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Stiles yawns, exhausted by both the very late, almost early hour and the adrenaline crash after a long fight where half the pack almost died. He stretches. The movement pulls at the claw marks on his back, making him wince and curl in on himself. "Fuck, that stings."
"Maybe if you'd stayed with Isaac, like you were supposed to," Peter snarks as he stalks into the kitchen after him, "you wouldn't be hurt. Maybe if you’d been wearing this," Peter tugs at the back of Stiles’s leather jacket, nearly pulling him off his feet and making Stiles yelp, “you wouldn’t be hurt.”
"It's fine," Stiles protests, "just some scratches."
"I'll be the judge of that. Shirt off. Now."
"Bossy," Stiles mutters, though unfortunately not low enough to keep Peter from raising one very unimpressed eyebrow at him. "Fine."
He won't admit it, but it's a little hard getting his jacket and shirt off. He bites back a hiss as he lets the leather jacket slide down his arms. He catches it before it hits the floor and drapes it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. It was a present from Chris, so he treats it with more respect than anything else he owns. The t-shirt is more difficult because it means raising his arms again and that really wasn't pleasant.
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Peter stomps over to him and rips the shirt off Stiles's back.
"Hey! I liked that shirt!”
"Shut up." Peter puts a hand on Stiles's forehead and uses the other to grip the back of his neck and shove him down so he's bent over the kitchen table. The hand on his forehead keeps him from braining himself on the wood. He's a little disappointed when both hands pull away. Peter’s touch is a warm comfort that he really could use right now.
"Peter," he whines. The position is uncomfortable, with the round edge of the table pushing against his stomach and his elbows knocking against the chairs on either side. He starts to rise but the sharp command of "Stay" keeps him in place.
It says something about how often one of them gets injured that he knows exactly what Peter's doing by the sound of the cabinets opening and closing.
"Can't I sit in a chair or something?" Stiles shifts enough that the table edge isn't digging in as much.
"No." Peter drops the first aid kit onto the table next to Stiles and starts pulling out cotton balls and a large bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Stiles's protest cuts off before it begins as the front door slams closed hard enough to rattle the house. Stiles flinches. "Shit. He's really mad, isn't he?"
"We're both very mad." Peter puts one hand between Stiles's shoulders to hold him down and uses the other to rub the claw marks with the peroxide.
"Ah!" He can't help squirming under Peter's hand. "That stings."
"You deserve it."
“You could at least pull some of the pain.”
Peter leans over Stiles as he runs peroxide over another cut. “Then you wouldn’t learn.”
Stiles’s protest cuts off as he hears Chris's heavy boots coming closer. The plea for help dies as soon as he gets a look at Chris's thunderous expression. He looks away but there's no good place to focus on between Chris's rapidly approaching figure and Peter. There's a stretch of blank wall and the fridge.
"Do you have any idea how lucky you are?" Chris asks in a tone so full of carefully controlled rage that it makes Stiles shiver.
"I... um... Ouch!" His attempt at replying is cut off as Peter moves on to disinfect another cut. "I'm going to guess very?"
That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Chris stomps over and grabs Stiles by the hair—surprisingly gently, even in his rage Chris's first impulse is to protect him—and forces Stiles to look at him.
"Any deeper and you'd be paralyzed. Assuming you didn't die from blood loss. You could have died, Stiles. Do you get that?"
Stiles whines, low in his throat. He's been trying not to think about the danger he threw himself into. There wasn't time. He saw a way to incapacitate the Alpha and he took it. Behind him, Peter's eyes flash brilliantly red.
"I'm sorry." He really, really is. That doesn't mean he was wrong to act. "But Derek and Peter were down, the rest of the pack was busy with the betas, and she was going after Peter. She was going to kill him. I saw it and I knew I could stop it and I just... I had to. I had to help."
Chris releases Stiles's hair and covers his face with both hands.
"I appreciate the assist," Peter says, "but you could have done it without throwing yourself bodily at an insane Alpha werewolf."
Stiles drops his forehead against the table and closes his eyes. "I'm sorry. I really am."
There's a long pause that means Chris and Peter are doing that thing where they talk through a series of facial expressions that Stiles isn’t familiar enough—yet—to interpret. Peter slaps a handful of large, square bandages over the claw marks. The first aid kit shuts with a heavy click. Peter's hand doesn't move from where it's holding Stiles against the table.
"No," Chris says, voice ominous, "but you will be."
Stiles's eyes open wide as his pants and underwear are yanked down and off in one swift movement. "Chris!"
The chairs are shoved away with a loud scraping sound, leaving the space on either side of him empty except for Chris and Peter. He barely gets a word of protest out before Chris's hand comes down on his ass, hard. He shouts and pushes against Peter's hold. Even without the new Alpha power, Peter has no trouble holding Stiles down. He usually enjoys being held down, but not right now.
