
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1071471.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Agent_Mccall/Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Agent_McCall/Stiles_Stilinski,
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Stiles_Stilinski, Derek_Hale, Agent_McCall, The_Nemeton
  Additional Tags:
      dubcon, Spitroasting, lazy_susan, FaceFucking, Rimming, Gross
  Collections:
      Anonymous
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-05 Words: 1521
****** Sing About Me, I'm Dying Of Thirst ******
by Anonymous
Summary
     The Nemeton talks to him in his dreams.
The Nemeton talks to him in his dreams.
 
It’s not a voice, or a person exactly.  He sees things, and he knows they’re
not real, but they’re possible futures.  Things he could have, things he could
be.   He looks down at himself, sometimes covered in blood, sometimes covered
in gold, and he knows the Nemeton wants him to choose, tempts him closer to
giving in every time he closes his eyes.
 
He tries staying awake at first, tries pacing and obstructing every soft
surface in his room, sets a vibrating alarm on his phone to go off every five
minutes.   It doesn’t work, he eventually passes out, has to, and then he finds
himself standing at a graveyard, looking at headstones for every person he’s
ever disliked.  Deucalion, Ms. Blake, down to Harris and the secretary at the
office who calls his father when he’s late.    He knows the message of this
one, knows the Nemeton is tempting him with power to revenge, to take back some
of his own on the people who have made his life hell so far.  It’s a heady
thought, but despite how violent Stiles knows he can get, part of him shies
away from this, wants nothing to do with it.   He wakes up, and he’s shivering,
sprawled on the floor in the bathroom, hips and shoulders aching where they’ve
been resting against the tile.

From then on he doesn’t try to stop it.  He says goodnight to his dad, brushes
his teeth and climbs into bed.  There’s no use in fighting it, but he can stay
strong.  Wake up he tells himself when he watches his father receive an honor
from the president, wake up he screams when he assassinates them both..
 
It’s all a matter of resistance, but he can tell the Nemeton grows angry,
displeased by Stiles’s continuing to ignore its pull.  It shows him life as a
powerful emissary, a werewolf, even more lives than he knew were possible.  
 
It gets harder and harder to tell himself to wake up, to clutch his own head,
surrounded by wealth and power and darkness and death and dig in until he wakes
up bleeding at his temples.  
 
But he does it.  He rejects the things the Nemeton has to offer, because Scott
tells him to.  He tells Scott all of his dreams, all the things he’s being
offered, because Scott and Allison are resisting too, and Scott squeezes him,
tells him it’ll be okay. Somehow, it’s enough.
 
Until it’s not.
 
The first clue that Stiles has that this isn’t a normal dream is that he’s in a
motel room, the motel where the bus had broken down, the one where Stiles had
almost lost Scott.  He’s lying on his back on the bed and there’s someone
between his legs, someone holding him open, someone with their tongue in his
ass.
 
Stiles spasms, because it’s good, it feels like electricity licking up his
spine having someone there where no one has ever been.  “God,” he groans out
loud, and there’s a dark laugh, a hot rush of air gusting over his balls and
this is new,this is so new.  

The tongue fucking into him is hot and wet and he doesn’t know how he got here,
but he can’t do anything but push back, to lean into it.  Whoever it is must
have been at it for awhile, because Stiles can feel himself dripping, sloppy
and wet and open.  He can’t, god, he can’t finish a thought nevermind move.
 It’s all he can do to grind down, to dig his heels into the man’s back, and
groan.  
 
He feels it next, a finger, just one, slide in right next to the hot tongue.
 Stiles wants to clear his head, wants to think, wants to at least know--but he
can’t.  He shoves down on the finger, lets his legs open even wider, slutty for
it.
 
There’s an approving noise below him and one becomes two, with the man’s tongue
stabbing and licking between them.  Stiles opens for him like he’s done this
all his life, like his body knows just what to do and when two becomes three,
it’s all Stiles can do but to beg, plead, throw his head back on the pillow and
howl.  

The hand on his hip holding him down moves down, cups his thigh and helps him
turn over.  Stiles loses the fingers inside and he sucks in a gust of air,
about to cry out when he feels those same slick fingers holding him wide open,
exposing his hole and he keens, mortified at what he must look like, but he
doesn’t pull away, doesn’t do anything except drop his shoulders to the bed and
press his heated face into the pillow.  He might be crying now, but he doesn’t
know, he doesn’t care about anything except the slow, heavy press of the cock
at his hole.  
 
