.
TOHIAS
It's All Just So Ridiculous
[CHAPTER 4]
John Stilinski was not a young man.
He hadn't been a young man in a long time. But when he had been young, John had some expectations as to who he'd become when he turned half-a-century-old.
When John was just a young deputy with a new wife and a baby boy on the way, he had imagined that at fifty plus years he'd be the kind of man his own father was, the kind of man that Claudia saw in him with unshakable certainty.
When John was just a young deputy, he had imagined that when he decided to retire, it would be because wanted to leave the active part of his life behind him and enter his twilight years in peace.
Not because his son asked him to stop fighting, begging him with cold fear in his eyes and impotent worry in his voice.
But his son was right.
He was going to get shot. Or more likely, he was going to be mauled to death by another friendly monster before he'd ever get the chance to file for retirement. He should be thinking of taking up fishing or golf or something respectfully mundane and mind-numbingly safe – if not for himself, then for Stiles who doted on his well-being with suffocating fierceness that John found equally endearing as he found agonizing.
But he can't, he can't as long as they're both caught in the supernatural cesspool that seemed to have spawned in Beacon Hills.
John doesn't know how long he can pretend he's mentally fit to keep watching the world catch fire and then watch his son run right into the inferno like it's the sanest thing to do, like its normal that the Stilinski men don't even flinch when they find mutilated bodies of children in the woods every other month.
At fifty plus years, John thought he would still have his wife.
A wife to tell him to stop being so busy and to stay home, a wife to balance the dynamics and sooth their overly testosterone home into something sweet, kind and lovely. She would have never let Stiles get into half the trouble that he did. She would have shielded them with that magical stuff called maternal instinct that John can't ever hope to replicate for their son.
When John Stilinski was still young, he had hoped that at fifty plus years, he would still be John Stilinski.
But he can't really call himself that anymore. Not really.
Not as he moved in between Stiles' naked thighs and spread his son's legs open, yanking the sheets away and revealing more skin than any father should see. John tries not to look, makes it clinical and disinterested as he tries to give the boy some modesty when he's actually supposed to be defiling him.
He's not John Stilinski.
He's something entirely different now, something shameful and monstrous and John thinks he might drink a bottle of bleach when he goes home after this.
o
They shuffled back onto the pillows, his father approaching and Stiles retreating.
He kept his eyes lowered as his head rested against the cotton and silk beneath his bare skin, ignoring the red pooling under his cheeks and warming his ears. But despite averting his eyes, there was very little to look at when his father was looming over him half naked and pressed close. There was no bed sheets covering his midriff anymore, it was tossed to the side and now Stiles couldn't hide his body from the cameras or his father.
Warm hands were suddenly on him, rubbing his arms, brushing his neck and lightly squeezing the muscles of his legs.
The actions were all soft and long and…and…
What the hell?
Stiles resisted the urge to look down at his crotch but he could feel it – the pre-heat in his stomach, the tingling under his skin and the swelling promise of pleasure running up and down his legs.
God no, please. This can't be happening.
He couldn't actually be aroused by his father's petting! It wasn't even sexy or very nice. He wasn't supposed to be feeling that weird warmth pooling in his stomach which only meant one thing.
Five kinds of mortification seemed to bulldoze Stiles into twitching away from his father and turning on his side and crossing his legs.
"Stiles?" his dad called out.
"You don't have to be so gentle." The words came out before Stiles could stop them.
His dad glanced up at him but continued dragging his rough palms down both sides of his hips and all the way down to his knees, the pressure firm but still oddly polite.
"Do you have a problem with gentle?"
Stiles resisted the urge to scratch his nose. "No…but…"
He was a prostitute and John was a client. They had a script to follow and it was the only stability, the only guide Stiles had in regards to 'faking it'. Rough and disinterested. Not slow and loving – but loving was the only way to describe his father's actions because that was how his dad treated him since forever.
And there was that cloying smell of sugar and ozone.
"It's not all rough you know." His dad added carefully.
"I know." Stiles responded quickly, keeping his body tilted to his side. "Just… we don't need to do foreplay you know?"
Because Stiles was pretty damn sure that if he got anymore petting from his dad, he was going to be springing a boner without his consent.
Goddamn pheromones.
"It's not fore –" His father looked like he wanted to sigh and maybe bury his face into the mattress like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. "How do you want to do this then?"
Stiles answered a little more clipped than he intended, "I don't know."
