Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/900031.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Chris_Argent/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Chris_Argent, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Spanking, Power_Dynamics, Non-Consensual_Spanking, Anal_Fingering
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-07-27 Words: 2783
****** A Firm Hand ******
by hurricaneseason
Summary
     Chris Argent is sick of these meddling kids, and catches Stiles
     outside his apartment complex one night. He's going to teach Stiles a
     lesson.
Allison would call him paranoid, but Chris Argent does find the Stilinski kid
prowling outside the apartment building around midnight. He’s on the sidewalk
but also approximately under her window. He has a flashlight shoved into his
mouth and is carefully concentrating on something in the bushes, holding
something in his hand that Chris can’t make out.
It’s not hard to sneak up on him.
Stiles yelps and the flashlight clatters to the ground, and his hands
immediately retreat behind his back when Chris spins him around by the
shoulders, walking him back into the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing out here?” he growls. “There are dangerous
things out at night, especially this late.” He tries to put some edge into it,
baring his teeth, and Stiles flinches, just for a second.
“What are you doing out here?” Stiles says back, recovering quickly, eyes
enormous in the light of the streetlamps.
“Making sure no vagrants try to break into my daughter’s room at night.”
“What? That’s not even close to what I’m trying to do right now, okay, you’ve
got it --”
“Sure,” he says and grabs a handful of Stiles’ hoodie, yanking until he follows
awkwardly after.
The security guard just nods at him, on a smoke break, as he shoves Stiles into
the lobby and then into the elevators. Stiles tries to break for it once but
Chris catches him by the hair and pulls him into the apartment.
Allison’s at Lydia’s, or he wouldn’t do this, but he’s sick of seeing this kid
and his monstrous best friend showing up around his family. Him and McCall are
everywhere they shouldn’t be.
This one seems like the easiest to catch.
“C’mon,” Chris says, dragging him through the apartment after kicking his door
closed.
“Ow ow ow ow ow let go,” Stiles is pulling on his arm and twisting and finally
Chris does let go, only to twist his arm up against his back and shove him
against the wall in his bedroom.
“Shut up,” he says.
“Why does this keep happening to me,” Stilinski says with what actually might
be a long suffering sigh, head thunking against the wall. “Look, I swear, I
wasn’t going to be anywhere near Allison’s room. Are you kidding me? There are
way worse things in your building right now, Mr. Argent.”
“I said shut. Up.”
The kid takes a hard swallow. “Um. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. You don’t
need to beat me up? You know I can’t take a beating well.”
Chris wasn’t planning on hurting him at all, not really. Maybe shaking him up a
little, yelling at him. Put the fear of God in him. But.
“Seriously,” Stiles is saying, “I’m pretty much a wimp, so you can just uh, let
me go now? I really wasn’t doing anything that concerns you at all, I promise!
Please don't hit me.”
“You must be a handful for your dad,” Chris says, loosening his hold a little.
Stiles relaxes a little bit under him. “Probably had to bend you over his knee
all the time.”
Stiles goes rigid again.
“No?” Stiles says, shifting uncomfortably against the wall. “My dad was more of
a fan of timeout. A stern talking to.”
“Doesn’t sound like that did any good.” Chris shouldn’t be thinking about it,
not really -- this kid isn’t his to discipline and he’d never disciplined his
own kid like this to boot. He leans a little on Stiles’ arm.
He squeaks. Chris wonders what would shut him up.
“Then I think you need someone to take a firmer hand to keep you from
snooping.”
He spins Stilinski around so his back is against the wall and pins him there.
Stiles is panicking again, trembling and big eyed. He looks soft -- Chris
doesn’t often hunt prey species but something about this is strangely
satisfying.
“Take off your belt,” Chris says, and lets him go.
Stiles is casing the room, eyes roaming, even as his hands drop shakily to his
waist. The bedroom door is closed and the only light is from a couple lamps he
left on when he headed outside to figure out what was in the bushes.
“Um, okay,” Stiles says, holding it limply in his hands. He looks absolutely
bewildered. Chris takes the belt from him and stares him down.
“Now unbutton your pants and shove them down to your knees.” He uses a firm
tone, commanding.
Chris has a desk in the corner and he pulls the chair out, watching Stiles from
the corner of his eye. He was going to bend him over the bed but this seems
more hands on, more visceral. More fun.
“Uh, I’m really not okay with the direction this is going, so if you could just
let me out I promise I won’t tell anyone about it. Like seriously cross my
heart. Forever.”
Chris lets him finish and slaps him in the face.
Stiles doesn’t lose his balance but he yelps, rubbing his cheek. He looks
terrified, a rabbit staring down a bear. He starts to unbutton his jeans,
biting his lip when he pushes them past his skinny hips.
“Don’t make me do that again,” Chris says. Stiles nods, silent, and Chris sits
down and spreads his thighs.
“Come over here.”
Stiles shuffles awkwardly, the pants hampering his movement. Chris motions to
his left side and Stiles moves there and stares at him.
