Archive of Our Own

In retrospect, Stiles should have stopped for gas when he last had the chance to do so. He knew that. However, his eagerness to get back to the city had snuffed out rationality on account of exhaustion. Having been on the road for a good thirteen hours, Stiles had wanted nothing more than to get back home and slink into the comfort of his own bed. But of course, the failure to stop and fill up the tank had decided to come back and bite him in the ass—much to Stiles’ aggravation. 

The engine to Stiles’ jeep spontaneously cut out, forcing Stiles to pull over into the shoulder lane of the stormy highway that he was travelling along. Once the vehicle completely drew to a finishing clunky halt, Stiles sucked in a heavy breath—slamming his fist down onto the steering wheel with the exhale. He technically only had himself to blame for not stopping to get gas, but it wasn’t fair. He just wanted to get back home. He just wanted to get some sleep. Did the gods above really have to curse him?

Stiles took a moment to collect his temper and took the key out of the jeep’s ignition, leaving the headlights on to illuminate the darkened road ahead. He stepped outside of his jeep into the windy rain of the lonely night, rubbing at his upper arms to help warm himself. He was fucked—so fucking fucked. Stiles kicked at the loose gravel of the shoulder lane and looked down both directions of the empty highway, but nobody was coming. There were no passing cars, no distant aura from city lights, and no road-signs to detail how many miles away Stiles was from his hometown. It was just bare, dark emptiness.

It was already two-thirty in the morning and Stiles knew that he was at least forty miles away from Beacon Hills. He kept looking down both directions of the highway, hoping that he’d be able to flag down somebody for help, but the luck continued to run dry. Stiles fished his phone out of his back pocket, but of course—two bars, then one bar, then no service at all. He couldn’t get out any calls, couldn’t get out any texts, and most definitely couldn’t get himself onto the internet.

Stiles was just about to slide back into his jeep, but saw a stack of chimney smoke billowing up from somewhere inside of the dense woodlands that lined the side of the highway. As the son of Beacon Hills’ sheriff, Stiles knew what an awful idea it was to run into the woods in the middle of the night, during a thunderstorm, with no cellular service, with the hopes of finding people to ask for help. Hell, people didn’t even need to have a family member in law enforcement to know that it was probably a bad idea.  Anybody who watched any horror movie ever probably knew better.

But the rain was pouring down in thick sheets, challenging the preexisting leak in the jeep’s old roof. Stiles couldn’t just stick around on the side of the highway for the rest of the night, especially with no cell reception. His father would worry his head off. Stiles needed help. He needed gas to get back on track. And by the smoke in the distance, there was at least one house nearby. A house meant people and people meant help. Unless they were murderers, but Stiles figured that he’d cross that bridge when he got to it.

Stiles switched off the headlights of his jeep to conserve the battery life and then shuffled down the muddy embankment off the side of the hallway that leveled into a grassy field. By then, his clothes were already soaked and the rain didn’t appear as though it was going to let up anytime soon. But there wasn’t anything that he could do about it. Stiles trekked through the grassy field, occasionally sliding around on muddy patches, until he made his way into the dense woodlands.

Maybe the strangers in the woods would be sweet and welcoming. Stiles wondered. Maybe the chimney smoke wasn’t coming from a house at all. Maybe it was a hotel or lodge or something with a room to rent for the night. Stiles didn’t have signal, but he had a wallet full of cash. He could pay if need be. And as Stiles made his way through the trees, stepping over branches, dodging slippery slopes, and chasing the smell of fireplace smoke, he fantasized about a warm wooded hotel with fireplaces and room service, warm soup, fresh blankets, and a hot shower waiting for him.

Stiles eventually came to a patchy clearing amongst the surrounding woods with a rickety old house situated in the middle. It looked otherwise abandoned except for the chimney smoke that piped up into the rainy sky. It was an old wooden house, somewhat charred looking. Some of the windows had been shattered, the front porch awning was splintered and half collapsed, and what had probably once been a very nice front lawn was overgrown with dead brush and leafless trees.

The decrepit condition of the house should have been a sign to turn back and just sleep in the leaky jeep, but Stiles tried his best to keep things in a positive light. He was so exhausted and soaked wet with rain, he couldn’t let himself slip down into worrying about things. The fact that nobody seemed to live in the house was irksome—but only because it meant that there was nobody to help and certainly no working phone. But on the positive end of the spectrum, the house looked to have a solid looking roof, which provided shelter from the rain. And of course, the fireplace…Stiles felt his knees tremble with excitement.

Stiles cautiously stepped up onto the front porch and knocked on the door. He waited for a moment, knocked again, and waited some more—but still to no answer. The chimney was still most definitely working, but it didn’t appear as though anybody was actually home. Stiles went to knock for the third time, but a huge gust of wind blew through the area, knocking him slightly off balance, rattling the shoddy awning above, and blowing open the front door.

“Well, if the wind did it.” Stiles thought to himself, poking his head into the darkened house. He was half-scared that some killer would pull him into the house and string his body up onto some rusty hooks, but the reality of the situation was thankfully nothing close to that. He stepped inside, wading around in the dark. There were no lights, but tons of old looking furniture. Most of it was torn and tattered, and some of it looked slightly charred as though there had previously been a house fire.

Stiles crept his way into the house. He tried to keep his footsteps as quiet as he could make them, but couldn’t do much about the squelch of rainwater that squeezed out of his shoes with every step. He called out to the dead air, asking if anybody was home, but received no answers. So he kept walking around, until he made his way into what seemed to be the living room. It was filled with books and had some fluffy old couches with only a moderate amount of rips. But the best part was the flickering fireplace, which had been the cause for the smoke that drew Stiles to the house in the first place.

Eager to get warm, Stiles settled down on the floor directly in front of the fireplace. He kicked off his soaked shoes and took off his jacket, rolling up the sleeves to his flannel. He pulled his knees up to rest against his chest, holding them in place whilst he stared into the fire—letting his body absorb the fire’s warmth and letting his mind do its best to forget about his rainy predicament. Meanwhile, Stiles let his mind run through what he planned to say to the homeowners of the house he had technically broken into…that was, if anybody actually owned the house.

