Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1234021.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall/
      Stiles_Stilinski, Chris_Argent/Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale/Nogitsune,
      Scott_McCall/Nogitsune, Peter_Hale/Nogitsune, Chris_Argent/Nogitsune
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Peter_Hale, Scott_McCall, Chris_Argent,
      Nogitsune_(Teen_Wolf)
  Additional Tags:
      Forced_Consent, Dubious_Consent, Knifeplay, Bloodplay, Blood, Underage
      Character(s), noncon, Possessed_Stiles, Peter_is_his_own_warning,
      Gangbang, Loss_of_Virginity, Virgin_Sacrifice, Virgin_Stiles, Sibling
      Incest, Parent/Child_Incest, Implied/Referenced_Incest
  Collections:
      The_Antidiogenes_Club_Book
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-02-25 Completed: 2014-04-09 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 12510
****** Never Trust a Fox ******
by badwolfbadwolf, eeyore9990
Summary
     There's nothing they wouldn't do to get Stiles back, but this might
     break them all.
     PLEASE HEED THE MANY WARNINGS.
Notes
     Go up to the warnings. Look again. Please do not proceed if you are
     at all concerned because this is dark as shit.
     This is not sweetness and fluff.
     And also, we troll around on tumblr as eeyore9990 and badwolfbadwolff
     so come say hi!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Scott's doubled over, trying to hold his internal organs inside his body
because it still feels like they'll come spilling out if he takes his hand
away. He's coughing and choking on his own blood, ears ringing with the pain,
trying to concentrate on what Deaton's saying when suddenly he's looking down
at Deaton and… what?
Fingers press against his, curl under them, peel them back, and he doesn't even
fight it, too surprised and overwhelmed by the last five minutes of his life.
He looks up and sees Stiles, sees the darkness behind his eyes and the anger
lining his face. It's not a look he's really had an opportunity to see on
Stiles' face before, and the very alien quality of it sends chills through him.
He's known Stiles his whole life. He's still trying to wrap his brain around
the fact that the person in front of him isn't Stiles. Isn't his brother. Isn't
the boy who's been by his side since he was eight years old and friendless.
"Stiles," he says, because he has no other name for this demon wearing Stiles'
face. "What…?"
"Did you really think I was going to let go so easily? I'm stronger than that.
Stronger than any of your little plants."
Scott's eyes trail down, looking again at Deaton, who is splayed out mere
inches from Kira. He tries to listen, to hear their heartbeats, but he can't
hear anything past his own pain, his healing body. "Are they dead?" he asks.
"Do you want them to be? I could kill them, Scott." Stiles trails a finger over
Scott's chest, then digs it into the still-open wound in his gut, punching a
scream out of Scott.
"Don't! God, don't hurt them. Please. You don't… you don't have to hurt them.
You don't have to… Stiles. Please, please stop." Something twists across
Stiles' face then, and somehow Scott knows—can smell— that he's struggling with
himself. Dragging in a broken breath, trying to ignore the finger digging into
his flesh, Scott murmurs, "Come on, Stiles. Come on, you can do it. You can
beat this."
"Scott…"
The finger inside him spasms and Scott can't hold back a pained whimper.
"Don't hurt them," Stiles, his Stiles, whispers, and there are tears standing
in his eyes as he looks at Scott. "Don't hurt them. Please don't hurt them.
I'll do whatever you want," his voice is a broken whisper. "Just don't hurt
them."
The finger withdraws, leaving Scott gasping and hunched forward again as his
body heals itself.
"But we want to hurt them, Stiles. We want to hurt them." And Stiles' face
twists up in a cruel smirk.
Scott finally straightens, fights against the pain of his healing body. "No you
don't. You don't have to. You have me. I'll do anything you want, just don't
hurt them. Don't hurt Stiles."
"I don't want to hurt Stiles!" Stiles shouts, right in his face. "I want to
hurt you. I want to hurt everyone who has ever hurt him…" A commotion from the
front sends Stiles whipping around, a snarl curling his lips. Then he stops,
his head cocking as he listens to something not even Scott can hear.
"Ahh. Good, it'll be a party then." Turning back to Scott, he puts a finger to
his lips mockingly. "Shh. Don't ruin my surprise."
"Stiles, please, whoever it is...don't hurt them," Scott pleads as he picks up
the sound of three heartbeats--and now he can hear Kira and Deaton's, now that
he's not deafened by pain--and smells blood, gunpowder, and something else.
Something acrid.
The bonds that thrum in his chest, that speak of pack and safety, are lighting
up inside him. Scott takes a deep breath, pulling in their scents and tasting
their emotions. Like Derek taught him.
There is anxiety and pain, confusion. The footsteps that had become audible
slow, and Scott can hear Derek, his voice weak, say, "Something's wrong."
Stiles glares at him, then pushes open the door to the room and leans into the
hallway. "Come along, boys. This party can't start without you. Oh, Derek. You
smell absolutely delightful. How kind of you to come. And I see you've brought
Uncle Peter."
"You're not Stiles." That's Chris Argent's voice, smooth and controlled.
"You're not wrong," Stiles says, then laughs, head thrown back with it, throat
exposed. He stops in an instant and there isn't even a lingering echo.
Scott really hates this fucking demon.
"I am, however, unconcerned with my vessel, in ways you'll never understand."
Suddenly Stiles slumps, as if his strings have been cut. He almost falls to the
floor before he catches himself against the door and his face is lined with
horror as he stares at something Scott can't see.
"Get out of him. Get out of him now," Stiles says and this time Scott can hear
it. The boy in the doorway is Stiles...and he's scared.
Finally someone steps into the doorway, and Scott can see who it is.
"Miss me already?" Chris says, and it's cruel, cold. The voice of a fox. He
wraps his hand around Stiles' throat, and the small smile on his face is thin.
"I can take any of them at any time. Do not doubt that, child."
"I know," Stiles says, his shoulders back, that false bravado that has carried
him through the past year trembling in his voice. "But you don't want them. Do
you? You want me. You want her son."
Scott's head is spinning, he's still weakened as his body heals itself. He can
still feel ghostly fingers dancing over the hilt of the sword, making the metal
vibrate against his spine, his ribs. But he pushes all that down as he moves
forward, reaching for Stiles. Reaching for his brother.
"Stiles, don't!"
By the time he gets there, though, Chris is gasping and shaking, dropping away
from Stiles with a look of pure terror on his face.
The doors and windows in the clinic all shut at once with a loud bang, the air
popping as if from a clap of thunder.
"You're correct, Stiles," Stiles says, smirking down at Chris, who has fallen
to his knees. "I do prefer this body. It...quakes with power."
Extending a hand, Stiles steps back and says, "Gentlemen, if you'd please join
us?"
Scott whines when he sees Derek, sees the mess of his back. He steps forward to
help--Peter is assisting him, and that seems wrong somehow. Wrong that it's
Peter who's helping.
"Well, now that we're all here…" Stiles rubs his hands together, and his grin
is toothy, vicious. "Let's have some fun, shall we?" He drags his hands down
his chest, stopping when they're cupping his groin in an obscene display that
would have Stiles writhing in an agony of embarrassment.
"Leave him alone," Derek say, stepping forward, his face pale and back glinting
where shards of glass are protruding from it. Scott takes a step toward him,
only to come up short when Stiles snaps out a, "Don't!"
"Stand still, little alpha. You wouldn't want anyone else to get hurt, would
you?"
"If you want someone," Derek comes up behind Stiles, flexing his hand until
Scott can see the claws protruding from the tips, "take me. You want pain,
right? Strife. Chaos."
"See, Scott?" Stiles says, turning toward Derek with a smirk, looking him over
approvingly. "This is how you study for the final. Very good, Derek. Someone's
done his reading. Did you finally grow tired of running to your human for all
the answers? Hmm? Did it finally occur to you that constantly shoving him to
the side would no longer be necessary if you put forth a little effort?"
"We didn't shove him to the side--"
"Lies!" Once again that cold, terrifying anger twists across Stiles' face, and
Scott moves forward unconsciously. A hand in his chest stops him, and he looks
over to see Chris Argent holding him back with a look caught somewhere between
understanding and shame.
"I...you don't want it. If it gets you, Scott, we won't be able to fight it,"
Chris whispers, low enough it shouldn't reach human ears.
