Chapter Text
“Stiles, how many months did I ground you for once you got back home last night?” John called out from the hallway, landing a series of powerful blows against Stiles’ bedroom door—so loud, in fact, so that Stiles couldn’t play stupid later and pretend like nobody told him to get ready. “If you’re not already up and getting dressed for school, you can add an extra month to that.”
John went back to his standard morning routine of getting ready before heading out to the station. He shaved, got dressed, and finished off with a simple breakfast of coffee and toast. An extra cup of coffee certainly didn’t hurt, especially considering his son’s late night charades. But after breakfast was all said and done, John realized that he didn’t hear the usual frantic fumbling around upstairs that usually accompanied his son’s mad dash to get ready.
Pretending he was too tired, or sick, or boycotting his teacher’s meanness wasn’t going to help Stiles weasel his way out of going to school. John knew that much. He grumbled to himself, tossing his dirty dishes into the sink. And then, with a fatherly scowl marked toughly on his face, John stomped his way back upstairs to haul Stiles off to class in his pajamas if that’s what it took to really learn a lesson.
“I thought that I already told you—” John began in a cold, frustrated tone—swinging open his son’s bedroom door.
But John stopped dead in his tracks, letting his words of accusation and punishment softly tumble off the tip of his tongue and into dead silence. Stiles was not getting ready for school. In fact, Stiles was only half-dressed in a pair of plaid boxers and a singular gray sock, which was hanging off the toes of only one of his feet. The rest of Stiles’ body, devoid of clothes and laid bare to an audience of his gobsmacked father, was drenched with sweat as though the boy had just finished running a marathon.
Stiles was standing in front of his cluttered desk, visibly unsteady on his own two feet and unable to find a sturdy balance. He seemed lost and hanging onto the tiniest bit of consciousness by the look of him. Stiles’ mouth was dropped open with a twisted, halfcocked kind of smile that allowed for his tongue to hang out as though he were some common mutt. Thick, glimmering drool melted off the tip of his tongue and messily spilled against the nakedness of the rise and fall of his chest.
With one of his hands wrapped firmly around the base of where his meaty shaft slung itself over the stretched waistband of his boxers, Stiles eagerly pumped his hips forward and backwards in a desperate see-saw fashion. His body chased pleasure, locking his mind and soul into a simple state of chase. There was only one thing that Stiles wanted to do—and that was to find another orgasm. Even the concerned words from his father, who remained at the threshold of the bedroom door, did very little to pull Stiles away from his now permanent cock-hungry stupor.
Stiles hiccupped and laughed breathlessly, eyes going dazed and crossed, letting a violent strike of pleasure rip down the back of his spine and through the tips of his toes. His entire body stilled and shivered—a dry orgasm. There was seemingly no more cum left to expel from his well-wrung balls.
But on the desk that was positioned directly in front of where Stiles refused to step away from, thick swashes of old cumshots puddled and slicked up the faux-wood surface. And there, propped up by a stack of some old textbooks, the object of Stiles’ attention—hardcore porn playing on the screen of his phone.
“STILES!” John shouted out, putting as much power as he could into his voice in an attempt to pull his son’s attention away from the pornographic video that was playing at full-volume on his phone.
Stiles panted out another round of whimpered giggles, briefly turning his head to look over in his father’s direction. Absolutely nothing registered itself inside of Stiles’ otherwise blank and glossed over eyes. Stiles just stared his father square in the face and hiccupped again, drooling and grinning dumbly. And while concern and shock spread fiercely across John’s mature face, Stiles simply groaned and turned away to focus on the video that continued to play on his phone.
“Stiles, what are you doing to yourself, son?” John tried again, letting his voice fall into a softer, more fatherly sound—hoping that it would have some kind of better effect on pulling his son’s attention. But still, there was no response.
Without warning, Stiles let out another shaky gasp of breath. But so much unlike the first time, Stiles’ naked skin shot as white as a ghost. His dick twitched and pulsed with visible surges of rhythm that looked almost painful to experience, but the reward was clearly worth whatever discomfort it caused. Because from the sidelines, John watched as his son exploded with a great shout of pleasure as an orgasm quickly destroyed him.
John turned himself around and tried his best to give his son some much needed privacy, all things considered. He kept his gaze firmly averted, listening to the lewd pitter-patter of Stiles’ striking cumshots landing heavy blows against all that remained crowded on his desk. But when the sounds slowed and stopped completely, John finally turned back around only to find that the boy’s desk was disgustingly soaked and dripping heavily with thick white jizz that spilled over the desk’s edge to make a mess of the carpet below.
The shocking paleness of Stiles’ skin faded away to a normal color, but it was the only normal thing that returned. Stiles remained bound to the rhythm of violating himself by continuing to pump his dick into his hands as though he wanted nothing more than to orgasm again. And of course, another orgasm was what Stiles found—not more than five minutes later. And like before, Stiles’ skin drew white and cold, before he screamed out with a giddy laugh and painted even more of his already sticky desk.
