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Two roars sound at opposite ends of the warehouse, reverberating throughout the massive space. The shipping container they’re in nearly vibrates at the baying. His captors jump at the sound, lifting their guns and pointing them haphazardly at the open doors, cowering like rabbits who caught sight of a hawk’s shadow. Stiles doesn’t even try to hide the smug chuckle that escapes his lips.
My wolves are coming for me.
“You guys are so fucking screwed.” He sneers. It’s worth the backhand that snaps his head to the side, splitting his lip and causing an involuntary grunt of pain to leave him. He doesn’t care if it makes him look weak, though. Derek and Peter are here. These guys are as good as dead.
He looks up at the one who had hit him - The ring leader, Garrett, someone had called him - and probes the cut on his bottom lip with his tongue. The slap hadn’t been enough to wipe the smirk off of his face. He bares his teeth in a wide, dark grin.
“You might want to keep your hands off the goods, Garrett, if you plan on leaving with them.”
Garrett opens his mouth to snark a response, but he’s cut off by a scream to the left of them, followed closely by a burst of gunfire somewhere on the opposite side of the warehouse. He looks at one of the two guys with them and gestured towards the disturbance. The guy just stares back, and audibly gulps.
“Go!” Garrett yells, exasperated, and the dude takes off in that general direction. “Matt, go to the east end. There was noise over there as well.” Matt doesn’t seem the least bit pleased as he leaves the safety of the shipping container, walking through the open doors in the opposite direction, gun up and shoulders hunched.
These dumb fuckers have no clue, Stiles thinks almost grimly. He almost feels bad for them. But then again, they had kidnapped the Sheriff’s kid in an poor effort to get the back the five kilos of cocaine that had been confiscated. The idiot they hired to move it got pulled over by Parrish when he ran a stop sign. Stiles wonders how criminals so stupid could have possibly gotten their hands on nearly three-quarters of a million dollars worth of cocaine in the first place.
He doesn’t know where he is. He had been heading out when there was a knock on his front door, and he opened it to see a ragtag group of thugs. They’d rushed him, shoved a gun to his side, bound his hands, and told him to obey their commands or he’d get a bullet. One of the guys had dug his phone out of his pocket and put it in his own.
“You’re seriously not going to find anything worth stealing.” He said, more angry than scared at this point.
“We’re not stealing anything. We’re taking back what’s ours.” The guy with the gun - Garrett - had said. Then they hauled him outside and unceremoniously shoved him in the trunk. He still has no idea how they were able to do all that without any of the neighbors noticing.
The ride in the trunk had been less than desirable. They traveled for anywhere between one and three hours (He really wasn’t sure at all; time seems to move different when you’re locked in a trunk. Who knew?), and it gave him a lot of time to think about who the pack had pissed off.
Taking back what was theirs? His mind is whirring the whole time trying to put all of the pieces together. After what seems like a modest eternity, he’s pulled out of the trunk and dragged into a warehouse. He didn’t get a good look at his surroundings before entering the building, because being locked in the dark for so long had made the afternoon sun sting his eyes.
They had adjusted by the time they enter the dingy warehouse, though. There were shipping containers scattered everywhere. They made base in one that was open on both ends, and push him down onto an old spinning desk chair that was already sitting inside. His hands were untied, only to be rebound behind the back, and additional rope wrapped around his stomach and arms to keep him in place. The fuckers hadn’t been gentle tying him up, either. The rope was rough and itchy, and immediately his wrists started to feel chafed.
The real kicker though, is that his dad doesn’t actually know he’s missing. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and Sheriff Stilinski was out of town until Monday. Seriously, these guys did enough research to know who the Sheriff’s son was, and where he lived, but not enough to know his work schedule? Anyways, he had told his dad that he was spending the night at Scott’s, and told Scott that he was going to catch up on his backlog of homework. His actual plans included gracing his two favorite Hales with his presence.
When Garrett had grabbed Stiles’ phone from the guy who had taken it, it was dead. He pulled out his own, and asked for his Dad’s number. Stiles silently praised whatever deity is obviously looking out for him, and immediately gave him Peter’s number without missing a step. Garrett dialed, set the phone on speaker, and held it up to Stiles’ mouth after telling him exactly what he wanted him to say.
“Hello?” Peter answered after the third ring.
“DAD, hey, it’s Stiles. You need to stop talking and listen to me,” He rushed out before Peter could tip them off.
