Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/390743.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Slavery, Alternate_Universe_-_Slavery, Master/Slave,
      Sexual_Slavery, Captivity, Dubious_Consent, Consent_Issues, Power
      Imbalance, Werewolves, Supernatural_Elements, Pseudo-History, Historical
      Inaccuracy, Humor, Comedy, Romance, Drama, Freedom, Random_Stiles_is
      Random, Snark, Barbarian_Hordes, War, Pastiche, Adolescence_is_Both
      Awkward_and_Awful, Teenage_Hormones, Underage_Sex, Bravery, Courage,
      Self-Sacrifice, Virginity, Loss_of_Virginity, First_Time
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-04-24 Chapters: 1/? Words: 3125
****** Sweeter Than the Flesh ******
by Saucery
Summary
     Worst. Slave. Ever.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
Holy crap, these guys are huge. Huge. Broad and bulky and draped with fur, like
- like wolves. Which is what they are, after all. Warriors of the Wolf Clan.
They wear wolf-pelts and wolf-fangs and think they're half-wolves, possessed by
wolf-spirits; they're faster on their feet and keener in their hearing than
most men, and their eyes glint with an unnatural, lupine sharpness that makes
nearby birds take off into the sky and horses whinny with nervousness.
And now, they have Stiles's ass. And some of them are looking at him like
they'd like to have Stiles's ass, and that's just… wrong. Freaky-wrong. Freaky-
bad-get-me-outta-here-right-now-wrong.
Stiles plasters himself against the back of the cage and wheezes, like maybe
sticking to the bars of the cage will convince everyone that he isn't even
there, or like wheezing might indicate a horribly unattractive lung disease
that'll have him coughing phlegm on anyone who attempts intimacies, or
something. Who wants their dicks covered in phlegm, right? No one, that's what.
Shit. Who is he even - he's not even fooling himself. This is a freaking slave-
market. Except that in a market, there's actually money exchanging hands, but
in this case, it's just… bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. It's a free-for-all.
Bodies for the taking. Stiles is crammed into the cage with them, driven even
farther into the bars by the awful crush, surrounded by the thick stench of
sweat and human fear (and urine; some of the youngest kids have pissed
themselves). Stiles is the only one that's reasonably washed and not under six
years old or over sixty years old and still has all his teeth, so he's the
jewel of the fucking crown, here, if crowns are made of sheer, mind-numbing
misery. And terror. Can't forget the terror.
And asses. Soon-to-be-reamed asses. Specifically, his soon-to-be-reamed ass.
Shit.
"Hey," says Stiles, to the old man cowering next to him in the cage. "You know
how many guards there are?"
But the guy just looks at him like he's crazy, and shrinks away.
Great.
Stiles doesn't belong here. Well, none of them belong here; no human beings
belong in cages. (Or animals, for that matter; Stiles had immediately set the
songbirds he'd been given for his birthing-day free.) But, still, these are the
straggling few the Wolf Clan had managed to capture, those that were too sick
or old or young to flee; Stiles is only here because he'd hung back to hold the
fortress gates open long enough to get as many people as possible in. In and
safe.
As many people as possible… except for himself.
He'd been taken while he was still holding the gates open. He just - he hadn't
been able to tell himself to let go, to escape, when he could still see the
desperate faces of the people on the other side, kids and widows and grandpas
in ratty cardigans. Each pair of feet that ran past him had made his heart thud
with the sort of relief he probably should've saved for himself, once he'd
gotten away.
But he hadn't gotten away. Technically, he hadn't even tried to get away. So he
can't blame anyone else for his predicament, can he? It's all Stiles Stilinski.
One-hundred percent pure, distilled fool.
His Dad was totally right about Stiles being a suicidal idiot, wasn't he?
What's Dad even doing, now? Wigging out, definitely. Breaking down. Maybe.
Fuck.
Dad won't be able to rescue him. He won't be able to leave the town, right now,
not when the people need their chief, need every able hand to fight off the
encroaching Wolves, and it won't help a thing that one day, the bards will
compose legend-songs about Stiles's heroic sacrifice, because, damn it, Dad's
just lost a son.
Stiles… Stiles has lost his father.
He - he still can't believe it. This is fucking surreal. Just two nights ago,
he'd been eating in the great hall, mooning over Lydia. At the grand table,
Chief Stilinski's head was bowed as he somberly discussed some matter of
governance with Master Deaton, but Stiles hadn't known it was about strange
sightings on the nearby hill, about what would - in a matter of hours - be an
invasion. A raid that would drive all the serfs and farmers towards the
fortress gates, seeking shelter, and Stiles -
Stiles had done what he had to do.
