Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1209313.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Scott_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Scott_McCall, Stiles_Stilinski, Nogitsune_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Nogitsune_Stiles, 3b_Spoilers, Canon_Compliant, Mental_Instability,
      Mental_Institutions, Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Drug-Induced_Sex, Body
      Trauma, Blood, Stabbing, Non-Consensual, Sadism, Cruelty, Forced_Orgasm,
      Okay_I_think_I've_Sufficiently_Scared_Away_Any_and_All_Readers_With_These
      Tags, Also_let_me_stress_that_I_adore_Scott_McCall, I_think_he's_precious
      fierce_sunshine_in_the_body_of_a_man, But_I_love_evil!Stiles_more, so
      there's_that
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-19 Words: 4184
****** Crawl Inside and Kiss the Floor ******
by collie
Summary
     The nogitsune takes it all; all the fear and pain. He revels in it.
     The way it shocks his nerves and sets his teeth on edge in the most
     delicious way. The way it gets his dick hard, and breaks him out in a
     sweat under all of the rain on his skin. He can taste the salt in the
     beads of water that run down his face, and he suddenly wants to savor
     every inch of Scott.
Notes
     Basically a re-imagining of the scene at the end of 3x19: Letharia
     Vulpina. You know the scene. So obviously spoiler warnings through
     3x19.
     This story is messed up and I'm not sorry because I like messed up
     shit. (✿◠‿◠) Please make sure to read the tags. I (hope I) listed all
     the trigger warnings there. ENJOY! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧
See the end of the work for more notes
“You okay?” Stiles asks, his eyes narrowing a bit as he peers at Scott.
Scott's grown a katana from his stomach. Stiles is trying not to laugh, but
it's all too perfect. The oni came for him, and here he is with two built-in
bodyguards. One of them even being the spawn of the very woman trying to
destroy him. Kira. But Kira's taking a little nap right now.
He leans in and tries his best to show concern on his face, but he knows his
eyes are cold. Sharp and vulpine. Thin, spidery fingers dance over the handle
of the katana; the tsuka. Stiles likes knowing things. He's smart. He likes
being smart, clever. It's such a thrill to always be one step ahead.
Scott isn't as smart as him, but he's intuitive. Perceptive. Stiles wants to
cheer when he finally sees realization dawning in Scott's watery brown eyes.
“Please, don't,” Scott quietly pleads. “Stop.” There's so much shock and
disbelief in his voice, like it's only now that he's really realizing what's
happening. Like all of the knowledge from before is something he can hold in
his hand and hide away if he needs to. But this is it. This is real.
“It's okay,” Stiles says. He tries not to smile as he grabs the handle tight
and holds it. Threatening. Scott's eyes widen and he can hear the way Scott's
breath hitches up, catches in his throat. The way his heart lurches into hard,
steady thuds against his chest. It feels good to have so much power. It feels
good to take it away.
He grabs Scott's shoulder in a firm grip and twists the blade almost
conversationally. He cants his head as Scott shudders and jerks against it, the
gurgle and gasp of his muffled shouts like music to Stiles's ears.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, his eyes twitching as they bore into Scott's. “Hey,
look at me.” There's no cruel malice in his voice, but he knows his eyes are
hard and there's nothing behind them but static.
He sees the pain etched into Scott's face, and of coursehe's in pain. There's a
katana lanced straight through his stomach, the sharp blade scraping at his
ever-healing insides. Cutting each wound open fresh again and again with each
twist. Stiles wonders what it must have felt like to shove the sharp steel
straight through Scott's middle. To get him right in the gut. He shivers and
cracks his neck a bit, feeling adrenaline and hunger and anger and lust crawl
through his body like fingers with razor-blade nails.
Of course Scott's in pain. Because he thinks that this isn't Stiles. But this
is Stiles, and that love is what's going to kill them both.
“You should have done your reading, Scott,” he says calmly. His guts flutter
with a sick pleasure as Scott grunts and yells with each digging scrape of the
hasaki. “See, a nogitsune feeds off chaos, strife, and pain.” Scott's eyes roll
back into his head, but Stiles knows he has his best friend's rapt attention.
Scott won't dare let himself go anywhere else right now.
“This morning, you took it from Isaac,” he reminds, redoubling his grip on
Scott's shoulder as he starts to slump a bit. To tremble hard in shock. “Then
you took it from Coach.” He can hear his voice giving a bit as he starts to
feel overwhelmed. “And then from a dying deputy,” he says with a heavy sigh.
It's itching now, that gnawing pit inside of him. That darkness through his
soul and around his heart that's yearning and demanding to be filled.
