Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3390371.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Rafael_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Extremely_Underage, Alpha/Beta/Omega_Dynamics, Playmating, Bad_Touch,
      Breeding_Kink, Come_Inflation, Just_the_Tip, Choking, Drug-Induced_Sex,
      Non-Consensual_Drug_Use, Watersports, Humiliation, Object_Insertion,
      Lingerie, Feminization, Cock_Warming, Knotting, Dirty_Talk, Mpreg,
      Abortion, non-consensual_abortion, Vigilantism, Dead_Dove:_Do_Not_Eat
  Series:
      Part 1 of Teaspoons
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-19 Completed: 2015-09-02 Chapters: 5/5 Words: 12185
****** Things Seem Pleasing ******
by deaddove
Summary
     Stiles never thought being a good Omega would be so hard.
Notes
     There is nothing redeeming about this.
***** Meat Links *****
Stiles glances back at the police cruiser pulled up on the curb. His dad makes
a gesture at him from the driver’s seat, a stilted half-wave salute, and Stiles
turns back to the front door. He feels small on the porch, nervous as he
punches the tip of his finger in the soft plastic of a doorbell. He’s been here
a million times, before he was even tall enough to reach the bell.
He’s glancing back at his dad again, because it’s different this time, as the
door finally swings open.
“Stiles!” Scott shouts happily, and Stiles turns into his best friend’s
embrace. He feels better in the hug, warmer, and he hears his dad drive off
with a light tap on the horn as goodbye.
Stiles lets Scott drag him in the house, and they run up the stairs three steps
at a time.
“Mom got me the new Spyro game,” Scott brags, and they huddle in front of the
tv.
They play happily, and Stiles completely forgets about his nervousness. This is
easy, their playing familiar and no-brainer. He and Scott crawl on each other
while they play, tangles and awkward remote angles, wires crossing. They munch
on fritos until their sticky thumbs jam the buttons.
It’s normal until Scott’s dad knocks on the doorframe, finally coming out of
his office. Stiles looks up with a curly chip hanging from his mouth and feels
himself get hot with embarrassment. Mr. McCall looks super serious.
“Have you eaten lunch yet, Stiles?” he asks.
Stiles nods, rendered mute. His dad had made sure to give him a hearty meal
before coming over, saying he’ll need the energy.
“Good. Why don’t we head to the living room and start?”
Scott groans. “Can’t we do it in like another hour? We finally unlocked a new
portal.”
“Your mom will be coming home soon, Scott. I’ll need to get started on dinner.”
“Why can’t we do it here? Me and Stiles wrestle all the time.”
Mr. McCall crosses his arms. “You know the rules, Scott. Downstairs.”
They go reluctantly, Stiles and Scott’s attention straying on the television
screen until it’s out of sight.
In the living room, the coffee table has been turned on its side and pushed to
the wall, a thick quilt spread on the hardwood floor. Scott and Stiles glance
at each other.
“Go ahead and take your clothes off, boys,” McCall instructs. He takes a seat
on the armchair, looking over the blanket. Stiles pulls his shirt over his head
and yanks his shorts down. The living room is warm, and Stiles shivers in
anticipation. He wiggles in place, waiting for more instruction.
“Good,” Mr. McCall says. “Stiles, do you know what position you need to go in?”
Stiles nods, goes down on the thick blanket, hands and knees. He looks over his
shoulder at Mr. McCall for approval.
“Good, Stiles. Spread your knees more. You have to be able to take the weight
of your Alpha.”
Stiles looks down, face burning as he spreads himself more. His body feels
tingly now, his underwear itchy.
“Drop your shoulders, Stiles. An Alpha’s seed will never take if you don’t lay
right.”
Stiles folds his arms until his shoulders and cheek are pressed to the soft
blanket, his bottom raised high.
“Good boy. You’ll be participating in playmating groups in no time.”
Stiles clenches his eyes closed at the thought, imagining all the kids in town
rubbing together. He knows a few from school who have already been coached
through beginning playmating and attend the free group sessions at the civic
center, like Lydia and Cora. He squirms at the idea.
“Scott, what do you think of Stiles’ posture?”
Stiles looks up at his friend.
“Um,” Scott stutters. “It’s fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Dad,” Scott complains in embarrassment.
Mr. McCall laughs a little and must decide to give Scott a break.
“Scott, kneel down behind Stiles. That’s it; a little closer.”
Stiles feels the heat coming off of his friend as he settles behind Stiles,
between his feet. He scoots closer until his hips rest firmly against Stiles’
butt, and he can feel Scott’s little Alpha cock through his underwear, a small,
hot mound. Stiles purrs.
“Remember it’s important to always check how wet your Omega is before
proceeding with anything.”
Scott makes a small, guttural noise above him, and Stiles feels Scott’s hands
grasp his cheeks and pull them apart. A firm thumb presses hard and relentless
against his sensitive hole through his white briefs. Stiles mewls, pushing
back.
“Stiles!” Mr. McCall barks, and Stiles feels his body go loose and limp in
alarm. “A good Omega is patient and takes only what their Alpha gives.”
“He isn’t wet,” Scott says, thumb rubbing over Stiles’ crack, seeking. His
voice is parched, shivery.
“That’s okay,” Mr. McCall comforts. “Everyone has their own pace. Reach under
him and rub his cocklet.”
Stiles yowls when Scott cups his little cock. His thighs tremble and tighten as
Scott squeezes and strokes. Alpha cock frots against his bum frantically.
“That’s not right, Scott.”
Scott growls, running his hips in uneven circles, and Stiles whimpers into the
blanket, his own hands reaching back to open his cheeks for Scott, begging--
Scott and his searing touches are removed, and Stiles sits up as he watches
Scott’s dad drag his flailing, growling son to the stairs. He sits Scott down
on the first step and towers over him.
“I guess it’s too early for anything but one-on-one lessons. Scott, I’m so
disappointed. I told the Sheriff he could trust me to see you both through your
first playmating, and now I’m going to have to explain that my own son couldn’t
follow instructions.”
Scott looks like he wants to sink in a hole.
“Go up to your room and think about what you’re going to tell Mr. Stilinski
when he comes to pick up Stiles. No videogames.”
Scott trumps up the stairs dejectedly, and Mr. McCall returns to Stiles on the
blanket.
“Are you going to call my dad?” Stiles asks.
Mr. McCall rubs a hand down his back, and Stiles arches into it.
“No, baby boy. I promised I’d coach you, and I will. Get back in position.”
Stiles nods eagerly and folds back over. He adjusts himself the way he’d been
told earlier, and is delighted when Mr. McCall strips himself of his shirt and
lines up behind him. He’s much bigger than Scott, his thick arms caging him in,
his chest hair rubbing against Stiles’ back. He wiggles a little, searching.
“Such a good Omega,” Mr. McCall whispers by his ear, his large palms stroking
Stiles’ chest and belly. Those hands glide from his belly to his lower back,
fingers dipping into Stiles’ underwear and pulling them over the slope of his
butt. Stiles looks back in doubt.
“I thought this was only play?”
“It is, baby,” Mr. McCall says, rubbing Stiles’ newly exposed skin.
“But the rules say I have to keep my panties on,” Stiles squeaks.
“That’s only for you and Scott. I’m a coach, so I can play without them.”
Stiles looks at him, trying to detect trickery.
“Okay,” he eventually concedes.
Mr. McCall smiles and grabs Stiles’ neck gently, pushing him back down to
position.
A thick finger circles Stiles’ hole, and without the underwear, it’s totally
different. He feels raw and exposed, and Stiles cries out when the tip presses
just barely inside.
“Good Omegas should always be wet for their Alphas, Stiles,” Mr. McCall says,
his voice sounding weird and deep, rumbly. “Don’t you want to be good?”
“Yes sir,” Stiles pants, wanting to move closer but not wanting to get in
trouble again.
Mr. McCall’s finger slides inside Stiles, and he can’t breathe. It’s warm and
thick, and goes in so easily. It begins to pull out and the ridges of his
knuckles is even better this way. Stiles whines when it’s gone.
“Easy,” Mr. McCall placates. “There we are. Just needed to open you up.”
Stiles doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he feels a warm trickle down
the back of his thigh. Mr. McCall drapes over him, his mouth open and planting
tonguey kisses across his shoulders. Stiles feels tacky and slick.
