Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/958656.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Papa_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Age_Difference, Sexting, Daddy_Kink, Non-Negotiated_Kink, BDSM, Spanking,
      Belts, Sex_Toys, Comeplay, Unsafe_Sex, Rimming, Badwrong, Dirty_Talk,
      Subspace, mentions_of_somnophilia, Handcuffs, Dubious_Consent, Angst,
      Alternate_Canon, Video_Cameras, Dark, Aftercare
  Series:
      Part 2 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-08 Words: 7826
****** Wanna break you down so badly ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     sequel to "You hollow out my hungry eyes"
     Stiles is set on total destruction, and this time, it's going to
     work. The sex is just improvisation.
Notes
     WARNINGS ARE THE REAL SHIT YO.
     If you already read the first part, just know that this chapter has:
     more bdsm stuff, mentions of (but not actual) somnophilia, implied
     non-consensual videotaping, daddykink implications that don't go
     ignored, and the identity stuff is pretty dubcon, so make your own
     decisions, yo. Also, Rafa is not the best dom, just FYI. Not bad,
     like, in a dangerous way, but not good. Not an expert in bdsm or
     anything but I'm pretty sure he does plenty of shit you shouldn't do.
     IF YOU DIDN'T READ THE FIRST PART, know that this is part two of a
     chaptered fic broken up for tagging reasons. I swear that all of this
     will make so much more sense if you read part one first. But please
     pay attention to the warnings because this is a mess of very possibly
     triggery stuff. FULL OVERALL WARNINGS ON THE FIRST PART YO.
     Also i have no idea how the driver's license system works in CA so I
     just went with the American stereotype because idgaf.
See the end of the work for more notes
Rafa’s text comes in the morning. Stiles wakes up to it, doesn’t even really
get a blissful moment of forgetting because he finds his phone on the floor
next to his aunt’s couch as soon as he wakes up. 
When can I see you again?
Well, it’s straightforward, at least. And it’s not like he doesn’t know that’s
on the table, considering that Stiles freaking left his number. Which was
fucking stupid. He’s fifteen, he’s only a fucking week into his sophomore year,
and he thinks he can handle this? So fucking stupid. 
But now he’s in it. There’s no turning back. He made his fucking decisions, and
as stupid as they were, he’s gotta carry through. 
The fridge door closes in the other room, so Stiles gets up, stretches, and
brings his phone with him. He’ll figure it out after some orange juice or
something. 
Aunt Jess is turning on a burner, a package of bacon on the counter. “Coffee’s
in the freezer if you want it,” she says, turning to give him a smile. He
shrugs, doesn’t need it, but he does find a cup and go for the OJ. “Got in
pretty late last night,” she says conversationally. 
“Guess so,” he says, feeling out how she’s going to react. 
“Good night?”
He shrugs, finding the bar stool behind him, hops up. Winces because his ass
feels like one big all-over ache. 
Aunt Jess gives him a knowing look. “We’ve all been there. Don’t worry, I won’t
tell your dad.” She snorts. “Well, he’d probably kill me for letting you go out
in the first place. But everyone deserves to have sex if they want to. You did
want to, right? I know sometimes—”
“I did,” Stiles assures her. “But I also gave him my number and I’m thinking
now that was a really bad idea.” 
“Worried he’ll call?” 
Stiles shakes his head. “Already did. Well, texted. Wants to meet again.”
“Do you?” 
“Yes,” is the only answer he has that makes sense, that doesn’t sound
obsessive. 
She sets down the spatula and turns to face him fully. “Look. If you need a
place to crash or someone to cover your ass for your dad, it’s there. I just
ask that you’re safe and you don’t hesitate to call if you need a ride or
someone with a good right hook. It’s okay. Besides, I grew up in that town.
I’ve been there. I know there aren’t a lot of options for gay boy if you don’t
want everyone knowing your business. Just let me know what you need.”
“Thanks,” he tells her, “seriously. It’s just, he’s a little bit older and I
don’t want my dad to freak out.” 
And his dad would, that’s the thing. Since he was young, he’d always told
Stiles I don’t care if they’re a girl, boy, or whatever, but they better not be
within five years of me. 
He’s not actually sure if Rafa’s within five years of his dad, since his dad
looks older, but that doesn’t mean anything. Stress ages people. That’s a fact.
There’s no way to be sure, and it’s not like if it weren’t an issue, he’d be
all for telling his dad about it. He’s still fucking Rafael McCall. 
“Just be careful about that,” Jess tells him. “Some men have a thing, a fetish,
for boys your age. You don’t want to get mixed up with that type. Trust me. And
if he has kids, make sure none of them are within a few years of you. Bad
sign.”
Well, he’s already kind of fucked there, isn't he?
“You want some eggs?” Jess asks, and he makes himself stop worrying about it. 
“That sounds good, yeah,” he says as he composes a text message. 
Only in town for the weekend, but I might be able to come down in a couple
weeks.