He doesn't regret it, despite everything, and that's… that's a sort of comfort.
The best sort of comfort, and maybe the only sort of comfort he's going to
have, here, among the Wolves.

===============================================================================

They let them out of the cage around sunset, jeering and prodding at each
helpless body tumbling out the door, Stiles included. Especially Stiles. Who
tries to keep his head down and his posture unobtrusive, but it ain't easy with
a circle of slavering wolf-men grabbing at him, shoving at him, and making
jokes at his expense. It's thanks to those off-color jokes, though, that Stiles
realizes he can understand what they're saying. No matter the rumors that
they're speechless barbarians, the words these wolf-men are using are only
English words, albeit spoken in a heavier, more guttural accent. It's like
being hit by pebbles. Very big, rocky pebbles. Or, er, just rocks.
Stiles miraculously manages to keep his mouth shut (seriously, he's surprising
himself), but then, one of the bastards pounces on a little girl of scarcely
five - Marya, he remembers overhearing one of the other prisoners calling her
her - and drags her forward. Marya's face is drawn and filled with
uncomprehending dread, like she thinks she's going to be killed right then and
there, and, hell, maybe she is.
Stiles's muscles twitch, and he takes a step forward, in spite of himself.
"Pre-tty girl," the wolf-man rumbles, a flash of unnatural green lighting his
eyes, and, crap, that look he has on his ugly mug is unmistakable. Unmistakable
and sickening, that someone would want that with a child, with a - a -
"Dude, come on, let her go," says someone, sounding weirdly jovial, and it
takes Stiles a moment to figure out that it's him.
Oh, fuck.
The green-eyed giant turns to him.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
"You want to take her place, boy?"
"Who, me? Ha ha. Ha. Um. Yeah?" What the hell is he even saying? "I mean, it's
not like she could handle a big, strapping… person like yourself. She's kind of
- tiny, right? Tiny little thing."
"That," says the monster, "is what I like about her."
Goddamn depraved pedophile - "I can be small! I can be very small. I can curl
up into a teeny ball. Positively fetal. Could fit in the palm of your hand.
Could fit on the head of a pin. Minuscule, really. That's me. Won't even know
I'm there." God, he has no clue what he's doing, but all he knows is that the
man's letting Marya go, and that an elderly woman - her grandmother? - is
sobbing and pulling her back into the throng. Out of sight.
"You are pretty, too," says Green Eyes, which, what? Since when is Stiles
pretty? Let alone in the way prepubescent girls are pretty? (Not that Stiles
finds them pretty; he's just trying to understand things from a twisted,
deranged lunatic's perspective.) "But you talk too much."
"I can be quiet! I can be real quiet. I, uh." His heart is hammering. He's
going to throw up. "I. Ack."
The man's towering over him, and now, all that unholy attention he'd focused on
Marya is focused on Stiles. It's like being stripped of his clothes and his
flesh, because that licentious, hungry gaze doesn't stop at anything as paltry
as skin, oh, no. Stiles is being eye-fucked right down to his bones. Down to
his tasty, delicious marrow. That Green Eyes will suck out of his bones, after
snapping them, which he'll do after raping Stiles. Or during, who knows? More
efficient, that way. Eating and fucking - why do them separately? Streamline
that process.
Green Eyes is drooling. Literally, visibly salivating - there may be spittle
involved - and Stiles is…
Stiles is absolutely, positively certain that he's going to pass out. Green
Eyes reaches for him, fingers blunt and fucking taloned, and a wave of powerful
dizziness sweeps over Stiles, like an undertow, threatening to pull him under.
He's dead. Well, he's fucked, and then he's dead, but basically? He's fucked.
And dead.
Maybe at the same time.
Are wolf-men into that? They are, aren't they? They practically have to be -
He's so dead -
But then, before Green Eyes can even touch him, he's being yanked back, by an
even bigger guy, who growls: "That one's mine."
And Stiles… collapses. Onto his knees.
And shakes, because -
Because a) he's still alive, b) he's still alive, and c) he's still alive.
Somehow. Also, he hasn't been buggered. Yet. Which is - good. Very, very good.
