Actions

Work Header

Triptych

Chapter Text

 

You know that feeling where you wish you could go back in time and have a moment to do over again? Be brave, be smart, be funny, and just generally not fuck it up? Stiles’ life is largely composed of these moments and this feeling and the general urge to kick his own ass. Anyway, that moment when he was alone with Derek, Scott and the blow torch? It would have gone something like this—

Derek says, “Hold him down,” and Stiles does. This time, though, there’s no blow torch around.

Stiles wants to be thorough, so he just climbs right up onto Scott’s lap and pins his shoulders to the back of the chair with both hands.

Then he’s magically able to achieve that really cool smirk he’s in reality never quite mastered, and he turns it on both of them in turn. “And then?”

Derek’s facial expression doesn’t even change, he just continues to smoulder attractively and says, “Try not to move too much. This might hurt a little.”

Stiles feels his heart-rate pick up as with a flood of adrenalin his body reminds him that he is now the meat in a predator sandwich. “Wh-what?”

His only answer is the teasing scrape of Scott’s teeth down the arching curve of his neck. Scott gets both hands on his ass and pulls him in until Stiles’ hard-on is pressing painfully against the metal of his zipper and the heat of Scott’s own erection, obvious even through the layers of fabric between them. It must be pretty clear that Stiles has been thinking about this for a while – or maybe tattoos just get him hot – but Scott doesn’t stop sucking on his throat, and Derek seems to approve. 

Stiles starts to whimper without conscious consent, can’t help rubbing his aching dick against the bulge in Scott’s jeans, trying to get some relief.

“Don’t worry,” Scott whispers, hot and intimate between them, before he licking a wide wet stripe up the side of his neck.

Derek strokes a hand through Stiles’ hair and smiles. “We’re going to take care of you.”

“Oh, fuuuuck,” Stiles says, because Scott – with previously undisclosed ninja skills – has got Stiles’ zipper down, and wriggled a hand inside so he can squeeze a fist around Stiles’ eager cock, hot and tight.

In a blur of superspeed, superstrength, and mind-numbing pleasure, Stiles is splayed naked on Scott’s lap and Derek is teasing lupine claws down the length of his spine. Scott’s retained his hold on Stiles’ dick, and he’s squeezing it tenderly now, stroking him like a treasured pet, and all Stiles can do is sit up and beg. Somehow shy, despite or because of the unbalanced nudity, he presses an open mouthed kiss against Scott’s cheek, gives a little flicker of his tongue – hot, wet – that makes Scott groan and strip his cock faster, harder, and then turns his head to look at Derek over his shoulder.

Derek’s got his t-shirt rucked up, jeans around his knees, one hand twisting around the head of his cock and the other pinching at his own nipple. The look on his face is nothing but hunger, and Stiles’ stomach gives and answering jump.

“Touch me,” he says as boldly as he can, kneading at Scott’s shoulders and just hanging on.

Derek bares his teeth and Stiles feels sweat prickle all down his back. “What do you want?”

Stiles can barely think, let alone speak, and he can taste his own desperation thick on his tongue when he says, “Anything you’ll give me.” In his head something dark and sibilant whispers, I wanna be dirty.

“Good boy,” Scott says, nipping playfully at Stiles’ earlobe with pointed teeth and giving his dick a fond little squeeze.

Stiles swivels back around and feels his eyes drawn magnetically to Scott’s mouth, lips red and slightly swollen; wants to sink his own blunt human teeth into that soft-looking flesh, wants to taste and be tasted and kiss and be kissed until their flesh becomes one.

The corner of Scott’s lips lifts in recognition of Stiles’ hunger: a teasing invitation. All Stiles has to do is tilt a little to the left and they’re kissing, soft and wet. Scott’s lips are faintly chapped, or maybe bitten absent-mindedly, but they slide tender and slick against his all the same, parted with welcome and heated breath. The touch of tongue against tongue, that slick soft intermingling, is a revelation – a religious experience – and Stiles feels born again.

The Otherness of Scott’s body is a palpable thing. His hands map the burgeoning expanse of Scott’s shoulders, familiar territory made strange and exciting by newly muscled thickness and conspicuous strength. Palm to chest feels like holy palmer’s kiss (prayer and answer both); Stiles may be naked on the alter of Scott’s body – bared to both their gazes - but he is definitely a willing sacrifice.

The gentle press of their lips belies the thrumming tension in the air, a contrast as sharply delicious as the rough abrasion of warn denim against his inner thighs, where they spread wide and press close over Scott’s bulging crotch. Stiles’ skin feels strangely sensitised; he’s alive to sensation and trembles at the rasp of Derek’s stubble at the nape of his neck, the vulnerable curve of his throat. Stiles releases Scott’s tongue with a reluctant curiosity and turns his head only to find his mouth possessed again, by a new pair of lips.

