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Stiles hated his upstairs neighbors.
They had removed the carpet and while he was sure they were enjoying their nice new hardwood floors, he was now suffering through hearing their footsteps, their conversations, even what they were watching on their tv with its surround sound speakers. Even worse, he heard every single time they decided to get hot and heavy. Which was often. Even by the standards of his college student libido, it was too much. And Stiles was stressed out and hadn’t gotten laid for almost two years-- he didn’t think any sex was too much.
He tried to focus on the paper he was writing for his class on crime and punishment throughout history, but the fuckers (in all senses of the word) were going at it like rabbits. One guy was all but howling in time to the scraping of the bed on the floor and it was ruining Stiles’ ability to focus.
Stiles tried noise cancelling headphones, but to drown the neighbors from hell out he had to play his music so loud it ruined his concentration anyway. He tried to read the sentence he wrote twenty minutes ago, but it was complete gibberish. He went to edit it but the noise just got louder.
Stiles slammed his laptop shut and got off his bed, grabbing his keys and then wrenching the front door of his tiny hole of apartment open. He stormed upstairs to the fancy apartments, where one months rent cost an entire year of tuition at his college. The bastards weren’t just inconsiderate assholes, they were filthy rich inconsiderate assholes.
He pounded on the door and prepared the tirade of abuse he was going to rain down on them for acting like Stiles’ peace and quiet just didn’t matter in the world of their adventurous romance. If he failed the semester because of them, he was going to make them pay for it.
The door swung open, and Stiles lost all of the wind in his sails. Standing in front of him was the most gorgeous man Stiles had ever seen, wearing a black silk robe and looking the sexy kind of flushed. He raised his eyebrow at Stiles, and Stiles just gaped back, feeling like he was talking to the world’s sexiest headmaster.
“I--” Stiles stammered. “Downstairs--”
“Were we being loud?” The man asked in a deep, rich voice. Stiles almost whined.
“I’m trying to study,” Stiles said weakly.
“It’s past one a.m, you should be resting,” the man said sternly.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles replied. “I haven’t had time--”
“You need to pace yourself,” the man said. He brushed his thumb over the dark bag under Stiles’ right eye. “Get some sleep, or at least relax a little bit. I promise we’ll keep it down.”
The man shut the door, leaving Stiles standing there like an idiot. Stiles walked back down the stairs and into his apartment, his legs almost buckling before he even had the chance to get to his bed. He opened his laptop back up and tried to focus, but his eyes were swimming too much. It was still early by his standards, but the man was right, he was too tired.
Upstairs was completely silent. Stiles hoped he hadn’t ruined their night. He would hate to be the bearer of blue balls. Bed called to him and he crawled in. He rolled over trying to get comfortable, but a rock solid hardon got in his way.
Stiles was leaking so much pre-come that he didn’t even bother getting lube, and in the back of his mind realized that he had been half-hard since the moment his upstairs neighbors got down to business and fully hard since the man had appeared at the door. Stiles spread pre-come over his cock and began to furiously tug himself, his legs trembling with the build up he hadn’t even noticed was happening. He thought of the man’s thumb on his cheek and came in his pajamas.
Already half asleep, Stiles threw his soiled pajamas across his room and curled up in bed naked below the belt. He gave into unconsciousness almost immediately, his last thought being his imagination creating that touch of the thumb across Stiles’ hip.
---
The next morning, Stiles stood in the nearly-empty elevator going up to his apartment. Everyone slowly petered out until it was just him and another guy. Stiles tapped his fingers against his thigh. He had managed to get his paper done even though it wasn’t due for another two days, but he still felt as if he was filled with nervous energy.
“Stiles, right?” The man next to him asked. Stiles jumped.
“Uh, yeah? Why?”
The man snorted.
“I’m sorry for last night.” He smirked. “I can get very loud sometimes.”
Stiles turned bright red. Of course the other one would be as hot as the man who opened the door. And of course Stiles would end up stuck in an elevator with him.
“It’s okay,” Stiles mumbled, even though it absolutely wasn’t okay. But what was he supposed to say?
“Chris was right. You’re such a skittish little thing.” He winked. “It’s adorable.”
The elevator dinged. It was Stiles’ floor. He sprinted out the elevator doors and into his apartment, taking four tries to get his key in the door because his hand wouldn’t stop shaking. Stiles shut the door behind him and groaned. He was hard again.
---
They were at it again. Not fucking this time, just watching tv a little too loudly while they ate dinner, but it was too much. Stiles had so much to do, and he had an exam in two days and he couldn’t focus and he had read his notes so many times but the words weren’t going in anymore and he had no idea what to do.
He tried to get his breathing under control, but then one of them laughed, and something in Stiles snapped. He raced up the stairs and to the door of their apartment, ringing the bell this time instead of knocking.
The guy from the elevator opened the door this time.
“Be quiet,” Stiles said, his voice shaking. “I’m going to fail because I can’t think and you keep being all happy and everything and it’s so loud and you have to be quiet because I can’t fail--”
“Chris!” The man said, before grabbing Stiles’ wrist and dragging him into their penthouse. Part of Stiles that was floating above the terror recognised how gorgeous it was and yes, the hardwood floor really aided the atmosphere and opened up the rooms.
