Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/952560.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Papa_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Papa_McCall, Scott_McCall, Sheriff_Stilinski, Agent
      McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Badwrong, False_Identity, Rough_Sex, Spanking, Loss_of
      Virginity, Daddy_Kink, Light_Masochism, Crying, Angst, Age_Difference,
      Unsafe_Sex, Dark, Dirty_Talk, Abusive_Parents, Underage_Drinking,
      Underage_Sex, Alternate_Canon
  Series:
      Part 1 of Starts_with_"F",_Ends_with_"U"
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-03 Words: 9069
****** You hollow out my hungry eyes ******
by RemainNameless
Summary
     Stiles sees a familiar face in San Francisco. But "Operation: Ruin
     Douchebag Dad's Night" didn't exactly involve Stiles losing his
     virginity.
Notes
     I urge you to READ THIS WARNING because I'm just gonna tell ya that
     this fic is dark as shit and dubious consent isn't there to cover my
     ass.
     Age is a serious thing here. In the present of the fic, Stiles is
     fifteen. HOWEVER, he flashes back to some one-sided (on his side)
     lust from much earlier in his life, where he is VERY underage. NO
     SEXUAL CONTACT happens before Stiles is fifteen, though.
     Also, McCall is referenced as being physically abusive towards Scott
     on one occasion and it's left ambiguous as to whether he was to
     Melissa as well.
     NOW NOT WARNINGS: this fic is chaptered, but it's being posted as
     individual stories in a verse for tagging purposes. The overall fic
     goes into canon and beyond and is eventual sterek because that's my
     life yo
It starts with a lot of things.
It starts with a bandaid and a whiskery kiss pressed to his knee. It starts
with Scott, panting and sweating because he rode his bike at full speed to his
house, barely able to see because he’s crying. It starts with Scott wanting to
play in the closet because it’s quieter there, playing music so Stiles can’t
hear the yelling downstairs. It starts with Scott’s bloody lip, his mom’s last
straw. It starts with Stiles watching a man on his laptop screen rub his
stubble-roughened jaw against someone’s ass, his wrist cramping because he’s
been going at it for hours.
And it starts right here, in San Francisco, in the club a few blocks away from
his Aunt Jess’ house, with a set of broad shoulders and a dark sweep of hair
that make his smallest jeans a little smaller.
Apparently, Stiles let something slip when Jess mentioned Robert Downey Jr. so
she told her neighbor to take him out, teach him how to watch his back so he
doesn’t get himself into trouble later. The guy’s keeping an eye on him, and
before coming in, he gave Stiles a condom, told him not to go into the last
couple stalls in the bathroom. When Stiles had asked him why he was letting a
fifteen-year-old run loose, he’d just said that the boys he used to know
started younger, so Stiles is taking that as a free pass to get drunk, if he
can score a drink or two, and dance.
And looking at this guy at the bar, he’s thinking about using it. Nothing
crazy. It’s not like he’s going to blow the guy in the alley, but maybe he
could have some nice, pg-13 fun.
He’s tall, too. Stiles is in the middle of a growth spurt, all of his pants
getting a bit short, but he’s growing at a steady rate still, and he wonders if
he’ll be as tall as this guy. Wonders how tall he really is standing up. If
they dance, whether his dick would press against the top of Stiles’ ass or
higher up, at the curve of his back.
A kind of sweaty guy bumps into Stiles, his bicep like a fucking rock, and the
impact sends Stiles forwards that first step. It’s all he needs. It’s not like
he’ll see the guy again if he gets rejected.
But Stiles’ hands are shaking because it’s the bravest thing he’s ever done,
and he goes to the other end of the bar instead. To scope the guy out. Gather
courage.
Very casually rubbing the back of his neck, he takes a peek at the guy.
Stubble, a little older than Stiles had thought at first, but not in a bad way.
His profile is nice, from the crooked line of his nose to the muscular curve of
his thighs.
Stiles is trying to figure out what the acceptable time limit for a once-over
is when the guy signals the bartender. He ducks his head when he sees the guy
turning towards him at all. Time to play it cool.
No, play it hot.
He can pretend to be a hot, uninterested guy for five seconds. It’s not that
hard, he just has to stick his ass out a little, right? His explorations into
gay porn have been cursory and very pointed towards the end game, so he’s only
got a vague idea of how an interested guy is supposed to present himself. Well,
he’s got more than that, but he’s pretty sure pulling his pants down and
bending over the bar is a little much. Might give the wrong impression.
The bartender comes over and shit, he looks twelve, doesn’t he? He’s totally
going to get kicked out.
But the bartender sets a cocktail in front of him. “From that guy,” he says,
jerking his head in Hot Dilf’s direction, and Stiles turns.
And somehow manages not to fall over. Because he knows that face, now that he’s
seeing it full on, and what the fuck? Wasn’t Scott’s dad supposed to be ruining
other people’s lives in, like, Michigan or something?
Scott’s dad quirks an eyebrow at him, eyes darting down over Stiles body. His
stupid betraying body because his skin heats up and he’s probably bright red.
He’s never been checked out before, and this is obvious. Like, he can feel
fingers pulling his clothes off under that gaze and fuck. What’s he even doing
here?
Stiles looks at the drink, something pinkish and probably fruity. His first
mixed drink.
He throws it back like the whiskey he sneaked a couple times when his dad
wasn’t looking, almost chokes but doesn’t, and walks over.
What’s going to happen is he’s going to say something devastating and
accusatory. It’s going to feel great.
But Scott’s dad grins when he comes up next to him. “Not one for cosmos, huh?”
he asks in a light, teasing voice Stiles remembers. Remembers too well, maybe.
Remembers the taste of chlorine and the noise of the community pool, Scott’s
dad crouched in front of him, a towel in his hands, coaxing him out of the
water. Remembers the bulge in his swim trunks when he stood up, and wondering
if he’d ever get that big.