It didn’t take long until Stiles could barely even keep his eyes open. They burned with exhaustion and felt heavy, fluttering closed for long periods of time until a loud gust of wind outside shocked Stiles back to consciousness. Stiles remained in front of the fireplace, but swayed around—unable to keep his balance due to the waning alertness. And then suddenly, Stiles fell over and crashed down onto the floorboards, groaning out with discomfort and shock, finally deciding that it wasn’t safe to fall asleep sitting upright with no support.

Stiles stood up and stretched, curling his toes against the wooden floorboards. He was completely dry, thanks to the fireplace. The uncomfortable hell of having squishy wet socks was no longer an issue. As for his phone, there was still no signal. Although, that didn’t come as a surprise, nor could Stiles really bring himself to care. He was way too tired to worry about being lost in the middle of the woods with no reception. The only thing that Stiles legitimately cared about was the fact that it was almost four o’clock in the morning.

He groaned, rubbing at his eyes. Stiles toppled back onto one of the available couches. It was late—and therefore early. Stiles wanted nothing more to drift off into safe slumber, despite the fact that he couldn’t guarantee his safety. Though, the fact that it was nearly four-in-the-morning helped Stiles push himself to the conclusion that the owners of the house were probably non-existent or gone for the weekend. He figured that he could get a couple hours of sleep and just book it back to where his jeep was parked on the highway before getting caught for trespassing.

+

Stiles was jolted out of his sleep about an hour later to the sound of heavy footsteps creaking along the wooden floor. By the time his eyes fluttered open, he was met with three large figures looming over where he remained curled up on the couch. At first, it was hard to see what the three figures actually looked like, due to the fact that it was still dark outside and the figures were heavily backlit by the roaring fireplace. And for a moment, briefly disillusioned by sleep-blurred vision, Stiles swore he saw the eyes of the three figures glow.

“Well, would you look at that, boys?” The middle figure cooed with an enthusiastic, fatherly tone. “Our little intruder roused out of his slumber.”

“He still looks tired.” The third man with the piercing blue eyes and smarmy demeanor noted. “And he smells like stale rainwater.”

Stiles cautiously fixed his positioning, sitting up from where he had been previously laid out. He pressed his back tightly against the backing of the couch—staring inquisitively at the three strangers, trying his best to see if he could recognize anybody. Maybe his father had tracked his phone location and sent a few deputies into the woods to rescue him. But eventually, it became abundantly clear that Stiles didn’t recognize any of the strangers.

He didn’t necessarily feel scared, nor did he feel threatened. If anything, Stiles felt moderately unnerved by how clean and modelesque the three strangers looked. None of them looked as though they lived in some rundown, fire-damaged house in the middle of the woods. Maybe he just had poor, somewhat insulting preconceived ideas about what woodsy folks looked like. Or maybe he was still dreaming. Maybe his jeep had slid off the road during the thunderstorm and he was actually lying unconscious in some fiery wreck.

But if he was dreaming, was it actually that bad? Stiles couldn’t exactly convince himself otherwise. So as long as the hot strangers didn’t murder him, the whole experience was bordering on a fantasy he used to frequent in high school when he started questioning his sexuality and diving into the wonderful world of pornography. Stiles liked to think that most humbly bisexual men liked to fantasize sometimes about waking up to three hot men hovering over them.

The first stranger, the one to the far left, seemed to be the youngest of the three—probably somewhere in his mid-twenties. And if anything, he seemed to be the one most annoyed about having a complete stranger in his house. He had shadow black hair and dark stubble which really made the man’s jaw and cheekbones pop, as well as it made his perpetual scowl that much more menacing. But luckily for him, the man’s bright green eyes and broad chest seemed to soften his outward ruggedness

The middle man seemed to be the eldest, in his late-forties, with rousing hot-dad vibes radiating off of his muscular physique. Wrinkles stretched at the corners of his blue eyes and on his forehead. He also had black hair, but it was perfectly quaffed, slightly graying at the sides, and a tad bit longer. Stiles noticed that the middle stranger looked significantly less pouty and broody than the first man, but despite that, the middle one definitely commanded the surrounding space with a naturally authoritative presence.

And the last one, the man standing to the right of the other two, was actually close in age to the man in the middle. Age lines settled in particular places on his otherwise unblemished face. He had a colder and more formal demeanor than the others—detailed by the man’s wrinkle-free clothes, well shaped goatee, and combed back hair. His shifty blue eyes and unmoving smirk looked dangerous, but Stiles wasn’t necessarily scared. He was only somewhat wary, because the man stared at him like he was a juicy steak at an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“What’s your name, boy?” The middle one questioned, crossing his arms. As his biceps involuntarily flexed, Stiles involuntarily gulped.

“S—Stiles.” Stiles muttered slowly, trading his gaze between each of the three, before settling his glance back to the one who asked the question. “It’s Stiles.”

“What the hell kind of name is that?” The left man sneered, squinting his eyes inquisitively.

The middle man whipped his hand around and slapped the broody one on the back of the head with a barked growl. “Derek—! Don’t insult our guest. I raised you with better manners than that.”

Derek sunk his head down into his shoulders with a growl, obviously embarrassed. He rubbed at his head and took a seat down on the couch beside where Stiles remained. Stiles wanted to laugh, but he tried his best to stop himself. There was just something so hilarious about a big, strong bearded man getting reprimanded by his father for not having good manners.

“Sorry—” Derek grumbled, eyeing up his father.

“Please forgive Derek’s poor manners. My son ought to know better than to insult humans.” The middle man explained, somewhat still disgruntled. “My name is Markoff, but you can call me ‘Mark’. And this—is my younger brother, Peter.” Mark gestured over to the other man with the shifty blue eyes.

Stiles eased into the cushion of the couch. He still didn’t know exactly what these three strangers wanted or why they were being so nice to him, considering the fact that he broken into their house. Although, Stiles had good arguments queued up inside of his head about how the wind was the one who opened the door in the first place and how dangerous it is to leave fireplaces unattended. Nonetheless, Stiles was ready for whatever happened—or, at least that’s what he told himself.

“So—do you guys all live here?” Stiles broke the awkward silence, glancing over to where Derek refused to stop looking at him. “How is it living all the way out here in the woods? Is it all—y’know, woodsy and stuff?”

Peter rolled his eyes, unimpressed with Stiles’ conversational skills. “Tell me, Stiles—what exactly did you hope to accomplish breaking into the house of werewolves?”