The one who had opened the door came out, looking concerned. He came up to Stiles and took Stiles’ face and cupped it between his huge and strong hands. Stiles laughed at how horny he still managed to be even though his brain wouldn’t slow down for anything else.
“You’re having a panic attack,” the man said. Well that explained everything. “I need you to breathe with me.”
Stiles tried to copy the man’s deep breaths, but he wasn’t able to hold it for very long. He tried to go through all the blue things in the room like his therapist taught him, but the room was unfamiliar and his brain got into an argument with itself about whether seafoam counted as blue or green and that didn’t help the panic at all.
“How much sleep have you gotten this week?” Elevator-guy asked.
“A-about f-f-five hours,” Stiles replied weakly.
“Have you been eating?” He asked again, and Stiles really wanted him to shut up. Stiles focused as much as he could on Door-guy’s breathing, and his green eyes, and the business casual look that was more GQ assassin than office lackey. The silence must have gone on for too long, because Elevator-guy said “that’s clearly a no.”
“In and out,” Door-guy, whose name Stiles should definitely know by now because Elevator-guy had said it at least twice, said. Stiles nodded and breathed as much as he could. The panic wasn’t fully receding, looming there along with all the new worries about how he had barged in twice into this apartment which was so rude.
“Do you get panic attacks often?” Elevator-guy asked.
“Got an--” Stiles’ breath stuttered again, and he had to work to get back into the rhythm. “--anxiety and panic disorders.”
“Is there any medication I should get from your place?”
“It’s under my bed,” Stiles replied. “I knocked it off my table a couple of nights ago.”
There was a soft click as the door opened and shut, but Stiles didn’t fully register it. Door-guy was still holding Stiles’ face in his hands, still going through the ridiculous breathing exercises that never worked as well as people thought they did.
Stiles’ face was so flushed that he didn’t realise he had tears running down his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he croaked. “I didn’t meant to--”
“Don’t worry,” Door-guy replied. “Peter once had a flashback and kneed me in the chin. You don’t need to apologise to us.”
When Stiles’ breathing was under control, Door-guy pulled back.
“Is there anything you need?” He asked.
“My throat’s dry,” Stiles replied. “And there’s a breeze coming from somewhere that’s making me cold. Mostly I think… I think I really need a hug.”
Immediately he was wrapped in Door-guy’s arms, his face buried in a sweater-covered and muscular chest that smelled of orange and spices. It smelled rich rather than sweet, and was clearly way more expensive than anything Stiles’ dad owned.
“Ok--” Elevator-guy said, far too soon after leaving to get down to Stiles’ and rummage through his mess of a room which oh god he had to clean it was so bad what was he going to do, which meant Stiles was losing track of time and wasn’t that great. “I’ve got anti-anxiety meds, adderall, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and a change of clothes for the morning.”
“Get him the max dose on the bottle,” Door-guy said. His voice was so deep that it made his chest rumble under Stiles’ head.
Stiles let himself doze again on Door-guy’s chest, until a very mean hand pulled his head back and made him open his mouth. He did, and he felt the familiar shape of his meds being placed on his tongue. Someone brought a glass of water to his lips and he swallowed. It wasn’t refrigerated, but the coolness in comparison to his throat made him feel like he had just found water after days of being stuck in the desert.
“Come on,” Door-guy said, looking down at him. And Stiles was a tall dude; there weren’t many people who could do that. Suddenly they were moving, Door-guy walking backwards so that Stiles had to move with him if he didn’t want to fall on his face. He still ended up stumbling, so Door-guy, with a grace Stiles had never seen before in his life, swept Stiles up into his arms and carried him to their black, suede, outrageously spacious and comfortable couch.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Door-guy asked, arranging them so Stiles could still keep his arms wrapped tightly around (a complete stranger Stiles what the hell are you doing) him and lean against his chest at the same time.
Stiles mumbled a ‘no’ into Door-guy’s chest, and hoped the damp cloth under his face was because of tears and not drool. Both were embarrassing, but one far more than the other.
“Is there anyone we can call?” Elevator-guy asked, massaging Stiles’ shoulders.
Stiles shook his head. “Dad’s back home and he’s the Sheriff so he can’t just leave to come and get me coz I had a freak out.”
“What about your friends?” Door-guy asked.
“Don’t have any here,” Stiles mumbled. “They all moved away.”
There was a pause, which was probably actually one of those non-verbal conversations couples could have happening above him, before he was pulled into a tighter hug.
“Would you like to watch a movie?” Door-guy asked suddenly. Stiles just shrugged and curled in tighter. Elevator-guy got up to put something on, but Stiles couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes and check what it was. The surround sound speakers were actually quiet in front of the tv, making you feel more immersed in the experience than just being loud. Which meant they weren’t being loud on purpose, and if Stiles had explained it to them sooner it would have all been fine. Shit.
Stiles whined at the realisation. Door-guy just shushed him and hugged him tighter. It was nice, like when he used to curl up on his dad’s lap and fall asleep. Except his dad didn’t smell so good…
The movie wasn’t even ten minutes in before Stiles was dead to the world.
---
Stiles woke up in the world’s comfiest bed. Like, in the world. He was pretty sure the Queen of England didn’t have a mattress this soft, with pillows that felt both fluffy and supportive. That of course meant that he was not in his bed, and he didn’t remember hooking up with anyone the night before.
