.
TOHIAS
It's All Just So Ridiculous
[CHAPTER 5]
"Oh god."
The words were mangled with disbelief and incomprehension.
"Oh my god."
The small speck of horror grew larger and larger till it bulged and deformed into unbearable mortification and all Stiles could do was to make sure his panic didn't mutate into full-blown hyperventilation.
"Stiles…" The older man shuffled closer.
The sheriff gently touched his arm and Stiles knew he could never, ever, ever look at his father in the eye again.
"Stiles look at me."
He really couldn't. Instead he violently twisted away, stumbled against the pillows and tried to crawl his way from underneath his dad. He had to leave. He had to find a way to breathe on his own and not in those short, asthmatic breaths that barely let oxygen into his lungs. And there was that strange sound from his throat again but this time it wasn't from pleasure but from the physical force of Stiles trying not to cry.
And the worst thing, absolute worst thing was that despite the shame and madness twisting his guts, his body wanted more.
The scorching in his stomach hadn't gone away at all, instead it seemed to have expanded from his head to his toes, the pain whispering alien thoughts into his mind, urging him to feed his growing hunger.
He had to get away.
Stiles tumbled off the edge of the bed and fell on his knees with the sheets wrapped around him like chains preventing him from leaving, pulling him back to the mattress. He tried to yank the fabric away but all he could do was press his head against the carpet and count his fingers, hoping the number would come up odd instead of even.
"Stiles, you have to breathe. In and out, come on."
Yup, he was definitely having a panic attack. However, he was acutely aware of gentle hands dragging soothing strokes down his back despite the fogginess in his vision.
"That's it, nice and deep, you know what to do."
Stiles somehow managed to follow his father's quiet instructions because he started to feel his chest loosen and he eventually wrestled back his ability to suck in oxygen. The mortification however was still very much there.
"Come on son, look at me." The older man urged as he crouched down low on the ground.
Stiles just shook his head, trying his best to coil his body into a ball so his dad couldn't see the traitorous thing standing erect between his thighs.
"Everything's alright." His dad's voice rumbled deep and sure even though they both knew it was a lie.
"God I'm so sorry."
"Stiles it's fine."
"It's not fine! It's so far away fromfine that it's on Mars!" Stiles buried his face into the carpet, sniffling away the wetness in his eyes.
His dad hesitated a moment then suddenly dragged the blanket that was already half falling off the bed over both of them so it cocooned them both. With a quick glance at the nearest camera the older man caged Stiles with his entire body.
"Stiles look at me."
He doesn't. Instead he just choked out, "Can't. I'm too busy dying right now."
"You did nothing wrong." His dad whispered into his ear.
Stiles shut his eyes tight, unable to release his body from his foetal position in fear that his body would go nuts on him again.
"You're burning up." His father suddenly noted, his voice edged with undeniable worry.
Yeah and the things was, Stiles could feel it getting worse. Every nerve was rioting in his body at the warmth of another human being too close to his persons. Every soothing drag of his father's hand on his back felt like someone was prodding whatever pleasure centre he had in his brain with hot iron stick. Even the sound of his father breathing behind him was making him shiver with horrifying lust. He just wanted to scream at his dad to leave him alone because if he didn't, Stiles just might do something gross like hump his leg or something equally as mortifying.
When the sheriff tried to wrap his arms around him, Stiles flinched away. He didn't mean to, but the man was just too close.
His dad immediately drew back like he'd been burned.
"Sorry…I," the man made an uncharacteristically strangled sound and his dad suddenly backed away. "That's it. We're not doing this. I'll break down the damn door if I have to."
The sheriff leaned away to go gun for the door but Stiles twisted around and held his father in place.
"No!"
With a firm tug, Stiles pulled his dad back into their weird little nest of sheets on the floor.
"Stiles, you can't do this." I can't do this; the man seemed to say in between the lines.
Stiles mustered whatever calmness he could find and swallowed down his shame. "…dad the alternative isn't an option. I can do this. I just…" his mouth had never felt so dry. "Just give me a moment."
His father's blue eyes darted all over his face as if looking deeper into Stiles' words, looking for something, anything at all. In the end the sheriff just observed with weariness:
"You're still shaking." John whispered quietly.
Stiles immediately hid his hands away, as if moving them out is his dad's sight would make it less true.
"I know…I just," he licked his dry lips and looked away. "I just thought it wouldn't be this bad. I thought I could handle it…"
"The pheromone thing?"
Stiles clenched his legs tighter together and turned away from his father's concerned gaze. "Something's wrong…it's not supposed to be this strong. It's not supposed to be like this. It's not."
He glanced back towards his dad but suddenly caught sight of his drying cum on his dad's skin and he felt his entire body go red. That alien, coiling sensation in his belly just kept growing and growing and growing till Stiles just knew it was a matter of time before he lost his shit again.
And despite the tightness around his dad's eyes and the unusual flush on the man's skin, the older Stilinski was calm and composed as ever – always forever the vigilant, upstanding, unaffected sheriff.
Suddenly he was too angry for words.
"Why in god's name aren't you affected?!"
His father blinked in alarm at the sudden volume but almost immediately turned away to look at the cameras. With a sigh that was more brittle than Stiles had expected, the man replied with some reluctance:
"I am."
The soft words were whispered so quietly that Stiles barely heard it but he did hear it and it sounded too much like a sordid confession that was never meant to be spoken out loud. His father's face, while composed in that cop-like sort of way, was suddenly noticeably bitter and lined with pressure.
He couldn't resist.