“I like Jack,” Stiles says quickly, realizing he’s been staring.
Scott’s dad chuckles, like something about that’s funny. “Cute,” he says, and
something in Stiles’ stomach turns. Not really nausea, just this feeling of
something twisting from his stomach to the tips of his fingers. “I haven’t seen
you around here,” Scott’s freaking dad says over a glass of some dark liquid.
“But I haven’t been in town long, either.”
He’s flirting. This is bar flirting.
This is not a guy who recognizes his son’s best friend six years after his wife
kicked him out. He has no idea who Stiles is.
“You’re quiet,” he says, “but I guess a pretty boy like you doesn’t have to do
a lot of talking.”
Stiles grins, boldened by his anonymity and his disdain. “Oh, I’m a talker,
alright. Just deciding if you’re worth my time.” His eyebrows shoot up, creases
forming across his forehead. Scott has his eyes, Stiles realizes with a jolt.
“And have you decided?”
“I think I have,” Stiles tells him. This is where he should tell him he’s a
piece of shit for what he did to Scott, but the words don’t come.
He wants to know what he’s doing on the West Coast, what he’s doing here, if
he’s always liked men or only went for it after the divorce, if he ever has
sleepless nights because of what he did to Scott and his mom. There’s no way to
figure any of that out if he insults him or leaves now. No, he’ll have to keep
him talking, get the information out of him. It’ll be like going undercover.
“So?” he asks, turning a little so Stiles can see the full span of his chest,
the cling of his shirt. It’s weird how well Stiles remembers the shape of him,
sitting in the McCall kitchen after a sleepover a million times when he comes
in from his morning run. Shirtless, most of the year, sweating as he passed by
Stiles on the way to the fridge. Stiles had always been fascinated by the way
his hair grew, across his chest and then in a thin line down, down, down, until
it got a bit thicker at the top of his sweats.
“What do I call you?” Stiles asks. His mouth feels a little strange.
“That’s up to you,” he says with a smirk, “but my friends call me Rafa. That
is, if you’d like to be friends.”
Stiles nods. “Alright. Buy a friend another drink?” He knows, objectively, that
he’ll be sharper sober but this is too much to get through sober. And possible
free drinks? Like he’d say no.
Rafa flags down the bartender, communicating half in signals because he’s
trying to be classy or some bullshit, and Stiles is annoyed, not impressed.
He’s not impressed. This guy broke Scott’s heart and Stiles had to watch. He
will never impress Stiles.
Not like he used to.
Because Stiles has a cool dad, has a hero for a father, but Rafa’d had the
coolness of the not-father, didn’t embarrass him or anything, just did cool
stuff like get his pilot’s license and play lacrosse in the backyard with him
and Scott.
“Two drinks and I don’t even know your name,” Rafa says.
“Danny,” Stiles lies quickly, thinking of the first not-Scott person who comes
to mind. “That’s me. Like Zuko.”
“You like cars?” Rafa asks. Stiles doesn’t even have his permit, Jesus, and he
knows fuck all about them, so it’s not like he can safely lie about it.
“Leather,” he says, because he’s only seen Grease once, and when Rafa crooks an
eyebrow, he realizes what he’s saying. “Jackets. I like leather jackets.” Which
is one of the worst saves of his life, but Rafa seems amused.
Thankfully, the bartender comes back with drinks and he’s saved by the
distraction. He tries to throw it back, but there’s a lot and it burns when
there’s this much. Still, he doesn’t cough, just winces a bit.
“So what do you like?” Stiles asks, voice rough. His throat still stings.
“You,” Rafa tells him, leaning in close enough that Stiles can smell his
cologne. It doesn’t smell like the shitty stuff boys spray in the locker rooms
at school. It smells good. “And photography, too.”
“You’re a photographer?”
This is news. This is not something he remembers, but he doesn’t remember his
best friend’s dad going hitting on young-looking men either.
“Just someone who can appreciate something beautiful,” he says, eyes sliding
down Stiles’ face. “It’s a hobby. I find things I like, pick them up. I’ve got
a nice collection.” Something about that is a little weird, but Stiles isn’t
even sure how to react when he keeps going, says, “I could show you, if you’d
like.” There’s a warmth at Stiles’ hip and it’s his hand. He’s got big hands.
Stiles remembers when he could span Stiles’ chest, pinky to thumb, the weight
of it, and getting pushed into the pool.
If he says no, there’s a good chance Rafa will leave him alone, and then he
can’t find out anything more. But if he goes to where Rafa lives, he could get
some answers, maybe. Maybe something there will tell him why Scott’s cool dad
turned out to be a raging douche.
“Alright,” Stiles tells him. “Yeah.”
The look he gets is almost surprised, but he pulls a bill fold (a bill fold)
out of his pocket and lays a couple of bills down. “Let’s get out of here,” he
says. When Stiles pushes away from the bar, he slides a hand around his back,
guiding him. Like when he was learning to ride his bike.
His aunt’s neighbor is visible, so Stiles catches his eye as they pass by. The
neighbor looks at Rafa, shrugs and waves a hand. Go ahead.
Outside, it’s balmy, if a little cool. It’s the middle of a Friday night, so
there’s plenty of people outside. Seeing them, Stiles knows how this looks. It
looks like sex, like they’re going to fuck. Which is weird because, really,
Stiles doesn’t know anyone who’d want to have sex with him. Doesn’t actually
know anyone his age who’s had sex, not for sure. Jackson fucking Whittemore
bragged that he’d slept with Lydia Martin, but Stiles has his doubts. Doesn’t
really want to think about it, either, because the only person he wants to
visualize her having sex with is him. It’s something he’s probably visualized a
little too much, actually, how she’d hold him down and ride him, how she’d
taste, but he’d need some experience for that. Lydia’s the kind of girl you
want to be experienced for.
