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Stiles did his best to think about anything, literally anything, that didn’t make him want to crawl into a hole and die. Thinking about books led to college which led to hate. Thinking about games led to his friends, which led to loneliness then to hate. No matter how far he cast out his thoughts he ended up getting reeled back in and stuck in a bucket of self loathing.
He just wanted a fucking nap.
His alarm went off an hour later, intended to help him rise from his doze well rested and ready to continue studying, but instead just made him curl up tighter under the covers, rubbing his cheek against the bed in frustration and face planting in the wet patch his tears had made. Clearly sleep wasn’t happening, and he was even less capable of studying than he was pre-mental malfunction.
The day was officially a write-off, but at this point Stiles just needed to rest.
His shirt was all gross and sweaty so Stiles peeled it off, and realized that he too was gross and sweaty, so he slunk into the ensuite and turned on the shower. He stared at the shampoos and soaps that were in there, with their rich and masculine scents, and that just made him cry even more. It was ridiculous. Chris was in the next room, and Peter would only be gone for a few more days, but he felt like they were miles away.
Stiles turned the water temperature down to calm the heat in his face, which made the water pressure go wild like it was a battering ram trying to break him down. He winced and stepped out of the spray, reaching for the shampoo and gently massaging it into his scalp. Gently, except for the occasional scrape of fingernails. The way Peter liked to do it.
He rinsed, added conditioner, and went to grab his sweet smelling body wash, before changing at the last minute. Chris’ body wash was woodsy, sandalwood and oak or something, while Peter’s was filled with spices and musk and a zest of orange. Stiles combined them both in his hand before lathering his body with the mixture. The mingled scents nearly made Stiles dizzy, but he continued to cover himself in them until the smell was almost sickening.
When he stepped out of the shower, scrubbed clean and dripping, he still smelled like he was doused in their scent.
Stiles dried himself off with the sinfully fluffy towels Peter insisted on buying (even though they were more than Stiles spent on groceries in a month), then blow dried his hair. He didn’t bother to put any product back in. He rummaged through his clothes, discounting each item before giving up and going into Peter’s part of the closet. He grabbed one of Peter’s white button downs, which was so broad that it slipped off Stiles’ shoulder, and only bothered to do up a couple of buttons around his waist. Stiles slid on one of his own pairs of silk panties, as well as some cotton thigh high socks. Still not right. Still falling apart. Stiles knelt on the floor and reached under their bed, taking hold of their toy box and pulling it out. He took out their cuffs and locked them around his wrists, then another pair around his ankles, and buckled his collar around his neck.
He grabbed his phone, knowing how much Peter liked pictures when he was away, but the thought of having to look at himself made Stiles hiccup and start wetting his cheeks again. Any pictures would be ruined by Stiles’ red eyes so he threw his phone onto the bed and curled up on the floor. His body soon complained though, because it complained about fucking everything, and none of this would happen if it didn’t hate Stiles so much.
Damn it, he needed a hug.
Stiles managed to push himself off the carpet, using the crumpled bed to pull himself up until he was standing well enough to only somewhat shake as he walked. He knew Chris was busy, that was the entire fucking point, but the steadily rising panic led him to Chris’ closed home office door and knock. Gentle taps. Chris could ignore it if he wanted it.
Chris did not ignore it. Instead he yelled out a gruff “What?”.
He didn’t want to be interrupted.
Stiles should leave.
Instead Stiles pushed open the door as quietly as he could, because if he had to hear that loud whine it sometimes made, he was going to scream.
“What is it, Stiles, I told you I’m--” Chris had only turned briefly from his computer monitor, but whatever he saw made him freeze in his chair. Chris’ face fell and he stood up, walked over to Stiles, and then pulled him into his arms.
“Shhh,” Chris said softly, which was what made Stiles realize that the sobbing wasn’t only in his head and he was in fact crying into Chris’ chest. “What’s wrong?”
Stiles just shook his head and cried louder, which wasn’t an answer but how the hell was he meant to understand his own brain well enough to answer a question like that?
“Can I stay?” Stiles asked when he had a moment to catch his breath. He pulled his head from Chris’ chest. “I’ll be good, I swear I’ll be good, just please let me stay with you, I don’t want to be alone, don’t make me be alone--”
“Shhh,” Chris said again, cupping his hand at the base of Stiles’ skull and bringing it back down to his chest. “Of course you can stay. But you have to be quiet, okay? I still have work to do.”
Stiles nodded frantically.
