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It was all Lydia’s fault. She just had to stay over when she came to visit (Stiles hadn’t begged at all), she was the one who wanted to do shots (even though Stiles was the one who encouraged them to do so many), and she was the one who, red faced and giggling, had suggested she do Stiles’ makeup. Just because Stiles hadn’t resisted didn’t make it any less Lydia’s fault.
Lydia too drunk to walk the ten inches from Stiles’ kitchenette to his bed was still a goddess with a makeup brush, so by the time she was through (with the only injury being Stiles’ damn eyelids twitching every time she got too close with the mascara wand) and when Stiles stumbled into the bathroom to get a good look at himself…
He didn’t look hot. Stiles very pointedly did not look hot. The nude lipstick didn’t plump out his lips like he had just come out of a rigorous make out session. His eyes did not pop under the soft brown eyeshadow and he did not look sultry with the liquid eyeliner. The eyebrows did not in any way frame his face. He did not see his reflection and feel the sexiest he had ever felt.
Most importantly, he did not take a whole bunch of selfies of himself and send them to Chris and Peter on Snapchat. His boyfriends did not save a screenshot of every single one. When he woke up, rubbed his eyes, and felt horrified when they came back covered in makeup, he was disturbed by his being so drunk that he let Lydia dress him up. It had nothing to do with the fact that his makeup was ruined and he didn’t know how to redo it.
---
Actually, it was Peter’s fault. Peter was the one who insisted on calling Stiles their beautiful girl. He was the one who called Stiles’ nicknames like ‘princess’ and ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ (not ‘angel’, that was Chris’). He was the one who got Stiles so turned on and then called his very respectably sized cock a cocklet and then praised him when that made Stiles shoot so hard his come hit the ceiling (it was a one time thing. Don’t ask).
If Peter didn’t insist on calling Stiles pretty all the time it wouldn’t turn Stiles on so much. He had been conditioned into thinking that being feminine was hot. It was the way Peter growled when he said it that turned Stiles on, not the thought of being Chris and Peter’s baby girl who was such a lovely slut for their cocks.
Being called their “good girl” didn’t make Stiles feel warm inside at all.
---
Really, it was all Stiles’ fault. He could blame everyone else as much as he liked, but he was the one who had bookmarked the ‘femboy’ search on Pornhub. He was the one who bought the daintiest jewelry he could find just so he could feel pretty in his t-shirts and plaid. He was the one who lovingly stroked the lingerie at the store, feeling shame build inside him while the shop girl talked about how nice it was to see a guy actually invested in what he was buying for his girlfriend.
Stiles was the one who fell in love with the skirt, with it’s plaid print and buckles and pleats that made it flare around the mannequin’s legs. Stiles was the one who buried it under the same plaid shirts and graphic tees he always wore before hiding with it in the changing room. Stiles was the one who was so eager to try it on that he completely forgot what he was doing.
Stiles was the one who took one look at himself in a skirt, looking at the way it cinched in at the waist in a way that made him look so small, the way the pleats made his hips look like they… well, existed, and how the skirt length made his legs look like they belonged to a supermodel, and immediately burst into tears.
He sank to the floor, which made the skirt fall perfectly around his thighs and that just made everything better. His eyes were just the right shade of red, and his cheeks were flushed pink, and his hair had gotten mussed up when he was trying shirts. He looked vulnerable. Sweet. Sexy.
It just made Stiles more confused, and with the confusion came more tears.
Stiles crawled over (okay, that was also an image now stamped on his brain) and grabbed his phone from his jeans pocket, dialing Peter’s number hurriedly. His phone rang. And rang. Crap. Was Peter busy? He’d been complaining all day that he had nothing to do, but maybe something had come in and now Stiles was calling him at work because of a stupid freak out in a changing room--
“Hello?”
“I’ve fucked up,” Stiles moaned.
There was a sudden creak on the other end of the line, and a sharp intake of breath.
“Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you? What’s happened--”
“No,” Stiles gulped. “Nothing serious. I’m just crying my eyes out in an H&M.”
“Oh.” Peter sighed in relief. “...why?”
“I tried on a skirt,” Stiles whispered.
“A shirt?”
“A skirt,” Stiles repeated, a little louder. And then froze at the thought of someone hearing him.