On a relative scale of bad-to-worse, this is even sort of great, as in, he's
got at least 0.0000004 seconds more to live with his ass and his thoracic
cavity intact. These two Wolves are apparently gonna duke it out, over him,
which gives Stiles a short window of time in which to pray to the deities of
his preference (although he's more of an agnostic, honestly), and to pen one
last mental letter to his dad.
So Stiles just sits there, britches soaking up the mud and sticking to his
shins, as the challenger - who has a pair of feral, savage blue eyes - curls
his fists.
Maybe they'll kill each other. And then neither of them will fuck Stiles. Or
maybe they'll start one of those hilarious domino-effect bar-fights that'll end
up with all of the wolf-men dead, wouldn't that be nice?
Yeah, no. But a boy can dream.
The fight (and how fucking bizarre is it that people are fighting over Stiles?
Stiles?) turns out to be almost anticlimactic, because Green Eyes backs down
right quickly, after not even two blows have landed.
There's something more than just a fight going on, here. It's -
It's like Blue Eyes outranks Green Eyes in some way, because Green Eyes doesn't
even look particularly humiliated about stepping down, and he's the kind of
egotistical bastard that should normally be pissed off about losing. But he
isn't. Or, uh, he is, but he's also obviously not pushing it, and none of the
other warriors seem even remotely surprised at the outcome, or willing to wade
in and make a claim of their own, even though they'd been plenty interested in
Stiles, before.
Blue Eyes makes a sweeping gesture, and Green Eyes just… scrambles back,
clutching a bleeding nose and what might be a broken rib. Looks like the brief
scuffle was more symbolic than anything else, a bit of face-saving for Green
Eyes, like, 'I didn't give up without a fight.' Or something. Like Blue Eyes
was indulging him.
But before Stiles can psychoanalyze these loonies any further, Blue Eyes is
turning to him, and Stiles -
- meeps. Because who wouldn't, really? Faced with that. All of that. All seven-
feet-nine-inches of… that. It isn't just musculature; the guy's arms are as
thickly corded as the ropes used to anchor ships. The man is downright nautical
in his proportions.
In… all of his proportions, if the wolf-pelt doubling as a barely-sufficient
loin-cloth has anything to say on the matter. Which it totally does, since it
has a mouth. A wolf's mouth. A wolf's muzzle. A wolf's head, and, seriously,
what the hell does it say about a guy that he kills a wolf and mounts its head
on his crotch?
Most terrifying - and also terrifyingly corny - fashion statement ever.
Stiles is babbling inside his own brain.
Those blue eyes don't glint so much as burn, when they look Stiles over, and
Stiles tries simultaneously to shrink away and look brave. Possibly he only
succeeds in looking constipated, because one corner of his new suitor's mouth
hooks up, revealing a pointed, gleaming fang, and maybe that's supposed to be
an expression of amusement, but all Stiles can think is, Hello, Mr. Fang. Will
you be the last thing I see before I die? You will, won't you? Still, I'm sure
it'll be nice knowing you. If by 'nice' you mean 'agonizing and bloody'.
"You," barks his - master? Is that what this fangy dude is, now? "Get up."
Stiles gets up. On autopilot. His knees refuse to lock, for a second, but then
he steadies them.
"Follow me."
In for a penny, in for a pound. In for a puppy, in for a hound. A mad, rabid
wolfhound. With teeth.
Stiles tries to follow - he genuinely does - but his feet get all tangled up,
and the guy sighs - sighs! - before grabbing Stiles's arm in a grip that feels
like a cross between an iron band and a manacle made of hot, just-smelted lead.
Everyone - human and otherwise - gawks as Blue Eyes drags Stiles away.
Towards an… encampment, of some type. With tents. War-tents. Where the warriors
presumably deflower their slaves.
Keeping silent is starting to freak Stiles out, so he decides to let some of
the babble out of his head. Hey, it's not like it can get any worse. What'll
Blue Eyes do, if he doesn't like the babbling? Hurt Stiles? It's not like he
isn't going to hurt Stiles, anyway. No point in being a cowardly piss-ant about
it. Also, captivity is going to be just plain boring if he can't even snark.
Snarking is his natural state; ain't like a man-beast with claws is gonna
frighten him out of it.
Right.
Stiles clears his throat. And starts talking.
"Yo, Blue Eyes. Anyone ever tell you that you look like a psychopathic serial
killer? 'Cause you look like a psychopathic serial killer. Hatchet-wielder.