Derek kisses like a force of nature, a wild thing that knows the truth of this mad hunger for flesh, who has tasted death and revelled in desire. They revel in each other, and Derek takes his mouth like he would take Stiles’ whole body – to be used for pleasure alone. Scott starts to suck on the earlobe in front of his mouth, and Stiles can’t help but moan into Derek’s mouth, a strange reverberating chain of wet hot sound. Scott laughs and rubs the tip of his nose against Stiles’ cheek -- Eskimo kiss –- noses his way into a three-way meeting of mouths and tongues and lips: filthy-messy-wet in the best possible way.

Too soon, Scott leans back and Stiles is torn away by the insistent press of Derek’s palm against his throat – gentle but firm, a command echoed with the pulse of Stiles’ blood.

Scott grabs at his wrists, fingers circling like cuffs, and holds on while Derek uses that hand on his throat to bend him back, back, until Stiles is staring at the floor and the massive curving length of Derek’s cock. There’s blood rushing to his head already, and he feels like he’s balancing on a metaphorical and literal edge because he’s being supported only by the bruising ring of Scott’s hands on his wrists and the broad palm Derek slips beneath his head. So Stiles is panting, stretched and splayed naked across Scott’s lap, but it’s only when he feels the slick press of a thumb beneath his balls that he realises what this position means – how open he is, how Scott can see, can take, everything.

Please,” Stiles pants, breathy and wet, “please, please plea--”

With his neck bent back like this, the curve of his throat matches Derek’s cock perfectly, something like beauty; all Derek has to do is bend his knees a little a and the fat head of his cock is bump-sliding against the roof of Stiles’ mouth, a teasing rub against his tongue, and then sliding right past his gag-reflex and deep into his throat. He actually gets jolted forward a bit, Derek cock shoving just an inch deeper, by the jerking thrust of Scott’s denim-clad hips against his ass. The idea that they’re both watching Stiles taking Derek’s cock like this, that Scott likes it, is so incredibly hot - so almost painfully filthy - that Stiles has to moan, writhe himself naked and sweaty and wild back and forth between their hands and hope that they’re going to let him come –- soon.

Derek sets up an easy rhythm, sliding deep into Stiles’ throat and then just prodding gently into his mouth, letting Stiles suck and lick and cling desperately until he pulls out and surges in deep again. They’re kind enough to give him a moment or two to get used to it, then Scott transfers his wrists to one hand, strokes Stiles’ belly briefly in a reassuring way, slicks his fingers with Stiles’ own profusely leaking precome, and slides them right down between Stiles’ forcibly spread cheeks to his exposed hole.

Scott only has two hands and he’s clearly more interested in playing with Stiles’ ass (and not letting him fall) than giving Stiles what he really needs, so he leaves Stiles’ cock untouched and starts painting concentric circles, smaller and smaller, narrowing in on the tight furl of Stiles’ virgin hole. The pads of his index and middle fingers are slightly rough, calluses catching the tiniest bit against that soft, puckered skin. He taps gently at the centre of it, knocking like he wants to come in, and Stiles almost cokes for real around the fat bulge of Derek’s cock in his mouth. There is sweat, or maybe tears, stinging at his eyes but he’s moaning, begging upside-down; Scott gives him what he wants and pushes the blunt tip of his middle finger into Stiles’ ass. Just that, but it feels huge inside him where no one has ever touched before.

Scott rocks that finger back and forth a little, twists, until the first knuckle slides in and he’s got the whole thing deep up inside. Scott’s fingers are long and thick and clever, and soon enough that finger is joined by another, scissoring and stretching Stiles’ hole wide, prepping him for someone’s cock. Stiles can’t even be ashamed that he really doesn’t care whose dick is in him, just so long as one of them gets in him, and soon.

By the time Scott is three fingers deep in his ass, and Derek is rubbing his dick against Stiles’ lips and tongue in small hypnotic circles, fingers outlining the head where it presses against Stiles’ distended inner cheek, Stiles is sobbing with need for this -- for anything -- for more. His face is wet with tears and spit and Derek’s precome but when Derek pulls out and leaves him waiting too long he keeps his mouth open, tongue extended, begging silently for another taste.

What he gets instead is Scott hauling on his wrists, reeling him back in and right-side-up; for a moment there the world seems all topsy-turvy, turned inside-out.

“On your knees,” Derek orders, and with Scott’s reassuring hands on his shoulders it’s all too easy to comply.

The floor is cold and hard against his knees but Stiles is allowed to rest his cheek against Scott’s thigh and just breathe for a moment while Scott generously pets at his hair.

A minute, maybe two, and then Scott pats his cheek and says, “I want you to suck my cock while he fucks you.” The sound of his zipper being done is really loud, this close to Stiles’ ear.