“Do you not like it?” Peter asked. He was using his soft and gentle voice, for the rare occasions when Stiles was freaking out and Chris wasn’t there to help.
“I do,” Stiles moaned. “That’s the problem. I like it so much.”
There was silence from the end of the line. Peter didn’t like it. Peter thought he was a freak. He was going to tell Chris and then they were going to leave him.
“Show me.”
“What?” Stiles blurted out.
“I want to see it,” Peter said, his voice deep and husky.
Still embarrassed, confused, and crying, Stiles got back to his feet. He tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but it was still obvious he was crying. The skirt was rumpled now, which somehow just added to the look. Stiles tried to smile for the photo, but he couldn’t, so instead he just sent Peter a pic of his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
It took a while to send because the cell service was so shit, and that while was taken up by the sound of their heavy breathing and Stiles’ blood rushing through his ears. It was obvious when Peter got it though, because he made a sound like he’d been punched.
“You hate it,” Stiles moaned pitifully.
“No, I don’t,” Peter said. “I hate that I’m not in there so I can hike that pretty little skirt up and fuck my gorgeous princess against the wall.”
“What?” Stiles choked out.
“Get it,” Peter pleaded.
“I can’t!” Stiles’ hands were trembling. “The girl at the checkout, she’ll know! She’ll know that I’m--”
“Stiles, you’re panicking.”
“I’m aware of that,” Stiles snapped. Instantly ashamed, he deflated again. “I’m sorry. I don’t-- I don’t understand--”
“Take it off,” Peter said gently.
Stiles did, even though he didn’t want to, and got a treat of seeing just how hard he was underneath it.
“Now take a photo of the label for me. Can you do that?”
Stiles obeyed again, though this time his hands were shaking so much that he couldn’t get one that wasn’t blurry. When it was finally readable, Stiles sent it, and began to work out how he could get his jeans on over his erection.
“Thank you, sweetheart. Are you done for the day?”
“I still have to go and get a new phone charger,” Stiles said.
“I can do that on the way home. Pay for what you’re getting, then pack an overnight bag and wait at ours.”
“I’m fine,” Stiles whispered.
Peter at least had the kindness not to scoff.
“We have hot chocolate above the fridge. Make yourself some.”
“I’m not cold,” Stiles said.
“You and I both know that when you come down, you will be. Go home, get some rest, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“You can’t!” Stiles pulled on his shirt. “You’re at work.”
“Yes, and I have nothing to do. What’s the point of having your name on the door if you can’t leave early on occasion.”
“You’re sure it’s okay?” Stiles asked meekly.
“Yes, pet. It’s more than okay. I’ll see you soon, alright?”
“Okay.” Stiles waited for Peter to hang up the phone, then stood there listening to silence.
He managed to drag himself out of the changing rooms and hang up the clothes he wasn’t taking, including the incriminating, horrible, gorgeous skirt. He hurried to the line, which thankfully wasn’t long, paid for his stuff with as little small talk as he could get away with, then all but ran to his jeep.
It only took twenty minutes to get home because of the low traffic. The elevator was not as kind, seeming to take hours to climb up the floors. When he finally arrived on his floor, he sped out and hurriedly grabbed everything he would need from his apartment before racing up the stairs to Chris and Peter’s.
They had given Stiles a key to their apartment only a month into their relationship, and ever since Stiles had been at their place significantly more than his own. Stiles was starting to increasingly think of their apartment as his home, and that was a scary thought.
He seemed to only be capable of thinking scary thoughts.
Stiles grabbed the box of ridiculously fancy hot chocolate from the shelf, but he left it beside the coffee machine. He didn’t feel like drinking. Instead he walked into the bedroom, removed his shoes and jacket, and climbed into the bed. The sheets were cold, which just felt wrong, but if he focused he could smell Chris’ shampoo, and Peter’s aftershave, and that made everything better.
He must have fallen asleep, because Stiles was woken up by the sound of the front door closing.
“Stiles?” Peter called out.
There was the sound of movement in the kitchen.
“Stiles?” Peter called again, this time closer.
Stiles knew he should respond, but instead he curled up tighter under the bed covers.
“Oh, baby,” Peter said from the doorway.