Axe-murderer." And then, Stiles catches sight of the bladed monstrosity the guy
has strapped to his back, and pales. "With an axe. An actual mother-freaking
axe. I - I need to go lie down. Except that you're dragging me along in
theatrical slave-fashion by my spindly little slave-arm. Awesome. So, when're
you planning to kill me with that axe?"
The warrior spares him an irritated glance, like Stiles's incessant chatter is
only slightly less deserving of grievous bodily harm than… than anything else.
"I'm serious, man. My body and I, we're part of the anti-axe movement. We're
axe abolitionists. We don't like axes. Axes destroy the environment. Trees.
Foliage. Jugulars. Oh, god. Please don't kill me. My neck's, like, a thread,
okay? Just a teensy-weensy thread compared to your… manly, trunk-like mountain
of a neck. That isn't a neck, it's a rock formation. Jesus Christ, how do you
even turn your head? Does the slightest movement cause landslides? It does,
doesn't it?"
They're at a tent. They're at a massive tent, and it's the largest in the
entire camp, and it's -
"Wait, are you the chief?"
But then Stiles is being thrown in, onto a pile of surprisingly non-fusty furs,
and Blue Eyes is stalking in after him.
Bugger. Buggery. Sodomy. Rampant, unabashed, non-consensual sodomy. It starts
now. Stiles is the chicken, and Blue Eyes is the chickenhawk. Stiles is the
lamb, and Blue Eyes is the… wolf. The very, very big, very, very bad wolf.
"Um. I. Just thought I should let you know, I mean, you're clearly within your
rights to completely break me into my component parts and, like, destroy my
soul, but I'm a virgin, so perhaps the destruction could be lubricated? Maybe?
Just a suggestion."
"I will not rape you."
The words are so unexpected that for a couple of minutes, all Stiles can do is
sprawl there and gape. "What did you say?" he squawks, finally.
There's that hook, again, lifting up one side of the wolf's mouth. This time,
the fang glitters, like a gilded invitation to a beheading. "You will beg me to
take you."
'Beg'? The heck? "Uh, no, I won't. Pretty sure about that."
"Hm." Blue Eyes doesn't seem in the least dissuaded. Or convinced. He jabs a
clawed finger at what appears to be a dented copper tub, surrounded by pitchers
of water. "Bathe. I will order another slave to bring you something to eat."
"You mean I'm not something for you to eat?"
"I don't eat humans."
"But that fellow out there does. Doesn't he? Green Eyes."
"Korak is… undiscriminating."
Whoa. Fancy word for 'crazy cannibal'. "And you're discriminating?"
Blue Eyes looks at him again, a slow, appreciative, raking stare, that takes
Stiles in from head to foot. "Very."
Stiles's pulse skips. His throat is suddenly dry. "Huh. Good to know."
"Bathe," says Blue Eyes, again, and vanishes.
The tent-flap falls closed behind him.
Stiles lounges on the furs for a boneless half-hour, not because he's relaxing,
or anything, but because he literally can't get up. His limbs just won't
cooperate. It's like all his joints have been replaced with candle-wax, and
they've melted under the flame of incandescent horror.
He's been captured by the Wolf Clan, and their chief - or one of their head
honchos, anyway - has taken Stiles for a concubine.
It just doesn't get any crazier than this.
An incredulous, acid laugh bubbles out of him, jagged as a weapon he does not
have.
He - he has no weapons.
Or does he?
He has… his wits. What's left of them. He has an important guy's favor, if Blue
Eyes is as important as Stiles thinks he is. It's a good idea to keep that
favor. Build on it.
And then, there's the other slaves. He has them, too. Provided he can convince
them. Make them not go all wild-eyed at the merest mention of escape, like that
old grandpa he'd tried to talk to in the cage.
He's gotta get out of here. Intellectually, he knows it's pointless, because
it's not like these sons of bitches (holy shit, they are sons of 'bitches',
aren't they? So to speak. No disrespect to mothers anywhere) won't smell or
hear or see his smallest movement, and it's not like he won't end up dead with
his guts ripped out. But he has to try.
All he has to do is play nice, for a while - win his master's trust - and then
he'll make a run for it, one way or another, and make it out of this stinking
camp and back to Beacon Hills, where he'll tell his dad where the Wolf Clan is
camping, and then he'll help his dad launch an attack.
And then they can rescue their people. All their people. Free the slaves.
It may only be a fantasy, a desperate self-delusion, but even if it is, Stiles
doesn't care.
He doesn't. He's getting out of here.
But first, he needs to bathe.
End Notes
     The title is from this_poem by Arthur Rimbaud.
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