“Uh—werewolves?” Stiles chuckled nervously, studying the faces of the three to pick up on social cues, but none of them seemed to be laughing. They seemed dead serious. As if werewolves legitimately existed in the realm of reality. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

Derek thumbed at the corner of Stiles’ lips, dipping into the warmth of the boy’s mouth, but Stiles quickly bat the man’s hand away from his face—blushing slightly at the unexpected touch. Stiles didn’t really know if he was supposed to be upset, or embarrassed, or freaked out, or turned on. After all, Derek, Mark, and Peter were all strangers, and very weird in their own special kind of mysterious beefcake woodsmen way. But Stiles felt heat stir inside of his stomach at Derek’s touch, despite how miniscule it was.

“Derek has a thing for humans, we all do.” Mark commented, shifting his stance. “You have to understand—we rarely cross our paths with humans way out here in the woods. So, when we have one drop into our laps so willingly, we find it hard to maintain our composure.”

“And to have one actually break into our house and soak his scent into our furniture, our floorboards, our territory—” Peter went on.

“—during the Autumn Mating Market.” Derek continued.

“Exactly.” Peter finished.

Stiles scoffed in confusion. “What are you guys talking about? What is the ‘Autumn Mating Market’?”

Peter huffed out, clearly exasperated by the whole situation. Stiles’ limited knowledge when it came to the world of wolves was irksome, at best. He took a seat on the couch to Stiles’ direct right, officially taking up the rest of available room on the piece of furniture. Stiles just sat there in the middle, sandwiched in-between two werewolves, with Mark refusing to budge from where he was standing in front of the human. Stiles was essentially boxed in.

“Are you sure you want this one, Mark? He doesn’t seem to be the most intelligent of humans.” Peter said, clicking his tongue disappointedly.

“Actually—I’m really fucking smart, jerk-off.” Stiles bit back, turning his body towards Peter’s. “It’s not my fault that you three weirdos are talking all vague and cryptic and using terms that I’ve never heard before.”

Peter ground his teeth, debating on how he wanted to proceed with the conversation. He was somewhat irked by the human’s blatant disrespect for werewolves, but couldn’t deny that the human’s boldness was intriguing. Most humans took their subservient place to wolves without bothering to question circumstance. And they very rarely bit back with confident defense. So Peter just crossed his arms and looked over to Mark to lead the way, surprised to find a smirk on Mark’s face. 

“He’s got an attitude.” Derek noted, looking towards his father. “I like that, even if you guys don’t. Please, come on—let me have him for just a couple hours. I can have him bent over this couch and mellowed out in twenty minutes flat, I promise.”

Stiles felt heat creep onto his face, reddening his fair skin. He looked over to Derek and then over to Mark, mouth gaping open with surprise at what he had just heard. He briefly questioned the integrity of his own ears, but it was clear that he had heard correctly. Stiles gulped—looking through the three strangers’ facial expressions, shifting around where he sat. None of the three looked as though they were about to bust out with laughter and a reveal that everything was just a big joke. They were serious.

“Stiles, let me explain something to you.” Mark started. “You’ve trespassed on our property during one of the most interesting times of our werewolf cycle—the Autumn Mating Market. It’s an annual production. At the beginning of autumn, werewolves hit their heating period—”.

“—and unfortunately, we all lost our own personal mates years ago in a tragic accident.” Peter interrupted, joining his brother in explanation.

Mark nodded, acknowledging Peter’s further explanation. “As a result, we usually come here together during the mating market to relieve each other of the rather nagging burn of desire that plagues us through the month.”

“I don’t—I don’t understand what that has to do with me?” Stiles said, crossing his arms over his lap, trying as best as he could not to let the three men notice that he was getting hard in his pants. But he lied, because he knew exactly how the whole “mating market” thing could involve him.

“He’s getting hard in his jeans.” Derek announced with a snorted chuckle, letting his eyes flare bright blue.

“Stiles, you don’t have to be ashamed of what you’re feeling.” Mark cooed, reaching forward to trail his fingers down the side of the boy’s freckled face. “It’s perfectly normal.”

Stiles felt extremely hot. His skin flushed damp with hot sweat, slowly but surely soaking into the taut fabric of his t-shirt. All the while, Stiles felt the crotch of his pants grow tighter as his cock thickened. He could feel himself twitch rapidly underneath the coarseness of his pants, and despite the fact that the three werewolves apparently knew how they were affecting his body; Stiles tried his best to hide himself—using his hands to push down harder onto where he was throbbing.

“Rutting with my son and brother is a mediocre way to cool the heat of the annual mating market, but as nature would have it, the season would be so much more tolerable after being able to mate with a willing stranger—” Mark started to pace around with his arms behind his back, noticing the anticipatory energy that started to radiate off of Derek and Peter. “—especially a human with one of the most delicious scents I’ve ever had the pleasure to take in.”

“You’re starting to sweat.” Derek said, grabbing at the hem of Stiles’ t-shirt. “Here—let me help you with this. You’ll feel better.”

Derek stood up from where he was sitting on the couch and walked around to stand in front of the human. He knelt down slightly and hooked his fingers underneath the hem of Stiles’ shirt, tugging it up and over the boy’s head, before setting it down on the floor. And then suddenly, the scent of arousal and intrigue slapped him across the face, pulling a throaty growl out of his body. The human was delectable—a special treat.

Stiles sat there—somewhat frozen in the situation. He kept his hands on his crotch, despite the fact that everybody in the room could see the large bulge that was visibly thumping up into his palms. He had never been shirtless in front of other guys in such a way. In the locker rooms after lacrosse practice? Sure. At the public pool during parties? Definitely. But in the privacy of a stranger’s home, surrounded by strangers, circling him and looking down on him like he was something to eat? Never before. And the feeling that the situation settled deep within Stiles’ gut was something unlike anything he had ever felt before.

For a moment, Stiles’ glance caught Derek’s. Time seemed to slow and the world around them blurred out. And whilst Stiles found himself almost instantaneously lost inside the unnatural glow of blue of Derek’s eyes, Derek slowly leaned inward and pressed his lips against the skin of Stiles’ neck. A whimpered moan unintentionally escaped Stiles’ lips, his body tensed, and his eyes fluttered shut. He couldn’t believe what was happening.