The bed dipped and suddenly there was warmth at Stiles’ back and arms wrapping around him. It was nice. It, of course, made Stiles start to cry again.
“I just wanted to look pretty,” Stiles sobbed.
“I know, sweetheart.” Peter lightly kissed Stiles’ nape. “But maybe we should start small.”
“Small?” Stiles asked, twisting so he could look at Peter.
“A skirt is a big step,” Peter said. “For a first step, it’s…”
“A giant leap for mankind?” Stiles asked.
Peter smiled.
“I was going to say a dive in the deep end, but sure.”
Stiles rolled over so he and Peter were facing each other, then curled up so he could cuddle into Peter’s chest.
Stiles sniffled. “Boys look nice in skirts, that’s all.”
“Oh, they do.” Peter kissed Stiles’ forehead. “They very much do.” He leaned forward to whisper in Stiles’ ear. “And they look even better being fucked in skirts.’
Stiles pulled back.
“What?” Peter asked, eyebrow raised. “You think you’re the only one who knows how to use the internet?”
“No.” Stiles blushed. “I… I just…”
“You really need to get better at sharing your porn,” Peter said, sighing.
“It’s embarrassing!”
Peter raised his eyebrow again.
“You’re into, what, pretty boys with older men?”
“...and other things,” Stiles mumbled.
“And you think that will gross me out?” Peter asked.
“Maybe…” Stiles buried his face in Peter’s chest.
“Sweetheart, I’ve been reading, watching, and doing shit so kinky it’d make the devil blush since before you’ve been born.” Peter lifted Stiles’ chin so they could look each other in the eye. “There’s nothing in your sweet little mind or filthy browser history that could scare me.”
“You promise?” Stiles asked meekly.
“Oh, honey,” Peter said, pulling Stiles up for a sloppy kiss. “Are you sure you weren’t a virgin?”
Stiles lightly punched Peter in the arm, which turned into a tickle fight, and then into a sloppy makeout session, and then another tickle fight, until by the time Chris got home Stiles and Peter were chasing each other around the apartment.
---
They started with nail polish. Stiles had picked some up at a drugstore, cheap ass shit, but a deep emerald that shimmered in the sun. He’d also picked up a nail file and some clippers, and done his best to replicate what they’d done when Lydia had made him get a manicure before their senior prom (she'd been very determined to make sure he was as immaculately groomed as possible, because there was no way in heaven that Lydia E Martin was going to let her date be anything less than perfect.) He’d soaked his hands in warm water, made the nails neat and well shaped, then carefully painted each one that deep shade of green.
Stiles hadn’t told anyone, just been very insistent about Peter holding his hand. Peter didn’t notice at first, distracted by the movie they were watching, and Stiles started to wonder if he’d never notice when suddenly Peter was pinning him on his back, kissing each finger before pushing Stiles’ hand into his briefs and using Stiles to pull out his cock.
It wasn’t just sexy to watch Peter manipulate Stiles’ hand over his length, it was entrancing. The shiny grain nail polish looked like jewels as they moved up and down Peter’s erection. Stiles and Peter both watched Stiles’ painted fingers glide over Peter’s skin, enraptured until the moment Peter grunted and came, decorating the green with strands of white.
It was heady and erotic, but when Chris came home Stiles couldn’t help but sit on his hands so Chris wouldn’t see the emerald green.
---
Makeup was next.
“The prettier I make this look, the more I want to ruin it,” Peter said, gently stroking the eyeshadow brush across Stiles’ eyelid.
Stiles grinned.
“You want me to look messy.”
“I do, princess, I do.” Peter began to pull the skin around Stiles’ eye before carefully applying eyeliner. “I want your mascara to run and your lipstick to smear.”
“Meanie.” Stiles stuck his tongue out at Peter.
“What can I say?” Peter moved to the other eye. “A princess is only a princess when she’s looking absolutely debauched.”
Stiles moaned.
“Peter, either fuck me or shut up.”
“Alright, shutting up.”
Stiles jabbed Peter in the shin.
“I hate you.”
---
Stiles curled up on the couch, leaning heavily against Chris’ chest. They were watching some random movie they’d found on Netflix and it was too average to keep Stiles’ attention when he was tired and comfy. He decided to give up on the plot and instead focus on cuddling.
