Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1751891.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sheriff_Stilinski/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Sheriff_Stilinski, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Parent/Child_Incest, Underage_Masturbation, Masturbation, Blow_Jobs,
      Stiles_Stilinski_is_a_Tease, no_parent/child_until_Stiles_is_over_18
  Collections:
      TeenWolf_BigBang
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-07 Words: 9883
****** Inside Out ******
by eeyore9990, qafmaniac
Summary
     At first, Stiles just does it to watch his dad get flustered and trip
     over his own words, because it's kinda funny. His dad's always been
     pretty laid back and self-assured. To see him flipped inside out when
     Stiles says or does things that are possibly, maybe, a tiny bit
     innuendo-laden, well. He gets a kick out of it.
     But it also brings life back into his dad's eyes. A spark that Stiles
     thought was buried with his mom is suddenly glinting in his dad's
     eyes again and that? Hell. That's kinda awesome.
Notes
     Written for the TWBigBang_on_Livejournal. All the lovely art you see
     here? Courtesy of qafmaniac. Shower your praises upon her!
     For the art/soundtrack masterpost (YES, MUSIC OMG!), go visit
     qafmaniac at: livejournal or dreamwidth.
     Beta'd by the incomparable Leela, without whom my fics have no
     feelings.
See the end of the work for more notes
                      [ photo InsideOutTWBBficheader.png]
For Stiles, it starts the day his dad shoves a box of Kleenex in his hands
('with aloe!' the box proclaims in lurid green letters) and clears his throat
pointedly. The embarrassed flush on his dad's cheeks draws Stiles' gaze and his
own blotchy skin has less to do with embarrassment than with the situation
rapidly rising...in his shorts.
The muttered offer to buy Stiles some lotion nearly makes him cream his pants,
honestly, and he knows it's weird, okay? He talks to Scott about it, and they
both agree. It's definitely weird to pop a boner when your dad offers to smooth
the way for your masturbatory practices, so to speak.
That should have been it. It really should have been. Hell, it shouldn't have
even gone far enough to need to tell Scott about it, to be honest. But the
thing about Stiles is, he's an asshole. He always has been.
Like, he kicked his mom in the kidneys as a fetus on purpose. He's that kind of
asshole.
So at first, he just does it to watch his dad get flustered and trip over his
own words, because it's kinda funny. His dad's always been pretty laid back and
self-assured. To see him flipped inside out when Stiles says or does things
that are possibly, maybe, a tiny bit innuendo-laden, well. He gets a kick out
of it.
But it also brings life back into his dad's eyes. A spark that Stiles thought
was buried with his mom is suddenly glinting in his dad's eyes again and that?
Hell. That's kinda awesome.
When his dad gently sets him down on the couch one night when he's thirteen and
a half to give him the sex talk, Stiles already knows it all. He has the
internet. But the way his dad stutters and trips over his words is kind of
adorable, so Stiles makes his eyes as wide as possible and asks a hundred
bordering-on-inappropriate questions.
Or possibly wildly inappropriate.
                                      ~*~
Stiles stops his dad in the kitchen one morning, the light cutting through the
blinds just enough to stab him in the eyes. Rubbing them, he walks up to his
dad, his sleep pants falling low on his skinny hips, and yawns wide.
His dad curses and Stiles looks down to see that he's spilled some coffee over
his hand, hot enough that it's left a bright red patch on his skin. Twisting on
the cold water, Stiles grabs his dad's hand and shoves it under the faucet. As
he watches the water splash over his dad's wrist, a wild idea occurs to him and
he turns his eyes up toward his father's.
"Hey dad? What's fisting?"
His dad's face goes shock-white before blooming a mottled red and he chokes out
a dozen half-formed syllables before he yanks his hand back. Turning to Stiles,
he takes his shoulders in a firm — and dripping wet on one side — grip and says
very seriously, "Son, where did you hear that term?"
Thinking quickly has never been a problem for Stiles, who blinks innocently and
says, "I was reading my book for my English report last night and it said one
character was fisting another character's shirt."
A huff of breath blows back Stiles' hair as his dad visibly deflates. "Okay,
yeah. Okay. That's, uh, grabbing something in your fist. Like this." And then,
without missing a beat, his dad gets a big handful of Stiles' shirt and drags
him forward by it.
Stiles' spank bank fills to overflowing in that moment, and he just hopes like
hell that his dad doesn't read anything into the way his breath suddenly
catches in his throat. Or look down and see how his sleep pants are starting to
tent in the front.
Now all he can think about is how easily his dad can move him around, the way
his arm muscles bunch and shift when he grabs Stiles like this. The way the
fine hairs on the back of his hand had darkened under the water. The width of
his wrist and how it would look if…
Probably he shouldn't have spent the previous night researching fisting. Or
asked his dad about it. Live and learn.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
When he's fourteen and has finished a growth spurt that leaves him standing
shoulder to shoulder with his dad, he spends his allowance on all the phallic
food he can get his hands on. He buys Blow Pops suckers in economy-sized bags
and works them with his lips and tongue so much that he develops sores in his
mouth.
Luckily, the sores are soothed by the icy sweetness of Bomb Pops (in Hulk green
and Captain America red white and blue because the entire nation is swept up in
Avengers mania). He slurps at them noisily from the moment his dad gets home
from work until his dad evacuates the room in unseemly haste for a man of his
years and profession.
Stiles tries not to feel too smug about the fact that his dad has fled from him
red-faced every night for a week.
He gets even less circumspect about his nightly masturbation sessions until his
father wanders around like a zombie, dark circles under his manic-looking eyes
and hair always at least a bit flyaway.
                                      ~*~
He's sitting in math class, trying not to nod off, when the sound of sirens
jolts him out of his daze. He frowns, looking out the window, and sees a couple
black and whites and two Sheriff's department vehicles go racing past the
school. His blood freezes in his veins because in a town this size, anything
that warrants that much police presence will involve his dad.