But Stiles isn't exactly human at the moment.
"You can try to fight me, Christopher. You tried before, didn't you? You carry
the memory at the front of your mind. How adorable. Of course, you'll fail. I'm
so much stronger than you could ever know."
Derek cups Stiles' face in one palm, gently turning him back. "Can you feel
that?" he asks, eyes glowing blue. "Can you feel my pain?"
Stiles' eyes roll up, his mouth dropping open as black lines begin to snake
across his face from where Derek is touching him. "Yesss…" he hisses, tongue
darting out to lick at his lips. "Give it to me."
Jerking his hand away, Derek says, "Not until you leave Stiles alone. You can
have my pain. You can ride my body—"
"Mmmm. That does sound lovely," Stiles says, moving closer and rubbing himself
lasciviously against Derek, mouth twitching as he tucks his face under Derek's
chin. "Yes. We like that idea. It's almost poetic, isn't it, Derek?" Stiles
drags the tip of his nose up the side of Derek's neck and nips at his earlobe.
From where Scott's standing, he can see the tremor that runs through Derek as
he tries to take a step back, only to come up short against Stiles' grip.
"Was it a thrill?" Stiles asks, licking over Derek's clenched jaw. "Fucking her
when she was full of power from all her sacrifices? That's what this will be, I
think. A virgin sacrifice." Spinning from Derek, who slumps, one hand scrubbing
over his jaw and neck as if to rid himself of the feel of Stiles' mouth on him,
Stiles dances up to Scott, fingers flashing out and snatching up a scalpel from
the table.
He leans over Scott, grinning down at him, Stiles' eyes sparkling with a joy
that makes Scott want to weep for his friend. Stiles climbs up on the table,
using his new, demonic strength to shift Scott until he's stretched out. He
could stop this, but he's terrified of hurting Stiles. Because this demon isn't
Stiles--it isn't--but it's using Stiles' body and he can't give up hope that
they'll be able to drive out the demon. Get Stiles back.
And if they do, Stiles will need his body to be whole and unharmed.
"What do you want?" Scott asks, his voice shaky. He's talking directly to the
demon now, can barely even see Stiles anymore in the eyes staring down at him
with such anger and loathing.
"I told you. I want a virgin sacrifice." Stiles slings his leg over Scott's
hips, grinds against him while Scott shrinks back as much as the metal table
will let him. The scalpel comes down, right in his face, and Scott goes
perfectly still. A few swishes of the blade have his shirt falling off in
strips, leaving him bare chested.
"Please don't." Scott licks suddenly dry lips and shakes his head. "You don't
have to do this. You don't… I'm not a virgin."
"Oh Scott. I know." The scalpel dances through Stiles' fingers and then flashes
out, stopping in Stiles' sure grip a hairs' breadth from Derek's eye.
It's fucking terrifying, because Stiles is still looking directly at Scott,
didn't have to break eye contact with Scott to know exactly where Derek was.
"I'm sure I didn't ask for you, Derek. Not yet. You'd do well to stay back
while I have a conversation with your alpha." Stiles swings his head around
then, pinning Derek with his gaze. "Don't even think about leaving, though.
None of you."
"No, Scott," Stiles says, his attention all on Scott again between one
heartbeat and the next. "There's only one virgin in this room. I'm sure you can
guess who it is. After all. Didn't he beg you, just a handful of weeks ago, to
rid him of it? When his life was in danger, because of it? Didn't he shout out
into a room of laughing, thoughtless boys? And what did you do?"
"I… he wasn't…"
"You ignored him, Scott. His life was in danger, and you did nothing. You stood
by, and watched him shake in terror, and did nothing to help him." Stiles turns
his head, leans down and bites into Scott's lower lip, lifting his head until
Scott either has to follow or risk his lip being torn open. "Now you'll help
him. Won't you, Scott? Won't you help him now?" Stiles grinds down again, and
to his horror, Scott can feel his dick twitch.
"No!" His voice is slurred, muffled until Stiles releases his lip, and then his
head falls to knock loudly against the table, but Scott doesn't care. "No, you
can't… Please don't do this. Please. He wouldn't want--"
Spittle flies as Stiles screams in his face, "You don't know what he wants! You
haven't cared enough to ask, have you? The only person in his life who ever
asked what he wanted was a lost little drunken girl grieving for her
girlfriend. So you don't get to concern yourself now with what he—what
we—want."
Stiles' chest heaves, and for a second, Scott thinks he can see his friend in
there, behind the cruelty in those eyes. "Stiles?" he whispers, raising a
shaking hand.
"Scott." A tear splatters to his chest as Stiles' face crumples. "Just do it.
Just… it… I can't let it hurt you. Just do it. I don't care. I don't fucking
care."
"Stiles, listen, we—"
"You're so pathetic. Didn't I tell you? Never trust a fox, Scott." Stiles
laughs, low and manic, and dashes a hand over his eyes, swiping away the
moisture there. "So let me tell you how we're going to do this." Stiles sits
up, rocking against Scott as he looks around the room. "Do what I want, and
I'll let him go. I'll leave this host. All I want in return is… your pain. And
his." Hips rolling smoothly, cock jutting hard against the zip of his jeans,
Stiles slides his hands up his chest, tweaking his nipples through his shirt.
"I want you to writhe in your bed every night from this day until the day you
die, knowing that it was your fault, Scott. That you didn't just rape your
friend, but ordered others to do so. I want them to remember how it felt, to
rip into his virgin ass. I want him to remember being trapped inside his own
mind while his friends, his—" Stiles' voice breaks, stutters to a halt, and a
look of surprise flashes across his face. "Oh. Oh, I see. How...delightful."
Stiles absolutely giggles then, and it makes something in Scott wither and die.
"So tell them," he says to Scott, slicing the material of his shirt until it
hangs around him in tatters, showing more pale skin than it covers.
Stiles leans down, and the shreds of his shirt tickle over Scott's nipples,
making them harden into peaks. "Tell them, Scott," Stiles whispers in Scott's
ear. "Use your big bad Alpha voice on them. Tell them to fuck this tight,
virginal little ass." Stiles draws a line down Scott's chest with the scalpel,
his expression one of rapture as the skin folds apart and reknits so smoothly,
just the pool of blood left behind. "Tell them or I'll stay in this body. I'll
make you kill him."
The point of the scalpel digs in, just below Scott's rib, punching through
until his lung is pierced and his screams are curdled with his own blood.
And then Stiles pulls out the scalpel and turns the blade around. The skin on
his chest doesn't heal the first, shallow cut, and his face crumples.
"Scott?" Stiles whimpers. "Please. It hurts."
"Okay, okay, stop!" Scott screams, tears standing in his eyes. "Stop. I'll do
it. Just don't hurt him."
Stiles grins happily, the twist of his lips sitting wrong on the baby-smooth
features, the glint in his eyes nothing like the real Stiles. Like Scott's
Stiles.
He leans close, his breath like a brand on Scott's sweaty neck. "What was that,
Scotty? You need to speak up so we can all hear you."
"I'll do it." His eyes flash a proud red even as he turns his head in defeat.
"We'll do it." His voice is throaty, deep, threads of command issuing out to
wrap around those who'll heed his call. It makes the wolves stiffen up and grit
their teeth as they resist the will to obey that is so deeply ingrained in
their animal brains.
Stiles’ face looks smugly satisfied as he leans back over Scott. The metal
surface is cool against his back, and Scott’s blood builds into a small pool
that seeps outward slowly, hot against his rain-cold skin. Stiles sets the
scalpel down and pushes a finger through the puddle, its wetness warm and
slippery in his fingertips. The others look on, barely daring to breathe as
Stiles takes his sweet time drawing patterns in the blood and smearing it along
Scott’s naked, heaving ribs.
“Here’s what’s going to happen, Scott. You’re going to tell one of them to come
over here and make their mouth useful. I don’t really care which. Maybe Uncle
Peter. He seems like he’d do all kinds of dirty things with that wicked mouth
of his. You probably won’t even have to make him. He’d do it anyways.” Stiles
lets his nails trail down Scott’s chest, smiling idly at the way the wolf
twitches beneath him and closes his eyes. When they reopen they are frightened
and wide, the bright red color vivid in the dark room. “Tell him, Scott,”
Stiles croons as he pushes forward with his hips and digs his nails in so hard
that they draw fresh blood.
