Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1275787.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sheriff_Stilinski/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Incest, Oral_Sex, Mind_Control, Skewed_Time-Line, PWP
  Series:
      Part 1 of The_Erlking
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-03-06 Words: 2011
****** Don't You See The Erlking, Father? ******
by Cyberrat
Summary
     Possessed!Stiles makes his father have fun with him.
Notes
     I got a few ficlets that are... well. Let's just say, one or two of
     them I seriously cannot post, 'cause ya'll might think even worse
     from me lol So there.
     You probably know from the title already that I'm a horrible human
     being, 'cause I utilized the very famous poem from J.W. Goethe for
     this trash.
     Seriously, though, go check it out (even if the English translation
     is a little lame) 'cause it's awesome and I love it. And it fits.
     Just sayin'. (The Erlking by J.W. Goethe)
     WARNINGS: This story contains incest. Also, it is very, very dub-
     conny. More like rape-y. Also, Stiles is underage. Like... Seriously.
     THE TIME-LINE MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER, DON'T EVEN TRY TO UNDERSTAND
     IT.
See the end of the work for more notes
John looked up from the dumb sports show he was watching when the front door
slammed shut so loud he fancied he could hear the house rattle. He raised his
eyebrows, slowly putting the bottle of coke down he had been about to sip from.
It was his only day off and Stiles was supposed to still be in school and
therefore he had elected to drink one of those otherwise ‘banned’ treats his
son was so fond of depriving him off. (All for the cause of the greater good,
of course.)
There was faint muttering from the direction of the now slammed door. It
sounded dark and angry and so not like Stiles that he was just about to push
himself off of his armchair when his boy stumped past the opened door to the
living room, shoulders tight with anger and schoolbag slung haphazardly across
his back.
“Stiles!” he called, watching as the boy froze mid-stride and turned his head,
blinking owlishly at him. There was a big, red blotch on his left cheekbone,
looking like it would soon darken. John frowned, narrowing his eyes a little
and tilting his head towards him.
“What’s that?”
Stiles pressed his lips together and looked mulishly down. He was nothing like
the bubbly, overactive boy that had left the house earlier that day and when he
turned further around John could see his clothes were dirty and torn in places.
John stiffened, getting up immediately and rushing towards him.
“What happened?!” he demanded to know, gripping the thin shoulders and turning
him this way and that, eyes roving over the kid’s body to assess the damage.
His insides felt frozen, heart pounding in his throat and only slowly getting
back to a normal rhythm when he realized there was no blood – merely scrapes
and bruises.
“I got into a fight,” Stiles muttered, letting himself get manhandled with a
sullen expression, just staring at his father’s chest. John frowned, hands
sliding the strap of the backpack from one shoulder and setting the burden down
next to him.
“That’s why you’re early? Why did you get into a fight?” he asked, steering his
oddly subdued child into the living room. “And with whom?”
Stiles shrugged, dragging his feet a little, his shoulders drawn up to his
ears.
“Just with a few boys,” he whispered reluctantly and let himself get pushed
into the armchair John had been occupying just moments before.
“What boys?” he asked, crouching down in front of him, one hand placed on the
boy’s knobbly knee, the other cradling the smooth, uninjured cheek, rubbing at
a smudge of dirt he found there.
Stiles squirmed a little, life finally retreating into his form.
“Dad...” he murmured, turning his head just a little into the touch. “Don’t go
all papa bear on me.”
John snorted, hand sliding down to cup the side of the boy’s neck, rubbing with
his thumb absentmindedly along Stiles’ jaw.
“What happened to the other boys?”
“Dunno...” And again he pulled back into that strange shell, his fingers
fiddling with the edges of his torn shirt, his eyes downcast and mouth set
straight. John narrowed his eyes a little, dragging them down Stiles’ body and
tugging on the torn shirt.
“That must have been quite the fight. What was so important? It’s not like you
to throw punches, Stiles.” He kept his voice low, coaxing; he was seriously at
a loss here. It was not uncommon for Stiles to get into trouble – but most of
the time it was because of a smartass remark or his infamous sarcasm – not
because he was bodily harmful to others.
The boy’s whole physiology didn’t seem adjusted to flat out brawling.
“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Stiles mumbled at last, hands twisting together
in his lap. His lips were suddenly trembling and John, in alarm, grabbed the
boy’s chin, tilting his head up and – flinched backwards as if he had been
slapped, because for just one moment... for just a second... Stiles’ eyes had
looked as if they’d been deep, endless voids. Just inky blackness – wet and
churning.
He’d only seen it for a second, though, before Stiles blinked and everything
was back to normal and...
“Daddy? Everything alright?” the boy asked and he sounded so small – so soft...
John had to blink profusely and shake off the paralysation that had overtaken
his body briefly.
“I-I... yes. Yes, of course...”
“Are you... angry?” Stiles sounded plaintive and heartbroken. John closed his
eyes, rubbing one hand across his face and breathing deeply.
“No... no of course not. Are you... does anything hurt?” He felt strange while
he asked it; the picture of the two black orbs instead of Stiles’ large,
friendly eyes had burned itself deep into his mind, leaving behind an ice shard
of uncertainty that slowly seemed to melt and drip down his body – making it
numb and cold.
“I don’t know... A little perhaps... could you...” Stiles was talking slow,
sounding a little trance like. His gaze never left John’s eyes and his hands –
so delicate for a boy – were clammy when they cupped his father’s face left and
right. “Will you kiss it better?”
A soft prickling in John’s belly made the ice recede for just a moment. It was
a strange, intoxicating feeling – rushing straight to his head and making
Stiles’ request seem perfectly sound as he whispered, “Of course...” before
stretching up in order to press a slow, lingering kiss to the smooth forehead.