Ah, right.
Shit.
There was a bag next to the bed with his preferred two shirts, his favorite jeans, and a pair of boxers which made him feel both violated but also oddly not, as well as all of his toiletries. He got dressed and brushed his teeth, more than ready to skedaddle and do his best to avoid his neighbors under any circumstances.
Except one of them was currently cooking in the kitchen.
“Stiles, right?” Elevator-guy said, wearing a v-neck shirt so low cut Stiles thought he was going to fall out of it.
“Uhhhh--” Stiles tried to reply, mostly just gaping and sputtering.
“I’ve made us some lunch,” Elevator-guy replied, sliding something from the pan onto some plates and then carrying it to the already set dinner table. “Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned.”
“That’s what all serial killers say,” Stiles blurted out before he had the time to think.
Elevator-guy seemed to find it funny, because he just laughed and winked.
Stiles had only appropriate reactions to the wink.
“C’mon,” Elevator-guy tapped the seat next to him with an almost suspicious amount of gusto. “It’s already cooked, no point running away now.”
Stiles sullenly dropped his bag on the couch, lamenting his quick exit. The food did smell amazing though, and Stiles hadn’t eaten properly in about, oh, a month at this point? College was not good for his eating habits.
“Looks great,” Stiles mumbled, before sitting down. Elevator-guy had already started eating, so Stiles grabbed the spatula and served himself a piece of the-- what was that, a frittata?
“I’m Peter, by the way,” Elevator-guy said just before Stiles confirmed that yes, it was a frittata, and the best frittata he had ever had. It had spices in it. Spices!
“Stiles,” he replied in between mouthfuls. “But you knew that.”
“I did.” Peter was watching Stiles with an amused glint in his eye, but Stiles was too busy gulping down his lunch to be offended. “How did a college student manage to afford to live under us?”
“Literally a repurposed broom closet.” Stiles served himself more food. Ooh, homemade dressing! “You have to hold in your breath to be able to move. I was the only person desperate enough to take it.”
“I can confirm that it’s a shithole,” Peter said. Right, he’d been in Stiles’ apartment. “And considering it’s still in this building, then I assume it’s an expensive shithole.”
Stiles nodded.
“Wouldn’t living in the dorms be better?” Peter asked.
Stiles winced.
“Nope,” he replied. “Can’t do it. The people, the parties, the assholes. I need to be as far off campus as I can.”
“Is it because of your anxiety?” Peter asked.
“Everything’s because of my anxiety.” Stiles went for a third portion. “Or it causes my anxiety.”
“That must be hard,” Peter said. “Especially with no one to take care of you.”
Stiles was so instantly aroused by those words he nearly dropped his fork.
“Sorry,” Peter said, though his smirk, his dancing eyes, and his chuckle was enough to say he wasn’t sorry at all.
“You can’t say that!” Stiles spluttered. “You have a partner!”
“Who also thinks you’re cute,” Peter said, leaning back in his chair.
Stiles choked on a piece of asparagus.
“Maybe I should have warmed you up to that,” Peter said while Stiles tried to shift the vegetable with a glass of melon water. “I have a habit of running my mouth a bit.”
“Relate,” Stiles mumbled, before guzzling some more water. “But can we maybe confront the fact that two sex gods want to have a threesome with me after I fail my criminal justice paper?”
“Why do you think you’re going to fail?” Peter asked, cocking his head in a way that showed off his very muscular neck.
“Because it’s tomorrow and instead of studying I’ve spent all week having various levels of panic attacks,” Stiles replied, shovelling more frittata into his mouth in an attempt to ignore the gaping hole of despair in his chest.
“There is a risk of over studying, especially when mixed with anxiety.” Peter got up from the table and walked over to the couch where Stiles’ backpack was, before pulling out Stiles’ textbook from it. Then he grabbed a pad from the kitchen island and sat back down. “Luckily for you,” he said, opening the textbook, “they were using the second edition of this textbook back when I was studying.”
“You did criminal justice?” Stiles said around a mouthful of broccoli.
“Better,” Peter said, laying out the pad and an array of pens. “I’m a lawyer.”
---
Stiles pounded on the door, excitement doing hurdles over his anxiety at potentially disturbing anyone. Plus, he had heard Peter and Chris talking so he knew they weren’t busy. Or at least hoped. They were taking forever to come to the door, though--
“Stiles, are you alright?” Chris asked as soon as he opened the door.
Stiles practically leapt into his arms, bouncing up and down before racing into the apartment.
“I fucking love you,” Stiles said, in between labored breaths, to a very bewildered looking Peter. “I’m going to marry you, or at least suck your dick.”
“I’m flattered,” Peter said. “Why?”
Stiles held up his phone, too far away for Peter to actually see, but whatever.
“I got an 98.5!” Stiles squealed. “Highest grade in the class!”
“Stiles, that’s fantastic!” Peter said, grinning.
Stiles flung himself at Peter, kissing him on the lips before wrapping his arms around him.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles said, squeezing Peter so tightly he heard a groan in the man’s chest.
“Don’t thank me,” Peter put his hand on Stiles’ back. “You did all the work.”
Stiles pulled back from the hug, just enough so he could see Peter’s face.
“No, I cannot do tests, I freak out and focus on literally everything else instead of the test. I wrote a high school Econ essay on the history of circumcision!”
