The booming voice of Corporal Hale carries an amount of rage potent enough to make anyone in the vicinity flinch, but no one really feels sorry for Stiles. They’ve all been a victim of one or several of his pranks in the past, so the sympathy is minimal.
Hale’s usually stoic face is contorted into a murderous scowl when he pops his head through the door. “My office, now!”
Despite the cocky way Stiles rolls his eyes at his bunk mate and saunters out like he doesn’t give a flying fuck, he can tell he’s pushed Hale past his limits this time. Perhaps too far. The man is storming ahead of him, fists clenched and his whole - admittedly very gorgeous - body is trembling with rage.
In a few, much too short, minutes they have arrived at the small office Hale shares with Corporal Reyes. The fierce blonde is nowhere in sight though, and Stiles thinks she’s probably out terrorizing the new recruits. Making as many tough guys as possible cry in their oatmeal seems to be her one goal in life.
Stiles is ripped from his musings by Hale slamming the door so hard the frame cracks.
Not wanting to actually get killed by his squad leader, Stiles quickly plants his butt on the designated chair.
Hale’s glower is burning and Stiles can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine. Man, Hale looks good when he’s pissed off.
“What the fuck is your problem, Stilinski? Half the new recruits failed to show up for muster this morning, because someone had saran wrapped them to their beds.”
“I was just having fun, Corporal,” Stiles mutters, staring at the grimy floor. He jumps when Hale’s hand lands on the table with a loud smack. That had to hurt, but Hale doesn’t even seem to feel it. Perhaps nothing less than gunshot wounds warrant a reaction when you’re six feet of pure muscle and broody manpain.
“Fun?” he roars, getting right into Stiles’ face. “We’re training for combat here, and in no possible scenario is being saran wrapped to your bed fun.”
There’s a wild glint in Hale’s eyes and for a second, Stiles feels nervous. He recalls something about most of Hale’s family dying in action and suddenly the guilt is niggling at the corners of his mind.
“It’s not like I’d do it when it’s for real,” Stiles argues.
Eyes narrowing dangerously, Hale straightens up. When he speaks, his tone is like cold steel.
“Would you care to explain to me how this isn’t real?”
The little voice in Stiles’ head is frantically pointing out that this would be a great time to shut the fuck up. In the end, Hale continues before Stiles has time to think of something to say that won’t get him suspended.
“I’ve been reluctant to stoop to your level, but you leave me no choice. All previous experience tells me that no amount of push-ups or nighttime cross country running will improve your behavior.”
Stiles smirks. “The perks of growing up with ADHD, I’m in fairly good shape.”
Hale pinches the bridge of his nose, nostrils flaring. “Right. Stand up, Stilinski. Hands on the desk.”
It doesn’t occur to Stiles what that particular order entails before he’s standing, half bent over the desk in order to reach with his hands. This position seems fairly suggestive.
The corporal is rooting around in the cabinet in the corner, his uniform pants doing nothing to hide the delicious shape of his firm buttocks. Stiles may or may not drool… just a bit.
When Hale turns around and Stiles catches sight of what’s held in his right hand, his jaw drops to somewhere near his navel.
A riding crop.
Whatever you wanna call it.
Holy shit! Actually, holy fucking shit!
“Drop the pants,” Hale orders, not even a smidge of hesitation in his demeanor.
Stiles is frozen to the spot, his brain rapidly firing off contradictory messages. A part of him is disbelieving, like, what the actual fuck, and another part is squirming in delight at the many dirty, bad, wrong, but oh-so-sexy images this calls forth in his mind.
While he’s been paralyzed, Hale has walked up next to him and there’s a brief flicker of something softer in his expression before it hardens again. The corporal reaches out and yanks on a handful of Stiles’ hair.
“I said drop the pants.”
Still caught somewhere between his fight and flight reflexes, Stiles fails to obey. He might have a fair amount of kinks, but he hasn’t really made it to spanking yet. He only had a few short fuckbuddy sessions with some random guys before he was enlisted, but he’s well aware that even though some things sound sexy in theory, the real thing can be a whole other ballgame. Hah, ballgame.