“I knew you’d be a good Omega, such a pretty little boy,” he whispers, his
finger pumping in and out of Stiles’ Omega hole.
Stiles moans helplessly as the coarse feeling rubs against his insides where he
aches and needs.
“And so tight. A boy like you doesn’t need an inexperienced touch, isn’t that
right, Stiles? Scott couldn’t help you, could he?”
“Yes sir!” Stiles wails, agreeing without understanding, as Mr. McCall pushes
another finger inside. It stretches him and makes him want to turn to liquid.
Mr. McCall uses his other hand to tug on his cocklet. It’s swollen and sore
suddenly, and Stiles almost can’t handle the contact.
“You’ve already popped your little knot. What a little whore.”
Stiles sobs into his arm in a confused daze. Mr. McCall’s fingers dance around
his baby knot, pulling and pinching.
“Your little Omega knot is only good for playing, isn’t it Stiles? Only good
for being cute?”
Stiles can’t help himself this time, has to grind back against Mr. McCall’s
fingers. They curl so deeply, and Stiles arches his back, reveling in the
bigness of it all.
“You’re going to move without permission now?” Mr. McCall growls, his teeth
sharp against Stiles’ neck. He takes his fingers away, leaving Stiles open and
empty.
“Nonono,” he wails, reaching back to cling to Mr. McCall’s thighs. “Please
don’t go. I’m good, I’m a good Omega.”
His teeth let up.
“All right.”
Stiles sags in relief.
“But I’m not sure you’re behaving like a true Omega would.”
“I’m good, I’m good,” Stiles chants frantically, afraid. He wants to refute Mr.
McCall, but what if he’s right? Stiles doesn’t know how to be a good Omega.
“Don’t worry, baby,” Mr. McCall says, stroking his fingers into Stiles until it
makes a wet noise every plunge. “I’ve got just the thing to fix you.”
Stiles nods his head rapidly as Mr. McCall’s big hands grab his wrists and
guide his smaller ones to his butt cheeks.
“Hold yourself open for me like the slutty Omega you are.”
Stiles obeys. His face is wet.
He pulls his own cheeks apart, hips twitching. He hears the click and shuffle
of a belt being undone and fears for a second that he’s about to be spanked,
but Mr. McCall just presses closer against Stiles.
“You’re so small,” he moans to Stiles, and he feels something searing hot press
against his hole. He yelps at the feeling, the blunt heat smearing his slick
around and pushing against his hole. Stiles breathes quick and heavy as he
holds his bottom for Mr. McCall. Large hands hold his hips and thighs as the
pressure on his hole grows.
“What,” Stiles licks his dry lips. “What is that?”
“My Alpha cock,” Mr. McCall groans. “Be a good boy, Stiles, and just take the
tip. Just the tip now.”
It pushes, and Stiles loses his breath. It’s so big, it’s going inside, but
it’s too much, forcing him wide and gaping. Stiles feels his eyes water, and
his cries wetly into the blanket.
“No, it’s too much,” he complains.
“Not the tip, I promise,” Mr. McCall grunts. “That’s all, no more.”
“Okay,” Stiles sobs as he feels his hole finally split, and the bulbous
cockhead gets sucked inside. He and Mr. McCall moan in tandem.
“Such a good baby boy, Stiles. I’ll make you better.”
Stiles doesn’t dare move, speared where he is. He feels pinned in place, Mr.
McCall’s heavy weight surrounding him as his whole body shakes. Stiles cries
messily, confused and tired. His body burns, in ways he can’t determine are
good or not, and he feels Mr. McCall’s Alpha cock throbbing and pulsing where
he’s inside and stretching his rim so harshly.
“This is what you were meant for,” Mr. McCall growls, his hands bruising.
“Doesn’t it feel good, Stiles?”
“I don’t know,” he wails, clenching down and moaning. Everything is hot and
wet, and he just wants to lay down. He wants his dad.
“I know,” Mr. McCall assures, then flexes forward.
His fat cock slides deep and unforgiving into Stiles’ plush insides, and Stiles
shouts. It feels so big, it’s everywhere. His little cock is on fire, dripping
milky come down his thighs. He looks between his arms at the slope of his belly
and can see the bump of Mr. McCall’s cock as it goes deeper.
“I wish you were old enough to breed,” Scott’s dad moans, rolling himself in
and out of Stiles. “You’re going to be coveted when you’re fertile.”
Stiles gasps through the thrusts, Mr. McCall’s powerful thighs slapping against
his bottom. He’s not listening to Mr. McCall’s soft words, only feels the humid
way his mouth whispers against his ear. His cock feels full and ready to
explode, his stomach spasming.
Each glide of his heavy cock in Stiles’ gushing hole leaves him more open and
hungry, and he begins rocking back and forth, anticipating each gouging thrust.
He purrs and cries, hands no longer able to hold his cheeks open. They drop to
the blanket, prone, as Mr. McCall plows against him.
Stiles feels himself begin to tense somewhere deep where Mr. McCall’s cockhead
rams, and his cries grow louder as the force of the sensation becomes too good.
He can’t open his eyes or move, can only scream and beg as the feeling of the
cock in him gets impossibly good. His heart is wild, his cocklet pulsing and
begging attention, but he’s too scared of the feeling sweeping over him to
move.
“That’s right, bitch, lock down on me.”
Stiles is too out of his mind to be shocked at the swear and cries out ragged
and desperately as his little cock erupts and his insides are swept in a
seizure of tightening and spasming, so strong that Mr. McCall can only thrust
through the tightness a few inches in and out. He groans loudly, slams flush
against Stiles’ hole and stays there. Stiles shakes, made nonverbal, his lower
body vibrating with its effort to lock Mr. McCall inside.
He feels something hot and molten soaking his hole and straining his belly
full.
“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Mr. McCall coos and picks him up, allowing his own
weight to keep him seated on his cock. He sits down on the couch, and lifts
Stiles up by his hips and drops him back down on the length of his cock. “I’ll
train you to lock tighter, and one day when you’re bigger, you’ll be able to
milk my Alpha knot.”
Later in the afternoon, after Mr. McCall has taken him to wipe down in the
bathroom and retrieved a capri sun from the kitchen, Stiles sits on the
staircase with Scott, sniffling. He hears his dad knock on the door and spies
Scott’s dad greeting him.
“I’m worried about Stiles,” he says to his dad. “He isn’t responding to
playmating the way a healthy Omega should. I think I should spend some one-on-
one sessions with him until his instincts settle.”
Stiles’ dad finds him on the staircase and crouches down until they’re at eye
level.
“I’ll consider it,” he says, opening his arms. Stiles lets himself be enveloped
and lifted, hiccoughing. “But I think it’s a little early to be deciding what’s
normal.”
Stiles looks at Mr. McCall over his dad’s shoulder as he’s carried out. He
gives him a wide smile, and Stiles clings a little harder to his dad’s neck.
 
***** Cherry Coke *****
Chapter Summary
     Things get worse. As they do.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
The next time Stiles’ dad leaves him on Scott’s front porch, Stiles begs him
not to. He can still hear the phone conversation, the fuzzy sound of his dad’s
voice mingling with Mr. McCall’s through the receiver. They have two land
lines, one in his dad’s room and another downstairs. Stiles is really good at
creeping across the hall and easing the phone away from its stand without
making a sound.
He listens to all of the phone calls their house receives, as an honorary
deputy-in-training. It’s his job to hear about all the goings-on of Beacon
Hills, especially if it pertains to his own house.
“I’m not  sure that’s appropriate,” his dad says.
“I’m only worried about him.”
Stiles nearly drops the phone upon hearing Mr. McCall’s voice so close to his
ear. He feels a tremor in his arms.
“He’s like a son to me, and if I can help him through these behavioral
problems—”
“Behavioral—? Look, Rafael, even if Stiles is somehow having problems, you’re
not exactly an expert.”
He hears his dad huff. Stiles’ stomach twists as they talk about him.
“Has he talked to you about the other day? About what happened?”
His dad doesn’t answer.
“He wouldn’t settle. He rejected Scott over and over.”
“They’re too young,” his dad sighs.
“Let me just try to coach him through some positions. Without Scott. Maybe he
isn’t ready for an Alpha, but he needs to know the basics.”
There is a long pause.