“Please,” he says, “please, please, oh please,” and he’s stretched so wide it
feels like he’s being turned inside out, in the sexiest, most mind-blowing way
possible.
 
“Gonna give it to you,” he hears, a grunt over his shoulder as the thrusts
start, sharp and firm.
 
“Yeah,” Stiles says, “yeah, do it, c’mon Derek.”
 
Everything stops for a second.  He doesn’t mean they pause, or that Stiles
freezes.  Literally, every part of the dream goes completely still, and then
just as quickly, unfreezes.  

Stiles turns his head, twists to see who’s fucking into him, yanking him back
onto his dick, and oh fuck, it’s Scott’s dad.  “You want Derek?” he says, in a
voice that doesn’t belong to him.  “You can have whatever you want, Stiles.”  
 
The door opens and Derek comes in.  He’s looking at Stiles like he never has,
and that’s how Stiles remembers this is a dream, this is the Nemeton.  Derek
doesn’t look at him like that, doesn’t stare at him with that heat in his eyes.
 Derek is in the east with his sister, he’s not standing in front of Stiles,
unbuckling his belt, kicking his pants off and to the side.  
 
Stiles opens his mouth to say it, to yell at himself to wake up, but Derek
takes that time to push in, to fill his mouth.  Stiles has thought about this,
has pictured the weight and the heft of Derek’s cock in his mouth but he never
thought it would happen.  It tastes different than he thought, strongly of
Derek’s soap, bitter with precome at the tip.  Derek cups his jaw, sweetly,
tender, and holds Stiles where he wants him before giving a small thrust.  
 
“Fuck yeah,” Mr. McCall says from behind him, and shoves into him, hard enough
to make his balls slap loudly.  Stiles stiffens, because he forgot that part,
forgot that it’s Mr. McCall behind him, inside of him, and it’s too much, he
doesn’t--but he lets out a low moan around Derek’s cock when Mr. McCall hits
right there, right at his prostate.   The two of them set up a rhythm, pulsing
in and out of him and Stiles hangs on for dear life between them.  
 
“You look like such a slut,” Mr. McCall says, and he doesn’t say it like it’s a
good thing, like he’s admiring Stiles for it. “Look at you, jesus, kid.”
  Stiles can’t, but he can imagine how he looks, speared at both ends.  

Derek taps at his jaw, making Stiles look up and meet his eyes.  Derek’s eyes
are dark, dark and when Stiles locks on, he thumbs the side of Stiles’s cheek,
tracing his cock from the outside.  When Derek opens his mouth, a voice Stiles
doesn’t recognize comes out, says, “No? Maybe the other way then?” and just
like that, they’re spinning, spinning, and when they stop, it’s Derek between
his legs, only Stiles is on his back.  Derek’s leaning into him, propping his
left leg over his shoulder and thrusting so good, so sweet.
 
A hand on his jaw tips his head back, off of the bed, lets it hang down over
the edge and Stiles opens up without complaint when Mr. McCall starts to thrust
in.  He can’t breathe well like this, but it doesn’t matter.  The Nemeton
doesn’t seem to want him to die, not like this.
 
“Gonna give it to you,” Derek says, loud over the throb in his ears, over the
slick noise of Mr. McCall fucking his throat.  “Gonna give you whatever you
want,” and his voice is soft, soft like Stiles has never heard it.
 
Scott’s dad laughs, harsh and bitter.  “He doesn’t want that, you idiot.  He
wants you to take,” and punctuates the thought with a thrust that makes Stiles
choke, brings tears back to his eyes.  “Just take what you want,” Scott’s dad
says, smirking down like the asshole he is.  “He’s easy pickings.”
 
Stiles writhes between them, bewildered and overwhelmed.  He underestimated the
Nemeton this time, wasn’t prepared for this.  Derek wraps a hand around his
aching, neglected erection and Stiles pumps up, shoves into Derek's hand and
around Scott’s dad’s cock, he gargles wake up Stiles!  Wake up!
 
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