Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7588546.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Peter_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Alan_Deaton
  Additional Tags:
      This_Is_Why_We_Can't_Have_Nice_Things, So_Wrong_It's_Right, Dubious
      Consent, Humiliation, Shame, Xenophilia, Knotting, Blood_and_Injury,
      Feral_Peter_Hale, Breeding, Come_Inflation, Inflation, Watersports, Wet_&
      Messy, Coming_Untouched, Prostate_Milking, Objectification, Fisting,
      Large_Cock, Size_Kink, Size_Difference, Dry_Orgasm, monster_cock,
      seriously, The_biggest_and_most_literal_monster_cock, Voyeurism, Helpful
      Deaton, For_a_given_value_of_helpful, Breeding_Bench, Dirty_Talk, Dead
      Dove:_Do_Not_Eat
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-07-26 Words: 5118
****** Anthropological ******
by cannibalinc
Summary
     It isn’t every day Stiles finds himself in a basement out of a
     nightmare, pinned under a giant monster wolf. But hey, his schedule
     is flexible.
Notes
     Happy Steter Week, sinners.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles crouches in the dark, flashlight stuffed in his mouth. His hands clink,
full of silver bobby pins as he jams them in the deadbolt. Lydia won’t be
missing the hairpins anyway, and Stiles assures himself this is a better
purpose for them than gathering dust in his sock drawer. In fact, Lydia would
be thanking him if she could, as this whole adventure is for her.
The metal is slippery and wet from the downpour of rain, and Stiles can only
hope the time lost fumbling in the dark and fighting his clumsy fingers is made
up by the haze of the monsoon obscuring his figure from passersby on the
street.
He has just managed to turn the lock halfway when his phone rings.
Like any good burglar, he answers.
“Scotty, hey. What’s up?”
“Dude, the Chimeras are all alive now! They were at school today. Where were
you?”
Staking out Deaton’s office to make sure the man was really gone.
“Uh, the hospital. Dad’s getting out soon.”
Stiles squints at the lock, twists the bent end of the bobby pin. The lock
slides back.
“That’s great! When— are you standing in the rain?”
“No? I’m at the hospital. Obviously. There’s... an espresso machine.”
Stiles steps into Deaton’s clinic and shuts the door firmly behind him, along
with the rush of rainfall.
“Uuuh, there’s a nurse coming my way, I gotta go,” Stiles says, hangs up before
Scott can edge in another word.
He steps up to the darkened bookshelf, finally giving in and flipping on the
lights. Literally, no one’s going to report anything on a small veterinary
clinic at 8pm on a Wednesday night. Stiles sighs; he probably could have driven
his jeep into the front windows and no one would be around to investigate.
It’s a decent enough place, all legal and up to standard for veterinary
practice. At least, Stiles assumes. The surfaces are wiped clean, the papers
tucked into neat piles. There are files scattered along the counter-tops, and
Stiles counts at least three different jars filled with pens. No one needs that
many pens.
All of the books on display are actually pet or non-supernatural animal
related. Stiles sometimes forgets in between the Mountain Ash and Wolfsbane
powder, Deaton does actually have a real job. Much to his disappointment. He
doesn’t believe the facade for a second. There are likely at least ten
trapdoors filled with useful secrets and step-by-step instructions on how to
deal with Chimeras and other unsavory creatures. Deaton is just a trap-door
kind of guy.
Stiles abandons the row of flea and tick management books and takes stock of
the room’s contents, wondering where, in all this arguably fake vet junk is the
key to all of Stiles supernatural woes. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Deaton
to be forthcoming with his knowledge and resources. He just doesn’t trust
Deaton to be forthcoming. All he wants is a nice, organized infographic on
banshees so he can help Lydia, save the day, and hopefully retire in a
nondescript town in Canada. Nothing bad happens in Canada.
He has to pick the lock to Deaton’s pharmacy vault open, and strikes gold. The
entire back shelf is dedicated to strains of Wolfsbane and Mountain Ash,
alphabetized and labeled, thank god. Stiles does not have time to play powder
roulette, especially when all his friends are allergic to the contents. He
pockets a few jars, as many as his hoodie can carry, and turns back to the
room.