He kneads at Scott's shoulder as his friend sags a slumps a bit more, both
trying to keep him aware and to keep him focused. What Stiles has to say is
important, doesn't Scott get that? Stiles needs Scott, he's trying to tell him.
He's trying to make him understand.
“All that pain,” Stiles says, heaving a deep breath. “You took it all.” Scott's
eyes widen as Stiles reaches up and grabs him by the side of the face, his grip
on the tsuka tightening. “Now,” Stiles says through clenched teeth as he leans
close, fingers digging in behind Scott's ear. “Give it to me.” His voice
distorts slightly as he starts to shake a bit, feeling and smelling and
practically tasting all of the pain simmering inside of Scott. Dancing just
below his skin.
Stiles takes it all. He revels in it. The way it shocks his nerves and sets his
teeth on edge in the most delicious way. The way it gets his dick hard, and
breaks him out in a sweat under all of the rain on his skin. He can taste the
salt in the beads of water that run down his face, and he suddenly wants to
taste every inch of Scott.
Stiles strengthens his grip on the tsuka and yanks the blade out with
absolutely no care for his friend's body. The hand on Scott's face slides back
down to to grip painfully hard at the juncture where neck and shoulder meet,
and in Scott's weakened state he's easily overpowered. Not that he wouldn't be
anyway, Stiles thinks smugly. The nogitsune is more powerful than any alpha
werewolf.
With a snarl, Stiles yanks at Scott's shoulder and pulls him upright before
pushing him over and shoving him face first against the table. Scott grunts and
lets out a pained gasp, and Stiles is pretty sure he can hear his name
somewhere in those shallow breaths, but he ignores it. With a wicked spark in
his eyes he grabs the katana in both hands, long fingers drumming along the
handle as he gets a good grip.
“I can't let you get away, you know?” Stiles says, his voice ragged and
catching on the pure want in his throat. “I just need you to stick around for a
little longer. I just... I just needyou–” Stiles brings the blade back down
again, all shiny and red with blood, and impales Scott's shoulder clean
through. He howls in pain and Stiles just grunts and hisses, bearing his weight
down so the sharp, strong steel goes right through the vet's table, pinning
Scott down.
Stiles's erection is uncomfortable against the front of his corduroy pants, and
the sight of Scott pinned like a butterfly makes him ache and throb. There's a
tiny, muffled voice inside of Stiles's head that's screaming at him right now;
screaming at him to Stop! You have to fucking stop!But it's so easily ignored.
So easily extinguished. Just like a firefly.
“What the hell are you doing?” Scott croaks, twisting carefully on the table so
he can look behind him. So he can watch as Stiles moves away, checking drawers
and cabinets. Those long fingers poking around and handling things.
“Shh,” Stiles hisses softly through his teeth. He flashes an impatient look
back at Scott, feeling a triumphant surge of power as Scott seems to shrink
under his glare, actually dropping his eyes and turning back to face forward.
Stiles can hear his little sounds; the soft whimpers of pain and the shallow,
struggling breaths. The way the metal edge of the table creaks with each strong
grip of Scott's hands as they curl around to hold himself up.
It takes nearly two full minutes for Stiles to find what he's looking for. He
finally makes his way back over and sets two items down on the table, right
within Scott's line of sight. A bottle of hand lotion and a small vial of
hydromorphone.
“We're gonna have a good time, Scott,” Stiles says calmly, smiling as Scott
flinches at the only other sound in the dark, still air; the soft, metallic
snick as Stiles unfastens his belt. “I took all the fear and pain that you
had,” Stiles continues, rubbing his hand over the hard bulge in the front of
his pants with a low sound. “I drank it all up. Isaac's, Coach's, the
deputy's...” He moves in right behind Scott and grabs hisbelt, smirking as
Scott jerks and bucks back at him, growling at him to get away. “I took all of
theirs, but I didn't get any of yours.”
Scott barks out a choking cough, spraying a little blood out onto the shiny
metal surface of the table. Stiles has no doubt his stomach wound is nearly
healed, but the blood has to get out somehow. The blade still holds his
shoulder pinned, so all he can do is writhe. Stiles likes that. He likes how
Scott is bent over all helpless, and he likes that it's because of him.
Stiles unbuckles Scott's belt and slowly pulls it out of his belt-loops,
leaning over slightly to greedily inhale the scent of apprehension wafting off
of Scott. It's in Scott's gut, this fear of the unknown. This confusion and
horror and shock. The love for Stiles, coupled with the revulsion of having
something like this happening between them. To have something that could have
been so sacrosanct so thoroughly sullied.
It's fucking delicious.