Peter's hand hits his right cheek. He shouts in pain. He knows Peter's holding back his strength, keeping the hit hard but not enough to truly damage him. It still stings enough to bring tears to his eyes.
"Guys, stop!"
They ignore him. Chris's hand smacks against his ass, making the skin burn. Peter follows, barely a second behind. His hands curl into fists against the tabletop. There's nothing for him to hold onto, nowhere he can move to escape his punishment. He whines, low in his throat and blinks back tears.
"Chris, Peter, please?"
"Not until we decide you've learned your lesson." Chris's voice sends another shiver through him. He squeezes his eyes shut and bites his lip as Chris's hand comes down again and again.
He could stop this. They have a safeword and if Stiles said it, this punishment would stop, but he knows, deep down where he doesn’t want to admit it, that he did a dumb thing. Yes, he was worried about Peter but there were better ways he could have handled the situation. He couldn’t think of any at the time, but that doesn’t mean he made the right call. He knows Chris and Peter are just worried and scared because Stiles got hurt, so he doesn’t safeword. This is as much about reassuring them as it is punishment for Stiles.
Chris's next smack hits high on the globe of his ass. It's harder than before, just a little, but it's enough to make him cry out. His fingernails scrape against the wood. It hurts but it feels so good at the same time, and he doesn’t know why his libido is reacting to the pain and humiliation of being spanked—something that never happened even when he was a precocious little shit as a kid—with pleasure that sparks deep in his core, reverberating outward in response to every hit.
He tries to ignore the fact that he's getting hard. Peter's hand hits him lower, at the top of his thigh, and his dick jumps with the hit. It hurts. He shouldn't be turned on by this, by pain and punishment, but his body's reacting whether he wants to or not. He only hopes they don't notice.
That’s another reason why he doesn’t safeword. If they stopped now, there’d be no hiding how turned on this is making him.
"What's this?" Stiles whimpers as soon as he hears the interest in Peter's voice. At least the hits stop for a second, though that’s both a blessing and a curse. He hears Peter shift behind him with a whisper of fabric. Both of his lovers are still fully clothed while he's bare-naked bent over their kitchen table. Another shiver runs through him. If this were any other situation, he’d expect one or both of them to start fucking him. Not now, when they’ve decided he needs a punishment instead of a reward.
"Open up and show me," Peter says. He slides a foot between Stiles's feet and nudges them open.
Stiles doesn't want to. His face burns in embarrassment. Peter is insistent. "Stiles," he growls in low warning.
Slowly, Stiles shifts his feet wider apart. Peter runs his free hand over Stiles's red ass, making him flinch in pain. Then the hand moves lower, down past his taint to brush against his balls and grab his erection.
"My, my," Peter says. Stiles can hear the smirk in his voice. "Someone's enjoying this. You're not supposed to enjoy your punishment, darling."
"I..." His voice wavers. He has no idea what to say. Anything he might have said is cut off with a strangled moan as Peter strokes Stiles, his grip too loose to provide the kind of friction Stiles really needs. It ends far too soon.
"Shall we give him more?" Peter asks as he pulls away. The anger is gone from his voice, replaced by something powerful and dangerous. This is Peter as an Alpha again. A sane Alpha who’s completely in control of his new power.
Peter inhales loudly. Another wave of embarrassment washes over Stiles. He squirms, knowing exactly what chemosignals Peter can smell on Stiles is and there’s no way Stiles can hide it. He’s completely exposed to his partners, bare with no place to hide. If he turns his face away from one, he’s facing the other.
"I don't think he's sorry enough yet," Chris growls, sounding more like a dangerous predator than Peter had. It only fans the flames of Stiles’s arousal. His face is as red as his ass must be. He squeezes his eyes tight. He can’t bear to look at either of them, not sure if he’s worried about their censure or disappointment or if they’re as turned on as Stiles is.
"You've been a very bad boy, Stiles," Peter says as he swats Stiles's ass. Stiles's breath hitches. Tears well at his eyes but he stubbornly tries to hold them back. Crying and sex don’t go together. He’s so twisted up with regret and pride and pain and a want so deep it’s in his lungs and his heart and his stomach.
Fuck. He whines loudly, and not from pain. He shifts on his feet, spreading his legs wider. He desperately wants one of them inside him—his ass, his mouth, both, he doesn’t care—but he doesn’t know how to ask. He doesn’t know if he should.
Chris's hand brings his focus back to his stinging ass. "You know better. We've trained you better."
"You should have waited for a better opening." Peter says. His hand feels like it's made of fire. His hits are quick and precise, trailing up and down, never the same spot twice in a row. Stiles's ass burns so badly but he doesn’t want them to stop.