“I’ve—never.” Stiles moaned, pressing his fingers into the muscle of Derek’s clothed torso.

“Our wonderful toy is a virgin.” Mark announced, delighted—pulling both Derek and Peter’s undivided attention.

“How did you know that?” Stiles caught his breath, rubbing at where Derek’s beard had already started to scratch a beard burn into the skin of his neck. He was slightly offended by the accusation, despite it being true.

“As beta werewolves, my son and younger brother can do all sorts of things, but they can’t smell a virgin from a pack cum-sponge even if they sniffed their noses off.” Mark laughed. “But as an alpha werewolf, I can smell things that would even shock god, herself.”

Stiles nodded slowly, somewhat entranced by Mark’s words. The complexities of werewolves still didn’t make that much sense, and werewolves actually being something more than figments of folklore hadn’t completely seeped into Stiles’ brain as being reality. All Stiles knew was that he liked when Derek touched him. He liked the attention that he was getting from the three strangers. And he liked the faint sense of danger that buried itself deep inside of his gut.

Stiles moved his hands from where they had been poorly attempting to hide his erection from the three, watching closely as they reacted. He spread his thighs open, stretching out his legs, and letting his bulge shift around where it remained locked within the confines of his pants. It was a not-so-subtle way to display his own eagerness to continue with whatever weird mating games the strangers wanted to play. And by the visible desire painted on each of their individual faces, Stiles was clearly doing something right.

Derek knelt down one knee onto the cushion of the couch and cupped his hands underneath Stiles’ jaw, tilting the boy’s head upward before taking the human’s lips in for a kiss. Stiles’ body shivered and broke out in goosebumps, as did Derek’s. Stiles hadn’t been touched ever in his entire history. Meanwhile, Derek hadn’t had the touch of somebody other than his father and uncle in more than five years. It felt like something new to the both of them and it became easy to melt into one another’s heat and taste, growing more fierce and passionate with their kiss as the minutes passed.

Whilst Derek and Stiles moaned into each other’s mouths—kissing, sucking, and playfully tugging at one another’s bottom lips when they pulled back for the occasionally draw of breath, Peter knelt down to the ground at the boy’s spread thighs. He leaned in and took one of the boy’s hardened pink nipples into his mouth. Peter nibbled and sucked enthusiastically at Stiles’ nipples, alternating between which one got to be in his mouth. He also rubbed at them with the pads of his fingertips, making sure that there was always enough stimulation to please the boy.

Mark watched his two betas touch and kiss at the human, pleased from where he remained on the sidelines for the time being. There was something insanely hot about watching the betas passionately tear the human apart. Stiles was red with lustful anguish as he writhed around in the cushion of the couch—unable to fathom of the amount of pleasured strain that was being placed upon his body. But Mark could smell everything. He could smell the boy’s pre-cum leak profusely into the crotch of his boxers. He could smell the boy’s arousal stir around in the air like perfume. And he could smell just a hint of doubt and worry cook around inside of Stiles’ head whilst he wondered as to whether or not he was doing the right thing.

Eventually, Peter shifted his focus away from Stiles’ nipples to where the boy was painfully hard. He unbuttoned Stiles’ jeans and shucked them down Stiles’ hairy thighs, removing them with the tight boxers that Stiles had been wearing underneath. Immediately, Stiles’ cock sprung upwards—throbbing rapidly, unfathomably hot to the touch, and already ready to bust. Peter barely got his lips around the leaking head of Stiles’ cock before the boy came with a shout.

“Oh—my—god.” Stiles grunted, pulling away from where he had been wrestling his tongue against Derek’s, just to watch as his cock spewed thick jets of cum against Peter’s unsuspecting face.

“You virgins and your hair-triggers...” Peter growled, taking Stiles’ sensitive cock into the warmth of his mouth.

Peter laid kisses alongside the throbbing shaft of Stiles’ cock, analyzing the length. Surprisingly, the boy was a hung eight inches hard, cut, with a nice girth, and full balls—filled with the precious seed of a soon to be ruined virgin. Peter lapped up the cum that had drooled down Stiles’ length, humming to the taste. He then hollowed out his cheeks and set a cum-hungry rhythm, immediately taking Stiles’ cock down to the hilt—choking out slightly.

“I’m sorry, it’s not my fault.” Stiles sucked in a deep breath, feeling Peter’s hot mouth encase itself around his cock. “I’ve just never—this is all something new.”

“Don’t feel embarrassed, Stiles.” Mark defended softly. “My dear brother seems to forget how easy he was to tear apart in the beginning.”

Peter growled in response to his older brother’s snide comment, but refused to retract most of his own attention from pleasuring Stiles. He could feel the boy’s energy spark and vibrate. The taste of eagerness tasted delicious. Peter kept up his solid pace and swallowed down the human with enthusiastic and sloppy gulps. He would occasionally pull his mouth off from where it was wrapped around Stiles, giving the boy a few firm strokes, just to change things up.

But Peter especially loved being able to look up to watch Stiles’ half-lidded golden eyes sparkle with tears of bliss. This was the first time getting his cock sucked, and it brought Peter immense joy to know that he was the one getting his paws on his human. First dibs meant everything when it came down to the annual mating market. It was just something that he would be able to rub into Derek and Mark’s faces for the years to come.

“He’s good, isn’t he?” Derek asked, tugging away from Stiles’ lips. “Peter’s really good with his mouth. Don’t listen to him when he chalks up his skill to natural talent. He’s a goddamn liar. He practices with closeted frat boys from the local university.”

“There’s nothing wrong with some practice, nephew.” Peter smacked his lips, lapping up the pre-cum that had slicked his mouth. “Perhaps I’ll let you show the human what your mouth can do.”

Derek was barely able to hide his excitement, quickly switching places with his uncle. He knelt down to his knees—slotting himself in-between Stiles’ open thighs. He sized up the boy’s cock, leaning forward to start with tentative swipes with the heat of his tongue. The taste of his uncle and the taste of the human’s pre-cum immediately assaulted Derek’s senses, making his own cock begin to leak into where he was hard in the tightness of his pants.