Like a magnet being pulled to its counterpart, Stiles slowly dragged his gaze down his father's body till they locked onto the front of the older man's trousers. The dark fabric did very little to hid the abnormal bulge swollen underneath the zipper, it's shape and size far too obvious to be confused for anything else other than…
"Holy shit."
Yeah, he didn't mean to be so crass but he was more focused on trying to regain his breath.
His dad leaned away with that hollow sort of look painted in the lines of his face but Stiles couldn't care less about that, not when all the blood in his body seemed to redirect itself back into 'Little-Stiles' so fast that he nearly went cross-eyed.
"Stiles?"
He vaguely heard his dad use a tone that he's never uttered before – it sounded alarmed and a shade of confused but Stiles couldn't focus his distorted attention away from the bulge in his father's pants.
"What are you doing? Stiles, looks at me. Stiles!"
It was as if a monster had been sleeping underneath his skin and the sight of his father's sex-thingamabob pushing against his pants had pulled a beastly head out of chest and into the boiling vat of his stomach.
The trigger had been pulled and now Stiles entire world had narrowed down to his itching need to just…
The next thing he knew – and without any forward thought – Stiles reached out and pressed his hand onto his dad's groin, the taught, hot feeling of the organ beneath those dark trousers were suddenly all he could think of, all he could see.
It was all he wanted.
The cloying, itching, beautiful cloud of sweetness invaded every pore in his body, the pheromones tearing away at his will and robbing him of his mind. He ignored his dad's voice calling his name in that troubled, worried voice that he knew so well but he didn't really care. He knew what he wanted and he knew what he needed to do.
He gave his father's throbbing length a firm hungry squeeze and looked at the man right in the eyes.
"Please."
The fuck was he saying? He didn't even understand what he was asking for but his body just moved on its own and tossed his free-will to the curb.
Stiles dragged his palm up the warm shaft till it rested on the swollen head and rolled his hand.
"Please."
The air was suddenly sweet again, sweet with fiery, turbulent, disastrous hunger and the remaining lucid part of Stiles mind knew he was losing the fight. He couldn't want this, he shouldn't want this, he can't want this, but dear lord, he really, really did. And that was the last coherent thing Stiles thought of before the parasitic cloud of lust ripped him from the inside out and dragged him into purgatory.
"Please."
His foggy eyes beseeched the older man with each long stroke on his father's bulge and begged again please.
Help me.
O
The first time John killed a man, he was twenty-two.
Mr Hilton had been on Ice, high as the stars in the sky and viciously angry. John remembered the children crying upstairs in the bathroom where their mother had locked them in for safety, their cries far too loud to help them hide. The wife had been beaten black and blue and half dead at the bottom of the stairs, her hair a mass of pretty blonde and garish red. Mr Hilton kept kicking her, even when she stopped moving, his eyes glazed with chemicals, his mouth noxious with alcohol and the gun in his hand shaking with blood-rage.
John vaguely remembered trying to talk him down but Hilton probably couldn't tell the sky from the ground. He did however recognise John's uniform and immediately gunned for the officer at his door.
So John shot him.
It was supposed to be a clean through-and-through but the man slipped on his wife's blood and changed the trajectory of John's bullet. Instead John had blown of his nose, obliterated a large chunk of the brow and skull with the new trajectory. There were shattered bones all over the place with Mr Hilton's eye-socket suddenly two times too large and his face slowly splitting in two halves.
The absolute worst part was that the man was still alive.
He died eventually but that was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. John couldn't pick up his gun for nearly a year after that. Damn near almost quit being a cop. He got better eventually, but it remained the most gruesome act of violence John had inflicted against another human being and the memory of it still made his body revolt even after all these years.
But now John was thinking of Mr Hilton and his split face with vivid detail.
He was drudging up every little horrible memory on loop.
He was thinking about the body matter against the walls, the smell of rust in the air and the sound of the children crying in the bathroom. He was thinking of it all. Anything and everything just so he could suppress the throbbing cock in his trousers.
And it wasn't working.
The viciously sweet gas had blenched his brain and rewired his body into one collective ball of inflamed nerves. But John could ignore the burn, the want, the ticking time bomb at the back of his head. He could repress it all. He could do it for his son. He could do it for Stiles.
But that was all shot to hell the moment Stiles pressed into John's groin.
As soon as he felt those hands on him, John recoiled so fast his shoulder blades slammed violently into the bedside. Wide-eyed and uncomprehending of those familiar fingers touching him, John quickly gripped Stiles' wrists, his muscle locking into reactive instinct and pulled them far away from his body.
"Stop."
And his son made that sound again. That sound that seemed to slowly crawl out of his boy's throat and breathe agonising want into the air like it's supposed to sound appropriate.
It wasn't. It wasn't appropriate.
And the sheriff knew he'd just lost ten years off his already terminating lifespan.
The boy in front of him didn't seem deterred by his command. Instead Stiles seemed to redouble his efforts into closing the distance between their bodies with a single-minded focus that was so inverted from his usual ADHD skittish behaviour. All John could do was press further against the side of the bed and try to reason with him.
"Stiles, Stiles stop." John repeated, still gripping his son's wrist away from him. "This isn't you."
The boy inched closer and ignored the sheets falling away from his body, exposing far too much bare skin.
His brown eyes weren't right. The indomitable alertness in his gaze was fogged over with half-hooded eyelids and abnormally dilated pupils that gave his face a look of someone high as a kite. Like the way Mr Hilton had been when John had carved his face with a bullet.
"Of course I'm not me." Stiles sounded slurred and breathy but also oddly calm as he crept even closer. "Isn't that the point of playing this game?"