Chris shifted so his arm was wrapped around the top of Stiles’ chest, forearm resting heavily on Stiles’ collarbone. The heavy weight made Stiles just turned on enough to have to open his legs, the slight bulge in his pants obvious in the skin tight jeans Peter had bought him. Chris moved his arm to make his grip on Stiles just a little bit tighter, and then Stiles was gone, happily imagining the thought of Chris putting Stiles in a choke hold and stroking Stiles’ hair while Stiles scrambled for breath.
Stiles looked up at Chris, staring at his boyfriend’s sharp features and soft eyes. He shifted his legs wider, making them open and inviting, waiting for Chris to take advantage. But he didn’t. Instead Chris stared at the television, his eyes almost looking sad. Stiles reached up to touch Chris’ cheek. Chris didn’t move into it, and suddenly Stiles felt as if his touch wasn’t welcome. He left his fingers floating beside Chris’ cheek.
“You’re hiding something from me,” Chris said in the same tone Stiles’ dad used when he was miserable but unwilling to show it.
“I am,” Stiles acknowledged. He tried to imbue as much comfort and sincerity into his voice as he could, but Chris’ breath hitched anyway.
Stiles sat up, Chris’ arm falling down from around his shoulders to his waist. He put his hands on Chris’ thighs and squeezed until Chris turned away from the television to look at him.
“It’s not bad, I promise.” Stiles felt his eyes tear up. He didn’t realize he’d been making Chris sad. “I wasn’t ready to tell you, I’m still not completely, but now I want it to be a surprise.”
“A surprise?” Chris asked, before clearing his throat.
Stiles nodded.
“A good one. I think. Peter says you’ll like it.”
Chris’ grip on Stiles’ waist tightened.
“Peter knows?” He asked.
Stiles nodded.
Chris moved like he was going to turn away again, so Stiles reached up and grabbed his face.
“Peter knows because I thought it was all his fault,” Stiles tried to explain. “Or… I dunno, maybe he’s just as much of a mess as I am, so I thought he’d understand.”
“Stiles, you can trust me, you know that, right?” Chris asked, as if it needed to be a question.
Stiles nodded aggressively.
“I do, so much. And if it was anything serious I’d have come to you straight away. But--” Stiles sighed. “I wasn’t sure what it was. And I was afraid you’d think badly of me, or even just be a little disappointed, and the thought of disappointing you…” Stiles gnawed at his lip. “You’re my Daddy. I want to be good for you.”
Chris pulled Stiles in for a kiss, deep and hungry and overwhelming.
“If it’s important, then I don’t want to be left out of the loop,” Chris said, his grip on Stiles tight.
“I understand,” Stiles replied breathlessly.
“But if you want this to be a surprise, then I’m happy with that.” Chris nipped Stiles’ bottom lip. “So long as there’s no more secrets.”
“Yes sir,” Stiles said.
----
It all culminated with the skirt.
Stiles had been entirely unaware of that, and had instead been riding up the elevator to Chris and Peter’s apartment, ready to spend a relaxing weekend with his boyfriends. He rubbed his fingers over the dark purple nail polish he had on-- he’d finally let Chris see his hands, and Chris had praised him for being a much better painter than Peter had been (which had gotten an affronted “hey!” from the next room) before bemoaning the low quality of polish Stiles had been using. Two days later, Chris had given Stiles a kit of high quality gel polishes and a heat lamp for them to dry faster, and Stiles had kicked himself for even briefly doubting that Chris was going to disapprove of him.
The quality of the polish also meant that it didn’t chip as fast as his others, so he could paint his nails on a Thursday evening and still be date night ready, which was good because between the shower, shaving and exfoliating because fuck if smooth skin didn’t make everything so much more sensitive, Stiles was already running late for the time he had arranged with Peter. And that had been before Stiles had remembered he had promised to pick up whipping cream for dessert and had to run out to get it.
At least Peter didn’t look annoyed with Stiles when he knocked on the door, only amused to see Stiles flushed pink and with an armful of grocery bags when he was only meant to get one thing.
“Twizzlers were like, crazy on sale,” Stiles explained, bowling past Peter with the bags.
“So you bought all of them?”