"You should have shouted a warning." Chris hits him hard on the inside of his thigh and Stiles's can't hold back the hiccupped sob that breaks out of him.
"You have ranged magic for a reason. There was no reason to get near her claws." Stiles cries out loud with Peter's next hit.
They stop speaking for a minute, trading quick, sharp hits that feel like they're stabbing straight down Stiles's spine.
"Please," Stiles cries, voice wet with tears. He's not sure if he's pleading for them to stop or for more.
They don't stop. "You haven't said you're sorry yet," Peter admonishes.
It's like a dam breaks open inside of him, letting loose all the tears he's been holding back. "I'm sorry," he sobs into the wood. "Daddy, please." His head is going fuzzy, all though beyond how hard he is and how much Peter and Chris’s hands are becoming his only point of focus. He wants more. He needs more and that’s what his daddies give him. He knows just what to say to get Peter as worked up as Chris is. “Alpha! Alpha, please.”
Peter growls and his next slap hits harder, rocking Stiles forward. Chris matches him. It’s like they’re competing to see who can affect him more. Each new hit sends him rocking against the edge of the table. His hips jerk with each hit but he immediately pushes back, wordlessly offering his ass for more abuse.
"I don't believe you," Chris says, his voice going deep in a tone that means he’s just as turned on as Stiles is. He hears Chris shift closer before he feels him, the rough fabric of Chris’s jeans lightly scratching his thigh. Chris’s hand lands so close to Stiles's hole that it nearly sends Stiles bucking off the table, despite Peter's hold.
“Daddy! Alpha!” His fingernails dig into the wooden table, leaving faint gouges that are going to remind him of this moment every time he sees them. “Please, Daddy, I’m sorry!”
Their hands make his skin burn so hot he thinks it'll never stop. There will just be this aching heat forever, reminding him every time he sits down of what he did wrong. Chris strikes him again and something inside of Stiles snaps. He can't stop the sobs that fall out of him, even if he tried. His shoulders shake with the force of them. He begs for forgiveness, shouting "I'm sorry, Daddy! I'm sorry, Alpha," over and over into the wood.
He's so hard it hurts, even as he sobs brokenly against the wood. He can’t bring himself to touch his dick, to push himself that little bit he needs to orgasm. He clenches his hands into fists. He needs them, he needs Chris and Peter to take him that last step.
Chris moves to stand behind Stiles, pressing against his ass. The scrape of fabric makes his ass burn with each shift and twitch. Chris’s large, powerful hands grab Stiles by the hips and pull, holding Stiles so tight that there’s barely space for air between them. He can feel how hard Chris is, feels that thick bulge pressing against his ass. He expects Chris to open his jeans, for lube to appear and Chris to spear Stiles with that thick cock. What he gets instead is Chris’s thigh pressing up between Stiles’s legs, lifting until Stiles is balancing on his toes with his dick brushing Chris’s thigh.
He cries out as Peter grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes. He can’t help the way his hips jerk, rubbing his erection into Chris’s jeans. “Fuck, baby,” Peter growls, “look at you. So needy. You liked that didn’t you?”
Stiles sobs out an incomprehensible sound. He’s not sure if he’s trying to deny it or admit this strange new kink he’s discovered.
Chris moves his thigh, bouncing Stiles off his feet for a second and it feels so good that Stiles can’t think. Chris releases one of Stiles’s hips to spank him again. The force of the hit jerks him forward on Chris’s thigh. He shivers and bites his lip. He’s so close to coming apart.
Peter finally lifts his hand off of Stiles’s shoulders, though only long enough to grab each of Stiles’s wrists and pull them out in front of him so that Stiles is stretched across the tabletop. One hand holds his wrists tight while the other goes back to his shoulders, pinning him.
“Do you see this, Peter?” Chris asks. “His thighs are trembling.” Chris bounces his leg again, making Stiles shout. Fuck, it feels good and not enough and too much all at once. It hurts in a way that makes his body glow and ache with need.
“Does that feel good, baby?” Peter coos. “You like getting spanked?”
Stiles closes his eyes and whines. He can’t answer that. He won’t. Not that anything he could say would matter when he’s hard and leaking. His entire body shudders with each sob. The scratches on his back don’t even register any more.
Chris’s hand hits his ass again, and then twice more in quick succession. Chris switches his grip on Stiles’s hip and spanks him hard on the other side. Stiles is practically humping Chris’s thigh, jerking forward with each hit. Chris starts to move his leg, shifting and bouncing Stiles in between every new hit.
“That’s it, baby,” Chris says. His deep voice only makes Stiles harder, more desperate. He rocks against Chris’s thigh with a bitten-off cry. “Take what you need. We’ve got you, baby.”