The boy's eyelashes fluttered as he skimmed his eyes all over John's face, like he was feverishly trying to remember every detail about him.
"This isn't a game." John firmly insisted.
Stiles pulled his wrists out of John's deadlock grip and leaned even closer. "Playing pretend – that's what we're doing John, we're playing the game of 'John and his Call-boy'. That hasn't changed. We should keep going sir."
Stiles reached down and cupped the front of the John's trousers again and all John could do was grit his teeth.
"Stop."
Stiles squeezed.
John just shut his eyes tight and clenched his fingernails so hard he knew he'd broken skin.
"Please."
The boy was begging again and John wanted to break something.
"Let go." He pleaded quietly.
His son gently rubbed the hardness in John's pants and whispered in that feverish sort of daze, "But you want it too."
He knew there would be a dark circle of hell that was reserved only for John because he couldn't deny that his dick hadn't been aching for the last ten minutes. But it wasn't him. It wasn't. It was the thrice-damned chemical, pheromones, gas whichever because the older Stilinski would've never felt so revoltingly aroused by his son stroking him.
"It's the room Stiles, it's making us sick." John hissed.
This isn't us. The thing between my legs isn't me. And it isn't you.
Before John could yank the boy's hand away, Stiles was suddenly pressed all over him, their bare torsos touching and his thighs locking John from both sides like a vice.
Dilated eyes and flushed skin stared John down as his son rolled his body against his crotch in one hard grind.
"Help me." Stiles whispered so, so close to his ear with undeniable want lacing every inappropriate syllable of his son's plea.
The sheriff's department filtered through so many junkies high on whatever substance they'd sniffed, drank or shot into their bodies for momentary reprieve from reality. He watched over young teenagers locked in his jail cells as he called worried parents and shoved anti-drug pamphlets into their hands.
His son had the same glazed heat blanketing his eyes, just like all those youngsters throwing up in his jail cell.
John wondered if he looked the same.
Did he also have those swollen pupils and inflamed eyes, lost in a nebula of lust?
"John, it hurts." Stiles puffed into his neck.
The younger Stilinski accelerated the speed of his hands as he continued to masturbate whilst rubbing his ass into John's lap.
Barely seconds later, Stiles was mewling and spraying cum all over his hands.
John didn't know what to do.
The sheriff just couldn't maintain eye contact when Stiles lifted his flushed face to look at his father. For a moment he honestly thought the boy was going to kiss him. But he didn't. Instead Stiles half-mast eyes widened as if he realised some monumental discovery and with a breathy laugh he proclaimed:
"Wow, you have bits of brown in your eyes."
The statement was so left-field that all John could do was stare.
"Heterochromic genetic mutation." Stiles continued drowsily, like they were having a normal conversation in front of their TV, like he wasn't naked and jerking-off in his father's lap. "Huh…" He lifted his fingers like actually wanted to touch John's eyeball. "Never noticed before."
It was the weirdest, most random thing to start spieling off about in the middle of rutting against someone's leg. But for John, it was like a flare of hope in the dark, it was promise of air in a shut room, a light at the end of the tunnel – because it was such a Stiles thing to do. Only his boy would find a genetic mutation fascinating enough to stop wanking off mid-way.
Behind all that lust, John suddenly felt overwhelming fondness for his pale, sarcastic, stubborn boy. He was certain they could find a way out.
"Stiles…" John quietly called out.
With some hesitation, John lifted his hand and gently placed his large palms against the boy's neck, feeling that erratic pulse and flushed red skin. Stiles' eyes were still dilated with only a thin ring of amber showing but John could see his son was still there – still lucid beneath all that primal hardwiring.
"Look at me." John gently instructed as he held the boy's face in both his hands. "Keep your eyes only on me."
His son immediately responded but his hands continued to rub against his hard shaft without stopping.
John gently circled his thumbs over Stiles' jaw and said, "We'll get through this. Together. But first you have to come back to me."
"It hurts" Stiles repeated much quieter this time.
"I know…I'll help you I promise, but you have to wake up and come back to me son."
The boy's distant eyes hadn't changed but at least he was still looking at John without groping him.
"But it hurts everywhere John." There was flicker of…something in his boy's face before he squeezed his eyes shut.
"You don't have to call me that Stiles." The sheriff added gently. "I'm not your client. I'm your father and you're my son, so please, please wake up."
John caressed Stiles' back like he used to when his son had been younger and sick with the flu – back when their days were measured by empty pop tart boxes and sunny afternoons. Back when John Stilinski still felt like John Stilinski and Stiles didn't carry the weight of battle scars on his skin and war drums in his chest.
"Dad?" Stiles finally blinked up, his face suddenly pale and tight.
Unparalleled relief flooded John as his boy began to slowly but surely regain that liquid sharpness in his eyes.
"Yeah, I'm here son." John smiled.
Stiles blinked at his hands like his own appendages didn't make sense to him. He pointedly stared at the sticky cum drying in between his fingers and something small and delicate crumple inside his boy's face. Unlike the first time Stiles regained his lucidity, there was no loud panic. Instead he was unnervingly quiet in his wakefulness.
The lack of hysteria didn't make the sheriff feel better.
"Stiles?" he called out carefully.
Those doe eyes fluttered up to stare at the camera, then skirted around the room till his whiskey-coloured gaze landed on John. Despite his newly regained alertness, Stiles lips tremored with barely restrained exhaustion and John knew that his boy's sudden silence was not because he was okay.
