
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5380049.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Stiles/OMCs
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinksi, Peter_Hale
  Additional Tags:
      Plot_What_Plot/Porn_Without_Plot, safe-ish_sex, Off_Screen_Negotiation,
      So_Much_Leather, Both_Materially_and_Culturally, Derek_Hale's_Fragile
      Masculinity, Dom/sub, Dom_Derek, Sub_Stiles, Gratuitous_Use_of_the_Word
      “Bitch”, Affectionate_Use_of_Homophobic_Slurs, Daddy_Kink, Blood,
      Knotting, Objectification, Dehumanization, like_really, Dirty_Talk,
      Stiles_Has_a_PhD_in_Cocksucking, Gangbang, Rough_Sex, sloppy_sex, Oral
      Sex, Anal_Sex, Come_play, Marking, Overstimulation, knotting_that_hurts,
      boys_crying, Crying_During_Sex, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat, Under_Table
      Blowjobs, Cockwarming, piss_drinking
  Series:
      Part 4 of Sure_As_Hell_Earned_It
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-12-09 Completed: 2015-12-26 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 5839
****** Show 'Em Who's Boss ******
by Spitshine
Summary
     In which Derek proves his worth as an alpha by offering Stiles up for
     a gangbang. That's it. That's the plot.
Notes
     To the best of my knowledge, leather clubs do not hand out pins for
     gangbangs like fucking merit badges, but who knows? Maybe Old Guard
     wolves are a little more achievement-focused. The ritual described
     herein, however, is absolutely the traditional method of giving
     someone a new pin.
     I have too many thoughts, Gorean slave position edition: Gorean
     philosophy makes me kiiinda uncomfortable but this way you can google
     what the fuck I'm talking about.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** A Visiting Pack *****
Stiles is just floating down from a seriously good high, bruised and buoyant,
with Derek locked tight inside him, clinging to his back as the alpha licks the
sluggishly bleeding bite marks spattered across the boy's shoulders.
And sweet talk. That's definitely a thing that's happening. Don't get it
twisted, Stiles loves that Derek goes hard with him—loves just how hard his
daddy will go—but he loves this, too. He'd probably get bored if it was all the
time, but just like this, these private moments after Derek wrecks him, when
Derek lets him see a softer, more vulnerable side...
Yeah. That's pretty nice.
Stiles stretches languidly, arches his back to rub his ass against Derek's
furry stomach and thighs, reaches behind himself to pet clumsily at Derek's
head. He twists his neck, tilts his face up for a sweet kiss. Derek keeps
talking, mumbling into their joined lips, “Stiles, baby boy, so good for me,
you look so beautiful when you're taking it, taking me, baby, baby.”
Peter.
Peter is talking.
Peter is in the loft, and he is talking, and he is saying, “Oh my,” in the
smuggest, smarmiest tone Stiles has ever heard, and it is totally wrecking his
blissed out lack of awareness and his chances at a second (or even third)
orgasm. Which, to be fair, is probably how he missed the screech of the loft
door sliding open in the first place.
Though Derek growling a warning, real close so he can feel it rumble against
his back, is kinda bringing it all right back.
“What are you doing here?” Derek spits into his shoulder.
“Well, nephew, there's a new pack in town come to see you. They've heard of
your little band of misfits and their surprising strength, and they would like
to have a formal meeting, discuss a possible alliance.”
Peter steps to the side, and behind him Stiles can see three incredibly fit men
dressed like they just stepped off their motorcycles. All three, all in black.
Jeans, chaps, leather jackets covered in colorful pins. The one in front—he
looks the oldest—is seriously working a salt-and-pepper beard of a style he
once saw labeled as “The Comic-Con” on a beard field guide poster, but
privately, Stiles has always called it “The Daddy.” Bushy mustache blending
into the thick hair covering his chin, but buzzed down to stubble everywhere
else.
Stiles swallows. Rocks his hips discretely against Derek's.
“We had heard you're a tough alpha. Won't back down, show mercy, or talk shit,”
Beard says. His eyes flick down to Stiles' obviously human, obviously pleasure-
drunk body. “Heard you whupped a passel of whiny teenagers into shape.”
