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Feather light fingers trace up Stiles’s arm, slow and distracting, dragging his attention from where Scott is talking. Stiles huffs at the sensation, and it turns into a scrape of nails at the nape of his neck in retaliation. He readjusts his shoulders at it, swallowing the whine that wants to burst from his mouth. He clears his throat as the fingertips disappear, getting caught in his throat as hands grip and dig into his hips.
A quick glance confirms that no one is there.
The hands trail up from his hips, dipping under his shirt even as it lays still, undisturbed. They’re ice cold, leeching heat from his skin. The contrast is sharp and Stiles finds himself focusing on it, the way the fingertips press a little too hard before moving on. Stiles is sure he’ll have bruises later on. Soft lips trace the shell of his ear, ending with a sharp nip at the very tip of it. He has to roll his neck to hide the flinch it causes, and prays to every deity for patience. Not that it’s Stiles himself who needs to be patient, he’d rather the source of these illicit touches learn some.
Stiles has given up on paying attention to Scott and hopes it’s nothing too important. The hands keep up for the entire meeting, lips grazing his hips and a memorable moment where they pressed against the tendon of his neck. When it finally ends, Stiles gets a reprieve from the sensations, but all that does is make him jittery- desperate for it.
Of course, that’s exactly what they want.
Rhys is waiting for him when he gets home. They lounge on his bed, the sheets precariously placed around them. Stiles finds himself ogling them, still weird despite the months this has been happening. They’re a perfect copy of his own body, but the way they hold themselves is different. Different enough that Stiles can find himself attracted to them.
Stiles’s eyes trace along the arch of Rhys’s torso. They’ve been jacking off the entire time they teased him. Stiles isn’t surprised in the least, and aptly watches as sweat trails down the curves of their body.
“Finally joining us?” The words twist in their mouth, the way they always seem to with Rhys speaks. “We thought you would leave early, but guess we were wrong…” He almost sounds disappointed by the fact, but Stiles knows that they very much enjoy teasing him.
“Leaving in the middle would’ve been suspicious.” That’s a lie, the pack would know exactly what he would be getting up to, no matter how hard he tries to hide it. Rhys always enjoys showing the pack just what the two of them do in their private time. “I don’t care how shameless you are, I’m not inclined to act like a call boy.” Stiles tries to sound indignant at the implication, despite that most of the time he acts exactly like that when Rhys starts the phantom touches.
Rhys simply raises a brow at the words, obviously thinking along the same lines Stiles is. Through all of this they’re still stroking their cock, tip leaking with precome and the shaft slick with lube. The lube is a surprise, as they like everything rougher with the chances to bring about pain. A thumb flicks and presses into the slit, spreading the pooling precome until it slides down along the veins on Rhys’s cock. Stiles’s mouth waters at the sight.
He finds himself crawling onto the bed, knees knocking with knees. “Planning on doing anything with that?” His breath is raspy and deep with arousal. Rhys groans at the tone in it, promises held within, and the phantom touches from earlier start up again. They’re rougher than before, less teasing feather touches and more bruise inducing grips and blood drawing bites. Stiles’s breath hitches in his throat when a particularly harsh bite happens on the meat of his thigh, right next to his hardening dick.
Rhys voice is oil slick and accompanied by a licking tongue at Stiles’s ear. “Maybe… are you planning to get on your knees? Pant for us like a good boy?” The pupils of their eyes dilate at the imagery. Stiles nods at the words, unable to resist something he knows they’ll both like. He moves to cover Rhys’s body with his own, and kisses at the other’s jaw before whispering into their ear.
“Dad won’t be home until morning.”
Rhys growls, a reverberating sound that rumbles from deep in their chest, eyes flashing and fangs lengthening. Before he knows it, Stiles is pinned on his back, certain that hand shaped bruises will fade in the next day from the brutal grip Rhys has on him. Mischief dances in his eyes as he watches them loose control- even if just for a moment. Nothing gets Stiles hot and bothered faster then when Rhys lets a bit of the fox out.