Stiles stuck his tongue out at Peter, then sniffed the air. His stomach groaned.
“You’re kidding, you made pie?” Stiles sniffed again, humming in delight at the scent of spices and fruit. Pear maybe?
“I did.” Peter slunk forward, grabbing Stiles by his waist and pulling him close. “Tonight’s a celebration.”
“Oh yeah?” Stiles slung his arms around Peter’s neck. “And what are we celebrating?”
Peter didn’t answer. Instead he turned his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck and bit, making Stiles gasp and then sucking the pain away. Sometimes Stiles wondered if Peter was a vampire with how obsessed he was with biting the skin over Stiles’ jugular, and it’d go a long way for explaining why it made Stiles feel so good every time.
They began to make out, running their hands over each other and sneaking touches beneath clothes. Stiles’ undershirt fell to the ground first, then Peter’s v-neck. Peter began pushing Stiles towards the bedroom, grabbing the egg timer along the way, kissing and licking Stiles’ lips the way Stiles was going to do to the bowl Peter had made the pie in.
Peter pushed Stiles onto the bed and Stiles spread out as he fell, making sure he was the perfect appetizer for Peter’s eyes. Peter smirked in appreciation. He undid Stiles’ belt and pulled down his jeans, leaving Stiles in just his boxers before taking those off, too.
“Cover your eyes, princess,” Peter said.
Stiles obeyed, putting his palms over his eyes so he couldn’t give in to the temptation to peak between his fingers. He heard the distinct thunk of their lube bottle, and a thick plug nudged the outside of his thigh. Then there was the sound of cloth. Maybe they were going to blindfold him? Stiles liked being blindfolded.
“Keep your hands there, sweetheart, and let me make you.” Peter’s promise was low and throaty, and then there was the sound of the lube cap and a squelch. Peter began to bend Stiles’ left leg, revealing Stiles to him, before reaching between Stiles’ cheeks and sinking two fingers inside Stiles’ entrance.
Stiles moaned and sighed, Peter working Stiles over with the finest techniques he had, and those were some fine techniques. If there was a competition in fingering, Peter would be a national champion. He moved his fingers like they were a dance, stroking and caressing Stiles’ insides with the gentleness of a flower and focus of an arrow. He knew how to read Stiles too, brushing Stiles’ prostate whenever Stiles moaned low and languid, then pressing deep when Stiles’ breath hitched. It didn’t take long, never did, before Stiles was ready to come, and that was when Peter took his fingers away.
Oh, so they were playing tonight, were they?
Peter waited until Stiles could breathe easily again, his need receding like the tide, before he gave his fingers back to Stiles’ body, and this time gifted Stiles his warm and inviting mouth as well. Stiles knew better than to buck into Peter’s mouth, especially when Peter had Stiles’ leg tucked over his shoulder. He couldn’t move his hands either to grip something when Peter made his toes curl. So he contented himself with making more noise than a porn star, whining and moaning and at some points wailing if he needed to. His arousal began to build again, ready to peak, and once again Peter pulled away, leaving Stiles’ cock wet but cold and his hole empty.
Stiles gasped his way from orgasm, letting the edge fall from his fingertips. He shook with need but it was bearable. For now.
Because then Peter wrapped one hand around each of Stiles’ thighs and lifted them up, pulling his cheeks apart, and pressed a kiss to the muscle between them before diving in. Stiles shrieked, Peter battering Stiles’ hole the same way he did Stiles’ neck. He licked the rim, making it flutter and open, then fucked it viciously with his tongue, before pulling back to lick and suck again. He treated Stiles’ ass like a goddamn buffet that he was determined to devour every morsel from, sending Stiles higher with pleasure, getting closer, ready to come--
The timer went off.
“You son of a bitch!” Stiles yelled as Peter pulled away.
“I don’t want to ruin your pie, dear,” Peter said. “Don’t take your hands off your eyes.”
Stiles stuck his tongue out, but he doubted Peter was still in the room to see it. He wanted to stamp his feet like a child throwing a tantrum. His body was flushed and covered in gooseflesh where it was exposed, but the heat of his t-shirt almost felt too much. Three edges was a lot in a short time. They’d played with edging before, but usually over a longer period. Stiles was a horny college student with a decent refractory period-- he was built to come and come often, and his lack of patience meant they never went very far with it.