“Peter,” Scott croaks out, his voice laced with authority. Peter looks
surprised even though he shouldn’t be, given Stiles’ little speech. He takes a
few small steps forward, his hands twitching upward as he debates what to do
with them.
“Come here, Peter. I know you’ve always wanted to kiss him, and hold him down,
and feel how small he is beneath you. He wants it, too. This body is amazing.
All lean muscles and long limbs and he barely knows what to do with it. And
such an eager little cock just waiting to be stroked and squeezed. And a tight
virgin hole just dying to be fucked. He’s getting so turned on by the thought
of you, Peter, spearing him open with just your tongue. So come here and get
it.”
Stiles sits back on his heels and waits until Peter is close enough that he can
reach. He grabs at the man’s wrist, pulling him tight so his thighs are pressed
into the metal ledge of the table. Stiles gives a tug, bending Peter over
slightly and bringing their lips together in a dirty, tongue-filled kiss.
“How good is your tongue, Peter?”
Peter needs no prompting from Scott as he dips forward to sweep his nose along
Stiles’ throat and up to his neck, breathing in his scent deeply. Scott knows
he smells wrong and not at all like Stiles. Yes, there is the horny teenage boy
scent shot with arousal and sweat, but there is also blood and violence, and a
sharp-toothed eagerness that doesn’t quite fit.
“It’s fantastic,” Peter says as he twists Stiles off of Scott and pulls him
down until he’s seated on the table with his legs spread. Peter pushes between
them, bringing their bodies flush and letting Stiles crush against his lips
with a hurried kiss. Their tongues slide, Stiles nipping against Peter’s, his
canines sharp.
“Get Derek over here, now,” Stiles says against Peter’s neck as the man slides
his hand obediently down the back of Stiles’ jeans. “I want his fingers in me
while you suck me off, Peter.”
Derek looks pained at the mention of his name. His body is already throbbing,
the glass still buried deep in his shoulders and back, his blood a crusted dry
brown on his leather jacket. He looks between Stiles and Peter, the way they
are pressed together, the casual way Peter’s hand has disappeared completely
beneath Stiles’ waistband. Peter may have no moral issue with sexing up a
possessed teenage boy, but Derek apparently does. He sets his jaw and takes a
step backwards. The stiff movement of his body brings a swift whimper of pain
from his wounds, and Scott hopes for his sake that Stiles doesn't notice.
Stiles twists away from Peter’s grasp, turning to fix Derek with a cold stare.
“You heard what I said, Der.”
The nickname twists in Scott's gut. It’s something Stiles says when he’s trying
to annoy Derek or act cute or weasel out of something. And it’s just terrible
and wrong coming from the demon’s mouth.
When Derek remains unmoving, Stiles shifts in the opposite direction and grasps
the scalpel again, poking the sharp tip forward against the base of Scott’s
ribs. He says nothing but slices sideways with a quick stroke, causing Scott to
scream with the sudden pain. Peter jumps slightly with the sound but is still
hard between Stiles’ legs, his hand still tucked inside the waistband of
Stiles’ tight jeans.
Scott roars out, his fangs dropping. It makes Derek and Peter cower slightly,
and makes Chris’ hand twitch to his side towards his obviously concealed gun.
Stiles takes it all in stride, licking against Peter’s chin before casually
bringing the scalpel over to his own chest. “Fine, have it your way,” he
intones lightly, pushing down softly but with just enough force to draw blood.
Peter watches it drip down Stiles’ smooth skin and collect into the scraps of
his t-shirt. He darts a tongue out unconsciously which makes Stiles smile
darkly. Peter dips forward and noses into the blood, licking and tasting while
pulling Stiles tighter.
“Come here, Derek. This little tart wants us to work him over. You know how to
do that. We know how to do that.”
Derek glares at Peter but walks forward with slow movements, eyeing the way
Stiles’ blood is fresh on Peter’s lips and how the red smears are marking up
the boy’s skin.
Peter begins biting along Stiles’ neck and Stiles purrs happily and wraps his
arms around the broad shoulders, still holding the scalpel tight. Peter speaks
into Stiles’ skin, pausing occasionally to worry little bites in that makes
Stiles mewl like a kitten. “I know you’ve always wanted to get your hands on
him. I see how you watch him. I can smell the stink on you after he leaves that
you always try to hide. And now here’s your chance to pull him apart, lay him
open, make him cry. Maybe he won’t even remember afterward.”
Scott can feel the blood drain from his face at Peter’s words, and they send
him scrambling upward to a seated position. He watches in horror as Derek moves
closer, suddenly more predatory in his demeanor.
“God, Peter…” Scott murmurs, drawing his arms around himself. He is silenced by
a quick look from Peter though, and Scott wonders how much of Peter’s words are
true, and how much of it is a ploy to tap into Derek’s darker instincts to save
all of their asses. They ring pretty damn true, though, and that thought tastes
bitter in Scott’s mouth.
Derek’s eyes flash bright blue and he snarls deep in his throat. He shifts his
body, readying himself for attack even though Scott knows that’s precisely what
he can’t do. Not if they want Stiles alive at the end of all of this.
“Derek. Please,” Scott interjects before Derek can leap onto the demon and rip
him in two. When Derek doesn’t back away, Scott roars out once more, and Derek
visibly flinches under the Alpha’s command. He looks from Scott’s hard stare to
Chris, who has horror etched all through the lines of his face, and then back
to Peter who looks entirely too willing given the circumstances.
Derek’s reached the edge of the table now and climbs on top of it, and Scott
grimaces as he hears a creak from their collective weight pressing down on the
legs. Derek hesitates and seems to fight an inward battle before inching
forward on his haunches until he’s a hairs-breadth away from the demon’s neck
and his face is set.
Scott shifts on the table, turning to glance at where Chris is still frozen
standing near the door. They both watch the Hales converge on Stiles, unable to
do anything but sit there rooted to the spot. They exchange a glance and Scott
turns over the idea of beating a hasty retreat while the threesome do whatever
it is they are going to do. But then he turns and looks at Stiles, lips slack
with pleasure, shoulders held so confidently. He looks at Peter’s face, wet
with Stiles’ blood, and Derek’s back, bloodied from the bomb Stiles had
delivered. He looks at the way Stiles has redness dripping down his chest and
his knuckles are white from clenching down on the scalpel. He wants to be as
far away from this as possible, but he knows he can’t leave. He owes it to
Stiles. He owes it to his pack. He’d do anything for Stiles, and now that’s
being put to the test in the worst way possible.
***** Derek *****
Chapter Notes
     For explicit chapter warnings, see end notes.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Stiles wouldn’t be like this,” Derek whispers hotly along Stiles' sweaty skin
as he slides up behind him. “He wouldn’t be demanding. Sure, he’d start like
that. He’d be mouthy and cocky and think he’s hot shit. But as soon as he had
my hands on him, holding him down... He’d shut right up. As soon as he had my
fingers in him, he’d beg for more.” Derek pauses as he pushes his hand down the
back of Stiles’ pants, brushing against Peter’s. It barely makes Derek blink
and he slides down further, right down to the dip between Stiles’ ass. “He’d
beg for me to fuck him hard and I wouldn’t. I would finger him until he cried
hot little tears that I would lick up. And you’ll do that, too.”
Peter moves his other hand forward to unzip Stiles’ jeans and attempts to tug
the fly apart. It’s difficult the way they are all pressed together and Stiles
grows pliant in their hands, tilting his head back so it’s resting on the
leather of Derek’s jacket and baring his neck completely.
“Mmm, good boys,” Stiles whispers. His grin has turned softer but no less
sinister, his hair sticking flatly down to his sweaty forehead. He pulls the
blunt end of the scalpel along Peter’s back before bunching his hands up in the
fabric and yanking it upward. Peter takes the hint and pulls the shirt off and
over his head, tossing it to the side. His jeans hit the floor seconds later,
and Peter doesn't even pretend to be concerned that all of them can see how
eager he is for this. Derek keeps his clothes on, the glass shards preventing
him from removing even his jacket. Stiles doesn’t seem to care though, and he
presses his head into the leather and breathes deep.