He wastes another four bobby pins on Deaton’s actual office, and really, why
does a vet need so many locks? Who’s going around stealing dogs? Though if
Stiles is being totally honest and if he were prone to a life of crime— more
crime than usual, anyway— he would steal like, all the dogs.
There’s his desk and a ton of files Stiles already doesn’t have the focus to
skim through. One wall is lined with empty cages, and why can’t there be a
bright red envelope with Classifiedstamped across it or something? Deaton
probably hides all the good stuff in his tax reports, and if that’s the case,
Stiles will never find them. He stares at the cages, their quiet emptiness kind
of creepy. God, no wonder Deaton is the way he is.
Stiles is ready to give it up for a lost cause when he trips over the rug under
Deaton’s desk and eureka! Trap. Door.
His phone rings.
Stiles rolls his eyes and answers.
“Yeah, Liam. How did you get this number?”
“Uuuuum, Scott said I should call if I saw anything weird.”
“It’s Beacon Hills, dude. Call if you don’t see anything weird.”
“I think I saw my dead girlfriend.”
“Heavy.”
“But like, she was significantly less dead.”
“Right, because death is on a spectrum. Your girlfriend is probably just trying
to figure out where she fits in the world.”
“What?”
These children. Stiles misses the good ol’ days. He thinks back, and mmm,
nevermind; it always sucked.
“I already know about the walking dead, call me when you’ve got a real update.”
He hangs up on the kid. So noisy.
Stiles rubs his hands together, rips the rug away and spends the next twenty
minutes trying to unlock the combination lock. Deaton’s birthday, nah. Date of
Hale fire, morbid, and also not the combination code. Scott’s birthday, and
Stiles admits he’s reaching. He furiously plunders the office for a sign, and
at the epoch of his despondency, finds a 6-digit code scribbled on a sticky
note in a sudoku book. It’s a Christmas miracle.
The trap-door reveals a staircase, predictably, and Stiles has a brief worry
he’s about to discover where Deaton keeps the bodies of his victims. The last
thing he needs on top of a werewolf apocalypse is a freezer full of body parts.
He walks down the stairs with his eyes closed, hands extended in front of
himself. So he’s squeamish, sue him.
His hand bumps painfully into a lightswitch, which he flicks with only some
hesitance.
The basement, secret basement, is a pale grey, clean and lined with equipment
of varying degrees of completely horrifying. Stiles has never considered the
amount of restraints needed for treating and grooming animals, but he’s
beginning to think they should get a safeword. None of it looks kosher.
The focal point of the room, however, is not the wall of Fifty Shades of Animal
Cruelty. It is the giant, barred cage in the center of the room, and the giant,
hulking black wolf hunched inside. Stiles can tell immediately that this is not
a regular wolf. It’s paws are too long, too articulated, double the span of an
adult’s hand, and it’s shoulders are massive. It looks at him with piercing,
glowing blue eyes.
“Woah.”
Stiles takes the last couple of steps down and approaches the cage. The
creature inside watches him silently, maw hanging half open and tongue tasting
the air. Stiles gulps. There’s a clipboard attached to the latched door like a
patient’s chart, and it details a couple of arrow wounds along the wolf’s back.
Stiles smells the stench of blood and Wolfsbane the closer he gets.
Hale, P, is written in Deaton’s hand at the top of the papers. Stiles boggles.
“Peter?! ” he squeaks, stumbles back a step. The wolf just stares, a drop of
pink colored spit dripping from his chin, and oh god, Stiles doesn’t know what
Deaton’s been feeding Peter, but he has an idea. He gags a little.
“You’ve got some uh, blood there…” he gestures at his own face. “All over.”
Peter, if it’s really Peter, doesn’t seem to care. His ears twitch, but
otherwise he glares at Stiles with animalistic intensity. He’s clearly not all
there anymore.
“Dude, how long have you been down here? Are you stuck like that?”
