Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6032488.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski, Peter_Hale/Lydia_Martin
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      PWP, Porn, Knotting, Male_Lactation, AU, Alternate_Universe, Slavery,
      Magic, Established_Relationship
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-02-16 Words: 5024
****** The Black Wolf Cometh ******
by tagatha_(tag)
Summary
     A feudal world where wolves rule and those with magic are enslaved.
     An energetic afternoon in the life of Derek Hale, heir to the Black
     Wolf, and his slave witch, Stiles.
Notes
     Stiles and Lydia are underaged. There is no violence or explicit non-
     con. Please read the tags. Land of magic, anything can happen.
The golden chain attached to Stiles’ torque is fastened at the other end to
Derek’s belt, its thin length draped over Derek’s thigh. Not heavy, just an
anchor for the enchantment that is the true leash on Derek’s young slave. Even
so, Derek feels every click of the links as Stiles fidgets between his legs,
craning to watch Peter strut into the throne room.
Peter, as usual, is late to the morning petitions.
Ah, no, Stiles is not tracking Peter. He’s watching Peter’s little slave
mincing just behind him, her leash a woven rope of freshwater pearls.
Lydia, like Stiles, comes from a feisty clutch of human children, presented by
the elders of Beacon Hill in tribute. Many of the non-magical offerings had
already been bitten and turned and now trained with the Moon Guard. Lydia had
shown far too much magical promise and had been chosen by Peter to be his
personal guard. While her abilities should have been enough enticement, her
comely face likely attracted Peter too.
Derek knows what catches Stiles’ attention. Half the throne room is admiring
her, some subtly, some outright licking their chops. Lydia’s arrogant walk and
high head are tolerated. Alpha Talia likes to keep her court strong, sometimes
at the sacrifice of a little disobedience.
Peter certainly likes her vigor, and is at the mercy of her every whim. Round-
limbed and healthy, her brassy hair always shines and she leaves a pleasant
trail of citrus and cinnamon wherever she passes, rare and precious treats.
On this morning, the girl is naked as she ever is, but has acquired some
strategically placed new pearls, complementing her young skin. A single rope
belted in a dip under her little belly, rolling over her peeking slit as she
walks. Another string around her neck joins a complicated vest of drop pearls
and strands, framing the bare bumps of her new breasts. Breasts like little
meringue peaks tipped with puffy peach nipples, each freshly pierced with
golden hoops dangling single perfect round pearls.
“Well that’s a bit much,” Laura murmurs beside him, and Derek doesn’t have to
turn his head to feel her eyes roll. Laura’s own slave witch is demurely
covered, her flat chest wrapped in black leather, jodhpurs to match.
Like Stiles, Laura’s slave sits dutifully at her Master’s feet, silently
waiting for Laura’s command. Lydia, however, sits upon Peter’s knee like it is
her throne, his hand kept between her thighs to fondle and finger her bare cunt
while Talia takes petitions. At least he keeps Lydia off his cock while
displayed up on the dias. A mere two courses into most feasts and he has his
member out of his breeches, Lydia pierced upon it while she drinks his wine and
steals his date cakes.
“Mmmm,” Derek rumbles back. He is distracted less by Peter’s extravagance and
more by Stiles’ reaction to it. Stiles’ head is turned against Derek’s knee,
looking across the dias to where Peter sits and Lydia perches. Watching Peter
stroke idly between Lydia’s petals, a sliver of her cunt visible, swollen and
shiny and it not even yet time for the midday meal.
Derek lets Stiles wear soft buckskin leggings, strapped to his calves with
darker leather straps. The leggings are crotchless of course, and in Derek’s
rooms, Stiles will wonder about with his round little ass free and ready, his
hairless sack and sweet penis presented for whenever Derek wants to cup them,
or just look upon him.
But around the fortress, Derek makes Stiles wear a simple leather loincloth. He
already owns the most powerful witch slave in the pack. (A surprise and delight
to discover when many had criticized his pick from the clutch.) He does not
need to parade Stiles’ body. He does not share Stiles, as is custom. Not his
magic, not his touch. And never his body. Stiles belongs to Derek in all ways.
But the loincloth, just a square of soft buckskin over Stiles’ lap, is not
doing much to protect his virtue when Stiles is tenting it for the entire court
to see.
Derek nudges Stiles’ hip with his foot, and Stiles turns his head up to Derek’s
eyes, guilty.
Derek beckons Stiles to sit closer with a flick of his fingers. Stiles doesn’t
hesitate, but Derek can see him swallow hard before putting his head down for
Derek to rest his hand atop it. The golden leash tinkles softly as Stiles
resettles between his legs, and Derek feels the cautious clutch of fingers
around the ankle of his boot.
The petitions carry on, the disruption of Peter’s entrance passing.
The Alpha has Laura, her heir, settle many of the minor issues. Land disputes,
tax disputes, slave disputes. Derek would never let his mother see it, but he
would rather dredge the slave latrines than sit through such petty petitions.
Likely why Laura is the heir to the Alpha throne, and Derek is the heir to the
position of Black Wolf.
No Alpha is infallible. Each Alpha needs a voice to stand against them, to
pursue every avenue of reason and plausibility. In times of war. When choosing
an heir. When deciding the fate of another werewolf’s life. So just one wolf,
the Black Wolf, stands exempt from the Alpha’s command. Can never be compelled
by the flash of red eyes. Can defend and fight if they see a righteous need.
Alpha Talia has Peter. And when the time comes, Laura will have Derek.
And so Derek dutifully sits through the morning, Stiles leaning heavier against
Derek’s leg, twitching with boredom. He settles only when Derek puts a hand
upon his head, Stiles’ hair warm and clean. Stiles’ arousal abates too, his
head kept straight, studying the petitioners come and go, spying young Cora and
her weapons tutor pass through the courtyard at the end of the throne room.