“All right.”
“I’ll let you know when the house is empty.”
Now Stiles watches silently as Mr. McCall swings the door open and smiles.
He looks for Scott out of habit, but quickly recalls that his best friend and
Mrs. McCall are out of town for the afternoon. Scott’s dad cups the back of
Stiles’ neck and guides him into the house.
“Hey kiddo. You want a drink?”
Stiles shakes his head.
Mr. McCall’s face creases up a bit, and he crouches down to Stiles’ level.
“What’s the matter? You usually can’t get a word out fast enough.”
Stiles fiddles with his own hands. “Do we have to play today?”
Mr. McCall pets his hair.
“Oh, honey. It’s all right. You’ll like playing soon. It’s an Omega’s duty.”
Stiles just stares.
Scott’s dad rubs his big hands over his sides, stopping to cup the tops of
Stiles’ thighs. He feels itchy and hot.
“Why don’t you have some cherry coke?” he asks, palms heavy, fingers dipping
just slightly into the swell of Stiles’ butt. “Something to cool you down?”
“Dad doesn’t let me have that. It makes me,” Stiles rolls his eyes and affects
the demeanor of a cross, impatient father, “unbearable.”
Scott’s dad laughs. “Stiles, sweetie, I think I can handle wriggly little boys
just fine.”
He goes to the fridge, withdraws a frosty coke bottle and pours it over ice.
Stiles can hear the fizz bubbling in the cup from where he stands, wilted and
subdued. Mr. McCall holds it out to him.
“My treat, son,” he says with a grin. The drink is dark and syrupy and
irresistible. Stiles gulps it down eagerly until the burn of it makes his eyes
leak. His jaw aches at the sweetness.
“Let’s play, baby boy,” Mr. McCall murmurs, hands squeezing at his neck. His
fingers are cold from handling the coke bottle. He takes the empty cup from
him, and Stiles moves to the living room, expecting the pallet again, but Mr.
McCall stops him.
“I’m a coach, remember? I have different rules.”
He leads Stiles to the master bedroom. It’s clean and smells like Mrs.
Melissa’s lotion. Stiles has only been in here once, when he and Scott were
playing larsen and stole Mr. McCall’s favorite tie. It’s gold and maroon, and
Stiles can see it still hanging off the closet door knob.
“Take off your clothes and get on the bed,” Mr. McCall says gently.
Stiles feels his face burn. “Even my panties?”
“Yes, sweetie.”
Stiles fumbles with his shorts and baseball shirt. It takes him some time to
untie his tennis shoes and get his socks off. He scoots to the center of the
bed, curing his knees up to his chest. Mr. McCall slides off his nice button-
down and yanks his belt out of the loops in one smooth tug.
“Go to position.”
Stiles turns over, his legs shaking, and goes to his hands and knees. He
worries he’s about to be spanked with the belt. A hot hand comes to the center
of his back and presses until Stiles’ chest is touching the mattress.
“Good Omega.”
A body lines up behind him, and Stiles clenches his eyes shut. He wants to play
with Scott again, not Mr. McCall.
“Why can’t I playmate with Scott?” he whimpers as thick fingers trail along his
spine and neck.
“You’re so needy, baby. An untrained Omega like you is a risk to younger
Alphas. I’ll give you what you need, so don’t worry.”
Stiles doesn’t know what he needs so badly, at least until Mr. McCall’s curled
knuckles graze down the crack of his ass and rub over his little hole.
Mr. McCall moans as he kneads a thumb over the pucker. Stiles has shivers, the
calloused graze over his tender cunt making him writhe.
“You’re swollen, baby. Are you that hungry for another cock?”
“Nooo,” Stiles whines pitifully. He remembers the strain of his flesh as it was
pulled around Mr. McCall’s Alpha cock. He feels his own slick ooze down the
backs of his thighs. Mr. McCall’s hands pull his cheeks apart, and Stiles feels
a cool stream of air blow over his wet hole. He jerks a little, but is held in
place.
“Stay still, honey. Be a good Omega.”
Stiles is still twitching when he feels Mr. McCall’s hot breath closing in,
then a slippery swipe of tongue right along his crack. It’s hot and Stiles
feels that scratchy crawling under his skin again. He presses his face into the
comforter, wishing he were under it. He feels too naked, the air cold where Mr.
McCall places dirty kisses. He wiggles his tongue over his hole, prodding and
lathing.
“Your creamy cunt is so good, Stiles. It was made for Daddy’s cock to breed,
wasn’t it?”
Stiles cries out as his little cunt is sucked. He can feel the rasp of facial
hair on his cheeks, the burning of his tongue slipping just in then out again.
He feels Mr. McCall press his face as close as he can to his hole, until the
tip of his nose drags along Stiles’ crack. He hears a deep inhale, then the
sharp press of teeth pinching the swollen pucker of his throbbing cunt.
He squeals, knees trembling. He feels his whole body getting heavy and warm.
It’s hard to breathe.
Stiles reaches down to squeeze where he’s aching, his little dick hard and
dripping.
“You little slut,” Mr. McCall snaps, yanking Stiles’ hand away from his own
cock and folding it behind his back. “What a bad Omega. You want to be
punished? Your dick is only good for looking.”
He bites Stiles’ neck, and Stiles shouts, the teeth sharp and pinching.
“Sweet, obedient Omegas stay soft for their Alphas and only feel pleasure
getting fucked.”
Stiles sobs quietly. No one has ever told him it would be so hard being an
Omega. He’s never been good with rules, and he already knows he can’t meet Mr.
McCall’s expectations. His cocklet always gets hard when he’s aroused.
“D-Dad,” he sniffles. “Dad says it’s normal...”
Mr. McCall growls a little, and Stiles’ heart thuds painfully. His grips on
Stiles’ wrist is tight as he starts to rut against his ass. That terrifying
weight is rubbing back and forth over Stiles’ cunt, grinding  and pulling on
the sensitive skin. It’s hard to open his eyes, or turn his head away from Mr.
McCall’s jaws.
“Your dad is a Beta, sweetheart,” he grunts, rolling his cock against Stiles.
“You think a Beta knows more than an Alpha? I’m your daddy right now, Stiles.”
Stiles isn’t sure. He knows a lot of Alphas at school who aren’t very smart.
Mr. McCall licks along Stiles’ neck. It feels sticky and cold.
“Mr. McCall?” he whimpers in a small voice.
“Shh,” he breathes in Stiles’ ear.
“But—”
Stiles shrieks when a hand slaps down on his butt, directly over his hole. He
heaves a breath as he stings and burns.
“No more talking, baby,” Mr. McCall moans. “Don’t worry, it’ll be so easy soon.
I’ll rock you right to sleep.”
Stiles sniffles just as he feels that pressure again, that warm hard press
against his leaking cunt. He hold his breath, grips the blanket beneath him. He
can feel the rub of Mr. McCall’s thigh hair on his legs, where he’s spread wide
and low. He feels Mr. McCall shift, the jolt of his Alpha Cock against his lax
hole making him whine.
“You want it so bad, don’t you?” he whispers in his ear. Stiles burns in
embarrassment, but he nods. He remembers the terrifying push of his cock
against his insides, crammed tight and full. He pants, the air thin and hard to
get to. He’s scared, the wide, wide tip of Mr. McCall’s arousal straining
against his rim as it pushes in.
It’s hard to move, his arms and legs feeling disconnected.
“Daddy,” he calls out in a small voice, hardly able to lift his tongue to get
the sound out.
Mr. McCall groans loud and broken, and Stiles is suddenly speared open, the
punishing length of cock making his hole gape and squelch wetly.
“I’m here, sweet boy,” Mr. McCall breathes against his neck, open mouth
dripping spit into Stiles’ hairline. “Daddy’s right here.”
Stiles can’t breathe anymore, his chest crushed under Mr. McCall’s weight. When
he begins to thrust, the veiny, tight skin of Alpha cock scrapes harshly
against his rim, overlarge and too fast. His belly feels pummeled, Mr. McCall’s
grip ensuring he doesn’t slip away from the unforgiving jab of his cock. Stiles
wants to touch himself, relieve the terrible pressure in his gut where Mr.
McCall strikes violently.
He tries to call for his dad again, but finds his throat closed and his head
pounding. He reaches for his neck, where the pressure is greatest and runs into
Mr. McCall’s hard knuckles. Stiles squeezes out a high pitched cry.