There was a pause before Peter slowly said, “Okay.”
“That drug bust that Parrish did Wednesday? Well, I’m with those guys. They want their cocaine back. They haven’t hurt me, yet. Well, they did tie these ropes a little tighter than necessary, and I haven’t even been offered a drink of water - ”
“Shut up!” Garrett snapped. He pulled the phone away from Stiles and to his own mouth. “You’ve got three hours. I want all of my shit. I don’t care about Shane, he can rot in prison for all I care. If you don’t come alone, with all five bricks , your pain-in-the-ass kid will be leaving in a body bag. Do you understand?”
He could hear the low growl that issued from Peter. To the untrained ear, it probably sounded like background noise.
“I do.” Peter grits out in a clipped tone, and he sounded PISSED. Oh boy . Stiles was glad that he wouldn’t be on the receiving end of his wrath. Garrett gave him the information about where they could be found. Jefferson County? He does the math quickly in his head. Depending on where they are within Jefferson, it could be anywhere from a 1 ½ - 2 ½ hour drive.
“Oh, and Stiles, honey?” Peter’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Stiles grinned inwardly to himself. “Yeah, Daddio?”
Peter sighed, and Stiles thought he heard Derek snort in the background.
“For the love of god, try not to terrorize them into killing you. I’ll see you soon.”
“Three hours!” Garrett yelled into the receiver, looking slightly confused by Peter’s words. He ended the call before anything else could be said. “Your dad sounds like he has some cogs loose.”
Stiles just laughed.
“Dude, you have absolutely no idea.”
His wolves are there in under two hours. It’s the slowest under two hours of Stiles’ life. Other than the twoish hours he spent in the trunk. They had started with Garrett and four others in the open-ended shipping container. After thirty minutes of having to listen to Stiles prattle on about anything and everything, spinning back and forth in the squeaky seat, two of them freely decided to check the perimeter.
He tried not to speak. He really did. But he just can’t help himself. They’re just standing there, no tv, no phones, not even a window to look out of, in this huge-ass warehouse, littered with randomly placed huge-ass storage containers. They’re inside a huge-ass storage container, and this fucking nitwit has both ends open.
So here they are. Garrett has sent his last two guys in two different directions, towards two different sources of noise, of which he has no clue what they are. Not smart, Stiles thinks to himself. They’ll be easier to pick off if they can’t see each other. But then again, they probably think that it’s maybe just his dad, with a bear or a tiger for a sidekick? Who fucking knows what’s going through Garrett’s tiny, little, drug dealer mind.
Another several shots go off, closer than before, in Matt’s direction. Garrett moves to stand behind the chair Stiles is tied to, spinning it in the direction of Matt, and presses a knife to his neck. He grits his teeth as the tip shallowly digs into the soft skin below his jaw. He feels a bead of blood drip down his throat. He has to focus on not swallowing so it doesn’t sink further.
“Tell them to stop.” Garrett demands, his wavering voice betraying how scared shitless he is. By this point, he’s correctly judged that Stiles knows exactly what’s happening.
“I’m not their keeper.” Stiles scoffs. The knife bites deeper. Goddamn, but why can’t he keep his clever retorts to a minimum in situations like this? His growing apprehension had abated when he heard his wolves roar, announcing their arrival, but it’s slowly creeping back in. And if he can’t control his smart mouth, he wasn’t going to make it out alive, Peter and Derek be damned.
Garrett jumps as one more scream echoes, this time behind them, in Gulping Guy’s direction. That there would be the last henchman. He manages to get a single shot off before his scream is cut short with a nasty gurgle. Stiles pictures a ripped throat and bloody claws.
“Your men are dead,” a voice behind them croons, outside the container and hidden from view. Peter. Garrett spins the chair once again in an attempt to keep Stiles between him and the voice.
“And you’re next.” Derek growls from directly behind them. At the same time, the arm with the knife is wrenched away from his neck. The side of Stiles’ face and upper body is hit with a warm spray of blood as a shriek pierces his ears. The arm lands on the floor in front of him, sans rest of Garrett, with a thud.
In the midst of the action, Stiles’ chair is knocked backward, and he screws his eyes shut, already lamenting the fact that he’s most likely going to break an arm on impact when he’s stopped an inch from hitting the metal floor. His eyes snap open, and Peter’s wolfed-out face, laced with heavy concern, is crowding his vision.