“Now!” Hale hisses, hot breath hitting the side of Stiles’ face.
Somehow, Stiles manages to unfreeze one arm and uses shaky fingers to pop the button and lower the zipper so his slightly-too-large trousers slip off his hips and pool on the floor, leaving him in his bright green boxer briefs.
“How many hits do you think you deserve?” the Corporal questions, tapping the whip against the side of Stiles’ knee.
A part of Stiles wants to scream sexual harassment, but there’s a curling heat low in his belly and a tingle in his skin; a foreign yearning invading his mind. He should be outraged, protesting, but instead… instead he’s getting turned on. How pathetic is that? Hale is probably not trying to expand his sexual horizon, Stiles is pretty sure.
Taking a deep breath, he grits out, “I don’t know, Corporal. One?”
Hale scoffs, his right eyebrow making a jump to join his hairline.
“I was thinking more like fifteen, but lets make it twenty, then.”
Before Stiles can do more than open his mouth to argue, Hale has grabbed the back of his boxer briefs and pulled them below his ass cheeks, letting the waistband smack against the back of his thighs. The motion traps Stiles’ cock in the front and to his complete mortification, the traitor twitches and starts to harden. He prays Hale won’t notice.
The first strike lands with a loud thwack, no warning given beforehand. The sharp, burning pain forces a startled yell out of Stiles. He gasps as it fades to a hot throb, spreading through his body and igniting a fire he had no idea he was capable of feeling. The front of his underwear is tenting by now, his cock swelling faster than ever before.
“One,” Hale says, tone flat. Stiles blinks moisture from his eyes and tries to catch his breath.
The second strike is less of a surprise and this time Stiles is expecting the weird, too-hot pleasure crashing through him. His whole body is flushed and his skin is prickling. Gritting his teeth, Stiles locks all his muscles, refusing to give in to the urge to arch his back and present his ass like a wanton whore.
When Hale reaches ten strikes, Stiles’ arms are shaking and the front of his briefs are soaked in pre-come. His cock is a throbbing ache between his legs. Every breath he takes grates his sore throat and there are tears trickling down his cheeks. His abused flesh stings and burns. He has no idea how he’s supposed to make it to twenty strokes without either breaking down or coming in his underwear.
It takes him a while to notice that something is off. Hale has stopped the rhythmic swinging. When Stiles forces his head up so he can look over his shoulder, Hale is staring at his ass with a strange, heated look. Like he secretly wants to bite it, but at the same time can’t figure out why in the world such a thought could enter his mind. When he sees Stiles looking, he quickly pulls his expression into a glare and orders, “Eyes forward!”
Stiles obeys without pause, but internally he’s freaking out. Hale’s voice was rough and husky, like he’s affected too and when the whip once again cracks against Stiles’ abused cheeks, he gives up on holding back. If there’s a possibility Hale is enjoying this, Stiles intends to use it to his advantage, whether it be nefarious purposes or sexy ones.
When the effects of the whipping punches through him, Stiles just lets himself go, feeling it all. Accepting it, leaning into it, adds a whole new level, and he doesn’t even realize how loud he’s being until Hale groans behind him, a trembling hand landing on his aching skin, stroking over the welts on Stiles’ ass. Without an ounce of hesitation, Stiles arches his back, tilting his hips and pushes back into Hale’s hand.
“You dirty little fucker,” the Corporal hisses at him, squeezing Stiles’ right ass cheek until he gasps and twitches, torn between jerking away and leaning back for more. Suddenly, Hale’s body is plastered along Stiles’ back and a hand sneaks around to palm at his crotch. When Hale encounters his straining erection and practically dripping briefs, he groans a strangled, “Fuck.”
Stepping back, Hale clears his throat and asks, “What do you want?”