“Easy,” Mr. McCall grunts, jerking his cock into the place where Stiles is
tender and new. Stiles struggles against the hands around his throat with all
the strength he can muster, pawing at Mr. McCall uselessly. “Don’t struggle,
honey.”
He’s dizzy, his body crawling with the sensation of Mr. McCall’s coarse hair
rubbing his ass raw, his thick, heavy balls smacking the sensitive skin between
his Omega cunt and cocklet, his tight fingers crushing his neck. He can’t stop
the continuous whine as he cries, as Mr. McCall grinds into him until it’s all
he can feel, until he feels that frightening twisting in his belly.
“Yeah, baby, so good,” he hears slurred into his ear. “Just need an Alpha to
fuck that attitude out, I’m so close, honey, gonna come.”
Stiles can’t lift his hands anymore, just sags into the damp mattress as
Scott’s dad lets out a series of rapid grunts, his hips slamming harder than
ever against his butt, his cock feeling bigger than before.
“That’s it, give up that sloppy cunt, bitch,” he says, as Stiles’ head begins
to get fuzzy. His frantic voice is loud in Stiles’ ears. “I could knot you,
you’re so loose. Yeah, gonna knot you, you can take it—”
The hard rocking finally stops, and Stiles vaguely registers the sudden, all-
consuming stretch inside his cunt. It burns like fire, like when he jumps in
the shower before the scorching water adjusts. It’s all he knows until there is
nothing else left, and the rest is lost to him.
When Stiles wakes up, he feels like he has a cold. His eyes are crusted shut,
and his throat stings with every swallow.
There is a large hand playing with his soft, dry cocklet, tugging the flesh and
making his cunt sear and ache.
“Hey, sunshine,” Mr. McCall coos as he pets Stiles’ small cock.
“Can I go home now?” Stiles asks quietly. It hurts to talk, his voice coming
out cracked and raspy.
Mr. McCall kisses Stiles’ shoulder blade.
“Almost, Stiles.”
The hand finally leaves his soft cock to prod at his raw hole, and Stiles wails
as the fingers swipe into his stinging rim.
“I wanna go home,” he sobs, and shakes his head as Mr. McCall presses his
weight down on him again.
“Shh,” he gentles, stroking down Stiles’ naked back. “You’ve been so good. Let
me train you, okay? You just have to trust me.”
Stiles feels groggy, his head spinning when he tries to look back at Scott’s
dad. He just drops back into the pillows and nods. He’s so tired, he just wants
to roll over and hug the blankets, but Mr. McCall’s thighs keep him from
moving.
“You look so good, baby. I don’t even have to hold your hole open; it’s just
gaping for me, showing me the shape of my knot when I plugged you up.”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut as thick fingers dip into the chasm Mr. McCall
has created inside him.
“I can see my come in there, Stiles. Your cunt’s just swallowing it up.”
There is a rustle behind him before Stiles feels a broad warmth rest on his
stretched rim. He panics, squirming against Mr. McCall as he forces the tip
into his loose entrance.
“Nonono,” he cries, aching and sore. He feels torn open and bruised, the
swollen skin buzzing with fever.
“Just gotta fill you up, sweetheart, get you trained for carrying,” Scott’s dad
mutters quickly, hitching his hips forward so the first few inches of his
softened cock are resting in his warm hole. He sighs, and Stiles suddenly feels
a vast warmness spread inside, until it spills from his cunt and drips down his
thighs. The stench of pee startles Stiles, and his stomach rolls with horror as
the urine burns the insides of his thighs.
Mr. McCall moans loud and long as he fills Stiles up until it begins to twinge
in his belly.
“No more,” he whines.
“You’ve got to get used to it, Stiles. You were made to be this full.”
Stiles feels his stomach stretch and grow heavy, Mr. McCall’s hands soothing
over the swell and shushing him.
“It hurts.”
“Omegas were made to hurt,” Scott’s dad whispers as he pulls out, and hot pee
splashes over Stiles’ back as he finishes. Stiles chews on the corner of his
pillow and hides his face. He yells when Mr. McCall’s hands go from gentle to
heavy, pressing hard against his rounded belly. The pee warming his insides and
stuffing him full is forced out of his unclenching hole and sent pouring down
his legs and soaking the mattress.
Stiles shivers and heaves, feeling lightheaded.
“Omegas were made to be ruined,” Scott’s dad groans against Stiles’ hairline,
rutting into the sopping mess and pressing against Stiles stomach until he
thinks he might throw up.
“Why don’t I get you another cherry coke before I take you home?”
Chapter End Notes
     Beta'd by Mala
***** Peaches 'N Cream *****
Chapter Notes
     Let it be known I had to google "what does urine taste like" for this
Stiles doesn’t argue with his dad anymore.
When it’s time to go play with Mr. McCall, he sits quietly in the back of the
cruiser and doesn’t move when his dad hugs him goodbye. He oozes reluctantly
out of the car and slouches his way to the front door. Mr. McCall always knows
exactly when Stiles reaches the porch, because he opens the door with a broad
smile, a bottle of soda in one hand and a wave for the Sheriff in the other.
His dad doesn’t even get mad about the pop anymore, Mr. McCall saying “Let me
spoil the kid, John.”
He does.
Stiles accepts the drink because Mr. McCall will force him if he doesn’t.
Stiles always thought sugary sodas were supposed to make him hyper, and that’s
why his dad doesn’t let him have any at the house. But here, they make him
sleepy and confused, itchy and morose. Mr. McCall says it’s to help Stiles
relax, and he’s right because when Stiles finishes the whole bottle, his arms
and legs are hard to move and his head doesn’t want to stay up.
Mr. McCall takes the soda from his slipping hand and picks him up. He spills
like syrup on the bed, hardly recalling the trip from the kitchen to the
upstairs bedroom, letting Mr. McCall arrange him as he likes. He feels sticky
already, Mr. McCall’s flat palms hot on his thighs as he undresses him.
“Such a sweet thing,” he murmurs, from somewhere far above Stiles.
Mr. McCall is already naked, and he crawls up the mattress, something silky and
light purple balled in his fist. Stiles wiggles in confusion, as Mr. McCall
grabs his ankles and lifts his feet. He smiles at Stiles and licks at his toes.
Stiles giggles, squirming away, but Mr. McCall hooks the stringy fabric on his
trapped legs, and Stiles feels the first burnings of shame.
“Those are Miss Melissa’s...” he mutters, uncertain.
“She wants me to use them with you,” Mr. McCall says easily, sliding the lacy
panties up over his thighs and soft cocklet. The fabric cups him gently, the
strings a little loose around his hips. “How else will you learn to be a good
Omega?”
Mr. McCall picks up the rest of the soft fabric and shakes out what Stiles can
identify as a sheer top. He’s made to sit up, his head spinning, as he’s
encased in a satiny, open dress.
“My little babydoll,” Mr. McCall murmurs. He slides up Stiles’ body until his
knees straddle Stiles’ chest. The lingerie is too big for Stiles, and Mr.
McCall bunches up the cups of the top and thrusts his cock under the fabric.
“Your little tits don’t even fill the bra,” Mr. McCall chastises, rutting his
cockhead against one of Stiles’ nipples. “They would fill out if I bred you.
When you’re old enough, I can make them swell and get a proper titfuck out of
you.”
He scoots up more, abandoning the camisole for now and leaning over Stiles’
head, his heavy sack brushing warm and coarse over Stiles’ panting mouth. The
smell of him is as intense as ever, and Stiles wrinkles his nose as Mr. McCall
widens his stance, bringing the hanging skin closer. It mashes against his
nose, the sparse hairs bristly and sharp like his beard.
“You like Daddy’s Alpha musk, son?” Mr. McCall asks, reaching down to grip
Stiles by the jaw. “I’ll train your baby cunt to fucking  gush  whenever you
get a whiff.”
Stiles knows now that Scott’s dad doesn’t really expect an answer to his
questions. He prefers Stiles not say anything unless he tells him to.
“Open your mouth,” he grunts, his think fingers already crawling over Stiles’
teeth, prying him open. “Omegas have such pretty holes.”
Stiles squirms as Mr. McCall pokes around the soft, vulnerable tissue of his
cheeks, scraping his nails over his tongue and prodding the back of his throat.