“That must have been quite a shock to your teacher,” Chris said from behind them. He was looking at them with an expression Stiles dared to call fond.
“It drove everyone mad, especially my dad, ‘cause they all knew I was smart but couldn’t prove it because my grades were so bad.” Stiles went back to hugging Peter. “But you helped me study! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You didn’t need any help studying,” Peter said. “You just needed help grounding yourself.”
“That’s a miracle in and of itself,” Stiles replied. “You two are miracle workers, you should go into therapy or something.”
“We’re not very charitable people.” Chris, seemingly content that there was no crisis, began rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. “We would turn away all our clients.”
“Unless they were nervous college students with the sweetest ass in California,” Peter said hungrily.
Stiles froze, feeling a flush slowly creep up on him. Oh god, he was clinging to Peter. He’d come onto Peter. Holy shit, he’d kissed Peter!
“No no, no freaking out now,” Peter said, keeping Stiles from moving away. “We’ve already talked about this.”
“I didn’t even think--” Stiles, overcome with embarrassment, buried his face in Peter’s chest and moaned. Which probably didn’t help the situation. At all.
“We want to have dinner with you,” Peter said. “Celebrate. And if you want something to happen afterwards…”
“The power is in your hands,” Chris said.
“And if I want you two to ruin me?” Stiles asked meekly.
Peter grinned.
“That’s what I hoped you would say.”
“What would you like to eat?” Chris asked, putting something in the refrigerator.
“Curly fries,” Stiles replied immediately. “Loaded cheeseburgers and curly fries.”
“Ok,” Chris nodded. He walked over to where Stiles and Peter were still interlocked and put his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Why don’t you call your father from the balcony and tell him the good news.”
Stiles nodded, releasing Peter from his clutches. He turned to Chris.
“Thank you for helping me,” Stiles said, leaning up to give Chris a gentle kiss as well.
“You’re very welcome,” Chris replied.
Stiles walked out to their balcony and shut the sliding door behind him. The view was amazing: the cityscape stretched out in front of him like a photo on pinterest instead of the nightmarish concrete hellscape he imagined the city would be sometimes in Beacon Hills. It really drummed home how rich Chris and Peter had to be. Their building wasn’t super expensive unless you wanted one of the prime real estate apartments, and theirs was almost enough to take the entire top floor.
Stiles quickly dialed his Dad’s phone number before he could freak out too much.
The call to his dad was nice, but awkward. It was hard to have an in depth conversation about hometown antics with a semi. So, with a promise to call for a proper chat soon (and to book a bus ticket home for the break), Stiles ended the call.
To: Lydia
I’m about to get dicked down by the two hottest men I’ve ever seen
From: Lydia
OMG
DEETS?!
To: Lydia
You know my annoying neighbors upstairs?
Turns out they’re both dilf af
And into threesomes with awkward college students
From: Lydia
I knew this day would come
I’m so proud
From the day you walked into my birthday with two drag queens on your arm I knew that you had a slut inside you
Waiting to be born like a beautiful swan
Trapped under all that plaid
Choking
Yearning to be free
To: Lydia
🖕
Stiles closed his phone case, and then for good measure turned the phone off. He hadn’t had sex in a… totally reasonable, not weird at all, perfectly normal amount of time. (Okay, so maybe he’d only had sex three times in twenty years. Twice in high school with his girlfriend [who cheated on him] and once with a hot guy after a college party. All three had been pretty average. Maybe he shouldn’t be jumping head first into a threesome).
With enough force to make it thump against the wall, Stiles threw the sliding door open.
“If we’re going to do this, we need to do it like, right now. Otherwise my anxiety’s going to kick in and I’m going to run away half naked and the police will be called and you two will get arrested and it’ll be a huge damage to your reputation and you’ll have to move and I’ll have to move because I’ll be too embarrassed to look at you--”
Peter raised his eyebrow, which, somehow, was enough to get Stiles to take a breather.
“Chris has gone to get some takeout. I--” he lifted a glass, “was just about to pour you some wine. If you’re going to freak out, maybe let yourself enjoy a nice meal first?”
“I--” Stiles gulped. He could see all of Peter’s muscles through his tight t-shirt, and it made him salivate. “Yeah. I can do that.”
“Good.”
Peter poured some wine into the glass and brought it to Stiles, standing with only the wine glass keeping their bodies from pressing against each other. He was shorter than Stiles, but he still made Stiles feel so small. Stiles could feel Peter’s breath on his cheeks, inflaming them as it brushed across the skin.
“If you feel overwhelmed,” Peter said softly, intimately, knowing he didn’t have to speak loudly for Stiles to hear him, “or scared, or don’t want to do this for any other reason, tell us, and we’ll stop.” Peter leaned even further forward, until his lips were dragging across the skin near Stiles’ ear. “But don’t let your brain ruin a good thing. If you want this, then have it.”
Stiles moved his head, savouring the drag of Peter’s lips across his cheeks, the stubble burning just enough to feel good, before capturing Peter’s lips with his own. The pressure in his stomach lifted, both from the abating fear and Peter having the presence of mind to move the wine glass from between them.