Stiles looks at the clipboard where it hovers by the face filled with sharp
teeth. He very hastily yanks the clipboard from the cage.  Not, in retrospect,
the smartest thing to do, sticking his fingers anywhere near the mouth of a
finger-eater, but Stiles has had a lifetime of practice making terrible
decisions. And it’s obvious he isn’t going to get answers from Peter himself.
There is no date on Deaton’s notes, which, annoying, but shame on him; a huge
oversight of the scientific method if he’s ever seen one. If Stiles had to
guess, Peter probably tried to escape Eichen and ran into some hunters based on
the arrow wounds, then somehow found himself in Deaton’s custody. Though why
Deaton would keep Peter in a cage in a secret basement for only god knows how
long, Stiles hasn’t the faintest idea.
The second page details the different strains of aconite on the arrowheads, and
the progression of Peter’s delayed healing, and Stiles gets bored from there.
He sets the clipboard on a rolling tray of truly frightful medical instruments
and sets to examining Peter more closely. He walks a circle around the cage,
expects Peter to growl or watch him, but he just stands there, belly low to the
ground, staring ahead.
The wounds are gone by now, his thick, black fur an uninterrupted swath down
his broad back. Stiles paces back around to Peter’s front. Yeah, that’s a
werewolf.
Stiles sighs. He came here hoping for some kind of supernatural aide, not find
more trouble than he broke and entered with. Okay, time to leave.
He’s putting the clipboard back where he found it on the cage when Peter lunges
forward. Stiles screams when his teeth engulf the bars and his wrist, and it
takes him a moment to realize that Peter isn’t eating his hand, but holding it
captive.
“Dude, let go,” he begs. Clutching at where his arm disappears in Peter’s jaws.
He can feel the fangs digging in, his bones creaking. “That’s my jacking off
hand. It just doesn’t feel right in my left!”
He can feel himself getting hysterical. He reluctantly looks into Peter’s
menacing eyes, leaning away from the powerful whuffs of breath coming from his
huge mouth.
“Okay, oh god, loud and clear. You want out?”
Stiles looks at the locking mechanism on the cage. Some sort of jigsaw puzzle
shit, really? Like Peter isn’t clever enough to figure it out? Stiles is
seriously disappointed in Deaton at the moment, for the lame lock, and for not
giving Stiles a heads up about the whole werewolf in the secret basement thing.
 
“Um, I think I saw a key somewhere over there, so...”
Peter doesn’t blink or budge.
“Ahaha,” Stiles laughs three octaves higher than normal, wipes the sweat from
his brow. “It was worth a shot.”
He sets to fiddling with the lock one-handed, has to awkwardly reach around his
arm and Peter’s sharp teeth just to get at it. He explains to Peter at length
why this is inefficient and why it would be better for the both of them if he
just let Stiles go all together and trust him to come back with bolt cutters,
because if you asked him, Stiles is a very trustworthy individual.
The lock is a tangle of metal pieces, slotted together in a specific sequence
Stiles is sure, and he hates it more than he’s ever hated any one thing, and it
takes him a million years to figure it out. Seriously what happened to the good
ol’ lock and key system?
When the last piece slides free and the knot of twisted metal drops to the
floor with a clang, Stiles leaps back against the wall as soon as he feels
Peter’s grip relax. The cage door bangs open with the loud clang of heavy
metal. He tries to fumble with a jar of Wolfsbane, but Peter is already there,
hitting him square in the gut with his giant shoulder. Stiles gasps, his back
hitting square against wall and actually bouncing off of it. The jars burst
open on the floor, a cloud of dust pluming at his feet.
Peter snarls and shakes his head, pawing at his face, and Stiles takes the
moment to dash to the stairs, hoping the trap door will be strong enough to
keep Peter down there and give him time to get the hell away. His foot has just
stomped on the first step when a clawed vice catches his ankle and yanks him
back down. Stiles shouts as he lands on his wrist, cradles it as he’s flipped
onto his back and dragged onto the floor.