When the bell rings, he's already got his things clutched to his chest and he
bolts for the door before anyone else can even react. He's in the hall when he
hears the words cop shooting, and he whirls around frantically, trying to find
the person who said that. But the hallway is crowded with kids and teachers,
and he's blocking the flow of traffic.
A few muttered curses and a shoulder-bump with enough force to bruise has him
spinning to the side of the hall and into a bank of lockers. But it also clears
his mind enough to have him turning on his heel and sprinting toward the
library.
The computers are ancient and slow, but someone left one of them open and
logged in, so it only takes a moment for him to pull up a browser. Except
Google is down, the internet radio is down, and he can't connect to the local
news site at all.
Stiles shoves his hands in his hair and looks up. A strangled scream leaves him
when he sees a note tacked to the wall in like twelve point font informing
students that there will be network downtime today between 10am and 3pm.
The tardy bell rings then, and Stiles is already late, so he gathers up his
stuff again and heads to the office. If nothing else, they have a phone there.
He can, hopefully, call his dad's office phone, or dispatch, and see what's
going on.
But when he approaches the office, through the door-less entryway he hears the
secretaries talking about an officer-involved shooting and he freezes, his
books sliding from his numb grasp. He can't make his feet move and his breath
is getting thin, raspy. He can feel his heart pumping faster and faster until
his vision goes splotchy, and then he's falling to his knees.
A voice yells at him, the noise muted through the sound of his own panic, and
he struggles to look up. Coach Finstock is crouched in front of him and his
lips are moving, saying something Stiles can't understand. All he can hear is
the echo of the secretary's words.
Officer-involved shooting.
It's all his nightmares rolled into one and set on fire. He can't think about
anything but how tired and worn out his dad looked that morning as he got ready
for work. Tired and worn out because Stiles couldn't stop teasing him. Because
Stiles thought it was funny and exhilarating to think about his dad on the
other side of his bedroom wall listening to him beating off.
"Dad," he manages to gasp through his panic attack. Before he knows it, there
are three more adults in the hall with them and someone must realize who he is.
The Sheriff's son.
The nurse wraps a blanket around him, leads him to her office, and has him lay
down while she sees what she can find out. The news is good; his dad was in the
office doing paperwork when the shooting happened, and the officer who was
involved is in good condition.
But that doesn't stop Stiles from having nightmares about it all going the
other way. Of his dad really being shot because he's too exhausted to react
when some random speeder pulls out a gun.
Stiles doesn't jerk off for two weeks, and even when he does, he's quiet as
he's ever been. His dad's clear eyes and healthy color make him feel more
secure than all the body armor in the world.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
He's fifteen and in ninth grade when he finds it. There's some project for
history that he has to do that involves things like baby pictures, and when
he's digging around the attic for the old, loose photos—no way is he going to
mess up the carefully pasted photos in his baby book—he runs across a box of
old tapes, all of them labelled with his name except one that just says
John—1995.
He takes the whole box back to his bedroom, along with the dusty camcorder. He
gets everything he needs off the videos of himself as a baby, then slides the
tape with his dad's name on it into the camera and pushes play.
Tears immediately clog his throat because it starts playing on his mom's face,
and it's a version of her he doesn't remember. She's young and beautiful and
vibrant, laughing into the camera and saying something he can't catch because
the tape has apparently been warped a little with age.
The picture goes fuzzy for a minute, and then resolves again on his dad, and
Stiles can hear them now, can hear his mom teasing his dad about something as
his dad ducks his head and blushes, putting one hand over his face in a manner
that is so very eerie. It's exactly the reaction Stiles gets when he's done
something to make his dad regret his very existence.
Stiles clears his throat softly, shifting in his seat, because his dad… well,
it's not exactly his dad on the screen. This is from before Stiles was born,
when his dad was in the Army, and young, and… His dad is incredibly hot now, in
a DILF sort of way, but back then he was young and built, with his hair cut to
Army regs and shirts that stretched a bit obscenely over his chest. Even his
arms were ridiculous, all lean muscle and mouth-watering forearms.
"Claudia," Dad whines from the camera, peeking through his fingers. The sound
of his voice snaps Stiles back to himself. "What if someone sees?"
But his mom just laughs, a full-bellied sound that makes something clench up in
Stiles' stomach. He remembers that sound.
"John, you idiot," she says, and Stiles can feel his own lips pulling up into a
wide grin at the exasperation in her tone. "Who the hell do you think is going
to evenlookfor it?"
"I don't… I just—"
"You just wanna weasel out of it. Tough titty, Sergeant Stilinski. If you have
to fly off to the other side of the world for six months, you're going to leave
me something to remember you by!" The camera swoops wildly, showing the wall
and then focusing in on some really atrocious brown carpeting before he hears
his mom giggle and say, "Whoops, forgot about the camera."
"You really want me to do this?" John asks, looking dubiously at his wife
instead of into the camera. "I'm not exactly a porn star here."
"Baby, you're all the porn star I need. Now, strip and show me your dick."
Stiles gasps and drops the camcorder when his hand goes lax in shock.
Thankfully he's sitting at his desk, so it just clatters to the wooden surface
before tipping over and perching at a tilt onto the viewscreen. He breathes out
a curse and picks it up, rubbing at a visible ding on the surface of the
ancient camera before looking back into the view-finder to see his dad slowly
stripping for the camera, occasionally rolling his eyes as Stiles' mom shouts
filthy encouragement.
Jesus Christ, things he did not need to know about his mom.
But then his mom goes silent as his dad gets down to his boxers and stands
there with his thumb tucked into the waistband, looking young and vulnerable
and unsure. Claudia must do something because suddenly he smiles and it's full
of dark promises and hooded eyes. Stiles swallows hard and spreads his legs
beneath the desk, feeling his cock plump up in his jeans.
John leaves his boxers on as he turns and crawls slowly up onto the bed, and
Stiles lets out a high-pitched whine when he sees the flex of his dad's ass
under the thin cotton. A bead of sweat develops above Stiles' lip, and he can
hear the rattle of his own breath breaking the silence of the room.
