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Stiles' cheek scraps against the carpet floor as his body jerks back and forth, and he knows from experience that it'll leave behind a rug burn—annoying, because then he'll have to come up with an excuse when people inevitably ask him about it.
Then again, they never question his "clumsy" defense, or his defense of "I mouthed off to someone I shouldn't have and they got a little payback." They only ever roll their eyes and move on. Not like they don't have a million other things going on right now, all of them drastically more important than whether or not Stiles has a little scratch.
(Still never stops him from wishing one of them would push hard enough to see what the fuck is happening. That one of the countless supernatural creatures around him would hear the fucking lie for what it is and—
And what? What would he want them to do, if they knew? He doesn't even know. Maybe that's why he stays silent.)
Stiles winces as the hands on his hips tighten, grabbing him hard enough to bruise. The cock in his cunt pounds in and out of him, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoing through the office around them.
The office of the sheriff of Beacon Hills. A place that's supposed to represent all that is good and just and lawful, instead used by a father to fuck his son as punishment for...something, Stiles can't quite remember what at the moment. These days it feels like every other day he's committed some atrocious sin that his dad deems reason to punish him, varying so wildly that Stiles can never be sure what will set his dad off the next time.
But it always ends the same—Stiles bent over, legs spread, and Noah Stilinski grunting above him as he fucks Stiles as hard as he can.
This time, they're on the floor, Stiles' knees underneath him to raise his ass in the air but chest and face pressed to the ground. His wrists are handcuffed in the small of his back, tight enough to dig into his skin, biting at him every time his hands twist. His ankles are trapped in place by the way his pants and underwear are shoved down to wrap around them. He can do nothing but kneel there and bite his lip as his dad fucks him at a brutal pace.
"Maybe this'll finally make you keep your mouth shut," Noah groans, shifting to curve more over Stiles. It lets him fuck even deeper, and Stiles gasps a stuttering breath, hating himself for the fact that it feels good. It—it doesn't mean he wants this, he doesn't, it's just—it's—it's a bodily reaction, that's all, it's just—
Are you really so much of a whore that you're enjoying your own punishment?
Stiles shakes the thought away, the echo of his father's words from a past punishment session. He knows the truth. But that doesn't make it any easier to accept.
"You think you're learning, kid?" Noah asks, but Stiles knows he doesn't really expect—or want—an answer. He gets off on this; he might deny it, he might say that it's only for Stiles' own good, only a punishment, but you don't get that hard if you don't enjoy it. You don't do something as often as Noah does this if you don't enjoy it. You don't talk through the whole fucking thing if you don't enjoy it a fucking lot.
So, really, it doesn't matter if all this shit actually "worked" and Stiles started "behaving better" to avoid punishments. It took him a long time to realize that, but he gets it now—it doesn't fucking matter a lick how he acts, what he does. His dad will find a reason to punish him. So he might as well be himself along the way.
Noah's thrusts pick up in speed, a wet noise filling the room as he fucks Stiles' cunt as hard as he can. He's getting close. Hopefully that means this will be over soon. It...varies, time to time, whether or not his dad will be satisfied with one round, if he decides that is punishment enough for whatever the latest offense is.
Stiles can't help but grimace as Noah comes inside of him, his dad's cum filling him up. Noah fucks him through his orgasm, groaning long and low as he packs his cum in deep. He fucks Stiles until he's completely soft, then just...goes still, for a moment, panting roughly with his cock still buried deep in his son's cunt. His hands stop gripping Stiles' hips so tightly, and Stiles allows himself to let out a relieved breath—maybe there's still more to come, but at least this part is over.
When his dad pulls out of him, Stiles can feel some of his cum drip out after him, sliding disgustingly down his thighs. Almost immediately, Noah hikes Stiles' hips up, drawing a grunt out of Stiles as he's forced into a high kneel with his face still pressed against the floor.
"Tighten up, son," Noah says, sounding disappointed, and Stiles cringes at the tone. "You can do better than that."
So Stiles does his best, arching his hips up and clenching down no matter how gross it feels, how humiliating it is to be forced to keep his father's cum deep inside of himself.
"What a picture you make," his dad says, so quietly Stiles thinks it might be more to himself than Stiles, and then drags his fingers over the swell of Stiles' ass. "Like a fucking offering. You really want my cock that badly, son? Wiggling your hips in the air like that, I can only assume you're desperate to be fucked again."
It burns inside of Stiles, the injustice of it all. Noah puts him in these situations, makes him move the way he wants him to, and then mocks him for the end result, like a single moment of this is his choice. Like Stiles wouldn't run screaming from here if he actually had the option.
He hears his dad start to get to his feet, belt buckle clinking as he closes his pants back up, and then Noah orders, "Don't move," as his footsteps move towards the door of his office.
It's the middle of the night, they're the only ones in the station, but that knowledge doesn't stop a flare of panic from flooding through Stiles when the door opens and is left open, his dad walking off down the hall.
"Deep breaths," Stiles tells himself, working on calming down. He doesn't move an inch, despite how desperately he wants to—he knows how much worse this will get if he disobeys while in the middle of it all. And despite his father's sudden disappearance, they are still very much in the middle.
Stiles...drifts, a little, while he waits. Allows his mind to go somewhere else, somewhere more peaceful, for whatever short amount of relaxation he gets in this mess. He wishes he could do this during the actual thing, could send his brain elsewhere, not have to be aware of what's happening, what his dad is doing to him. But he's never managed it, always forced to be completely present, horribly aware. Never able to escape or forget a single fucking minute of it.