“Sharing is caring,” Derek murmurs in a filthy sing-song, somewhere behind, and then there are two unmistakably strong hands spreading his cheeks to expose his already lubed and stretched hole.

Scott is already rubbing the swollen head of his cock against Stiles’ cheek, leaving a fresh sticky trail in Derek’s mess. Stiles cracks open an eye but leaves his head resting on Scott’s solid thigh, just licks his lips and touches the tip of his outstretched tongue to Scott’s slit, coming away with a fine string of come.

Derek shuffles in closer until they’re chest-to-back, gets his knees in between Stiles’ and forces them wider, makes him stick out his ass and present like a bitch in heat, ready and wet and waiting. With one hand clutching at his hip, Derek pushes the thumb of the other against the rim of Stiles’ puffy hole, circles once and pushes right up into his eager clinging heat.

Stiles keeps sucking at the head of Scott’s dick, juicy-thick and awkward between his stretched lips, and doesn’t even try to stop the steady stream of moans and grunts coming from his own throat because they just make both the wolves thrust a little harder into him.

Derek’s not playing around though, no teasing now, because he only gives Stiles a couple searching twists of that thumb before he’s empty again. Stiles wants so badly he has to arch his back, suck a little more of Scott’s cock into his mouth (showy) and roll his hips up, trying hard as he can to get Derek’s dick in his ass.

“Such a happy slut,” Derek says with what might actually be approval, as he bends his knees and drives his cock home – one long powerful thrust into Stiles’ spasming hole.

Stiles is electrified, rears back until his head is touching Derek’s collar bone and keens like a wounded animal, wild with the pain and the pleasure and the mind-bending power of being possessed so completely. His belly and ass and thighs are all clenching, his body not sure if it wants that massive dick deeper or gone, so he starts humping himself back and forth is a weird tug-of-war between the need to escape and the need for more. Derek’s hands are bruising on his hips, holding Stiles still and spit firmly on his dick until he starts to calm down, until he starts to moan low and hoarse and cry out for what he wants –

“More, more, more.”

Scott slides two fingers into his open mouth, flattens his tongue and makes him stop, makes him open his eyes and see the way that Scott is looking at him, watching his eyes and not the thrust of his fingers into the wet softness of Stiles’ mouth. So Stiles holds his gaze as he starts to suck on Scott’s long fingers, run his tongue between them, and resists the urge to let his eyes roll back in his head when Derek pulls out until just the head of his cock is stretching the rim of Stiles’ hole then thrusts smoothly balls-deep once, twice, and again and again…    

Scott uses his fingers to urge Stiles’ jaw wide open again, keeps them pressed there over his bottom teeth and tongue as he guides his dick back between the ‘O’ of Stiles’ lips. Then Stiles is being fucked from both ends, spit and split open on their cocks – completely owned.

They thrust in tandem, working him over together so that as Derek slams his dick home hard Stiles is forced face first onto Scott’s cock, drooling and choking and clutching at his own thighs like a good boy because he doesn’t want to come until he’s told, until he’s coming for them. When Scott pulls out and screws his dick back into the tight, hungry clutch of Stiles’ throat, Derek lets the head of his dick pop free of Stiles’ clinging hole, just so he can feel it all the more when Derek thrusts up into him again.

They’re rocking and swaying together again and Stiles gets lost in the rhythm, mind gone blank and animal with need until all he knows is sweat and spunk and cock. They’re both so huge in him it’s a wonder he isn’t splitting apart at the seams, getting fucked so deep and right he’s going to be feeling this for days.

Minutes or hours and an eternity later, Derek starts to up the speed of his thrusts, the power behind them, until Scott has to pull Stiles’ mouth of his dick because Derek’s hips are slamming against his ass, Derek’s balls are slapping heavy and hot against his thighs, and Stiles is shaking with the force of it. What ever breath he’s got left is forced from his lungs in pathetic little ‘uh, uh, uh’s and Scott has to brace his shoulders to stop them all from falling over.

Derek is vicious in his need, digging his nails into the meat of Stiles’ thighs and ass, pulling him back onto that cock even as he flexes and drives home. Stiles is going mad with it, just a body to be used, and has no conscious control over his mouth when his ‘uh, uh, uh’s turn to desperate ‘yes, yes, yes’s – only realises after the fourth or fifth repetition that he’s begging because he hears what Derek is saying, chanting with every thrust--

“Take it,” he snarls, “Take it, take it, take it, bitch,”

-- and all Stiles can think – can say – is YES.

Derek hears him because his words turn into one long growl, deep and feral until it’s more or less an ululating howl and Derek is coming, thighs tensed and shaking as he pumps load after load deep in Stiles’ ass. 

