
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/577276.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Chris_Argent/Lydia_Martin
  Additional Tags:
      Dubious_Consent, Age_Difference, Daddy_Kink, Unsafe_Sex, Rough_Sex,
      Angst, Face_Slapping, Dirty_Talk, Infidelity
  Collections:
      TWFallHarvest
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-11-29 Words: 3975
****** Allowed ******
by tourdefierce
Summary
     Chris Argent has always been drawn to strong women. However, he’d be
     a fool to think it’s just a habit or perhaps a strong preference.
     Yes, he has an affinity for strong women but he’s not making the
     decisions here. He’s not wanting. He’s not the alpha here.
     He’s quite simply allowed.
Notes
     I wrote this and then thought, “Nothing says thank you like
     inappropriate rare-pair porn”. So, thank you pinch-hitters for really
     stepping up and helping everyone out! You all wrote lovely fics and
     deserve all the love. If I had the time to write you each a fic, then
     I would. Instead, I wrote you this. i hope you enjoy it... if fucked
     up and slightly traumatic is your thing.
     Thank you to samsamtastic, agenttrojie and marguerite_26 for all the
     betas. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
     (Also, in my world of depravity, Lydia is 16 because she has a late
     birthday... as does Scott. LALALALA.)
He doesn't know how it happens. Every explanation he tries seems false and
brittle—weak when he tries to justify the truth. If there's one thing his life
has taught him, it's that the truth doesn't need to be justified. It just is
what it is. Sometimes it's ugly—always painful but never wavering—in a way that
is comforting, often despite itself, because nothing is black and white in the
world that Chris lives in. Except the Code. And the Code is based on things
that are true and things that are untrue. There is no middle ground.
The truth?
She reminds him of his wife. She reminds him of Kate. She reminds him of his
failures to both of them but also of their triumphs. She's stronger than him
and smarter than him. The danger is in everything about her—the way she
manipulates without thought, the way she loves, the way she burns up bright and
takes them all with her because she's better than this. Just like Victoria and
Kate. Just like his little girl.
The truth is, Chris doesn't know how it started but he knows he won't be able
to stop her.
                                      ---
Allison is upstairs. The music blaring from her room is a sign of her ever-
shifting mood and tonight, it's female jazz singers at high decibels.
Which is fine by Chris.
"I let him fuck me," Lydia is saying, soft and curled into his ear as he pushes
his fingers inside of her. "I let come inside of me after a few shitty thrusts
like the pathetic little boy he is."
Chris snarls, curling his fingers and thrusting inside of her. She just smiles,
hips rolling on the table with pleasure as she takes off her shirt and lets it
hang on one of the dinning room chairs. He can't remember why she's here, skirt
bunched up around her hips and dictating the tempo of his fingers fucking
inside of her but she looks beautiful in the bright light of his wife's dining
room, even if she is talking about Jackson.
"He can never last. Werewolf stamina is such a myth."
She's goading him and it's working because she isn't even breathing hard and
Chris feels like he's already run a marathon. He hates the idea of Jackson,
naïve and greedy Jackson of all people putting his tainted, murdering hands all
over her. But the rational voice inside his head reminds him that he's not so
innocent either and plenty of blood has been shed on both sides.
It's not like Lydia needs protection. It's not like she isn't her own monster.
All he feels is the ugly twist of anger in the pit of his belly. It makes him
hard and he hates her, for being her and kissing him, for taking advantage of
the hole his wife has left and the way she makes him want to protect her, even
when he knows she's out for blood. He hates the way he wants to never stop
fucking her.
"Chris," she hisses, pulling his head up from the swell of his breast where he
is doing his best to mark her pale, pale skin. "I think you should lick him out
of me now."
Lydia attacks his mouth before he can protest. She bites his lips and fucks his
mouth open with her tongue, while still managing to be delicate and dainty. Her
lipstick smears over her lips and across his, making its way onto his tongue.