Stiles couldn’t stop himself from doubting that would happen today.
“Had to add the last layer,” Peter said. “Don’t worry, pet, you’ll both be done soon.”
Stiles didn’t even have the chance to ask before Peter was pushing the plug into him and turning it on, because of course it was a fucking vibrator. Peter grabbed something from the dresser and then sat himself down on Stiles’ chest, pinning him down and making Stiles feel how hard he was.
Stiles kicked his legs, the vibrations shooting through his overstimulated body, but Peter didn’t budge.
“Be still now,” Peter ordered, removing Stiles’ hands from his eyes. “No peeking.”
Stiles felt the touch of an eyeshadow brush against his closed lid and twitched, but stayed as still as he could. It was hard with the vibrator shuddering inside him, intensity combined with the pressure of Peter on top of him and contrasting the gentle strokes of the makeup brush. Stiles and Peter had done this enough times now for Stiles to not flinch every time Peter used an instrument to touch Stiles’ lid and instead relax into the sensations. He lay there and let Peter manipulate his body and decorate him.
“I knew I wouldn’t need blush,” Peter said, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ inflamed cheeks.
“Asshole,” Stiles grumbled.
Peter chuckled above him, then began to brush Stiles’ lips with the sweetest smelling lip gloss. Each stroke over Stiles’ lips made him gasp, feeling so close to a kiss but so far. All he’d need was Peter to put the lip gloss wand down and put his finger between Stiles’ lips--
“All done,” Peter said, climbing off Stiles and with the flick of a button putting a stop to the vibrations.
Stiles punched the mattress before curling his hand in the duvet. His body thrummed with desire, his cock weeping precome like a faucet.
“You’re almost ready,” Peter said. He took hold of Stiles’ ankles then began to slide something up Stiles’ legs. It was soft and lacy, and in his hyperaroused state Stiles thought the sensation of it moving up his thighs was going to be enough to make him come. It wasn’t, even when Peter settled it around his waist with the soft lace pressing against the plug in his ass and his hard cock.
Then there was something else, a soft and light fabric on each leg that stopped just above the knee. And with the socks or whatever they were returned the vibrations. Stiles moved to the headboard, curling up to try and get away, lace and silk making the electricity in his body feel so much stronger. It didn’t take him long to get to the edge this time, and when Peter took it away again Stiles hiccuped with the effort it took not to cry.
“Am I ready, sir?” Stiles asked meekly, his voice hitching with every word. He felt subspace curling around him, fucking him like the vibrator. He still kept his eyes closed.
“Almost,” Peter promised.
He moved his chest behind Stiles’ back and helped Stiles off the bed and onto his feet, helping to steady Stiles when his knees nearly buckled like they belonged to a newborn colt. He held Stiles tightly to him, which made it difficult to maneuver but he still managed to wrap one more piece of clothing around Stiles’ waist, heavy around his hips yet light around his legs.
“Open your eyes,” Peter whispered in his ear, and Stiles finally saw himself in their full length mirror.
It was the skirt. The same skirt that Stiles had tried on in the changing room, purple and black plaid with just a hint of gold in the pattern. It had been altered too-- it clung even tighter to his waist and the flare around his hips sat better. With the makeup (subtle, just enough to make Stiles’ features more enticing) and the stockings, he looked…
Stiles flung up the skirt to see that Peter had put him in honest to god panties, sky blue lace that were already damp because of his desperately hard cock.
“One more,” Peter said, wrapping his arm firmly around Stiles’ waist before turning the vibrator on again.
Stiles writhed in his arms, watching himself kick and struggle against the pleasure inside him and the way the skirt-- his skirt-- fluttered as he struggled and kicked. His bold eyelashes fluttered as the pleasure built, and every time he moaned with his glossy lips he felt like the world’s most prized whore. He bucked and writhed, but Peter didn’t budge, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.
When Peter turned the vibrator off, Stiles cried. A few overwhelmed tears fell down his face, but Peter must have known because he used waterproof makeup. His eyes were even brighter where they were lined by kohl, and his flushed cheeks matched his lips perfectly.