“I thought you were getting on your knees,” Stiles says offhandedly to Peter,
smirking when he does so with no hesitance. Stiles pulls his own dick out of
his boxers; its hard and looks an angry red, the tip shiny with precome. He
gives himself a few slow jerks and moans out in a way Derek is sure he will
never ever get out of his head. Derek shifts on his knees, his jeans suddenly
tight, pressure building up in his chest. Yes, he’s wanted Stiles. God does he
want him. But no, he never wanted it to happen like this.
The table is high and Peter is not quite tall enough to reach Stiles so he
draws his hands flat along the jeans and pushes forward against the seam,
making Stiles squirm against Derek. Peter stands again and hooks his fingers
into the belt loops, working with Derek to lift Stiles up effortlessly and tug
down the pants and boxers. Stiles settles back on the table, shivering as his
thighs contact the cool metal. Peter bends down and breathes out, teasing
Stiles lightly over his flushed skin before nuzzling forward with small licks.
Derek spits on his fingers and pushes them down, down, circling quickly around
Stiles’ tight rim before spearing forward. Stiles groans out, one hand reaching
back to grasp Derek around the neck and the other moving forward to rub along
Peter’s head, scalpel still clutched tight in his hand.
“Yeah, like that,” Stiles is panting now as Derek’s fingers are disappearing up
inside him in rhythmic thrusts. Peter has his lips wrapped all the way around
Stiles’ cock and is bobbing up and down, his throat swallowing as he slides
downward to take him in deeper. “Who do I want to get fucked by?” Stiles muses,
and everyone in the room grows collectively tense. “Or rather, who do I want
first?”
Derek twists his wrist and deliberately crooks a finger. Stiles' his jaw hinges
open, and he draws in a big gasp. “Jealous, Derek? Don’t want anyone else’s
hands on your boy?”
Derek huffs in reply and pushes down further, making Stiles squirm on the table
and buck his hips up into Peter’s mouth. Peter grunts and pulls off, wiping the
spit from his face with the back of his hand.
“I think I’ll let you go first, Derek. Open me up. You’d like being the first.
But that way you can watch Scott have a go. Your little brother. Then Mr.
Argent, the daddy you wish you had. And then Peter. Your Uncle. Peter who’ll
like it so much you’ll have to force him off of me. And that’s something you’ll
never forget. Watching all that come on your precious Stiles. Watching me come
so many times I cry. Watching Peter wring one last spurt out of me while you
sit there and sulk.”
Derek eases out his finger and pushes his body up against Stiles, jacket still
on and pants pulled down partially around his thighs. His cock slides wetly
along Stiles’ back and he rucks up his t-shirt so they can have skin on skin
contact. "You think I'm going to regret this, right? That you're somehow
hurting me?" he says, leaning over Stiles' back to whisper in his ear. "You're
not. I'm choosing this. I'm choosing this because I want this, not just because
you have some sick, twisted idea that Stiles is something you can sacrifice.
You can't. He isn't that fragile. Yeah, this will fuck him up; he'll take a day
or two to get over it. But you've really underestimated your host."
Sliding his fingers through the drying come trails he's left on Stiles' back,
Derek frowns and looks up, right into Chris Argent's eyes. "Find something," he
says, and if it comes out more gravelly than normal, he can't be bothered to
care.
Jaw setting, Chris nods and begins going through the cabinets in the room.
"Stiles has never seen his virginity as some sacred object to be sacrificed.
He's offered it to a room full of strangers once. I'm going to make sure he
enjoys this."
Stiles throws his head back with a braying laugh as Chris throws a bottle of
Vet-Lube across the room to Derek, who snatches it out of the air. "You think
that'll make it better for him? If he enjoys this? With me along for the ride?
Poor Derek. You know nothing. He's dreamed about this, fantasized about it in
bed at night, touching himself in secret shame as he imagines multitudes of
hands holding him down, fucking him, all of them wearing your face."
Derek fumbles the bottle of lube, squirting more onto his hands than he
actually needs for three people, much less just Stiles. But he closes his eyes
and takes a steadying breath, reaching for the naked body clothed only in the
fluttering remains of his t shirt.
He spreads the lube all around Stiles' ass, leaving it shiny, with thicker
globs beginning to drip obscenely down onto his thighs. Tugging Stiles into his
lap, Derek works his hand between them and slides two fingers back inside,
closing his eyes and hiding his face against the back of Stiles' neck as the
hot clench of muscle squeezes his fingers together deliciously. Low moans of
encouragement are rolling out of Stiles' throat, and Derek lets himself
believe, just for the moment, that the nogitsune is letting Stiles have this.
With his face hidden, with Stiles' ass removed from the sight of his
voyeuristic uncle by virtue of being planted in Derek's lap, it's almost
unbearably easy to block out the others. The armed hunter, the wounded alpha,
the unconscious forms on the floor, and of course Peter. The psychotic zombie.
Derek's fingers never stop working, he keeps his nose pressed tight to Stiles's
neck, drowning out all other scents. His eyes are closed and his ears are tuned
in only to the rising beat of Stiles' heart, his thready cries for more. Derek
tucks his thumb tight to the base of his trapped fingers and pushes until it
pops through the ring of muscle, until Stiles' body is bowed back against him,
keening sounds of pleasure overriding Derek's normal caution.
He gently pulses his fingers apart until he has a good half inch of space
between them all.
"Enough!" Stiles growls out a low warning, rocking down onto Derek's fingers.
"Playtime's over, puppy. Time to mount your bitch."
Derek can't stop the laugh that rumbles up his chest and out his throat.
"Stiles may eventually forgive this. That, though? Clichéd villain monologuing
drivel? Oh, he'll hate you forever for violating him like that."
Stiles whips around, tearing himself away from Derek, and off his fingers in
the process. Derek catches the hungry glance Peter directs at Stiles' ass and
growls a low warning. Mine, he wants to snap, but knows he can't.
"You can have him first and fresh or as the sloppy leftovers of your alpha and
your uncle. I don't particularly care. But if someone doesn't get their dick in
his ass soon, I'm going to start slicing off parts you might not be able to
grow back." With a cruel quirk of his eyebrow, Stiles puts the tip of the
scalpel to the edge of Stiles' nipple and presses gently until a line of red
rises up.
"Oh let's not abuse those delightful little nubs," Peter protests with an
actual frown, tsking at Stiles like a berating parent. "Derek appears...more
than willing. And I'm always up for the job if not."
Stiles sits back on the table, one leg curled under him with the other knee
pulled up toward his chest, foot planted flat. He sweeps a considering look
over Derek, then sneers. "Scott, dear, it's time for you to join the viewing
gallery. The three of you—" he turns and pins Chris, who's been doing his best
to blend in with the shadows, with a look, "stand over there." He points to a
well lit part of the room that shows clearly in the reflective metal surfaces
all around them.
"You," Stiles says, eyes raking over Derek, "are over dressed." He hops down
from the table and circles around behind Derek, who shares a look with Scott
and holds utterly still.
Not expecting it, Derek howls in pain when his jacket is ripped from his
shoulders, yanking out the largest pieces of glass—that his skin had healed
around—in the process. Derek's eyes roll and his vision blanks as the pain
momentarily overwhelms him. When he comes back to himself, he's flat on his
back, Stiles mounting his slowly softening cock.
Black lines snake up Stiles' arms and his face is the picture of rapturous
ecstasy. Derek gives a whining moan as the pleasure of Stiles' too tight ass
squeezes down around his cock. It's too good, too tight, and he goes
lightheaded again as the blood not pooling under his back floods his cock,
plumping it to full hardness again inside Stiles' hot, clenching ass.
With every slow, grinding roll of his hips, Stiles presses his hands against
Derek's chest, causing the remaining shards of glass to push into him, cutting
him open again and again as his body struggles to heal. It's all overwhelming
pleasure and insurmountable pain and it feels like it's splitting Derek
straight down the middle. He wants to curl away and thrust up, keen in agony
and shout with release.
The stabbing pain in his back eventually becomes—not better, but bearable. It
fades into insignificance next to the feel of Stiles. Tiny hurts can't compare
to the blaze of his eyes, the beads of sweat on his lip, the way the hair lays
plastered to his forehead. Stiles rises and falls over him, his hips moving in
a slow, steady roll, his fingers digging into Derek's chest, drawing raised
lines in his flesh.
In the forefront of his mind, Derek holds onto the thought that this is Stiles.