It was a strange kiss, not because of technique or anything but because Stiles had never felt so desperate to be consumed before. Makeout sessions were usually a fumbling mess, trying to mimic sex as much as possible while pawing at each other through layers of clothes. They weren’t grand romantic gestures, just a weird thing humans liked to do with their mouths.
With Peter it was different. With Peter, the kiss was sex. Stiles was hungry for it, trying to memorize the taste of Peter’s tongue while burying his hand in Peter’s hair, gripping his neck so hard his nails were digging into Peter’s skin. Peter gave as good as he got while making himself the stability of Stiles’ world. He kept his hand in the small of Stiles’ back, a rock in the whirlwind Stiles was trying to make himself.
Peter pulled away, and Stiles honest to god whined at the loss. He wanted to take, and take, and take, like he was trying to suck Peter’s soul out or something. Peter just chuckled, and brought the wine glass to Stiles’ lips. Stiles opened his mouth, and Peter tilted it, rich sweet wine rolling across Stiles’ tongue. Peter pulled the glass away. Some wine dribbled down from Stiles’ mouth. Stiles darted his tongue out to lick the excess from where it fell from his lips.
“You are the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Peter said huskily.
“Liar,” Stiles replied. “You shouldn’t be giving alcohol to minors.”
“Chris is the one with the morals,” Peter said. He kissed Stiles again, licking Stiles’ lips as if he could taste the wine on them. Maybe he could. “Be glad I don’t, otherwise I might not be so eager to ruin you.”
Stiles whined again, his knees feeling weak.
“Please fuck me,” Stiles moaned, wanting nothing more in life than to get railed right that second.
“Nuh-uh,” Peter said, a sadistic glint in his eye. He put his finger on Stiles’ mouth when Stiles tried to protest. “Chris saw you first. He gets you first. You’re his claim.”
It was a miracle Stiles didn’t come in his jeans right there.
“More wine?” Peter asked.
He dipped his finger in Stiles’ wine glass and put his finger between Stiles’ lips. Stiles licked the wine from Peter’s finger, staring into Peter’s burning eyes as he did. Peter repeated the motion, and this time Stiles sucked. Over and over, until Stiles’ eyelashes fluttered and his eyes fell closed, until Peter was thrusting his finger inside Stiles’ mouth, until every drop of wine made Stiles moan.
Stiles didn’t even hear the front door open. He could barely hear anything over the thunder in his ears, the arousal that overwhelmed him. Staying upright was so hard and he wanted nothing more than to fall to his knees and nuzzle against Peter’s thigh.
“This is a pleasant surprise to come back to,” Chris said, placing the takeout bags on the kitchen island.
“I think we’ve got a subby boy on our hands, sweetheart,” Peter said, running his finger across Stiles’ lips, purposefully spilling wine on them.
“Have you been looking at my Pornhub history?” Stiles asked. He felt breathless, like he’d been holding his breath ever since he came back in from the balcony.
“Well, now I want to,” Peter said, looking like an excited puppy.
“Food first,” Chris said firmly.
Stiles’ knees almost buckled at his tone.
“If we wait any longer, Stiles’ balls might burst,” Peter said.
“Then you shouldn’t have been playing with him without permission.” Chris began laying the food out on the table.
Peter winked at Stiles, before leading Stiles over to the table and helping him sit down.
Chris took Stiles’ chin between his fingers, making Stiles’ brain light up like fireworks. He carefully examined Stiles’ face.
“No more wine,” he said, tone still with that steel firmness. It sounded like he was giving orders. “I’m not doing this without him sober.”
“Not even tipsy?” Stiles asked.
“Not tonight,” Chris said. When Stiles was about to complain, he grabbed a fry and shoved it in Stiles’ mouth.
Chris leaned forward until his lips were right against Stiles’ ear.
“Be a good boy, now,” Chris whispered in Stiles’ ear.
“I’ll be so good,” Stiles moaned back. “So very, very good.”
Peter chuckled from the other side of the table.
“Eat your food,” Chris said, kissing Stiles on his cheek before sitting down at the head of the table.
Turned on as he was, the smell of all the food made Stiles realize that part of the ache in his belly was because he hadn’t eaten more than a snack all day. He immediately began to chow down, devouring his burger like he was a starved lion who came across a wounded gazelle. About half way through, Stiles looked up, realization sinking in that he had sauce all over his face. He expected to see Peter and Chris sitting there, disgusted, and planning a way to get Stiles out of their apartment. Instead they just looked… amused.
“You gave alcohol to a minor who hadn’t eaten?” Chris said to Peter, sounding exasperated rather than angry.
“I’d assumed he’d eaten something,” Peter replied.
“Sorry,” Stile mumbled. He wiped his face with a napkin and then began to eat his burger slower, savouring the juices and the synthetic cheese that he objectively knew was disgusting but loved anyway.
“We don’t mind,” Peter said. He leaned forward. “Now you know how we feel.”
It took a moment for Stiles to think through the implications, but when they sank in he felt his cheeks turn bright red.
“You’re going to make him choke, Peter,” Chris sighed.
“Oh, I’m going to, just not on his food.”
That did, in fact, make Stiles choke. Chris rolled his eyes at Peter and grabbed Stiles a glass of water, which Stiles also devoured. Stiles looked at Peter, who was slowly eating his dinner with a wide grin on his face.
“You’re mean,” Stiles said.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Peter replied. He waggled his eyebrows.