Rafa’s car is sexy, the kind of car you buy to impress other people. Stiles
stops for a moment, appreciating it, and Rafa walks with him up to the
passenger door. At first, Stiles thinks he’s going to open it for him, like
some kind of gentleman, but then he’s up in Stiles’ space, backing him against
the car, and Stiles has no fucking clue what to do.
One of his hands comes up to the side of Stiles’ face, hot and heavy. Stiles
shrinks under it, but that moves his body against Rafa’s middle.
He’s pinned with a look, a deep, scraping look that leaves him raw.
Rafa’s thumb is calloused, hard, when he runs it over Stiles’ lips. At the
pressure against his teeth, Stiles instinctively opens his jaw, and Rafa’s
thumb slides into his mouth, strokes his tongue. It tastes like sweat-salt, and
Stiles should be yelling or something, should be pushing him away and trying to
run, but he can’t.
A hand cups his crotch, and maybe it’s because this is the first person to
intentionally touch his junk, but his fingers go numb as all the blood in his
body rushes into his dick. Rafa squeezes him through his jeans, a rough, tight
sort of pleasure, and his thumb just sort of pets Stiles’ tongue, and he’s
looking at Stiles with a hunger.
“Your mouth’s gonna look so pretty with my cock in it,” he says, almost too
loud, and between the first dirty talk of his life and the hand massaging his
boner, Stiles moans around the finger in his mouth.
And just like that, Rafa pulls away, heading around to the driver’s side.
Stiles sags against the car, blood buzzing in his ears. Rolls his tongue around
the emptiness of his mouth.
He should run. This is bad, really bad. He shouldn’t be getting into this car
right now, but he is.
If it goes bad, if it goes somewhere he doesn’t like, he can always just break
out the “I’m your son’s best friend” card. At the very least, it’ll stun Rafa
enough that he’ll be able to get away if he needs to. He’s got the upperhand
here. He’s in control.
Rafa’s eyes bruise him every time they flick over to his side of the car. It’s
clear what’s on his mind, but it isn’t. Stiles has never been the target of
someone’s lust before, and he doesn’t know what Rafa wants. Doesn’t know what
he could do if Stiles let him, what a man like him wants from someone like
Stiles.
No, that’s not right. He knows, at least a little bit. The porn he watches has
slender boys sometimes, and he tells himself that it’s because they’re more
like girls, because he’s instinctively driven towards girls, just curious, but
he doesn’t really watch them. He watches the men fucking them, likes them dark
with strong hands and quick hips. And he knows, at least a little bit. He’s
seen the boys on their knees with cocks in their mouths, or bent over, clawing
at the sheets with something between pleasure and pain on their faces, a man
pinning them by the hips.
There’s something about need and brutality that fascinates him, and he just
wants to know. Wants to find out what it is that gets him going, why he didn’t
want to move when Rafa pinned him.
In a purely theoretical sense. Not practically.
He’s just going to check out Rafa’s life, reaffirm that he’s a fucking
douchebag, break him down, and get the hell out of there.
It’s going to be easy and simple.
He’s going to forget what it feels like to have Rafa’s eyes on him, forget the
taste of his skin, and he’s never going to tell anyone about that time he ran
into Mr. McCall in the city.
And he’s not going to think about the fact that his dick is still pressing hard
against his jeans, that he can feel his pulse beating against his zipper.
 
When they pull up, Stiles doesn’t realize it at first, but he follows Rafa
inside, up two flights of stairs to his door.
They’re barely inside before Rafa pushes him against the wall, kicking the door
shut. The wall has a slight texture against Stiles’ cheek, and when Rafa
presses against him, his question from earlier’s answered: his lower back. The
hard seam over his zipper rubs against the untouched skin at the base of
Stiles’ spine, shocks him straight to his balls.
“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?” Rafa asks him, voice low.
Stiles doesn’t know what to say, what to do, and when a hand wraps around his
throat, his whole body gives. His head falls back against Rafa’s shoulder,
nerves so keyed up that when Rafa’s thumb strokes the underside of his jaw, it
almost hurts. He whines at it, terrified that that sound is from him. That he
can sound needy like that. But his dick is aching so bad he’s afraid he’s going
to cream his pants, and lust quickly overwhelms shame.
Rafa’s other hand comes up under his shirt, fingers rubbing too hard at a
nipple, tugging at his peaked flesh, and Stiles whimpers. “You’re making the
prettiest sounds, and I haven’t even gotten you begging yet, have I? Don’t
worry, we’ll get there.”
And then Rafa releases him. Stiles’ knees almost give out, and he feels cold
and raw.
“Get undressed,” Rafa tells him, and Stiles should turn around, should tell him
who he is, should stop this. But instead, he reaches over his shoulders and
tugs his t-shirt over his head. “Good boy.”
The words send a shiver through him because it’s wrong, so so wrong, but he’s
never been this hard in his life and something about the praise makes Stiles
want to please him.
He drops his shirt to the floor, toes off his shoes, bends down to tug off his
socks. He has to be gentle about his jeans, undoes them gingerly because it
hurts, because he knows if he presses too hard, he’s going to come. It’s
delicate, but once he gets them past his balls, it’s easier. The head of his
cock pokes up from beneath his waistband, wet and an angry-looking red, and,
jeans pooled around his ankles, he pauses.
He hasn’t been fully naked in front of another person since he was too young
for it to matter, since he and Scott would strip out of wet bathing suits in
the back yard after playing in the sprinklers, unashamed because dicks were
only for peeing back then. It’s a sick thought, but he wonders if Rafa ever
looked at him. Then or later, if he’d ever thought about him like this. What
would’ve happened if he’d been worthy of sticking around.
“Finish,” Rafa tells him. “Take them off and bend over. Hands on the wall.”
The instructions are so sharp and clear, he finds himself following them before
he really realizes what he’s doing. But by then, his palms are flat against the
dimpled surface of the wall and he’s bent at the waist, and when he looks down,
his dick twitches, a drop of precome pushing out of his slit.