Whilst not as calculated and trained with sucking cock as Peter was, Derek had his own techniques. He took Stiles’ girth into the warmth of his firm grasp, stroking it for an extended period of time, whilst only wrapping his lips around the fat head of his Stiles’ dick. He swirled his tongue around Stiles’, whipping the tip of his tongue into the leaking slit of the boy’s cock. Stiles tasted amazing. It was no wonder as to why Peter had been so immersed within the experience.

Stiles carded his hands through Derek’s hair, unable to take his eyes away from where his cock stretched the werewolf’s mouth open. It amazed Stiles to see that even whilst getting a cock stuffed down his throat, Derek sported the angriest looking face—thick eyebrows furrowed. But it was clear that Derek wasn’t angry. All of the sounds that he made—the whimpers, the gasps, the groans—they were sounds of pleasure, contentment, and satisfaction. That was just how Derek’s face looked and damn, Stiles couldn’t deny how attracted he was to Derek’s perpetual look of broodiness.

Mark rounded the couch, kneeling down next to where Derek was knelt down. He analyzed his boy’s work, making sure that Derek was doing his best and not slacking on the job. “That’s good, Derek. Can you feel Stiles’ body react to the pleasure you’re giving him? Can you taste that arousal?”

Derek mumbled in confirmation, continuing to abuse the head of Stiles’ cock with his tongue. But all at once, he felt the calloused guidance of his father’s hand squeeze gently on the back of his neck—slowly, but surely pushing him down. It forced Derek to take more of Stiles’ length down his throat. The human stretched his throat nicely. The burn was noticeable immediately, but not unbearable. If anything, it enticed Derek to add more movement to his performance, which was much to Stiles’ enjoyment.

“Oh fuck, Derek.” Stiles moaned. “Keep doing that—like that. Don’t stop, please.”

“Take him in all the way, Derek—” Mark instructed brightly, shoving the back of Derek’s head slightly more. “—to the root, son.”

Derek choked the moment he felt Stiles’ cock hit the back of his throat, eyes burning with tears. He wanted to pull back to draw in a clean breath, but also wanted to stay down to continue blowing Stiles. His father, however, didn’t really give him a choice in the matter. Mark kept his hands firmly placed on the back of Derek’s head, holding him in position—keeping Derek’s throat occupied. The only things that Derek could really do was cough out, slurp, and prepare himself for what he could feel Stiles’ body tighten up to do.

Stiles came for the second time, hands flailing out to grab into the couch cushions. His hips reacted involuntarily, thrusting upward into the cavernous heat of Derek’s mouth. Derek seemed perfectly content with the surge of new cum flooding into his mouth, because the only sounds that came from his body were throaty growls. Stiles felt Derek’s throat work around him, swallowing down everything, until his cock was only pumping out finishing drops of cum.

When Mark finally released his hold on Derek’s head, Derek popped up—clearing his throat. He smacked his lips, licking at them, and then looked up amorously into the boy’s golden eyes which were wet with tears just like his own. Derek sniffled with a slight chuckle on this tongue, rubbing away the ache that had settled into his jaw. He looked up to where his father stood beside him, as it waiting to receive a reward or punishment from a teacher.

“Sorry, Peter—” Stiles breathed out with a smirk tugging on his lips. “—your nephew’s got you beat.”

Peter scoffed with a half-baked laugh, leaning forward into Stiles’ face—listening to the immediate uptick in the boy’s heartbeat. “That pretty little mouth of yours sure does know how to push my buttons. How about we see what I can do about fixing that, human.”

Derek and Peter simultaneously gripped their hands onto each of Stiles’ shoulders, yanking him up from where he had been resting on the couch. Stiles yelped at the quick movement. He was somewhat unsure as to where the situation was heading, though he felt as though he had a pretty good idea in his head. The werewolf nephew and uncle duo spun Stiles around and knelt him down on the floorboards in front of the couch, and then took their own seats—side-by-side—where Stiles had once been.

“Now, be the good pack bitch that I know you can be and take our cocks out.” Peter instructed, palming at where the crotch of his jeans were raised obscenely with a bulge.

“They were both so nice for you. It’s time to put what you’ve learned to good use.” Mark planted his hands down on either of Stiles’ shoulders, firmly squeezing at them as if he were some kind of encouragement booster. He rubbed confidence into the boy, pushing out any concern or tension that he may have had. “It’s only fair, Stiles.”

Derek reached out and cradled the back of Stiles’ head, pulling the boy down to where his cock was still locked up underneath his jeans. Stiles took the initiative and began to slowly mouth at where Derek’s bulge was the most prominent through the fabric. Stiles drooled and dragged the pad of his tongue along the rigid material of the heavy denim—chasing the smell of musk. Stiles was also able to feel the heat of Derek’s cock radiating outward. It was so powerful and so comforting that Stiles lost hold of some minutes, entranced with mouthing at Derek’s bulge until there was a visible wet spot from saliva there.

“Take it out.” Derek said softly, combing his fingers gently through Stiles’ messy hair.

Stiles complied, fiddling anxiously with the top button and zipper of Derek’s jeans. Nerves fluttered around inside of his stomach. He was nervous, but also excited. He had technically already had his mouth of Derek’s bulge, and fuck—it was huge. Stiles didn’t know what he was going to do when he finally had the man’s cock plunged down his throat. But when he finally undid Derek’s pants and pulled them down the man’s hairy thighs, Stiles lost his timid composure.

Just as soon as Derek’s freed cock sprung up—nine inches long, thick as a can of beer, and leaking profusely with anticipatory pre-cum—Stiles found himself wrapping his lips around Derek’s cockhead. Stiles didn’t really know what washed over him—the surge of confidence seemed to hit him like a ton of bricks. He was there, knelt down on the hard floors, feverishly sucking at a stranger’s cock. No questions about condoms. No hesitation. It just happened.

Stiles felt a darkened, untapped corner of his brain snap. All went black. Electricity crackled inside the liquid gold of his hazel eyes. Suddenly, all Stiles wanted was cock. He wanted it in and around him. He wanted load after load down his throat, on his skin, dripping out of his ass. He wanted to be used in the worst of ways by the three strangers and whoever else wanted a turn with him. This was what he wanted from now on. This was how he wanted to spend his time—his life. He wanted to burn away his years under the thrusts and dominance of men, of cock, of sex, and of cum. Everything else that mattered in his life just seemed to flutter away like a rather unmemorable dream.

