Sciles Fic - Chapter 2 (of 3)
Title: Take You Down
Pairing: Sciles
Summary: Scott, feral and strung out on his first full moon as alpha, continues his assault of Stiles.
Warning: Blood, Vomit (non-sexual), Noncon
( Chapter One)
Get you Low:
Stiles wakes up on his back in the entrance way, a wave of nausea washing over him. His entire body aches - even his ass feeling sore and bizarrely sensitized - and he takes in hurried, shallow breaths, shifting gingerly onto his side. His stomach roils at the movement and he has to stop, grinding his teeth and letting his body settle before he continues his journey. He has to drag himself, since it seems he can’t really stand, and it’s a lot like that night in the police station, when he had to pull his limp body all the way to the jail cell. He wryly thinks that it’s fortunate he’s gotten some practice.
It’s while he’s dragging himself to the staircase that Stiles comes to the startling realization that he is, in fact, naked, and he wonders just how concerned he should be about that. Given a little thought, on a scale of one to ten, he thinks he’s more worried that he’s naked and very much injured than he is about the nudity specifically.
With herculean effort, Stiles begins the arduous journey up the steps. Were he thinking more clearly, he might have gone to the bathroom on the first floor landing, where he could have thrown up in peace and then hopefully formulated some sort of plan of action. Were he thinking clearly at all, he might have foregone the bathroom option altogether and called someone on the receiver laying nearby. Unfortunately for Stiles, he isn’t thinking much at all, his muddled mind of very little use to him in the circumstances, so it is instead that he goes through the effort of hauling himself up the steps. It’s a slow expedition with a suspiciously low number of obstacles past his own body’s current limitations, and Stiles hopefully contemplates the possibility that Scott might have fled and left him to his space.
It’s dark still, and flecks of moonlight stream in through the window, but Stiles’ internal clock is telling him it’s almost morning. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s going to do when it actually is morning and his dad comes home, and just thinking about it seems to make everything ten times worse, so he tries to bury that line of thinking. He’s surprisingly successful since just lifting his arms is taking far too much concentration as it is.
After what feels like hours, Stiles manages to finally drag himself past the top step and into the hallway. His stomach’s rubbed raw and his entire body’s shaking. After a couple deep breaths and a short rest, he starts the journey to the bathroom, making a quick pit stop to vomit in his dad’s potted plant (which Stiles didn’t like anyway and refuses to feel bad about.)
Stiles is hauling himself across the hardwood when a cold chill travels down his spine and he pauses, lifting his head. He’s not that far from the bathroom, but as his stomach drops and his body breaks out in goose bumps, he has the distinct impression he won’t be making it there any time soon.
Stiles is frozen, eyes trained on the red orbs glowing at him in the darkness.
He knew he might have been hastily optimistic in thinking Scott might have possibly been finished with him. He’s prey at this point, lame and defeated but Scott’s target nonetheless. He’s not getting out of this and all he can hope for is a little mercy.
Scott stalks forward. Stiles can hear each of his steps, the foreboding echoes of each thump ringing in his ears along with the click of claws, and his heart pounds in protest. Adrenaline pushes at his muscles, urging him to get up and run, but exhaustion and pain weighs down on him in kind and he simply doesn’t have the energy or capability to escape. Beaten down and helpless, all he manages is a pathetic whimper.
Scott doesn’t waver at the sound. If anything, he seems to move faster, and after an eternity and only a few seconds, he’s right in front of Stiles, face still the same old Scott but with something wild and twisted pushing at the edges. It is, undeniably, the most jarring part of this.
“Scott.” Stiles whispers, voice breaking. Scott moves in closer, rubbing the side of Stiles’ face with his own. “Scott, please.”
It seems to have no effect on Scott, who licks along the shell of Stiles’ ear. Something in Stiles seems to settle at the gesture, even when the rest of him is frayed and on edge. Stiles can’t figure out what it is and he quickly dismisses it, mind honing in on the fact that Scott’s naked. His eyes drift over the planes of Scott’s body and down to his groin, where Stiles can make out the hard line of Scott’s erection.