It tastes like metal and chalk lines and then she pushes him away, staring
straight into his eyes and says, "Eat him out of me, Chris."
"You're disgusting," he says but it sounds aroused and filthy to his own ears
as he delves deeper inside of her and desperately wants to go back to sucking
on her tits. She just laughs at him, shifting on his fingers, nails curling
into his shoulders and her breasts bounce. They're perky and full, not well
loved like his wife's used to be but unmarred with youth.
She's only sixteen.
She leans forward, one finger moving to flick at her nipple and the other
reaches around to pull him closer by his ass until his cock, still in his
jeans, is pressed up against the hand twisting inside of her.
"I bet I taste like him," Lydia whispers, dark and cruel. "I bet I taste like
your wife would have if you'd have fucked her before she died. Come on, Chris.
Get on your knees for me."
He sinks down between her smooth thighs and she laughs—she always laughs, head
back and it's not manic or insane but beautiful and bright and truthful. He
licks her out and she rides his face, bucking up into his tongue and fingers
until she's moaning with pleasure.
"Oh god, Chris, yes," she says. And he can't help but watch her. The light from
above plays on her skin as she arches and smothers him with her cunt. Her
breasts heave with her heavy breathing, her red hair tickling his nose when she
grinds her pelvic bone into his face, even now talking like she owns him—like
she's doing him a favor.
"There’s a good boy, go on and eat him out of me. Lick up all his come. Fuck,
oh yes," she goads, laughing again when his hand tightens on her thigh and she
grinds against his face. It doesn’t seem to matter that she’s too wet to taste
like anything but Chris’ mouth, smelling strongly of Lydia and no one else.
He’s never tasted anything but the lingering, barely there, hint of latex and
the hot wetness of her own arousal—tonight is no different.
He fucks her roughly, just the way she likes it until she can't speak more than
his name and buck into his mouth over and over again. She pulls his hair and
grabs a handful of her own breast when she comes on a laugh and a moan. Chris
doesn't back down, as if it makes a difference, making her ride out the
aftershocks on three wide fingers and hard, unrelenting, sucks to her clit.
She'll have awful beardburn later but Chris imagines that she likes it that
way. Nothing is an accident to Lydia Martin. There is always a plan and there
are always men to play them out for her.
She pulls him up and places his wet fingers all over her breasts, lets him
fondle them with gun calloused hands and grind into her as she preens. She got
what she came here for.
"Lydia," he starts to say but she hushes him with her finger and then her
tongue.
She licks into his mouth, deliberately tasting herself as she rubs her still
wet cunt over the bulge in his jeans.
"Mmmm," Lydia hums afterwards. "Tastes good, don't you think?"
The worst part is, she does. She tastes amazing, nothing like the latex he
might have had on his tongue when he first lapped at her. Now she tastes like
satisfaction and the bitterness of success, the rush of winning, right before
everything is taken away and stripped bare because they cheated to get to the
top. She tastes hot, maybe a little sweet but she burns all the way down his
throat.
He watches her touch up her lipstick in the hallway mirror. She kisses him
tenderly, pulling her skirt back down and buttoning her blouse. He's still so
hard for her and he desperately wants to ask her to stay, to let him take her
to bed or hell, even let him fuck her here, laid out on the table he used to
break bread with his family—with his wife. But she holds him close, kisses him
bare and sweet as she grinds into his dick.
Then she disappears upstairs to talk to her friend, leaving Chris to stare at
after her with a pair of wet panties in his hand.
                                      ---
They're both angry tonight. Whatever carefully controlled emotions Lydia
pretends to have are gone and replaced by burning anger and desperate need. The
house is empty save for him, Allison having said she was going to Lydia's for a
sleepover and Chris shudders to think where she is or what she's doing, because
Lydia is here smacking him awake with the flat palm of her hand.
"Wake up," she snarls and Chris snaps out of sleep to grab at her hands and
flip her down, pinning her to the mattress. It's instinctive and it's exactly
what she wants from him.
"What are you doing here?"