There's the unmistakable sound of a strangled cough right beside the
microphone, and that breaks Stiles out of his own haze of lust long enough for
him to thumb open the button on his pants and drag his zipper down far enough
to free his cock from the slit of his own boxers.
John sits back against the headboard of a bed Stiles doesn't recognize and rubs
his hand over the front of his boxers slowly, maintaining eye contact with the
camera the whole time. Shit. And he thought he wasn't a porn star.
When his dad pushes the waistband of his boxers down to just under his balls,
Stiles lets out a shocked sound and has to damn near strangle his cock to keep
from coming. Claudia, bless her, zooms the camera in on it, the picture going
fuzzy for a second until the autofocus kicks in. Then, it's all cock all the
time.
"Fuck," he hears his dad mutter, and the sound is full of dark secrets. "Baby,
you need to stop doing that or I'm going to blow my load way too soon."
A light, airy chuckle sounds from his mom, who whispers, "Yeah, but you know
how I like having things in my mouth."
Stiles honestly doesn't know why he's still listening to this — or at least
watching it with the volume up — but those words just drive his arousal higher
because now all he can think about is getting his lips around that thick,
flushed cock. His mouth waters and he pops two fingers in, just to satisfy a
little bit of that craving. Unfortunately, it's the hand he was using to
squeeze the base of his dick, and it tastes all musky and … well, like dick.
So when his dad goes back to slowly jacking himself, reaching down occasionally
to roll his balls in his hand, Stiles has the visual, the sound, and the
flavor.
By the time John looks directly into the camera, his head tilted back and chest
heaving, and whispers, "I love you," just before he bites his lip and comes all
across his belly, Stiles is right there with him.
                                      ~*~
Needless to say, Stiles copies that shit to digital faster than the speed of
light. He's got one copy buried in his hard drive, one saved in his email (he
had to zip the file, but hey, he'll never lose it this way), and two more on
thumb drives.
It's not the only porn he watches, but it's definitely his number one go-to
when he wants to get off quickly.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
Six months later, Scott gets bitten by a werewolf and his life vaguely slides
sideways like melted cheese dripping off a nacho. He's still human, though, and
when he thinks about it long and hard—hur, hard—he figures with all the extra
weird shit in his life, his little personal daddy kink isn't the worst thing
ever.
Lying to his dad for an entire year, watching the gulf grow between them with
each word from his mouth, or worse, with each damning silence, just might be.
Stiles almost wants to kiss the Darach for forcing him into a position where he
has to tell his dad.
And then his dad doesn't believe him and he's taken anyway, and Stiles' life
flips inside out.
                                      ~*~
Stiles kneels on the floor in front of the old sofa in the dining room, his
fingers twitching as he smoothes salve over the rope burns on his dad's wrists.
"Stiles, kid, I'm fine. I'd rather we get your head looked at." Blunt fingers
stroke through Stiles' hair and he leans into it. It's the sort of touch he'd
taken for granted in the past, but had become markedly absent through all the
bullshit of the last year. It's gentle and caring and makes something unfurl in
his gut.
Squeezing his eyes closed, Stiles' lips part on a sigh as he revels in the
moment, his thumb now motionless over the broken skin on his dad's wrist. Over
the pulse point there. The pulse that stutters under his thumb as his dad's
fingers slow their path through his hair.
His eyelids flutter open, and he's left staring into his dad's eyes. The air
grows thick; Stiles is keenly aware of their relative positions, especially
his. He's kneeling there, between his dad's spread thighs, inches from the dick
that had starred in so many of his fantasies. He knows every inch of it. Has
seen it, studied it countless times. Has watched, avidly, to see exactly how
his dad likes to touch himself, what brings him the most pleasure.
His dad's fingers slip from his hair, and Stiles can't hide a loud, indrawn
breath when his work-roughened palm scrapes over the shell of Stiles' ear, or
the broken sound he makes when trigger-calloused fingers ghost across the nape
of his neck. He knows his skin is flushed, blotchy. He can feel his chest
rising and falling rapidly, keeping pace with his dad's. He can see the
widening of his dad's pupils and knows his own are blown open with need.
His stomach clenches and he can feel himself chubbing up in his pants, but
somehow he's not worried. Instead he smiles, a small thing, just the very edges
of his mouth tipping upward. He could push, he knows he could. He has the
opportunity right now to take everything he wants.
But he doesn't reach for it. Because whatever this moment is, right now is not
the time for it. Not when his dad has so much to think about, to consider. Not
when his world has turned on its head and the monsters have come out of the
closet and from beneath the bed.
Stiles has had a year to come to grips with their new reality. His dad deserves
time to put himself back on an even keel.
Leaning forward, he presses a soft kiss to his dad's cheek, relishing the buzz
of stubble against his lips. "I'm fine," he whispers against the weathered
skin, like they're still having the same conversation they were having minutes
— a lifetime — ago.
They both know they're not.
Stiles has never been graceful, but somehow he manages to stand smoothly, not
bothering to hide the way his pants are tented as he collects the first aid
kit. His dad's hand lands on his forearm, and Stiles goes instantly still,
relaxed and ready.
"Stiles."
He can hear it all there in that tone: an acknowledgement, a question, a
denial.
But Stiles is stubborn, and he's not losing the ground he gained, not now. Not
tonight. So he just shrugs off his dad's hand and says, "Get some sleep. I know
you have questions, but we'll talk about them tomorrow. It's been a long day."
And it has. Suddenly, he feels about a thousand pounds heavier, like his feet
can't possibly support his weight to get him up the stairs to his bedroom.
He nearly has to crawl up the last few steps, but he finally makes it, falls
heavily into bed and doesn't remember anything else other than the sucking
darkness.
They never talk about it.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
The first time his dad crawls into bed with Stiles, it's to hold him while he
screams through nightmares that are too real to wake from. Hellish dreams that
trap him, inside each other, like a fucked up nesting doll of horrors that he
can't escape.