Peter sets his chair straight, and places his hands on either side of Stiles’ face. He’s looking into his eyes, gauging his injuries. Peter presses his lips against Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles makes a noise of pleasant surprise when he feels his aches and pains drain away. Clever Peter.
The screaming has stopped, and Derek is behind him, slicing through the ropes that bind him to the chair. Once free, Peter stands up to allow Stiles space to shake himself free of the ropes. Once he stands, he’s immediately spun around into a beta-shifted Derek’s arms, who grabs his face and kisses him. Derek’s kisses are greedy and desperate, and stiles can’t get enough of them.
He’s pushed flush against Derek as Peter presses into him from behind, circling his arms around Stile’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. Derek lowers his face into the opposite crook. Stiles reaches back with one arm to hug Peter, and slings the other one around Derek, tilting his head for his wolves. They stand like that for about half a minute. When Stiles starts to feel ticklish from the breaths that huff against both sides of his neck, he twitches and both men let him go.
“Took you boys long enough.” He says lightly with a grin, rubbing a wrist with his hand. He looks down at Garrett and grimaces. Derek had actually torn both arms from his body, and then shut him up with a swipe of claws to his neck. His eyes are open wide in a dead stare.
“We aren’t boys . And you are absolutely insufferable .” Peter drawls, placing a hand on the nape of Stiles’ neck and squeezing affectionately. His face has returned to human. So has Derek’s, at some point in nuzzling his neck. “We should get going. This place will be crawling with police in minutes.”
There’s the access door to their left, where the drug dealers had dragged Stiles through. They exit the warehouse take off through the woods at a brisk pace.
“Your phone,” Peter says, tossing it towards Stiles. He flails, but manages to grasp it before it hits the ground. “Pulled it off of one of the thugs.”
“You’re seriously the best.” He had totally forgotten about his phone. They’d be in a much bigger mess if it had been left behind. Also, all of his high scores on his apps would’ve been lost if he had to replace it - again.
About two hundred yards in, they reach a ten-foot chain link fence, outfitted with barbed wire at the top. He looks up skeptically, and almost mentions turning around, but the faint sound of sirens reaches his ears.
“Yeeeeah. So that’s a no-go for me. Can’t you guys rip through it?” He makes an overly-elaborate slashing motion with his hands. Derek rolls his eyes.
Peter just shrugs.
“We scaled a tree and jumped over on our way in.” He turns to Stiles and grins at his shocked face. “Hop on, Pet.” Peter turns around, motioning to his back.
Stiles squawks and turns to Derek. Derek just shakes his head and smirks, taking off up a tree and easily leaping to the other side. Stiles grumbles as he clambers onto Peter’s back. “Undignified... some sort of damsel... never live this down.”
Peter climbs the tree with ease, even with Stiles’ added weight. Okay, so it’s a little hot. When they’re a decent height (far too high, in Stiles’ opinion), Peter turns his head to the side and says, “You better hold on tight, spider monkey,” and leaps over the fence. Stiles nearly loses his grip laughing. When they land, he falls off Peter and lands on his butt with a thud.
“Twilight? You’re quoting Twilight? And I’m Bella? You’re such an asshole, you dick.” The words have no malice behind them. He stands up and shoves Peter playfully before brushing leaves and dirt off his ass.
“What’s this about assholes and dicks?” Peter says innocently, with a pout to his lips. The predatory glint in his eye is anything but innocent.
“Keep it in your pants, Peter.” Derek sounds like a scolding father, but Stiles can tell that he’s also itching to put his hands all over him. Mark him, claim him, prove to the world that he belongs to the Hale wolves, and god have mercy if you lay a finger on him.
“He’s right.” Stiles says over his shoulder to Peter, while stalking up to Derek. “We’ll have all the time in the world once we get back to the loft.” He cups Derek obscenely through his jeans. Derek’s eyes flash red, and his jaw ticks. Stiles can tell that he’s resisting the urge to back him up against a tree. Or Peter.
Once again, it’s something that Stiles can’t seem to stop himself from doing. Near-death experiences spike his adrenaline and always leave him horny as hell after. Before, he would go home and jerk off in the shower. Now, he has two willing participants. And he knows from previous experience that they feel those same urges. But they really do need to keep moving. Even though release isn’t going to be in the immediate future, the promise of it is enough.