“Oh, oh my god,” he wheezes, cradling his throbbing hand to his chest. “I don’t
deserve this, whatever you’re going to do. It was Scott’s idea to put you in
Eichen, okay?”
Stiles doesn’t say his vote had been a mercy killing.
He’s shoved halfway into Peter’s open cage, and for a second he thinks he’s
just going to be locked in and abandoned.
The huge wolf looms over him, panting. It’s open maw drifts over his face,
comes close to sniff heavily at his neck. He feels something wet dripping along
his jaw, and Stiles has to clench his eyes closed and turn away or he’s going
to pass out. He feels the fur of Peter’s jaw trailing up and down from his ear
to his chin, then the set of teeth grasping and shredding through his jacket.
Two heavy paws press against his shoulders and Stiles can’t stop the whimper he
makes. There’s a pause, and Stiles peeks open one eye, looking up at the
leering wolf above him, framed in the metal bars. Stiles gasps for breath and
turns away again, unwilling to watch his final moments.
Those paws rip down Stiles’ chest.
He shouts, the sting of claws tearing down his soft belly bringing tears to his
eyes. His clothes shed off of him with a firm shake of Peter’s jaws around his
neck, and Stiles feels sick as his skull is jostled. There’s something hot and
wet creeping down into his collar bones, and at the smell of copper, he gags.
He can’t stop the crying now that it’s started, and he’s really wishing Peter
would pick up the pace. He isn’t sure he can take this whole savoring his meal
deal.
“Peter,” he gasps weakly. “Please, please don’t eat me...”
A long tongue laps at his bare chest where blood has prickled to the surface of
his skin. Stiles brings his good hand up to push the wolf’s face away and is
nipped on the fingers for his efforts. Teeth sink into the bone of his hip, and
Stiles screams, writhes even though he knows that will make it worse. Peter
lets go though, his grinning teeth wet with blood.
Stiles can do nothing but shiver and whine through the pain, and he’s almost
relieved when Peter’s body leans along his and giant, hooked talons grip the
waist of his jeans. His fur is coarse and bristly where he’s hurt. Peter’s
tongue lathes at the tear streaks on his face.
“Augh.”
He’s flipped over onto his stomach, landing again on his bad wrist. He
collapses under his own weight just as Peter’s claws hook around the inside of
his jeans and the sound of ripping denim fills the air. Something heavy and
warm presses against his ass and—wait.
“Wait,” Stiles chokes, heart stuttering. Peter’s weight crushes down on his
back and his teeth find the tender spot on his neck he’d gnawed on earlier.
“No—”
His jeans fall around his knees in messy strips, and a huge not-quite hand cups
his soft dick and balls, claws pricking into his stomach. His hands fly to the
cage for leverage, trying to pull himself out from under Peter’s crushing
weight.
“No, nononono,” he chants.
Peter releases Stiles’ neck and a string of spit slaps down between his
shoulder blades, cold and terrible. Stiles sobs, flexes into the paw between
his thighs and covers his face with his arms. He’s so fucked.
He feels the breeze of the wolf’s breath at his ass, and has to bite into his
own knuckles.
Peter’s tongue, rough and wide, and burning hot, wow, swipes from his balls to
the top of his crack, and Stiles flatlines, mind blank, body frozen, because a
giant, supernatural wolf has just licked his asshole. And does it again.
Stiles whines because it’s slick and tender, and Peter seems to be determined
to soak him with his drool. It drips down his thighs and makes the frothiest
sounds on his skin as that wolf tongue slurps at his hole. Jesus, and Stiles is
not prepared for this, okay? He and Malia had only just ventured into assplay;
it’s not like he’s a fucking pornstar.
He grunts, the basement air too humid and the cage floor too cold. The wolf
attacks his hole with a single minded focus, muzzle pressed so firmly into the
crease of his ass Stiles can feel front teeth and a cold, wet nose shoved into
his heated skin.