His need to come is making it difficult for Stiles to think rationally and he can fucking feel his pulse throbbing just under the skin on his ass. His brain feels like it’s about to leak out his ears and he can’t concentrate on anything besides the urge to just shove three fingers up his ass and jerk his cock until it’s raw. In the end he bends at the waist, slumping onto the desk, pillowing his head on his arms, butt in the air, and spreads his legs. He can’t form words right now and even trying to get out a simple ‘Fuck me’ only produces a pathetic whimper. He’s hoping Hale gets the hint.
A strangled, muffled sound is all the answer he gets before he feels the leather tongue of the whip caress his ass, across both cheeks, up his spine and back down in a slow slide. When Hale doesn’t slow down, just continues until the crop is trailing through the cleft of Stiles’ ass, Stiles gasps, automatically clenching. Hale huffs a gravelly laugh and taps the leather against his hole, just hard enough to make his cock jump and spew more precome. Stiles whines in his throat and strains to widen his stance even more in a wordless plea for Hale to get on with it, god damnit!
Hale crowds him again, a warm pressure along his back.
“Finally found your weak spot, huh?”
Under these circumstances, Stiles can’t even care about the smug tone the bastard is using. He pushes back into Hale’s crotch, the impressive bulge there, and moans, craning his neck to be able to mouth at Hale’s jaw. Later, he’ll be embarrassed about the delighted little noises he can’t help but make as he licks and nibbles up towards Hale’s ear, but right now he gives absolutely no fucks. He just has this need to occupy his mouth with something, otherwise it feels empty and wrong. Stiles is not a fan of feeling wrong.
“Fuck,” Hale growls, his throat vibrating under Stiles’ tongue. Suddenly, Hale twists his head and then teeth clamp down in the crook of Stiles’ neck. It makes his knees go weak and a tremble wracks his body. With no warning, Stiles’ soaked briefs are yanked down and a hiss escapes him as his freed erection bobs in the air. The tip brushes the side of the desk he’s bent over and his desperate mind wants to just push forward and rut against it, even though the tiny bit of rational thought he has left insists that would be a very bad idea. Sharp, wooden edge plus very sensitive dick does not equal happy times.
Whining in his throat, Stiles pushes back, trying to grind against Hale’s crotch, but a hand smacks onto his back, between his shoulder blades, and pushes him down until he’s splayed on the surface of the desk. Hale hums behind him and spits. Stiles doesn’t feel anything so he assumes Hale was wetting his fingers and tilts his hips in invitation.
There’s a blunt pressure at Stiles’ rim and he’s so far gone in his lust haze that it takes him several moments to realize he’s not being penetrated by fingers. What’s pushing at him is hard and unyielding, with a rough texture.
“Wha-” he manages, cutting off on a drawn out moan. Even confused as he is, he can’t stop his body from seeking what it wants, what it craves. He opens up and shouts unintelligibly as whatever it is pushes in. The feeling is very different from having fingers up his ass; it’s rougher, scraping along his inner walls and stretching him open more than a single finger could do. His whole groin is throbbing, contracting in little spasms and he feels like he’s literally teetering on the edge of orgasm, cock untouched. He wants the release, he wants it so much. Keening, he thrusts his hips back, fucking himself with frenzied desperation.
Hale groans behind him, lowering his forehead to Stiles’ back. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Stilinski. I swear.”
Dredging up the will to lift his head, Stiles pushes up a little on shaking arms and cranes his neck around, trying to see what he’s being fucked with. Just behind his butt, Hale’s arm is moving in a steady rhythm, like if he was jerking himself off, but when Stiles squints, he sees that the Corporal is still holding his whip, though he’s grasping it by the slim end. Which means… holy fucking pope on a pogostick… that’s the crop’s handle in his ass!