Stiles whimpers, immobile as Scott moves forward, tracing the line of Stiles’ body as he travels down to his entrance. Stiles’ breath stutters out of him, and he’s left feeling hollow and powerless when Scott’s face pushes between his cheeks, tongue lapping at his hole.
Stiles lips open on a gasp and he lets his head fall down onto the floor, staring blankly at the space across from him as Scott’s tongue moves upwards, licking a line up his spine. Scott’s cock pokes at Stiles and Scott’s hands move to clutch at his hips. Stiles can’t breathe.
It hurts, when Scott starts to enter him. It hurts a lot actually, but not as much as Stiles thinks it could, and he comes to the alarming conclusion that Scott must’ve prepared him while he was passed out.
Stiles scratches at the floorboards, gritting his teeth and trying to ride out the pain as Scott starts a steady rhythm. The contrast of the burning fullness with his other injuries is disconcerting, and Stiles wonders if any part of him is going to come out of this night unscathed.
Stiles’ ass throbs and he feels blood flow south, filling his lower body and making him feel hot and swollen around Scott’s cock. Consequently -and that’s Stiles’ only explanation for it - his dick starts to harden as well.
A wave of nausea hits Stiles and he gags, biting at his hand and squeezing his eyes shut. Scott thrusts deeply into him, dick stroking over Stiles’ prostate and making him cry out. Stiles’ cock twitches in interest at the sensation and he moans, hips flexing in the werewolf’s grip. Scott growls in approval, nipping at Stiles’ neck and moving his hands to the top of Stiles’ legs.
Scott’s claws dig into Stiles’ thighs as Scott pushes into him, stretching and filling him over and over again. Stiles’ fractured nerves are blistering from heat, and his muscles are clenching and shifting around Scott’s intrusion, places he’d never known existed before suddenly sending a rush of pain and pleasure coursing through him.
Stiles’ head is fuzzy and he can’t quite seem to figure out how to breathe, air catching in his throat with each drag of Scott’s cock. Moisture builds beneath his eyelids and a broken sob slips past his lips as he digs desperately at the ground.
‘Scott, what are you doing to me?’ Stiles thinks helplessly. The sweat dripping from his face is joined by something warm and thick and Stiles realizes his nose is bleeding. He rests his forehead against the floor, pressing his nose into the back of his hand and moaning unevenly into his skins as he tries to stem the flow.
Scott’s nose presses into the side of his neck and Stiles feels the werewolf take a long sniff, nuzzling at his skin. Scott’s hair tickles his cheek and Stiles thinks the gesture’s oddly intimate. In fact, the whole situation’s intimate, and Stiles’ groans, hips jolting backwards to meet Scott’s thrust.
Scott’s sweat-slicked torso slides along Stiles’ back, sending fire coursing through him. Everywhere Scott touches seems to leave pinpricks of sensation across Stiles’ body, infecting Stiles with something slick and poisonous.
Scott nips sharply at the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles’ groans, heart stuttering in his chest. Scott’s hands come up, palms pressing against his chest and claws digging into his collar bones, holding him in place as Scott starts to plow into him with harsh, claiming thrusts.
Stiles cries out, tears leaking from his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and mixing with sweat and blood. His hips are pressed downward, knees unable to support his weight, and he feels his cock press into the wood floor, scraping against the harsh surface as his body moves with Scott’s.
Stiles barely recognizes his own voice. He hears it vaguely over the harsh rhythm of his blood flowing and his heart beating, but it’s garbled and desperate, and the sounds being ripped from him are almost more animalistic and primal than the growls coming from Scott. Stiles isn’t sure he’s even capable of forming words anymore.
Stiles’ body shakes and he feels himself tense and unravel in equal measure. A familiar sensation of nausea and disorientation presses down on him, dizziness making him feel like he’s spinning and floating in free space even as Scott holds him down, and he knows he’s about to black out.
Scott slams against Stiles’ prostate, and Stiles feels unconsciousness prickle at his mind. The tension starts to drain from his body, slowly ebbing away as he’s taken over by pleasure and sickness. Stiles comes with a moan, painting the floor beneath him, before he's swept away by the darkness.