Eventually when his son did speak it neither frail nor weak – it was as if he was mentioning the weather or noting they no longer had milk in the fridge or something equally mundane.
However the honesty in Stiles' words bled through regardless of his tone:
"…Dad." he counted his fingers then looked up when he reached ten, his lips trembling like he wanted to cry. "I want to go home."
The expression on Stiles face was the look he got when he was trying so hard not to weep and kick and scream, just like he did when he stood shaking in the middle of the hospital room with his mother grey and cold like the floor beneath his broken shoes.
John looked at his son and the sheriff knew he probably looked the same.
I want to go home.
But there was really only one way they were going home.
The room once again breathed that horrifically sweet gas that was repulsive as it was addictive and just as its design had intended, both their bodies betrayed them for a minefield of want, want, want. So John pulled his son close and wrapped his arms around him till the negative space between their bodies merged into one embracing form.
He had never denied his son sanctuary and he wouldn't stop now, so John said the only thing he could, the only thing that would get them home:
"Okay."
O
In the end, the plan was still the same.
Give the cameras a show, let them see what they needed, unlock those doors and get the hell out of there.
The only difference was that every time the sheriff dug into their hips, ground their bodies close and brushed their skin together, those little gasp and moans tearing out of Stiles throat was neither fake nor pretend.
When Stiles leaned back into their little nest of blankets on the floor, John followed him.
When Stiles' cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and catastrophic desire, John just pressed their foreheads together.
And when his boy mewled, moaned and spread his legs open, John slid in between them and gave into his son's breathy demands.
But really nothing had changed. In the end, the plan was still the same.
But at the end of all it, he knew they wouldn't be.
O
The hot cavity between their stomachs was painted with Stiles cum.
There was barely an inch of skin on his torso that wasn't slicked with sweat and covered with rolling fluids. Stiles had lost count how many times he had got-off but it must have been enough to soak the carpet beneath his back and glue his dad's chest to his.
He pressed his face into the older man's shoulder and slowly counted down till he regained the ability to breathe.
"You okay?" His father whispered close to his ear.
Stiles didn't answer.
Instead he buried his face into his dad's neck and urged the older man to just keep moving. He let the vortex of lust carry him off as the sheriff began to obediently grind his hips into Stiles throbbing cock all over again. They'd done this enough times that Stiles even had a favourite part of his dad's fly that he liked to dig the head of his penis against in little circular rolls. The friction against the metal zipper made Stiles breathe shudder and his toes tingle and yeah…it sounded more messed up every time he thought about it.
Stiles know he's getting more lucid and clearer with every release and he hoped that they could stop soon. He doesn't know how he's even physically capable of cumming that many times without dehydrating but somehow the Madams chemical concoction was sustaining him.
There was another deep, rolling thrust from his dad hips that seemed to fire sparks into the back of Stiles eyes and the next thing he knew, he was spraying cum all over himself again.
Stiles let his head fall back to the ground with a soft thump and waited for the starburst to fade away from the back of his eyelids. And even as he came down from the high, he could feel his heartbeat in the length of his dick, still hard, red and weeping.
He felt like vermin.
"You okay?" his dad asked again for the millionth time and Stiles can't help but flinch with guilt at the uncertainty in the man's voice.
Are you okay?
It's always the same words every time and Stiles never answered every time. He wished his dad would stop asking, he wished he would stop looking at him with those warm eyes that had no business looking so concerned and present. Not when Stiles had just humped his way into his seventh orgasm on his father's lap like the man was a life-size sex doll.
Stiles breathed in deep as he covered his eyes with his forearm, hoping to hell that he didn't start crying right then and there.
He could feel the bite of desire still boiling in the pit of his stomach, rolling and frothing and he knew that his body needed to cum again already but Stiles didn't feel satisfied. He needed more. More than just some rubbing and grinding and second-base stuff.
The worst thing is that Stiles just wanted his dad to touch him.
Never, not once, in their entire sexy-time did his father put his hands on Stiles other than to hold him close and steady. The older Stilinski would press their bodies flat against each other but that was it. Everything else was up to Stiles. His father's hands were always clenched tight and away from Stiles' body. Of course he understood why, but he really, really, really wanted his dad to take those worn, rough hands and just touch him. On him, in him, everywhere.
And his body shivered at the thought feeling the other man's cock released from the confines of his pants and between Stiles' hands, on his skin and in his body.
The moment the thought crossed his mind, Stiles felt bile crawling up his throat in both disgust and earth-shattering need.
That previous alarm was back in his father's voice as he observed his son grow two shades paler. "Stiles?"
"Why is it only me?!" Stiles suddenly cried, trying to tame the hysteria that accompanied his sexual crisis.
His father blinked, those wrinkles on his forehead deepening in confusion.
"What?"
Stiles sat up from his prone position and glared at his father. "Why is it only me?! Why am I the one rutting up against you like you're a really nice piece of masturbatory furniture. Why am I the only one doing this? Needing this?"
His dad didn't say anything and just looked at him all weary and jaded. But eventually he asked:
"Needing what?"
The sheriff looked like he wanted to cut his own tongue out for asking but he spoke no more and just waited for Stiles to answer and Stiles almost didn't, but he can't ignore the parasitic creature living inside his mind that just wanted to eat and eat and eat. So he pushed the vomit down his throat and the lust in his stomach and confessed:
"You."
The sheriff didn't seem to understand for a few moments.
But then Stiles watched his dad realise the depravity of his request and watched the man's face shuttered close.
"No."
The words were final.
Stiles knew he was going to hell so he let his hand trail down to his own cock and started to stroke himself completely out in the open and right in front of his old man. His father didn't look at him though. Instead he trained those pale slate blue eyes firmly at the wall behind him.