The red drains from Derek’s eyes and he nods sharply, leading the way. Stiles falls in step behind him, and Peter brings up the rear. They pick their way through the woods for another ten minutes and back to the Camaro.
- - -
It’s almost 8pm by the time they make it back to the loft. The drive back took almost two hours, and after summarizing what happened, Stiles dozed in the back while Peter sat shotgun and Derek drove. Honestly, the whole thing is laughable. No one, save for Derek and Peter, had even known he was missing. The police would find the bodies, connect them to whatever cartel they were a part of, and chalk it up to gang violence. Poor Garrett. Not much of a legacy to leave behind.
Stiles grimaces as his clothes audibly peel from the seat when he moves to get out. The blood covering him had dried and stuck to the leather. This was going to be the third time in as many months that Derek will have to get the Camaro cleaned and detailed.
His body feels stiff and he groans as he slides out of the car. The aches that Peter had quite literally kissed away are settling back into his tired muscles. The ropes were too tied too tightly, and he was forced to sit in the same position for too long. He rubs a hand against his jaw, and hopes that it doesn’t bruise.
Derek and Peter box him in when he’s finally up and out, each placing a hand on one of his shoulders. The aching seeps away, and Stiles sighs in relief. They walk into the building, not taking their hands off of him for a second.
Once they reach the loft, any residual drowsiness is completely been erased from Stiles’ mind, and his heartbeat starts beating a little faster in anticipation. This is by far the best (only good?) part of being in any life-threatening predicament. The after party. He closes the door, and then turns around to face his wolves. They both wear an expression of hunger and need. Stiles is sure that he smells too little like them, like pack , and their instincts are telling them to fix that stat.
Stiles knows that they can hear his heart thrumming in his chest, but he maintains an outward appearance of nonchalance.
“Shower?” He asks simply, brushing between them without another word. He trails his hands along their chests and biceps, knowing without having to turn and look that they’ll fall into line behind him.
They stalk him silently up the spiral staircase, down the hall through the master bedroom, and into the bathroom. Stiles loves this bathroom. First of all, it has heated floors. That alone makes it better than any bathroom he’s ever used. But wait, there’s more!
The thing is COLOSSAL. There’s a floor-to-ceiling glass wall a door that cuts the room in half, enclosing a walk-in shower that can comfortably fit six people (He knows because almost the whole pack had piled in to see if it could fit them all, much to Derek’s exasperation). There’s two shower heads each on the left and right walls, and several heat bulbs in the ceiling. Both walls have benches built into them.
The rubber flooring has padding underneath, making it squishy and comfortable to stand on. At the back of the shower is a jacuzzi tub set halfway into the floor that can fit four, if you don’t mind touching (That one had been less fun to test when it was Stiles, Scott, Isaac and an unwilling Boyd. The girls wanted no part in that). The walls are tiled with dark grey slate. It really is a beautiful bathroom. Stiles sometimes wonders if Derek is secretly into interior design. The whole loft looks like something out of a magazine.
Stiles starts stripping in the corner, with Peter and Derek following suit. Before they’d piled into the Camaro, all they had time to do was pour a bottle of water over their heads and hands, hastily wiping themselves dry with a few spare towels that Derek always kept handy.
Stiles is surprisingly unbothered by the blood that covers his clothes and body. aside from the fact that it’s grimy and flaking. A few years ago, it might’ve made him want to crawl out of his skin, but now it just seems like another daily hazard to living.
Free from their clothes, they file into the shower and close the door. They each fiddle with their own shower controls. There’s a handful of knobs and buttons for each shower head- for water pressure, temperature, various other settings, and even the lights above them.
The silence between the three of them is companionable. Stiles closes his eyes, lifts his face towards the steady stream of water - set just a tad below scalding - and sighs in contentment. The water cascades down his face and onto his chest and back, washing away the day. After a few minutes, he feels the water move away, and then a washcloth touches his back, making slow circles. He leans back into Derek’s hands, humming in appreciation. Then two suds-upped hands brush over his chest, and he shifts his weight to lean forward, his eyes still closed and his head tilted back.
Derek and Peter work in tandem to clean Stiles; Derek using the washcloth in gentle circles, while Peter uses his bare hands, dragging his nails over Stiles’ skin to scrape the grime off. He loves this. They each have a specific signature to their touch. Derek’s is nurturing where Peter’s is primal. They both fulfill Stiles in a different way, pairing together perfectly.