He doesn’t know that for sure. The only reason his dad let him come down in the
first place was because it’s a three-day weekend, Labor Day. And they don’t see
Aunt Jess much. She has no interest in coming to Beacon Hills, and his dad
doesn’t get a lot of free time, being the Sheriff and all, only had enough time
to drop Stiles off and have dinner the other night. But once Stiles can get his
license, and if his dad will actually let him drive with it, like he hasn’t
been teaching Stiles to drive for a freaking year, then maybe he can pull
another weekend in a little while. 
And then he’ll do it. He’ll lead Rafa along on the path to guilt and self-
loathing. Maybe even fuck him again first, to add to it. That’s the only reason
he’d do it again. 
(Except it’s not and he knows it’s not, he’s acutely aware of that, but he’s
not going to worry about it until he has to.)
 
It’s a couple days later that Rafa sends him another text. Stiles is working on
homework, door open so he can hear the oven timer go off, and his phone buzzes
next to him. Scott usually texts him when he starts on his chemistry homework,
so that’s what he thinks it is, at first, but wrong McCall. 
What are you doing?
Stiles looks around even though there’s no one else home, no one in his room,
but it feels like he’s being watched. Like he should be watched. 
His dad’s not due home for another couple hours. 
He’s completely alone. 
He could get naked, snap a dirty picture, send it, and no one would know.
Except Stiles has some reservations about it. He’s never taken that kind of
selfie. Not even really sure what to do. But he wants Rafa to have evidence,
something for him to lose sleep over later.
He shucks his clothes quickly, trying not to think about how his dick’s already
getting excited. But he knows he gets off on the wrongness of it all, he knows
that because he’s been jerking off to it lately, tried fingering himself last
night, but he didn’t have any real lube. Has to figure out how to get some
without anyone knowing.
Phone in hand, he lays down on his bed. Sends a quick response.
Just having a little fun ;)
He looks down at his dick, flushing dark pink with a little shiny precome at
the tip, and gives himself a good stroke or two to get himself to full-mast. 
His phone buzzes against his stomach. 
Show me
Well, Stiles can do that. 
He settles his heels against the bed, legs bent and spread, and takes a moment
to get a good camera angle. When he’s satisfied, he sends it. Tugs lightly on
his cock while he waits. 
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wait long. 
Finger yourself
Stiles rolls his eyes because a please would be nice. And he doesn’t have lube,
anyway. All he’s really got is spit. Well, if he were actually fingering
himself, that might be a problem, but if he just puts them in, it should be
fine. 
He takes a picture of himself with his fingers in his mouth, sends it. Getting
one with his fingers in his ass is a little harder, angle-wise, but with a
little contortion, he manages. Sends it. 
Fuck baby I love that ass. Bet it feels empty without me. 
Stiles stares at his phone for a minute, then gives up on masturbating. Miss
your cock, he sends. Then, Want you to fuck me again Daddy. Fill me up. 
He rolls over onto his stomach, bored, as he waits for the next text. 
I will. Gonna fuck you till you’re messy with my come. Make you get me hard
again so I can keep fucking you. Only let you come from my cock in your ass.
When Stiles realizes he’s grinding against the bed, he stops, stomach twisting.
This isn’t for him. This isn’t supposed to turn him on. And he needs to fucking
remember that. He’s not even into this. Nothing Rafa says should get him
going. 
Should. That’s the operative word there, that’s why he shouldn’t be doing this.
He’s not supposed to have any sort of investment in this. He’s just supposed to
give Rafa a permaboner and freak him out with the fact that he’s fifteen and
practically has a telepathic connection to Scott. 
Then what? Stiles sends, not sure how to respond. 
Gonna spank your ass red and if you let a single drop out, I’ll use my belt on
you. 
Stiles shudders and yeah, he’s maybe humping the bed a little, thinking about
it. He has no idea where this shit came from, this thing he has for being hit,
but god, does he like it. 
Don’t wanna be able to sit down when you’re done with me he replies, and for
practical purposes, it’s fucking stupid, he knows, but he remembers the night
he got home, remembers digging fingers into his sore ass as he jerked off, how
hard he came from it. 
You won’t need to sit baby. Just keep you on your belly, waiting for me to use
your ass. Gonna fuck you until you can’t come anymore. 
Biting his comforter, Stiles stifles the noise he makes when he comes, rutting
against the bed with his phone in his hand. He takes a deep breath, blinking,
and sits up to take a picture of the come smeared across his belly, over his
twitching cock. 
The only response he gets is Good boy.
 
Rafa texts him a lot, actually. 
Sometimes during the day, when Stiles can’t properly respond because English
class is not a good place for sexting, as a matter of fact. Those usually come
off more as stray thoughts, like Rafa just happened to be thinking of him.
Stuff like I want to tie you up and blindfold you or Been thinking about
getting a ball gag for that pretty mouth. 
At first, the texts come every couple of days, but the more Stiles responds, or
the more pictures he sends, the more frequently they come. It’s not long before
he’s getting multiple texts a day, and even though he never outright says Come
over here so I can fuck you already, it’s pretty clear that Rafa’s got blue
balls over him. He sends shit like Wanna buy you a dildo so I can see what you
look like fucking yourself but I want you tight. (Which Stiles almost responds
to with #longdistancedomproblems but he doesn't think Rafa knows pop culture
well enough to get the reference.)