He's breathing heavily, cursing her, but she's fighting him, bucking and
thrashing underneath his hold.
"What do you think, Mr. Argent?" she says but she smiles like broken glass
around the words, her legs wrapping around his waist like a vice.
"I think you're a sad little girl," Chris says.
Lydia seems to think on that. "Why don't you fuck it out of me then."
"Lydia—" he almost wants to take it back but he can't now. Lydia means to take
everything and to give nothing back. Not ever. She plays to win and for keeps,
even if it's only skeleton bones on the table.
He's only in his boxers but she gets rid of them with extremely talented feet.
She wiggles them down and then grinds against his naked dick. She's all
dangerous smiles and there are moments when Chris is afraid of her—of what it
would be like if she snapped, used all that ruthless intelligence and years of
cut-throat dismissal to make him pay.
Her cotton dress goes too and she pushes his head down so that her breasts will
be sore from his beard and her nipples tender from his teeth. He goes into the
valley between them and sucks a mark there until she giggles, like the girl she
should be, and moans quietly. It's a glimpse of what they might have been if
they were different people. If Chris wasn't a forty year old murderer fucking a
sixteen year old girl, wrapped up in magic and werewolves.
They're naked and grinding into each other, mouths panting as they kiss like
savages. She pulls him close, always pulling him closer until she can suck on
his tongue and he slips inside of her.
"Shit," he says, hips jerking back but when he goes to apologize she's
frowning.
"Don't apologize for me," Lydia says, angry. "Don't back away from me."
"I need to get a condom."
"Shut up." They're kissing again. Or—Lydia is kissing him. She's prying his jaw
open so wide it hurts and her nails trail down his scruff audibly. It hurts but
Chris is still trying to keep up with what's going on.
He gets distracted by the way she's pushing his hands to cup her breasts, rough
and demanding. They look amazing spilling over the tops of his hands and she
moans prettily when he sucks on her nipples. He's so distracted that he doesn't
notice the way her feet curl behind his thighs or the way she grinds against
him until—
With a flick of her hips and one steady pull, he's seated inside of her in an
instant. It's too fast and she gasps, high on triumph as he stretches her too
much all at once. He's not massive or anything but she is tight, even if she is
sopping wet with slickness that smells and tastes good enough to have Chris
salivating.
He's frozen inside of her. His mind is tripping around the bare feeling of his
cock inside of her and the clenched look of pain on her face that is masked
almost entirely by her clear, overwhelming success.
She's won.
"Come on," she all but screams, frustration there. "Give to me."
But Chris refuses. He's stilled inside of her, desperately trying to convince
himself to pull out. This is stupid. He's not wearing a condom and he has no
idea—but that's the point isn't it? This isn't his show. She's in control. He
snarls, trying to get himself together but it's no use.
She's already curling up, so that she can speak directly into his ear.
"Fuck me hard, like you mean it, old man. Fuck me like your wife liked it, hmm?
I bet she loved it when you stuck your fat dick inside of her and made her
come. Bring it the on, Chris, fuck me like I deserve to be fucked," Lydia says,
sweetly. "Please, I'm asking you to. Fuck me like Kate would have expected you
to. Make her proud."
He’s never told her about Kate but Lydia treats knowledge like a sickness and
collects it like a super virus, ready to spread out like a disease and claim
the weak or the willing. It’s just one more ghost she holds over her head, that
prickles in the pit of his belly and makes him hate her just as much as he
wants to fuck her until she never stops laughing.
Another taunt to get him to fuck her harder, bare like this, exactly how it
happened the first time against the wall in his kitchen. She talked about Kate
then too, until he fucked her frantic enough—her voice rabbit on to the pummel
of his hips about how wrong he was, about how good it felt to be fucked by a
man, about how he could get her pregnant if he tried hard enough—she said it
even when she was coming on his dick, laughing at him. And afterwards, she
reached over to pull his hand on her thigh underneath the table to feel the way
he was leaking out of her, sticky and wet over coffee and dessert with Allison
across the table.