Stiles is well-scrubbed before any other touching happens. His hair is carded through with soapy fingers from the back, while hands from the front slide up and down his legs and arms. He blindly reaches up above him, positioning the shower head to hit him full on. The water runs the soap down his body, rinsing him off. His breath is already coming out ragged with the innocent touches, and his dick is almost painfully hard. It doesn’t bother him though. Sometimes they went fast, and other times they went slow. The end game is always the same.
Derek’s hands trail down his spine and cup his ass. At the same time, he feels Peter’s hand close around his dick and start to lazily slide up and down his shaft. He moans, basking in the fact that he’s at the complete mercy of his wolves.
Stiles hears the distinct sound of the bottle of lube they keep in the shower snap open, then click shut. Derek’s slick finger circles his hole. He groans and leans forward into Peter. Peter cups his face and drags a thumb gently across Stiles’ bottom lip. Stiles hears the possessive rumble that issues from deep within his chest. Stiles opens his eyes, blinking away water and staring into those beautiful blues.
“Doesn’t hurt, babe,” Stiles promises, breathless, and wraps his arms loosely around Peter’s neck. He licks a wet strip up his neck, causing Peter to shiver and moan, before slotting their lips together. The kiss is slow and languid, no rush to it.
Derek moves his other hand from his ass cheek to low on Stiles’ stomach, pulling his hips back slightly, and slides in a second finger, pumping them in and out at a steady pace. Stiles whimpers into Peter’s mouth, and pulls away, opting instead to trail kisses across his jaw and down his neck. He lightly nips the sensitive skin there, drawing a groan from him. Peter’s hand tightens around Stiles’ cock, and then slips off as Stiles bends down lower, moving to one of his nipples. Derek adds a third finger.
Peter reaches behind himself and turns off the shower head. The other two are still on, as well as the heat lamps, so the stall will stay at a comfortable humid temperature even without the water spraying directly on them.
Stiles is licking, nipping, and kissing lower. Peter leans his back against the wall, sliding down to sit on the bench. Stiles follows him, sinking to his knees. He silently thanks Derek for having the foresight to install padded flooring. Derek follows suit, until he’s kneeling behind Stiles.
Stiles finally grips his cock, and he’s rewarding with a hitch in Peter’s breathing. He lets his legs fall to either side and drops his head back to the tile. The sight is obscene, and Stiles loves it. He runs his hand up and down, and flicks his tongue over the head, being a complete tease.
Derek removes his fingers, and Stiles makes a small noise of protest. He leans back involuntarily, trying to follow. He doesn’t have to wait long though, and feels the tip of Derek’s cock brush once, twice, three times over his hole. They moan in unison when he slowly slides in. Derek grasps Stiles’ hips with both hands now, fingers digging into his flesh in the best way. There’s minimal resistance, and once the head pushes past the tight ring of muscle, the rest glides in smoothly.
“Fuck, Der.” Stiles savors the fullness, rotating his hips and earning a gasp from his wolf.
When Derek bottoms out and stills, Stiles tightens his grip on Peter, who bites back a whimper. Stiles eye snap open, and he’s slightly embarrassed to have forgotten Peter in front of him. Peter’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s huffing shallowly through his bared teeth.
He’s trying desperately to stay in control of himself, but Stiles can see how the tips of his fingernails are longer than normal and pointed. His knuckles are white where his hands grip at the edge of the bench. His canines are slightly too long to be considered human.
Stiles uses his free hand to grab one of Peter’s, and places it on his head. Peter opens his eyes and stares at him, all hunger and lust. He gently tangles his fingers into Stiles’ hair. Then Stiles swallows Peter down to the hilt, causing him to make a sound that’s more of a growl than a groan, and he brings up his other hand to twist his fingers in Stiles’ hair.
Stiles bobs his head, and Derek finally begins to move behind him, now that he’s started working on Peter. Always the gentleman, Stiles thinks as growing pleasure starts to cloud his mind. They’re so wound up, none of them are going to last long.
Derek’s nails dig into Stiles’ hips as he speeds up. The drag of his cock in and out is addicting, and Stiles feels drunk on the pleasure that’s quickly building.
Once his throat begins feeling raw, Stiles grabs the base of Peter’s cock and focuses his mouth on the tip, hollowing his cheeks and sucking. He doesn’t even need to bob his head at this point, as Derek’s thrusts are forceful enough to push his whole body back and forth, moving his mouth up and down as a result.