Derek watched as more and more of his length slipped past the boy’s plump lips and into his salivating mouth. Stiles just took it all without thinking—like some starved kid at a buffet. Derek could barely believe what was happening. Just a few moments prior, Stiles was timid and uncertain as to what to do and how to handle other people touching him. But then without warning, it was easy to see that Stiles’ morals had taken a backseat. Derek could see the fire inside of Stiles’ otherwise glassy, blank eyes. It was clear that Stiles’ mind had been warped and overpowered by lust, dulling anything else that the poor boy could ever hope to think about.

“Oh, he’s fucking done this before...fucking lying cumslut.” Peter growled, pulling Stiles away from Derek and into his own lap. “Get my cock out and suck me off since you’re so good at it.”

“God, yes.” Stiles mumbled, hurriedly undoing Peter’s pants. And unsurprisingly, the uncle and nephew duo followed similar personal preferences when it came down to whether or not they wore underwear.

Stiles reached into the opened crotch of Peter’s jeans, instantaneously wrapping his grasp around where he could feel the older man’s heat pulse against his palm. He took Peter out of his jeans, grinning ear-to-ear upon seeing that Peter was just as massive and just as thick as Derek. The only noticeable differences between the two boiled down to presentation, because Peter was a lot more trimmed up when it came to body hair. But Stiles hadn’t found issue with Derek’s untamed curls, on account of the masculine scent of musk and sweat.

Without further instruction or demand, Stiles opened his mouth as wide as he could manage to accommodate Peter’s thickness, much like what he had done with Derek. Stiles slicked up the shaft with his tongue, giving the man a few firm strokes with his hands, before fully taking Peter into the warmth of his throat. Stiles worked quick and unapologetically messy, slurping up any of Peter’s potent pre-cum that leaked out from his overstretched lips. And with one of his free hands, fondled Peter’s heavy balls—applying a generous amount of comfortable pressure, which made Peter writhe around in the seat of the couch.

“I think your big bad alpha nose is broken, Mark.” Peter breathed heavily, fighting with himself to finish speaking his thoughts instead of losing them to Stiles’ wicked tongue. “You smelled a virgin, but there’s no way this human hasn’t done this before.”

“What do you think is burning in the fireplace, Peter?” Mark questioned boldly.

All three of the werewolves looked over towards where the fireplace had refused to dim. And whilst Mark looked towards its flames with a smile on his face, Derek and Peter were unequivocally confused as to what their alpha was talking about. It looked like a completely normal fire, flickering away brightly inside of the charred brickwork. Visibly, there was nothing off about it. And as far as scents went, it smelled like simple wood—termite touched, with some notes of char and old ash.

Peter cried out, throwing his head back in pleasure, clasping his hands at the sides of Stiles’ head. Meanwhile, Derek rolled his eyes at the dramatic moan, still looking towards his father for an explanation about the fire. There didn’t seem to be anything immediately different about any of the other fires that had been burned there before. And if his father was testing him on something that werewolves were supposed to know, Derek was about to fail.

“It just looks—normal.” Derek explained with a shrug.

Mark snapped his fingers and Stiles pulled away from Peter’s cock, shifting back over to take Derek into his mouth. It was smooth. Stiles moved robotically, fluidly, like he knew exactly what everybody was thinking and what everybody wanted from him. He moved like he had practiced for this scenario throughout his entire life, graduating with honors from cocksucking academy. But the snap of Mark’s fingers was a hint, obviously. Derek just still couldn’t figure it out.

Mark closed his eyes with a defeated sigh. “It’s Priapus Gingersnap.”

“That’s one of the rarest materials to come by. How on God’s Earth did you find such an abundant supply of it? And enough to draw in a human virgin? Did you sell your lycan soul for this?” Peter snickered, peering over to the fireplace.

“It’s off brand. I crafted it for a particularly lonely mating market. Rabbit bones, alligator tongues, and the hair plucked from a trusted and noble authority figure.” Mark snorted, unbuckling his own belt.

“Fuck—you had to find a pure authority figure.” Derek commented, still relishing in Stiles’ mouth. “There are no pure authority figures in this world, dad. All of them are power-hungry barbarians.”

“This one—” Mark gestured down towards where Stiles remained on his knees, swallowing down Derek’s cock with ravenous enthusiasm. “—is the son a nearby city’s sheriff. I plucked some hair off the old man and who would have known his own virgin son would come through our woods, drawn to our fire.”

Derek’s muscles tensed, involuntarily thrusting up into Stiles’ mouth, shooting his load. Despite the abruptness, Stiles didn’t miss a beat. He swallowed down the thick surges of cum that Derek supplied as they pulsated out, letting his throat gulp down everything. He cleaned Derek’s cock until it was shiny and free of cum, then pulled away with a satisfied hum and smack of his lips—freezing in place where he remained on his knees.

Stiles froze with a blank expression locked onto his sweaty, flushed out face. His eyes still sparkled brightly with gold, but there was otherwise no thought left inside the boy’s head for the time being. Derek found it confusing at first, but then realized what he had read up on Priapus Gingersnap before during his high school days, and it became clear that Stiles wasn’t frozen, he was just waiting—placed on pause, awaiting the next order or desire like some kind of computerized sex toy.

“I think I’d like to see our cockslut’s dripping hole.” Peter suggested wickedly, watching as Stiles immediately stood up from where he had been.

Stiles walked over to an arm-chair that was situated in the corner of the living room, next to the mantle of the fireplace. Peter and the two other werewolves watched as Stiles hopped into the chair with a plump bounce and then hooked each of his legs onto each of the chair’s arms—forcing his thighs to be obscenely spread. Stiles slouched down slightly, letting his puckered entrance come into fire’s light, showing off for the three horny werewolves that drooled all over themselves with delight.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Mark asked, tugging out his cock through the unzipped crotch of his jeans. He stroked himself as the three wolves drew closer to where Stiles was spread out on the chair.

“But—how? I know a little bit about this gingersnap. It can’t draw in unwilling participants.” Derek noted, slightly befuddled.

“You’re exactly right, son.”

“So, he—”

“—was just a cock-warmer waiting for an opportunity to jump at.” Mark cooed, trailing his fingers down one of Stiles’ legs. “And how generous are we for giving this to our human pet?”

Peter laughed. “Very.”