Derek stills and just pants wetly for a beat, pulls out eventually and rubs the sticky-wet head of his cock against Stiles’ lower back, the tight, round curve of his cheeks; the last dribble of Derek’s come slipping down his crack obscenely. There’s a pause, as if Derek is admiring his handy-work – his spunk painting Stiles’ naked ass – and then comes the hard, sharp crack of Derek’s palm against his ass. It’s shocking, more the sound of it than the feel: loud and overtly sexual, even over the eager choking noises Stiles is making around Scott’s cock.

The next smack is open-handed and blunt, a bright hot burn of sensation as the broad flat of Derek’s hand makes contact.

Yeah,” Scott responds - call and answer - and Derek does it again. “Fuck,” Scott snarls, “Yes,” and he’s tugging on Stiles’ short, thick, hair (just long enough now, a definite selling point) and ramming his fat cock as far in as it can go, forcing Stiles’ throat to flutter helplessly around the impossible thickness of it.

They both keep pounding away: Derek’s hand slapping against his burning ass, making Stiles clench and release spasmodically until a thick string of Derek’s jizz runs obscenely down his thigh, and Scott’s balls slapping against his chin as he makes Stiles take everything he’s got.

Even though his ass is nearly numb after a while, hot and throbbing with the shape of Derek’s hand, Stiles still feels the sudden red-hot sting that has to be a needle penetrating that tender skin; hears the buzzing in the air and knows that Derek is taking this tattoo thing to whole new level. He tries to move, tries to see – to stop it maybe – but Scott’s got both hands locked around his jaw, keeping him helplessly still and open as Scott shoves his dick down Stiles’ still-willing throat again and again, until he has to give up breathing to swallow, swallow, swallow.

And if Stiles were to look in the mirror, later when he’s alone, he’d see their mark (yeah, that’s what tattoo means) right there in bold black ink across both cheeks; one side saying ‘PACK’, the other ‘PROPERTY’. Just the sight of it, just the thought, is always enough to make him come.

Chapter Text

Stiles is in the library because, though some fucked-up shit has happened here, it’s still pretty much the only place in school where a guy can go to be alone. There are a row of little silent study desks along the back wall, stacks to one side and windows on the other, and he literally has his name carved into the one right at the back. He’s in the habit of coming here during his frees without Scott to think deep thoughts and muse on problems both philosophical and paranormal.

This precise spot also happens to be just about the only place inside the building that you can just - if you lean exactly so and jiggle up and down a bit – pick up the free wifi from the coffee house on the corner. This is, it seems, Stiles’ lucky day, so he decides to put aside his problems and instead do with free wifi exactly as god intended – surf the internets for porn.

He has well and truly tumblr’d down a strange and nasty gif-porn rabbit hole when he hears voices approaching from the stacks. Luckily again, he mastered the quick-draw Alt-Tab by the time he was eleven. Tugging his head phones down around his neck, Stiles crosses his legs and tries to look studious.

“Well, this is inconvenient,” Lydia says. She appears - toe already tapping - at his side, as if summoned from thin air (Stiles does not, in fact, possess this power – he’s tried).

“I think we can work with it,” Allison replies, smiling blithely but with a shadow of that hard-edged look in her eye.

Stiles drops his jaw and his pen, because for some reason they’re both wearing Catholic school girl outfits -- the naughty kind. Lydia is inexplicably undoing her tie (slow, teasing… why?) and when the hell Beacon Hills High instigated a uniform policy, let alone one requiring a hemline that hellishly high, Stiles neither knows nor cares. He’s happy just enjoying the show.

Lydia slides her the undone tie out from under her collar, which by some miracle of physics coincides with the top four buttons of her shirt springing joyfully open so Stiles can see her beautiful, freckled breasts in a white lacy bra.

 Stiles is still glued to his chair, though his eyes are definitely wandering freely (near out of his head), watching as Lydia lets her tie drop to the ground, turns to Allison and tilts her head.

“You see,” Allison says, “we were just looking for a quiet place to make out, but instead we found you--”

Lydia’s gets Allison’s tie wrapped around her fist and yanks her in, crushing their lips together in a wet, hot kiss. Stiles can see their tongues sliding one against the other, slick and pink.

After a few mind-bending minutes, Lydia breaks it off and turns to him. “So I guess you’ll just have to join us,” she says.

Lydia literally rips Allison’s shirt open, buttons popping off in every direction, yanks and lets it fall to the ground so that Allison’s left standing between them in only a scrap of a skirt, bra, and green and black tie tight around her neck. Then she cups her hands around Allison’s pert tits, thrust high in eye-popping black lace, and squeezes them together rough enough to make the girl moan. Stiles can’t help but echo the sound, cupping his aching hard-on through his pants. Lydia sees him doing it and smirks, brown eyes thick-lashed and heavy with desire. She turns Allison in her arms until her back is to him, Lydia staring a challenge over her naked shoulder. Stiles can see it all when she thrusts a knee forward between Allison’s legs, grabs a fist full of skirt and hauls it up so her firm, round ass is bared. Pushing the material aside, Lydia gets both hands on Allison’s cheeks and spreads. Allison just giggles and arches her back, and Stiles can see her perfect pale cheeks split by a black lacy g-string, just a hint of her pussy, bare and pink.