“Are you gonna follow through on your promises, fox?” It’s a challenge, and when Rhys bares their teeth in a snarl, Stiles knows he’s going to get just what he wants. Still, he eggs them on, “What are you waiting for? Take what you want.” Stiles rolls his hips against Rhys’s, thrilled at the feel of their cock through his jeans.
“Why are you still clothed?” They ask absently, not expecting an answer, but as Stiles is still capable he answers anyway. “Because you haven’t torn them off me yet.” A rip sounds through the room at the words, and cool air drifts below the cloth onto his skin. Teeth bite at the exposed flesh, worrying and sucking it devilishly before a gentle peck soothes the throbbing hickey. Surprisingly gentle for the fox.
Stiles gets lost in the sensations; of Rhys rubbing off on him, of teeth and tongue, and when he checks in again he’s been completely removed of his outfit. The foreplay is nice and all, but he’d really like to get a move on, so he reaches for his dick and pulls at it. He meets with Rhys’s mouth, gnashing teeth into plumb lips and pushing with his tongue into the waiting depths. He hisses when Rhys bites his tongue, and in his distraction he finds himself flipped over, rolling his hips into the mattress instead of the body behind him.
Fingertips poke at his hole, already wet with lube and precome. They wait for barely a moment before two long and skinny fingers, exactly like his own, push in and stretch. It burns sweetly as Rhys spreads they’re fingers into a V inside him, pain morphing into pleasure in a way it never did before the fox possessed him. They find his prostate quickly after that, milking it and edging him until he is mewling from the over stimulation. Vaguely, he feels tears tracking down his cheeks.
Rhys always did like it when he cried.
But he still hasn’t come yet, and they have another two fingers to go before Rhys will even think of sticking their dick in him. He can’t wait.
“You’re desperate now, aren’t you? Look at you, crying for our cock… how sweet it will be for us to fill you up.” They are whispered into the back of his neck, right before fangs descend and plunge into it. Stiles feels the blood well up and slide around to drip off his neck. The pleasure-pain is overwhelming, and he can feel his balls tighten. He tries to call out a warning, but his breath keeps escaping him. Just as he’s about to blow, ice cold fingers wrap harshly around the root of his dick, effectively stopping his orgasm.
“You are not allowed to come until you are filled with us.” Rhys hisses at him, grip around his dick tightening past the pleasure-pain until it's just pain. Stiles pants for a few seconds before replying, with false sugar-coated words, “Then fuck me, fox.”
Immediately his ass is empty, hole clenching at nothing. Stiles almost sobs at the feeling, despite knowing it will be filled soon enough. He holds it in, and is rewarded with the tip of Rhys’s cock poking at his entrance. Stiles pushes back on it, panting for it like Rhys has wanted. They slide it through in one smooth move, stuffing him to the root. “Good boy”--they whisper, low and coy--”taking us so well, we made you perfect for us.” Their words end in a hiss.
Stiles is beyond words, panting and rocking back into Rhys as he’s fucked. The grip around his dick loosens, and he can feel his orgasm quickly creeping up on him again. “Hah, I-- Rhys--” he tries to warn, but it’s mumbled into the sheets beneath them, lost in a cacophony of moans and the slap of Rhys meeting his ass. Everything is blazed white static as he comes, euphoria rushing through his veins. He can vaguely feel Rhys speed up when the orgasm makes Stiles clench down, and soon Rhys is coming too.
When Stiles is next aware, he’s cradled into the hold of Rhys’s arms. Rhys is licking at the bite on his neck, and they caress idly at his arm. Stiles has long given up on being anything other then the little spoon when they cuddle, and being held like this is nice after the rough sex they usually enjoy.
“Are you back with us now?” Rhys voice is soft, downy and cloudlike in a way it rarely ever is. A way it only ever is with him. Stiles hums in response, deigning not to speak, and instead hunkers down into the cuddle. He feels them huff at his antics, and he smiles dopely in return. “Okay then,” Rhys whispers, “sleep then, our mischief.”
Stiles does sleep then; drifts off to Rhys humming forgotten tunes, and the feel of sharp claws tracing delicately at his skin.