“Twenty minutes,” Derek growls. Stiles can see on Peter's face that Derek's
eyes are bleeding alpha red, but then Derek rolls them, knot tugging sharp and
painful at Stiles' taut rim, and scrapes a clawed hand down Stiles' side, crams
his knot that much further into Stiles, completely bludgeoning Stiles'
prostate, and Stiles forgets all about the other wolves in the room.
*
Thirty minutes later, Stiles limps down the stairs, feeling ridiculous. He's
never hated how loud his steps are on the metal more than right now, bruised
and freshly bleeding and dressed in nothing more than a few leather straps
around his ribs and a pair of exceedingly short black leather shorts held
together with hope and a long, long zipper running from the top of his ass,
down through his legs, and up over his dick. Derek had put him in a jock and
buttplug (“These're hell to wash, dirty bitch.”) before throwing the clothing,
for lack of a better word, at his head and going to make nice.
He didn't clatter down the noisy steps, though. Oh no. He did a fancy backflip
and landed on little cat feet.
Peter has left but three more wolves have arrived, denim and leather to match.
One of them looks not much older than Stiles, in snug dark-blue jeans, a
leather vest with no fastenings, and boots. The rest of them, though,
they're—Stiles gulps—no other word for it—daddy as fuck.
They look hungry. All seven of them.
Derek snaps his fingers and Stiles kneels at his feet, eyes sliding shut as he
nuzzles Derek's knee. It's a lot. Their stares, Derek's terse instruction
before he lept downstairs. He knows the wolves heard it.
Derek backhands him, almost lazily, and Stiles looks up. Derek's lip is lifted
in a dangerous snarl. Oh, right. He straightens, falling into a motionless nadu
for Operation Look Tough. He is never gonna let it slip that he called it that.
Well, at least not until he needs a nice, brutal beating.
Derek jerks his chin toward the most heavily leathered wolf. Stiles takes a
deep breath. He can do this. He's gonna be so good. He crawls over to the
alpha. Kneels pretty.
He doesn't want to say the line he's been given, he—closes his eyes and does
it. It's thrilling, to be debased like this for his alpha, for Derek to put him
so firmly in his place, so close to the knife-edge of his comfort, but
it's—he's on the verge of falling off.
“Please, sir, can I suck your cock?”
He looks up through his lashes at the smirking alpha, bites his lip as Derek
growls, “Don't come in its ass.” He hums happily. His daddy is so fierce.
“Guess I could let you,” the alpha drawls, “if you don't use your hands.”
Stiles nods, waits a beat. The alpha doesn't move to unzip his jeans. Stiles
swallows, licks his lips, and leans in. It takes a little doing with his lips
and tongue to pinch the zipperpull between his teeth, but he gets it quickly.
The alpha smells like bike exhaust and road dirt. He's not wearing underwear.
His dick is soft, but fattening quickly, tastes like spit and jizz already,
like he fucked somebody's throat right before he came here.
Stiles feels replaceable. Like he could be switched out for any greedy faggot,
like he's a dime a dozen.
He groans and scooches closer, takes the whole thing in his mouth, swirling his
tongue as it hardens in his mouth.
“Dumb bitch,” the alpha scoffs. Stiles doesn't know his name. “Think we can't
see what a hungry slut you are if you close your eyes?” He puts one hand on the
back of Stiles' head, heavy, and thrusts up.
Stiles can't breathe but he doesn't gag, doesn't splutter when the thick cock
pulls smoothly out of his throat. He's a good boy. He's a—
“Fucktoy. Made for it. Bet you're always gagging for it, couldn't get enough
cock if you worked in a cathouse.” Stiles feels Derek's red eyes glaring bloody
murder at the other alpha, and the man changes tacks. “Fucking take it,
faggot.”
Stiles does more than take it. He starts tracing “I'll show you who's the
faggot” in cursive with the tip of his tongue, but he only gets halfway through
before the alpha grabs his ears, twisting the sensitive cartilage as he fucks
into Stiles hard, only pulling out a few inches before ramming back down
Stiles' throat with each thrust.