“Spread your legs.”
That’s when it hits him: he’s not leaving here a virgin. He’s going to be
fucked. He’s going to be fucked by Scott’s father. He’s never even concretely
thought about being penetrated, and here he is, about to get fucked. This is
happening. It’s happening and he wants it to happen.
His knees shake when he steps out, feet beneath his shoulders, and he’s
trembling. His body’s a live wire, skin crackling, and it feels like a shock
when two hot hands settle on his ass. They spread him open, and he shivers.
Cold or anticipation, he’s not really sure. But he’s exposed, completely
exposed, and he can feel Rafa looking at him. Feels eyes scraping over him,
trying to get inside.
Both of Rafa’s thumbs sweep down to the sensitive skin around his hole,
pressing against him slightly. One drags across his rim, catching a little, dry
and rough like a warning. It’s a strange, numbing sort of feeling. Stiles can
feel himself twitch, aching, feels the pad of Rafa’s thumb against him, almost
sinking in when Stiles’ body tries to open for him.
“Look at you, you little slut. You’d do anything to get my cock in you,
wouldn’t you?”
Fuck, he’s got no idea what it really means, what he’s all but asking for, but
he wants it so bad it hurts.
Rafa leans down, body heat spreading across Stiles’ back, and with his mouth
right next to Stiles’ ear, says, “I asked you a question, and I want an
answer.” The tips of both of his thumbs press into Stiles’ hole, and it burns
in a way that sets his body alight.
It’s a spite thing, or that’s how he intends it when he says, “Yeah, Daddy,
want your cock,” but it comes out raw and desperate, like it has to climb out
of his throat.
“You want me to be your Daddy?” Rafa asks, dark and low against his ear. “You
want me to fuck you the way a slutty boy like you needs?” Stiles’ mouth opens
of its own accord when a thumb pushes all the way inside him. It hurts and it
feels wrong but it’s kind of right, too, aches all the way to his dripping
cock.
Rafa’s thumb twists, and Stiles nods, asks him, “Please.” There’s no use
pretending he doesn’t need it, that he won’t say whatever Rafa wants for more
of this.
He must have said the wrong thing, though, because then his hole is empty and
he’s cold and he can barely stand.
But then, “Come on, kiddo,” Rafa says, wrapping a hand around the back of his
neck. He guides Stiles into his living room, and he looks around, takes in an
unpacked box and a small TV before Rafa stops him, sits on the couch. “Over
Daddy’s knee,” he orders. Stiles shouldn’t because this isn’t really roleplay,
this is something else, something dark and wrong, but he looks at Rafa, still
fully clothed, looks at his offered knee, and whatever this is, he wants it.
He obeys. Bends over and settles down, careful not to let his cock touch Rafa’s
thigh because that would probably be it for him, he’s so keyed up.
The first smack is a shock, sharp and stunning and bright.
His parents never spanked him. Not even once. So he’s not sure how to handle
it, what to do with the sensory input, but he doesn’t have a chance to think
about it because Rafa’s hand comes down on him again, on the other cheek, and
he gasps this time. Catches his breath almost in time for bright sparks raining
down on him, something too shocking to be pain.
Rafa’s forearm comes down on his back, pins him in place, and Stiles claws at
the couch. He’s not sure if he’s pushing towards or away from the smacks, but
his cock rubs against Rafa’s jeans. It’s too rough, hurts, but he wants to cry,
it feels so good.
“If you hump my leg, I’ll stop,” Rafa tells him, pausing. “If you get yourself
off, I’ll walk away. I won’t even let you suck me off. Understand?”
Stiles nods, throat feeling thick, and moves forward so his cock is in the
space between Rafa’s thighs to be safe.
“Tell me what you want,” Rafa demands.
It makes him burn, but the tone of his voice makes Stiles want to do what he
says. “Want you to spank me, Daddy. Want you to punish me,” he says, and it’s
true in a way that makes him feel twisted and wrong.
“Why do you want to be punished?”
He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know, just knows he needs it, that he’d
say whatever he needs to get it.
“If you want it, you better tell me why before I find something better to do,”
Rafa tells him, and Stiles starts to panic.
“Please, don’t. I need it, I need—” he chokes on it because he’s not really
sure, not sure how to explain what he’s feeling, what he wants, just knows that
Rafa can give it to him.
“You don’t even know what you need, do you?” Rafa asks him. “Tell me: how old
were you the first time you saw a man’s cock and wanted it?”
“I don’t—”
Rafa smacks him hard, low, near the top of his thighs, the blow forcing a yelp
out of him. “Yes you do. You know exactly when, don’t you? Tell me.”
“Eight,” he says, and it comes out like a sob, bringing with it a sharp,
crystalline memory.
Scott’s house, after a sleepover. He had to pee, and he knew that Scott’s dad
showered after his runs, but he thought he’d been done. So he’d opened the
bathroom door, and Scott’s dad was standing there, toweling off his hair, his
cock hanging heavy and soft between his thighs. He’d just stood there, staring,
wondering why his didn’t look like that, if it felt the same, if the skin was
as soft as it looked. His mouth had gone wet, and he’d just stared. And Scott’s
dad had said I’ll be out in a second, kiddo, made him realize what he was
doing, so he’d fled, pushed it away.
And now he’s here and he knows that even if he hadn’t slapped Scott that one
time, hadn’t yelled and made Melissa cry, even if he’d somehow been a good man,
they would’ve ended up just like this. Maybe even sooner. Because Rafa hadn’t
told him to leave, and Stiles had wanted, and if he’d been around when Stiles
started figuring out what his dick was for? There’s no way around it.
“You need to be fucked,” Rafa tells him. “You need cock and a man to hold you
down and make you take it because you’re scared of needing something that much.
You need to be owned and used until there’s only one thing left, and you know
what that is?”