Stiles knew his entire body was flushed with shame but he continued to stroke himself as he edged closer to the man.
"Please…" Stiles voice breaks. "Please, I don't want to do this, but I need you." It wasn't even a lie.
"No." his father repeats firmly, his voice rough and tight with unspeakable grit.
Stiles just edged closer. "Come on dad, you want it too. We can both see it." Stiles thought he almost sounded persuasive. "Just lemme help you."
His father's face was a solid wall of impenetrable stone and he's never seen the man look at him like that. Like Stiles was a creature best left in the back of the woods and shot.
"I'm not fucking you."
In the eighteen years Stiles had been gloriously alive, he'd never heard his father use that word in such a way, but hearing it now…
He should've remembered to control himself, he should've realised that the pheromones where predominantly controlling his actions and words. But of course Stiles has always been a complete spaz and decided to forgo sanity as his character dictated and bobbed his head to his father's crotch. Not wasting anytime, he pulled down the man's fly and rubbed his nose against the sheriff's bulge with an eagerness that should've embarrassed him.
But before he could dig his hands inside the older man's briefs, Stiles was suddenly slammed onto his back.
The younger Stilinski gazed up at his father's furious face and Stiles knew he'd completely lost his mind.
"Dammit Stiles!"
He flinched at his father's harsh volume.
"I can't give you what you want because you can't want that. I know you don't, so stop asking!" The man gritted his teeth and Stiles thought his father looked completely wrecked. "I'm trying. You have no idea how much I'm trying."
Stiles didn't know when he started crying but it was probably when the entire planetary mass of guilt finally slammed him over the head.
He couldn't believe he tried to give his dad a blowjob. Like actually tried to force himself on him despite the man's very solid 'no'.
"Oh god…" Stiles choked on the horror of his own actions. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."
And he really meant it.
However, the worst part was that Stiles was still stroking himself all the while he was apologizing.
O
John didn't know exactly when it happened, but when it did, it happened fast.
Maybe it was the sight of his son crying, his sudden tears offsetting those unnaturally dilated pupils into something that looked like a desperate void, begging, wanting and burning. Maybe John had been slowly losing his mind since the moment he walked into the room, unsuspecting that he'd been fighting a battle he'd already lost.
Maybe John was just simply a bad man.
In the end it didn't matter how it happened, because it eventually lead to John doing exactly what he thought he'd never do.
O
Stiles could see the moment something in his father's eyes cracked and splintered – a shadow of a dormant beast clawed its way to the surface through what was left of his dad's thin control of their very messed up situation.
Later on, when Stiles thought of this moment, he will wonder what it was that finally pushed his father off the edge.
O
The sheriff suddenly dragged Stiles up by his wrist till they were flushed against each other and their faces inches apart.
"Dad?" Stiles stuttered at the sudden action.
His father didn't answer.
Instead he let Stiles straddle his lap and secured the boy's legs firmly on both sides of his hip. Without saying anything else, the older man rolled pelvis into the hollow between Stiles legs and pressed his clothed erection right up against his own cock.
Stiles must have made some kind of strange sound because his father's unnaturally dilated eyes locked onto his mouth.
Before Stiles was the only active party while his dad remained a passive, unmoving participant. But now it was different. His father's hands were nearly bruising in their hold and he his hips moved with almost painful force. Stiles didn't know what else to do except shiver as his body revelled in the sensation of being groped and rubbed up against – just like he wanted and just like he didn't want.
Stiles' legs quivered at the sensation of his dad's length digging into his groin in little sharp thrusts, feeling the shape and hardness of the organ in a way that he hadn't before.
He warred between moaning with undiluted pheromone-pleasure and choking from mind-numbing disgust.
Eventually Stiles' mind forfeited clarity for the collective sensation of his entire body being played like an instrument by rough weathered hands and gun-bruised fingers that were both achingly familiar and shockingly alien on his body. His dad did an unusual circular motion with his groin and Stiles was pretty convinced that he wouldn't be able to recall his own name if someone had asked him right then and there.
With clumsy movements, his own body tried to match his father's sudden enthusiasm, crashing, grinding and pretty much smushing their groins together to keep reliving the electric jolts inside their stomachs.
At some point – Stiles didn't know when – his dad had buried his nose into the pulse of his neck and gave the column of pale skin a quick lick.
If Stiles had any dignity left, which he didn't, he would've been embarrassed be the throaty moan that escaped from his throat as he came harder and faster than he had before.
His dad was looking at him, his blue eyes now only a thin ring around his enlarged pupils and Stiles had never seen that expression on his dad's face. It kinda looked like his dad was both painfully aroused and tragically ready to go jump out the window.
Stiles looked down where his sticky cock stood weeping against their squashed bellies, still hard and burning despite his kazillionth orgasm in a row and then he looked down at his dad's tight bulge and saw his dad still hadn't cummed once.
He barely realised his hand had reached down to cup his dad's crotch again but he felt weirdly satisfied by the hiss that came out of his father's mouth.
"Let me help you." Stiles whispered and he almost laughed at how husky he sounded, because he's never really been able to pull off sexy before and it's a bit of a joke that the one time he does pull it off, it's with his dad.
His dad doesn't seem to approve of his palm rubbing up and down his covered erection, but the sheriff was also not pushing Stiles off so he saw it as a win. But before Stiles could release the man's cock from his trousers, his father suddenly gripped his hands tight and moved them away.
"No."
Stiles wanted to beat his head against the wall.