He must’ve made some sort of sound, like a whimper, or whine, or possibly a whole porno’s worth of moaning and orgasm noises, because Hale’s face snaps up. When he catches Stiles gaping at the whip pumping shallowly into him, his face twists into an expression that manages to be both smug and wrecked. With their eyes still locked, Hale jams the crop’s handle in hard and gives it a kind of twirl which causes it to do very, very good things to Stiles’ prostate. Stiles scrunches his eyes and yells as his whole body seizes up, tension gathering before exploding in a spectacular orgasm.
With his knees giving out and abs still clenching, Stiles finds himself sinking slowly to the floor. He only gets a fleeting glimpse of Hale’s desk, now decorated with streaks of come, before the man in question grabs him by his scruff and spins him around. The first thing Stiles notices is the prominent bulge in Hale’s pants. The next thing is Hale’s fingers desperately clawing at his own zipper, tearing it open and yanking his underwear down under his balls. Stiles stares. Hale’s thick cock is twitching against his stomach, curving slightly to the right and his balls are… oh god, they are magnificent. Full and heavy, at the moment smushed up to Hale’s erection by his waistband.
Stiles doesn’t even wait for a command, he just falls forward, face first, into Hale’s groin. His body is still tingling and he kinda feels like he’s sitting a couple feet beside himself, still not entirely back from his high. He contents himself by mouthing sloppily at Hale’s balls, whining when they tighten and a glob of precome drips onto his cheek.
Hale curses and fists a hand in Stiles’ hair, pulling him back until their gazes meet. Stiles blinks slowly, saliva coating his lips and chin. He thinks he should want to clean up or get himself back in order, but he just can’t care. He feels a little like that time he got sedated after his mum died and he freaked out in the hospital, only this time is so much nicer.
He blames it on his eyes’ reluctance to focus when he thinks he sees Hale’s mouth twitch towards a smile. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure the Corporal doesn’t know how.
“Wow, you are completely gone,” Hale says, hand loosening its grip to pet through Stiles’ hair. It makes him want to lean into it and purr.
Watching in a daze as Hale reaches for himself, Stiles licks his lips, all of a sudden yearning to be covered, marked, owned. As the Corporal’s hand closes around his swollen cock, stroking with furious movements, Stiles moans and feebly attempts to get out of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” Hale growls, panting.
“Want… off…” Stiles whines. “Need… please… come on me. Cover me!”
A moan punches out of Hale, his cock drooling a string of precome as his hand falters in its rhythm. “Fuck!”
Before Stiles can so much as blink, a hand shoots out and all but rips his shirt up and off. He’s still feeling disoriented and ruffled when the slap of skin on skin starts up again. He’s just managed to focus on Hale’s face, simultaneously slack and tightened in pleasure, when Hale groans like his entire life force is being shoved out his dick. His abs clench and release and Stiles snaps his eyes shut in preparation for what he knows is coming.
The first streak of spunk paints a line from his chin to his eyebrow, a warm, delicious mess. Stiles wants to lick it all up, but he doesn’t want to miss anything, so instead he slowly opens his eyes as the next pulses land on his chest. Stiles moans right along with Hale when he wrenches the last few spurts out and they both watch them splash onto Stiles’ stomach.
In a daze, Stiles lifts a hand to smear the come across his chest; there’s quite a lot. Most of his buddies would probably call it gross, but all he feels is a deep satisfaction and he keeps rubbing the stickiness into his skin while Hale’s legs tremble in the edge of his vision, the Corporal’s panting breaths loud in the room. When he’s not able to control the urge any longer, Stiles raises his soiled hand and starts licking it clean. The flavour hits him and he moans around his own fingers, his spent cock twitching between his legs. Hale’s eyes snap towards his groin and then up again, staring into Stiles’ no doubt flushed and sweaty face. It seems like he wants to say something, but then there’s a noise from the hallway, boots stomping by the office. Hale shoots up straight and his eyes harden as he pulls his briefs up, covering his still mostly hard dick.
“Get off my floor, Stilinski.” Hale’s tone is neutral and Stiles is quite amazed at how fast he’s managed to pull himself together.