Stiles shakes his head, making himself breathe evenly even though his ass burns
warm and his cock is probably leaking onto the floor and he’s barely holding it
together.
“Me.” Rafa’s hand smoothes over the tingling skin of his ass. “So tell me,
baby, what do you want from Daddy?”
“Everything,” Stiles tells him. “Anything. Whatever you want.”
“Good boy,” he praises, landing a smack like a reward.
When Stiles whimpers, he does it again and again until all he can feel is this
icy fire under his skin, until he sobs, until he’s crying and can’t stop trying
to push up against Rafa’s hand for more.
And then he stops.
“Hold yourself open for me,” Rafa orders, and Stiles moves quickly, almost
falling off Rafa’s lap in an effort to spread open the sore cheeks of his ass
with numb fingers.
He thinks Rafa’s going to finger him again, going to play with his hole, but
then there’s a sharp blow that makes him cry out, cock jumping. Rafa’s hand
comes down on him, again and again, and he’s crying when he comes, begging for
it when the sharp rush wrenches through him. He’s spinning, a blur of
sensations that don’t make sense, and when he comes down, Rafa isn’t touching
him anymore.
Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to come, was he?
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, throat sore and voice wet. “I didn’t mean to, it
just happened, I wasn’t even—”
“Get on your knees,” Rafa tells him. His tone is sharp, and Stiles is terrified
he’s disappointed him.
He clambers to his knees, probably bruising them, and he can’t rest back
against his heels because his ass is too sore. Rafa undoes his jeans, thrusting
his hips up to pull himself out, and the motion makes Stiles’ softening cock
twitch. His mouth is watering before Rafa’s length is in front of him, hard and
big, fuck.
Rafa cups his cheek. “You’re pretty when you cry,” he tells Stiles, and it’s
not the first time he’s cried in front of him. He wonders if he thought Stiles
was pretty then, too. (He hopes so.)
He doesn’t tell Stiles to put his mouth on him, just holds his cock out and
pulls Stiles’ face towards it.
It’s the first time he’s ever seen one this close, first time he’s seen someone
else’s when it’s hard, and it’s beautiful. Stiles remembers him being uncut,
but he’s too hard to tell right now. Precome beads out of the tip, a fat drop
rolling down the ridge of his head, and Stiles laps it up before he even
realizes what he’s doing, the taste sparking and foreign on his tongue.
“Yeah, that’s it, kiddo,” Rafa tells him, and the endearment makes Stiles
preen. He looks up, kisses the fat head of his cock. Clumsy because he’s never
properly kissed anyone before, just the inside of his elbow, but there’s
something like approval in Rafa’s eyes. It makes him open up his mouth, take
him in.
That’s a mistake, though, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing, takes too
much at once and Rafa’s hand is tight around the back of his neck. He can feel
the head of his cock at the back of his throat, and then past, and he can’t
breathe, can’t breathe at all, and he’s crying again.
Rafa swipes away his tears, says, “Breathe through your nose, kiddo,” and
Stiles tries that, calming when he starts getting air again. “It’s like you
want me to think it’s your first time or something.”
Even if he could talk, there’s nothing to say to that, so he doesn’t try to
communicate anything. Just opens his jaw wider even though it hurts, lips
stinging at the corners. The hands on his head pull him in further, until his
throat hurts and his nose is in Rafa’s pubic hair, and the fucked up thing is
that it turns him on. When Rafa thrusts into his mouth, Stiles feels it in his
dick, all the way from the heavy pulse filling his mouth.
He doesn’t have to think right now, doesn’t have to do anything, just take it.
Doesn’t have to remember how fucked up this is.
How fucked up he is.
But Rafa pulls him off his cock, and while Stiles is gasping, manhandles him
backwards. With a broad forearm, he sweeps the magazines off the coffee table
and bends Stiles over it. His knees burn against the carpet as he’s moved, but
the table’s just a little bit too high for them to rest on the floor. Stiles
spreads his legs, though, knows where this is going.
There’s a plasticky rip behind him. Stiles keeps his head down but reaches back
to present himself like Rafa wanted earlier.
“Fast learner, aren’t you?” Slick fingers tap against his hole, push a little,
just testing. “How many cocks have you taken? You’ve got a tight little hole.”
Stiles bites his lip, trying to figure out if he should make up a number, what
the number would even be, but he’s quiet for too long.
Rafa’s fingers thrust in, and they feel thick, unforgiving, but he can’t hold
back a moan. “Who did you want popping your cherry? Whose cock did you come
after me for?”
“Yours,” Stiles tells him honestly, hissing when the fingers inside him spread.
“Fuck me, Daddy, please,” he begs, hoping it’ll get him what he wants. He gets
another finger instead, twisting and thrusting hurriedly. It burns a little,
but the real thing is going to hurt anyway, and he just wants to hurry up and
get it in him.
The fingers pull out and Stiles just about sighs in relief. He can’t hold
himself like this much longer, bracing himself against the table with just his
chest and shoulders.
“You’re gonna take it like a good boy, aren’t you? Gonna let Daddy fill you up
good, huh?” He slaps his cock against Stiles’ hole. The sound is wet and dirty
and loud in the room. Stiles can feel the warmth of him against his overheated
ass before there’s blunt pressure on him. It feels like it’s not going to work,
like it’s just not going to happen, but then Rafa shoves forwards, and Stiles’
mouth opens silently in something between a scream and a gasp.
“Holy shit,” he hisses, one hand digging into the carpet in front of him
because he can’t do this, it’s too fucking much. “Holy shit, this isn’t—”
Rafa’s over him before he can finish the thought in his head, covers his mouth
with a wide palm.
“You can handle it,” Rafa tells him, pushing in with a slow slide that shoves
Stiles’ brain out of his head and he can’t. There’s no way his body can handle
this. It’s too much.
And then there’s no more. The raw skin of his ass aches where Rafa’s pressed
against him, but it almost helps to balance the sensations. He digs his nails
into the heels of his hands, mouth wide as he tries to drag in air from Rafa’s
palm.