He got it, he really did, he understood why his dad was refusing to cross that line but Stiles was tired of feeling like the entire crazed-lust-gas-thingy was only effecting him. This one-sided shit had to stop.
"Just let me touch –"
"No."
"Come on! I won't even look."
"No."
"This can't just be about me!"
"No."
"Fine! Walk outta here with that damn thing poking out, but we both know it's not going away on its own."
Stiles flailed his arms up in the air in frustration and started to laugh bitterly because he was actually mad about not getting his father's junk. It was all just so ridiculous.
"Can't you be satisfied with what we're doing now?" His father asked with barely controlled frustration. "What more do you want?"
It took him a solid minute before he could muster enough balls to just say it.
Barely keeping eye contact Stiles mumbled his answer. "I…I'm okay with, you know…going all the way?"
His father just stared at him.
Stiles knew he'd gone completely red.
"…You know…doing the horizontal tango, the beast with two backs, the whole shebang?"
The man was looking at him like he was uncertain what to do with the information he'd just been given but the bulge in the older man's trousers seemed larger and tighter than before.
"Dammit." the man hissed out.
Before Stiles could try and make a case, he was suddenly pulled off the man's lap and pressed against the floor. A little shocked at the sudden position change, Stiles just stared up at the man looming above him and saw his dad's face was taught, glazed and his eyes so, so dark with want. Stiles honestly didn't know what else to do except stare dumbly at the nearly unrecognisable man in front of him.
"Hands and knees." Came the clipped demand.
Stiles blinked.
"What?"
"Get on your hands and knees."
Stiles just watched incredulously as his father started to unloop his belt from his waist.
Holy ball sacks. It was actually happening.
Stiles didn't wait for his father to repeat himself and quickly rolled over and propped his body on all fours. His skin felt ablaze was anticipation and re-doubled arousal that he felt almost dizzy. He choked on his own spit when his hips were dragged back, his bare ass hanging up into the air and waiting with anticipation. In all his excitement, Stiles couldn't push away the blooming confusion. Despite the gas making his body ache for this, Stiles was lucid enough to feel suddenly terrified.
"Dad…?" Stiles didn't like how scared his words sounded to his own ears.
His old man must of heard the fear in his voice too because suddenly his dad's arms were wrapped around him in a secure hold.
"Listen to me…we go only as far as you say." His dad said unusually calm.
Stiles' voice got caught in his throat.
"Hang on…are we really doing it?"
There was a disapproving sound from the man's throat.
"No. I told you before." His dad's voice was suddenly close to his ear. "I'm not fucking you."
Stiles confusion only grew when he heard the tell-tale sound of the sheriff pulling down his zipper.
The hell was happening?
He heard the sound of rustling and Stiles knew his dad had pulled out his cock the moment he heard a loud, relieved hiss from the older man behind him. Stiles tried to turn around to look back, because honestly he couldn't resist, but the older man immediately clicked his tongue and nudged Stiles to keep his eyes on the wall.
"Is there lube here?" His dad asked.
It took a lot longer than usual for Stiles brain to catch up with his ears but eventually he stammered, "Yeah…yeah, all the rooms have a stash in the bathroom."
"Alright." He could hear his dad standing up. "Don't move."
His entire body felt like it was going to unravel with anticipation the entire time it took his father to go get the lube. By the time he came back, Stiles could hear the man squirting gel into his hands and rubbing the lube between his hands.
Stiles nearly jumped out his skin when he suddenly felt fingers on the back of his thighs.
"Sorry." His dad whispered. "I tried to warm it as much as I could."
"What –?"
Then Stiles choked.
His father had slipped his wet hands in the V of his legs and slicked his inner thighs with a generous coating of lube. His fingers gently massaged the sensitive skin of his thighs and every time the man dragged his palms high enough to almost touch his cock, it took nearly everything to not whine. The entire thing felt too fast by the time the sheriff removed his hands from Stiles body.
"Stay on your hands and knees." His father instructed. Suddenly there were pillows underneath him to cushion his elbows. "Shut your legs together and keep them closed. Tight."
It was with a burst of clarity that Stiles realised what his dad was planning.
"Oh my god…are we?" Stiles stammered, his face flushed and hands shaking.
The man behind him stilled but then gently brushed his fingers on his back and softly asked, "Is that alright?"
"Yeah…" Stiles swallowed. "Yeah we can work with that."
O
When his father finally pushed his cock in between his legs, it felt like the fleshy hollow of his thighs had become an organ of its own.
He could feel the shape and size of the man's girth slowly pushing forward, leaving a trail of blazing hot skin till he was hilt deep and Stiles was losing his ability to keep his arms up without shaking. There was a moment where the only sound in the room were the laboured huff of his father's breathing – like the man was trying not to completely lose it.
A small ice-age had passed when the older Stilinski slowly, so god damn slowly, pulled out till just the head of his cock was trapped between the meat of Stiles slicked thighs.
A moment of complete stillness settled around them that neither dared break.
Then his father jerked his hips and slammed back in with one abrupt push.
Stiles allowed himself to fall face-first into his pillow and just scream.
O
Stiles felt the flesh of his thighs warp and mould itself to fit the hard shaft that kept striking between his legs.
His cock was weeping and when his dad slipped that pulsing, hot thing against his perineum and the underside of his balls, Stiles knew he was a hairline fracture away from blowing his load.
The mushroom head of his father's cock felt very distinct against his skin and Stiles wanted to turn around and just take a look at the damn organ that was rendering his coherency to that of a toddler, but every time he tried, his dad would hiss and direct his attention elsewhere with a cleverly timed thrust.