He yanks Stiles off by the ears to shoot directly into Stiles' mouth. That's
good. Derek will be happy the visiting alpha didn't last particularly long. He
leaves his mouth open and stares up at the alpha for direction as the wolf
tucks himself into his jeans. “Pretty well-trained cocksucker you got here,
Hale,” the alpha chuckles. “You hungry, bitch? Swallow. Filthy slut.” He cuffs
Stiles on the side of the head to send him on his way.
Next in the circle is the young looking one. He's already hard; Stiles can
smell his precome through his thick new jeans.
“Please, sir, can I suck your cock?”
Stiles knows how he looks. Derek's shown him pictures. He's kinda used to it,
and definitely fond of it—the come smeared, red-mouthed look. His voice sounds
as used as he feels.
The beta, on the other hand, does not look like he's used to it. Beside him,
the alpha laughs. “Kid hardly ever gets a chance to get his dick wet.” The
young man nods slowly, looking dazed, and Stiles moves to his zipper.
“No, wait,” a new voice cuts in. “He needs his pin.”
“First gangbang little Col' ain't starrin' in.”
“Yer right,” the alpha grunts. “Bitch, get him hard but don't take him out.”
Stiles doesn't think it would be appreciated for him to point out the boner
that's clearly visible through the denim, so he just gets his mouth on the
little damp spot. It's salty, with a little of that sweet clean cotton taste,
and he sucks on it hard. The bulge pulses larger, slips down the man's leg and
out of Stiles' mouth. Apparently he wasn't hard after all.
Well, damn.
The kid—Colin—gets bigger and bigger as Stiles nuzzles at him through the
fabric, takes big obvious inhales like always drives Derek crazy, laps and
sucks as best he can until the denim is soaked, until the thick line of his
erection reaches halfway down his thigh.
One of the wolves who had come in with the alpha originally, a stout guy with
uniformly short stubble on his head and face, swaggers over and smacks Stiles
out of the way. “Here ya go, kid.” Even considering the guy's barrel chest, his
voice is surprisingly deep. Stiles gives a little shiver and props himself up
on his elbows to watch.
The guy, probably the second, unzips the kid's jeans and shoves one meaty arm
down the leg. His body blocks Stiles' view, but when he pulls away with a
laughed, “Get to it,” and a light kick—light for a werewolf in steel-toed
boots, anyway—to Stiles' hip, Stiles can see a pin glinting from the twink's
jeans, right where his dick ends.
Colin tugs his cock out of his Levis before Stiles gets off the ground, clumsy
and eager. He bucks up arrhythmic and uncoordinated, like a virgin. Even Stiles
is a little more in control of his faculties on the rare occasion he gets
sucked off, and that's just with him and Derek around to judge. Kid really
doesn't get his dick wet much.
He only lasts a few minutes, shooting deep down Stiles' throat a split-second
before his knot pops, locking him behind the firm press of Stiles' teeth.
Stiles' eyes fly open, and the kid looks as surprised as he feels, curling
protectively around his hips and thrashing with sensation. He grabs Stiles'
neck, running his clawed fingertips up and down the bulge of his own cock as
they all wait for it to soften.
His knot doesn't last as long as Derek's, either, which pleases Stiles more
than is reasonable outside of a reproductive relationship, but he's big enough
Stiles feels pleasantly used even so.
Stiles pops his jaw back into place and swallows against his sore throat before
he crawls to the next one in the circle. “Please, sir, can I suck your cock?”
His voice is husky and obvious. It turns him on just to to listen to himself.
“Its bitch-cunt still tight, Hale?” His voice isn't as deep as the second's,
but it's a melodic rumble that thrums through Stiles even as the implication of
the man's words makes him shiver with discomfit and arousal.
“Is for me, Glover.” Stiles can tell just from Derek's voice he's wearing the
smile that makes his face look like a knife, but he doesn't turn to look. It's
important that he's good, so he just stares up through his eyelashes and arches
his back, sticking his ass out far enough he knows Glover can see it over his
shoulder. Knows just what he looks like—Derek's shown him pictures of this,
too. His own begging. Desperation.