Stiles grabs the vial of hydromorphone and sucks a small dose of the liquid up
into a syringe. Scott's head twists back sharply, his eyes wide and shining
with too many emotions to sort through. “Stiles, don't,” he pleads, his voice
edging on hysteria.
It's at that moment that Kira stirs. She lets out a soft, pained moan as her
supine body begins to slowly shift back to consciousness. Stiles snorts
derisively and kicks her under the chin, effectively sending her back to la la
land for a good while longer.
“Fuck, Kira,” Scott gasps, gritting his teeth and squeezing his eyes shut
against threatening tears. Stiles tuts softly, as if that's meant to comfort
Scott. The kitsune isn't dead, though it's in Stiles's best interest to end her
right now. But that's not part of the plan. Not yet, anyway.
“This will take the edge off,” he says as he plunges the needle into the muscle
of Scott's arm. “It's like morphine, but trust me, with the dose I gave you,
you don't get to blank out on me. It'll just make you more... pliant.”
He watches as the drug takes effect. He picked it because it's fast-acting, and
with Scott's werewolf metabolism it only takes a few seconds. His tensed
muscles start to relax and his eyes lid a bit, glazing over. His breathing
slows slightly, and Stiles can see the blush to his skin as his blood starts to
rush, already trying to push the toxins out.
Perfect.
“Now your body will behave,” Stiles murmurs. He grabs Scott's jeans and boxers
and tugs them unceremoniously down, revealing a perfectly-toned ass and firm
thighs. Every muscle is still lightly bunched as Scott struggles to hold
himself up, lest the sword do it for him. Stiles grabs both handfuls of Scott's
ass and gives it a squeeze, smirking as Scott lets out a guttural sound of
either protest or encouragement. Either one is good for Stiles.
“I think I might like guys,” Stiles says conversationally as he slides his
thick thumb along the dry cleft, rubbing it firmly over Scott's asshole. The
skin there is darker than the rest, like Scott's nipples. He wonders what it
tastes like. “I guess I should start with you, since you're my best friend, and
all.” He teases a thumbnail over Scott's rim, his own cock twitching pleasantly
as Scott whines softly. “You want to give me this, right? You want to give me
everything.” His whisper is harsh as he drops to his knees. “And I'm gonna take
it all.”
Scott makes a sound like he's been punched when Stiles presses his mouth
against the taut skin, his tongue snaking out slick and hot over Scott's hole.
He holds Scott's cheeks open and plunges his tongue in, tasting musk and heat
and salt. Fear, anger, and grief chase it, with just that perfect edge of
reluctant arousal. That's the fire he wants to fan.
Stiles bites at firm skin as he forces his tongue deeper, his fingers digging
roughly into Scott's muscle. His tongue slicks in and out like a fucked up
little piston, and each whine and choking groan coming from Scott sinks into
his skin and makes it hum. He moves a hand around to palm over Scott's dick,
hanging soft and warm between his tense, shaking thighs, and thinks that's not
good enough. That's not participation.
“Scotty,” Stiles whispers harshly against spit-slicked skin. “You have to play
with me or this is gonna get ugly for Kira.” Scott freezes and sucks in a shaky
breath. Stiles grins, and it's ugly and mean. He presses his mouth back against
Scott's hole anyway because this is all so ugly and mean, and that's what's
going to make them both come.
“Fuck,” Scott gasps against the table. Stiles can hear the shrill sound of
claws scratching over metal and it sends a shiver down his spine. Not enough,
though. It's not enough. He wants more, more, more. He curls his hand around
Scott's dick and gives it a cruel squeeze, moaning softly at the sound of
Scott's strangled cry. But as the drugs soak deeper into his skin and blood and
bones, Scott begins to have less and less control of that tenuous little bridge
between mind and body, and Stiles finally feels him starting to harden and
thicken in his hand.
“Mm, yes,” Stiles hisses softly, pulling his mouth away as his tongue licks at
the string of spit that clings obscenely between his lips and Scott's hole.
Stiles feels the little ache in his hands as small claws push out of his
fingertips, beading up blood as they tear through his flesh. With a final drag
of his tongue, full and wet along Scott's cleft, Stiles pushes back up to his
feet.
He stares down at Scott and grabs the bottle of lotion, absently licking his
lips as his eyes burn to a ruddy golden red. He can smell Scott's resent, his
fear, and his impotent rage. He can smell the saline of tears. The rush of
blood flushing his skin, making him warm and receptive. There's one thing
missing, though. One thing that will make this all perfect.
Stiles shoves his pants and boxers down, quickly lubing himself with the
lotion. He shivers a bit because it's cold, but that'll change quickly enough.