It seemed to be enough, because Chris scooped Stiles into his arms with an ease that still made Stiles marvel. He carried Stiles over to his office chair and sat them both down, Stiles seated in his lap. Chris took Stiles’ wrists and locked the cuffs together, interlinking them behind Chris’ head, before taking Stiles’ legs and feeding them though the gaps in the arm rests until Stiles was comfortably straddling him.
Stiles lay his head on Chris’ chest.
“Tell me if you get uncomfortable, okay?” Chris asked.
“Okay,” Stiles mumbled, caught between feeling the way he did when he was a kid and crawled onto the couch with his dad after having a nightmare about Mom, and very pointedly not feeling like a kid at all and instead feeling like a grown man who was so incapable of being an adult that he needed to be coddled by his boyfriend because their other boyfriend was out of town and it was messing with his head.
“Don’t cry, baby, don’t cry,” Chris said softly, because even though Stiles had promised to be quiet he still couldn’t stop whining every time his brain reared its head.
Chris kept a hand resting on Stiles’ lower back while he worked, occasionally rubbing slow circles into it whenever Stiles started shuddering again. It succeeded in calming Stiles down eventually, or maybe all the crying just finally made him crack with exhaustion. Either way Stiles found himself finally starting to doze, letting himself go limp in Chris’ arms before drifting off entirely.
Stiles wasn’t sure if he had fallen deep enough asleep for it to truly be considered waking, but when he came back it was to the sound of low voices murmuring to each other. For a moment he thought he was in bed, and Chris and Peter were being their usual freakish selves and waking up at 6 in the blesséd a.m. when Stiles preferred to sleep until noon, thank you. Or at least a solid 10.30. But he was a little too sore, especially in his hips and back, to have slept in their direct from heaven bed.
“He’s never been this upset by one of us going away before,” a slightly tinny Peter said.
“He’s been struggling a lot lately,” Chris murmured. He had both hands on Stiles now, one still firmly at Stiles’ lower back and the other higher, rubbing circles below his shoulder blades. “I’m getting worried.”
Stiles whined. He hated ‘worried’. ‘Worried’ was what he made his dad when he started having panic attacks after his mom died. ‘Worried’ was what he made his friends when he stopped sleeping in junior year. Or eating. Or turning up to class. ‘Worried’ was what he was now apparently making his boyfriends, because he was Stiles Stilinski and he had a nuclear bomb for a brain.
“Morning sunshine,” tinny Peter said, but without the jovial tone of his usual sarcasm.
Worried, worried, worried.
“Are you feeling better?” Chris asked, still quiet as if he was trying not to wake Stiles up.
Stiles buried his head back in the proverbial sand, and in Chris’ literal chest.
“Do you want to talk to Peter?” Chris asked again.
Stiles didn’t know how to react to that. His and Peter’s relationship was almost entirely based on talking. They were both chatty on a good day and unstoppable on a bad one, and snark and quips and wit was everything that made them so good. But Stiles had no idea how to talk at that moment, and the thought of trying made him hurt. He wanted Peter behind him so he was squashed between the two of them, maybe lazily thrusting his cock inside while Stiles dozed softly between them.
“When are you coming home?” Stiles moaned brokenly. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Thursday, beautiful,” Peter said. “I’ll be home Thursday.”
It was Tuesday. That was only two more sleeps. Or no more sleeps, at the rate Stiles was going, just forty eight grueling hours of consciousness. He could survive that. Or couldn’t. Either way, it was going to happen.
Stiles began chewing on Chris’ sweater just to have something to do.
“Stiles, are you--” Something must have happened, because tinny Peter shut up faster than Stiles had ever heard him shut up.
Stiles looked up, sweater still lodged in his mouth, just in time to see Chris sternly glaring at his computer monitor before looking down at Stiles with that sweet expression that Stiles got when Chris was being especially fond. Or walking on eggshells.
“We’ll talk about that in the morning,” Chris said to the monitor. “Do you think you can have some dinner, or will you be dining on my sweater this evening?” He asked Stiles.
Stiles didn’t think he could stomach food, so he just continued to mouth at Chris’ sweater. It wasn’t one of Chris’ favorites, so it was fine.
Chris just sighed.
That made Stiles want to giggle, almost, and he could just about think of something to say in response but it wasn’t quite there yet. Instead he wiggled in Chris’ lap and found something very interesting.
“Urgh, Stiles,” Chris groaned, trying to move Stiles so he wasn’t grinding down on Chris’ erection.
But Stiles was desperate for a distraction, and nothing helped him get out of his head like his libido, so he just grinded against it and felt something stir in his own belly.
“Kitten wants to play,” tinny Peter said.