He turns around when Glover makes a curt twisting motion with one finger,
presses his face into his forearms and spreads his legs, lifts his hips. The
position crushes the metal zipper into his taint, his dick, cold and sharp. A
big, rough hand slides up his thigh to cup his ass through the thin leather. A
callused finger slides under the hem of the astonishingly short shorts to
stroke between his cheeks.
The hand slides further up, grabs the zipperpull and tugs it down slow. The air
of the room is cold against Stiles' sweaty skin; he feels it prickle and tells
himself it's from the temperature, not the eyes ripping into him. The zipper
digs in like ice just behind his balls.
Even with his hard cock still covered, he's more exposed than he's ever been
naked, even the time Derek took him to a clearing in the Preserve, blindfolded
him and made him strip down, finger himself open, describe in excruciating
detail how it felt.
A smack comes down—again, gentle for a werewolf in motorcycle boots—jarring the
plug and reddening his ass. He whines, high in his throat, and doesn't say
anything. Doesn't break the rules Daddy laid down. Doesn't beg or object, which
saves him the trouble of figuring out which he wants to do.
Out of habit, his wrists cross on the floor above his head, ready for whipping.
He spreads his knees wide to allow greater access, just like he's been trained.
The leather of the harness slides over his nipples, and it suddenly hits him
just how hard they are.
He's spanked again, and again. He's gonna bruise.
Derek is gonna be so mad.
The plug is yanked roughly out of him. It's too heavy to clatter; it just
thunks dully on the ground by his knees, and then he's full again. It's not a
stretch, the wolf isn't that big and Stiles just had Derek's knot in there for
the better part of the hour, but he's raw everywhere and he can't help his
pained groan or instinctual clench against the intrusion.
“Good bitch,” Glover laughs. “You gonna give me a nice, hot ride, ain'cha?
Yeah.” He grunts in self-satisfaction as he grabs Stiles' waist and slams the
boy against his own unmoving hips.
He's hard in what remains of his shorts, the rough zipper cutting into his dick
through the cotton of the jock. He humps into the friction, and moans loudly.
“Hey, Karl, c'mere, shut him up for me.”
Stiles is yanked up by the hair and his vision is all denim-clad bulge, black
chaps filling his nose with the rich scent of sweaty leather. His hands are
swatted away and he leans in to get at the—button fly. Oh, fuck, that's hot.
His dick throbs painfully in his shorts as he wrestles with the pants, growling
a little.
The entire room erupts in laughter. “Little fuckdoll thinks it's tough, huh?
Thinks it's bad?” Karl is still chortling at Glover's joke as he finally frees
the man's cock and is immediately slammed into from both ends.
He can barely breathe, can't hold himself up but doesn't have to, speared on
both ends like a roasting pig. The wolves are a well-oiled machine, drilling in
and out and in again in unison but never leaving him empty. They hold his hips
and his thighs and the heavy straps of his harness, moving him without
hesitation as they hunt down their pleasure inside his body.
“Gonna come for us, faggot?” He doesn't know which one says it, but the angle
of the cock in his ass changes; he squeals as his prostate is jackhammered. His
climax is forced out of him in a rush like a freight train, running him down
and leaving him flattened.
Glover pulls out and leans forward to rut against the small of his back, blunt
human teeth closing over the hard muscles of his shoulder and pulling,
twisting.
The man comes and comes, drippy-thin and burning hot. It splashes over Stiles'
ass, down his sides. Glover rubs it in with one clawed hand while he holds
Stiles' hip hard enough to bruise with the other, holds him steady enough that
Karl's choking thrusts don't knock him back at all, just make his eyes and nose
run, drool dripping down his chin and neck.
Glover shuffles heavily off to the couch, and it's like clockwork after that.
Stiles' eyes loll shut, he lets himself be moved, swallows and breathes and
tightens when he can. Karl moves to his ass, a new cock in his throat, come
spraying over his ass and thighs.