A finger traces under his eye, smears a tear down his cheek. “See? You can take
it just fine,” Rafa tells him, but Stiles feels like he’s in shock or
something, like there’s something wrong with his body. It feels far away.
That’s terrifying, and his body seizes up for a second, which hurts, and not
just him, either. Rafa hisses near his ear, sharp.
“Relax,” he demands, voice rough, but Stiles isn’t really sure how. He’s never
even stuck a finger in there, and he’s seen Rafa’s cock, knows how big it is.
“Shh,” Rafa tells him, mouth pressing against the side of his head, “you’re
doing so good, baby. You’ve been so good for me. Come on, just relax for
Daddy.”
The sick thing is, that does it. One day, he’ll have to talk this out with a
therapist, but the praise, the approval, that voice, that voice that’s talked
him down from skinned knees and a broken arm and once, a panic attack, it gets
him. It twists inside him and makes his body go lax, makes him sag into Rafa’s
arms.
“There you go. Just like that.” He pulls his hand from Stiles’ mouth. The heat
over his back leaves, replaced with a tight grip on his hips. It’s a mercy that
he starts slow. He can only tell the first drag is out because Rafa’s hips
leave his, but when he pushes in again, there’s no mistaking it.
It’s impossible to tell if it really hurts because if it does, it hurts the way
being spanked did, a sick pleasure edging it into ambiguity. But it does feel.
The stretch burns, like the burn of scratching an itch raw, too caught up in
relieving the itch to notice his reddened skin. He zeroes in on it the same
way. Gets lost in trying to wrap his head around it. And he likes it that way,
likes not having to think about anything other than a single, localized
sensation.
When Rafa pulls out, a whine crawls out of his throat before he can stop it.
Before he realizes that Rafa’s pushing back in. This shallow, he can feel the
ridge of the head of his cock, pressing in and out of his rim, maddening and
unbearable and not enough. He needs more than this, so much more.
“Please,” he asks, grabbing onto the table for leverage to push back.
A large hand settles on the middle of his back, holds him in place. “Tell me
what you want.” Stiles looks down at the carpet, knows what to say, but Rafa’s
dipping into him, teasing him, and it’s impossible to think.
“Want you to fuck me, Daddy,” he says, and when Rafa taps his back, “Want your
cock. Please.”
“That’s all you had to say,” Rafa tells him, and then he’s there, all the way
inside, and Stiles can barely breathe. And there’s no reprieve, because the
second he hits Stiles’ sore ass, he’s pulling out again, and in, and this is
what fucking is, isn’t it?
The thought almost seems ridiculous because he’s seen it, but it’s nothing like
this. There isn’t anything like this. What’s he going to do when—
“You fucking love it, don’t you?” Rafa asks, and Stiles’ rebuttal comes out
like a moan. “Fuck, your ass. Knew you’d be tight like this. Fuck.” For a
moment, Stiles doesn’t remember that Rafa has no idea who he is, and he feels
sick because he wants Rafa to want him, right in that moment. But it’s okay,
he’s talking about the bar, about fingering him before. It’s all okay.
His dick is hard and probably leaking all over the table, but it’s not like he
can do anything about it. And he’s not going to try to touch himself. If it
wasn’t alright before, there’s no reason to try it now, and there’s no real
urgency. It’s not really about his dick. It’s about his whole body, and the
fact that he can’t stop shaking and can’t move against Rafa’s thrusts even
though he needs to.
His wrists are grabbed, twisted behind him, and Rafa presses them into the
small of his back with one hand. His joints protest, but the way Rafa holds him
down makes his body burn white-hot, makes him moan louder than he’s ever felt
comfortable being in the quiet of his bedroom.
Rafa’s free hand clamps around the back of his thigh, lifts it onto the table
so his knee hits his elbow, and he’s going to say something until he feels Rafa
thrust into him, feels how deep he can go.
“Holy fuck,” he pants, wide-eyed. Shit, that’s— he didn’t even know he had
nerve endings there.
“This is what you needed, isn’t it?” Rafa asks him in little punches. “You’re
going to remember this. The first time a cock ever split you open. It’s never
going to feel like the first time, you know that?”
Rafa stills, pulling back just a little. Stiles can’t do anything but wait, and
it pays off soon enough. A finger traces his rim, oversensitive and a little
sore with it.
“You should see how pretty you are, baby. You’ve got a sweet little ass.”
Then maybe you should fuck it, Stiles wants to say, but he holds it back.
Doesn’t get to think about it long, though, because then that finger’s pushing
in, and Stiles can barely breathe, he feels so full.
His finger strokes gently from the inside, then withdraws. “You’re perfect,”
Rafa tells him, leaning down over his back. “You’re my perfect boy, aren’t
you?” His hand gets into Stiles’ hair, pulls his head back. “Daddy likes it
when you beg.” He punctuates it with a sharp thrust that leaves Stiles gasping.
“Oh fuck, please—” the words catches in his throat with a choked-off moan
because Rafa’s unrelenting. His hips are driving Stiles’ against the table,
probably bruising, but his cock is pressed down tight by his stomach, enough
friction that he can’t think, just needs more, needs to get off. More than
anything.
Rafa releases his arms, and it’s freedom for a split second before he grabs
onto Stiles shoulders for leverage, pulls him back onto his cock. His hands are
against Stiles’ neck, fingers curling against his throat, enough pressure that
Stiles doesn’t even think of moving his arms.
When Rafa’s fingers tighten, his whole body whites out for a second, short-
circuited by an orgasm so blinding he can’t keep it inside. Someone might be
crying and it might be him, but his eyes hurt from rolling back in his head so
hard and he’s not able to process a whole lot at the moment. Just weird, stray
sensations, drifting into his consciousness and then fading into numbness just
as quickly. His stomach sliding against the table in his come. The carpet
against the toes on his left foot. A twinge in his right thigh from the angle
it’s bent at.