“You ready for me, Scott?” he murmurs, his voice thick with greedy lust and a
hunger for so many dark, nasty things.
“Don't, don't,” Scott gasps, craning his neck and trying to look Stiles in the
eye. “Don't do this, Stiles. Please don't let it win.”
“Don't let what win, Scott?” Stiles asks. He feigns ignorance as he presses the
flushed, swollen head of his cock against Scott's tight hole, all pretty and
shiny with his spit. “There's no one here but me.”
Stiles grins and reaches up to grab the handle of the sword. He twists and
wrenches it around in the meat of Scott's shoulder as he slowly pushes his
thick cock into Scott's unwilling body. Scott yells out at the pain and the
invasion, and Stiles can hear the edge of the table bend under his hands. The
wolf's strength is subdued but not dead. Stiles sucks in a soft, shaky breath
as pleasure overwhelms him, because everything is perfect, perfect, perfect.
“Fuuuuck, Scotty,” he groans, his tongue darting out to lick at his slowly
sharpening teeth as he sinks in completely past Scott's rim, seating himself
fully inside. “You feel so fucking good. I can't wait to hurt you more.” Scott
chokes on shuddering breath and trembles violently as Stiles jerks the sword
again. The pained, betrayed sound he makes is absolutely blissful as fresh,
bright red blood wells up from the puckered wound trying so desperately to heal
around the blade pinning Scott's shoulder.
“Oh god, oh god, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Scott babbles. “Stop, stop, please.” His
throat constricts around the words because he's having trouble breathing now as
Stiles fucks hard into him. Stiles knows from the few times he's squeezed his
own throat while jerking off that Scott's gonna come so hard and it's gonna be
so good.
He leans his weight against Scott's back and presses him firmly against the
edge of the table, practically cutting off his air and leaving Scott gasping
and gaping. He slips his hands under Scott's jacket and shirt and plants both
palms on the flat plane of Scott's back, smoothing them almost gently along his
shoulder-blade and spine as he snaps his hips with hard, heavy thrusts. He
clacks his little needle-teeth together and grinds them against the groan in
his throat, because base, carnal pleasure is only second to what he really
wants.
His digs sharp claws into Scott's back and tears them down, ripping furrows
right through his flesh and letting out a wash of blood. Scott howls and jerks,
bucking his hips and bending up the side of the table. Stiles's eyes roll back
into his head as a wave of fear and pain so fierce hits him straight in the
gut. It's better than fucking, it's better than pizza, it's better than winning
at Call of Duty; it's better than anything.
Pain is the best drug. It's his only addiction now.
“Oh my god, Scott,” he groans, his voice thick and his head heady with it all.
His hips stutter and his thrusts grow erratic as he shoves Scott's clothes up,
rucking them under his armpits with no care for the sword's blade. He drops his
head to press his cheek against Scott's back, between his shoulder-blades. The
feel of hot blood, slick on his cheek, shoots like a shivery zing down his
spine and straight to his cock. He whines like an animal and grinds his hips
against Scott's ass, listening to him sob a cry of pleasure as Stiles drags the
head of his cock along his prostate again and again.
“Mm... gonna make you come so hard,” Stiles purrs, dragging his teeth along the
back of Scott's neck. “Just wait, Scotty... it's gonna be so fucking good.” He
grins against the hot skin as Scott's alpha instincts flare up, and he can
practically see the reflection of twin red eyes staring back up at him from the
metal table, smeared in blood.
Scott growls and snarls, tearing up his shoulder against the katana blade as he
struggles to throw Stiles off. Stiles knows he's down to precious seconds
before Scott loses it, and that won't do. Scott doesn't get to die. Game's not
over, yet; not until Stiles says it is.
Stiles grabs the bottle of lotion and squirts a messy glob into his palm before
reaching down and grabbing Scott's dick, earning him a shudder and the snap of
fangs as Scott's teeth come together painfully hard. Stiles shoots up straight
as one of Scott's hands claws back at him, grabbing at air as Scott drools out
blood through his clenched teeth.
“Stop that,” Stiles says with a grimace, grabbing Scott by the wrist and
restraining his hand as he leans back down and practically splays over Scott's
back, pinning him breathless again. He noses into Scott's hair and jerks his
dick hard and fast, keeping his own thrusts deep and quick, nimble, slippery
fingers playing along all of Scott's sensitive parts; the perfect touch.
It doesn't take much to make Scott fall apart. It's all just electricity in the
brain, right? Every thought, feeling, emotion. Pleasure, pain, all of it. It
all comes from the same place, and it all boils down to one thing: Release.
