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Stiles keeps his eyes closed, and mouth open.
There is a hand that came up from beneath his chin, fingers rough with callouses, thick and firm with use. The hand tips his head back about an inch, knuckles trace Stiles’ jawline briefly. His skin still feels sensitive after Dad taught him to shave that very morning, what not to use, what goes on there first, what helps the skin take the glide of the blades, and ‘I don’t expect you to get all the hairs cleaned up, Stiles, but try not to clog up the sink.’ Dad has a lot of faith in Stiles’ facial hair growth, it seems, and Stiles can’t help but look forward to it. Making Dad proud, he means, not clogging up the sink. Maybe they were right, he really is a Daddy’s boy.
It might help explain why Stiles is on his knees opening mouth to a room full of men that he doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know. He won’t open his eyes anyway, and the agreement is that they wouldn’t make him look either. What goes on in this room, just this once, stays in this room; what goes in Stiles’ mouth —— well.
The rough-skinned hand moves up, catching on one of Stiles’ ears, and Stiles’ eyelashes flutter a little at the sensation, ready to dodge. The hand skitters over on, less butterfly touches like Stiles is going to break, and more of a slow, but firm grip of hairs now that it’s in Stiles’ hair. The muscles in Stiles’ thigh tighten. But he is a good boy that keeps his hands clasped together at the back of his waist. He keeps his eyes closed, mouth open and he smells the first cock before him before he even feels it nudge against his lips.
It’s cut, the crown round and thicker than Stiles might’ve expected had he looked. With his eyes closed there’s just tactile measures, and this dick is thick enough for Stiles’ mouth to be stuffed full.
Stiles wants his mouth full.
His thighs tighten and shift again, and the grip in his hair flexes as though a warning. Stiles goes still, wishing the thing against the very brim of his lips would just move in already. It teases with its heady musk at his lips, the smoothness of the skin there radiating heat and things that Stiles wants. Stiles wants. He squirms in his jeans again and the teasing prod at his mouth nudges forward. Stiles stills, oh, oh it’s moving it’s moving.
The hand grips at his hair and slides Stiles’ mouth onto that dripping cock, the hard slick flesh gagging Stiles open as it drips at the back of Stiles’ throat. Stiles gurgles a little, the dripping making him want to cough, and the squirming seems to rile the man right up as he without warning thrust forward. The thing buries itself into Stiles’ throat, stuffed down to the hilt, giving Stiles a faceful of scratchy pubes and barely any room to make a sound.
Asshole.
But so good.
Stiles’ throat vibrates a little as he makes the motion to groan, and the hand in his hair drags Stiles off of that wet dick, only to the point where the tip of Stiles’ tongue is catching the sluggishly oozing pre-cum again, and then yanked back onto that cock. The first few thrusts rubs Stiles’ lips hot and raw with spit, there is a rising flush on the dips of Stiles’ cheeks as he struggles to breath right. The man seems to give Stiles just enough time to figure out breathing through his nose, before spearing Stiles’ mouth with his cock again, this time only with increased pacing.
Stiles’ jeans are a rough and tight vice bearing down on his own leaking dick, his fingers flex in his own grip behind his back, feeling at least two different wet spots forming on his layers of clothes. He is starting to feel like a mess, wet with his own pre-cum in his boxers and jeans, his shirt and plaid now spit-dampened and soon to be cum drenched.
—-Stiles likes the thought of that, and actively sticks his tongue out as the hand in his hair drags the dick out of Stiles’ mouth only to pelt it against his cheek and rub the wet mess over his face. Stiles licks along the pulsing vein lines, feeling the wet rubbing stutter and then roughen up its motions. His newly-shaved skin is definitely going to be raw. Not a stubble rash. Dick rash? Uh?
Before Stiles decides on the appropriate terminology, he is interrupted by a second cock (rude), barely wet yet, just warns with a thinner hand on Stiles’ jaw and plunges into Stiles’ mouth. The cock rutting against Stiles’ face climaxes, spraying Stiles’ hair and face with a vicious load of thick wetness.
Stiles gets no chance to really shake off the shock of wetness all over his face, as the second cock is all too busy jackhammering into his mouth, this one fast and insistent, like a needy cat in heat. The first cock backs off along with that hand in his hair, replaced by the leaner hand that just holds Stiles’ skull in place. A third presses up from behind, and Stiles fights off the urge to reach up and catch that dick before it presses up against his neck and started rubbing one off on a place Stiles didn’t even know could be used like that. Learning new shit everyday.
Stiles is drenched, by the time he has serviced his way through the whole room. His hair is matted down purely from about six different loads from various directions. He has chocked on cum at least twice, and his plaid and jeans are beyond saving. Stiles kneels there, his legs quivering from having to keep himself in place even after cumming twice in his pants. Even his eyelashes feel like they are going to stick to his face in drying cum if he doesn’t start cleaning himself up. It feels like he’s run a marathon, in wet clothes, weighing down on his body, clinging to his skin, his nipples, his balls.
Peeling them off is probably going to bring Stiles off a third time. God he’s ready to blame the sheer wantonness on the lunar eclipse or something. That’s what werewolves do, right?
Stiles shakily lets his arms loose at his sides, wobbly tries to keep balance as he starts to stand up in cum-drenched clothes. He can’t open his eyes, not wanting to find out if cum can sting his eyeballs.
The sound of the only door in the room being opened again makes Stiles pause, uncertain because he expects to be left alone.
"So that was likely the nicest lunar eclipse in a long while." came the mildly dry, slightly wry voice and a chorus of affirmatives. "…You want to try that again with the knot this time?"