It was non-penetrative sex. 'Thigh-fucking' as Lydia once tactfully labelled it in the middle of history class, but Stiles just didn't understand why it felt so…probing, like everything his dad did was an attack on his nerves and a scorching poke inside his belly. God knows, Stiles couldn't even feel his limbs anymore because all sensations had been directed straight to the three inches of skin that made up his inner thighs.
Stiles reached down and grabs his cock with one has and starts to jerk-off in tempo with the slamming thrusts spearing him from behind.
He's wasn't surprised when he came in less than two minutes, biting his dad's name back down his throat because letting it out would just about kill him.
O
John watches the boy beneath him twist and squirm with each thrust.
He observes the ladder joints of his son's spine move with every moaning arch and groaning climax.
Moles cover the expanse of youthful skin and John in certain he's found the Crater constellation and something that might resemble the Big Dipper. He's not sure. The stars on his boy's body keeps moving with every jerky thrust of his hips and John knows he shouldn't be so damn familiar with that pale back.
He grinds his teeth together when the boy convulses into his next high and sprays into his own hand whilst burying those throaty cries into the floor.
And the sounds…god the sounds the boy could make.
John bites into his lips, tasting blood in his mouth and watches his boy orgasms again and again and again with unforgiving attention.
O
He knew it was all over for him when his dad reached around and wrapped his fingers around Stiles' cock.
"Oh holy mother of hell…" Stiles groaned, trying not to hyperventilate at the sensation.
His old man had never, not once, touched him there.
Not when Stiles was grinding up against him before and not now when Stiles had his ass in the air and his balls rubbed all raw from his father's thrusts. But now those hands that used to soothe his sores and made his dinners were stroking his length in time with his hips and Stiles knew he was going to lose his shit fast.
His dad continued to jerk him off with quick little tugs in time with every slam of skin on skin and Stiles was suddenly unable to string a single coherent thought.
He could feel it again. The catastrophic aching and Stiles knew this was it.
He reached down between his legs where he could feel the man's girth breaching the negative space between his legs and fumbled around till his fingers met his father's warm, bulbous head.
Not caring and still high from the gas, Stiles squeezed whatever part of his dad's cock he could reach.
His father shuddered to a stop, alarmed and probably shocked by the feeling of Stiles fingers fondling him. And even in his haze, Stiles was aware enough to be disproportionately pleased by the throaty groan he ripped from his father's mouth.
"Keep going." Stiles moaned when the inactively became too much.
His father doesn't even hesitate to obey and pistons his pelvis again and again whilst stroking him. Stiles at the same time continued to wrap his fingers around the swollen penis sliding in and out of his thighs till they both reached a meteoric crescendo.
His dad growled, actually growled into the back of his neck and Stiles thought it sounded like a dying man being torn apart in five different directions.
The next thing he knew, something hot and wet burst against his balls and dribbled down his over sensitive thighs.
It took far too long for Stiles to realise his dad had sprayed his load all over him.
The new knowledge of why his father was shivering and convulsing above him suddenly bleached Stiles' vision white. He didn't even have time to scream when Stiles exploded into his father's hand which was still stroking, rubbing and pulling Stiles cock apart with his wicked fingers and unforgiving speed.
Stiles didn't even have the strength to feel embarrassed at the wailing sound coming from his mouth because he was too busy soaking the blankets with his cum. He looked back at his dad for the first time and saw the older man looked absolutely gone as he swayed and shook with graceless tremors that made him look both vulnerable and powerful.
For some reason the only coherent post-coital thought he had was the incredulous realisation that throughout the entire thing, his dad had never taken off his pants.
Stiles' finally lost all its strength and he collapsed with the sheriff on top of him.
For the longest time it was just Stiles and his dad breathing the same air and trying to regain the ability to move.
Eventually the silence was breached by a deep rumbling question mumbled into the skin of Stiles shoulder.
"…Was it enough?" his dad asked, his voice rough and deep like sandpaper dipped in hot coals.
For a moment Stiles didn't understand his father's quiet words.
"Please tell me it was enough." The older man whispered so close to his ear. "I can't do any more than this."
The sudden guilt made him want to physically wretch because his dad's words were laced with exhaustion and bone shattering regret that Stiles never ever wanted to hear his father sound like that again.
So without looking at the man – because he knows he can't maintain eye contact – Stiles just nodded as his vision bled around the edges and he knew he was going to pass out.
"Yeah…" He whispered as his consciousness left him. "Yeah, it's enough."
O
When Stiles woke up, he was alone.
No longer passed on the floor, Stiles had been carried to the bed and his body wiped clean of any evidence of incriminating bodily fluids.
He couldn't smell that godawful gas and he was immensely grateful for it.
However when he tried sitting up, the nausea that followed had him quickly covering his mouth and bolting for the bathroom. Griping the porcelain bowl tight, he emptied his stomach till he was sure he couldn't do it anymore. Stiles couldn't begrudge the discomfort of rancid stomach acid sitting on his tongue because he felt it was a purge he desperately needed.
Stiles didn't count how many minutes he stayed sprawled on the bathroom floor.
O
Stiles picked up the piece of paper on the pillow and read:
There's been an emergency summoning from our friends downstairs. I'm sorry.
Please find your way home safely.
~John O'Brien
Stiles didn't try to overanalyse why the man chose to sign the note with his alias instead of dad.
O
Stiles eventually cleaned up and managed to sneak out of the building to make his way to the hidden rendezvous point.