This is Stiles looking down at him, teeth biting into his own lip. This is
Stiles, with the darkness behind his eyes, and the smooth curve of his mouth.
This is Stiles and nothing else.
"Wrong," Stiles whispers as he sinks down onto Derek. He sits there, not
rolling up, just grinding his ass against Derek as he rocks back and forth. As
he rocks Derek against the table, grinding the glass deeper and deeper with
each slow motion.
Derek wonders, with the last thought remaining to him that isn't consumed by
the tight, hot squeeze of Stiles' ass, if he'll always want this. Want the pain
with the pleasure. If anything less will seem… too little. Not enough.
He wonders if he's tarnished.
He doesn't have to wonder long at all, because the orgasm that's building
inside him, bunching up his stomach muscles and threatening in the roiling of
pleasure in his balls, doesn't actually overwhelm him until Stiles drags the
scalpel across his nipple, splitting it in two.
Derek's scream is what finally makes Stiles' eyes roll back in his head, his
ass pulsing around Derek's cock as spurts of come land hot and sticky on his
chest. A drip lands on his healing nipple, and the skin closes around it a
heartbeat later.
Chapter End Notes
     Derek still has the glass and shrapnel from the Sheriff's station
     bomb in his back, which Stiles first rips out when he yanks off
     Derek's jacket, and then basically pushes the remaining pieces into
     Derek's back while riding him. Also, there is nipple slicing with the
     scalpel.
     Also, of course, non-con. Stiles is trapped in his head and therefore
     cannot consent without being under duress and same goes for Derek.
     Any imagined consent in this fic does not exist because it is given
     under duress.
***** Scott *****
Chapter Notes
     So, yeah, Teen Wolf. Heh. Episode...whee. (Or not.)
See the end of the chapter for more notes
The three others stand in the corner riveted to the spot, hardly daring to
breathe as Stiles pants on top of Derek, eyes closed and face flushed bright
red. Derek is completely still beneath him and Scott shifts uncomfortably on
his feet as he averts his eyes. He wasn’t really interested in seeing Stiles
riding Derek’s dick ever, and given the amount of times Stiles has chattered on
about it… that makes his gut roil even more.
There was one time that they’d been laying flat on the floor of Stiles’ room,
completely drunk on liquor stolen from his dad’s hidden stash, when Stiles had
intimately laid out his plans for getting fucked into oblivion for his first
time. Derek had starred heavily in those plans. And later on, when they were so
drunk they could hardly giggle, they’d fumbled around in the dark and their
lips had brushed in a sloppy, accidental way. And then Stiles had hesitated
before doing it again, sweet and awkward and... eager. It wasn’t Scott’s first
kiss, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was Stiles’.
Scott closes his eyes to the thoughts, tries not to think about how Stiles has
just gotten almost exactly what he wanted. Minus the consensual part. And with
a gallery of people watching. He tries not to glance at Chris and Peter, like
they all have some kind of bro code that they must follow. No eye contact, or
all of this becomes painfully real.
Noise from Derek makes Scott snap his head up, his nostrils instantly flaring.
He feels his feet shift into a ready stance, his alpha-primed body preparing
him for a fight that he knows he can’t start. Stiles is pushing down on Derek’s
chest with two hands, grinding his back into the metal of the table while Derek
makes hurt grunts in the back of his throat. The glass shards are still
embedded there, and the whimpering sound is painful in Scott’s ears.
Stiles looks like he’s drenched in sweat, dark hair matted down and eyes
slightly glassy. Come has spattered between them, looking like a mark, and
Stiles dips his hands through the pearly white liquid. He scoops up some and
leans forward, painting it along Derek’s lips while the wolf groans out but
opens his lips.
“That’s it,” Stiles purrs. “Such a good little slut, aren’t you, Derek? So
needy. So desperate to be loved.”
Scott shuts his eyes briefly so he doesn’t have to see Stiles’ face twisted up
in sadistic glee as he shoves his fingers in Derek’s mouth further.
Stiles turns to regard the others and they fight to keep his claws sheathed,
and Chris’ gun at bay. “And look at you three idiots. Just watching as Derek
fucks your precious Stiles’ virgin ass. Content to just let him cry.”
Stiles spits on the floor then turns to grasp onto Derek’s shoulders so he can
ease himself off. He groans as Derek slides out, his cock softened slightly but
still filling him up. Scott can’t quite look away from the stretch of red skin,
the way Stiles is so open, the way the head of Derek’s cock pops out with a
sickening squelch.
A white gob of come dribbles out from Stiles’ ass, down along the boy’s thighs,
dripping onto Derek beneath him. He’s barely out before Stiles is barking out a
quick laugh and tossing his head sideways, saying, “You’re next, Scotty.”
The words make Scott’s stomach drop to his toes as he watches Stiles scramble
off of Derek with shaking limbs and plant himself firmly on hands and knees.
Derek is mute, his face his normal mask of unresponsiveness, save for the
decidedly wounded look in his eyes. He sits up and slides off of the table
gingerly, searching around for his shirt and pants and pulling them on as
quickly as possible. His movements are slow, though, deliberate, the glass
still pulling at his skin, cutting with each movement no matter how careful.
“Don’t be such a sourwolf,” Stiles says and his face draws into a feral smirk
as he sees Derek close inward on himself. He looks so small in front of them,
so defeated.
Stiles rolls over onto his back and spreads his legs, hitching them upward so
his feet are flat on the table. It’s lewd, Derek’s come leaking out of him,
smearing on the metal table, his reddened hole on display. “Come on, big bad
Alpha,” Stiles prods, moving down to flick his finger at his rim. Scott winces
at the motion, knows that Stiles’ body must be hurting. The nogitsune doesn’t
seem to give even one iota of feeling towards his well-being, the fingertips
scratching inward, rubbing in Derek’s come.
“Need I make the same threats again?” Stiles lays his head back on the table
and feels around for the scalpel, grasping it in his hands once more. He drags
it along the metal of the table and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.
The wolves wince in discomfort, and Stiles does it again, harder, just to make
them grit their teeth.
“No,” Scott says softly, but he still can’t find it in him to move his feet
forward.
“Stiles’ first kiss, but his second fuck. How does that make you feel, Scotty?”
Scott can’t come up with any words, his body confused, flight or fight response
ramped up but nowhere to turn. He takes one step and then another, finding
himself between Stiles’ spread legs and looking down at his flushed and sweaty
body.
“Do you want to lie down so I can just fuck myself on you like a toy? Would
that be easier for you? God knows Stiles’ done enough of that. He even has one
with a suction cup on it. That one’s been used so much I’m surprised it’s still
in one piece.” Stiles grins viciously, pushing his finger inward while Scott
watches it disappear again and again.
“I don’t want…” Scott begins but trails off with a gurgle as Stiles pulls the
scalpel close to his own throat and holds it there, saying nothing. His eyes
have a bit of a wild look, pupils large, the chocolate color vibrant and dark.
He holds Scott’s gaze and flips over onto his hands and knees, pushing his
chest down into the table and wagging his ass back at Scott. “Or would you
prefer this way, like a dog? Doesn’t the Alpha want to mount his bitch? I think
Stiles would like that very much.”
And Scott can see how much Stiles likes it, how his slender cock has blood
flowing towards it, how he’s shuffling to spread his legs wide so he can take
what Scott gives him. Scott swallows thickly. Objectively, it’s a pretty
picture. Stiles looks so vulnerable, so used, so needy, and something deep and
animal rears up in Scott’s hindbrain that says take and mark and claim.
He clambers up onto the table, unbuckling his belt and trying to ignore the way
his dick twitches when Stiles’ sighs at the noise. He shoves his pants down to
his knees and palms his cock, jerking himself to full hardness in a few short
strokes. He looks down at Stiles spread out in front of him, at his own dick in
his hand, the other clutching vet lube -- and Jesus, what the fuck is he doing?
“Now, Scotty,” Stiles says in that bossy tone that Scott loves and hates. Scott
lines himself up and just pushes in before he can even think about it, closing
his eyes. He thinks about Allison, he thinks about Kira, he thinks about Isaac,
and fuck, it doesn’t matter, his dick still likes the tightness, the squeeze.
The wrongness.