Allison does a kind of teasing twirl and her skirt comes right off. She’s holding Lydia’s shirt in her hands and the two of them are taking slow, deliberate steps toward him. Next thing he knows he’s naked and spread out across his favourite desk. It might be a little bigger and sturdier than he remembers it, but he’s grateful for it nonetheless. The girls are standing on either side of him, kissing over his chest. Lydia reaches down and twists his nipple but doesn’t stop sucking on Allison’s tongue for a second. Allison’s got both hands squeezing and stroking at Lydia’s tits, and they’re making these insanely hot kittenish noises against each other’s lips.

Allison pulls her head away and bends her neck so she can bite at Lydia’s nipple, suck it wet and hot through scratchy lace.

Fuck,” Lydia moans, “Yes. Do it harder, bitch.”

She laughs with her mouth still teasing at Lydia’s breasts. Twists her nipples and laughs again-- “Slut.”

Lydia reaches down and slaps her on her ass in retaliation, turning to look down at Stiles and ask, “You think I’m a slut?”

Stiles’ mind is kind of just a river of filth right now, and he can’t actually find any words that aren’t hot, fuck, suck, slut, or now. With a valiant effort he manages to just shake his head against the desk instead. They both laugh like he said something really hilarious.

“Oh,” Lydia purrs, “But I am.” She’s got one knee up on the desk and swinging the other one around until she’s straddling his chest. “I want to be a slut for you.”

Allison gets busy unhooking Lydia’s bra and plants a hand in Lydia’s back so those big soft tits are forced down, smothering, into his face. She rubs herself against him and it’s a miracle he hasn’t blown his load all over the place yet. Miraculous again that he’s open-mouthed licking and sucking at her freckled skin, tight nub of her nipple hard against his tongue.

Lydia is sighing breathily, wet heat of her pussy the worst kind of tease rubbing against his belly, and out of the corner of his eye he can see that Allison’s just standing there watching, right hand in her panties. “Hot,” she says.

Lydia’s laughing again, and it makes her tits jiggle distractingly against his face. “Put that away,” she says. “That’s what we’ve got him for.” Allison seems to get her drift because she pulls shiny-wet fingers out from between her legs and comes closer, sticking those same fingers in Lydia’s mouth as she wraps a firm hand around his cock.

“Is this for me?” she asks huskily.

All Stiles can say is, “Holy shit.”

“You talk too much,” Lydia says – though that is literally the first thing he’s managed to say this entire time. Stiles doesn’t really care to correct her though because she’s kneeling up, shuffling forward, and fucking straight-out sitting on his face, soft thighs bracketing his ears. Lydia doesn’t pause, starts rolling her hips as she settles herself over his mouth, slicking her juices all over his cheeks and chin - just an impractical scrap of lace between his mouth and her heat. At the same time, Allison spits in her hand and then she’s squeezing his dick slick and tight and just right, thumb teasing mercilessly at the head.

Lydia’s thighs are clenching around his face but he gets a hand up, fingers hooked into her panties and dragging them aside so he can spread her juicy pussy lips and get his tongue on her clit, swollen and slick where it’s peeking out from the hood. He teases at her with the hard point of his tongue, then rubs the flat of it against her in rough, tense little circles until she’s spreading her thighs and humping her pussy down against his mouth as hard as she can. He can’t help the string of groans and nonsense words he’s letting out; just wet muffled vibrations against the heat of her. Lydia’s pussy is shaved bare and pink and filthy-silky-wet; looks unreal but sure as fuck tastes it. He’s lapping her slick up but his face is already sticky with it and he can’t fight the urge to get more, to taste her deeper, so he gets his hands on her ass and thrusts his tongue right up her hole as fast and deep as he can, no warning.

She screams, and in the next second Allison’s taking his cock down her tight hot throat until her nose is pressed against his balls and she’s swallowing, swallowing around the entire hard length of his dick. Stiles feels like he’s being subsumed in the fiery heat of the sun, burnt alive from the inside out. Lydia is convulsing around his tongue, hips shuddering as she keens and moans and comes. Stiles only holds back because Allison has a hand around his balls, yanking cruelly even as she sucks him down.

“Fuck, fuck!” he shouts as Lydia lifts her messy cunt away from his mouth, turning so she can put her hands on his chest, arch her back and rub those slick-swollen folds right back in his face again.