"Stiles, I'm really trying here."
"Alright, alright I'm sorry." Stiles squirmed. "Can we…um just speed it up?"
His father looked down at him, his gaze neutral but assessing then after a second he nodded and pulled Stiles legs on both sides of his waist and dragged him forwards.
Stiles gave a yelp at being suddenly pulled by his legs, his privates crushed against a solid wall of fabric over skin.
"Alright, wrap your legs around my waist and keep it there." His dad's voice was a peculiar brand of calm and distant, like he was reading a shopping list. "Now grab that pillow beside you and prop it by your hip. It should cover most of the view from the cameras so they won't be able to see anything specific."
Stiles obediently followed the instructions as quickly as he could and watched his father unbuckle his belt and let it hang open. But his dad didn't move to unbutton his pants or pull down his fly.
"I thought this was naked-sexy time…aren't you going to take off your pants?" Stiles suddenly blabbered.
The older man glanced down at himself then locked eyes with his son. "We can do this without taking off every article of clothing." Of course Stiles thought, that made sense. Then his dad added a little more quietly. "And…I thought you'd appreciate some kind of barrier between us."
Stiles blinked.
"Ah…yeah, yeah that's fine."
He cleared his throat and continued to ignore that uncomfortable warmth churning in his belly like a pot of boiling water. Stiles hooked his legs tighter and staunchly ignored the open position of his body and counted the brass rings on the curtain hanger by the window because he didn't want to focus on how itchy the tingling in his groin was getting. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.
His father leaned down till his face was only inches away from Stiles and quietly instructed, "Put your arms around my neck."
Stiles did as he was told and connected his hands together at the back of his dad's neck till all his limbs were locked around his father's body. His dad pushed even closer till his bare chest pressed firmly against Stiles naked torso and their bellies flat against each other.
They didn't move for a long while after that.
"Dad?" Stiles mumbled against his dad's shoulder when he couldn't wait any longer.
His father remained unmoving for a few more seconds and suddenly lifted his gaze to look at Stiles. The blue of the older man's eyes were weary but firm.
"I'm going to move…are you okay with that?"
And man…Stiles couldn't stand the look on his dad's face, like he was holding back from breaking away and hitting the walls or desperately trying to hold the entire fucked up situation together with his bare hands. And Stiles knew he did this. He dragged his dad into his mess again and he was thoroughly fed up with teasing his father's life into an early grave.
His dad won't have to carry the responsibility by himself and Stiles had enough with his own uncertainty, they just didn't have time for it.
They were a team. They were going to do this together.
So Stiles didn't say anything and just moved.
He arched his body and thrusted upwards till he met with his father's pelvis and rolled his hips.
If he felt electricity flash through his stomach and down to his toes, he ignored it. If his father's flinched at the sudden action, Stiles held even tighter than before.
With shaking hands that contradicted his confident words, Stiles leaned in and whispered:
"I'm ready."
o
Stiles had a game plan.
It was simple really. They'd roll around a bit, make some embarrassing but impressively flexible positions, fake the climax which will be with-out-a-doubt, so, so awkward and then they'll be out of the room in an hour. Tops.
Except it went wrong five minutes into their little charade. Five minutes.
Even Stiles was unimpressed by that record.
o
It started slow and steady. It seemed only logical to begin as such.
Stiles felt his father gently grab the side of his hips, using the pelvic bone as a grip and pushed forward in small little movements that were barely anything at all. But after several little test runs, Stiles felt those hands on his hip pushed down harder as his dad gave an experimental thrust into his body. Faking what would have been the first penetration for the cameras.
An uncomfortable flush jolted inside Stiles chest and buried itself into the heat of his groin.
Stiles closed his eyes and recited the periodic chart backwards.
His father above him kept the rhythm steady and gentle, his hands bizarrely respectful despite what his hips were doing. The soft fabric of his father's trousers brushed up against his inner thighs and some part of Stiles couldn't decide if he wanted his dad to take off his pants or not. He just felt a little lewd being the only one completely naked.
They didn't look at each other. Stiles buried his face into his dad's shoulder his arms clung around the older man's back while his dad had his head lowered out of view. They were both grateful for whatever escape that could get.
The thrusts kept coming, still long and slow but the tempo picked up a few notches and the grip on Stiles hips were harder and more firm. His father's face was still out of view and buried next to his ear by the pillow.
They were silent.
There were no fake noises and no groans or moans or huffs or puffs.
