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Chris isn’t used to the litany of please please please that falls from Stiles’ lips. Peter speaks when he’s spoken to, sinking into the mindset of being so completely at somebody else’s mercy. He’s not allowed to ask. He does what he’s told and he’s grateful for what he gets.

He’s far from silent though. He moans, he keens, he sobs, broken noises caught in his throat. Chris knows what all of them mean, he’s learnt the language after so many years, so it’s as good as a running commentary. Stiles is something else though and Chris can’t get enough of it.

Stiles is laid out on the bed naked, his wrists in cuffs that are connected by clasps to eyelets on the headboard. Chris kneels between his spread thighs, still fully clothed, fingers trailing featherlight over every inch of Stiles’ flesh, head to toe and back again. They’ve been doing this for thirty minutes now and Stiles’ body is taut and sweat drenched, his mouth an incoherent stream of want.

Peter is laid beside him, also naked, nuzzling at his neck and gently petting his hair, not because he’s been told to, but because he hasn’t been told that he can’t. His only instruction was to work a plug into himself so that he was ready for Chris to fuck later. Chris isn’t sure yet whether that means once he’s finished with Stiles or once Stiles gone home for the night. It will depend how much reassurance Stiles needs, and how much he wants to watch.

“Please,” Stiles cries out brokenly. “Chris.”

“What do you want?” Chris asks mildly, stroking Stiles’ thighs and watching them tremble and fall shamelessly further open.

Chris knows exactly what he wants, they discussed it downstairs while they were still fully clothed and calm and rational. He wants to know how Stiles will ask for it now though. He wants to hear him beg.

“Fuck me,” Stiles says, desperate and needy.

“I think we can ask nicer than that, sweetheart,” Chris says.

“Please will you fuck me?” Stiles says, eyes rolling back in his head as Chris’ fingertips tickle the backs of his knees.

“Keep going,” Chris says.

“I need your cock,” Stiles says.

“Where do you need it?” Chris asks, reaching forward to touch his fingers against Stiles’ lips. “Shall I put it in your pretty little mouth?”

Stiles moans, arching his back. “No,” he says softly, but his tongue flicks out against the pads of Chris’ fingers anyway. He parts his lips and then changes his mind, turning his face away. “I want it in my ass.”

“Hmmm,” Chris considers, trailing his fingers from Stiles’ jaw, down his neck, following his body under he reaches Stile’s hole, already fingered slick and open. “Convince me.”

“I want your cock in my ass,” Stiles says, his voice strained so beautifully as Chris’ finger traces the tight ring of muscle. “I need it. It feels so good. It fills me so good. Please, Chris, fuck me with it. Please.”

“That was very nice,” Chris says. “Good boy.” He shifts his attention, pulling his shirt over his head. “Peter, pass me the condoms from the drawer there.”

“No,” Stiles says, eyes wide and imploring. This is a conversation they’ve already had tonight too, but Chris wants to hear those words spill out of him. “We don’t need them. We’re clean.”

“We are,” Chris agrees. “Everyone passed with flying colours. But I just want you to be comfortable.” He’s just being a bastard now, but he can’t stop himself. He just wants to hear Stiles keep talking to him.

Stiles shakes his head. “No condom. Bareback. I want to feel you. Need to feel you. And I want to feel good for you. I’ll feel so much better when it’s just skin and skin, when you’re really inside me. I want you to come inside me. I want that big cock coming inside me and filling me up. Please.”

Chris reaches down, unfastening his jeans and shoving them down his thighs along with his underwear, palming his hard cock. “You mean this big cock? Is this what you want?”

Stiles whines high in his throat, Peter’s eyes shamelessly taking him in as well, lifting his head from Stiles for the first time since he settled in there. Chris isn’t even going to pretend it isn’t a huge ego boost. Stiles lifts his hips, angling them so that his hole is on display.

“Please just fuck me,” he begs. “I need your cock. Need it. Chris. Please.”

Chris strips off his jeans, grabbing the lube and slicking up his cock as he moves in close. Stiles groans appreciatively, pulling at his restraints before the head of Chris’ cock is pressing at his hole and he settles, making a needy sound. Chris rocks forward and back, easing himself inside, Stiles melting beneath him, head arched beautifully back.

When he’s buried inside him, Chris grabs Stiles’ hips, shifting him into his lap and making his bonds pull. He looks down, taking Stiles in, the flush of his cheeks, the glistening of sweat, the way his mouth hangs open. His cock is hard, deep in colour, leaking against his abdomen.

“Cub,” Chris says, eyes still fixed on it. “I don’t want any precome getting on the sheets and making a mess. Take care of that, would you?”

Peter moves down Stiles’ body, administering little kitten licks to the head of Stiles’ cock, tasting him. Stiles squirms, crying out. He goes back to his litany of please please please and Chris matches his thrusts to the words.