Stiles slams brusingly hard into Scott's ass when he comes, groaning
shamelessly as he fills Scott with his come, his smell, his mark. His hips jerk
in tiny aftershocks as he throbs deep inside, hissing lightly as Scott tightens
uncomfortably around him in his pathetic attempt not to come.
“Come on, come on,” Stiles chants through his teeth, which are flat, straight
and human again. “Come on, you little shit.” He can smell Scott coming up, feel
the heat in his skin and the way his balls tighten so hard it must be painful.
“Come on, give it to me, Scotty.” His words are practically drowned out by
Scott's sobs of relief as he finally spills himself into Stiles's hand, shaking
near uncontrollably from the shock his body is enduring as he unwillingly comes
hard. Stiles's grin is drunk and satisfied as he laps at a blood-sticky patch
of Scott's skin, practically purring.
“Finally, fuck.” Stiles licks his blood-tacky lips and pulls his softening dick
out of Scott with a lewd sound. He doesn't even bother pulling his pants up as
he grabs the tsuka and yanks the katana out of both the table and Scott before
tossing it away, sending it clattering off to the other side of the room.
Scott collapses to the floor immediately, a mess of limp limbs, blood,
disheveled clothing, and come leaking out of his ass. He looks like a victim of
the worst kind of sexual assault, and Stiles tilts his head, admiring his work.
It's only now that he's done that he reaches down and tugs his boxers and
corduroy pants back up, taking his time to fasten everything back into place as
he watches Scott. Watches him wheezing on the floor, his eyes barely open. His
hands curled into loose fists, no claws, no fangs, no alpha eyes. Just pretty
brown wet with tears.
“Stiles,” Scott whispers around a soft, slow exhale of breath. But that's it.
No pleading, no begging. Nothing.
“Don't try to manipulate me,” Stiles scoffs, feeling a sudden wave of disgust
and insult from the way Scott's looking at him. He sneers and lifts a foot,
angling it perfectly over Scott's face, feeling a fierce swell of smug joy as
Scott's eyes widen in horror.
He brings the heel of his shoe down,feeling a surge of power at thecrunch–
 
Stiles wakes up screaming Scott's name.
It's nothing new for him. You think he'd be used to it by now. But no one gets
used to this kind of cold, deep, drowning fear. The feeling of losing yourself.
Never knowing if you're asleep or awake. Watching yourself spiral out of
control. The feeling that your body is being used against you and your mind is
no longer your own.
He's screaming and screaming and no one will help him. No one will comfort him
or tell him things are going to be okay. There are no warm arms around him, no
soothing voices. Only bruising touches and harsh yelling and the sharp prick of
needles in the most unnecessary of places. Stiles hates needles.He shivers and
struggles but the orderlies only grip him tighter.
“Better than a prick inScott's ass, right Stiles?” croons a devastatingly
familiar voice.
“Shut up!” Stiles shouts. He's suddenly hysterical as the voice pushes some
sort of Pavlovian button in him. “Shut up! Shut up!” His heart is sure to break
his ribs any second now, and when his pulse explodes from his neck it'll paint
the walls red. The nogitsune smirks and leans back into its corner, and Stiles
swears he sees huge shadows like tails crawling up the walls to cover him.
To cover him. Because it's Stiles's own face staring back at him.
He fights against the hands that hold him, yanking his arms and throwing
himself around. But he can feel the slime of sedation working its way through
his bloodstream. The sick death of sleep is fogging at the edges of his vision.
Not again not again no no not again.
“No, I can't go to sleep!” he sobs, begging as he grabs at the orderlies.
“Please, you don't understand...” He's ignored. Laughed at and ignored. Like
he's some small insect or a toy to be played with.
“Sleep, Stiles,” the nogitsune says softly as Stiles slumps to the floor,
mumbling and pleading incoherently. “Maybe you'll have even morepleasant
dreams.” There's a horrible smile in his voice and Stiles swears he can smell
death on the thing's breath. “Maybe one day you'll even dream of getting out of
here.”
“They'll come and get me,” Stiles whispers, though his tongue is heavy and
thick in his mouth. “They'll come and save me.” His limbs stick to the floor
like magnets and his joints creak and protest at his cold, hard makeshift bed.
“Are you sure?” the nogitsune says, allowing a bit of trepidation to creep into
his voice as he peels himself away from the wall, enveloping the entire tiny
room in shadow. “Can you really be sure, Stiles, of just exactly how long
you've been here? Are you sureanyone is coming to get you?”
The door to the quiet room shuts with the heavy sound of finality just as the
door in Stiles's mind bursts wide open, again and again and again.
End Notes
     tumblr . twitter . policy
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!