He can't stop the minute spasms of his exhausted muscles and collapses when the
coarse hands let go of his hips and the man at his front pulls out to take over
at his back. Derek orders him onto the table and he crawls tiredly over to the
dining area, clambering discoordinatedly onto the high surface with limp limbs
and flopping onto his back, using his own hands as stirrups for his ankles. The
table is just the right height, just the right width, for Derek to fuck him
comfortably at either end when he drapes himself over it like this.
The wolves still left follow him over to the table, leering. They shove into
him without finesse; he just flows into it. His body feels supple, languid.
He's been so overstimulated for so long that it's faded into a white noise,
wiping out everything else, leaving him humming, floating.
Something warm, wet, drips onto his chest and he blinks up. They're kissing,
fangs out, blood raining onto him, onto his harness. He's wet everywhere, lube
and come and blood and spit, and then they're both coming on him—in his mouth,
on his face, on his crotch and his stomach and chest.
The leather's gonna be hell to clean.
“Alpha Hale.” The twink sounds nervous, breathless. “May I—use your toy?
Again?” Stiles tilts his head drunkenly and sees Colin, Colin with the fucking
horse dick, fucking into his own hand like he can't hardly stop himself, mouth
hanging wide as he stares at Stiles' fucked-out ass.
“Keep your knot to your damn self this time.”
“Yes, sir,” Colin swears reverently as he steps between Stiles' legs.
Stiles knows what he must look like. Open. Waiting.
Swollen.
The wolf pushes in and Stiles wails. He can't stop the noise. It's so much, too
much, and that nauseous, overfull feeling he hasn't gotten since Derek first
trained him to take a knot washes through him. He breathes heavy and fast,
waiting it out, eyes clenched shut, sweat dripping off his forehead.
It takes an eternity for the cock to drive all the way into him. His fingers
cramp from holding his ankles so tightly; his abdomen hurts from tensing
against the inevitability of his own reaming. There's a grunt above him as the
kid bottoms out. He doesn't give Stiles time to adjust, just starts hammering
away like a buck rabbit, rapidfire, until tears streak through the spit and
jizz drying on Stiles' face.
For all his force, the kid doesn't take much longer this time than he did in
round two, and he comes between Stiles' thighs as he sucks a dark bruise high
up on Stiles' neck and howls, well before Stiles has a chance to get accustomed
to the massive intrusion.
Derek whistles for him before the wolf finishes spraying his load everywhere,
and Stiles stumbles over both their feet in his rush to get down and crawl to
Derek.
“You done yet? You had enough?”
Stiles shakes his head wildly on his wilting neck.
“You want Daddy's cock, you better get up here and get it.”
Stiles grins and clambers up. Derek's been in his tight jeans this whole time,
and suddenly that feels like a terrible shame. He knows how to fix it, though.
He has Derek's dick out in no time, lifts up on his worn-out legs—
“Turn around, faggot.” Derek is hissing into his year, continuous low threats.
“They're all gonna see how much you need it, how good I give it to you.”
“Th-thank you, alpha,” Stiles gasps as Derek's fingers dig into his bruised
hips and thighs, pull him down hard.
“You need my knot? Need me to lock you up tight so you can come on it, your
little cunt milking at me while you clench and clench?”
“Yea—yes, sir. Please. Split me open, fill me up. Alpha, alpha, please.” Stiles
isn't paying attention to his own words anymore, just needs—he just needs.
“Fucking beg for it, cocksucker. You gonna cry for it? Cry real pretty and I
might give it to you.”
That does it.
The thought that he might not cry pretty enough, that he might not get his
daddy's knot after everything else, after what he just did for the pack, for
his alpha. He cries genuine tears, bawling in fear. Derek's hand smooths over
his throat and he slumps back, still sobbing but softer as the soothing effects
of Derek's hands soak in and he feels the distinct swell of a knot plumping up
in his ass.
Derek comes to Stiles' pained litany of, “Thank you thank you thank you alpha,”
which trails off into wet whimpers as Derek's onslaught slows down.