And Stiles wants it, fuck, he wants it all. He’ll lick her ‘til he drowns if it’ll make her come again; he’s greedy for it now, filthy with her juices and all he wants is more. He can feel her digging her nails against his nipples, scratching like a cat in heat up and down his chest. The desk is shaking, rocking back and forth, and it trembles at the extra weight when Allison climbs up too, knees spread on either side of his hips.

Stiles is sucking at Lydia’s clit like it’s fucking candy but he has to slam his head back so he doesn’t get her with his teeth when he feels the insane, tight wet heat of Allison’s pussy closing around the head of his dick. She’s tight, fuck she’s tight, and her slick and spit are running, teasing, down the length of his dick as she uses him to please herself, tilting and circling her hips so that the head pops (obscene wet sucking sound) in and out against her most sensitive flesh. Allison is brutal, unmerciful, and lets him slip out only to press her hips down, flex so his dick is sliding back and forth against her hole, between the clinging lips of her pussy. He can feel her fingers there, teasing at her own clit and holding him down just where she wants him. Eventually, he mentally recovers enough that he can almost breathe again and gets his tongue back lapping at Lydia’s slick folds, pressing his nose against her and pushing at her ass so he can get a hand up, slide two long fingers right up inside her cunt, thick and stretching at her hole til he can curl them in and get a hold of her, press the heal of his palm against her clit and rock her, fuck her back and forth with his fingers and his tongue.

Lydia’s shaking, coming again, and he can taste her wetness on his tongue, his face filthy with her and his cock buried to the hilt in Allison. They’re both still riding him hard, but over the slip-suck sound of skin against skin he can hear something else. The girls are facing each other, humping down like they’re loving it but not really paying any attention to him. No, Stiles realises after a minute, he really is just here as their prop because the two of them are sitting on him and kissing each other – that’s the wet, slick sound of some serious tongue-fucking going on up there – and shit, fuck,  Stiles doesn’t know why but that just makes it all so much hotter.

“Come on his cock, bitch,” Lydia says. “No hands.”

Allison seems to take this as some sort of challenge because she’s screwing her tight wet cunt down, squirming and moaning and squeezing herself tight around him. His cock feels fat and huge inside her, and all he wants is to fill her up, see her dripping with his come and take the time to push it back up inside her, make them both lick it off his cock, get him hard again so they can do it all over.

He can’t see a fucking thing with his face buried between Lydia’s thighs but he can feel it. Feels it when Allison slams down, squeezes like she’s bout to break something and lets out this muffled yell that means she must make it into Lydia’s mouth; Lydia seems pretty happy with it all because she gives this final little clenching flutter around his tongue and just sort of collapses forward to rest her face against Allison’s heaving breasts.

And finally, finally, he gets to come. Heavenly reward because they both give him this tolerantly fond look and turn over, kissing lewdly as he splatters both their perfect round asses with his spunk. 

Thank the Holy fucking Trinity for naughty school girls.

Chapter Text

Stiles, if he’s being honest with himself, doesn’t really love lacrosse. But he does love being part of a team and, fuck, yeah, he loves the showers. Loves how dirty it makes him feel (surreptitiously) watching a dozen other guys soaping themselves up and getting clean. Stuck on equipment duty after practice, he was the last in to the locker room and he’s happy now to take advantage of a few minutes of hot wet alone time after almost everyone else has headed home.

Ten minutes ago this place was full of sweaty, towel-snapping, naked guys. Magically, though, it seems there’s no one else around; they’re alone together now. Just the three of them. Stiles can’t tell who they are through all the steam; he can only just make out two naked, muscled bodies at the other end of the stall. No one is quite sure why Beacon Hills decided the whole open-plan shower thing was okay, but it really is a godsend for little perverts like him.

Stiles lathers up his hands, scrubs some shampoo through his hair, and runs foamy fingers down his chest. The perfectly hot water is sluicing down over his shoulders, back, and between the cheeks of his ass. Stiles uses both palms to smooth his hair up into a baby faux hawk and can’t help himself – starts humming ‘gonna wash that man right out of my hair’. Doesn’t really care to stop himself from reaching a slick hand down to cup his half-hard cock; pulling at it a little, just teasing himself. He’s facing the wall, and knows with the other guys that far away they won’t be able to make out what exactly he’s doing here. He lets himself think about what might happen if they did though, if maybe they wanted to join in.

Stiles lets his eyes fall closed briefly and maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice them right away.

“Don’t turn around,” a voice says.

“Don’t stop,” another whispers in his ear.

Stiles’ immediate reaction is pretty much this: freak the fuck out. He’s got soap in his eyes and can’t actually see what’s going on, but gets his hand of his dick lightening quick anyway, as if that’s gonna give him some kind of plausible deniability here. Stalling for time, he holds his hands out, palms up and open in an expression of ‘who, me?’ innocence that’s never really worked on anyone. 