“Boxers too.”
Stiles’ nostrils flare but he does it. Maybe he’s realized his words won’t help
him out.
Chris wonders if he needs to be more threatening to get Stiles all the way
there. He thinks about pulling out a knife, maybe tying him up, but Stiles
isn’t Allison’s dumbest friend. He recognizes the danger here.
“Alright, now bend over.”
Stiles balks again, and maybe he is an idiot. “Okay, no. One, how am I even
gonna fit?”
He grabs Stiles’ hoodie strings and pulls until Stiles leans forward. “You’re
not this stupid, are you?”
Stiles shakes his head wildly but he doesn’t seem to know what to do.
“I guess I could have guessed that no one’s ever thrashed you properly,
considering how mouthy you are. I’m gonna fix the problem your dad let you
become,” Chris says. He’s not sure why he’s this angry; nothing points to
Stiles actually being a threat. But he is angry, and Stiles is here.
Stiles’ eyes narrow at the crack at his dad. Chris pulls him off balance until
Stiles topples over his thighs. He’s heavy. Tall. Too big for this, probably.
“Oof,” Stiles says. Chris is tall and his desk chair is tall, and he tips
Stiles’ head toward the ground, leaving his legs a little bit bent as his feet
touch the wood floor. Stiles’ arms shoot out to hold himself steady, trying to
balance in the weird position. He’s still got his shoes on, and his pants and
boxers are tangled up around his shins. His flaccid dick hangs between Chris’
legs.
His legs are pale, lean -- Chris knows he’s been running track. He rests a hand
on Stiles’ thigh.
“Since this is your first time being disciplined properly, I’ll be nice and
give you a choice. Count and you get fewer hits, but if you mess up we start at
the beginning. Don’t count and you won’t know how many licks you’re getting,
but you won’t be able to mess it up.”
“I can count,” Stiles says at the floor. He’s trying to be still, finally, the
reality of the situation settling in. A muscle in his leg keeps flexing
nervously.
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Chris says, squeezing Stiles’ thigh. “But first
I’m gonna warm you up. No need to count this; I’m gonna hit you til you’re nice
and rosy.”
Stiles yelps in surprise when Chris hits his ass the first time, but he doesn’t
make much noise after that, just squirms and kicks out his legs. Chris holds
him down with a hand between his shoulder blades and listens to his breathing
in between smacks.
He doesn’t start lightly because he doesn’t have the patience. When was the
last time he was in a good fight? Really got to dig his claws into something?
He can barely remember, so the rush of this boy under his palm is fast and
heady.
Stiles is clenching up with each hit, his muscles going rigid as he figures out
Chris’ pattern. Every ten or so hits Chris can hear him breathe out a number -
- he can’t stop himself from counting, grounding himself.
“Stop moving,” Chris growls when Stiles wriggles his hips. Chris punctuates it
with five hits to the same spot, right on the crease of ass and thigh. That
gets a noise out of Stiles, a hurt one.
Chris shifts his thigh inward and he can feel Stiles’ cock, half hard. His ass
is turning red, maybe bruising a little. Chris should stop now, let this kid
pull up his pants and leave.
Stiles hasn’t even started crying yet, though. Chris reaches his arm back and
pulls Stiles’ belt off the desk.
He loops it -- it’s leather and simple. Chris has hit people like this before,
interrogating, but those were body blows. It doesn’t do well to mix work and
this kind of pleasure.
“You ready to count, boy?”
Stiles coughs, says, “Please let me go.”
Chris sighs and shakes his head. “I guess you’re not ready to count.”
He snaps the leather down -- the swings would hurt more if he had Stiles bent
over something, like his bed, but this is better. He can feel the way Stiles
bucks, the air leaving his lungs in a surprised and sharp exhale.
It doesn’t take long for Stiles to start whimpering. Chris is letting the hits
cross over each other, lick around his hips, smack over the same spot again and
again. Stiles’ legs kick out, and he breaks on stripe 15, a fully wracked sob
rattling out of him.
His hands are never quite secure on the floor and he’s jerking when Chris
smacks him ten more times, trying to escape Chris’ hold.
“You need a break.”
“Please, please let me go,” Stiles croaks out and Chris hauls him up, adjusting
him until he can shove his fingers into Stiles’ mouth.
“Shut up,” he says, “and don’t bite.” He taps Stiles’ ass in warning and Stiles
moans around his fingers, pleading. Chris’ other hand is rubbing over Stiles’
ass lightly, making the kid’s cock jerk. It lost interest for a while, but
Chris is sure he can wake it up. He jostles his knee against Stiles’ cock and
Stiles moans around his fingers even as he tries to shake his head no.
Chris pets up Stiles’ back, shoving his shirts up and stroking down his spine.
Stiles’ body quits moving so much and he actually starts suckling Chris’
fingers when Chris rubs soothing circles over his abused ass.