She's sick.
They're both so sick.
He doesn't move. He squeezes his eyes closed and wills himself to be disgusted
enough to leave but he can't. God, he fucking can't. His cock twitches inside
of her, eager to move and drive inside of her until she screams for him. Chris
is weak but she's warm and wet around him—safe almost, if it wasn't a lie, if
being between Lydia Martin's thighs wasn't probably the most dangerous place to
seek haven.
Her nails rake down his neck.
"Please, daddy," she moans, squeezing her cunt around him. And he can’t help
it, his hips jerk, even as his stomach clenches with rolling sickness. He hates
it when she calls him that, the way she curls down to whisper it in his ear if
he’s got his mouth on her or how she comes whimpering it—always harder when
he’s someone else. It makes her feel so good and even as the guilt paralyzes
him, he can’t help but start to grind inside of her.
She’s so wet.
"Daddy, I want it to hurt. Want you to make me wet with your come and I want
you to use me. I want to taste like you, Dad. Please, Daddy. You will be so
good, the best daddy in the world if you just let me have your cock."
It's a damn lie but it's one that Chris falls for every time. Willingly.
He flips her around, her body bouncing on the bed as she hits her knees. He
doesn't waste any time slamming inside of her wet, open body. Lydia is already
pushing up on her hands and knees, thrusting back and moaning with victory.
"That's it," she says, bright with laughter. "Give it to me, daddy. I want to
feel you mean it."
Chris doesn't know what that means but it hardly matters. He fucks her with a
purpose, pulling out and thrusting back in as he hauls her bodily back onto his
cock. She's dripping wet around him but always tight, gripping at him as he
pounds into her. She moans and laughs and greedily takes everything he's giving
her and demands more.
"Fuck, harder, Chris," she all but screams and there is frustration there. He's
failing her. He's not giving her what she needs.
He's disappointing her.
He can see the red splotch of the impact of his hips on her ass rise. It's an
angry blush that comes up her thighs and over the curve of her ass, seemingly
spreading every time he slams back into her and the soft, supple skin there
ripples as if he struck it with his hand.
"I said harder."
"Goddammit, Lydia," he yells back but she just giggles, school-girlish.
"You can do better," she grits out, turning to look at him over her shoulder.
"Your daughter gets fucked harder than this by a sixteen year old werewolf.
Don't leave me wanting, Chris. Fuck. Me."
"Shut up," he says. "Shut your mouth about my daughter."
She smiles, wide around the harsh pants of her breath. Chris can see the way
her breasts swing with each of his thrusts and the sweat from his brow stings
his eyes. He grips her harder, hoping to bruise but he knows it's just a false
attempt at revenge or control—she won't bruise, not really, it just adds to the
illusion.
He gets distracted by the dip of her waist and the way her hair clings to her
neck and shoulders, damp from sweat.
Chris sinks into the rhythm, fucking her so hard that her body moves up his bed
and he has to drag her back down onto his dick. It's familiar and oddly
soothing to starve off his orgasm for as long as he can. She doesn't, of
course. Lydia squirms and moves until he's fucking her where she wants and lets
herself come twice.
He wants to follow her the second time, she's so amazing as she moans and
pulsates around him. She's so fucking wet that he can't hardly believe it. Only
she's crying out just as his pace becomes a little erratic and says, "Don't you
dare."
"Lydia," he says, scraping his beard on her shoulders. "Lydia, come on."
"No. Just, once more. Please, just keep fucking me."
He can't deny her that.
Chris fucks her until he can't any longer—until he's afraid the sun will rise
around them. He fucks her until he wants to cry because he's exhausted and he
wants to come so badly but he waits. He drives into her until she's feral with
pleasure, grinding her palm against her clit and claws her way to a third
orgasm. He can feel her fingers there, touching his cock as he plunges into her
over and over again.