Then out of no where there’s someone biting at his left ear, sharp teeth pulling at the lobe and then sucking like he’s earned himself punishment and reward both.

In the other ear there’s just the tease of breath, hotter and wetter than the steam billowing around them. “We said don’t stop.”

Then there’s a broad hand wrapping itself around his cock, squeezing him slick and perfect from root to tip. Someone presses at the base of Stiles’ spine, just above his ass, and pushes him forward until he’s leaning, bent at the hips, with his hands spread wide against the wall. The tiles are cold and slick with condensation – it’s hard to get a grip (literally, and metaphorically). The water is still running and he shakes his head a little, clearing out the last of the shampoo and letting it run down his body in little rivulets.

Looks down and sees that the hand currently pumping his cock comes complete with a set of wickedly sharp claws.

“Oh, shit.”

Okay, so this is not exactly a new fantasy for him, but the sight of something that sharp (and, incidentally, designed to kill) so close to his dick should really be a mood killer. Stiles is almost a little ashamed to admit that his cock definitely gets harder. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy…

It’s not Scott’s hand though, not Isaac’s or Derek’s; that’s when the multiplicity of it all hits him, as well as the two thick, uncut dicks rubbing against either hip. And, actually, they do feel pretty much identical now that he thinks about it.

Yeah. Shit.

So he’s alone and naked with two equally naked and possibly evil identical twin Alphas. There’s just no answer in Emily Post for this: “What to do when two buff muscled strangers want to have their wicked way with you?” Right. Then again, maybe she was secretly a bit of a kinky bitch – or just never had the opportunity. Stiles is definitely a kinky bitch, and frankly he thinks that etiquette in this situation has to call for begging, moaning, and hopefully more orgasms than any non-super being can handle.

The bodies around him are shifting, the one with the hand on his cock moving back so that they’re almost embracing, chest to back. Stiles is overwhelmed by the sensation of so much naked, wet skin pressed against him, and then the Alpha behind him starts rubbing a fat, throbbing cock up against his crack. And Stiles… Stiles is totally on board this train (whoo whoooooo!) because The twin behind doesn’t let up squeezing and pulling at Stiles’ dick, but the other is moving around, sliding under Stiles’ outstretched arms and down the wall until he can kneel there and rub his face against Stiles’ balls. This is some seriously kinky shit.

The one on his knees doesn’t take long to get his lips around Stiles’ dick, scraping sharpened teeth gently, gently against the head and prodding at the slit with the point of his tongue, lapping up the slick his brother is milking out. It’s fucking obscene the way the Alpha behind him just feeds his brother Stiles’ cock, humping his own dick against Stiles’ ass and forcing him forward into that mouth.

Just as Stiles is starting to feel that drawing tightness in his balls that means this is all going to be over real quick, the one behind brings around his other hand, strokes up Stiles’ cock and slides his fingers into his twin’s mouth, right where Stiles’ dick is stretching it wide. The one on his knees moans hungrily and sucks on them both, everything wet and hot and messy-slick. Stiles knows what’s going to happen next, but it’s still a surprise how easily the twin behind manages to shove those spit-slick fingers into his ass. Stiles whines like a bitch but it feels good, and his hole grasps eagerly at those fingers when they thrust and retreat.

And fuck, fuck, yeah, Stiles doesn’t get a lot of prep before there’s something much bigger pressed against his ass, the Alpha holding his cheeks apart with sharp-clawed fingers, and then he just screws that fat cock deep inside with short brutal thrusts. He doesn’t let Stiles accommodate, just pulls out until the head is stretching at Stiles’ rim and surges all the way back inside til his balls are slapping against Stiles’ ass and Stiles is shuddering forward into a hot, eager mouth. On the second thrust, or the third, that huge cock hits his prostate dead-on and Stiles can’t take it, he’s crying out and seeing stars and coming, fucking spewing thick hot jizz right into the other twin’s waiting mouth.

The Alpha in his ass keeps fucking him through it in this punishing, vicious rhythm, until Stiles starts to lose track of space and time. He comes back to him self though, God, shit,  when the other twin rears up with his back to the wall and starts squeezing Stiles’ balls, running a thumb back along that over-sensitive strip of skin, and pushing down, pushing in, feeling where his brother’s dick is splitting Stiles open.

Suddenly, it’s like that trick old movie bit out of Singing in the Rain because Stiles is gasping - “No, no, no!” – but his head and his dick are jerking uncontrollably, yesyesyes. He is genuinely fucking scared now but piercing through that is this pure bright spike of heat because he wants it – wants to be pushed past his limits, wants to feel filthy and used. He’s got his hands on the shoulders of the twin in front now and they’re sharing his weight between them. The one already thick and hard in his ass holds still, holds Stiles still, while the other slides his fingers out and nudges Stiles’ stretched-out hole with the sticky head of his dick.