“There we go. Settle down. You’re gonna take all of what I’m gonna give you,
and not less, okay?”
Stiles says something against the digits in his mouth and Chris pulls them out.
They’re wet, sticky with saliva, and Chris can’t resist. He lays the belt
across Stiles’ back and uses his dry hand to spread Stiles’ hot cheeks apart.
There’s a soft trail of fuzz from his lower back and down his crack, downy hair
on his cheeks, and his hole is clenched and dark. Chris prods at it with a wet
index finger and Stiles’ body entirely seizes up, jerking so hard Chris has to
grab him with both hands.
“Shit, relax,” he says and Stiles isn’t broken, shoving against him until he
ends up on the floor, a tangle of too long limbs and his unbuttoned jeans.
“Let me go, please,” he says as he scrambles away, crab walking backward.
Stiles looks less gangly and open-mouthed now, his hair a mess and his face
bright red and tracked in tears.
Chris stands up. “Fine.”
Stiles stills for a second but he’s spooked and he doesn’t move even when Chris
barks, “on your knees!” at him.
Chris sighs, grabbing the dropped belt and looming over Stiles, grabbing him
and hauling him up.
Stiles swings a wild fist and Chris elbows him hard in the gut, making him
double over in Chris’ hold. Now Chris drops him over the edge of the bed, ass
out, hands grabbing at the duvet.
“Take it,” he hisses, and he lets the belt fly. It’s loud in his room and
Stiles’ shouts barely register, and he reaches under the boy and pumps him
every ten or so hits until he’s fully erect and rubbing against the bed with
every lick. Chris is going to break him now.
He’s way past where he thought he’d be when he dragged Stiles up here that
evening but he has to commit now. Chris hates leaving things halfway, even if
his arm twinges.
Stiles shuts up, finally, legs no longer kicking, body sinking into the
mattress. His ass is a mess -- Chris broke the skin a few times, blood seeping
slowly out of the cuts, and his hips are rocking a little and his mouth is just
open. He’s breathing hard and Chris shoves his fingers in his mouth again.
“Suck,” he says, and Stiles does. His eyes are squeezed tight, and tears leak
out of them as he coats Chris’ fingers with spit.
Spreading his cheeks gets him a whimper but Chris just presses on, one finger
slowly and steadily breaching the boy until the second knuckle. The resistance
is beaten out of him -- he couldn’t tighten up his muscles if he tried,
exhausted and aching. Chris manages to get a second one in with just spit, even
though he doubts it’s comfortable.
He presses against the hot inside of Stiles’ body, fascinated by the way it
swallows him, until his finds his prostate. It’s not a romantic affair; he
presses until Stiles cries out, shout muffled by the bed.
“Ungh, what,” he says, trying to make words, but his mind is now totally
scrambled, unwanted pleasure getting him to buck his hips as Chris artlessly
fucks his fingers into him.
Stiles is writhing now, panting and trying to push himself up, maybe pull
himself off of Chris. It doesn’t matter -- he’s hard, dripping with it, and
Chris smacks his ass a few times before yanking his fingers out.
He wipes them on the bed and says, “Get on your knees.”
Stiles turns his head and stares at him, eyes unfocused, but he does eventually
get himself to his feet. Chris presses hard on his shoulder til he drops, and
Chris unbuttons his own pants, freeing his cock from his briefs.
“You’re gonna suck me now, and then this’ll be over. Think of it like thanking
me.”
Stiles blinks at him. His head is somewhere else, so Chris just grabs a handful
of hair and pulls his face forward until his dick hits Stiles’ lips.
“Open,” he says, rubbing his cockhead against the seam of Stiles’ mouth,
getting it damp with precome.
Stiles does, and Chris fucks into it. The kid may be a world-class cocksucker,
but Chris doesn’t care enough to find out. He’s addled enough that Chris can
just jackhammer into his soft palate, down his throat, until he gags.
Chris presses on, close, really close, and then he’s there as Stiles is choking
around him, throat and eyes bulging. His nose is snotty, his eyes are watering,
and Chris slides his dick out with a pop.
Stiles looks broken now. Would probably tell him anything if he asked, the skin
on his bottom lip cracked, cheeks flushed and stained with tear tracks.
Chris feels good. Something in his gut settles.
“Pull up your pants and get out,” Chris says and Stiles shuts his mouth and
nods. He wipes his face on his hoodie sleeve, looking younger by the second,
and turns and runs.
Chris is going to forget this ever happened.
-
Stiles can’t run all the way home. His body hurts, aches, pain radiating up his
back and down his legs from his ass. But he would if he could.
Instead he manages to limp back to his car and drive himself home, going slow.
His dad is passed out, thank god, and he crawls his way up the stairs to his
room. He doesn’t even bother to get undressed, just leans against his shut and
locked door and grabs his dick in his jeans.
He shoots, the orgasm more pain than pleasure, and knocks his head against the
wood behind him.
He doesn’t know what he’s going to tell Scott.
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