Stiles is actually kind of down with Rafa buying him a dildo, but mostly
because he doesn’t have a good way to do it himself. 
But Stiles is doing well enough on his own. He’s getting better at taking
pictures of himself, and he makes sure to leave little stuff in the background.
Like a Beacon Hills Cyclones sweatshirt or a framed photo of him and Scott.
Stuff Rafa might not pay attention to because he’s staring at Stiles’ fingers
up his own ass, but stuff he might pick up on a subliminal level. Or he’ll drop
hints about not being able to text until he’s out of class, or how he has to go
to lacrosse practice, enough to indicate that he’s in a school of some kind.
The age thing is a little harder to convey because he’s trying to look like
he’s hiding it. 
He solves that one easily enough. Because after a month and a half, Rafa does
ask when Stiles can come visit him. Offers him a whole weekend of really
depraved shit. So Stiles tell him not until November, which, obviously, prompts
a Why?
Can’t drive until then.
Could be for a number of reasons, but he knows the first thing someone would
think of is age, especially considering that he looks his age. He knows Rafa
will start to wonder, at least. Start putting it together. 
Which means Stiles has to back off a little. He doesn’t want Rafa to figure out
who he is until Stiles is in front of him, until he can see it on his face. 
Oh, and how he’s going to enjoy that moment. 
He catches his grin in the reflection on his computer screen and doesn’t
recognize it for a moment. He’s never seen that look on his own face before.
Didn’t know he could look like that, like he’s feral. But he’s not going to be
afraid of it. 
 
The problem with it all is that Stiles’ birthday is in the first week of
November and it’s not very far away. Not far away at all. The days pass by in a
blur of school work and Scott-related guilt and the tedium of being a high
school nobody. 
And then he turns sixteen. It’s a quiet thing, no party, just a nice dinner
with his dad and Scott because they’re who he has. 
And then the next morning, he’s with his dad, at the DMV, getting his license,
once and for all. 
It takes some work, but he’d managed to convince his dad to let him drive to
the city for his birthday weekend instead of a real present. Said Aunt Jess
wanted to show him around some more, take him out on a treat day. 
He does call her, lets her know that she’s his excuse, and she reminds him to
be safe and to call her if he needs to. 
The being safe thing is kind of a mess. Yes, he managed to ride his bike to the
freaking planned parenthood, which was a fucking horrible experience in about
fifty different ways, mostly being that it was about six freaking milesand also
because he was terrified of running into someone he knew. But he found out that
he’s clean and didn’t potentially ruin his life by having unprotected sex with
fucking Rafa. So that had been a plus. 
But from what he’s gathered from the past couple months, to say Rafa’s not into
using condoms would be an understatement. Likes the idea of marking Stiles up
with his come. And, well, it’s not so much that it’s a specific thing for
Stiles, but some part of him gets off on how risky it is. Not just the bodily
fluids, but the fact that they’re having sex. The things Rafa wants to do to
him. Things Stiles hasn’t said no to. Because he hasn’t said no to anything,
even stuff he should’ve. It’s fucking dangerous is what it is, but his signals
are crossed or something because it gets him hard, thinking about it. About
what Rafa might do to him. 
All the more reason to let him know so this whole thing can end. 
Stiles liked being the spazzy kid with the goofy best friend and the crush on
the hot popular girl. He liked when his biggest concern was that Lydia might
think he was stupid or ugly or something, not whether he’s going to end up with
some sort of permanent damage from whatever kinky shit his best friend’s
shitty, abandoning father can come up with.
And he’ll get to go right back to that as soon as this weekend is over. 
It’ll be like all of this never happened. 
 
He parks at the curb outside Rafa’s. 
His mom’s old jeep, the one that his dad’s been promising to him for months.
He’s proud of the car, proud that he has his own transportation, but looking at
it parked outside Rafa’s apartment, he thinks it looks immature. 
It’s just because he’s in over his head. He keeps repeating to himself that
this is for Scott, that he’s doing this to get Scott some justice, but he spent
an hour shaving bits that he never thought would see a razor because he had a
feeling Rafa would like it, and at some point, he’s going to have to stop
pretending. At some point, he’s going to have to deal with the fact that he
fucked his best friend’s dad and came back for more. 
But not yet.
Not until this weekend is over. 
(Not until he can do it again.)
Rafa answers the door in a suit, the tie and jacket missing. The top buttons of
his shirt are left open and his belt is open, hanging from the loops, and he
hasn’t shaved in a while and Stiles wants. His mouth goes wet with it. 
He doesn’t say anything welcoming, but he steps aside to let Stiles in. “You’re
not going to need clothes,” he says, and Stiles knows that. If it weren’t for
the fact that he could get arrested if someone saw him, he’d’ve shown up
naked. 
As it is, he strips as soon as the door’s shut behind him. Rafa watches,
leaning casually against the wall, hands in his pockets. His gaze is unnerving,
no heat to it, not untils Stiles shucks off his underwear. Rafa pushes off of
the wall then, darts forward to run a single, cursory finger over smooth skin.