Stiles nodded, rocking his hips forward so he was rubbing their clothed cocks together.
Chris moved his hands to Stiles’ hips, slowing down his pace but not making him stop, at least not yet.
“Good boy,” Chris moaned, pulling Stiles closer to him. “Take what you want.”
Stiles tightened his arms around Chris’ neck, huddling their bodies tight together until Stiles could feel every muscle in Chris’ body against him. He continued to grind until he could feel the wet patch at the front of Chris’ jeans, then he pulled back.
Chris’ brow furrowed, which turned into a full frown while Stiles clambered off him, tangled in the chair he had been interlocked with.
Stiles finally managed to get his feet on the ground, bending over Chris’ desk with his chin on his bound arms. He could see Peter now, in some crummy hotel room somewhere with terrible lighting. Stiles blinked up at him before burying his face in his arms and tilting his hips up to pop his ass out.
“Needy,” Chris said, sounding exhausted.
Stiles wondered what time it was, how long Chris had been working. They were all boiling over, and Stiles could feel them starting to get burned. He shook his head to get the thought away, then wiggled his ass so that Chris would hurry up and get the message.
Chris pulled Stiles’ panties down. He ran his large hands over the globes of Stiles’ ass, before sliding his fingers between them and slowly running his hand up and down the length, just enough to tease Stiles every time they caught on Stiles’ hole.
Without Chris’ sweater, Stiles began to gnaw on the sleeve of Peter’s shirt instead, which got an annoyed huff from the speakers. Stiles whined at each swipe of fingers over him, passed him, up and down and all around.
“That’s it,” Chris murmured, running his fingers across Stiles’ hole.
Stiles felt like he was going to melt into the desk. His arms were already jelly, and his legs were getting there, and Chris was driving him mad with the tease. It was technically fair payback, judging by how hard Chris was against his leg, but it was not enough, not even close to enough.
Chris must have gotten the hint though, because there was the sound of a drawer being opened, then a bottle, and then Stiles whining as he was opened by Chris’ now lubed fingers.
“Good girl,” Peter said through the monitor.
Stiles groaned and began to rock his hips, so tired now and just wanting to get off. Chris’ fingers kept skirting the edge of his prostate but never hit it, and Stiles was leaking both tears and precome all over Chris’ nice oak desk.
“Shh,” Chris said, before pulling his fingers out and going back to massaging Stiles’ hole.
Stiles may have tried to kick him for that, but Chris was still in his seat and Stiles had the coordination of newborn Bambi so he managed to hit absolutely nothing. Instead he just had to take it while Chris pulled his hands apart and stretched the rim of Stiles’ hole with them, then released, then stretched, then released.
“If you don’t fuck him soon, he might genuinely kill you,” tinny Peter said.
It was true, Stiles’ homicidal urges were increasing with every gentle swipe. His hole was spasming with every touch, sending shock waves through his spine and into his brain. He was so painfully turned on. He needed to know he wasn’t alone.
There was some shuffling behind him, which Stiles thought was Chris finally getting his cock out, but instead he felt something warm and hot pressing against his hole and wailed when Chris began to eat him out instead. He felt like a mindless animal, bucking and stamping and wailing, even more so because it would be so easy to beg but the words just weren’t there to beg with.
He looked up at the monitor to see Peter leaning back, his bottom half obscured but the movement of his hand making it more than clear enough as to what was happening. Stiles’ tongue lolled out of its own accord, making licking motions even though there was nothing to lick. He was so desperate to taste Peter’s cock that he almost licked the screen, the wires in his brain crossing all over each other like they were woven together instead of staying apart.
Sometimes Stiles forgot how good Chris was at eating ass, because he didn’t do it that often. Apparently he considered it a treat, though whether for the recipient or for himself Stiles was never able to figure out. Stiles had seen him go down on Peter and knew that Chris got into it just as much as they did, licking and sucking like a starving man at a royal feast. It was an intense experience on a normal day, and when Stiles was already feeling like he had been flayed, it made him feel like he was going to literally lose his mind.
Stiles was positioned just in front of the speakers, and the mic, so he got to hear each slick of Peter’s hand, as well as the wet sounds of Chris rimming him, which when combined with Stiles’ animalistic grunts was as heady a combination as the mixed body washes. Stiles felt like he was devolving, somehow, or even evolving, turning into another type of creature entirely. He wanted to plead, but the noises that came out weren’t even close to being words, so he just curled his toes and his fists and nearly bit down hard on Peter’s shirt, almost enough to tear the fabric.