“I’ve got you, princess,” Peter said, holding Stiles up. He kissed Stiles’ cheek.
There was the sound of keys in the door.
Stiles gasped.
“You’re ready,” Peter whispered in his ear. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Peter put Stiles down on his own feet again, then stood back. Stiles was trembling, need and anticipation and nerves all moving him at once. He turned back to Peter, and Peter gave him an encouraging nod.
It was the final push Stiles needed.
He walked out of the bedroom in time to see Chris putting his jacket on the coathanger.
“Smells amazing,” Chris said, turning to the kitchen. “What’s the occasion?”
When he didn’t find anyone in the kitchen, he turned in the other direction, where Stiles was standing, and stopped.
Stiles awkwardly tugged at the hem of his skirt.
“Welcome home, Daddy,” Stiles said, his voice instinctively going soft and high and-- feminine.
“Stiles, baby.” Chris walked forward, evidently still confused, but his arms were reached out to Stiles.
“I said I wanted it to be a surprise,” Stiles said, finally getting the courage to walk towards Chris.
“And it’s a lovely surprise,” Chris said back, his voice open and gentle.
Stiles walked faster, wanting, needing to be in his Daddy’s arms.
He was almost there when Peter turned the fucking vibrator back on.
Stiles collapsed against Chris’ chest, swearing violently. Chris laughed, putting his large hands on Stiles’ ass where he would no doubt be able to feel the vibrations.
Stiles was almost ready to come, which would be an undoubtedly fantastic orgasm because he finally got to stop being afraid of what Chris would think, when Peter turned the vibrator off again. Stiles all but screamed into Chris’ chest.
“He’s edged me six times in an hour,” Stiles whined.
Chris shushed him gently, wrapping his arms around Stiles and cradling him against his chest.
“Peter,” he said firmly, and there was a scurry of motion and Chris’ hand briefly lifting off Stiles’ body.
Chris kissed Stiles’ temple.
“One more for Daddy, hm? One more and then I’ll give you what you need.”
Stiles tensed up, waiting for the return of the vibrations, wondering if he was going to literally die from just wanting to come already. But there was nothing. Chris was waiting for his consent. Oh god, he was waiting for Stiles to ask.
“Please Daddy,” Stiles said softly. “Please edge me again.”
“Good girl,” Chris said, which made Stiles whine and Peter growl, before turning the vibrator up to max strength.
The worst part was that, digging his fingers so deep into Chris’ shirt he half expected his fingernails to tear it, Stiles almost convinced himself that this time he would come. That the painful edge he was hurtling towards was in fact going to be a glorious, yummy orgasm like he’d been craving. But there was another part of him, a part that was growing the closer Stiles got, that accepted it. That wanted it. Wanted Chris and Peter to take away his orgasms and leave him as utter mush, a weak ball of ever growing need that cared about nothing except sex.
When the vibrations stopped, Stiles felt like he was a different person. A person who let himself be lifted into his Daddy’s strong arms in a bridal carry and bent over the kitchen bench. A person who could only make sounds like a wounded animal as Daddy lifted up his skirt and saw the lace panties underneath.
“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Chris growled, pressing wet, open kisses on the lace, getting Stiles’ panties as slick with salvia as they were with precome and lube, before pulling them down to Stiles’ knees.
He didn’t even undress. Chris just pulled down his zipper, ripped the plug from Stiles’ body (who made a not at all embarrassing squeak), and plunged his hard cock into Stiles’ ass. He fucked Stiles like a man possessed, pinning Stiles’ body to the counter so hard that Stiles could feel the line forming on his abdomen, his fist in Stiles’ hair pushing Stiles’ face against the cold marble.
Stiles didn’t even know if he was a person anymore, or just a vessel for love and for cock and for sex.
“Peter, hold him,” Chris barked, and suddenly hands were around Stiles’ wrist, stretching them out on the counter top.
Stiles managed to look up enough to see Peter staring hungrily at him, proudly at him.
“You’re doing so well, princess,” Peter said, bringing Stiles’ wrist to his lips to kiss it.
After all the build up, Stiles didn’t even register his orgasm. All he felt was intensity, rough hard soft passion gentleness adoration. He knew he was making noises but as far as he could tell he was speaking in tongues, bleating and pleading until Chris was sticking his fingers in Stiles’ mouth so far down that Stiles gagged on them, but kept sucking anyway.