That sick fuck gets a hand on Stiles’ cock and one on his nipple and twists both at once – sharp shoot of pleasurepain to his balls that clench down and thrust up, and that’s when he forces Stiles’ knees as far apart as they’ll go and fucks his way in, two huge cocks squeezed up against each other in his hole, splitting him wild and helpless like a pig on a spit.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Stiles is sobbing, chanting, as the force of the back one’s stuttering thrust shifts him up and down on both their cocks.

The one in front just grins around elongated eye teeth. “Yessss.

They get a sort of rhythm going, one pulling out half way while the other thrusts in, rocking him back and forth between their bodies. No one is touching Stiles’ dick now but the incredible pressure against that place inside him from the thrusts of two fat cocks and the sheer dirty, dirty wrongness of this whole situation has him riding the edge again anyway like he never came down, so close to blowing another load all over his own stomach.

Then somehow the one behind him is hauling him up, arms caught under his knees and hoisting him like he weighs nothing, and the one in front disappears. For a moment he’s left hanging there – gaping, open, clutching at his own thighs and so fucking empty he wants to cry.

Then, then, there’s this weird almost tingling sensation, like static shock everywhere that their bodies are connected, and the ground is getting somewhat terrifyingly further away. Huge hands are clutching him close against rock hard abs and their stumbling back, back into the changing room and there’s a mirror over the sink – foggy with steam but enough – and he sees it. Seems them, and understands in the weird little rational part of his brain what exactly is happening here.

Where once there were two brothers, now there is only one, but together like this they’re taller, broader, and bigger all around him. The way he’s being held up and open, Stiles can see himself – all of himself – in that mirror. His aching cock is arching straight up against his belly above tight-drawn balls, swollen and red but not nearly as obscene as the gaping, dripping hole between his wide-spread legs. It’s puffy and slick and loose like the worst (best) kind of porno and he looks about as desperate and fucked-out as he feels.

Clearly, this is not over yet though because the fucking giant conglomerate twins’ eyes are glowing red and he’s still just holding Stiles suspended above thickly muscled thighs the size of tree trunks, and a cock that has to be at least twelve inches long and six around like a fucking baseball bat. It’s pulsing almost malevolently up at him, slick and thickly veined and bulging, broad mushroom-shaped head pointing up like an arrow at his hole and clearly telegraphing its intent.

Thank God for tentacle porn, or this would really be freaking him out.

Of course, when the giant Alpha starts lowering him down, still bent and restrained and helpless, Stiles can’t help the shaky whine of his breath, sobbing like a mindless animal with fear and want. If he wasn’t so loose, so stretched already from having thick two cocks in him at the same time, there’d be no way this could work. As it is Stiles almost feels like he’s being split in two; ripped apart by the irresistible force of that fat cock shoving its way into his ass. The evil bastard doesn’t even give him the dignity of a thrust, just lets Stiles’ own weight bear him down until the head pops in past that stretched-white resistant ring of muscle, fucks him wide makes him take it all.

Stiles might actually have feinted there for a second, and not even a manly ‘passed out’; comes back around to the sound of low-level growls and the understanding that he is being fucked like no one on this planet has maybe ever been fucked before. The sight of that monstrous cock pounding in and out of his ass - as thick as his forearm, purple-red and thick with blood – while he’s just held there and forced to take it… the sight of that is nothing to the feel of it, the incredible pleasure pain and the relentless pummelling of his prostate. He can’t actually think, doesn’t have words, but his belly and thighs are already covered with thick white strings of his own come and he’s hard again. His head is tilted back against that brick wall of a chest and there are tears in his eyes; he’s pretty zoned out, but he thinks that voice screaming somewhere might be his.

He doesn’t even have the strength left to writhe, just gives it up completely and lets the Alpha support his weight, fill him full of cock til there’s no room for anything else and he can feel it in his spine-- in his throat.

His screaming resolves itself into words, raw broken sounds; he’s begging like a slut, just begging for it over and over again.

Fuck me,” some animal part of him is whimper-screeching, “fuckmefuckmefuckmefuuuuck…”

And it’s not like he’s being denied, but it’s not like he has any control over this either. He is getting used, getting fucked like a toy for this thing’s amusement.

And that’s what pushes him over the edge again. He’s convulsing, seizing, violently as his swollen, aching balls give one last valiant effort and a dribble of jizz, thin and clear, blurts from his slit. This gets him something like a rumble of approval, and the speed of those thrusts increases until he feels like he’s getting punched, machine-gun fast and thorough.

Then, fuck, the thing roars and the room shakes, Stiles’ whole world shakes, because the Alpha is coming, pumping load after load of white hot come into his ass, just grunting and fucking it in until there’s thick ropey spunk slicking Stiles’ cheeks and fucked-out hole, spilling out and down that enormous cock.