Stiles scrambles up, gathering his boxer briefs from where they fell during the whip fucking - and oh god, the mere thought has his dick trying to get back up - and stepping into them. He cringes when the cold, sticky fabric settles against his dick, but Hale is projecting his do-not-mess-with-me aura, so Stiles fetches his pants as well and quickly gets dressed.
Even though he knows he shouldn’t even be thinking it, Stiles’ brain is already trying to come up with another prank to rile Hale up again. He wonders how much it would take to make the Corporal bend him over and fuck him till he cries. His face must’ve given something away though, because Hale sighs wearily and marches up close to Stiles.
A fist shoots out and grabs Stiles’ shirt front, causing him to meep in surprise, meeting Hale’s heated gaze. One corner of Hale’s mouth is curling up into a smirk and he leans in close, so close that Stiles can feel the Corporal’s breath fanning across his face.
A whisper caresses his ear. “Don’t think I can’t see the wheels turning in your devilish brain, Stilinski. You can save it.”
Eyes narrowing, Stiles opens his mouth to object, but Hale cuts him off.
“No! Listen closely, Stilinski. If you are a good boy and obey command, I will give you a session with my whip once a week.” Hale’s eyes sparkle and Stiles tries valiantly to ignore the swoop in his stomach. He fails pretty much right away. He’s so fucked! “If you misbehave though, it’s back to push-ups and nighttime marathons.”
Before Stiles can try to convince himself to play it cool - he’s no one’s bitch, yo - he’s already nodding like a freaking bobblehead doll in a badly suspended car, cruising a bumpy back road… okay, that metaphor went a little too far, didn’t it?
“Dismissed,” Hale mutters, pointing sharply at the door. Stiles wisely chooses to retreat, nearly bumping into Corporal Reyes in the hallway. He’s almost reached the door to the showers when he hears her screech from the office.
“Oh my God, Hale. Did you rub one off in here? It stinks!”
Trying not to attract attention, Stiles stalks to his bunk to get some clean clothes before he runs for the showers. It’s just his luck that he bumps into McCall, his best buddy from the unit, in the changing rooms. McCall takes one look at his stained pants and averts his eyes, blushing. He proves his worthiness as best pal though, because he doesn’t mention the obvious, instead going off on a rant about Sergeant Finstock kicking the new recruits’ asses.
After a thoroughly embarrassing morning - who knew military guys could be so squeamish about one of their mates showing up for morning shower with red and purple lashes across their ass cheeks? - Stiles rushes out the door along with his unit for morning muster. Hale is waiting for them, arms clasped behind his back and still like a statue, sharp eyes searching for sloppy dressing or anyone lagging behind.
When everybody is in their place, standing at attention, Hale steps forward to inspect close up. Just as he reaches Stiles’ row, his hands come out from behind his back and Stiles nearly chokes on air. In Hale’s hand is the crop he’d used the previous night. The sight of it makes something in Stiles clench and he narrows his eyes at the Corporal, praying for all he’s worth that his dick will get the message that this is not the time to perk up in hopes of having some fun.
By the almost giddy gleam in Hale’s eyes, he knows exactly what he’s doing and he stops right in front of Stiles as if to inspect his equipment. His stance is wide, making his pants stretch quite nicely across his crotch and he ‘hmm’s, bringing up the whip to tap it against his lower lip, putting on a thoughtful face that Stiles would so love to call bullshit on. But he can’t, because… well, his mind is focused elsewhere right now and he’s using all his brain capacity to think of ugly, disgusting, dead things to avoid the sure humiliation he’d have to endure if he popped a boner right now.
Apparently, Hale does possess some small amount of mercy, because he raises a single eyebrow and moves on to the next guy in line before Stiles can combust.
If he spends the rest of the day inventing excuses to bend over in front of Hale until he barks out a ‘Stilinski, I’ve never seen such a poor example of rifle assembly. My office tonight, eight o’clock’, well, no one but the two of them will ever know.
~ The End ~