“'Preciate ya letting us use your fucktoy like that, Hale.” The alpha's voice
is gruff, begrudging, and loud enough to cut through Stiles' own moans.
“Only thing it's good for.” Derek punctuates this with a sharp jab into Stiles,
grinding the heel of his palm against his own knot through the thin wall of
Stiles' abdomen. Stiles whimpers, eyes leaking, and arches up into the touch.
“Still. Bitch, get over there.” Stiles flutters his eyes open to watch the
twink slinking towards them on hands and knees, flaccid dick hanging out of his
unzipped jeans and topless now.
His eyes are lagging a bit from exhaustion but he does his best to track the
man's progress across the floor to kneel between Derek's spread legs. “Lick
me,” Derek growls, and Stiles feels a nose rubbing his taint, nudging his
balls.
Oh, that's filthy. There's a tongue lapping all around his rim where he and
Derek are joined, where he's stretched to bursting each time Derek grinds his
hips down to gather force for another sharp jerk up into Stiles.
Stiles glances down. Derek's got a fist in the kid's hair, dragging his slack
mouth from the base of his dick to his balls and back up. “Open up,” Derek says
in that flat, no-if-ands-or-buts alpha voice. “You're gonna teabag him. Get
your mouth all over my dirty bitch. You miss being at the center of all this,
doncha? Faggot.”
Stiles stops listening after that, because everything is soft warmth and sharp
pain, the rumble of Derek's porntastic diatribe and the high keen of his own
moans.
He comes when the wolf's hot mouth moves up and over his dick, sucks him down
fast and hard, and he cries when it doesn't let up, not even when he's spent
and begging for mercy. He's sobbing in a few minutes, long before he's hard
again, and sobbing still when he comes for the third time that afternoon, the
fourth time for the day.
Finally, the mouth releases him and he collapses back against Derek, against
his daddy, all the tension of overstimulation leaving his muscles in a whoosh.
He hears the wolves talking. Setting up a formal meeting, maybe? He doesn't
both to listen. Derek will fill him in later.
Derek has one hand clamped around his hip, one arm draped over his stomach and
across his abdomen. He won't fall over. Derek has him.
Derek's clawed thumb is tracing a pattern on his side, repeating, repeating.
ODBOYGOODPUPGO. Good boy, good pup, good boy. Derek's teeth close on the back
of his neck, fanged but not breaking skin.
Talking is taking a long time. Stiles is sleepy now.
***** Extremely Formal Werewolf Big Time Serious Meeting *****
Chapter Notes
     Jumping on the gross-porn-for-Christmas bandwagon, three minutes
     under the wire!
When Stiles wakes up, it's to the familiar sound of Derek and Peter arguing
under their breath.
“Because,” Derek growls, sounding pretty close to ripping Peter's throat right
back out, “I don't want you there. I don't want you near my—near Stiles, not
for this.”
Peter's voice is smooth and slick, oily in a way that makes Stiles' spine
tingle in entirely the wrong way. “Oh, nephew.” Stiles wants to punch the
condescension right out of Peter's smarmy face. “You're hardly discreet with
your little toy-”
“He's not-”
“He is this weekend. And as I say, it's nothing I haven't heard... or seen...
before. It may even cement your authority in their eyes, to see you have a hole
reserved solely for your own use. And of course, they'll appreciate your
generosity all the more for it.”
Stiles shifts on the futon, squirreling deeper into the crease as he turns onto
his side to watch the wolves' standoff. Derek is radiating tension, muscles
tight with it, but Peter is the picture of relaxation. Confident in his victory
even now.
“And if it's just you at the meeting, nephew, not only will it look like
there's no one in your pack you trust as a second, it will just remind them
that there are very few Hales actually in the Hale pack—that it's really just a
passel of bitten children.”
Derek opens his mouth, snaps it shut, bites out, “Fine,” and turns toward
Stiles. “You awake yet?”
“Almost,” Stiles yawns.
“Peter. Out. Now.” Derek stands, hands in his pockets, shoulders back,
obviously listening to Peter's retreat for a long minute before joining Stiles
on the futon. “Didn't wear you out, did I, baby?”