“Peter, behave,” Chris said.
To Stiles’ surprise, Peter… did. With a wink and a smirk, sure, but he did stop his teasing. Stiles quickly began to rethink all his assumptions about their relationship.
Dinner was largely uneventful from that point forward, just some lively discussion over their food. Peter’s comments were strictly innuendo free, but the looks he kept giving Stiles decidedly were not. Those looks made Stiles eat like he’d never eaten before, just so he could get through the last of the (admittedly delicious) meal and get straight to dessert.
“Peter, put the garbage away,” Chris said when they were all done, getting to his feet.
“Yes, sir, right away sir,” Peter replied, even giving Chris a salute.
Chris rolled his eyes fondly at Peter, before turning to stare at Stiles. It was a hungry, arresting stare, like the one time Stiles and his friends had come across a mountain lion in the reserve. It was so fucking hot.
“How do you feel, Stiles?” Chris asked.
“Good,” Stiles said. He swallowed as Chris leaned over his chair. “So good.”
“Tell me if you want to stop,” Chris said, slowly lowering his hand over Stiles’ lap.
“Thanks, but right now if you stop I will kill you,” Stiles said.
Chris chuckled and lay his hand on the inside of Stiles’ knee. He took Stiles’ nape in his other hand and pressed his fingers lightly against the base of Stiles’ skull, making sure Stiles wasn’t looking anywhere else except at him.
“You’re so beautiful,” Chris said lowly, his finger slowly trailing up the inside of Stiles’ thigh.
“I--” Stiles was cut off by a hard stare from Chris. “Thank you.”
“Good boy,” Chris said, moving his hand over to cup Stiles’ crotch.
Stiles arched his back against the chair, his legs spreading wider for Chris to take what he wanted. Chris rubbed lightly against Stiles’ clothed dick, building up the pleasure until Stiles’ legs were trembling.
“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me,” Stiles chanted.
“Gladly,” Chris said. He stood up and pulled Stiles’ chair out, then lifted Stiles out of it and threw Stiles over his shoulder.
Stiles was so hard he was pretty sure he wasn’t getting any blood to the rest of his body.
Chris carried Stiles into the bedroom, which was just as elegant as the rest of the apartment with another sliding door onto the balcony. Chris threw Stiles onto the bed hard enough for Stiles to bounce a little, but not too much because of how soft the bedding was. Systematically, Chris began to remove Stiles’ clothes, first his socks, then unbuckling Stiles’ jeans and slowly pulling them down. He left Stiles’ underwear alone, not that they did any good with the way they were clinging to Stiles’ skin in their soaked state, and began removing Stiles’ plaid.
Not one to be outdone, Stiles pulled Chris in for a kiss while Chris was removing his clothing. It was different to kissing Peter. It wasn’t just the lack of stubble. Chris felt more restrained, less like he and Stiles were trying to devour each other whole. It was firm, but not cold. Controlled.
Stiles wanted to see him lose control.
He began to paw at Chris’ clothing, trying to get his jacket off with clumsy, aroused fingers while his legs curled around Chris trying to get the leverage to bring their crotches together.
“I’ll get that,” Peter said as he came in. He’d changed into a black robe that made him look both like an evil mastermind and a complete sex god. Peter walked over to the bed and stood to the side of Chris, meeting Stiles’ fumbling hands and taking a much better grasp of the fabric Stiles was trying to remove. He slowly, like he was making a display of it, stripped Chris for Stiles’ eyes.
“Wow,” Stiles breathed, staring at the hard lines of muscle.
“Now isn’t that an ego boost,” Peter said to Chris.
Stiles de-pretzled himself enough to get his hands on Chris’ belt buckle.
“I have to see it,” Stiles said, hurriedly opening Chris’ buckle and unzipping his fly.
Peter helped from the back, pulling Chris’ jeans and underwear down to his knees.
“Wow,” Stiles said again, marveling at the sight of Chris’ cock. It was gorgeous even though it looked achingly hard. It was both thick and long, a monster that probably gave Chris a headrush every time it filled, but it still managed to look nice unlike some of the grotesque beasts Stiles had seen sometimes in porn.
“It’s my favorite cock in the world,” Peter said fondly.
“I can see why,” Stiles said.
Chris turned around so he could get the rest of his clothes off.
Peter took the opportunity to get behind Stiles, pulling off his undershirt and then laying Stiles’ head in his lap. He ran his hand over Stiles’ bare chest, which was completely unmuscled aside from the toning he’d managed to accidentally acquire the rare times he did sport. Peter didn’t seem to mind based on the way he was stroking Stiles’ torso.
“I want to see you get wrecked,” Peter said, staring down at Stiles.
“Fucking yes please,” Stiles said back, spreading his legs.
Chris chuckled from the side of the bed, opening and closing drawers before getting back between Stiles’ legs.
“Your turn,” Chris said, hooking his index fingers in the waistband of Stiles’ boxers and slowly pulling them down.
Stiles fought as hard as he could against the desire to hide himself from Chris and Peter’s gaze. He knew his body was nothing to write home about-- he was kinda cute, but more of a ‘great personality’ type. Nothing that could compare to the two sex gods he was currenly in bed with.
“You’re shivering, baby,” Peter said. “Scared?”
“Nervous,” Stiles replied.