“Now, Stiles—” Mark started, turning his attention back to where the human was blanking staring at him. “—what do we say when we want something?”

“Please—” Stiles’ throat tightened as he gulped. “Please, daddy. Please fuck me.”

“Atta boy.”

Mark slotted himself in-between Stiles’ legs, pressing the head of his leaking cock into where Stiles was flushed hot and puckered up, untouched and twitching with an eagerness to be filled with another’s man’s girth and heat. As he eased himself into the human’s overwhelming heat, Stiles panted out like a dog—huffing out and drooling all over his own bare chest, unable to fathom the feeling of finally being stretched open by something other than his own fingers.

As the alpha werewolf, Mark had control. Derek and Peter knew as much, so they both waited around on the sidelines with their own cocks still raging hard and desperate to get inside of Stiles’ slutty heat. Mark, however, didn’t waste his time. The speed and severity of his thrusts was unlike anything another human would ever be able to replicate. If Stiles were to set back on his merry way—to live a normal life back in Beacon Hills, to get married, to raise a family, to work tirelessly at some cookie-cutter career—it was certain that Stiles would exhaust himself and waste away trying to find somebody to fill him as well as Mark and his betas did.

Stiles’ body was savagely thrashed around underneath Mark’s dominating thrusts. Mark was rough, but passionate. He cooed filthy nothings into the boy’s ear whilst he kept up his rhythm, willing the boy to moan out desperate pleas of “daddy, fuck me harder”, “make me your bitch”, “fuck me full”, “don’t stop”. Most of the pleas were of Stiles’ own internal soundboard, but Mark hit the switches—repeatedly, over and over again, until the words were breathless and hoarse. The only thing Mark truly pushed harder for was Stiles’ frequent and babbled use of the word ‘daddy’ which dripped off of Stiles’ lips and waged unearthly fire through Mark’s veins.

“I feel so full.” Stiles sighed contently, rubbing at where his stomach rhythmically bulged out with Mark’s insertion.

“Give our pet something to chew on.” Mark said, combing his own sweaty hair out from where it had fallen into his eyes due to the wildness of his thrusts.

Derek and Peter positioned themselves on either side of the arm chair where Stiles was spread open underneath Mark’s vicious hammering. With Stiles slouched down, he was at the perfect angle to handle a couple cocks in his hands and in his mouth. And with a snap of Mark’s instructive fingers, Stiles immediately jolted alive with newfound energy, switching over into some kind of preprogrammed motion. He took Derek and Peter into each of his empty hands, applying firm pressure and fluid stroked movements.

For a while, the two betas happily took advantage of Stiles’ warm, receptive grasp. They started to leisurely thrust their cocks into Stiles’ hands, howling up towards the splintered wood ceiling of the living room. Meanwhile, Stiles happily jerked both of them off, grinning like some doped-out slut—switching his gaze back and forth between where Derek and Peter stood on opposite sides of him. He ran the pad of his thumbs across the leaking slits of their fat cockheads, tingling with anticipation as to when he’d get to have them in his mouth.

“So big—so hot.” Stiles chirped with a bright smile and wide eyes.

“Go ahead, son. Let them fuck that beautiful mouth of yours.” Mark murmured softly, grinding deep into Stiles’ overworked heat.

Stiles let his head fall back against the backing of the arm chair, letting his mouth fall slack-jawed. Derek was the first one to make the move and take the human. He clasped his hands at the sides of Stiles’ head and pulled the boy closer, shoving his meaty cock right into where Stiles was open and drooling with hunger at the simple thought of a cock slipping down his throat. And as soon as the weight of Derek’s cock hit Stiles’ tongue, the boy came for the third time.

Mark chuckled to himself, punching a series of particularly harder thrusts into the human’s lithe frame, working the boy through his orgasm. Stiles’ body convulsed hard, but even as his body writhed and flailed, he never let Derek’s cock slip out from between his abused lips. He kept sucking, unable to stop himself from swallowing around Derek’s girth, even as he felt his own body shake uncontrollably and his own thick rod blast another one of his loads onto his lean stomach.

When Stiles’ orgasm died down, Mark slipped himself out of the boy’s hole—still hard, still loaded, but determined to give Stiles a reward for taking an alpha’s cock so well, thus far. He knelt down in-between where Stiles’ legs were still spread open and hooked on the chair’s arms He pressed his mouth against where he had just removed his cock, slipping his tongue inside of Stiles’ gushing warmth—alongside a few of his own trigger-happy fingers.

With Derek and Peter frivolously trading Stiles’ mouth back and forth between the two of themselves, Mark worked his fingers and tongue into Stiles’ hole. He plunged his digits inwards, hooking them slightly, and circling around until Stiles screamed out around whichever beta was lodged down his throat. But the moment Mark got his fingers on the right stop, he refused to let up. He continued to circle his fingers around, pressing deeply, with precision and intent—repeatedly, drinking in all of the screams that Stiles let out.

Stiles’ body reacted in such beautiful ways to Mark’s fingers. His muscles tightened and released. His breath quickened, drawing in loud breaths whenever Derek or Peter traded him to the other. Mark was so precise and so brutal, keeping the point of his fingers directly plunged against Stiles’ prostate—rubbing in that spot over and over and over again that Stiles’ body seemed as though it started to malfunction. One of the boy’s eyes began to twitch, some of his toes twitched, a pink blush spread across his sweaty chest, and his cock started to pulsate as though he was shooting a load—but he wasn’t.

A dry orgasm ripped Stiles’ body apart without remorse—causing him to momentarily break out from under the effects of the Priapus Gingersnap. His stopped sucking where his mouth was wrapped around Peter’s girth, letting the werewolf slip out of his mouth with a gush of saliva and pre-cum, down to splat against his chin and chest. Stiles screamed out towards the ceiling, immediately falling into a hysterical display of crying and laughing, seemingly unable for his brain to correctly identify the kind of pleasure that rocked through his body. All the while, Stiles’ hard cock pulsed violently, completely untouched, producing no spray of cum. His balls hadn’t had enough time to produce anything, but his body pushed him through the motions.

Mark pulled his fingers from where they had been pressed against Stiles’ prostate, letting the boy float down from his orgasm. He slapped and rubbed at the boy’s hole with his fingers in a repetitive and soothing motion. And eventually, once the boy’s mixture of delirious laughs and cries dulled down into complete silence, Mark watched the fireplace’s charm take the boy back into its competent grasp. He watched Stiles catch his breath and lick his lips, readying himself for further instruction.