“Good,” he tells Stiles, and he swells with it. Literally. He’s been half hard
since the car, but he’s pretty sure his dick has been conditioned to get off on
pretty much anything Rafa throws at him. Rafa notices, too, going by his sharp
look. It's less judging and more like he's cataloging the information for
later. 
"Where do you want me?" 
"Bedroom," Rafa tells him. "On your knees." 
Stiles doesn't exactly run, but he gets there quick. From the other room, he
hears something like keys, but he doesn't let himself think about it. He just
kneels. 
His purpose here is to be used, to give Rafa something to feel guilty about.
That's all. If he gets off, well, that's a bonus he won't think too hard
about. 
When Rafa comes in, he can feel it in the air, not just in the sound of his
bare feet padding over the carpet. Stiles waits, looking down. Not so far down
that he can see his dick leaking against his thigh. No, eyes focused on the
edge of the bed, the bare sheets neatly tucked under the mattress. Until Rafa's
body is in the way. 
"No hands," Rafa says, meaning pretty clear by the way his crotch is right in
front of Stiles' face. The line of his erection is obvious beneath his slacks,
and Stiles swallows so he doesn't drool all over when he gets to work undoing
the button and zip. 
It’s hard.
This looks so easy in porn, but it’s not. The buttonhole is a little too small,
makes it tough work. And then his teeth keep slipping on the zipper pull and
the grit of the interlocked teeth hurts when his lips mash against it. At least
he didn’t have to worry about the belt.
But when he looks up, Rafa’s staring at him with a soft heat in his eyes, like
he’s giving Stiles points for trying. And succeeding. Because he does, it’s
just a fucking labor of Hercules. It might be worth it for the solid warmth of
a hand on top of his head, like a holy benediction. (For a moment there, he
gets a mental image of Rafa dressed like a priest and damn.) 
Rafa’s not wearing underwear, wasn’t last time, and Stiles wonders if he never
does or if he only doesn’t when he’s planning on getting laid. 
He doesn’t think about it very long, though, because he frees Rafa’s cock from
his pants with a curl of his tongue, and his own dick pulses an ache when he
gets a taste. It’s a touch of salt over the heat-inducing taste that’s either
Rafa or just dick in general. Not like he’s had anything to compare to. Really,
he doesn’t need to, not with Rafa under his mouth, humming warm against his
lips. 
There’s a little bit of precome, not much, but Stiles keeps his eyes on Rafa’s
when he moves his head back and forth, smearing it over his lips. 
“You’re a little tease, kiddo, you know that?” It’s almost overwhelmingly fond,
and for just a split second, Stiles wants to just shut his eyes and lean
against Rafa’s thigh, breathe him in, wants something from him that he’s afraid
to figure out. 
But that’s complicated when Stiles wants easy, so he opens his mouth wide, just
the head of Rafa’s cock sitting on his tongue, and looks up with the closest he
can get to a smirk. Rafa grins, bright for a moment, before tightening his grip
in Stiles’ hair and pulling him forward. He doesn’t stop when Stiles half-gags,
just keeps going. Until Stiles is huffing breaths through his nose against
Rafa’s pubes. His throat feels too full, but it’s almost calming. Like having a
hard time breathing lets him focus on just that, narrows everything down to a
fine, easy point. 
“I love how long your hair is,” Rafa tells him; the words swim in Stiles’ ears.
“Just enough to hold onto.” 
He fucks into Stiles’ mouth with that, hands fisted in his hair on either side
of Stiles’ head. It’s probably his last shred of self-restraint that keeps
Stiles from wrapping a hand around his own dick. Self-restraint or trust that
Rafa will give him something better if he’s good. Will reward him for waiting,
for listening, for obeying. 
But then Rafa’s pulling his face off, and Stiles can’t help but feel
disappointed. 
“Get up on the bed.”
Stiles nods, lips tingling. Without a word, he gets up and crawls onto the bed.
Rafa’s watching him, he knows, so he juts his ass out a little. Stops in the
middle of the bed on his hands and knees. 
There’s a feeling of power to it, to knowing that Rafa’s attracted to him and
that he can manipulate that attraction. To feeling Rafa’s eyes drag over his
skin, try to work their way inside. To knowing that Rafa wants to touch every
smooth inch of him, more than he’s letting on now, going by the desperation of
his texts. 
“Higher up,” Rafa says, voice rough. Stiles crawls forwards while Rafa moves
around to the side of the bed. “Hands in front of you.” 
Instinctively, he leans forward when he puts his hands out, has to catch
himself. The bedframe is metal, cold under his hands. Closely-spaced bars,
modern-looking and sleek. 
Rafa gets onto the bed one knee at a time, cock heavy and flushed and still wet
with Stiles’ spit. Fuck,that’s hot. He reaches behind himself then, and Stiles
hears that key noise again for a second before he sees the handcuffs. 
Oh. 
Well. That’s a thing. That’s a thing Stiles’ dick is totally into, actually,
and he’s not going to think about how that’s a little sick on his end, all
things considered. No, he’s not going to think about it.