He whines as Mr. McCall stuffs his swollen balls in his mouth, the taste of it
exploding and chasing away the lingering sweetness of the soda. Stiles chokes,
his hands finally lifting from the soft sheets, but Mr. McCall hunches over and
snatches them up, circling his hips all the while.
The length of Mr. McCall’s cock strokes against his face, dropping burning
globs of come. Stiles shudders and closes his eyes, wetness smearing into his
hair and nose, and suffocating him with the stench of Alpha seed.
“I could fucking shoot off right in your eyes, Omega,” Mr. McCall groans.
“Blind you, lead you on a leash. Isn’t that where you belong, sweetheart? Tied
down and wearing my crusty come like a second skin?”
Mr. McCall grips Stiles’ chin and shakes his gaping mouth until he’s stuffed
him to the tonsils.
Stiles heaves, trying to come up off the mattress, but Mr. McCall sits on him,
his full weight crushing his neck and making it impossible to breathe.
“You vomit on my cock, and I’ll make you suck it off until it shines.”
Stiles sobs, weak and trapped. Mr. McCall pulls away, his sack leaving Stiles‘
mouth with a messy string of drool. It drips on Stiles’ chest, cold and slimy.
Mr. McCall pets his hair gently, coos softly.
“Easy,” he whispers, running his fingers back over Stiles’ slobbery chin and
mouth. “You’re so wet here, it’s like you have another little cunt. You’re such
a good Omega, honey; dripping for Alpha cock.”
Stiles sniffs, leaning into the soft touches, and Mr. McCall laughs. He pats
his head again.
“Is that what you want? You want me to breed this sloppy cunt?”
Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, feels warm and tingly. He wishes Mr. McCall
would let go of his hands so he can reach down where he’s starting to ache,
where the tickle of Mrs. McCall’s panties has become unbearable.. His cocklet
feels heavy lying on his stomach, and Stiles just wants to make it better. He
shakes his head, rubbing his thighs together and making a small noise.  
“Oh, honey,” Mr. McCall sighs. “Of course you want it. Open your mouth more.”
Stiles obeys, rubbing his butt against the sheets. The rough string between his
cheeks scrapes against his cunt. He’s spreading a dampness down there and
shivers whenever the fabric rubs delicately over his exposed hole. He used to
have to be opened with Mr. McCall’s thick ring finger before his breeding hole
would leak freely, but he’s fixed now.
“Mr. McCall...” he whispers around the fingers pressing down on his tongue.
He’s ignored, and Stiles feels embarrassed, prickly.
“D-Daddy,” he chokes, and can’t open his eyes.
Mr. McCall groans. “Yeah, baby?”
 “My… my. It’s… please.”
He makes a questioning noise and glances over his shoulder to where Stiles is
grinding his ass into the bed. He laughs out right, slaps Stiles’ thigh
playfully.
“Look at your trained cunt work,” he chuckles. “Is it hungry, son?”
Mr. McCall reached for the bedside table, his hot cock throbbing on Stiles’
forehead.
“Here,” he says, and holds up something round and shiny. “For your empty
cumdump.”
Stiles blinks in horror. It’s a glass bottle, a strange undulating cylindrical
shape, with a wide top and bulbous bottom. That’s…
He shakes his head furiously as Mr. McCall reaches between Stiles’ legs,
nudging them apart with the cold bottle. Miss Melissa’s perfume.
“Nonono,” he begs, but the thick base is already sliding the panties aside in
the oily slick coming from Stiles’ cunt and pressing against his open rim. Mr.
McCall rolls it between his cheeks, then slides it in, and the stretch makes
Stiles gasp and cry, the edges hard and freezing on his lush insides. The
tapered center gives his muscles something to flutter around, until Mr. McCall
pushes it further until he’s sure there is no part but the little spray nozzle
left, peeking outside his puffy hole. He feels come spurt from his little cock
and sprinkle over his belly.
“It’ll get lost,” he whimpers.
“Christ don’t they teach Omegas about their own snatch these days?”
Mr. McCall thrusts the perfume bottle in and out a few times, until Stiles is
writhing and misty eyed.
“I know, it’s not as big as my dick, but it’ll hold you over for our exercise
today. Gotta train your mouth.”
Stiles is gaping, clenching around the hard shape keeping him full, tranquil
and calming down.
Mr. McCall looks down at him with a fond smile and spits into Stiles’ open
mouth.
Stiles jerks but can’t move away as fingers spread the fresh spit around his
drying lips.
“Don’t worry, we’ll have your mouth behaving soon too. It’ll drool every time I
pull my cock out.”
Mr. McCall finally guides the fat head of his cock to Stiles’ mouth, rubs it
against his messy chin. Stiles looks down his nose at the dark flesh, and it
looks a lot bigger from this angle. His throat clicks loudly through his open
mouth as he swallows, afraid.
“It’ll slide right in, sweetheart,” Mr. McCall reassures, stroking Stiles’
cheek. “Omega throats were made to warm their Alpha’s knot. Mind your teeth.”
Stiles whines as the cock slides over his tongue and gags when it reaches the
back of his mouth. He reaches up to push Mr. McCall back, and finds he’s only
half way.
“Come on, be a good Omega. Open up.” He sounds impatient, rutting in short
rocking thrusts into the barrier of his throat. “Tilt your head back.”
He does, opening his mouth wider to get more air, and Mr. McCall thrusts
forward steadily. Stiles feels his cock click by the ring of his throat as his
breath is cut short and he feels like he’s swallowing fire. He gags, wretches,
shudders through his whole body. He can feel tears dripping down his cheeks and
nose, and he looks up at Mr. McCall, begging he’ll pull back so he can breathe.
He does, hips flexing over Stiles, but he thrusts right back in with a loud
groan.
“ Ooh , Omega throat is divine. I could fuck your throat inside out and still
want to keep at it.”
Mr. McCall sets a fast pace that leaves Stiles gagging and belching every time
his withdraws, unable to calm himself enough to take a breath. He coughs and
cries, and still Mr. McCall fucks through it.
“I’m gonna have you do this all the time, baby, I’ll fuck a hole through your
head.”
Stiles finally gets a breath in, but inhales his own saliva and winds up
heaving it all out on the next gap between thrusts. He’s lightheaded, that
heavy drowsiness returning, leaving his limbs warm and detached. He lets Mr.
McCall hold his head up however he wants, his neck to hurt to want to work.
“I’m gonna blow,” he wheezes. “I’m gonna breed you full of my spunk until it
sprays out your nose. Squeeze my knot.”
Stiles endures the last of the jarring thrusts that jackrabbit into his skull,
hand coming up to cup the swelling knot ramming against his teeth. The force of
it rocks him against the spring mattress back and forth, into Mr. McCall’s cock
and the solid bottle twisting and bruising inside his cunt.
“You’re nothing but an Alpha waste dump. You’ll swallow my come and then I’ll
piss right in your fucking lungs, and you’ll take it even if you drown.”
He finally comes, and Stiles fights to keep down the thick clumps of seed
sliding down his ravaged  throat. He can feel the swollen knot pressing against
his chin and sobs, relieved he hadn’t been made to hold it in his too-small
jaw. It pulses in his hand, monstrous and angry.
His whole upper body throbs and burns, his chest constricted to suffocation,
his neck and head pounding viciously.
“One more thing, baby boy,” Mr. McCall croons softly, his hips flexing and
twitching. Stiles knows what’s going to happen. He’s taken Mr. McCall’s piss in
his cunt every time he’s bred, but he had hoped Mr. McCall would skip it this
time.
Stiles holds Mr. McCall’s sweaty knot as it shrinks, and just as it recedes to
normal size, the first jet of piss hits the back of his tongue. He chokes, his
mouth filling faster than he can force himself to swallow, and it streams down
his neck and soaks his hair. He can feel it spreading to the dress, the fabric
sticking to his skin and teasing his nipples.
“Drink up, son. You’ve been so good today.”
Stiles cries as he tries to hold his breath and swallow the jerking flow of
piss. He tries not to smell it, tries not to notice the taste. His stomach
churns as he manages a second mouth full, and hiccups in relief when the stream
starts to lessen. Mr. McCall sighs and pulls his cock from Stiles’ mouth,
splashing him in the face and chest with the last of his piss. Stiles closes
his eyes and shies away.