“No way, Daddy. I was just resting my eyes.”
“Uh-huh.” Derek sounds doubtful, but he leans in to wrap Stiles in his arms,
engulf him in kiss after kiss, so Stiles can't really be bothered to keep
protesting.
*
Stiles isn't sure why, but he's more nervous for the formal meeting than he was
for the... meet and greet? Maybe because he has more time to get worked up over
it, maybe because it's finally sunk in how much an alliance would mean for the
pack.
Either way, he's nervous, jangly with it, like he drank too much coffee, but he
didn't. Didn't have any, actually, because Derek had explained—well, had Peter
insinuated and then he freaked out and demanded that Derek tell him
everything—but still, Derek had explained what he would need to do, what would
be expected, and excusing himself for a bathroom break is just not in the
cards.
At least he's naked this time, not in those ridiculous shorts... Derek still
owes him a hiding for what he's allowed to happen to the shorts. And isn't that
a nice thought.
He hears footsteps outside the door and wraps one arm around Derek's calf,
snuggling in for a last moment of closeness before Derek has to switch to alpha
mode. Daddy's hand scritches through his hair, just for a second, and then the
door opens and it's all business.
“Alpha Gibson.”
“Alpha Hale.”
Stiles can see two pairs of heavy boots tromping through the loft to the long
table they'd moved in as a conference table the night before. The other alpha
swings into the chair at the opposite end of the table from Derek all casual,
feet planted and legs wide.
It's a powerful position, and Stiles assumes it looks equally powerful—though
probably less intimidating—to Derek.
“Didn't bring the rest of the pack?”
“We can bring 'em in later, if we need 'em. Like it better this way. Just us
and our seconds. Man to man. Alpha to alpha.”
Derek grunts his agreement and nudges Stiles with his foot. It's not a kick,
quite, but it's not wasting any time, either.
Stiles gulps and crawls towards the visitor as Peter and Glover take their
places beside their respective alphas. It's nothing compared to yesterday, he
reminds himself. How many blowjobs has he given in his life, anyway? What's one
more, especially for his alpha? For his pack's reputation?
There are voices above him but he can't bring himself to focus on them. His
whole awareness is focused on the cold floor under his hands, the lurch in his
belly that won't go away, the wide space between Gibson's splayed legs.
He slides his cheek against the alpha's knee, as if he were scent marking, and
reminds himself he had this same dick in his mouth not twenty-four hours ago.
The man doesn't stop talking, doesn't acknowledge Stiles' presence in any way,
just reaches a hand down to flick open his fly. He's not wearing underwear, and
Stiles can smell him even though he's not hard yet—heavy and heady in Stiles'
nostrils, a little salty, a little bitter, making his mouth water.
He scoots forward, squarely between the alpha's feet, and leans forward to lap
at the base of the man's exposed dick. The familiarity soothes his nerves and
it only takes a moment for him to relax into the comforting sensation of a cock
racing to hardness in his mouth, pulsing with incoming blood and filling his
throat.
Gibson makes no noise, has no response at all, and Stiles takes his silence as
a challenge. More than that, as an affront to him, personally, as a cocksucker.
He ups the suction, swirls his tongue around the head each time he pulls back,
pushes forward until his breathing is blocked by his own nose mashing against
the man's pubic bone. He stretches his tongue to grotesque lengths in his
determination to lick the taut skin of the wolf's sac, swallows loudly around
the head.
Above him, the alpha's words are coming a little slower, breath just barely
going ragged. Stiles can't pretend to understand the weird werewolf power games
going on between the Hale and Gibson packs, but he's pretty happy to be playing
his part in it.
And even more happy to be winning.
The thick vein under his tongue pulses, cock getting that much harder as
Gibson's scent changes, deepening just enough to let Stiles know the alpha's on
the brink of orgasm. Above his head, he hears “You know we're a bitten
pack—hhng—like you, but-”
He fucks his own throat on the thick dick, sucks hard one last time before
Gibson starts spurting. He treats himself to a little taste of the man's
jizz—he did well, if he does say so himself—as Derek remarks curtly, “We're not
all bitten.”