“My precious girl,” Chris moaned before spilling in Stiles’ ass, continuing to thrust roughly if not as fast.
“I think she’s a bit fucked out,” Peter said.
Stiles tried to say he wasn’t, but it was entirely incomprehensible.
Chris groaned and pulled out, leaving Stiles gaping and empty, come dripping down his thighs.
“Daddy,” Stiles moaned.
“Go get changed out of your suit,” Peter said. “I’ve got her.”
Chris pulled away with one final kiss to Stiles’ back, then Peter was there, lifting Stiles back into his arms and carrying him to the couch. He grabbed their fluffiest (but machine washable) blanket and wrapped Stiles in it so Stiles was cradled against his chest, swaddled like a baby.
“Dinner will be ready soon,” Peter said. “And after that we’ll help you have a nice hot shower and feed you pie in bed.”
“Yay,” Stiles mumbled, hoping his happiness would come through in his tone even if he wasn’t able to convey excitement.
“How‘s he?” Chris asked. He must have gotten changed very quickly. Or Stiles was even more out of it than he thought.
“High as a kite,” Peter replied, letting Stiles suckle on his fingers. “I think our baby has a kink.”
“Seven edges is a lot,” Chris said as he sat down beside them.
“I was mostly referring to the skirt,” Peter said with a laugh. “He’s barely thought about anything else for a month.”
“I wish he’d told me,” Chris said wistfully, petting Stiles’ rug covered flank.
“You remember being young. Certain that every kink you had was a sign that something in you was broken, and if you told anyone you loved they weren’t going to love you anymore.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you having that phase.” Chris kept rubbing Stiles’ leg, sending him further into a doze.
“Yes, that’s why I said ‘you.’”
There was a light swatting sound accompanied by an overexaggerated yelp from Peter.
“Cheeky,” Chris rumbled. “How long until dinner’s ready?”
“‘Bout an hour?” Peter replied.
“Perfect. Just enough time for this little one to have a nap--” he kissed Stiles’ forehead. “--And you to get a spank.”
Stiles didn’t hear Peter’s response, his brain taking Chris’ comment as permission for him to fall asleep.
----
It was all Peter’s fault.
That’s what Stiles kept saying as Chris fucked him through Stiles’ fourth orgasm for the night, twisting in his bonds while his cock tried valiantly to spurt out some come.
“I know,” Chris said, pulling out of Stiles. “That’s why you get all the orgasms, and he gets to sit in his chair and watch.”
There was a muffled sound from where Peter was bound and gagged in the corner of the room. It was hard to tell, but Stiles was pretty sure it was a swear word. Or a proclamation that what he’d done, he’d do again.
“We edged you seven times, correct?” Chris asked.
“Yes sir.” Stiles’ voice was weak after having his throat fucked raw by Chris, then going down on a bound Peter until the man was practically bucking in the chair. He loved how used he sounded.
“Then it’s only fair you get three more orgasms,” Chris said.
Stiles sobbed loud enough they almost missed the sound of Peter groaning in his chair.
Chris leaned over Stiles, petting his sweaty hair and holding his trembling body.
“Do you need to stop?” Chris asked gently, turning Stiles’ head so they were eye to eye.
Stiles sniffed. His cock was sore, and his hole was so swollen he was sure he’d need an ice pack on it by the end of the night. But he wasn’t done, not by a long stretch.
“I’m good, Daddy,” Stiles said in his high, broken voice.
Chris smiled down at him with so much fondness Stiles almost couldn’t handle it. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ lips, letting Stiles lick his mouth like it was candy, before pulling away. Then he was pressing a remote into Stiles’ hands.
“Good girl,” Chris said. He tapped Stiles’ knees. “Now spread your legs.”
Stiles did, his unoccupied hand curling around the chain of his handcuffs, before Chris was pounding into him. Stiles shrieked, his hands clenching into fists which made him dig his thumb into the remote. And then Peter was yelling too, fighting his restraints so much it sounded like he was going to knock over the chair.
Orgasm number five happened when Chris decided to add a vibrator into his stroking of Stiles’ cock.