And then his nightmares bleed out into his reality. He knows what it feels
like, now, to twist the knife. To watch his friends die at his hand. To see
himself standing there, face dark and manic with a thousand years of madness as
his best friend sinks razor sharp teeth into his skin.
He watches it all, sick and twisted up inside, and when it's all over, he goes
to a house that no longer feels like a home. Cameras watch him through the
night, waiting for him to fall into a sleep that never comes.
He no longer touches himself; when his mind inevitably strays toward his father
on the other side of the wall, he freezes and holds his hands up. Counts his
fingers. Counts them again.
He can't forget, not even for a second, the devastation of his father's office.
The shreds of the deputies' bodies. The blood that stained the floors.
How Scott's body parted like butter around a demon's sword.
How easily all that blood could have been his dad's. His friends have forgiven
him; they say he tricked the ancient trickster and that's why his dad was safe.
But he wonders. Because he can still feel it, all of it.
And so he counts his fingers again.
                                      ~*~
He goes to South America, helps Scott and Chris Argent rescue Derek. Kills Kate
Argent.
He's the only one she lets close; she underestimates the weak human. She should
know better, really. Though maybe she couldn't possibly. How does a psychopath
prepare for a teenaged boy who remembers the last millennia? Who remembers how
to fight?
She's not prepared for him to move in close, to dig fingers into her throat and
rip it out. To stand over her as she gurgles, body heaving as it tries to
repair the damage his weak human hands inflicted. Stiles breathes again,
finally, when Chris stands beside him and unloads six rounds into her skull
until the top of it is just gone and there's nothing left in the shell that is
the bottom half of her face.
Derek tries to thank him in his weird, closed-off way. Says maybe they'll both
be able to sleep now.
Stiles flies back to Nevada, gets in his Jeep and is halfway home before he has
to pull over and laugh. He laughs so hard he can't catch his breath and it
feels a little like a panic attack. Really, though, it feels nothing like a
panic attack.
But Derek was right. When he checks himself into the nearest motel, paid for on
his dad's credit card, Stiles falls unconscious with Kate's blood crusted up
under his fingernails.
                                      ~*~
A knock on the door wakes him, and Stiles stumbles across the room, bumping
into the low table that some idiot designer placed between the creaky double-
bed and the door. Stiles slides the chain on the latch—it's a motel off the
interstate and he's a cop's son—before pulling the door open.
His dad is standing on the other side, hollow-cheeked and with bruises under
his eyes like he hasn't slept in weeks. About how long it took Stiles and Scott
to find Derek, then.
Stiles winces, takes a second to consider whether or not to open the door, and
then does it anyway because he has to leave eventually. Best to face the music
now.
"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because he is. Now.
He barely has time to get the words out before his dad is pulling him into a
tight embrace, his solid body trembling against Stiles.
"What? Dad?"
"Don't ever do that again." The words are muffled against his neck, and the
movement of his dad's lips as they form the words send a spark of heat through
Stiles.
It's the first time he's felt anything beyond cold despair in months. He should
be happy, but all he can think about is how he fucked up. Again. "I'm sorry,"
he repeats in a whisper, and his dad's arms tighten around him.
"You've got nothing to be sorry for, kid. Just, next time, fill me in? A
scribbled note taped to the fridge doesn't quite cut it."
Stiles pulls away, eyes downcast and jaw clenched as he nods. Stupid. He should
have known how worried his dad would be, but… "She sent Scott a video. It was…
he was dying."
"Derek?"
"Yeah."
"And now? She still a threat?"
Stiles' glance flickers down to his hand. The blood had dried black; it looked
like dirt under his nails now. "No. Mr Argent… I…" He swipes his tongue over
his bottom lip, nerves building up in his throat, stopping his words.
"You took care of her?"
Stiles nods jerkily, still not meeting his dad's eyes. "Yeah."
"Okay. Well, then. You look like you haven't slept in weeks, and I know I
haven't. Let's get some rest before we have to hit the road in the morning."
His dad guides him by the shoulders until he's sitting on the side of the bed,
then he kneels down, and it's so reminiscent of that night, the night the
Darach tried to kill them all, that it steals Stiles' breath. Only this time,
their roles are reversed. It's his dad taking care of him, slipping his shoes
and socks off his feet—he hadn't taken the time to remove them when he got the
room earlier, just faceplanted into the bed and passed the fuck out. A pin
dropping would shatter the atmosphere, but Stiles and his dad are frozen,
looking at each other, drinking in the differences two weeks apart have wrought
in the other. Maybe the difference two years have wrought, honestly. It's been
that long since Stiles has let himself really look another person in the face,
after all.
A part of him wants to flinch back, drop his gaze. He wants to hide away inside
his own skin because he can't stop thinking of himself as a monster. But this
is his dad. This is the man who held him through all the nightmares, soothed
all the pain. This is the man who was warmth and home when everything else was
just the cold that radiated out of Stiles' center. Who's still warmth and home
for Stiles.
His dad's thumb rubs over the jut of bone at Stiles’ ankle, and sensation
travels up Stiles’ leg to pool in his groin, thickening his cock. Stiles can't
help flexing his fingers where they're braced on his thighs. He wants to reach
out and touch his dad, run his fingers through hair touched by light streaks of
gray. But his dad breaks the silence first
"Hey, kid. Why don't you take these off?" He flicks his fingers over the hem of
Stiles' jeans. "They won't be very comfortable to sleep in."
Stiles nods, and stands up, slowly stripping the worn, dirty denims off. By the
time he has them folded on the lone chair, he turns to see that his dad is down
to his undershirt and boxers, and something inside him flips over.
He's going to share a bed with his dad, a man he's been fantasizing about for
almost half his life. Stiles reaches down and pulls the comforter off the
pillows and down to the foot of the bed. It's too hot for more than the top
sheet, even with the air conditioner running at full power. He slides into the
bed and rests on his side facing his dad. He wants to be able to see him if he
wakes in the middle of the night.