The sensations stopped, followed by the sound of Chris panting like a man who had just broken out of the water after nearly drowning. Without so much as a preamble he thrust into Stiles, his hands braced on Stiles’ shoulders the only thing that kept Stiles’ back from arching so far that it snapped.
Unlike with his fingers, every thrust of Chris’ cock scraped Stiles’ prostate as it passed. Stiles bounced on his feet, trying to get more cock inside him but also more stimulation on his own cock, weeping and untouched as it was. Chris chuckled and kicked Stiles’ legs further apart so he couldn’t even brush against the desk, leaving Stiles both over and understimulated.
Stiles twisted his head to where Chris’ fingers curled over his shoulder and began to lick. Chris stuck the finger out and Stiles wiggled until he was in a position to suck it, curl his tongue around it, and nip at it.
“Oh, fuck,” tinny Peter cried out, before there was a wet sound and a low groan.
“Really Peter,” Chris admonished, “I expected better stamina from you.”
“Just because I’m not playing the same games as you two,” Peter snarked back in between pants.
Stiles went to town on Chris’ finger, imagining he was licking Peter’s cock clean.
“Oh god, baby,” Chris’s thrust increased speed. “Oh god.”
“Princess just wants her Daddy to give her a pounding,” Peter teased.
Chris and Stiles both moaned at that.
“Gonna come,” Chris groaned, before removing the hand not being used as Stiles’ chew toy from Stiles’ other shoulder and wrapping it around Stiles’ cock. He thrust erratically, focusing on stripping Stiles’ cock like their lives depended on Stiles coming within the next minute. Stiles squirmed against the desk, his legs bending and kicking and writhing in an attempt to do… something.
Stiles’ belly felt achingly full, pressure from Chris’ cock abusing his guts and his own orgasm trying to wrench itself out of him. He felt the first spurt of come inside of him, then another, and another, but Chris didn’t slow down his thrusts even though it must have been overstimulating as hell.
“Come for Daddy,” tinny Peter said, his voice fully returned to its usual tone.
“Come for Daddy,” Chris repeated in Stiles’ ear, low and throaty.
Chris pulled Stiles back and sat back down again, grabbing a kleenex just in time to catch Stiles’ load before it stained the desk or the carpet. He took his finger from Stiles’ mouth and put it on Stiles’ cock, milking it for all it was worth while Stiles kept bouncing on his own. Stiles wailed, fingers scrabbling at his own neck. Eventually, Chris began to slow down, Stiles sniffling through his second, thankfully much weaker orgasm, before Chris just held Stiles’ cock loosely in his fist.
“There you go, angel,” Chris said, peppering Stiles with kisses everywhere he could reach.
“I think he’s finally falling asleep,” Peter said.
As if to agree, Stiles felt his eyelids slide close, even though he was still aware of the world around him.
“Good night, love,” Peter said, blowing an air kiss through the monitor.
“Love?” Chris said incredulously. “Do you only want one of us to get a good night?”
Stiles huffed in amusement.
“Yes,” Peter said. “Because if I had a favorite in this relationship it certainly wouldn’t be you.”
“I’m hurt,” Chris replied, even though Stiles’ could hear him laughing under his breath.
“You’re hurt? You’re not the one who got shoved out a bedroom window in your pants because someone’s sister came home early. Twice.”
“Oh my god are you still on about that? You know what would have happened if Kate caught us, and Talia--”
“You shoved me out of my own room!”
“Because you suggested we just keep going!”
Stiles snuggled back into Chris’ chest, gave one last squeeze around Chris’ cock, and let himself slip away.
---
Stiles still felt strange the next day, but a different type of strange. A strange that made him cling to Chris every chance he got instead of push him away. A strange that allowed him enough time to finish the chapter in his dissertation before crawling into Chris’ lap again and settling in as a cock warmer for the rest of the evening.
He figured Chris must have the patience of a saint, able to work while he had a lap full of squirmy Stiles who kept twitching around his cock. A voice in his head (one that sounded an awful lot like Peter) told him to break Chris’ concentration and prove that he could, but the bigger part of him desperately wanted to be Chris’ good boy so he settled in Chris’ lap and calmly sucked on his ball gag.
Chris hadn’t tried to fuck him, even when he had finally finished his fucking project and could do with some stress relief himself. Instead he had bundled Stiles into the shower with him, with their bodies still connected, then gotten into bed, his cock still twitching inside Stiles, holding Stiles tight to him as if he were concerned Stiles was going to run away.
Before they fell asleep, Chris removed Stiles’ gag and let Stiles suck on his fingers instead. Stiles didn’t know why his oral fixation had suddenly grown into an unbearable need, but he needed something in his mouth, in his hole, to remind him that he wasn’t empty and alone. At least not yet.