“Derek, I think we’re overdue for some father-son bonding time, don’t you think?” Mark asked, winking over to where Derek was standing with his wet dick in his hand. “Do you remember that one time we took that closeted, blond, jock-type lacrosse player out behind the dumpsters of that gaybar in the city?”

“Yeah—he came out to his parents the next day.” Derek laughed. “He said something about not being able to keep hiding how much he wanted cock stuffed up his ass anymore. What was his name again? Johnny? Jeremiah? Jacks—?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mark interrupted. “But let’s give Stiles what we gave that jock.”

Mark stood up from where he was knelt down at Stiles’ hole and laid back atop the solid wood coffee table that was placed in the middle of the couch and the fireplace. His cock was still jut out from his open pants—speared up towards the roof of the room. He snapped his fingers again and watched as life revitalized Stiles’ exhausted body. The boy stood up from the arm-chair and straddled over Mark and where he was laid out on the coffee table—hovering his hole directly above Mark’s cock.

“I don’t think one cock did the job, did it, Stiles?” Mark asked, reaching up to pinch at Stiles’ spit-slicked nipples.

“Daddy, please.” Stiles groaned, reaching back with his hands to spread open his ass checks. He let his clenched hole rub over Mark’s throbbing cockhead. “I need more than one. I need two. Please, I need you and Derek inside me—fuck me at the same time.”

Mark gripped his hands at both sides of Stiles’ hips and slowly eased the boy down onto his cock. He leaned the boy forward, so that Stiles was laid flat against Mark’s chest—face nuzzled up to Mark’s stubbled jaw. It allowed for Derek to take his positioning, crouching down behind Stiles and slowly pushing inside the boy. Mark held his composure, despite nearly losing himself to the warm tightness of Stiles’ ass. But just as soon as he felt his son’s huge cock nudge against his own—confirming that they were both deep inside of the human, all bets were off.

Derek and Mark fucked their cocks inside of Stiles’ hole, adjusting their rhythm enough so that one of them fucked inward whilst the other pulled out. It provided a delicious kind of friction that not only set Derek and Mark’s bodies on fire, but Stiles’ as well. As the three of them rocked into one another, Peter walked around and played his own part—shoving his cock into Stiles’ empty mouth, just to make sure that there wasn’t one hole of the boy that felt left out. They all worked together in tandem, fast and hard—setting an unforgivable pace that shook the human’s bones.

Stiles remained sandwiched between the two Hales, never once letting Peter drop out of his mouth. His mind fluttered around with feelings of bliss and fear of one day not being able to enjoy such an overload of stimulation. But he hung on, letting the three wolves take his body and do with it what they pleased. Much to Stiles’ pleasure, every touch, every whispered word, every spurt of hot cum, every kiss, and every taste of cock that pressed itself onto Stiles’ tongue, filled Stiles’ body with the upmost feeling of love and satisfaction.

“Oh fuck, dad—” Derek breathed, his thrusts stuttered rapidly. “—I’m gonna, jesus, dad. I’m gonna—”

“Me too, son.” Mark groaned.

And at once, Derek and Mark shoved everything that they had to give into Stiles’ body—feeling their balls draw up tight and their thick cocks throb rapidly where they were bound together within the heat of a human. Shortly thereafter, Peter felt his own orgasm approach. He pulled out from Stiles’ mouth and jerked himself off roughly, stroking his cock whilst he stared down into the tearfully wet eyes of the newest Hale pack pet. His cock spewed hotly and heavily, jetting out ropes of white cum in rhythmic bursts—painting over the boy’s debauched face, coating his upturned nose, his delicate freckles, his precious lips, and the heavy lashes that fluttered down closed to hide the boy’s golden eyes.

Stiles remained seated atop Mark’s body, speared open by two huge werewolf cocks. A flood of Hale family cum ravished his inner walls, burning white hot into where he was bright pink, overworked, and stretched out. But all that Stiles could do was mindlessly hump his hardened cock against where it was pressed flat against Mark’s body, bringing himself to a feeble orgasm—spurting out tiny drops of white cum into the fabric of Mark’s sweaty shirt. It was all the cum that Stiles’ body was able to produce, having been so thoroughly used.

“Oh, Stiles—our dear, new pack pet.” Mark whispered, soothingly rubbing his hands down Stiles’ bare back, kissing softly against the cum-speckled skin of the boy’s face. “Whatever are you going to do now?”

Stiles mumbled groggily, slipping quickly into a safe passage of sleep—coddled and squeezed between a loving father and son. “I’mmugh, stay—ing.”

+

Helicopters and search teams swept through cities. It didn’t matter, though. They could search for as long and as hard as they pleased. Their efforts would prove nothing but unsuccessful in regards to locating the missing Stilinski boy. Sure, missing persons fliers decorated the boy’s hometown of Beacon Hills—but they didn’t turn up anything. All of the hotline tips that were called in to be collected lead nowhere helpful. The only thing that had been found was the boy’s leaky blue jeep, parked haphazardly on the side of a rather vacant, washed out highway.

The boy’s father, the pure and noble authority figure of the Beacon Hills Police Department, tried his best to find his missing son, but poor ol’ Jonathan Stilinski came up short every time. For months and months, John led the charge for searches—exhausting his efforts and power as the sheriff to facilitate thorough combs through surrounding wooded areas, lakes, and grassy patches. But nothing—just like all the other attempts, all roads seemed to lead to nothing.

Although, there had been one particular search that had lasted late into the early morning hours, after search and rescue volunteers had retired back to their homes to escape a coming thunderstorm, John continued to trek through a dense line of woods, avoiding muddy patches, tripping over thick branches, and nearly slipping down slippery slopes. Exhausted and delirious with sleep deprivation, for just a moment, John could have sworn he had heard his son calling out to him—“Daddy, daddy, oh god, please!”

But John waved it away as being a figment of his month’s long exhaustive search without much sleep, heading off to search in another direction…Unfortunately, never finding his way to the broken old house with the billowing chimney smoke, where his son cried out—not in agony, not in fear, not in pain, but in orgasmic, heart-stopping pleasure.