It was all mechanical and cold.
But Stiles kept biting into his lip, holding down the traitorous need to whimper every time his dad's hips met against his open pelvis. It was clinical and staged and all kinds of uncomfortable and so, so fake but Stiles had to scrunch his eyes shut, pushing away the mortifying arousal trying to dig its way out of his throat.
The sweet syrup scent in the air clogged his senses and set his skin a blaze. The lust under his skin was clawing its way out.
Stiles listed his favourite Marvel heroes in alphabetical order.
His father covered Stiles entire body in a protective manner, physically shielding him for the cold lenses of the cameras in the room, the action oddly paternal even in such a ridiculous situation.
Another thrust and another wave of shameful lust spiked like little nails inside Stiles belly.
This couldn't be happening. Christ. He was resorting to thinking of bearded, menopausal grandmas with vomit stains on their dresses as a counter measure for the swelling burn in his groin. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew it was the sweet gas in the room that was doing this but holy bat-balls…
Stiles turned his head a little to the side and tried to find his father's face buried away from his view. The older man had his eyes closed, his mouth pressed tight and his brows drawn together. His dad's breathing was rhythmic and steady and his expression almost offensively calm while Stiles himself was slowly devolving into embarrassing mess of nerves.
Stiles fingers dug into the hard muscles of his father's back as his legs clasped around his dad's waist, his body moving back and forth with his father's movements.
What is the companion ingredient in the antidote for northern aconite poisoning?
Sweat crawled down Stiles temple and his tongue felt like heavy lead in his mouth. He bit off another whimper before it could escape.
Stem milk from the Oleander flower.
His dad pushed in again, the sensation of those gun oiled hands closed his throat and twisted his mind. His breathing was too rapid, his body was too hot and his groin twitched from soft to hard.
What is Lydia's middle name?
His legs were shaking and his toes were tingling like little ants were dancing in between the webbing of his feet.
Rose. No. Claire?
The air was a soup of suffocating sugar, bitter pleasure and blinding glitter, thickening as he tried to remember his own middle name. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think and the private place between his legs bulged into a horrifying full erection. His father was still moving above him, unaware of Stiles' aroused panic and all he could think through the haze was thank god his old man hadn't realised anything.
What's his Polish name?
His father was picking up his pace, his hips moving in a rapidly increasing rhythm, still following the unspoken play script of the Client and the Prostitute.
What's his real name?
His cock was twitching and pulsing and the horror and shame and desperate need twisted and mutated into an incomprehensible desire to just stop the burning his body.
What's his name…?
"Stiles?"
There was some kind of strange keening sound and it took a few confused seconds to realise it was him. His father had stopped moving altogether but Stiles could still hear the bed squeaking against the wall, which made no sense since his dad was now crouching still and staring down at him with an incomprehensible frown.
"Stiles." The man repeated but Stiles could only focus on the bed still moving.
Then he realised the bed wasn't moving. It was him.
Stiles had arched his back at some point and pressed his pelvis into his father's frozen body and rolled his hips again and again and again, just trying and trying and trying to stop the burning. His finger nails dug into the skin of his father's back as he used his dad's shoulders as leverage against his thrusts.
He choked on the cry crawling out of throat as his legs began to shake and his body all but slammed into the older man above him with a sort of force that almost looked violent.
"Please, please, please…"
He just wanted the burning to stop.
His cock rubbed up against the metal ladder of his father's zipper and the rough sensation against his swollen shaft had him seeing white oblivion behind his eyelids.
Stiles didn't even notice the cum spraying onto his dad's stomach as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body collapsed in a graceless heap.
o
After a small age had passed, Stiles blinked the fog out of his eyes and slowly came back to his senses.
This first thing he saw was the sticky pale liquid of his seed dripping in rivets down his dad's torso, the sight bizarre and so, so strange that he actually didn't understand what it meant. But when the burning in his body dimmed and his breathing calmed, Stiles regained its sanity from his post-orgasmic haze which finally let the slow and mortifying clarity of what just happened sink deep in his bones.
His cum dripped, dripped, dripped till all he could see was the wet trail it left behind.
Slowly and with abject terror, Stiles looked up to meet his father's wide, startled blue eyes.
The silence that followed was numb and horrific and unlike anything he had the misfortune of experiencing before.
Oh god.
.
.
.
NOTE: One more chapter left.
Thanks for reading and joining me on this train to hell.
TOHIAS