He doesn’t open them even as Mr. McCall slinks into the mattress beside him and
has him turn his back to him on his side. Stiles presses his wet, sticky cheek
into the blankets, and Mr. McCall rubs his hand down his back until his finds
the bottle plugging his ass and grips it. Stiles yowls and shakes as he’s
fucked with the object, it’s relentless shape battering him. He feels that
aching tightness inside where he feels empty without the swell of a knot and
the flood of come.
“You’d let me fuck you with anything, so long as it’s big enough, wouldn’t you
sweetie?”
Stiles shakes his head into the pillows. They’re wet and sopping with the
stench of piss.
“I could fuck you with Scotty’s Wii remote, and you’d love every second.”
Stiles burns in humiliation, that he can recall the thick girth of the remote
in his hand and shiver of need at the thought. He cries out desperately, his
hole clenching and sucking on the bottle every time it forces its way inward.
He can hear the wet squelch of it, the foamy slide of slick running down the
crease of his thigh. He wants to touch his cocklet. It hurts and throbs, but
he’s not allowed to touch it. It’s only good for looking.
“Scotty would probably help you. He’d see you hungry for his toy and watch you
swallow it up. Anything could go in your wasted cunt after that.”
Mr. McCall mashes his palm into Stiles’ chest, rubbing the tacky, wet lingerie
against his peaked nipples. He twists the bottle in his cunt and punches the
puckered skin under his fingers. Stiles comes with a loud wail, hands flying to
his spurting cock to hold it as it lurches and sputters.
He trembles as the bottle is removed and set back on the bedside table, shiny
and making a puddle of his slick on the tabletop. Mr. McCall lifts Stiles from
the bed, the too large panties falling and catching around his knees, the
straps of the dress falling off his shoulders. Mr. McCall carries him to the
bathroom and sits in the shower with Stiles in his lap, back to chest. Mr.
McCall doesn’t take the panties or dress off, just fists the fabric until the
strings dig in Stiles’ soft sin. He’s peppered with kisses on his neck and back
and lifted until he’s sat back down on Mr. McCall’s half hard cock.
Stiles moans, the noise loud in the quiet shower, his voice cracked. He wiggles
a little, his cunt dripping around the hot length flexing inside him.
Mr. McCall turns the shower on, and it sprays right in Stiles’ face. He
startles when a warm rag rubs over his thighs while a hand massages his throat
where he’s still sandpapery sore. The lingerie sags under the water, hanging
off Stiles like chains.
His eyes are raw from crying, and the sting of his throat is worse in the steam
of the shower. Mr. McCall hushes his whining complaints and continues to wipe
him down gently with a soapy rag, mouthing at one of his shoulders and just
barely rolling his hips.
“What do you say for being playmated so well, honey?” he whispers over the soft
rush of water.
Stiles bounces restlessly a little, tugging the panties cutting into his knees.
The cock in him swells a little, turning rigid where Stiles has gone plush.
“Thank you, Daddy.”


***** Fruit Gushers *****
Stiles thinks his lessons with Mr. McCall will go on forever.
While Scott and all the other kids move on to the group play dates, Mr.
McCall’s burgundy lexus cruises into the driveway every Sunday morning to pick
him up. His dad seems to forget about the arrangement, never stirring from the
dining room where he’s fallen asleep awashed in open case files, the sharp
scent of gin lingering in the hall. Stiles leaves his dad a peanut butter
sandwich with the crusts cut off for when he wakes up, made just the way his
mom used to.
Mr. McCall grips his thigh on the way to Scott’s house, where it’s empty and
quiet while Miss Melissa and Scott are at Sunday School. Mr. McCall slips him a
little baggy, heavy and solid when he buckles up. He calls them toys, and
they’re different every time. This one is white and pink, marbled and wide.
“Pop that into your little pussy for me, honey. Need you ready when we get
home.”
Stiles flushes.
He wiggles in his seat and pulls his elastic shorts and panties down. The
leather seats are hot on his thighs and he struggles with the seatbelt until
his can reach under himself with the round plug. They get bigger every week.
It’s a part of his training, Mr. McCall says, and Stiles agrees because it
doesn’t hurt so much when Mr. McCall knots him now.
He slides the cool surface of the little fake knot along his thighs then
between his cheeks, wriggling. His mouth hangs open as Mr. McCall backs out of
the driveway. His little hole resists, still mostly dry.
“Need help, baby?”
“I got it,” he pants, twisting the hard knob until it makes his cunt gape and
leak, his coklet twiching in the cool AC. It gets sucked inside until the base
rests between his sensitive cheeks. He pulls his shorts back up around his hips
and sits up. He squirms around the thickness resting heavy inside and bounces
in his seat. He gasps every time Mr. McCall hits a pothole, whines.
“I know sweetheart, I’ll take care of you. I’ll always take care of you.”
Stiles is in Mrs. Gardner’s fourth grade Reading class on Monday, and he hasn’t
seen Scott all morning when he is called to the Principal’s office.
It’s not the first time. When his mom died last year, he was called in to see
the school’s counselor, Ms. Morrell, and he has since been sent to the
Principal for disciplinary reasons in between, usually with Scott in tow.
“Stiles, honey,” Deputy Goodman says when he reaches the front desk and sees
two other of his dad’s deputies waiting around. Deputy Goodman smiles at him
soft and easy, and Stiles’ stomach lurches.
“Is Dad okay?” he blurts, chewing the string of his pull-over until it frays
and grits in his teeth. He remembers the last time the deputies came for him at
school, an afternoon when they’d taken him to the hospital and he hadn’t gone
home until his mom had gone cold. His hands are sweaty, and Dad says that’s
normal for kids, but he’s getting kind of scared.
“The Sheriff is fine, kiddo. He’s—” her voice does this weird warble as she
clears her throat. “He’s waiting for you down at the station. We’re going to
check you out of school today.”
“Why?” Stiles asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Deputy Goodman wipes her
palms on her crisp-pressed trousers.
“We um, need your help solving a crime.”
Stiles can hardly believe it. He gapes up at the deputy, barely containing the
sudden excitement buzzing through his body.
“Reallyreallyreally?” he spouts, clinging to her waist and stepping up on her
boots like he used to do when he was younger and not grown up. She laughs short
and hard.
“Yeah, buddy. Let’s go.”
He rides her feet to the cruiser parked right out the front of Beacon Hills
Elementary and demands to be allowed to sit in the front.
“Pleasepleaseplease,” he chants, even though he’s already sitting in the
passenger seat. “Can I turn on the lights? Can we speed with the sirens going?”
The radio clicks on to report a 10-70.
“Can I answer that?” Stiles asks. “That means a fire alarm, are we going? Can
we go put out a fire?”
“Let’s stick to solving one crime at a time,” the deputy riding in the back
says. He sounds bitter, so Stiles settles in his seat with a huff.
===============================================================================
 
John Stilinski sits stiffly at his desk as his deputies bring his son to him.
The Omega Wellness and Healthcare Center had contacted him through their
representative at the station and requested an urgent investigation into his
son’s health.
“There is no need to panic before we have all of the information, Mr.
Stilinski,” they had told him over the phone. “We have had the department
arrange for Stiles to be brought to you. The doctor considered it best
considering the… tenuous position you’re in. SVU will be present by the time
you get here with your son, and they can answer all your questions about the
situation and the related arrests.”
SVU? Special Victims Unit? Arrests?
John taps his pen against his desk. He doesn’t understand what is happening,
and the picture he’s beginning to get from it all is even worse than if someone
would just tell him.
“Dad!”
John jerks out of his chair as his son barges through his ajar office door.
He’s smiling, but Goodman looms behind him with a grim expression.
“Sir,” she says with a nod.
“Dad, Deputy Goodman says I’m supposed to help solve a crime with my detective
skills.”
John leans a hand against his desk as Stiles chirps and rattles away about all
the police codes he’s been learning and the books he’s been reading, and Jesus.
Jesus.
John looks at him, really squints at his son, but there’s nothing there,
nothing wrong. What is happening?
His deputy drives them the ten minutes to the Omega Center and they’re led by a
smartly dressed agent into the abuse and investigation department. John is ill,
his forehead pounding. He keeps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder who is still talking
like he’s made of lungs, like he thinks they’re here for someone else.