"Stiles!" Scott jumped up from his seat on the hood of his car and ran up to meet him half way. "Dude, why didn't you call earlier?!"
Stiles nearly recoiled at the sudden volume of the werewolf's presence but immediately calmed down when his friend shot him his usual thousand-watt-smile.
"Sorry man, just got a bit caught up."
Scott frowned and scanned his eyes all over him, checking for any physical signs that Stiles was missing an arm or something equally dramatic.
"You alright though?"
"Yeah, totally man." He slaps his friend on the back.
Scott jumps a little on both feet trying to stay warm in the cold night air and he asks, "So your investigation is finished?"
Stiles had totally forgotten about it actually but he just nodded because he had no desire to go back in that place ever again.
"Yup, I'm done. It's a total dead end."
He nudged his friend towards the car as they continued talking.
"Actually I think you've already solved the case." Scott informed excitedly.
Stiles just frowned in confusion.
"What do you mean I solved the case?"
"Well remember when you told me to check if Mr Grubs had a wife because you noticed a tan line on his ring finger?"
"Yeah?"
"You were right!"
Stiles blinked.
"Okay…the nasty guy has a wife. What about it?"
"Dude, we checked her out, even got Derek to go sniffing around her place and guess what?" Scott leaned in, his warm breath fogging up the ice air. "She totally our serial killer."
"Seriously?"
"Yup. Deaton thinks she's a Naiad."
Stiles squinted as he wracked his brain at the name. "Wait…naiad as in a water nymph? Seriously?"
"Yup. She apparently had problem with all the prostitutes sleeping with her husband. It's why she was killing those girls. Used her water voodoo or something to drown them and them make their lungs explode. Total Revenge man." Scott explained then he made a considering expression. "Don't know why she didn't take it out on her husband though, I mean, he's the one that messed up. Anyway we don't really have any evidence yet but Deaton and Derek are working it."
"That's great!" Stiles beamed. At least something turned out well.
But just as Stiles grabbed hold on the car door, he came to a sudden, sobering realisation.
If what Scott said was true, then the Madame of the hotel had nothing to do with the killings at all, meaning Stiles and his dad had pretty much just had sex for a perceived threat that didn't even exist.
Stiles didn't know how he managed not to drop to the floor and just laugh till his suffocated.
Scott peered closely from across the car roof in that puppyish sort of way and noted, "Hey man, you look kinda sick."
Stiles recited the Canadian national anthem in his head and just gave an overly casual shrug to his best friend. "Just a bit tired." Then he quickly added. "Oh yeah, sorry you had to pick me up at ass-o-clock in the morning."
His friend blinked at the sudden conversation change but easily replied, "Nah it's fine. I'm actually really glad your dad called me when he did. I was going out of my mind when you didn't give me an update at our regular time slot." he gave a relieved sigh as he opened his door. "You know I was pretty convinced you were dead for a moment there."
Stiles scoffed as he slid into his seat.
"Oh ye of little faith Scotty."
Scott rolled his eyes and started the engine but as soon as Stiles shut his door, he could feel his friend suddenly go tense and his nostrils flare as he sniffed the air in the suddenly enclosed car space.
That's when Stiles remembered his friend was a werewolf, as in his supernaturally enhanced sense of smell could probably pick up the scent of sex all over him.
But that's not what suddenly made his friend go from relaxed to ridged confusion.
It was who's scent was on him that probably made his friend scrunch his eyebrows together with incomprehension.
Stiles pretended to fiddle around with the seat belt and ignored the fact that Scott could probably hear his heartbeat hammering in his guilty little chest.
However Scott, bless the boy, didn't say anything as they reversed out of the parking lot.
Minutes later when they were halfway back to Stiles college dorms and bickering about which radio station to play, Stiles noticed Scott had gone unusually quiet in one of the lulls in their conversation. Eyes drooping with bone-deep exhaustion, Stiles barely heard Scott break the silence that had descend in the small moving vehicle.
"Stiles…?"
Stiles kept his head propped against the glass window and pretended he could actually see the stars. But the sky remained an inky void as dark as the shame fracturing like little bits of glass in his throat and Stiles had never wanted to take a shower so bad in his life.
"Hmm?"
His friend didn't say anything for a while and Stiles knew his buddy was trying to choose the right words. The level of tact Scott was putting into the situation would've made Allison proud had she been alive.
Finally Scott stuck to words that were familiar to him:
"You okay?"
His genuine concern was equally warming as it was heavy and Stiles was usually very good at working with the overly sincere puppy he called best friend, but this time Stiles couldn't give his friend the honesty he deserved. He couldn't do it when his mind was a minefield of triggers and the inflamed word no, no, no going on loop in his head.
So in the end Stiles just kept staring out the window and watched the street lights blur together in the dark.
"Yeah, totally man."
His heartbeat betrayed his words.
"Everything's cool."
.
.
.
[END]
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NOTE: This story occurred to me while my father and I were in the garage trying to fix up his old motorbike.
Half covered in grease and high from the motor fumes, I came up with a pretty sound plot involving prostitutes, pheromones and inevitable rutting. Dad watched my rather dubious snickering from the corner of his eye with an expression I've come to identify as a hybrid mixture of paternal concern and practiced suspicion.
Feeling two-parts excited and one-part ashamed for having such reprehensible thoughts, I apologized to him as we spent the night drinking beers and re-watching V for Vendetta.
I didn't explain to him why.
~TOHIAS-BANE
P.S - There are no fancy words to illustrate the deepness of my affection I have for my immoral readers. You guys have been unfathomably awesome.
There will be a sequel.
Over and Out.