It also kept Stiles from having to talk, which was another mildly concerning development. Stiles had never in his life gone twenty four hours without talking. Talking was more natural to him than breathing. Stiles’ mom used to joke that she could hear him talking in the womb. But when he went to sleep on Wednesday night he still hadn’t been able to speak a word, and instead just gnawed happily on whatever he could get his hands on.
---
“Ngh,” Stiles groaned as he woke up. His body felt heavy, like he had been woken up earlier than he should have, but the bedroom was bright with the late morning sun. He stretched out, listening to the pop of his joints and feeling his muscles stretch before curling back up with his face buried in the pillows and his hole clenching around the long cock thrusting inside of him.
“How do you sleep when it’s so bright,” Peter said. “I don’t get it.”
Peter.
Holy shit.
Stiles’ eyes flew open and his arms flung out, pulling Peter towards him. The force made Peter lose his balance and crash down on Stiles. In the chaos Peter nearly slipped out of Stiles, and the new angle, while clumsy, set him on course for his cock to thrust right into Stiles’ prostate.
Stiles all but devoured Peter’s mouth, kissing him with so much tongue and teeth it probably didn’t even count as a kiss anymore. Peter for his part reciprocated with equal fervor, with the addition of his thrusts that once Stiles had woken up had gone from a gentle tease to a brutal fuck.
“It’s good to see you too,” Peter said once he had broken off the kiss. “I would have woken you up as soon as I got home, but Chris said I should let you sleep in.”
The thought of Peter sliding into Stiles while he was still asleep, maybe even him and Chris having to lift an unconscious Stiles off Chris’s cock and onto Peter’s, made pre-come weep onto his belly. It'd been a long time since Stiles had been in a sleep deep enough not to wake up before someone got inside him.
Stiles wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and buried his hands in Peter’s hair, staring into Peter’s gorgeous eyes. Then he leaned up and kissed Peter with all the tenderness that he could muster. He and Peter had never been the gentle ones, but in that moment he wanted to pour all the love, and devotion, and even a little bit of the ache into the kiss.
Peter seemed unsure what to do with himself, his thrusts still strong enough to hammer the bed frame into the wall and his grip on Stiles’ hips tight enough that they would definitely bruise, but although he froze when the kiss began he soon began to match it, pouring more love than Stiles knew what to do with into their kiss.
Before he knew it, Stiles was crying again. Stiles was fucking sick of crying.
“This is going to end,” Stiles whispered in Peter’s ear. “I don’t know why, but I know that this is going to end, and soon, and then I’ll be alone.”
Peter pulled back and frowned down at Stiles, but didn’t slow down his thrusts. Good. Stiles didn’t know what would happen if Peter stopped.
“We’ll never leave you, Stiles,” Peter said firmly.
“You’ll get sick of me, or need to move.” Stiles stroked his hands through Peter’s hair. “I’ll need to move. I’ll have to go back home for my dad, or I won’t be able to get a job and have to move away.”
“What makes you so sure?” Peter asked.
“Because that’s what happened with everyone else.” Stiles arched his back when Peter managed to hit something deep inside of him. “Scott’s gone back home. Kira’s gone back to New York. Isaac’s gone to freaking England and Erica and Boyd are off somewhere with their white picket fence and new baby. And Lydia--” Stiles’ breath hitched. “People move. Hell, people die. It’s part of life. Loss is inevitable and you lose the good things fastest--”
Peter gathered Stiles into his arms while Stiles cried, holding Stiles tightly to him.
“Even if we don’t break up, if we settle down somewhere and have long, happy lives, you’re both-- I’m going to be the last one left. I’m always the last one left.”
Peter let Stiles cry himself out, stroking Stiles’ hair while Stiles sobbed until he felt hollow. The sun had risen, peeking through a gap in the curtains to warm Stiles’ naked arm.
“I think it’s time I see someone,” Stiles whispered, his voice cracking under the strain.
Peter hummed, continuing to stroke Stiles’ hair.
“That’s the hardest part,” Peter said. “No matter how much you know you need help, actually getting it…”
“You and Chris will still want me?” Stiles turned to Peter.
“Always.” Peter spoke firmly, leaving no room for doubts. “For as long as you’ll have us.”
Stiles pulled out his hand from under his body and took hold of Peter’s arm. He ran his hand over the scars. Peter had softened inside him, only half hard now, but Stiles didn’t want to let him go. It was the start of a new day, but they could lay there a little while longer.