But he shivers a little when Rafa closes the cuffs around his wrists, looped
around one of the bars so he’s stuck where he is. 
(The feeling makes him think of sitting at his dad’s desk after school, playing
with the spare cuffs he keeps in the third drawer, and that thought makes him a
little nauseous.)
He should ask what’s going on, figure out what Rafa has planned, but that’s not
really the point, is it? If he asks, there’s a chance Rafa might hesitate, and
Stiles wants his worst. He wants to feel two months of blue balls, every dark,
dirty desire in him unlocked and set free on Stiles’ body. Something that’ll
make Rafa nauseous when he realizes who Stiles is. Make him thirsty for a whole
bottle of something biting. Something that’ll give him sleepless nights.
The first smack to his ass is almost expected. Rafa loves this, and Stiles
would be lying if he said he didn’t try to do it to himself, with limited
success. Rafa doesn't go too hard at first, just a few sharp stings that
reminds him of where he is. Warmth spreads over his skin as Rafa’s hand starts
coming down harder, warmth that spreads through his balls to his cock, hums
there. Makes him jump and leak when a somewhat harder smack makes contact. 
There’s a rhythm to it, a rhythm that Stiles pushes back against, even though
it makes the cuffs dig into his wrists. When the blow he’s expecting doesn’t
come, Stiles turns just in time to see Rafa pulling his belt from the loops. 
Apparently that’s on the menu. 
Well, he could’ve guessed. It’s not like Rafa hadn’t warned him in his texts.
But this means that anything from his texts is on the table, and that makes
Stiles a little nervous. There were some things that had given him pause, but
then again, three months ago, he would’ve said he had no interest in having a
dick in his ass, so who knows. He'd probably be into it.
The first time the belt comes down, Stiles jumps, hissing at the pain. It
stings but it goes deeper than that, aches sharply, and it’s a little more than
he was expecting.
The soothing weight of a warm hand settles just over the base of his spine.
“You can take it,” Rafa tells him, and he’s right. Stiles can handle it, it’s
just a new sensation to wrap his head around. 
Stiles hears the second. His body must be paying more attention now because he
can hear the belt  in the air for a split second before the whap against his
skin and the hot, liquid pain of it. It makes him go still, so still he can
feel the ache settle into his body just in time for the next impact. Something
about the way it spreads makes it hurt less, makes something buzz in his ears. 
Rafa’s hand strokes his back, almost too good. Stiles presses into the touch,
even as the belt comes down again and again. His whole body rocks with his
pulse, and he can feel where it’s seated heavily in his groin, in the throbbing
awareness of his cock. 
Maybe Rafa’s not putting much swing into it anymore because the combination of
ache and sting melts into something warm. The feeling of impact is still there,
but it just feels like hot water settling under his skin, and it’s good, so
fucking good he never wants it to stop. Wants more, wants to feel it hurt again
until it fades away, wants everything Rafa has in him. 
It actually takes him a moment to realize that Rafa’s stopped. There’s movement
around him, behind him, and then two hot, tingling points of contact spread
across his ass. Instinctively, he presses back, gets sparks shooting through
his spine, down to his balls. 
Rafa’s saying his name, it sounds like, and it’s a moment before he realizes
that he should respond. He hums a question, ready for whatever Rafa tells him.
Going by the tone of his voice, it’s praise, even if Stiles doesn’t quite catch
the actual words. 
But then he can feel himself being spread open. Stiles tries to ask him to fuck
him, but he’s not sure if it gets across. The next thing he feels isn’t a dick
in him, so maybe it doesn’t, but that is something. Something wet and moving
and holy God. Is that a tongue? Is that a thing people do outside of porn?
Thank God he took some time to get everything nice and clean back there.
There’s a tongue inside him and it feels so good he wants to cry, feels so good
he might be crying, and he can feel stubble scraping against him, hot and
shocking, and he’s barely able to wrap his head around it before something
inside him twists and bursts. There’s some sound from miles away and he’s
flying or maybe falling, all rush without the stomach lurch of hitting the
bottom. 
He doesn’t really land, though. He’s just dizzy-drunk on Rafa’s hands on his
body, touching him, sliding inside him. 
And then there’s something that’s not fingers, not the right temperature to be
cock, but Stiles doesn’t even flinch when it presses inside of him. Not too
thick, not thick enough, because what he really wants is Rafa, too fast and too
hard and like everything he never knew he needed. 
This thing is gentle, like Rafa’s just playing with his ass, moving around a
little until it finds this place inside of him that makes his body shake and
spark. The thing just sort of settles there, sends Stiles spinning, until it
does something. Until it turns Stiles’ insides into a shivery blur because he’s
pretty sure it’s vibrating and he’s not really sure which way’s up anymore
because all he can feel is his ass and this weird bubble of pleasure building
up through his body. Pushing up through his stomach and chest until it pops and
he’s gone. 
 
It’s fucking cold. 
It’s cold as balls and Stiles isn’t really sure where he is, just knows that
he’s cold and feels spread thin and there should be someone’s body wrapped
around his but there isn’t. He’s not if sure why there should be, but he needs
it.