Pairing: Sciles
Summary: Scott, feral and strung out on his first full moon as alpha, continues his assault of Stiles.
Warning: Blood, Vomit (non-sexual), Noncon
( Chapter One)
Get you Low:
Stiles wakes up on his back in the entrance way, a wave of nausea washing over him. His entire body aches - even his ass feeling sore and bizarrely sensitized - and he takes in hurried, shallow breaths, shifting gingerly onto his side. His stomach roils at the movement and he has to stop, grinding his teeth and letting his body settle before he continues his journey. He has to drag himself, since it seems he can’t really stand, and it’s a lot like that night in the police station, when he had to pull his limp body all the way to the jail cell. He wryly thinks that it’s fortunate he’s gotten some practice.
It’s while he’s dragging himself to the staircase that Stiles comes to the startling realization that he is, in fact, naked, and he wonders just how concerned he should be about that. Given a little thought, on a scale of one to ten, he thinks he’s more worried that he’s naked and very much injured than he is about the nudity specifically.
With herculean effort, Stiles begins the arduous journey up the steps. Were he thinking more clearly, he might have gone to the bathroom on the first floor landing, where he could have thrown up in peace and then hopefully formulated some sort of plan of action. Were he thinking clearly at all, he might have foregone the bathroom option altogether and called someone on the receiver laying nearby. Unfortunately for Stiles, he isn’t thinking much at all, his muddled mind of very little use to him in the circumstances, so it is instead that he goes through the effort of hauling himself up the steps. It’s a slow expedition with a suspiciously low number of obstacles past his own body’s current limitations, and Stiles hopefully contemplates the possibility that Scott might have fled and left him to his space.
It’s dark still, and flecks of moonlight stream in through the window, but Stiles’ internal clock is telling him it’s almost morning. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s going to do when it actually is morning and his dad comes home, and just thinking about it seems to make everything ten times worse, so he tries to bury that line of thinking. He’s surprisingly successful since just lifting his arms is taking far too much concentration as it is.
After what feels like hours, Stiles manages to finally drag himself past the top step and into the hallway. His stomach’s rubbed raw and his entire body’s shaking. After a couple deep breaths and a short rest, he starts the journey to the bathroom, making a quick pit stop to vomit in his dad’s potted plant (which Stiles didn’t like anyway and refuses to feel bad about.)
Stiles is hauling himself across the hardwood when a cold chill travels down his spine and he pauses, lifting his head. He’s not that far from the bathroom, but as his stomach drops and his body breaks out in goose bumps, he has the distinct impression he won’t be making it there any time soon.
Stiles is frozen, eyes trained on the red orbs glowing at him in the darkness.
He knew he might have been hastily optimistic in thinking Scott might have possibly been finished with him. He’s prey at this point, lame and defeated but Scott’s target nonetheless. He’s not getting out of this and all he can hope for is a little mercy.
Scott stalks forward. Stiles can hear each of his steps, the foreboding echoes of each thump ringing in his ears along with the click of claws, and his heart pounds in protest. Adrenaline pushes at his muscles, urging him to get up and run, but exhaustion and pain weighs down on him in kind and he simply doesn’t have the energy or capability to escape. Beaten down and helpless, all he manages is a pathetic whimper.
Scott doesn’t waver at the sound. If anything, he seems to move faster, and after an eternity and only a few seconds, he’s right in front of Stiles, face still the same old Scott but with something wild and twisted pushing at the edges. It is, undeniably, the most jarring part of this.
“Scott.” Stiles whispers, voice breaking. Scott moves in closer, rubbing the side of Stiles’ face with his own. “Scott, please.”
It seems to have no effect on Scott, who licks along the shell of Stiles’ ear. Something in Stiles seems to settle at the gesture, even when the rest of him is frayed and on edge. Stiles can’t figure out what it is and he quickly dismisses it, mind honing in on the fact that Scott’s naked. His eyes drift over the planes of Scott’s body and down to his groin, where Stiles can make out the hard line of Scott’s erection.