“Look, Stiles, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Scott whispers like he’s actually talking
to Stiles, petting along his spine. The nogitsune laughs, and Scott shuts his
mouth, stuttering his hips forward and nearly falling into Stiles. The nerves
bundle through him as he has a wild moment of performance anxiety. But then
Stiles shoves his hips back against him and Scott just begins to pump his hips
forward, not trying for finesse or tenderness or anything remotely resembling
feeling. He just fucks, fucks right into Stiles’ ass, feeling a little sick at
how slick it is, at how Derek’s come is sliding between them, at how he’s
fucking his friend who was a virgin until about ten minutes ago.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Stiles purrs, pressing his head down further and arching
his back. “Fuck me good, Scott. I want it. I need it.” The angle is deep,
Stiles gripping so tight around him, and Scott moans throatily and grabs on to
the bony hips. It’s like he’s forgotten that the others are there; his dick has
forgotten that Stiles doesn’t want this. Instead he loves the tight squeeze,
the moaning gurgles Stiles is making as he writhes beneath him, the way the
lean body is submitting so beautifully to his pounding.
Stiles is trembling beneath him, his cock bouncing with the thrusts, the table
creaking beneath their shifting weight. The sounds of sex fill the air, wet and
filthy and slick. Scott can faintly register the breathing of the others behind
him, and the slight growl in Peter’s throat. It makes Scott’s hair stand on
end, and he plows forward with renewed force, his alpha self kicking in as he
feels the overwhelming urge to dominate.
Stiles eggs him on, pausing between his words to hitch in quick breaths. “Think
you can fuck me harder than Derek? Better than him? But isn’t that just it,
Scotty? Aren’t you afraid that he is better than you? At everything?”
“No,” Scott grinds out, snapping forward with a particularly powerful thrust.
He presses his body forward, grinding both of them down until they are pushed
down flat into the table. Stiles mewls and scrambles to spread his legs,
folding them up beneath him so he is laying with his chest and belly pressing
against the cold metal. Scott holds him down firmly by the shoulder blades,
fucking and fucking and surprising himself with a burning orgasm that rips
right from his belly with a startling amount of force. He groans and sighs as
he feels his come emptying out into Stiles, the animal part of him well-
satisfied at having marked his conquest.
As he pulls out he feels a little sick, knowing Stiles had manipulated his
baser instincts to get him to do what he wanted. He’s not sure how much he
cares though, so exhausted, so sick of this, ready to just be done. To get
Stiles back. He flops onto the table, completely spent, the sweat cooling
uncomfortably on his body in the cold room.
Stiles rolls over, inspecting Scott’s face with interest.
“B minus,” he says coolly. “Derek was better.” Stiles smiles at Scott’s flinch
and reaches down to grasp his still hard cock and give himself a rough tug. He
rolls over, smiling at the gallery of eyes raking over the mix of come that is
caking his thin body.
“Chris? Or is it Mr. Argent? I think you’d like that better.”
Scott slinks off the table, nearly tripping over his loosened pants, and
presses back against the wall. The anxiety in his gut knots there and festers,
and the bile burns his throat as he tries to swallow it back down.
Chapter End Notes
     You can also find us on tumblr: Badwolfbadwolff and Eeyore9990.
***** Chris Argent *****
Chapter Notes
     New warnings have been added. So, just in case you weren't scared off
     before...
See the end of the chapter for more notes
"Chris?"
Chris can't stop the full-body flinch that overcomes him when the nogitsune
calls his name. He can feel its attention zeroing in on him like a thousand
ants crawling on his skin.
"Or is it Mr. Argent? I think you’d like that better.” The demon wearing
Stiles' face paces toward him, his easy gait showing none of the pain Stiles'
body should be feeling.
Chris finds himself taking a step back, but the wall is there, preventing
retreat. The thing comes closer and he can feel the urge to shout rising up in
his chest. He doesn't want it to touch him. He can still feel its phantom
presence slicing into his mind, subjugating his own will.
And that had been seconds of possession. He has no idea how Stiles is surviving
this. But at least he's certain that Stiles is because... because it had been
Stiles who'd saved Chris. No one else had even known to step forward and that
stupid, brave, reckless kid had taunted the demon out of Chris and back into
himself.
"Come now, Mr. Argent," long fingers are snapping in his face, drawing him back
to the here and now to see a look of dark fury pass over Stiles' face. "You
will be an active and enthusiastic participant or you will suffer the
consequences."
Chris swallows roughly, one hand sliding toward his side where his gun is
hidden away. "You have no hold over me," he whispers roughly, trying to build
mental shields to keep the demon out. It had shown him already how easy it had
been to possess him; he didn't need any reminders, just a good distraction.
"You have no leverage. I'm not a beta werewolf to cower down when Scott
commands."
His fingers slip around the butt of the gun and the tension in his shoulders
melts away as he pulls the gun in one swift motion, pressing it to the soft
skin under Stiles' chin. "You're going to stop this now, or I pull the trigger
and you die."
"The boy will die. This vessel will die. The instant your finger squeezes on
that trigger? I'll leave him. I'll leave him, Mr. Argent, and I'll find a
different vessel. Who should it be? Hmm? Who should I ride next?" The demon's
eyes are filled with dark humor as it presses closer to Chris. "You? No. As
much as I enjoyed that brief trip, I just don't think it's what I really want.
I could ride anyone. No one is safe from me. Not you. Not the Alpha." The shiny
pink tip of Stiles' tongue darts out, licking slowly over his lips and drawing
Chris' attention to their shiny surface. "Your pretty little daughter."
Chris' finger tightens in reaction to that threat, so much that the hammer is
drawing back on the revolver. He has to forcibly relax his grip and remove his
finger from the trigger. "You leave Allison alone," he says, his throat tight
with terror, and even he can hear the shakiness of his voice. "You leave her
alone."
"Well," Stiles' head cocks to the side, a smug little smirk curling his lips.
"I guess I have some leverage, after all. Now, we both know you're not going to
use that gun. You may as well holster it." Stiles' hand presses flat to Chris'
chest and slides slowly down, until he's gripping Chris' still-soft cock.
"What's the matter? Not interested?"
A hint of victory spears through Chris. All the rubbing in the world isn't
going to help the demon get its way. He can't exactly fake interest at the best
of times, and his tension level is far too high right now to even think of
getting hard enough to fuck someone. "You can't actually believe I would be.
There's nothing interesting about this little scene you've set up here. Raping
a boy young enough to be my son? No."
"Hmm, no, you're not interested in boys, are you? You've always liked women."
Stiles smiles then, and it's sharp-edged, cruel in a way nothing else has been
all night. "Tough, take-charge types. Like Victoria."
Chris is about to agree, about to take his opportunity to bow out, when Stiles
laughs, a braying, harsh thing.
"No, no. Not like Victoria. Like Kate."
Chris can't stop the way his body freezes at the name, can't stop his eyes from
flaring wide, his heart from skipping a beat.
"Gerard is more fucked up than even Stiles thought, and this boy has no
illusions about your dear old dad. How old were you the first time she rode
you? While your daddy looked on from the sidelines. She was so young and
tender. She looked just like… does Allison know? Does she know how much she
looks like her mother? Does she know Victoria wasn't?"
"Shut up," Chris breathes, his blood racing wildly through his veins. He flings
the gun from him before he does something stupid with it, and then his hand is
wrapped around Stiles' lower face, forcibly halting the damning words pouring
from it. "Shut up, shut up!"
It's too late, though. He can feel them, can feel the horrified stares of the
other men in the room with him. Or rather, the horrified stares of Scott and
Derek. Peter is just looking on, an amused spectator.
Stiles' fingers wrap around Chris' wrist, and his strength is incredible. Bones
grind against one another until Chris lets out an involuntary cry and drops his
hand away.
"That's why you hated Derek so much. Because he encroached on something you saw
as yours. Even though you'd already married Victoria. That's what drove Kate a
little mad, wasn't it? That you had your pretty little wife and kept her in the
background like the dirty little secret she was."
"No! No, you don't…"
"No, that's not quite right, is it? The women rule the family though, don't
they? Oh. Oh, I see! You didn't reject Kate, she rejected you. Wanted someone
else, someone younger. She dropped the baby on you because she was only sixteen
and wanted to live. And you took it. Took the baby and found a wife to make it
all… respectable. Aww, and you even came to love her, a bit, didn't you? Your
Victoria." Stiles has a hand down Chris' pants now, and is attempting to work
Chris to hardness. "But Kate came back. She came back when you returned.