Later than he normally would, Stiles becomes aware of his father's footsteps returning. There's a clicking sound alongside them that's confusing, one that vanishes as soon as Noah crosses the threshold into the carpeted room. There's a weird...panting, with him? It sounds like panting. It doesn't make any sense. Stiles' brow furrows as he tries to figure it out.
"I brought you a little present, kid," his dad says, walking closer. "I won't be able to get it up for a little while, but that doesn't mean we should have to stop here. Not when I have just the thing to take care of that slutty hole of yours. Maybe it'll even be the ticket to make this lesson stick, huh?"
Stiles doesn't even remember what this lesson is supposed to be about. He wonders if Noah even remembers, or if he's so caught up in enjoying himself while he rapes his son that the actual "reason" behind it has left him, too.
The panting gets closer, and it's...it's heavier than people tend to breathe, wetter. It actually kind of sounds like—
A wet snout pokes at his ass, hot breath washing over his skin, and Stiles realizes what's happening—his dad went and got one of the K-9 dogs and brought it back here to Stiles with a very specific, insane purpose.
Stiles yelps and jerks forward, an action that gets him nowhere, face scraping across the carpet and knees nearly falling out from underneath him. He twists his ankles, trying to free them from their prison in his clothing, but he doesn't succeed, only earns himself a sharp, "Hey!" from his father.
The shout makes Stiles go still, panting hard. His heart is pounding in his chest, a ringing in his ears. "D-Dad," he tries. "Dad, you can't—"
"I can do whatever the hell I want," Noah snaps back. "Maybe this'll finally get you to fucking listen."
"I'll listen," Stiles says desperately. "I—whatever you want, I'm sorry, I'll—"
"You'll lie there and take it like the whore you are," Noah says, voice a pure command. "Unless you want me to beat you to hell and then bring the whole K-9 unit back here to fuck you instead of just one."
Stiles cringes, shoulders hunching. He's shaking. He doesn't know when that started.
"Please," Stiles whispers. "Please, Dad, don't let it..."
Noah doesn't bother responding. He makes a clicking noise with his tongue, whistles a short sound, and then furry legs are brushing up against Stiles' calves, his thighs, his ass. He shudders, flinching, and then another whistle sounds from his dad—the dog barks as it moves, and then there are paws on Stiles' back, sharp claws digging into his skin. Something long and hot and bumpy thrusts over the cleft of Stiles' ass, moving faster as the dog starts to hump him.
The paws slip down, landing on Stiles' shoulders, pinning him down. The dog is—is big, a large mass on top of Stiles, and it feels so wrong to have something furry lying over him, something not humanoid climbing on him like this.
No—not climbing. The dog is mounting him. He's being mounted.
The dog soon grows bored of humping Stiles' ass apparently, because he starts moving with more purpose, growling as the head of his cock slips and slides over Stiles' asshole, like he's trying to—to push inside.
"Dad," Stiles says desperately. "Not—not there, please, dad, I'm not—I can't—"
Stiles doesn't want the dog anywhere inside of him, but at least his cunt is...is used, is stretched, is lubed up with his dad's cum. His ass—that will hurt. That will rip him apart. He doesn't know if he can take that.
Noah snorts derisively, but he does step forward, and Stiles feels his hand come between the dog and Stiles' body, and he guides the dog's cock lower, aiming it towards Stiles' cunt. And the dog takes full advantage of the assistance, immediately fucking forward with enthusiasm, the head of his cock catching between the folds of Stiles' cunt.
Stiles can do nothing but gasp and tremble as the dog pushes inch by inch of his cock inside of him. He does it in stops and starts, fucking in and pulling back, then fucking in deeper and pulling out again, then fucking even deeper, repeating the process until his entire cock is sheathed inside of Stiles.
It's hot, searing inside of Stiles, and a bulbous shape that strikes all of Stiles' instincts as wrong. And then he begins fucking Stiles hard, fucking like a jackhammer, and Stiles barely has any room to breathe let alone think, gasping and trembling as a dog fucks him.
"Taking it just like the bitch I always thought you were," Noah says, and Stiles can't tell if that's supposed to be degradation or compliment—with his dad, it could be either. "Really are desperate for it, aren't'cha? Guess I shouldn't be surprised you're getting off on dog cock—with all the wolves you hang around with, you must be used to taking a lot of it. Why else would they keep you around?"
Stiles' face burns, and his eyes sting, and his stomach twists in knots. He hates this he hates this he hates this. He wants to go home. He wants to rewind five years. He wants his mom to hold him and stroke his hair and tell him nothing bad will ever happen to him.
Least of all her husband.
Stiles winces as the dog's cock starts to tug more at his cunt every time he pulls out, almost as if he's getting bigger somehow. And then Stiles remembers—canines have knots. They knot their bitches, lock them together after coming.
Stiles groans a protesting noise, but doesn't bother actually putting voice to any of his internal pleading—his dad has proven he has no interest in listening. It won't make a goddamn difference. This is happening whether he likes it or not.
"That's it," Noah murmurs, as the dog's knot grows and grows, making Stiles gasp for air against the ground as a large mass forms inside his cock until it finally stops, locking the dog in place. It makes the dog whine, jerking his hips as he works to keep fucking Stiles with his new limited motion. It is so big inside of Stiles, stretching his cunt wide, trapping him in place as this dog's bitch.
When the dog comes, it is long and hot and sticky and fills Stiles and fills Stiles and fills Stiles.
"Maybe he'll give you pups," Noah says, offhand, and Stiles knows that's impossible but the idea still makes him flinch, nausea churning in his gut. "Then you'll really be a proper bitch, won't you? I think it would suit you—certainly better than this cocky little shit you prance around pretending to be."
There's nothing to say to that, not right now, so Stiles doesn't bother. His face feels wet—he doesn't know when he started crying.
He doesn't think it matters.