His dad, though, has other ideas. He manhandles Stiles until he's facing the
other way, and then his dad's arm is secure around him, holding him tight.
Letting him know he's safe. It's warm, and comforting, and Stiles closes his
eyes without fear for the nightmares that have plagued him for the better part
of a year. Stiles snuggles down, indulges in the heady feeling of being his
dad's child again.
If he wriggles his ass a little until his dad grunts at him to go the fuck to
sleep, well... He's still an asshole.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
Senior year flies by in a blink of essays and exams and scholarship
applications. He's early accepted into Berkeley, so that's a weight off his
shoulders, and the supernatural baddies quiet down enough to let him get more
research done for school than for life-saving shit. It's kind of an awesome
break, to be honest.
The horrible despair of the last year doesn't go away entirely, and Stiles will
never be the same person he was two years ago, but some of the guilt lifts from
his shoulders and he smiles more easily than he has been. He cracks jokes again
just to see the relief in Scott's eyes. He teases Isaac and snarks at Derek,
and it's not the same. It can't be.
But it's something like healing.
With that healing comes a return to things like twice a day self-love sessions.
The stress of senior year makes that more important than ever, and Stiles sets
aside time every day to do it. He drops hints for his dad, giving him the
choice of whether or not to turn off the cameras that are still set up in
Stiles’ room, and for a while he sticks to straight porn. Or, well, not totally
straight, because there's a lot of backdoor action going on in the vids he
watches, but he stays far away from the file that has his dad's video on it.
For a while, anyway.
But just after his birthday, when midterms hit and SAT prep is killing him,
he's been jerking it for twenty minutes and his 'normal' porn is doing nothing
for him. He looks up at the camera that's pointed at his bed, bites his lip in
consideration, then just shrugs and goes for it.
He's eighteen now, a man in every sense of the word. He can vote. He can own
property. The only thing he can't do is drink — legally, that is. But this?
This is still taboo, still something illicit and only spoken of in whispers. No
matter what they're showing on HBO this season, no one condones incest.
Stiles knows that. He even understands it academically. He just doesn't give a
fuck.
He's been through too much, seen too many horrors, to judge himself for this.
He wants his dad. He's always wanted his dad, if he's being honest with himself
— which he generally is, because trying to lie to himself is just stupid. He's
earned a respite from judgment, he thinks, and his fingers go to the keyboard.
He doesn't hesitate before scrolling over to the play button and clicking it.
His speakers are turned up, not so loud that anyone should be able to hear it
outside his bedroom, but he doesn't know if the cameras record audio as well as
video. He hopes they do, honestly, because the thought of his dad watching and
listening is enough to make him fully hard before he's even touched himself. A
fresh squirt of slick into the palm of his hand, and he's ready to go.
On screen his dad is stroking himself slowly, eyes trained just to the left of
the camera. Stiles scoots over, tries to imagine that his dad is looking at
him. When it seems like they're staring at each other, his dick jumps in his
hand just as his dad hisses through his teeth. It's a sound that's at once
familiar and brand new. It's intimate and soft and close in the quiet of his
room.
Stiles matches his strokes to his dad's, tugs on his balls when his dad does,
feels his breathing adjust to match the harsh sounds he hears coming through
the speakers. He comes just seconds before his dad does on the screen, but his
dad's I love you echoes through the room and soothes the still-jagged pieces of
Stiles' soul.
                                      ~*~
He goes down for breakfast the next morning and notices the ruddy blush on his
dad's cheeks. Sees how his dad avoids his eyes and jumps every time Stiles
breathes a little too loudly. Stiles hides a smile in his shoulder.
No matter how many years it's been, seeing his dad all flushed and embarrassed
is still one of the cutest fucking things ever. Especially since he knows
exactly what put that color in his cheeks.
Just because he feels like it, Stiles waits until he knows his dad is looking
before he opens his mouth wide, licks over the bottom of his spoon obscenely,
wraps his lips around it and sucks the yogurt off with a deep moan of
appreciation. His dad's coffee cup shatters on the floor.
"Oh," Stiles says, blinking up as innocently as he can, "are you all right?"
"Yeah, just… fine. I'm fine." His dad's hands are shaking as he bends to pick
up the large pieces of his cup.
Stiles grabs some paper towels and walks over, careful to avoid any tiny shards
that might have scattered over the tile floor. He kneels slowly, blots at the
spilled liquid, and waits until his dad turns back around from the trash can to
peer up at him from under his lashes.
He's got yogurt on his top lip. He might have put it there on purpose, maybe.
Possibly. He knows what he must look like, kneeling there in front of his dad,
who is just a few feet away, a thick white blob on his mouth. He waits until
his dad has gone totally still, not even breathing, before he lets out a little
breath and licks over his lip, scooping away the yogurt.
His dad makes a garbled noise and damn near sprints from the room.
Stiles just smiles and finishes cleaning up the coffee. It's only fair; after
all, he's responsible for this mess.
                                      ~*~
He watches the video every night that week, turning the volume up progressively
louder until his speakers are at max volume on Wednesday night. Incidentally
the night his dad is not on shift when he goes to bed.
He leaves his door open three inches. He measured the gap. It's an invitation,
but a coy one. He knows that if you stand at the right angle, you can see the
reflection of his bed through his dresser mirror from a hidden spot in the
hallway. He might have spent an hour or so rearranging his furniture to make
sure of it.
He won't be able to see his dad, but his dad will certainly be able to see him.
If he wants.
Stiles really is an asshole.
He starts off nice and slow, but it's become habit by now, to time his strokes
to those on the screen. He's really into it, his slicked-up fingers stroking
and twisting and pulling in all the right ways. His mouth is open, gasping for
air, when he hears a thump and a muffled gasp from the hallway.
His eyes flutter closed, and he can feel the blood pulsing close to the surface
because while he knows his dad has watched him in the past, he didn't know
those other times. He knows now, can picture it in his mind's eye, can see the
way his dad's staring eyes will catch what little light is there.