Stiles swallows, massaging Gibson through the last pulses of climax with the
undulating muscles of his mouth and throat as the alpha backtracks
breathlessly. “No, I know that, ahh, but your new betas-”
“-were bitten, yes.”
Stiles hums with self-satisfaction. Derek has the upper hand now, what with the
visiting alpha half-moaning and losing track of his own words, he did that. He
did that.
He tightens his lips as he slides off Gibson, swallowing one last time as he
quickly does up the man's fly and crawls over to the second.
He bunts Glover's knee with his forehead, signaling his readiness.
Glover's not any gentler than he had been yesterday. Might even be rougher. He
grinds Stiles' face against the rough fabric over his crotch, into the zipper.
What little air Stiles manages to gulp is thick with the smell of his sweat and
precome and Stiles swallows hard against the saliva filling his mouth as Glover
yanks his own zipper down with one hand, the other firm on the back of his
head.
The second doesn't give Stiles room to work or time to set his own pace. His
big hands keep Stiles' head still, blunt fingers scrabbling in the hair that's
just shy of being long enough to pull, as he bucks up into Stiles' mouth,
ramming against the boy's soft palate.
Stiles doesn't think he's ever felt more like an anonymous hole than he does
right in that moment. He moans with it, with the shame, and realizes he's
leaking all over his own thigh.
Glover and Peter haven't been talking much, but Stiles can hear the man
breathing heavily and smiles to himself as well as he's able. He may not be
able to move, or even breathe much, but he can take pride. In his work. In his
pack.
The beta comes in a couple fat jets and—before Stiles even has time to
swallow—shoves the human off his cock hard enough that he's knocked over, lands
hard on his side. A few drops trickle from the corner of his mouth, and he
sticks out his tongue to lap them up before pushing back up onto his hands and
knees and returning to crawl between his own alpha's knees.
Derek doesn't move when he gets there, doesn't stop talking. Stiles hesitates
for just a second before taking Derek's zipper pull between his teeth; he knows
better than to use his hands today. He fumbles for a moment but soon his
daddy's cock is bare to his eyes, hard and leaking and starting to show the
promising red of a knot around the base. He gulps it down, still hungry despite
the two loads he's just swallowed, the solid dicking Derek had given him to
calm his nerves that morning.
He moans happily, gratefully, and moves to pull back, to start bobbing, but the
hand on the back of his neck stops him, traps him with his nose pressed into
the thick mat of hair.
Derek's fingers dig in on either side of his neck and he goes limp. Pliant. He
wants to be good, to show Daddy what a good cocksucker he can be, but he knows
that—sometimes—he needs to follow Derek's idea of good behavior instead of his
own. If Derek wants his cock warmed and not sucked, then he'll get it sucked.
He lets his eyes slip closed as his neck lolls. He rests the side of his face
against Derek's hard thigh and lets himself relax, tuning out the conversation
droning on above him.
It goes on, and on. Long enough that Derek starts to soften inside the seal of
his lips—not all the way, but enough. Enough for Derek to flick his ear a half-
second before his mouth fills with liquid, salty and acrid and—
Oh.
He gulps, fast, but not fast enough to keep it all in. He can feel it, smell
it, a stray drop rolling down his chin, and he blushes with embarrassment as he
swallows again and again. There's a lot, but it doesn't take long—his daddy's
always had a strong stream—and as soon as he drinks down the last of it Derek's
fattening up in his mouth again, thrusting up once before he lets go of Stiles'
neck and lets him get to work.
*
“We did good, Daddy?”
“You did great, baby.”
“One alliance down-”
“Peter. Out. Now.”
End Notes
     Once the wolves are FIRMLY out of earshot, Derek tells Stiles how
     smart he is and how good he is at so many non-being-used-like-a-damn-
     fleshlight skills he has and calls him by his name a whole lot. And
     endearments. Oh, the sickeningly sweet endearments. When Stiles
     finally wakes up, it's to that. Well, that and Derek's fingers
     playing with the jizz leaking out of him.
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