When he cracks open his eyes, it takes a moment to recognize Rafa’s bedroom.
That he’s on the bed, curled in a little ball for warmth. His wrists aren’t
handcuffed anymore, but they’re red and when he touches them, he can feel
future bruises. He rubs at them for too long.
There’s a sound from the other room, low. Voices. Background noise. It takes a
second to place it in an unfamiliar place, but it’s a television. 
Getting up is hard. He has to sit to stand, and his ass aches when he does. He
wants to find a mirror and take a look but he doesn’t really want to see. 
How long has he been out?
It could be hours. It feels like days. And he doesn’t know what happened after.
For all he knows, Rafa could’ve fucked him. Probably did. Not like he can ask.
Well, he can, but he doesn’t trust the answer he’d get. Or doesn’t want to hear
it. Whatever. He came here to fuck, if that’s what happened, it’s no big deal.
Wait. No. He didn’t come here to fuck. He came here to ruin Rafa’s life. Can’t
forget that. 
When he stands, he pauses for a moment before reaching back to feel his hole.
Not sore, not really, and nothing like last time, but wet. Lube, he sees, when
he checks. Doesn’t really mean Rafa didn’t fuck him, but it’s something. He
wipes his fingers on the sheet before walking on shaky legs into the other
room. 
Rafa’s on the couch, slouched and naked, watching some procedural drama. The
volume’s down pretty low, and he looks up when Stiles really gets in the room.
Waves him over. 
There’s no logical reason why that makes something in Stiles settle, makes him
hurry over and curl into Rafa’s side. Try to get as close as possible. The heat
of Rafa’s body is comforting like nothing else, and it makes him feel like
there’s something horribly wrong with him, but he needs it. 
He doesn’t speak, just sinks in with Rafa’s arm around his shoulders, turning
in against his chest until he has to throw a leg over. Both of Rafa’s arms come
around him when Stiles settles into his lap like a child and buries his face
into the crook of Rafa’s shoulder. A hand smooths up and down his back. It’s
warm and nice and Stiles doesn’t feel like he has to do anything more than
breathe, just for now. The life-ruining can happen later. He just needs a
minute.
“You were so good for me,” Rafa says against his hair, and Stiles melts against
him. Breathes. 
After a moment, he manages to muster up the effort to speak. “How long was I
out?” he asks, soft. Keeps his face in Rafa’s shoulder because he’s not sure he
wants to see his face just now. Doesn’t want to ask why weren’t you there
because he’s not going to be that needy. Not with him. 
“A little over an hour,” Rafa tells him.
“Did you fuck me?” 
He shouldn’t ask, didn’t mean to, but he needed to. Needs an answer, just to
see what Rafa says. 
If it’s a lie, he’ll know. 
“No point,” Rafa says. “Can’t exactly beg for it if you’re unconscious. I like
how much you want it. You know that.” 
That’s believable, actually. Really fucking believable. 
It’s comforting, really, in part because he thinks that when Rafa finds out who
he is, it’ll freak him out. Hopefully. Actually, he needs to figure out how to
work that in. 
Stiles pulls away a little, looks at him. “You wanna fuck me now?” 
“I always want to fuck you, baby,” he says, and Stiles grins. Maybe it’s
shallow, but he loves the fact that there’s at least one person out there who
wants him. Even if that person is Scott’s dad. Fuck. Stiles has probably fallen
asleep on him in this position before, back when they were little kids, after a
long day before his dad came to pick him up. 
But not naked, not with a sore ass and his dick starting to get interested. 
Rafa reaches between them to give his own dick a couple jerks. Stiles scoots
back and watches, watches him fill up, the head pushing out of his foreskin, a
little shine at the slit. Jesus, Stiles could watch this all day. He’d love to,
actually, love to just watch Rafa’s cock moving in his hand. 
“Fuck, you’re just gagging for it, aren’t you?” Rafa asks, and there’s no point
in denying it. He fucking wants that inside of him ten minutes ago. 
It seems like Rafa likes him taking the initiative, though, because when he
moves forward again, on his knees, Rafa grins at him. 
He holds up a hand under Stiles face, says, “Spit.” He does, grabbing onto
Rafa’s shoulders as hands work beneath him. “Think you can handle it?” It’s a
fucking tease, a challenge.
“Hmm, I guess not,” Stiles tells him, rolling his eyes, and Rafa grips his hip
with one hand. 
“Little shit,” he says with something close to a smile. “Come on. You gonna sit
on Daddy’s lap like a good boy?” Fuck, yeah, okay, Stiles is fucked up because
that gets him. His dick twitches between them, and he lowers himself. Rafa’s
holding his cock in position with one hand, and Stiles really fucking hopes the
lube from before is enough because he’s going for it either way. Feels the head
blunt against his hole, hesitates because it doesn’t just go in. He’s not sure
if this is going to hurt or not because it did, kind of, last time, but then
Rafa thrusts up, does it for him, and at least he doesn’t have to worry about
it anymore. 
It’s fucking wide, just like it was the first time, but it does really hurt.