He hears familiar movement on the video and opens his eyes again to watch as
his dad — the younger version of him, anyway — shoots off on camera. For the
first time in memory, he doesn't immediately lose it at the sight. He can't.
He's got an audience of his own to please.
The murmured, "I love you, too," though, is automatic, trips off his lips by
rote, and then the video ends and he's left looking at a play icon. Pushing the
laptop off his lap, he spreads his legs wide and settles back comfortably on
his pillows, both hands now free to pleasure himself. More lube coats the hand
not lazily jerking his cock, and he reaches down, circles his fingers slowly
around his clenching hole, moaning softly at the petting. He tightens his
fingers around his cock as he slides one finger up inside himself and a
strangled whine breaks free.
Tossing his head on his pillow, he fucks himself with one finger while his hips
jerk up into the tight clench of his fist. He's close, so fucking close, but he
can't forget that he's being watched, and that added degree of illicitness
keeps him buzzing along the edge without allowing him to fall. He's almost
crying now, gasps turned to choked sobs of need, and his whole body is shaking,
overworked muscles twitching.
The word Dad is on the tip of his tongue but he bites it back again and again,
not wanting to scare his dad away. Not now that he's got him so close.
With one last stab of his finger inside his ass, he manages to hit his prostate
and that's it, that's the extra tiny bit of pleasure he needed to send him
howling into orgasm. Under the sound of his own cries, he hears another, deeper
moan, and his whole body spasms as a second orgasm blindsides him.
                            [ photo IOdivider.png]
It's summer, three days after his graduation. He's been relentlessly teasing
his father for months, but the man has a will of iron. Stiles is beginning to
think it's unshakeable, or that he'll have to be the one to make the first
move.
Not that he hasn't been making all the moves to this point, but whatever.
The Bomb Pops—Spiderman-themed this year—make a dramatic return to the freezer,
though Stiles only eats them when his dad is home. Of course, 'eats' isn't
really the term he'd use to describe what he does to the ice pops. When his dad
is watching, or even in the vicinity, he fellates those fuckers until the juice
drips down his wrist, and then he licks it up, moaning softly about how good it
tastes. Even after the bomb pop itself is gone, he sucks on the stick, getting
every last tiny drop of flavor out before he sadly has to throw it away.
The Bomb Pops aren't the only weapon in his arsenal, either. He becomes much
bolder that summer, knowing that his chances are dwindling with college looming
in his very near future.
His hugs turn lingering. It's never a hardship because his dad gives the best
hugs, pulls him tight against that broad chest and brushes a kiss against the
side of his head like always. But this time it's Stiles hanging on, Stiles
turning his head just enough for that kiss to land on the shell of his ear or
his cheek. He drags in deep breaths of his dad's cologne before sliding his
palms down his dad's back. He allows his fingers to flirt with the spot that
crosses the line between back and ass before he lets go and steps back.
He brushes against his dad at every opportunity. If he were a werewolf, his dad
would be covered in his scent. Brief contact is no longer incidental. Stiles
does everything with utmost precision. One night, he even plops himself right
in his dad's lap. It only lasts about point-five seconds because his dad
literally pushes him off onto the floor; the startled apology he gets in return
is funny as hell, actually.
But after years of lusting after and alternately hiding his obsession from and
teasing his father with his non-traditional desires, what finally tips the
scales isn't anything spectacular. It's just a normal lazy day at Casa
Stilinski; his dad's off work, the A/C is on the fritz again, and though Stiles
is wearing less clothing than normal, he's not exactly walking around the place
in the nude. He's got board shorts on and one of his thousands of graphic tees,
and he's sitting at a respectable distance from his dad on the couch—because
pressing all up against him like he's taken to doing is just not in the cards
when it's almost eighty degrees inside their house.
Miserable and sweaty is not the kind of hot he wants his dad thinking about
when he's contemplating Stiles, okay?
The game's just turned over to the seventh inning, which always subliminally
makes Stiles feel the need to stretch—kinda like when he sees someone yawn, he
can't keep back a jaw-cracking one himself. This is a stretch to beat them all,
though, because his whole body gets into it. His back arches, his toes point,
he even wriggles his hips to get those lower-back muscles. And the noise that
drags itself out of the bottom of his lungs is probably obscene, but god, that
stretch was fantastic.
He's sitting back up, about to tug his shirt down from where it rode up his
belly, when he hears it. There's a small, helpless noise from his dad which
makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up and pay attention. Barely
daring to breathe, Stiles cuts his eyes to the side to see that his dad is
staring at his stomach, at the thin strip of skin that's showing between the
hem of his t-shirt and the waistband of his shorts.
Stiles is frozen, doesn't know what to do. Should he tug his shirt up a little
more? Leave it there? Give another stretch for the hell of it?
It's while he's contemplating his next move that his dad finally snaps. Sitting
up, he throws the remote on the coffee table and leans over, pressing his mouth
right to the thick line of hair that disappears under the waistband of Stiles’
shorts. A surprised moan bursts from Stiles, but he drops his hands into his
dad's hair, tangles them up and knows that if his dad tries to stop now, he's
not letting go without a fight. He's wanted this too much for too long to let
either of them back out now.
A sucking kiss to the pale, soft skin of his belly has Stiles fully hard so
fast his head spins. He almost doesn't even know what to do now, how to
proceed, because in all his wildest fantasies, he'd never dreamed anything like
this. He'd thought it'd start with slow kisses, prolonged hugs, touching,
something. Not his dad's mouth inches from the head of his now-throbbing dick,
his tongue stroking over the coarse hair on his belly, his nose tickling at
Stiles' sensitive belly button.
When his dad finally stops licking and nuzzling at Stiles' belly and sits up,
Stiles goes with him. He straddles his dad's lap, grinding down against a too-
familiar dick he's never really seen, until his dad is as hard as he is.