“No... no, no, no,” Stiles growled, his small hands gripping John’s head once
more, guiding him towards the bruise on his cheek. “Here. It hurts here.”
John took a deep breath, smelling dirt and salt und Stiles underneath. He
thought, ‘This is strange... why am I doing this?’ even while his warm lips
pressed themselves to clammy, bruised skin. Stiles made a soft noise in the
back of his throat; it sounded pleased and... and something else. Something a
child should not sound like when their father kissed them simply on the cheek.
“So much better now, daddy,” Stiles cooed, something off in his voice, “but
there is still so much pain... will you make it better?”
John closed his eyes, shaking his head in the grip of his son and trying to
pull back but his strength seemed to have been leeched from him.
“I don’t know... something is... something’s wrong, Stiles. I don’t feel so
well...” He wanted to extract himself and stand up but Stiles’ voice slithered
into his consciousness, making his limbs heavy and his mind cloudy.
“No... no everything is just alright. You need to take my pain, daddy. That’s
what good daddies do, don’t they? They’re supposed to take their boy’s pain...”
He was pulled closer, between Stiles’ suddenly spread legs and up to the boy’s
belly. One hand left his face in order to tug up the dirty shirt, exposing a
little abrasion at the smooth skin of his waist.
“Make it better, daddy...” Stiles suggested with an insidious drawl – ordering
him so sweetly. A voice in the back of John’s head kept telling him that
something was wrong – that he shouldn’t lean forward and reverently press an
open mouthed kiss to his kid’s body... but somehow it was hard to remember why
it was wrong.
“It still hurts, daddy,” Stiles whimpered and John pressed another kiss against
the red tissue, flickering his tongue out and over it until he could hear the
hitch in Stiles’ breath.
“Still hurts...”
“Where?” he rasped, voice rough and deep with... with what? Lust?
The one hand on his head gently guided him down... down and down, shoving him
irresistibly while the other hand opened Stiles’ trousers with an efficiency
that bordered on professional.
Never had John seen his uncoordinated, stumbling, sweet son like a hard-core...
pimp.
“Here, daddy,” Stiles purred, no longer sounding meek but very assured of
himself – very sure even though he was pulling his young, sleek cock out inches
in front of his father’s face. The head was flushed red, the shaft twitching in
the grip of those long, thin fingers.
While John stared dumbly, a little dribble of pre-cum oozed out of the slit and
curved down the warm flesh.
“Kiss it better?” Stiles purred. John shook his head slowly, the coldness in
his body making it impossible to move any faster – or to pull away from the
touch of the small hand gently cupping his jaw and pulling him irresistibly
closer.
He closed his eyes briefly when the wet head touched his lips. A sharp intake
of breath flooded his senses with salty musk and dimly he thought, ‘That’s my
son’s cock I’m smelling. That’s my son rubbing his leaking cock on my lips...’
It should repel him. It didn’t.
Opening his eyes and glancing up towards Stiles’ face, he flinched bodily as he
was met with the inky black stare of the emotionless voids of moments before.
Stiles’ face was greedy, his pink little tongue flickering out to wet those
amazing lips.
“I hurt so much, daddy... make it better...” he whispered in a lisp that made
every little hair stand up on the Sheriff’s body in its eroticism.
“I...” he ground out but could not continue further because the creature above
him – it could not be his son; it simply couldn’t – had utilized his opened
mouth to slide that young, perfect cock between his lips. Stiles wriggled his
slim hips forwards eagerly, shoving more and more of the twitching length into
the moist, hot mouth.
John was frozen in place – not only because of the shard of ice in his head,
but because he genuinely had no clue what to do now. Where the hell this all
had gone so completely wrong.
“Uhhh... so good... You are the best daddy,” Stiles purred, gently thrusting,
fingers carding through his father’s short hair and stroking his cheeks. His
eyes were like... like nothing John had ever seen. They were locked onto his
gaze, refusing to let him go and seemingly sucking every single drop of will
out of him – making him just kneel there and take the cock fucking his mouth
relentlessly.
“Remember... don’t bite. You wouldn’t want to hurt your son, would you?”
John groaned in mortification, the sound sliding along the length and making it
jump and spurt pre-cum down the back of his throat. It tasted salty on his
tongue and the Sheriff wondered whether he would ever be able to forget the
taste. (Whether he wanted to forget it.)
Stiles was whining and mewling above him, hips stuttering and fucking his face
with relentless force. Filthy wet noises filled the room – John thought he
sounded like a cheap whore as the cock rammed down his throat and made him gag
and swallow reflexively around the swollen head.
When Stiles came, it was sudden. There were no signs to indicate it other than
the little noises that became more and more desperate. He hadn’t been moving
longer than a few minutes before he suddenly stopped, sounding almost angry as
spurts of come striped the inside of the Sheriff’s mouth.
He wanted to open it, let the cum slide out – but the same force keeping him
kneeling at his son’s feet had him swallowing the boy’s essence greedily before
his lips could have let go of their firm hold around the twitching shaft.
John was still holding Stiles’ spent cock in his mouth when the boy finally
regained his breath long enough to growl an annoyed sounding, “Fucking
teenagers and their non-existent stamina. Fuck.”
Fingers carded through his hair and caused him to look up. His eyes felt
swollen and too moist for a man of his position and age. He wanted to turn
away, get to his feet – do something but he was kept down, his tongue lovingly
cradling the softening dick.
“We’ll just have to do that again, hm? Over... and over...” The creature was
purring, black eyes staring at John and lips curving into a sinuous smile.
John felt numb.
End Notes
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