They stop in a hall. The walls are painted half white and yellow, an
illustration of a beehive at the end with cartoonish worker bees smiling down
at them. They are in the child trauma and counseling wing. John has had to
escort kids and parents to this hall.
“I’m not getting more shots, am I?” Stiles whispers upon seeing the group of
severe looking adults grouped in the hall.
“Mr. Stilinski,” a woman steps forward, who John knows is Dr. Drew, head of
this department. They shake hands, though John can hardly feel the cold
cinderblocks of his palms. She smiles down at Stiles. “And Stiles. I haven’t
seen you in years. You’re practically a man.”
Stiles puffs out, smug.
“Why don’t you go have a seat in this waiting room while I talk to your dad?
There are a few books and crossword puzzles. Legos too.”
Stiles goes easily into the side room filled with children’s toys and
preoccupations. A nurse follows him.
Dr. Drew takes John into the adjoining room, a two-way mirror showing Stiles in
the other room twitching in his seat, the nurse absently fiddling with some
puzzle pieces.
“John,” Dr. Drew says gently. “These are Detectives Bensen and Wright. They
were alerted to some… disturbing information from the local Mating Therapy
Center. A couple of group therapists called after learning of potentially
illegal activity.”
“But,” John says, parched and croaking. “But Stiles hasn’t participated in any
group play mating.”
“We know, Sheriff Stilinski,” one of the detectives says gently. “A young
Alpha, Scott McCall, does, and he had some very enlightening things to say
about Stiles. About Rafael McCall.”
The pressure in the room slams in on John, his blood bubbling, eardrums
hissing.
They tell him that Scott had confessed to having overheard and seen Rafael
McCall playmating Stiles. Breaking rules. My dad says coaches have different
rules, he’d said to the overseeing group therapist Laura Hale.
They tell him they’ve been speaking with Scott in a different room with Melissa
all day. That Scott is scared he’s done something wrong because Melissa cries,
but is overall earnest and honest to their inquiries. How long has your dad
coached Stiles? Have you ever seen your dad try to undress Stiles? Has your dad
ever hurt anyone? Is your dad coaching any other Omegas?
They tell him they’ve arrested Rafael McCall for the endangerment and sexual
assault of three minors: Stiles Stilinski, Allison Argent and Isaac Lahey. That
Melissa allowed a search of the house without a warrant. That they found
Stiles’ DNA in their masterbedroom. In the attached bathroom. On sex… on
sextoys in the closet.
Even Melissa is being investigated as an accomplice.
John sits at the table in the metal fold-up chair as they tell him all of this,
and he thinks of every time he’s handed his son, his baby , into Rafael’s hands
for months while he drank and worked and drank and worked. Every time Rafael
shook his hand and smiled and said Don’t worry, I’ve got it handled.
“We need to do a thorough examination of Stiles,” Dr. Drew says. “There could
be any number of health complications because of this, from cervical
displacement to hormonal imbalance to pregnancy—”
John lurches forward, face in his hands. He heaves.
“John,” Dr. Drew sighs gently, her hand on his shoulder blade. “You have been
here for every victim in your jurisdiction, offering them support. The
detectives and my team will see you and Stiles through this personally.”
So John nods. He nods and he goes with Detective Bensen to sit with Stiles and
they tell Stiles they need to ask him some questions about his sessions with
Mr. McCall. And Bensen pulls out the chart, the one with the two dimensional
body. She asks Stiles to show her where Mr. McCall would touch him. It’s like
out of a TV drama. It isn’t real.
It’s about the time she’s asking if Mr. McCall ever initiated penetration that
Stiles seems to realize this isn’t a normal situation. He begins glancing at
John with eyes that keep getting bigger. John holds him through a series of
jitters and when they finally tell Stiles the truth of it, that Mr. McCall
broke the law, that what he was doing is wrong, Stiles looks at John, his voice
robbed from him. John has never felt more like a failure. He holds him when Dr.
Drew asks Stiles to change into a thin white robe and tells him they’re going
to do a physical and take some tests. John helps his kid out of his jeans and
shirt and sees—
It all gets recorded in the bodiless, detached way in a file with Stiles’ full
name on it. They take pictures of the bite marks on Stiles’ back. The bruises
between his thighs and ankles. They write down the way Stiles’ heat glands
beside his lymphnodes feel enlarged and and sore. They have Stiles lie back on
the exam table, feet in stirrups. Dr. Drew touches Stiles’ inner thigh and
warns there might be some pain. John holds his baby boy’s hand, and he can’t be
sure who squeezes hardest.
“Intravaginal bruising,” Dr. Drew says indifferently from between Stiles’
spread legs, and the nurse at her shoulder writes it down. “Chronic muscular
elasticity loss. Almost done, honey.”
Stiles whimpers, and when John looks down, there are tears trailing over his
cheeks and into his ears.
“No lesions or cervical prolapse.”
Stiles is shaking, and John pets his hair with clumsy fingers.
Dr. Drew withdraws, and Stiles’ body collapses against the table. He’s making
these soft sniffling noises, these gentle sobs, and John just can’t deal with
this. He pulls Stiles’ robe back over his thighs and pulls him into his lap
where Stiles seems to crumble. The small exam room is filled with his hoarse
cries and wet hiccups, and Dr. Drew rests her hand on John’s shoulder after
pulling off her gloves.
“We’ll need a urine and blood sample next. Nurse Tom here will show Stiles to
the bathroom when he’s ready.”
They leave them in the room, and John just spends the next few minutes trying
to grasp this. It’s been like a horror show these last three hours, and it’s
only the beginning.
Stiles stands on shaky legs, and as he disappears with the nurse down the hall,
John is overcome by panic at seeing him gone. He reaches for the empty door
frame, fighting another spasm in his gut. He paces until Stiles returns, then
holds him again as Dr. Drew calmly and quickly sticks Stiles’ arm and draws
blood. Stiles goes a little incoherent, his head dropping to his chest at the
sight of the needles.
“All done, kiddo,” Dr. Drew announces, passing the tray of blood samples to her
nurse. “The front desk will get all the paperwork sorted for a school and work
pardon. We will call you when we have run all the tests. And the detectives
will probably be by your house next week in order to further their
investigation.”
Stiles is practically nonverbal as he pulls his clothes back on. He looks at
the ground and no where else as they make their way back down the hall with
Deputy Goodman.
“How about a piggy back ride?” she asks Stiles with a grin. John is signing a
receipt as Stiles shakes his head. He presses into John’s side and raises his
arms until John takes the hint. He lifts his kid and holds him on his hip as he
accepts the last of the paperwork. Stiles rubs his face against John’s neck and
shirt collar, his fingers pulling on his Sheriff’s badge. John nearly drowns in
the surge of guilt the gesture brings.
“Sheriff?”
John pauses, grits his teeth. He adjusts his hold on Stiles so that he is
comfortably cradled in the slope of his arm. He turns to see Chris Argent
walking through the glass rotating doors. His daughter, Allison, is trailing
behind him, glancing curiously around the entrance hall. Every Omega has been
to this center, for health check-ups and playmating education, but it’s obvious
Allison knows this isn’t a regular visit.
“Chris,” John greets, his voice thin and brittle in the wide hall.
“Some detectives asked me to bring Allison down.”
John clears his throat. “Yeah, same for me and Stiles.”
Chris inclines his chin. His eyes are sharp, keen.
“Something to do with an arrest this morning in the neighborhood, maybe?”
Allison tilts her head, clearly listening. She’s as sharp as her father.
“...Maybe,” John concedes. He motions to Deputy Goodman and they head for the
doors.
“Sheriff, I’m trusting you that the arrest will stick,” Chris calls at his
back.
John hesitates at the door.
“Trust me, Chris. Even if the charges somehow fall through, this man will never
escape police custody.”
“I’m happy to volunteer with the department again, if you get a little short
handed.”
There is a pregnant pause in which Deputy Goodman pretends to be distracted by
something outside. John looks at Chris, at his stern expression, his hand on
Allison’s head.
“Absolutely.”
When they get home, the quiet compared to the noise of a clinic and the
constant hiss of the police scanner is intimidating. They sit at the kitchen
bar, and John doesn’t know what to say. What can he say that will erase the
handprint of Rafael fucking McCall from his baby’s skin?