Stiles whimpers, immobile as Scott moves forward, tracing the line of Stiles’ body as he travels down to his entrance. Stiles’ breath stutters out of him, and he’s left feeling hollow and powerless when Scott’s face pushes between his cheeks, tongue lapping at his hole.
Stiles lips open on a gasp and he lets his head fall down onto the floor, staring blankly at the space across from him as Scott’s tongue moves upwards, licking a line up his spine. Scott’s cock pokes at Stiles and Scott’s hands move to clutch at his hips. Stiles can’t breathe.
It hurts, when Scott starts to enter him. It hurts a lot actually, but not as much as Stiles thinks it could, and he comes to the alarming conclusion that Scott must’ve prepared him while he was passed out.
Stiles scratches at the floorboards, gritting his teeth and trying to ride out the pain as Scott starts a steady rhythm. The contrast of the burning fullness with his other injuries is disconcerting, and Stiles wonders if any part of him is going to come out of this night unscathed.
Stiles’ ass throbs and he feels blood flow south, filling his lower body and making him feel hot and swollen around Scott’s cock. Consequently -and that’s Stiles’ only explanation for it - his dick starts to harden as well.
A wave of nausea hits Stiles and he gags, biting at his hand and squeezing his eyes shut. Scott thrusts deeply into him, dick stroking over Stiles’ prostate and making him cry out. Stiles’ cock twitches in interest at the sensation and he moans, hips flexing in the werewolf’s grip. Scott growls in approval, nipping at Stiles’ neck and moving his hands to the top of Stiles’ legs.
Scott’s claws dig into Stiles’ thighs as Scott pushes into him, stretching and filling him over and over again. Stiles’ fractured nerves are blistering from heat, and his muscles are clenching and shifting around Scott’s intrusion, places he’d never known existed before suddenly sending a rush of pain and pleasure coursing through him.
Stiles’ head is fuzzy and he can’t quite seem to figure out how to breathe, air catching in his throat with each drag of Scott’s cock. Moisture builds beneath his eyelids and a broken sob slips past his lips as he digs desperately at the ground.
‘Scott, what are you doing to me?’ Stiles thinks helplessly. The sweat dripping from his face is joined by something warm and thick and Stiles realizes his nose is bleeding. He rests his forehead against the floor, pressing his nose into the back of his hand and moaning unevenly into his skins as he tries to stem the flow.
Scott’s nose presses into the side of his neck and Stiles feels the werewolf take a long sniff, nuzzling at his skin. Scott’s hair tickles his cheek and Stiles thinks the gesture’s oddly intimate. In fact, the whole situation’s intimate, and Stiles’ groans, hips jolting backwards to meet Scott’s thrust.
Scott’s sweat-slicked torso slides along Stiles’ back, sending fire coursing through him. Everywhere Scott touches seems to leave pinpricks of sensation across Stiles’ body, infecting Stiles with something slick and poisonous.
Scott nips sharply at the back of Stiles’ neck and Stiles’ groans, heart stuttering in his chest. Scott’s hands come up, palms pressing against his chest and claws digging into his collar bones, holding him in place as Scott starts to plow into him with harsh, claiming thrusts.
Stiles cries out, tears leaking from his eyes, sliding down his cheeks and mixing with sweat and blood. His hips are pressed downward, knees unable to support his weight, and he feels his cock press into the wood floor, scraping against the harsh surface as his body moves with Scott’s.
Stiles barely recognizes his own voice. He hears it vaguely over the harsh rhythm of his blood flowing and his heart beating, but it’s garbled and desperate, and the sounds being ripped from him are almost more animalistic and primal than the growls coming from Scott. Stiles isn’t sure he’s even capable of forming words anymore.
Stiles’ body shakes and he feels himself tense and unravel in equal measure. A familiar sensation of nausea and disorientation presses down on him, dizziness making him feel like he’s spinning and floating in free space even as Scott holds him down, and he knows he’s about to black out.
Scott slams against Stiles’ prostate, and Stiles feels unconsciousness prickle at his mind. The tension starts to drain from his body, slowly ebbing away as he’s taken over by pleasure and sickness. Stiles comes with a moan, painting the floor beneath him, before he's swept away by the darkness.