They haven't even kissed yet, are just staring at each other while the
television plays on in the background, bodies slowly undulating against each
other as the temperature and hot flush of arousal combine to send a bead of
sweat licking a path down Stiles' back. His dad's eyes are half-closed, his
lips parted, and he's pushing his head into the grip of Stiles' fingers. His
own hands are wrapped tight around Stiles' hips, thumbs digging into jutting
bone while he guides Stiles in slow, rolling motions against him.
Stiles isn't one to blindly follow anyone else's lead. He's always pushed back.
But in this, and maybe for the first time in his life, he's content to let his
dad set the pace. It has a little to do with trust and love, but mostly it's
because it feels so much better once his dad takes over. Stiles' uncontrolled
grinding from before is now a smooth roll that has their dicks in contact the
whole time.
Plus, this way he doesn't have to think about anything. He can just stare down
at his dad, watch the way his lips move wordlessly, shaping something that
looks like Stiles' name as his pupils expand. There's just a thin ring of faded
blue around black in them now, and Stiles wonders what his own look like. Are
they slitted almost closed like his dad's or open wide in wonder? He can't
concentrate enough to feel his own face at this point because the sensations
crawling up from his groin has commandeered all of his attention.
Well, the attention that's not focused on his dad. The flush in his dad's
cheeks is even better when it's from mutual arousal than from embarrassment or
shame. His lips go shiny when his tongue swipes across them, then almost
immediately dry again as his breath gusts in and out.
Stiles dips his head toward his dad's mouth, then is overset by a panicked sort
of uncertainty. Should he kiss him? Or should he let his dad set the pace here?
Finally getting what he's wanted for so long has Stiles thrown for the world's
largest loop. He knows five different ways to kill a malevolent pixie but he
doesn't know how to tell when it's okay to kiss his own father.
"Stiles," his dad whispers, and closes the distance while Stiles is stuck in
limbo. He grips the back of Stiles' head with a sure hand, the other still
holding tight to Stiles' hip. There's nothing uncertain or hesitant about the
way his mouth opens over Stiles'.
Neither of them close their eyes. It's like they both want this, their first
kiss, to be approached with their eyes wide open, so neither of them can say
that they didn't know what was happening. So that neither can deny they both
wanted it.
Stiles can't coordinate his hips and his mouth at the same time, he doesn't
have the experience for that, so he just settles down in his dad's lap while
they kiss. He takes his time, licks across his dad's lips, shivers when the tip
of his dad's tongue skates over his bottom teeth. He's tasting him, they're
tasting each other, and it's nothing like he'd thought it would be.
It's smooth and sensual, like they've been doing this for years. It's fingers
biting into the meat of his ass and the rasp of hair under his fingertips. It's
staring into his dad's faded blue eyes from inches away and seeing nothing but
burning desire in them. There's no uncertainty there, no guilt or angst or
anything he'd half-expected from this moment. There's just need and acceptance,
and it takes his breath away.
Stiles breaks the kiss with a gasp of, "Dad," and then stills because he's not
sure if that's okay.
But his dad doesn't even flinch, just kisses along his neck, noses aside the
collar of his t-shirt and licks at the sweat that's collected in the hollow of
his throat. Maybe it's not a big deal, and maybe Stiles should leave it alone,
but he finds he can't. He needs to poke and prod at this like he pokes and
prods at everything in his life.
"Is that… okay?" he asks quietly.
"It's my name," his dad mutters against his collarbone, not even pretending not
to know what Stiles is talking about. When Stiles doesn't say anything else,
his dad sighs and pulls back, looks Stiles right in the eye when he says, "It's
not a kink or anything, but you've been calling me Dad your whole life. If you
were to call me anything else at this point, it'd be weird. So, yes, it's okay
that you call me Dad."
"And… this?" Stiles wants to chew off his own tongue for that, but again, his
dad surprises him.
"When you were little…younger…. Before, it was different. I looked it up,
talked to a therapist, found out it's a way for kids to figure out things like
sexuality and flirting in a safe environment. I was proud, I guess, that you
felt that sort of easiness with me, even after your mom passed. Just to be
clear, I didn't want you then. No matter how many lollipops you destroyed, you
were a fourteen year old boy and no boy is attractive at fourteen."
Stiles laughs and buries his face against his dad's shoulder, nipping at the
muscle there. "God, I was so obvious."
"Uh, son, I hate to point it out, but you're still pretty damn obvious."
Son. The term, and the warm love it's said with, roll over Stiles and leave him
squirming inside and out with the need to be even closer to his dad. It's not a
kink or anything, but knowing that they still have that, that father-son
relationship, even after everything that's happened here today, just makes
Stiles a thousand times hotter than he was before they stopped to talk this
out.
Stiles shudders all over and can't stop the hitching roll of his hips. He
pushes back up, looks down at his dad, and says, "I want to suck you." Maybe it
comes out matter-of-fact, but the need that claws through him isn't. And when
his dad groans and drops his head back against the couch cushion, he knows he's
not the only one affected here. Especially when his dad lifts his hips into
Stiles' next grinding thrust.
"You first. Get up here," his dad says, applying upward pressure on Stiles'
ass, letting him know he wants Stiles to kneel up so it's easier for his dad to
drag his mouth over Stiles' hard cock through the thin material of his shorts.
It steals Stiles' breath, makes a blurt of precome wet his boxers, and he's
back to digging his fingers into his dad's hair.
"Fuck," he whispers, looking down and seeing the way his dad just rolls his
entire face in Stiles' groin. He's not going to last long at all, and maybe
that's why his dad wanted to go first. Because he knows Stiles is so fucking
close to the edge.
Their hands meet in the middle, both of them scrabbling at the button and
zipper on Stiles' shorts, their fingers tangling as they rush to push his
shorts and boxers out of the way. And then Stiles' cock is just there, jutting
out obscenely in the air between them, and his dad's short, quick breaths are
puffing over the head, forcing beads of precome to bubble out of his slit until
they're dripping in a near continuous line down his cock.