“I know how to put a stop to that,” Chris said, mere seconds before he suddenly began to blow Stiles’ dick.
Stiles almost flew out of Peter’s lap. He’d never been sucked off. No one had ever offered, and Scott had said it was overrated anyway. Scott was a fucking liar. Or Chris was just exceptionally talented with his mouth. Either way, Stiles felt like Chris was sucking his brain out. The moment he came it was going to be all over, he was going to be a complete dumbass. Scientists were going to study him-- the guy who lost 100 IQ points because of a blow job.
“I’m-- I’m--”
Chris pulled his mouth back. Stiles was ready to yell, but then Chris was thrusting two fingers inside Stiles, keeping Stiles on the edge without sending him over like the blow job would have.
“Have you ever been fucked, Stiles?” Peter trailed his foot over Stiles’ shoulder. “Was it a fumble in the closet with your friend, who swore he was straight until he had your mouth around his dick?”
“Peter,” Chris growled, gently rocking his two fingers back and forth.
“Oh right, that was us,” Peter teased. “Someone had to get the denial out of you.”
Stiles cried out when Chris brushed his prostate, flailing around. Peter pounced forward and held him down. Stiles looked up into his eyes and almost saw red.
“Or was it a stranger you picked up in a bar?” Peter asked. Stiles flexed his muscles against the grip Peter had on his wrists, but Peter’s hands didn’t budge. “Someone who made you feel dirty in all the right ways. Or maybe--” Peter pulled at Stiles’ bottom lip with his teeth, and when Stiles gasped began to suck on his tongue. “Maybe you’ve never been fucked. You’ve only had a dildo up your ass, fucking yourself stupid and imaging it was Daddy’s cock.”
Stiles grunted.
“No,” he whined. “I still call my dad that.”
“Oh really?” Peter grinned. “Then why does your little cocklet jump every time I say the word Daddy?”
Peter put his hands behind Stiles’ head and lifted it up. Stiles could see his cock standing angrily against his stomach, dark and leaking pre-come all over the twitching muscles of his belly. Chris was knelt between his legs, still looking neat even though Stiles’ could see the puddle his cock was leaking onto the bed. He was staring down hungrily at Stiles’ hole, taking the opportunity to thrust two more fingers into Stiles.
“You’re such a good boy, aren’t you?” Peter said. “You’ve been waiting so long, prepping your gorgeous little hole for Daddy’s cock.”
“Yes,” Stiles whispered. He saw Chris smirk between his legs.
“Riding your dildo every night, crying out for your Daddy to fuck you.”
“Oh God,” Stiles moaned. He could feel his belly tightening, even though there was nothing near his cock.
“How do you want it, baby?” Peter asked. “How do you want Daddy to take your virginity?”
“On his back,” Chris said, sounding breathless. “I won’t fuck my angel like a dog.”
Stiles almost screamed.
“Oh dear, Daddy,” Peter chuckled. He dropped Stiles’ head back onto the bed. “I think your precious angel is a slut.” Peter reached down to Stiles’ belly and dragged his fingernails up his chest. “I think your perfect little girl wants you to make her your bitch.”
Chris pulled his fingers out just when Stiles was about to come, leaving Stiles sobbing as his cock nearly, almost found release. Stiles didn’t even get a reprieve before Chris was pushing into him, his cock massive and hot and brutal against Stiles’ insides.
Stiles screamed.
“Careful sweetheart,” Peter said. He moved onto his knees and placed the head of his cock on Stiles’ lips. “You don’t want to disturb the neighbors.”
Stiles was tempted to bite for that, but he hadn’t had a cock in his mouth for so long and he was salivating for it. The salty taste, the heavy feeling on his tongue, the tip hitting the point of his gag reflex but never pushing enough to trigger it. Stiles reached around and grabbed Peter’s thighs for leverage, digging his hands into Peter’s ass.
“Such a good boy,” Chris said, thrusting in and out of Stiles with military precision.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Peter said. “Not a boy. A bitch.”
Stiles clenched around Chris’ cock.
“Sweet bitch,” Chris said. “I knew you had a slut waiting inside of you.”
“That’s right,” Peter said. “Just waiting for Daddy to fuck you stupid. Waiting for him to breed you.”
Stiles didn’t know where to focus. Peter’s cock was hot in his throat, delicious and giving him just enough of a taste. His nipples were on fire, Peter having scratched them almost raw. There was a sticky pool on his belly, and his cock hit his stomach in time with Chris’ every thrust. Chris was pounding inside of him, huge and filling that hole Stiles had forgotten was inside of him. And Peter’s words, humiliating and praising all at once.
“Clench down on Daddy,” Peter said. “You have to make him come before you do, otherwise he’s not going to give you your special treat.”
Stiles whined and began to clench as much as he could. It sent jolts of pleasure up his spine, and he was certain that he would feel the imprint of Chris’ cock inside of him for days, if not weeks.
Chris growled and grabbed Stiles’ legs, throwing them over his shoulders. Stiles didn’t even have time to get used to the stretch before Chris was pounding inside of him, going faster than Stiles could keep time with and forcing him further and further across the bed. Distantly, Stiles heard the tell tale creak of the bed shifting across the floor. He had thought the noise was thunderous in his room, but here it was so loud Stiles felt it rocking through his body.