“You hungry?” he asks.
Stiles shakes his head. He’s chewing on the drawstring of his coat.
John sighs.
“How about a bath.”
Stiles glances up finally. His eyes and lips are abused purple-red. He gives a
tiny nod.
John hasn’t used the big bathtub in his and Claudia’s bathroom since long
before she fell ill. There is a layer of dust on the ceramic that John rinses
away. He fills the tub a lot higher than is practical, and pours a large
portion of Claudia’s body wash he’s been holding onto. It bubbles and creates a
thin film of lavender suds over the water’s surface. It smells like the sweet
wild flowers that bloom all over the county in the spring and fresh mint, some
discontinued Bath and Body scent called Summer Amethyst. He remembers pressing
his lips to Claudia’s mole speckled shoulders, the soft smell lingering on her
clean skin like a shawl.
Stiles doesn’t tell John to go away like he normally would. At just a few
months short of ten, Stiles had been very adamant about his privacy, refusing
to undress in front of him and demanding showers without John checking on him.
It’s a dramatic change from Stiles running around the house naked just a couple
of years ago.
He wonders now, if half the reason Stiles demanded privacy is because of the
mottled green-purple bruises clustered on his back and chest.
Stiles sinks into the water, his face relaxed and still. He obviously knows the
significance of the soap in the water. He cups it in his hands and brings it to
his face until his lips press into the water.
John grabs a bottle of shampoo and squeezes some into his palm.
“He wanted me to call him Daddy.”
It takes several seconds for John to first comprehend what Stiles is saying and
then to calm down from the blinding rage that sweeps through him. He rubs
shampoo through Stiles’ buzzed hair and down his neck.
“He said he’d teach me to be a good Omega.”
“Close your eyes,” John murmurs, kneading his fingers over Stiles’ scalp. “You
are a good Omega, son.”
Stiles sniffles loudly.
“Rinse,” he says, and Stiles dunks under the water.
When he comes back up, he rubs his eyes tiredly.
“You are a perfect Omega, Stiles. There is no wrong way to be an Omega.”
Stiles just stares up at him, drenched and shivering.
“Well,” he amends. “There is one wrong way. And that’s what ever the hell
Rafael was making you do.”
Stiles just sinks his chin into the steaming water. John soaps up a washcloth
and hopes the scent of his mother and the chaste touch of his father washing
him will help Stiles feel clean again.
It’s three days later the Omega Center calls John.
“Stiles is negative for any disease,” Dr. Drew is saying. “But—John. He’s
pregnant.”
John spears his knuckles into his temples and wonders how much worse things can
get when he’d thought they couldn’t.
“We can’t—we’re not going to tell him,” he chokes. “Just, schedule the—”
God, maybe when Stiles is older, John will explain in a few years that the
check-up they go to, the check-up where Dr. Drew inserts an instrument that
vacuum sucks the embryonic material from Stiles’ uteral lining with a loud
lurch of sucking machinery; maybe he will tell Stiles it isn’t just a strange
examination, but something inside John never wishes to tell his son he’s had an
abortion at nine years old.

***** Beef Jerky *****
Rafael McCall's bail is set at sixty-thousand pending his trial. He can’t
afford it, and Melissa doesn’t offer to help raise it. Stiles overhears her on
the phone asking his dad if she can file for a divorce while her husband is in
jail. He googles divorce and worries.
Stiles thinks his dad probably expected some resistance from him when he
brought up talking to all the legal representatives they need in order to
convict, but Stiles is relieved to help. He tells all the deputies he’s helping
solve a crime, and they smile tentatively. He wants to feel pride. He starts to
construct the idea that he had been solving a crime the whole time. That he had
been undercover in order to expose Mr. McCall’s unlawful behavior, and it was
all a part of the job.
Sometimes that makes it worse.
He doesn’t go to school, and his dad doesn’t say anything about it. Stiles
misses Scott, but whenever he thinks about calling him, his chest goes really
tight and his eyes clench closed. Grown-ups look at him wherever he goes; when
they go grocery shopping or when he goes for a haircut. They watch him like
they’re wary, following his every movement. He starts just staying home.
His dad takes off from work, but Stiles doesn’t think drifting around the house
in mismatched socks, watching old cop movies counts as vacation. The first day
he stays home, Stiles comes to the kitchen for a pop-tart to find his dad
pouring his expensive bourbon down the sink.
“Wasn’t that a gift?” he asks weakly.
“I’m more of an apple juice kind of guy,” his dad grouses, eyes still crusted
with sleep and red in the corners.
Stiles never sees him drink again.
A week after Mr. McCall is placed under investigation, he goes missing. Stiles
sees it on the news while his dad is out on a milk and bread run. Deputy
Goodman’s on the front porch filling in a sudoku puzzle.
They find him hiding under his dad’s bed, his face marked with carpet burn
where he can’t stop shaking his head. He wonders what will happen if Rafael
finds him. If he’ll be mad that Stiles got him in trouble. If he’ll make Stiles
prove he’s sorry.
“It’s okay, baby,” his dad says, dragging him out and into his lap. “He can’t
get to you. No one is going to come get you.”
“Do you know where he is?” he demands, looking at his dad’s tired face.
He looks determined and helpless all at once, and Stiles wonders why things are
so messy.
“I know he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. And I know he’s not coming
anywhere near you.”
He pulls Stiles into a hug, and Stiles sees Deputy Goodman glancing over her
shoulder at them. She smiles grimly at Stiles. “Let us worry about McCall. I
get the feeling he’s long gone.”
Stiles is dozing off against his dad’s knee when the phone rings. He doesn’t
stir, rubbing his cheek against the stiff denim and tangling his fingers in his
dad’s shoelaces.
His dad had been uncomfortable about the position at first, but curling by his
feet and resting his head on his thigh made all the anxiousness slithering
along his insides quiet. He couldn’t do anything bad or wrong here, he didn’t
have to think.
“Don’t you want to sit up here with me, kiddo?” he asks, patting the couch
cushion hopefully, holding the still ringing phone aloft.
Stiles shakes his head without looking up. He watches the news channel dully,
not really listening. He recognizes his own face flashing across the screen. A
woman is asking if this is another example of why Omegas are bad for society.
“Hello?” his dad says gruffly into the phone, changing the channel and petting
Stiles’ hair idly. “Hey, Chris. Taking a chance to be calling so soon, aren’t
you?”
Stiles chews on the collar of his over-large t-shirt. He could fake a run to
the bathroom and grab the other house phone to listen in, but he’s feeling a
little tired of detective work. He can think about Chris Argent later.
“I’m glad to hear your hunting trip went so well.”
Stiles is tying the shoelaces into slip knots around his finger tips.
“We really appreciate your help with controling the predator population in the
Preserve. I’ll see you at the station some time.”
His dad hangs up and heaves a long sigh. He looks down at Stiles and smiles.
His dad has to go to the station the next day. Deputy Goodman takes Stiles for
a ride around town.
“He just has to answer a few questions,” she tells him over ice cream.
“Important Sheriff stuff.”
Stiles knows that’s code for withholding information. He doesn’t mind overly
much when he’s got a scoop of peanut butter ice cream under his nose. It’s long
past dark when his dad finally comes home. Stiles peels his eyes open and
unsticks his face from the couch.
“Hey, kiddo.”
Stiles sits up a little more and holds his arms up. His dad stoops over,
grasping him under the arms, and lifts him.
“Oooh, my back,” he teases, pretending to drop Stiles.
Stiles grumbles, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck. They trod heavily up
the stairs, and his dad drops him off in his bedroom, pulling Stiles’ comforter
up to his neck and sitting down on the edge of the mattress.
“What do you say we go away for a little while?”
Stiles yawns. “Like, leave?”
“Not for forever. But maybe for a year or two.”
“But?” Stiles stutters. “My friends? And school! And...”
Stiles tries to imagine going back to those things and stalls.
“But you’re the Sheriff, and you said justice never sleeps. You can’t leave!”
His dad laughs a little.
“There will be other Sheriffs. And I’ve always wanted to go to Seattle.”
Stiles doesn’t know much about Seattle. His dad has a cousin there that visited
once, and it gave him the impression it was a weird kind of place.
“...Not forever, though?”
His dad nods.
“Okay.”
 
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