"Give it to me," she says finally. She sound small but not sad. Just... content
and small and happy. It's such a rush that Chris can't do anything but obey
her. He spills inside of her on a groan, mostly silent after all this time but
it rocks him to the core. He feels like he might die here, bare inside of her
as he comes hard enough that he bites her like the animals he puts down.
His hips move still, perhaps out of habit, until the sound of him inside of her
is loud enough to his ears that Chris flinches. He slips out. She's too wet
from his come and he turns her over so that he can check to make sure she's
okay. There's a little bleeding but it doesn't seem to serious and Chris
wouldn't be surprised if her period has come. Although he'd be lying if he said
there wasn't a thrill there—that he fucked her hard enough that she bled, that
he actually gave her what she wanted. He fingers her carefully and she smiles
at him.
"Stop touching me."
He does. He lies next to her so that they are barely touching and resist the
urge to clean her up. She's still incredibly wet, leaking onto the sheets
beneath her, and Chris shakes with the need to at least wipe her off, get the
evidence of his come off her smooth skin and from inside her. Perhaps he's just
needy though, to taste himself on her and find comfort where he knows she won't
give any.
In the darkness, exhausted and sweaty, Chris wonders when the self-loathing
comes. He wonders when he should be sorry for sleeping with this girl, for
wanting to tie her up and fuck her well enough that she never goes to anyone
else—to be good enough to her and for her so that she never seeks anyone else
out. He wonders when it stops. When they get caught? When she gets bored? When
she gets her fill?
They lie in a bed he's only ever shared with his wife.
"I messed up tonight," she says quietly. "Stiles almost died."
Chris absently hopes the boy is alright. Not only because he's relatively a
good kid, werewolf sympathies aside, but also because he doesn't need the
authorities in his business even more. It's a terrible thought but a necessary
one. He's been around for a while.
"Chris."
He figures it's his turn. He presses back into the softness of her breasts
against his back and takes her hand. He doesn't hold it. That's not real here.
But he drags it so that her arm is wrapped around his body and her hand slots
up against the base of his throat.
"My father's dead," he says.
Lydia huffs, not quiet laughing but certainly finding him redundant. "You're
old," she says against his neck, teeth nipping here. "Your father has to die or
you'll never be anything to anyone."
He wonders if she's thinking about Jackson or perhaps the Hale family. So many
of them are left without parents now—Allison and Stiles both missing their
mothers; Scott and Isaac without fathers. Beacon Hills appears to be the place
to go when you need to bury your family.
"I'm not tired," Lydia says after several moments of silence.
"Okay."
He is but he lies awake and listens to her cry. Her body is shaking behind his,
the clamminess of their sweaty skin makes them stick together as she trembles.
Her sobbing is silent but her mouth is open as she bites the back of his neck
and his shoulders.
He lets her. He doesn't say a word.
She squeezes her hand around his neck when she's done, trailing her fingers
over his nipples and the flat softness of his stomach. She stops to play with
the hair there, pulling at it until he hisses, but it doesn't matter. He's soft
still, dick lying against his thigh but she'll coax him into hardness
eventually.
The sun will eventually break through the windows and he'll let her do whatever
she wants. They'll kiss, soft and tender and she'll tear him apart. She'll rub
her soft, wet cunt and her sticky-slick thighs up against his back and his
thighs until he's hard again. In the morning, she'll swallow him down and
scrape his dick with her teeth until he hates her enough to pull on her hair
and buck up to choke her.
Maybe she'll sit on his cock and ride him, demanding that he suck on her
tits—calling him daddy and guiding his fingers until they're sliding inside of
her too, slick along his dick. Maybe she'll dip her fingers inside her aching,
sore cunt and wipe it all over his face with a smart, smack of her palm. Maybe
she'll feed herself into his mouth while his daughter sneaks back into the
house.
Maybe she’ll finally claim him enough times to break him, her tongue chasing
her declared intentions until he goes up in flames. Either way, he'll love it.
He can’t stop it from happening because he isn’t capable, never mind not
wanting to. He cannot stop her.
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