John watched his son seemingly catch between two altering states of being—normal and Nogitsune. It was like watching an embarrassingly filthy sunrise shoot to sunset in a matter of seconds, just with the added crudeness of Stiles gasping and orgasming without end. And in the moments where Stiles did seem to chirp out with unintelligible babble, as if trying to start a conversation, potentially even trying to ask questions as to how to fix whatever it was that plagued him, John remained clueless and stunned into belligerent silence.
Not more than four hours prior, in the early hours of the morning, Sheriff Stilinski had welcomed Stiles back home with a thump on the head and a firm punishment of being grounded for the next two months for staying out beyond a reasonable curfew. And sure, being barred from playing video games and hanging out with friends outside of normal school hours was a tough thing to handle, but the punishment had certainly not been shocking enough to elicit such a bizarre mental response from Stiles.
In fact, John remembered that besides smelling like a barnful of animals in the dead heat of summer, Stiles arrived back home in a perfectly normal condition. Tired-looking? Sure. But that’s what he deserved for staying out so late on a school night. And pissed—pissed about getting grounded for two months for disobeying curfew? Oh, absolutely. But other than that, Stiles seemed genuinely normal, coherent, and certainly not some sort of drunken slave to porn and orgasms.
What John didn’t know, however, was that after taking his shower and heading back to his bedroom to finally score some much needed slumber, Stiles made the very grave mistake of letting his phone’s battery charge. It only charged for a few minutes, just enough to let it power on without shutting right back off. And naturally, Stiles was eager to see what all he ended up accidentally recording during the elapsed time of being knocked unconscious inside the old Hale house. He figured that despite being an embarrassing little tape, he could at least find humor in watching Derek freak out about not knowing what to do.
The recently saved video clip clocked in at one hour, forty-seven minutes, and three seconds. He kicked back on his bed and pressed play, skipping through shoddy camera work before realizing that he totally didn’t remember trying to get Derek to film an amateur horror flick with him. He laughed briefly, then skipped ahead further into the surprisingly long video. But instead of finding good, clean, innocent, and somewhat embarrassing footage of falling and hitting his own head, Stiles found something else.
Graphic footage played on the phone’s screen and even more graphic audio blasted through the weak speakers. Stiles went dumb in the face with confusion and horror, watching on the screen as he was thrown around like some kind of ragdoll before getting mercilessly fucked by none other than Derek Hale.
The only thing that Stiles could see was flesh, hot flesh and sweat—swirling, grabbing, pounding, everywhere—just everywhere. The angle from where the phone had fallen into the corner of the room caught everything in frame, with a very special, completely unintentional emphasis on the way that Derek’s hairy ass cheeks clapped and bounced as he pounded his cock deep inside of Stiles’ body.
“Oh my god…” Stiles breathed, feeling a thunderous shock of heat punch at his inner organs.
At once, memories and sensations—so lewd and once forgotten—all seemed to flow straight back into Stiles’ brain. Stiles felt something snap inside of his head. His eyelids twitched. And then, Stiles cried out with a shockingly wanderlust cry of excitement as his flaccid dick shot straight to full mast within a matter of seconds. And in sync with one of the many orgasms that had apparently been so violently fucked out of him by Derek back in that house, Stiles’ dick erupted and shot hot white cum straight through the fabric of his boxers.
“Wh—what—?” Stiles tried, but the words seemed to draw themselves all fuzzy in the blackening space of his consciousness.
The work that Peter had done to repair Derek’s shoddy memory wipe and restore the boy’s brain back to a normal, functional state of self, had left the boy in a very fragile state. Normal day-to-day activities would’ve been fine to entertain, allowing for Stiles’ brain to re-solidify before more patrol fun could be had. But watching back the video proved too much to take. And all those pretty walls and repaired synapses that Peter had dutifully reconstructed came crumbled down, down, down into a steaming hot slush of cum and empty thoughts.
Stiles' hands twitched and dragged down to where his big dick threatened to tear straight through the front of his sticky boxers. He slipped his trembling fingers under the fabric and wrapped fists around his cock, pulling at himself in a slow and timid sort of pace. But as Stiles’ brain continued to be assaulted by the rush of old memories, made new, Stiles stroked harder at his cock until he felt another orgasm crash through him.
Within a matter of seconds, Stiles felt everything that had been done to him over the past handful of weeks. Hands, phantom hands of strangers—no, not strangers. Hands of the people he knew. His friends. The pack. Hands, everywhere—touching him, grabbing him, fingering inside of his pussy, reaching inside him much deeper than they needed to be, only to be withdrawn and replaced by cocks and tongues and filthy words meant to stain against Stiles’ skin.
Stiles did feel stained. He felt ruined beyond repair, babbling out nonsense to himself in the quiet of his bedroom as he bucked his hips high into the air and orgasmed for a third time. Hours seemed to swirl and before long, the stark bright reaches of sunrise started to poke through his bedroom curtains. The small piece of Stiles’ brain that held onto his former self tried to remain, but the sudden memory of that blunt stretch of Derek’s knot plunging into his virginity quickly burned it away.
Stiles moaned loudly.
His father would find him soon.