“Oh my god,” Stiles chokes, feels his hole clench and fall slack in turns as
the slither of the wolf’s tongue bathes it, makes it hot and creamy. Just the
tip slides along his insides, meaty and so fleeting, before withdrawing again,
and Stiles moans, hating himself for forgetting not to want it. He waits
through a few more sticky laps before, ah, he’s speared again, this time
deeper, wider, but it’s gone before he can even clench. He groans in
frustration, fists clenched, is about to try to roll over, because this is more
than he can take—
He’s panting, only now realizing he’s rocking with the force of his breaths,
into the rhythmic scrape of Peter’s tongue on his softening hole. He know’s
what’s happening; he knows where this is going, but if he’s going to be fucked,
he may as well get all the preparation he can.
He’s stabbed through again, three seemingly accidental thrusts in his slick
hole that have his back arching and his breath stuttering in his throat.
“Ohhh, no, stop, just stop!” Stiles wails, gripping the sides of the cage. He
isn’t looking at his cock, he won’t. So far, he’s been ignoring it, but as
though he can read his mind, Peter’s long tongue ventures between his thighs
and follows the stringy ooze of slobber around his balls and the base of his
plump dick.
Two huge paws crash down on his biceps, crushing his chest to the plastic
lining of the cage, his cheek smashed against the cold surface. The tickle of
wiry fur trails up his spine as the wolf hunkers down onto his back again. A
thick lather drips from the huffing muzzle at his ear and down the side of
Stiles’ face, into the corner of his gasping mouth. Stiles turns away, tucks
his chin to his chest and presses his forehead on the floor. He can smell blood
and urine, and from the corner of his eyes, he can see Peter’s talons are caked
with a dried black substance.
There’s something—Stiles shudders, heaves—
There’s something slick and long grinding against his lower back in time with
the flex of the wolf’s hips, a heavy weight that drools hot fluid on his skin
and thumps against him with a meaty slap.  
“Oh, god. Oh my god.” He isn’t breathing.  
The wolf rumbles, rubs his cock along the bumps of Stiles’ vertebrae,
sputtering globs of come that leave slimy trails down his sides. There’s a
moment where the giant wolf draws back, his cock dragging down into his crack.
A mouth full of teeth clamps firmly on Stiles’ nape, it’s whole body tensing up
in preparation.
Stiles sobs.
Breaks into a cold sweat.
The tip of Peter’s cock stabs at his ass in tight jabs, as though testing the
give of his hole and savoring every spasm sucking at his cockhead, and never
quite popping in all the way. When his cock finally gouges into him, his ass
spreads open like butter, unable to resist the force of Peter’s circular
humping. Stiles wails, feels the burn of his plush insides as Peter’s cock
scrapes against them, relentless and punching. He’s started whining at some
point and can’t stop, as the back and forth hammering cleaves him open.
The monstrous wolf growls steadily, and Stiles can feel the vibration of it in
his shoulder bone, hairline at his neck wet with slobber and chilled with every
one of Peter’s breaths. He’s crying, body strangely hot.
Peter drives steadily forward, and Stiles is getting scared because it’s
getting thicker and it isn’t stopping. Peter’s cock is huge, thick in a way
that makes his pelvic bones groan and his hole stretch thin.
It hurts.
It’s so long that he can feel the almost gentle thrusts coaxing his body to
accept him, rearranging him inside, making him into something new. He can feel
his organs shifting, moved aside for the sleeve Peter is making for his cock,
and god, Stiles can’t breathe and he’s so hard. There’s no room for breath, no
room for anything but the punch of cock up to his throat, and his whole body
throbs with every hit.
His hands, numb from being under the wolf’s weight, grasp at Peter’s claws
weakly.
“Peter,” he whispers, hoarse and high. “You— you have to stop, I can’t. Please,
it can’t go any deeper.”
Peter stills, and it takes a moment for Stiles to understand why. Peter’s hips
are flush to his ass, his thighs squeezing Stiles’ legs together. It’s—
“It’s all in,” Stiles sobs. “God, you really did it. You really—”
He’s lightheaded. He can see down his body, where—where he’s distended and
wrong. There’s a bulge running down his stomach from right under his sternum
where Peter is reshaping him around his cock, a swelling there that shouldn’t
be. Stiles moans weakly, clenches. His hole ripples weakly, the muscles tired
and stretched beyond use. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, hiccoughing. He’s been
turned into a cunt.