Before he has a chance to do so himself, Derek grabs his dick and jerks it in long strokes, from base to tip. He runs his thumb over the top at every stroke, and Stiles can’t decide whether he wants to push back onto his cock, or forward into his hand.
The stall is filled with harsh breaths, and moans of yes, more, don’t stop, fuck me . Peter is the first to come, thrusting his cock down Stiles throat and then pulling back, filling Stiles’ mouth with hot cum that drips down his chin and throat when Peter pulls out.
He palms his dick and gave it a few unrushed tugs, working himself through his orgasm. A small amount of cum oozes out of the tip and Stiles bends forward to suck it off.
“ Fuck , Stiles!” Peter snarls, eyes igniting blue. He pushes on Stiles shoulders until he’s in a kneeling position, and then pushes him backwards. Derek responds by wrapping an arm around Stiles’ shoulders and leaning back on his heels. He pulls Stiles onto his lap. His legs are between Stiles’, and they make his own spread wide, his body on full display for Peter.
“Fuck, Stiles,” Derek says into his ear. “feels so good, baby.”
The dirty talk makes Stiles’ dick throb in Derek’s hand, and he moans in response.
Derek lets go of Stiles’ cock, placing his hand behind him, using it as leverage to roughly push up into Stiles.
Peter sinks his down in front of Stiles, mouth going straight to his dick, and he sucks hard. Stiles cries out at the sensation and his ass clenches, drawing a roar out of Derek as he buries his cock into Stiles with one last deep thrust and empties himself. He stills, riding out his orgasm and holds them both upright for about five more seconds until Stiles comes in Peter’s mouth, who swallows it down with a pleased hum.
Stiles slowly comes back to earth, feeling like his whole body is thrumming just under his skin. Peter sits up and kisses him, licking at the seam of his lips. Stiles opens his mouth, and can taste himself on Peter’s tongue.
Derek moves to lay down sideways, carrying Stiles with him. Peter follows, kissing him the whole way down. Stiles’ chest is heaving as he relishes his afterglow.
After a minute, Derek pulls out of Stiles with a small noise and stands up. He reaches out a hand to Peter, and then they both hold a hand out to Stiles, pulling him up to his feet on weak legs. He feels like a newborn fawn, staggering and holding on to his two very capable men for support.
“Shower?” Stiles says with a goofy grin, and they both chuckle. Peter leans over and kisses his forehead. Derek gives his hand a light squeeze, and they step back to their separate shower heads. Stiles turns his on, and they scrub off once more.
Finally clean, they towel themselves dry and crawl into the bed naked, with Stiles in the middle. He lays facing Peter, who’s facing him back, tucking his head against Stiles’ chest. Stiles worms one of legs in between Peter’s, and hooks their ankles together.
Derek curls around him from behind, burrowing his face in Stiles shoulder blades. Stiles basks in the closeness of the men. It’s perfect. He never feels more safe than when he’s cocooned by his wolves.
The moment is cut short when he receives a swift, stinging smack on his ass.
“Hey! What was that for?!” He yelps indignantly.
Derek lifts his head up from Stiles’ back.
“Never get yourself kidnapped again.” Derek growls in his ear. It sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine that has nothing to do with fear, and he huffs in reply. As if this whole thing was somehow my fault.
“He was positively out of his mind, after you called,” Peter’s muffled voice rises from where he’s brushing his nose against Stiles’ chest.
Stiles snorts.
“Well if this is the treatment I’m going to get after being kidnapped, I’m not seeing a downside.”
A deep growl rumbles in Derek’s chest, and Stiles can feel the vibration from where he’s pressed against his back.
“Stiles...” he warns. But there’s a sense of desperation underneath it. He needs Stiles safe. Needs to know that Stiles knows.
“Fine! Okay. Yes.” He acquiesced.
“Yes, what?”
Stiles moves his head in a way that bares his neck to Derek. As best he can while laying on his side, at least.
“Yes, Alpha.”
Derek makes a pleased noise and places elongated teeth against Stiles’ neck, gently clamping down. He rubs his half-hard cock against Stiles’ ass, and Stiles lets out his own hum of content as he arches and pushes back. Peter lazily rocks against Stiles’ leg, his cock slowly beginning to harden. He looks up with interest from where he’s burrowed in Stiles chest.
“Round two?”