjobs or still being seated in Stiles’ ass from the night before, that John was disappointed that no one else was fucking his son, but he was. Sure, he enjoyed being able to distract Stiles from cooking Tofu Surprise for dinner by simply bending him over and fucking him over the kitchen counter, but he also still loved the idea of other people, people he trusted, coming in and just using Stiles.
And, frankly, spell spillover or no, John wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up with Stiles’ heightened sex drive on his own. If nothing else, Stiles might be on summer vacation, but John had to go back to work.
So it was kind of a relief when Scott showed up one evening announcing loudly to John that he and Stiles were going to work on their summer reading assignments.
“Okay,” John said slowly, looking at him over his paper.
“Seriously?” Stiles said, giving Scott his best ‘Dumbass’ look before leading the way upstairs.
John sighed and tried to continue reading as he heard Stiles’ bed scoot across the floor a few minutes later, and grunts and even a howl shortly after that.
That seemed to start a pattern. Isaac, Boyd, Liam, even Jackson, started coming over regularly, sometimes alone, sometimes two or three of them at a time, but all of them with some kind of excuse, however thin, for seeing Stiles up in his room. He thought that they were trying to be polite. He hoped they didn’t think he was stupid enough to believe they all had some “schoolwork” or “research” they wanted Stiles’ help with. (Liam said it all without ever meeting his eyes and utterly bright red. John really has no idea how the kid has ever lied to anyone, ever.)
Parrish, slightly pink as well, was a little more direct and asked each time he showed up at the house, “Um, Sheriff, do you mind…?” with a nod of his head towards wherever an amused-looking Stiles was sitting.
John would be lying if he didn’t admit he’d thought about torturing him a little, but the kid worked for him and obviously felt a little weird about that strange intersection of being John’s deputy and banging John’s son as part of a mystical connection to the Pack/being its cum-dump. Plus John did feel a little thrill about actually giving someone permission to use his son as a fucktoy, so, as always, he just nodded and said, “Go ahead,” and Jordan smiled that ridiculously cheerful smile of his, and went off to do degrading things to Stiles in an oh-so-good-natured way, John was sure.
Peter, of course, was a little different. He’d just come in the door (not even bothering to knock, most times), cheerfully announce “Just here to use the Pack Bitch, Sheriff,” and head to Stiles’ room. John would object, as Stiles was always grumpy and half-complaining afterwards, but if the sounds coming from Stiles’ room were anything to go by, he enjoyed himself with Peter just as much if not more than most of the others.
This went on for a couple of weeks, though John knew Stiles was receiving plenty of visits from his friends even when John wasn’t there. Some nights when he slid his cock into Stiles for their now nightly fuck (Stiles liked to call it “being tucked in”; John didn’t care as long as he could hear Stiles also say, “Fuck me harder, Daddy,”), even when none of the Pack had stopped by in the evening, he’d found himself sliding into someone else’s semen, which made the fuck all the more exciting for him.
(Wonderfully, weirdly, Stiles always seemed as virgin-tight as he had the first time. John assumed it was another effect of the ritual they’d performed, but it wasn’t something he felt like having another too-intimate conversation with Deaton about to be sure.)
About two weeks into the whole Stiles-as-Pack-Bitch (and as much as John didn’t like how Peter said it, he loved thinking of Stiles that way), John came home to a living room full of werewolves. Nothing unusual in that, but what was different was Isaac standing to one side of the couch, thrusting his cock in and out of a kneeling Stiles’ mouth.
The group looked at him with varying degrees of wariness. (Peter, as usual, just smirked.) Isaac looked a bit deer-in-the-headlights, though John noticed he didn’t stop fucking into his son’s face.
“What are we watching?” John asked casually, and everyone, including Isaac relaxed visibly. “Get out of my chair, Peter,” he added as he moved to join the group.
That seemed to break a dam somehow, and from that point on, discretion seemed to go out the window. It was a rare morning when breakfast wasn’t interrupted by one Pack member or another walking in and either simply bending Stiles over and pulling down his pajama pants or stuffing their cock into his mouth. Stiles normally made some marginal protest, but seemed happy enough to bounce on said cock one way or another. This was usually preceded by an “Excuse me, Sheriff, I’ll only be a few minutes,” and followed by a “Thanks, Sheriff, have a good day!” and sometimes without a word to Stiles himself, who would normally just be left a smiling, dripping mess.
Which would lead John to opening his own sleep pants and taking sloppy seconds of whichever hole was freshly used.
The third day in a row he came home from work to find Stiles riding someone’s cock on the sofa–this time Jackson’s, who was also slapping Stiles’ already pink ass as Stiles slid up and down his rather generous length moaning enthusiastically–John did put his foot down about one thing: everyone needed to clean up after themselves. While he might enjoy getting sloppy seconds (or thirds or fourths, depending on the day Stiles had had), he was sick of sitting in a wet spot on his own furniture that he didn’t even make.
All in all, though, John thought to himself that night as he slid slowly into his son’s ass from behind, listening to him whimper as he bottomed out, it wasn’t a bad life. It was a strange, werewolf porn life, but not bad at all.
“What’s the matter, baby,” John said one night, only slightly sympathetic as he set up a rhythm, fucking into Stiles more roughly, just to hear Stiles moan. “The Pack ride you hard today?”
Stiles whimpered again, but John reached down and squeezed Stiles’ balls until he gasped out a, “Yeah, all of them,” in answer.
(None of them ever touched Stiles’ cock, John realized mostly through observation, and John had found himself falling into the practice himself, though he loved to play with his son’s balls. Supposedly Peter had found research about Pack Bitches somewhere showing it was normal for no "reciprocation" be given to them when in use. John doubted there was any such "research," but wasn’t going to complain. Mostly, John just loved to watch Stiles come untouched, whether on his cock or someone else’s.)
“My pussy’s so sore, Daddy,” Stiles pouted, though John noted not only the glint in his eye and his smirk as John gave a particularly hard thrust, but how Stiles was meeting each and every thrust with enthusiasm.
“Aw, poor thing,” John said, rolling his eyes even as he fucked harder into his son’s ass. “Should I tell them to give you a break? I’ll just make sure no one fucks you for a few days, huh? Just to give your poor pussy a rest.”
“No!” Stiles shouted, which John liked to think was at least as much because of the angle he’d gotten as protest. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to deprive them,” Stiles backpedaled, even as threw his top leg back over John’s to open himself up more to John’s thrusts. “They need their Pack Bitch.”
“Yeah,” John said, grabbing on to Stiles’ hips to begin really pile driving into his son. “We all need our bitch.”