Stiles was practically screaming with every thrust, even though it was muffled by Peter’s cock. Each time he made a noise Peter chuckled and got harder in Stiles’ mouth.
“He’s about to come,” Peter said, and Stiles couldn’t tell who he was talking to. He felt like every moment was just one prolonged orgasm, getting more and more intense.
Chris yelled, and suddenly Stiles felt his insides being filled with warmth. He kept clenching, at this point he didn’t know how to stop, and he could feel Chris’ cock twitching inside of him.
“You can come now, Stiles,” Peter said gently, and Stiles’ back arched, his cock spurting everywhere. Peter kept thrusting while Stiles came, and Chris was rubbing his and Stiles’ spent cocks against each other which made Stiles’ orgasm just keep going.
Finally, Peter came in Stiles’ mouth, and rubbed Stiles’ throat to help him swallow.
“Look at you,” Chris breathed.
Stiles felt debauched. His eyes were wet with tears, his cheeks felt flushed, his lips were swollen and wet with come. There was come over his belly, his chest, even some on his chin, and there was even more leaking from his hole.
“Should take a photo,” Stiles rasped, and seconds later he heard the click that said someone did.
“I’ll get a towel,” Peter said, sliding off the bed.
Stiles whined, feeling lonely in the middle of an empty bed. Peter soon returned with a damp towel and began to wipe Stiles’ stomach clean.
“He’s going to be leaking come for a while,” Chris said from across the room.
Stiles whined again.
“Aw, poor baby,” Peter said. “Do you want to keep all of Daddy’s come in your hole?”
Stiles nodded.
“I’ll get a plug,” Chris said, rummaging around.
Peter pulled off the duvet and helped Stiles under the covers, holding their bodies together. Stiles felt empty, and the thought upset him, so he latched his mouth onto a piece of skin on Peter’s chest and began to suck. Peter moaned appreciatively and curled his fingers in Stiles’ hair.
Soon Stiles felt air against his back as Chris got in the bed, finally as naked as they were. Peter held Stiles tighter and reached down to pull one of Stiles’ legs over Peter’s hips. The plug was small, but it sat nicely in Stiles’ sore behind.
“That will keep you from leaking everywhere,” Chris said, kissing Stiles’ neck.
They eventually fell asleep curled up in a tangle of limbs, not knowing who began where.
---
Stiles woke up feeling a special combination of amazing and awful that he assumed meant he’d had some objectively fantastic sex. If anyone had been watching, they would have gotten a solid 9/10. The price unfortunately was that every time Stiles moved he felt an unholy ache behind his eyes.
“Morning, sunshine,” Peter said from under Stiles.
Stiles groaned some nonsense and buried his face in the soft fabric of Peter’s robe.
“Chris is making us some coffee and breakfast,” Peter said as he petted Stiles’ head.
“I’m marrying him,” Stiles mumbled..
“Polyamorous marriages aren’t recognized in the state of California,” Peter chuckled.
Stiles poked his tongue at him, then started fiddling with Peter’s robe.
“Are you cold?” Stiles asked. He couldn’t see why-- even if it was fall, the three of them had managed to conduct an impressive amount of body heat.
“No,” Peter said, his stroking of Stiles’ hair faltering a little. “I wasn’t sure how you’d react.”
“Oh,” Stiles said. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“It’s okay, princess.”
Stiles flushed at the pet name.
Peter pulled Stiles closer to him, wrapping his free arm around Stiles’ waist.
“I was in a car accident,” he said. “About fifteen years ago. I wasn’t injured that bad in the collision, but my door was too dented to open. Then my car caught on fire.”
“Holy shit…” Stiles breathed.
“I managed to get out in time, but…” Peter opened his robe, revealing mottled scars all down his side.
“That’s how you two knew what to do with me, isn’t it?” Stiles asked.
Peter sighed.
“PTSD is a bitch,” he replied.
“I know,” Stiles said softly. He reached out to stroke the skin at the edge of Peter’s scars. “I had my first panic attack a week after I watched my mom die.”
Peter squeezed Stiles closer.
“Is it alright if I say I like your scars?” Stiles asked.
Peter snorted.
“Yes, pet. It’s alright to say you like them,” he replied.
Stiles sat up.
“Is it alright if I touch them?” Stiles asked.
Peter took Stiles’ hand in his own and slowly brought them over to where his scars were at their darkest. The skin felt rough under Stiles’ palm, unlike the rest of Peter’s body. It almost felt like ridges under Stiles’ hands. A map to Peter’s pain. Stiles hated the thought of how much they must have hurt when Peter got them. Somehow he couldn’t imagine Peter without them.
“Is it alright if I lick them?” Stiles asked.
Peter stared down at him hungrily.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he said.
“If you two let breakfast get cold because you’re busy fucking, I will spank both your asses so red you won’t be able to sit still for a week!” Chris yelled from the kitchen.
Stiles and Peter looked at each other, frozen, before bursting into hysterical laughter.
“We’d better get up, he means it,” Peter said as he grabbed Stiles and rolled them both onto the floor, which just made them laugh more.
“I’m getting the paddle!” Chris called out.
Peter and Stiles hurried to their feet, racing each other to the kitchen. For once, Stiles didn’t care about how much noise Chris and Peter were making on their hardwood floors.