His cock is twitching, a stringy line of come connecting him to the floor.
One clawed hand releases his arm, and Stiles yelps as the blood rushes back. It
grasps around his neck and chin, two sharp points prying his mouth wide and
pinning his fluttering tongue. He gurgles as Peter’s teeth drop his shoulder
and a long tongue laps at his tears and into his open mouth, cock pulsing in
Stiles’ guts. Like he just wants to hold it there, make Stiles warm it for him.
 
He’s stopped holding onto the cage, pliant and shivering. He leans his head
into Peter’s paw, whines into the tonguey kisses given to his teeth and rocks
on his knees, gutting himself on Peter’s cock.
It’s horrible. It’s everything.
Peter starts to move.
His wolf cock drags out of Stiles, and the chasm left behind in his body is
unbearable. Peter thrusts in earnest, his ass releasing a loud squelch as it’s
fuck-punched. It’s rough, and Peter croons in his ear along with the wails
forced from Stiles’ mouth every time Peter’s cock slams into his diaphragm from
the inside. Fuck, it’s so much, Stiles barely has room to breathe, is scared to
move for fear Peter’s cock will damage him in some irreversible way, can’t stop
squirming at the threat that it might.
It’s like everything before was foreplay, was just breaking him in. He can’t
hide his noises with his mouth forced open, keening, screaming because it hurts
and he’s so turned on.
The wolf fucks him in earnest, shakes him on his cock and uses him as a fleshy
sheath for his own pleasure. He can feel furry thighs trembling against his
hips, a growl buzzing right in his ear every time Peter’s cockhead reaches the
limits of Stiles’ body, like it isn’t enough that Stiles’ guts have been
hollowed out for him.
Teeth find his shoulder again, and Stiles can feel heat building in his
stomach, his ass rubbed so full and tender, like a handjob from the inside. He
moans, finds the will to rock back, bounce with Peter’s thrusts, until he’s
riding the edge of completion. It’s going to crest, Stiles is crying with it,
if he could just get his hand down to his cock, it would be perfect—
Peter slams deep as he can go and stops, and Stiles wails in the silence, hips
still trying to work on that monsterous dick, but Peter’s dropped all his
weight on Stiles, and he can’t budge.
“Peter, Peter, please,” he cries, fights against the bulk of the wolf with what
little strength he has left. “Come on, do something!”
The wolf growls, presses his cock harder into the softness of his body. There’s
something stretching him.
“Wait, what is that?” Stiles asks urgently. It’s expanding, growing . “What’s
happening? Peter—ow, ouch, stop!”
Peter grinds that hard knot at the root of his dick into his sore tissues, and
that’s what it is, he realizes; a knot, the bulb of it pressing right into his
prostate. Stiles sobs, feels his own cock flex and release a long stream of
come.
The wolf is rumbling low and satisfied, and Stiles can feel its thick length
pulsing, a heavy warmth spreading in his guts. His knot swells and throbs in
his prostate, pulverizes it with every indulgent twist of Peter’s hips. Stiles
cries. It’s too much, the merciless pressure on his gland milking his leaking
cock.
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, only that the wolf pumps his humid insides
full,so full of his come, and his twitching knot milks his prostate until his
cock has long since ceased drooling and hangs soft between his spread knees.
It’s hot in the little space under Peter’s huge form, and Stiles has given up
wiggling, lungs shuddering with hiccoughs as the wolf laps at his neck and
shoulder.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
Stiles cranes his neck, sees Deaton on the steps of the basement stairs through
the cage bars.
“Deaton,” he mewls weakly.   
The man takes the last few steps into the basement, approaches them slowly. The
wolf growls with ever step, teeth sinking into the fleshy and bruised skin of
Stiles’ arm. He yowls, shakes as blood drizzles from Peter’s mouth.
“Don’t mind me, Peter,” Deaton says, crouches to peek under their forms at
Stiles’ belly. “I’m just checking on your cock warmer.”