Ostensibly to reunite with her brother and niece, but really, she was just
checking out the competition." Stiles leans forward, licking a long line up
Chris' neck until his lips are pressed to his ear. "Right, Daddy?" And somehow,
unbelievably, that comes out in Allison's voice.
Like it's his daughter, his baby girl, with her lips brushing his ear, her hand
rubbing against him through his jeans and… and fuck. His dick twitches.
It's not, though, it's not that. It's not Allison. It's the unbidden memory of
Kate, it's the way she was always the instigator, even before she seduced
Gerard into letting her have her way with Chris. Before she seduced him.
No, he never hated Derek for falling for Kate. How could he? Derek had been a
boy when she worked him over with her red lips and taunting words. Chris had
been a twenty three year old man, the age Derek is now the first time he fucked
her. His sister.
The memories swirl around him, even as a husky, feminine voice laughs in his
ear. The fucking demon knows. It knows Chris' thoughts, but is just as happy to
let anyone with advanced hearing in the room—which of course is everyone—think
he's getting off to the thought of fucking his daughter.
"You're going to fuck me," Kate whispers in his ear, and Chris can see the way
Derek jerks in horror. "Just like old times."
"No!"
"Yes. Or I really will take her. I'll take her, and you won't be able to stop
me. And if I take her? I'll do this all over again, but it'll be Allison
pressed up against you. Allison putting her daddy's dick in her mouth. You'll
defile your daughter, and she'll be there, inside her head, watching you do
it."
"No," Chris breathes, broken. "I… I can't. I'm not," and now Chris is taking
his dick in his hand, trying to urge life into it, but it's fruitless. He's not
hard and not getting there anytime soon. The nogitsune had pressed too many
buttons in the wrong order.
"Oh, I think I can help with that," Stiles says, laughing brightly. He sinks
gracefully to his knees—of anything else, it's that, the easy way the demon
handles the kid's body—that rings false. Anyone who knew Stiles would know this
isn't him. But his fingers are deft when he pulls Chris' cock from his jeans,
and his lips are wet, and his mouth is hot and the suction is perfect.
He reacts without even wanting to or meaning to. It's been so long since he's
felt anything like this. Since Kate. Chris closes his eyes and surrenders to
the inevitable. This creature has been inside his head. It's seen everything,
every secret Chris tried so hard to hide.
It knows Chris wasn't Kate's first. It knows Gerard was.
He turns his head against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself dredge up
the memories. It's wrong; it's not ever going to be anything else, but he can't
let another generation get sucked into the madness. If he has to do this soul-
destroying thing, he'll do it. He'll let Stiles suck him until he's hard, and
then he'll ream his ass until he comes.
There's no other option. Because he'll die—he'll ruin this boy's life gladly—to
keep Allison safe.
It takes longer than it should, a fact which Chris takes great delight in, to
get him fully hard, but eventually he's there. His cock is flushed a dark red
when Stiles finally sits back on his heels with a harsh laugh. Stiles reaches
between his legs, pushes two fingers inside his ass and withdraws them.
"Tell me, Mr. Argent," he says, all polite young man again, even if his voice
is wrecked from having Chris' cock shoved down his throat. "How does it feel to
know you're about to get the sloppy seconds of two werewolves? Doesn't that
just chap your hide?"
"I don't care," Chris says, yanking Stiles to his feet and pushing him face-
first against the wall. He doesn't bother with the vet lube; Stiles' ass is
dripping with enough fluids already. He just pushes inside with one snap of his
hips. Chris isn't under any delusions here. He's not looking to make this good
for anyone.
The most he could have hoped was that Stiles—the real Stiles—was locked away,
not experiencing any of this, but he knows better. Brief as it was, he's been
on the other side of this possession line. The nogitsune will keep Stiles right
there, front and center, because it amuses the demon to do so.
He shoves in, again and again, chasing an orgasm that doesn't want to come.
Closing his eyes, Chris gives into the inevitable. Bowing his head against the
back of Stiles' neck, he pressed his forehead to the knob at the top of his
spine and dredges up images he'd thought long-suppressed. He can see her over
him, her young body flushed with desire, her dark hair flying around her
shoulders as she rode him.
The loose clench of Stiles' well-fucked ass is so reminiscent of Kate's pussy,
even if nothing else about this whole horrid situation is. Chris latches onto
that thought and lets it yank him towards completion. He loses himself in the
moment, in the movement of their bodies, and without thinking, his hands are
sliding up the thin line of Stiles' body, hands reaching for high, firm breasts
that aren't there.
He feels his balls drawing up, and he clenches his jaw, letting the roiling in
his gut take over, letting the sick pleasure race through him. When he comes,
his entire body recoils so hard, he slips out and his second spurt hits the
back of Stiles' thighs. Chris stumbles backward and trips over his lowered
jeans, landing on his ass, another dribble of come bubbling out and sliding
messily down his cock.
He's not even out of the way before Peter is kicking him to the side, his voice
nothing but anticipation when he drawls, "Well, seems like it's my turn then,
isn't it?"
Chapter End Notes
     We're obviously taking quite a few liberties with the nogitsune's
     abilities. If that's the part of this that bothers you... come be our
     friend, you kinky little shit!
***** Peter *****
Chapter Notes
     Okay, guys, as much as this whole fic has been a whole lotta non-con,
     there is even more non-con here. If that kinda thing triggers you...
     actually, you probably wouldn't have stuck around this long, right?
     So, on that note, enjoy Peter's turn!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Stiles rounds on the wolf, stalking up towards Peter and pinning him against
the wall so quickly his head is thrown back with force. Peter is still fully
clothed while Stiles is naked, the come of three men already dripping out of
him, the scent heavy in the air as Peter’s nostrils flare.
“This isn’t even fun,” Stiles frowns as he reaches down to grasp Peter, hard
against the zipper of his tight jeans. Peter growls, deep and low, and fuck if
this isn’t his every fantasy laid out on a silver platter. Minus all the other
people watching. Well, maybe just Derek watching.
“I’ve always wondered how you made it to seventeen as a virgin, Stiles,” Peter
murmurs. “When there’s so many people willing to have their way with you. My
nephew always had those bedroom eyes for your little bottom, but of course I
knew he was too emotionally stunted to ever even lift a finger.”
Peter presses forward, reaches down to grab Stiles by the ass and spread him
open, the sight of come dripping out brutally explicit to the watching trio on
the other side of the room. He lets his claws slide out on one hand, digging
into the tender flesh and pricking points that well up with coppery redness
that seep down in streaks.
“And Stiles, always the loud mouth, but too shy to ever come out and say what
he really felt.” Peter uses one hand to shuck down his pants to his knees,
thrilling at the easy way that Stiles falls down to his own knees, seemingly
unaffected by the smacking noise they make on the concrete in his haste. He
noses along Peter’s cock before wasting no time in tonguing against the head
and swallowing him down as far as possible while Peter holds him tightly with
two hands around the ears. “Such a shame that you were missing out on this the
whole time, Derek.”
Derek looks even more uncomfortable than before if that were even possible, the
sight of Peter’s cock disappearing inside of Stiles’ mouth stretched wide
causing him to stink of jealousy and something thicker, like sickness and bile.
It makes Peter smile, wicked and wide, before drawing his claws over the top of
Stiles’ head and through the sweat-soaked hair. He grips tight, twists, before
shoving Stiles down and making him choke.
“Don’t you think you ought to be more careful,” Derek says in the smallest
voice possible and Peter laughs, actually laughs—a braying, harsh sound.
“What are you so concerned about? The boy wants to be used like a toy. He wants
to be the pack slut.” He tugs Stiles off of him and slides his dick across the
boy’s lips, grinning as the pink tongue darts forward to lap at him and tries
to curl around his thick length. “He wants my come all over him.”
Stiles purrs, his eyes closed, the dark circles around them looking pronounced
in the harsh fluorescent light. When he speaks, his voice is rough, swallowing
first before rasping out, “See? I don’t even have to convince him to deflower
your poor, virgin Stiles. Maybe I should have started with Peter first. He
would’ve wrecked this tight ass and would have made it so much worse for your
little boy as the rest of you took your measly turns.”