“Don’t hide.” Peter’s hand slides up into Stiles’s hair and turns Stiles to face him. “Look at me, baby.” Stiles opens his eyes. Peter’s staring down at him with glowing red eyes and blatant hunger. Stiles is too wound up, too overwhelmed with emotion to disobey.
“Alpha...” The word comes out slurred but it makes Peter growl deep and possessive.
Peter’s thumb presses against Stiles’s lower lip, forcing his mouth open just in time for Chris to spank him again. Stiles to let out a choked sob and moan. Tears roll down his cheeks. Peter’s thumb brushes them away.
“Look at you, baby,” Chris groans. His hips rock forward, shoving Stiles against the edge of the table. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts, not the slightly too tight hold Peter has on his wrists or the hands continuing to abuse his aching flesh. “You’re doing so good, baby. Taking your punishment so well. Fuck.”
“Go on, baby.” Peter’s red gaze stays locked on Stiles’s face. “We’ve got you. You can come for us, baby. Come on.”
Peter’s thumb moves, rubbing across Stiles’s lower lip and then pushing in, pressing down on Stiles tongue. It’s so close to what Stiles would really like to be doing with his mouth that it pushes him over the edge. Orgasm hits him like a truck to the face, destroying him and leaving him torn apart in front of the two men he loves more than anything. His head falls back and he screams and sobs and moans as he comes apart. His hands grasp at empty air, his hips thrust frantically against Chris’s thigh.
Chris has both hands back on Stiles’s hips, holding him tight while Chris’s crotch smacks against his ass in a rhythm so close to fucking that Stiles’s body clenches reflexively. He feels bereft without Chris’s cock in him. He’s empty and wrung out and so overwhelmed that all he can do is lie there and take it. He’s vaguely aware of Peter’s thumb slipping from his mouth. He watches with hopeful anticipation as Peter fumbles his trousers open one-handed, releasing his erection from the confines of pants and underwear.
Stiles moans, open-mouthed and wanton. He’s drooling but he doesn’t care. He wants to taste Peter. Instead, Peter jacks himself, hard and fast in a way that means he’s not going to last long, and leans across Stiles to kiss Chris. The kiss is loud and wet and messy. He feels Chris’s hips stutter as he reaches orgasm first, followed swiftly by Peter, who growls while shooting his spend all over the table and Stiles’s face. Stiles briefly closes his eyes until the spurts stop and Chris stills behind him.
He whines. Peter looks down, finally, and releases Stiles’s wrists so he can pull Stiles sideways, just enough for the tip of Peter’s cock to reach Stiles’s mouth. Stiles greedily sucks in Peter. He uses his tongue to clean what he can reach. The salty taste and heavy weight of Peter in his mouth unmoors Stiles. He floats.
He’s turned and lifted. Strong arms wrap around him and carry him away from the table. He’s distantly aware that he’s still crying. The fabric of Peter's henley is quickly growing wet with his tears. Peter runs a hand through Stiles’s hair, petting and soothing him. He croons soft reassurances. “You took that so well, baby. You were so good for us. Perfect.”
He’s only vaguely aware of the transition from kitchen to bed. The hallway blurs around him. A cool glass of water presses against his lips and he’s fed slow sips. He’s lowered into the middle of their California King, already naked and boneless. Peter slips under the covers next to him and pulls him close, rearranging them so that Stiles can lie comfortably draped across Peter’s chest.
Peter runs a hand over Stiles's hips and thigh, occasionally brushing over reddened skin, making Stiles jump and shiver. He feels like he's coming down from a fever. He's hot all over and overly sensitized. Each faint touch feels like something more, something deeper. He can hear Chris in the bathroom. The covers peel back long enough for Chris to clean him off, first his face, then his crotch. He’s gentle. So gentle that Stiles barely registers the touch. Then Chris climbs in bed and presses against Stiles’s other side, trailing soft kisses down Stiles’s neck and shoulders.
"You back with us?" Chris asks, sometime later when Stiles's tears have died down.
He nods but doesn't move from where he's pressed against Peter’s chest.
"You really scared us, Stiles. I thought... We saw blood and we thought she'd killed you."
"I'm sorry," he mutters into Peter’s abs.
"I know, honey." Peter runs a hand through Stiles's hair and presses a kiss against his forehead. "Just think next time, okay? You don't have to throw yourself headfirst into danger. There's a reason we've been training you and a reason Deaton's teaching you. You know better."
Stiles nods. He knows it was dumb, but he didn't want Peter to die. He doesn't want either of his lovers to die. He needs to train more, get faster with his magic so that it’s instinct instead of a second-thought that’s forgotten in the stress of battle.
Chris runs soothing fingers down Stiles's side. "Get some rest now. We'll talk more in the morning, okay?"
He nods. He intends to stay awake a little longer, but his body has other ideas. His eyes fall shut and he's out in seconds, nestled safely between the men he loves.