Deaton makes a surprised humming noise, eyes tracking Stiles’ figure. He’s got
a pair of blue latex gloves that he pulls on, up to his elbows.
“I’m impressed. I’d estimated you around 14 inches, and you’ve found something
that can take it all.”
A gloved hand reaches between the bars, and Deaton’s cold fingers brush down
his belly, just lightly at first.
“Deaton,” he manages a hurt little whisper. “Please...”
Deaton presses a firm hand on the distended flesh, where it’s stretched thin
and Peter’s cock is visible. Stiles groans as that hand runs up and down the
length of Peter, squeezing and pushing and making Stiles sweat.
“Is it all churned up inside, Peter? Did you make a messy bed for your come?”
Peter’s hips flex, jarring where his insides have settled around its shape.
Deaton casually slaps his hand, palm up, slaps Peter’s cock through the thin
sheath of his stomach, and Stiles’ cock twitches at the terrible feeling. It
rattles through his soft tissues and makes the wolf’s knot pulse heavy on his
prostate. Peter growls, yanks on him rim with his knot and grinds back in.
Stiles dissolves into tears.
Deaton rises from his crouch and begins moving equipment outside of Stiles’
limited purview.
“How nice that you’ve found such an accommodating, greasy cunt to squeeze your
knot for you. We’ll need to watch out for prolapse.”
Stiles gives big gasping sobs, his cock throbbing and itchy with heat. His ass
flutters around the knot, and Stiles wiggles his hips, feels its thick tug on
his stretched rim. He’s beyond words, Deaton’s voice reaching him like a voice
in a dream. He feels scattered and knotted up all at once, heat coiling in his
loose limbs as he presses his ass into the cradle of Peter’s hips.
He comes like that, his cock twitching in the air untouched, splashing a few
drops of come on the floor where there’s a cooling puddle of it.
The knot has gone soft, and with a loud, wet gush, Peter’s cock disappears.
Stiles shakes at the loss, feels as though his insides will come rushing out
where he’s been made soft and open, the gape of his ass cold in the open air.
The wolf lifts off of him, but Stiles is too wrung out to move. Peter licks
into the baggy gash of his asshole once before leaving him cold and alone.
The emptiness is horrible. Stiles wants to reach back, assess the damage, but
he’s scared of what he might find. There’s a dull pain throughout his body.
“All finished?” Deaton asks, and Stiles jumps, having forgotten the man is even
here.
Stiles looks over his shoulder, sees Peter lift his hind leg. A rush of piss
streams over the cage and on his back, and Stiles turns his face away. It
doesn’t feel real, his body disconnected from his head, the searing hot splash
of ripe urine a distant event.
He startles when cold hands grasp at this asscheeks, looks back over his
shoulder where Deaton’s gloved hands are prodding at him. Latex shielded
fingers press against his emptied balls and perineum before feeling around his
puffy gape.
“Nothing but a saggy sock,” Deaton muses, and suddenly his whole hand is in
Stiles’ ass, and then his arm, fingering the space Peter’s cock has made, and
twisting. Stiles moans, tenses around the appendage, welcoming that gutted
feeling again.
Deaton’s arm recedes, and Stiles looks to where Peter is pacing off to the
side, dick unsheathed still and bright red.
“There doesn’t seem to be any damage. Though, its knees are in bad shape.”
Those hands grab at his hips and pull, and Stiles shouts as he’s pried from the
floor and his knees unbend and he’s pulled from the cage. He sobs as a thick
fluid gushes from his stuffed belly and splats loudly on the floor.  
“I think it will be much more comfortable in the breeding stand,” Deaton is
saying as he leads Stiles on trembling legs. Peter follows, in between using
two legs and four, dick already drooling again. Upright, he towers over them
both.
“You have to take care of these things if you want them to last.”
End Notes
     Thanks to Neoladyapollonia for tackling this mess with the intention
     of making it readable. Credit goes to Maledictum, a true pioneer of
     this godless land, for Saggy Sock™.
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