Derek growls from the other side of the room, probably aware on some level that
the taunt at his virility is just that, a taunt. And that it isn’t Stiles. It
isn’t Stiles eagerly lapping at Peter’s cock. It isn’t Stiles grinning saucily,
it isn’t Stiles spreading his legs and pushing his fingers inside until they
are disappearing with slow, easy thrusts. But the look on his face is one of
pure pain.
“You see, Derek?” Peter jibes, drawing Derek’s attention again. “He wants me.”
Peter pulls roughly on Stiles’ hair, jerking him to a standing position and
using his hold to bend the boy right over the table.
The nogitsune chuckles, obviously enjoying the little argument it’s sparked up
between the family members. “Stiles has always wanted Peter,” the boy coos, his
face pressed down onto the cold metal of the table. “He’s always craved that
older daddy figure. To fuck his face and spank his ass and just make him cry
big, fat tears. That’s Stiles’ secret. He just wants his daddy.”
Peter sinks in with a growl, not even bothering with any lubrication; Stiles is
so soaking wet that it doesn’t matter at all. The fucked-up foreplay has Peter
stuttering his hips already, pistoning forward with quick strokes, his pulse
thrumming in his veins.
“Come on, baby boy,” Peters whispers as he shifts positions to thrust at a more
downward angle, putting a hand flat on the small of Stiles’ back to hold him
down firmly. “Be good for your daddy.”
There is a visible shuddering of the slim body and then true crying as Stiles,
the real Stiles, surfaces.
“Jesus, Peter, could you be any more fucked up?” Stiles whines before genuine
sobbing overtakes him, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes and dripping
down in big fat puddles.
Peter eases up, slowing his thrusts to more of a gentle rocking, still deep and
strong. He falters a little, much less willing to fuck Stiles’ poor defenseless
ass into oblivion than he is the nogitsune’s, and Derek’s stormy look of
disapproval is vicious even from a distance.
“Please,” Stiles whispers as he squeezes his eyes shut, before there is another
twitch of his facial muscles and the gleeful grin of the demon slides back
across his face.
“Please,” he whispers again, except this time it is sticky sweet and mocking.
“Please Peter, give it to me.” The demon laughs, full out. “You’re so
predictable, Peter. You do have a heart. Two sizes too small, but now they’ve
all seen it, plain as day.” He grins wickedly as Peter slaps his hips forward,
hard enough to make the table stutter sideways across the floor.
“Come on, you bastard,” Peter grunts as he grasps Stiles by the hips and fucks
him back onto his dick again and again, making him drop his mouth open with
loud gasps. “Haven’t you grown tired of this skinny little boy and his
adolescent insecurities?”
He keeps pounding but can feel the tickling of the darkness against his mind,
probing along the corners. Peter closes his eyes and relaxes, lets the demon
seep inward, delving into his thoughts and memories. He lets the memories swim
to the forefront, his worst moments flashing before him in stylized black and
white. Licking flames and the smell of burnt flesh, ash hot in his nose as he
choked on a fountain of blood. Mindless screaming that fills his ears, only
later recognized as his own. The taste of innocence on his tongue, turning his
eyes a bitter blue as his teeth gnashed on sinew and bone. The way he’d kicked
a round-faced Derek in the ribs after ratting him out one time too many, his
nephew’s retched blood painting his lips red. And the disappointment in his
mother’s eyes that never turned to anything sweeter than loathing and regret.
The probing pressure against his mind becomes more intense, and Peter's thrusts
gain speed and strength. Every slap of skin on skin is underscored by a muffled
shriek of pain from Stiles that Peter can't hear, too busy absorbing the
nogitsune through their skin on skin connection.
It's perfect, and as the nogitsune pulls completely out of Stiles, as the last
bit of it leeches into Peter's mind, he can feel the strength of a thousand
years flow through him. He isn't just powerful, he is power. He feels as if he
could open his mouth and have it pour from him.
A high, wild sound splits the air, and he opens his eyes to see Scott, Derek,
and Chris standing closer now, all of them braced for battle. Stiles is slumped
over the table, ragged breaths shaking his whole frame.
The presence in Peter's mind has stopped searching through his memories and has
started trying to assert itself. But Peter is prepared. He's been prepared for
this moment for years, decades before a skinny, defenseless boy got himself on
the wrong side of a vengeful demon spirit.
He traps it, locks it down, throws away the key. The power is still his. It's
all his, now, in ways none of the others can fully appreciate. Even Chris, who
had a taste of the nogitsune riding his body, cannot comprehend how easy this
is for Peter. Because Peter didn't try to fight. Everyone else fought it,
thousands of them, before and after the nogitsune tangled with a kitsune in a
Japanese internment camp.
But not Peter. Peter didn’t fight it. He accepted the demon, and now he has
become it.
Tossing back his head, Peter laughs as he pounds into the body in front of him,
relishing the give of flesh under his hands.
"It," Stiles gasps, wincing as Peter continues to thrust into his well-used
body, absolutely merciless, "it's gone. S-Scott, it's… it's g-gone. Aaah!" he
keens, back bowing beautifully. "S-stop. You can stop now. Please."
"Of course it is," Peter murmurs, ignoring Stiles' plea, and tastes shock like
fine wine against his tongue.
"What?" Derek asks, stepping forward. "Where…"
"Allison!" Chris shouts, already half-out of the room at a dead run.
Peter laughs, and hears the echo of confused shrieking in the back of his mind.
"Not Allison," he says. He doesn't bother to whisper, because Scott and Derek
both can hear him, and he doesn't care if they know this.
"What? What… oh god. Peter?" Stiles asks, shoving limply at the table and
trying to turn. The scent of Stiles' horror fills the air and rests sweetly on
Peter's tongue as he huffs a laugh and redoubles his efforts to drive through
Stiles' fragile, human body with his dick. Peter slams Stiles back down into
place, grinding his hips forward, even as Scott and Derek begin to growl loud
warnings. Peter bares his fangs at them and wraps claw-tipped fingers around
Stiles' throat.
"It took nothing," he says, lips stretching around the words, turning them
lurid. "It slid into me like I was the only home it knew. The only one it
wanted. It thought it would take me over as easily as it did you," he says,
licking against the shell of Stiles' ear and thrilling at the scent of confused
arousal. "But it underestimated me." He nicks the side of Stiles' throat with
one claw, and swipes his tongue over the bead of blood that wells up. "Just
like you have. Like you all have."
Scott's eyes flash red and he howls at Peter, a possessive, threatening display
by a puppy. The Alpha imperative flows over and around him, easy as water and
just as insubstantial. The need to obey was burned out of Peter years ago; it
just never proved advantageous to show his hand when he was weak enough to be
overpowered by the pack.
Derek looks willing to take him down, but is stayed by Peter's upturned lips
and dark eyes, the flex of his fingers on Stiles' throat. The nogitsune is
barely a whimper in the back of his mind now, and Derek seems to understand
that it's Peter who is in charge. Satisfaction floods him when Derek's nostrils
flare and his eyes burn blue, challenging.
Power surges through him, enough that Peter has to throw his head back and howl
with the glory of it. The hitch of Stiles' breathing drags Peter's focused
attention back to the boy he's buried balls deep in, and he lowers his head,
rolling his hips.
"Peter," Stiles chokes, squirming under him, trying to get away. "Don't.
Please!"
"You forget yourself, Stiles," Peter says, holding Stiles down and pounding
into the swollen, hot clench of his ass over and over, the mixed scents of
Scott, Derek, and Argent winding through him. Stiles' sharp, pained cries only
spur him on, exultation rushing through him as his orgasm draws closer. "I've
always been the Alpha."
Chapter End Notes
     For anyone who saw the character death warning, it's gone now.
     Badwolfbadwolf and I had a change of heart about what to do with
     Peter (our original idea was a crazy "carve his heart from his chest
     with the scalpel" scene so Stiles could end the fic saying, "Eh, you
     weren't using it anyway," but then we both kinda hated the thought of
     killing Peter because he's our favorite villain. So yay, he lives.
     *confetti*
     Thanks to everyone who's followed along on this kinky little journey.
     We're going to miss the hell out of Nogitsune!Stiles... He was crazy
     sexy.
     As always, we're on the tumblr: Wolfie and Eey.
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