His body’s a little more relaxed, maybe, or maybe being on top like this makes
him feel like he’s in control. He’s not, not really, and he knows that because
Rafa’s pulling him down. Stiles’ mouth is open, trying to drag in air because
it feels so fucking good, even if it’s a little much. 
When he’s settled down all the way, Rafa draws him down against his chest,
holds Stiles’ head against his shoulder with a hand on the back of his neck.
The position pulls him off Rafa’s cock a little, but he thrusts up into Stiles’
body, just sort of rocks into him, and Stiles thinks his eyes might be rolling
back into his head a little. Fuck, the drag of it’s so good, so fucking good he
can’t hold back a string of little noises.
“That’s it, baby,” Rafa whispers against his ear. “You’re so good, you know
that? You’re being so good for me. Daddy’s so proud of you.” Stiles makes a
noise close to a sob at that, wraps his arms around Rafa’s neck, squeezes his
eyes shut. 
Rafa’s holding him tight so he doesn’t move, but he can feel the force of his
hips, the quick, steady drum of his cock brushing against all the right places.
Stiles can’t move back into it, but the sweat-slick friction of Rafa’s stomach
against his cock is enough to make his blood boil and thrum sweetly under his
skin. 
“I’m gonna come in you, you know. I’m gonna mark you up on the inside and watch
it drip out. Wanna see how good your ass was used.”
“Fuck,” Stiles groans. He’s not into it, but he is. Doesn’t want it but needs
it. 
“Yeah?” He gives Stiles a smack on the ass that puts lights in his vision,
makes him ache and clench too tight around Rafa’s cock. “You like that, kiddo?
Wanna be filthy with Daddy’s come?”
Stiles nods into his shoulder, not sure he doesn’t mean it. “Please, Daddy.
Want anything you’ll give me.” 
“Jesus, you’re a born slut, aren’t you?” Stiles wants to argue with that, but
Rafa thrusts into him a little harder and he moans instead, clawing at Rafa’s
shoulders. “Wanna see you come again. Come on, come for me, baby.”
It’s not like Stiles is in a habit of saying no to him. It’s not like Stiles
isn’t already right there, like he hasn’t come twice since he got here. So he
just lets go, stops holding it back, and Rafa’s cock does the rest. Fucks his
orgasm out of him, makes him shout with it, the pleasure twisting its fingers
in him and yanking it out. He shakes through it, a new tremor every time he
feels Rafa’s cock a little more because his ass tightens around him. 
“Fuck, yeah,” Rafa pants, hips working too fast to be in a real rhythm,
stuttering, stumbling over it, “yeah, just like that, baby. Fucking love that
ass, Stiles. So good...” It draws out into a groan and Stiles isn’t exactly
alert, so it’s a second before he registers what Rafa just said. When he does,
he goes very, very still. 
Rafa thrusts into him shallowly, riding out the last bit, and Stiles is
starting to breathe too fast. Can’t move, even if Rafa’s arms weren’t locked
tight around his body. 
What the fuck. What the fuck. What the actual fuck. 
It’s the only thought he can hold in his head, just beating against the inside
of his skull. 
“Fuck, that was good,” Rafa sighs contentedly. Like he doesn’t even realize
that Stiles wants to start screaming. Maybe he doesn’t, though. “What’s the
matter, kiddo? Did I wear you out?” He says it with a laugh, like something
about that is funny. 
“You— You called me—” He can’t even get it out, he’s so freaked. All of
this...if Rafa knew...Fuck, Stiles can’t handle this. 
“Oops. Forgot. What was it you wanted me to call you? Dennis? Dylan? Something
with a D.”
Numb, Stiles says, “Danny. I told you my name was Danny.” 
“That’s right. My bad,” Rafa says and Stiles is screaming in his head. About a
second away from a full-scale breakdown. This isn’t happening, this can’t be
happening, it’s not happening— “Oh, kiddo, did you think I didn’t know?”
Stiles has to look at him, has to look him in the eyes, and Rafa lets him push
himself up, hands slipping down to Stiles’ thighs. “You knew,” Stiles says,
watching him for something. And Rafa just smiles. Cups Stiles’ cheek. 
“Of course I knew,” he says like it’s amusing that Stiles wouldn’t thinks so.
“You think I’d forget that nose? Or that mouth? Give me a little credit.” 
“But you…” He can’t come up with anything. 
“What? Caught you checking me out? Noticed you grew up in all the right
places?” He shrugs. “It’s not like you don’t want me.” 
Stiles shivers when Rafa’s thumb strokes next to his mouth. “You know I know
Scott. We’re friends. Best friends.”
“Hate to break it to you, kiddo,” Rafa says with a sympathetic wince, “but
that’s not really my problem, is it? I wouldn’t exactly say I’m a part of his
life anymore.”
“I’m only sixteen as of two days ago,” Stiles tries.
“Everyone’s gotta start sometime.” There’s no remorse there, nothing.
Absolutely nothing. Stiles needs something, some crack to split wide and ruin
him with. 
“What about the rest?” Stiles asks. “You hit me, you—”
Rafa sighs. “Are we seriously going to go through this? Come on. You’re
freaking out over nothing.”