Stiles has to let go of his dad's hair or risk pulling great chunks of it out
when his dad finally lowers his head and sucks the tip of Stiles' cock into his
mouth. Instead he grabs onto the top of the couch, fingers squeezing so tight
he can feel the staples that hold the fabric to the wooden frame. He can't stop
a grunt of pleasure when his dad gives a hard suck and then slides further down
his length, his fingers pressing into Stiles' bare ass, urging him to move.
He forces himself to thrust slowly, not wanting to gag his dad or otherwise do
anything that might make this whole encounter end on a sour note. But he's
close, has been close since his dad first put his mouth on him, and it's… it's
so much. Almost too much, really, but here they are. His thrusts pick up the
pace as his stomach tightens and balls draw up close to his body. They're still
shallow, but he can't stop himself from almost jackrabbit-ing his hips, loving
the hot, wet sweep of his dad's tongue over his slit and the pulling suction of
his lips.
He holds it together pretty remarkably, until his dad's fingers shift, his
pinky finger glancing over Stiles' hole at the same time as he opens his eyes,
locking them on Stiles'. And then it's all over, a grunt punching out of Stiles
as he hunches over his dad, his whole body curling in on itself as he comes in
thick spurts into his dad's mouth. He pulls away quickly, tries to make his
numb fingers work enough to grab a few tissues from a box on the side table,
but by the time he has one clutched in his fist, he turns back to see his dad
licking up stray smears of come from his lips.
Stiles' come. That apparently he swallowed. If Stiles hadn't just come, he'd
probably do it from that alone.
Instead he sort of flops his way off the couch, kneels up between his dad's
splayed thighs, and paws at the material of his dad's pants until, with a
knowing chuckle, his dad helps out. When he's finally got his dad's dick in his
hand, he has to stop and just stare at it, catalogue the differences almost
twenty years has made in the way it looks.
It's not much different, really. A bit thicker, heavier looking than it was on
camera. But mostly it just looks fucking delicious, like something Stiles wants
to get his mouth on right the fuck now.
So he does.
It tastes like he'd expect. Musky, a bit salty from sweat, but overall like
what his fingers taste like after he's been jacking off for a while. It's
nothing particularly new, so Stiles just gets to it, sucks and licks, learns
the weight on his tongue. He presses his lips to the places he's watched his
dad handle a hundred times on the video, twists his head when as he pulls up,
applies a little more suction around the head.
His dad's hand is on his neck, guiding him. Fingers trace over the stretch of
his lips, and his dad's voice fills the air, gritty as he says, "That's it,
Stiles. Just like that. Suck a little harder, baby… ahh, yeah. So good. Fuck,
Stiles…"
Stiles groans and swallows and tilts his head as much as he can, but finally he
has to pull back, pull off, and look his dad in the eye when he says, "Fuck my
mouth, Dad. Please?"
And that's apparently all it takes, because after that, his dad's hips are
working in tandem with the bobbing of Stiles' head and there's so much of him
pistoning into Stiles' mouth. The head of his dad's dick bumps against the back
of his throat every other thrust or so, and Stiles just takes it. He's wanted
this for too long to fight it in any way, even if it's just to find a better
angle. But really, he revels in the way his dad's dick feels, sliding into his
mouth. He glories in the small sounds it forces from him, the choking and cut
off breaths. Loves the way it strangles his moans in his throat until all that
can be heard in the room is his dad's harsh breathing and the wet sounds of
himself gulping in breaths when he can.
He has no idea how long it goes on. He just knows he's got a bit of a kink in
his neck from the angle and his knees are starting to ache in all the right
ways when his dad's thrusts turn more frantic and his name spills from his
dad's lips. He reaches up, slides his fingers between his dad's spread thighs,
and trails them lightly over his dad's balls, weighing them, feeling them
tighten up.
He opens his throat, thinks he's ready for it when his dad finally unloads
inside his mouth, but he's not. He swallows as much as he can—it's not pleasant
but it's not the first time he's tasted Stilinski come—but more spills out his
mouth than he thinks he swallowed, so he spends the next few minutes licking up
his mess until his dad hisses and pushes him gently away.
Stiles slumps back onto his heels, head resting against his dad's knee as he
struggles to get his breath back. His dad's fingers card through his hair,
settling him. Settling them both.
Something feels off, slightly off-center, until Stiles says, "I love you."
It's like the video, but not, because this time, when his dad says it, he's
saying it to Stiles. The warmth of happiness radiates through Stiles, and he
relaxes into his dad's touch again, shivering as the roughness of his dad's
fingers slide over his skin.
"Huh. Looks like we missed the end of the game," his dad says after a while,
when they've both caught their breath and their heartbeats have steadied to
normal.
Stiles hides a smile, then slides down onto his back on the floor. "Eh,
there'll be another one tomorrow night."
"Like you'll let me watch that one," his dad snorts.
Stiles grins up at his dad, waggling his eyebrows even as relief bursts through
him. That's as good as a promise that they'll be doing this again. Soon
His dad rolls his eyes at Stiles' ridiculousness, then nudges Stiles in the
side with his foot and says, "I love you, kid, but I have to tell you right now
that there's not going to be any cuddling. It's so hot in here the hairs on my
ass are sweating. Cuddling will have to wait until the A/C's fixed."
"Oh thank god," Stiles moans, and starfishes out on the floor where the carpet
feels scratchy but sort of cool against his skin. "I love you too, old man, but
we are so on the same page there." He closes his eyes, listens to the
sportscasters talk about the end of the game they missed—their beloved Mets
won, woo hoo—and smiles softly when he feels his dad's foot brush against his
ankle.
Eventually he'll get up, pull his shorts back up over his ass, and go stick his
head in the freezer or something while his dad orders dinner, but for now, he's
totally content to just lie here, reveling in the moment.
Because the moment is made up of this: the two of them together, his foot
hooked around his dad's, no worries or stress. This isn't the end of a video
with nothing but a play icon to remind him that it's over. This is Stiles and
his dad starting something. Together.
End Notes
     This fic grew out of a conversation with Badwolfbadwolff, so you
     should blame it on her.
     Also, I'm on the tumblr too: Here_I_am!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!