And the movement, the ache in the flesh of his ass, the slick wide fullness of
Rafa’s cock dragging in and out of him, hitting every nerve ending without
discretion or mercy.
“Didn’t even have to reach around, huh?” Rafa asks, hands flexing on Stiles’
shoulders. “God, you’re perfect.” His hips snap forwards and, in a daze, Stiles
can only mewl in response. “Perfect little slut,” he tells him. “My perfect
little slut.”
He’s present enough to know that he shouldn’t let Rafa call him that, but he
seems to be getting close. And as the post-orgasm haze fades, Stiles is
starting to feel sick. His body’s still down, trembling at every little spark
of pleasure, but his body is the reason he’s sprawled across Scott’s dad’s
coffee table in a pool of his own jizz. His body’s a filthy betrayer and can’t
be trusted.
What the fuck is he doing here?
But Rafa pulls his hair, makes him whine, groaning fuckfuckfuck as he drives
into Stiles’ ass in a way that twinges. Slowing down, getting jerky, until he
just grinds into Stiles’ hips. His breath is loud and heavy, panting. It’s a
moment before his grip in Stiles’ hair relaxes. Rafa drags his fingers down
Stiles’ back, scratching lightly, enough that he probably has eight red lines
running parallel to his spine. As if he needs to leave a visible mark. Not like
Stiles is going to be able to forget this any time soon.
Rafa pulls out and that hurts a little. It makes a nasty wet sound and leaves
him sore and open and alone. Because Rafa’s walking away.
Stiles can’t move. He’s forgotten how.
And then he feels something wet slip out of him, feels a drop of something roll
down his balls. He thinks it’s lube at first, but he uncurls his arm, reaches
back to catch it.
It’s not lube is the thing. That’s definitely come and holy shit.
He’s going to die. He’s straight up going to die. Because he had fucking
unprotected sex with best friend’s father.
Shit, he deserves it. He deserves to—
A towel hits his back, and Rafa’s standing naked in the mouth of a hallway. His
skin is a little flushed and his dick looks wet and Stiles is slammed so hard
with that visual flashback that his head spins.
“Clean up,” Rafa tells him. “I like that table.”
“You didn’t use a condom,” Stiles says, stuck on that point because he’s
terrified now. That’s what they say in Sex Ed. They say it only takes one
instance of unprotected sex to end up—
“What, you weren’t a virgin?” he asks sarcastically.
Stiles shakes his head, says, “Yeah, but how am I supposed to know you don’t
have something?” And the worst part? He had that fucking condom in his jeans
pocket, from Jess' neighbor. It was right there, and now here he is and he has
no idea what to do.
“I’m clean,” Rafa tells him, rolling his eyes. “You’re fine. Don’t worry so
much, kiddo.”
What’s he going to do? He can’t do anything about it now, so he unsticks
himself from the table and wipes it up like he’s been told.
It takes him a couple moments to get to his feet, like he’s a baby giraffe or
something, because all of his muscles feel backwards and his body has this all-
over ache that he’s not sure if he likes or not.
“You got anywhere to be tonight?” Rafa asks, holding out a hand for the towel.
Stiles tosses it to him and shakes his head. “Then stay the night. We can have
some more fun in the morning.”
His grin is easy, almost predatory, and Stiles stares for a moment before
nodding.
He’s not going to stay the night. That much he won’t do.
It’s not like he’ll be able to sleep. He can just leave when Rafa’s out. It’ll
be fine. Maybe Rafa will convince himself he got drunk and had a sex dream.
Not that it matters. Because not only is Stiles never going to see him again,
but he doesn’t know who Stiles is. He thinks his name is...shit, what was it?
Someone he knows, right? Jackson? No, he wouldn’t...Danny. That’s right.
“C’mere,” Rafa says, waving him over. The towel’s gone, Stiles notices as he
goes to him, but then Rafa’s leading him to the bedroom so he doesn’t think
about it.
Maybe it’s that the light isn’t on, but he feels like he’s walking into an
abyss of some sort, guided by a hand very low on his naked back.
But Rafa flips the light on, and Stiles takes in the queen-sized bed, the end
table on one side, the lack of clutter, the lack of photos or any other
memorabilia. It’s a place where someone sleeps, nothing more, and Stiles hopes
it’s guilt, why there’s not even a photo of Scott. Guilt or shame.
Like he would feel if he knew that Stiles isn’t Danny. Isn’t just young-
looking. That he’s the kid Scott used to pretend to be twins with, used to go
for weeks walking in step and finishing each other’s sentences.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Rafa says, pulling him out of his thoughts.
“I don’t need it.”
His voice sounds like it comes from across the room or something, but he
ignores it and crawls onto the table-less side of the bed. His body feels
heavy, tired, but he’s not going to sleep. Who knows how long he’ll sleep if he
does, and he needs to get out of here.
The lights flick off and Stiles is aware of Rafa moving through the dark, onto
the bed next to him. The covers are pulled down, but Stiles doesn’t really get
under them. He’s warm, anyway, and it’ll be easier to get out if he’s not
tangled up. Rafa doesn’t pull them up either, though, just makes them easy to
get to.
He doesn’t try to snuggle, thank God, but it would’ve been completely
unexpected if he did. He does touch Stiles’ back, runs his fingers down to the
crack of his ass, follows it down to his balls.
“Should’ve taken a good look at you,” Rafa purrs in the dark. “Bet you looked
wrecked.”
It’s an unconscious thing, the shiver that runs through him. Rafa’s fingers
move, slick, with purpose up to his hole. He’s sore, but Rafa pushes two
fingers in with a wet sound. They twist and dip lazily, and it aches, twinges a
little when Rafa presses against his rim the wrong way, but Stiles’ legs spread
for it of their own accord. He only plays for a minute or two before his
fingers slow and gradually still. His hand rests against Stiles’ ass like he
has no plans to move it.