“Nothing? You hit me. Repeatedly,” Stiles argues, wishing it didn’t sound like
he’s about to fall apart, wishing he could just stop shaking. That he could do
this. 
“Yeah, and that first time, you came from me spanking you alone,” he says with
a measure of frustration. “Relax. I know you think you’re obligated to put up a
fight for the sake of friendship or whatever, but you’re really not. It’s
okay.” He sighs, stroking Stiles’ face, and maybe he notices that Stiles is
close to just breaking down, because he says, “Come here.” 
The sick thing is, Stiles does it. Falls into him. Lets Rafa stroke his hair,
his back, and shush him while he tries to breathe. 
It doesn’t make anything better. The fact is that Stiles was wrong. He should
have realized, but he didn’t. So it was all for nothing. The only thing he got
out of all of this is all the fucked up stuff he did that he shouldn’t have
done. 
He’s going to be sick.
He needs to get out of his skin. 
It’s disgusting, that’s what it is. He’s disgusting for all of this. Because
Rafa’s right. God, how he wanted it.
He pulls away because he needs to go, needs to get away and be somewhere where
he can come to terms with himself, but Rafa cups his face, stopping him. Brings
him back and oh no. No, this is the last thing he was supposed to have for
himself, and the second Rafa’s lips hit his, it’s gone. Rafa’s got his first
kiss, too. 
The worst part is, it’s good. His mouth is warm and Stiles likes the way his
stubble rubs above his lip and across his chin. He doesn’t force his tongue in
or anything, just uses his lips, makes Stiles almost cry with it before he
jerks away.
“I need to go,” Stiles tells him, not realizing until he starts pushing off
Rafa’s lap that his softened dick is still in him. “Fuck, I can’t—” Rafa helps
him up, gently, and Stiles hates it. Hates it almost as much as he hates the
feeling of Rafa’s come slipping out of him. 
He grabs his clothes, starts yanking them on when Rafa asks, “Do you need
anything? You don’t have to leave. You know you’re always welcome here.”
Stiles stops and looks up at him. “This is done. This isn’t happening again. If
I so much as see you again, I will tell someone.”
“If it makes you feel better to pretend you don’t have as much to lose as I do,
then so be it,” Rafa says, “but I imagine this would be horribly confusing for
your father. Are they still letting him pretend he’s a deputy?”
“He’s the Sheriff now,” Stiles tells him with an edge. “And he’d probably kill
you.” 
“Maybe,” Rafa says with a considering shrug, “but if he hesitates, that might
give me enough time to show him a video of his sweet, responsible son in
handcuffs, begging someone he calls ‘Daddy’. You don’t think that might give
him pause? You don’t think that might make him wonder who you think about when
you jerk off under your covers in the middle of the night?”
Stiles’ stomach freezes. “You’re bluffing. I didn’t see any camera.”
“I’d say you were kind of preoccupied, wouldn’t you?” 
“I hate you,” Stiles spits.
“That’s easier for you to say, isn’t it?” he asks with an almost sad look. “Go
ahead. Do what you have to do. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come back.”
It’s the absolute certainty with which he says it that makes Stiles look away,
finish getting dressed, and walk away without looking back. 
In the car, he screams. Punches the steering wheel until his knuckles are red,
the skin about to split, then just grabs it and tries to rip it off. Screams
until his voice breaks and then chokes, tries to breathe, doesn’t let himself
cry. Rafa fucking doesn’t deserve to be cried over. 
There’s a knock at the passenger side window and he jumps, thinking it’s him
for a second. It’s an older lady, and her lips say Are you okay? He holds up a
hand, smiles, tries to convey okayness with every fiber of his being. When she
walks away, he gulps in air. Breathes to be calm, not to get everything out. 
And then puts the keys in the ignition and drives to the nearest discount hair
place because he’s feeling petty. It costs seven dollars to shave his head down
to peach fuzz and the man who does it doesn’t ask any questions. The last thing
he does before deleting Rafa’s number is send a picture. Tells him there’s
nothing for anyone to hold onto anymore. 
Driving to Jess’ house, he keeps jumping when he catches his reflection in the
rearview mirror. His ears stick out and his head looks rounder, face younger.
He looks goofy. And that’s safe, isn’t it? He looks like a kid who never let a
man fuck him because he thought he could be in control. He looks like a kid
whose idea of fucking is missionary style, with a girl, and he goes down on her
for an hour because he doesn’t think he’s worthy of being inside her. 
Jess’ eyebrows shoot up when she finds him on her doorstep, but she lets him
in. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
“Can I sleep on the couch tonight?” he asks instead of answering. 
“Whatever you need,” she tells him. “I’m here, if you want. If I haven’t been
where you are, then I probably know someone who has.” 
He looks at her, trying not to shake. “I can’t— I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Do you need me to call anyone?”
He shakes his head. “I just need to lay down for a little while.”
She doesn’t ask anymore questions, and he sleeps.
 
When he wakes, for just a moment, he’s able to convince himself it was all a
dream. And then he remembers.
End Notes
     Next part catches up with canon, y'all!!!
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