And he doesn’t.
Stiles waits and waits until all he hears is the sound of slow, quiet breathing
in the dark.
His eyes adjust soon enough, but the only source of light is a few tiny
pinpricks that make it through the shuttered blinds on the other side of Rafa.
Which means that Stiles can’t see his face, can’t be sure that he’s asleep.
So he waits.
Lets his eyes skim over the curve of Rafa’s back and shoulders.
Hates himself for finding him attractive.
This is a bad thing he’s done here. And really, he has no idea how it came to
this. All he wanted was to figure out how to drive the knife in a little deeper
when he revealed who he was. And now he’s laying in Rafa’s bed with Rafa’s
fingers in his ass and he’s no closer to doing what he intended than he had
been at the bar.
And Rafa’s apparently asleep.
So: new plan.
Something that won’t fail. Something that will redeem him for fucking his best
friend’s deadbeat dad. Fuck. Because he did that. And he’s not even going to
think about the other stuff in there. That’s the kind of thing he’ll figure out
far away from here.
Stiles could get him arrested. He is fifteen, and he might even have some good
bruises to show for it. And if he tells the cops how long he’s known Rafa? And
how? They’ll jump to conclusions, won’t they? But no. That feels wrong. Because
Stiles did want it. Came twice from it. Sought him out and agreed to go home
with him. Lied about his name. That sounds like entrapment, or seduction. And
if he tried to get Rafa arrested, people would find out. Scott, his dad,
Scott’s mom. Fuck. No. Bad plan.
Maybe back to the original plan: guilt. Guilt can do lasting things to people.
Can make them turn to the bottle and have a hard time looking their son in the
eye. Rafa deserves the guilt.
But Stiles doesn’t want to make it easy.
Doesn’t want to wake him up and say, “By the way, I’m Scott’s best friend, you
know, the one who was at your house all the time?” It’s too easy for him.
Because if he knows that Stiles knows, he could brush it away as Stiles
targeting him for revenge. He doesn’t get to feel like a victim here.
So Stiles will have to lay it out delicately. In small ways. So that Rafa
pieces it together himself. So that when he inevitably gets it, Stiles can
watch. So he can get to see how guilty he looks when he realizes who he spanked
and fucked and called baby.
The problem is that Stiles can’t wake him up and start talking about how he
wishes he took his best friend Scott with him into the city. That’s too
obvious, too awkward. Which means that either Stiles has to wait until the
morning, which he absolutely will not do, or find a way to keep up contact with
him. Kind of hard, since Stiles goes home tomorrow.
Unless it’s not in-person contact.
If he leaves his phone number, they can text. Maybe Stiles could even load up
Rafa's phone with some dirty pics, the kind of thing that would make him suffer
later, when he’s figured it out. And that way Stiles could lead him into it
gradually. And it’s not like the city is far from Beacon Hills. Once he gets
his license, he can drive down, assuming his dad lets him. Stay with Aunt Jess.
He’s betting that he could convince her to cover for him.
So that’s settled, then. That’s what he’s going to do.
It’s not like Rafa won’t text him. He certainly seemed to enjoy himself, and if
he let Stiles stay the night, then he’d probably text him. If not, well, Stiles
knows where he might be on a saturday night.
 
He waits half an hour, singing songs in his head to stay away and pass the
time.
Long enough that Rafa has to be deeply asleep enough that Stiles can make a
getaway.
He moves very, very slowly, biting his lip to hold back a wince when he pulls
Rafa’s fingers out of his ass. Gently, very gently, so as not to rouse him.
Getting out of bed takes a minute, too, because he slides on his belly, trying
to minimize the movement of the mattress.
And then he’s free.
He just needs to find his clothes and leave a note.
In the dark. In an unfamiliar place. Shit.
His clothes are by the front door, that much he remembers. So he’ll get dressed
first, then go about leaving a note. With his eyes adjusted to the dark and
some dim light from the dvd player, Stiles is able to get through to the
doorway without tripping over anything.
He pulls his clothes on quick, feeling his pockets for his phone, and his jaw
clenches when his fingers find the unused condom first. He’s going to have to
get tested when he gets home. Not like he trusts Rafa. That’s going to be an
ordeal, though, keeping it under wraps, but he’ll find a planned parenthood or
something. Cause he’s not about to go to Scott’s mom. No way in hell.
Really, what he’s scared of is having proof that this happened, but he’ll deal
with it. He has to.
His phone is in the other pocket, though, and he uses the light on it to find a
notepad in the kitchen. Jots down a quick, mildly suggestive message, followed
up with his number.
And he’s gone.
 
Downstairs, he has to call a cab to pick him up, thanking all the deities he
can think of that he’s got enough money for fare.
As he waits, his hands go numb, his feet. It’s not cold. It’s only September,
and even if it is San Francisco, it’s balmy out, comfortable. But he feels numb
and he’s shaking and he swears he can feel come leaking out of his ass. It’s
probably just paranoia, just something in his fucked up head, but he can’t stop
thinking about it. Feels like it’s obvious. Like anyone passing by would know
what he did.
He didn’t do it on purpose. That’s what he keeps reminding himself. He wasn’t
even thinking about Scott. Which is maybe part of the problem, that he’d been
alone with Scott’s fucking asshole dad and hadn’t really thought about Scott,
or at least not enough to stop.
He had a few drinks, didn’t he? Maybe that’s it. He wasn’t drunk or anything,
but his decision-making was impaired.
Really, he was thinking with his dick, but just thinking that, thinking about
who it was, makes him sick.
Oh fucking well. Freaking out about it and hating himself for it isn’t going to
re-virginize him. He doesn’t get to go back in time and just not, so he’s going
to do the one thing he can: move forward. This isn’t about fucking Rafa
anymore. It’s about destroying him. And Stiles is going to do that any way he
can.
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