As Derek absorbs the knowledge to help lead his mother’s pack, so too must
Stiles train. To hear words unsaid. To see into wolves’ hearts. To guide Derek
unobtrusively with touch and breath. To sense the power of other witches and
fight battles of the mind that Derek cannot shield him from. Historically,
guards to the royal family do not live long.
Derek’s hackles rise at the thought and a deep gurgling growl echos out of his
chest and down the dias steps, frightening the poor merchant pleading for
transport exemptions to rival pack lands.
Laura raises her hand to silence the already silent and nervous-looking
merchant. She raises a brow at Derek and leans forward to hear his objections.
Derek softens his hand from its clutch in Stiles’ hair and leans to meet
Laura’s ear. He fights his own foolish blush.
“Just ensuring you’re still awake, sister,” Derek covers. “An Alpha must be
ever vigilant.”
Her lips twist and she whispers back, “Oh good, Peter is not enough distraction
to this court. So glad you’re contributing, brother. We will speak of this
later.”
As he sits back he catches the eye of Laura’s slave witch, twisted to look up
at their exchange. Too smart that one, though not nearly powerful as Stiles.
Talia had warned Laura against choosing her, rebellious Argent blood in her
veins, but Laura had been absolute. Allison was hers. And now Allison’s large
brown eyes (entirely ridiculous) are smirking up at him knowingly. Derek sits
back and gives his glare to the stuttering merchant.
Finally the last claimant of his mother’s vast pack is seen. Derek waves away
the iced juniper wine a slave brings to his elbow and stands only as soon as
the Alpha does, as respect decrees.
“Running back to your swords, brother?” Laura asks, sipping her own wine.
Derek doesn’t deny or confirm his plans, just says, “Someone must be ready to
fight. Words take longer to cut.” He gestures to the petitioners milling in the
courtyard, being fed and watered before leaving the fortress. Too full of
words.
“Indeed, it’s a wasted morning for you if there are no beheadings to tend to.”
“Yes.” Derek bares his teeth and lets his eyes flash blue. Laura returns a
flash of gold.
“Why do you growl unprovoked at innocent pack members?”
Derek does not look at Allison. “A mistake. My thoughts wandered and I forgot
myself.” He clears his throat and doesn’t look at Laura either, his eyes
instead catching on Stiles’ neck, bent as Stiles waits, still kneeling. “My
apologies. It will not happen again.”
Laura cocks her head. “I need you, brother.”
Every Alpha needs their Black Wolf. Not just as a counterpoint, but as the
scepter they lean on to stand tall. Even when attending to a precession of
sheep herders.
“It will not happen again,” he says once more. He meets her eye, as only he
will.
Laura squints at him. “Good.”
She waves him off, already turning to join their mother and Peter. Derek
unhooks Stiles’ leash from his belt and descends the steps, Stiles following
two paces behind.
They pass through the courtyard, past the tall circle of oaks, leaves
chattering in the breeze. Derek leads them to the left, to his rooms. It isn’t
until they are back within the fortress, though the entrance guarded to all but
the Alpha’s family, that Stiles skips the two paces to Derek and takes his arm.
“We’re not going to the training grounds?” he asks, peering up at Derek.
“No,” Derek replies, and doesn’t elaborate.
“Fine by me,” Stiles shrugs. He flicks his free hand to the wall of the
corridor and a pitiful spurt of sparks hits the stones, leaving a mild scorch.
“I’m casting farts over here. Someone kept me from my rest last night.”
Derek pulls him along faster. “Stop that, you’re going to set a tapestry on
fire. Also, you’re disgusting.”
“Your mouth says disgusting, but your mouth also likes pleasuring my bottom. So
I don't believe you mind at all.”
Derek sighs. “Twenty-five.”
“Twenty-five what?”
“Twenty-five public lashes is what I should give you for your gross
impertinence.”
Stiles exaggeratingly peers back down the corridor, and then up it again, hand
over his eyes. The hallway obviously being clear, he grins at Derek, all teeth
and upturned nose.
“A public lashing is what Talia would give you for letting your slave become so
impertinent.”
“And my impertinent slave would be sent to the mines to spell ore out of rocks
for the rest of his days.”
Stiles mock frowns up at him. “And who would pleasure my bottom?”
Derek growls, whipping his hand up the back of Stiles’ loincloth, grabbing a
cheek, fingers deep down the cleft of Stiles’ ass.
“No one. This belongs to me.”
“Well, of course it does,” Stiles mutters, hopping awkwardly along as Derek
continues to lead him by the grip he has on Stiles’ flesh.
They quickly reach the doors to Derek’s rooms. Derek puts his finger inside the
brass mouth of the snarling wolf’s head handle (he had ordered Stiles to
enchant the doors, so of course the key would be ridiculous) and tosses Stiles
inside.
Derek doesn’t toss him hard, but Stiles still stumbles, his feet too big for
his body. By the size of them, he’ll someday stand as tall as Derek. Fill out
his bony shoulders.
Stiles catches himself on a wingback chair within the front room, grinning back
over his shoulder as he turns around, hands still on the chair, his collarbones
pronounced.
“My Master is...upset. Bee in your boot?” Stiles smirks.
Derek closes the door with his foot, drops the golden leash to the ground, and
brushes by him.
He goes to his desk, a great carved oak monstrosity that he uses one small
corner of for occasional letter-writing. The rest is covered in Stiles’ books
of spells and creatures and histories and carefully inked maps of the Hale
lands. Parchments with Stiles’ erratic handwriting scatter like leaves, the
order and importance of each known only to Stiles.
Derek makes sure he holds Stiles’ eyes before clearing a space with a
purposeful sweep of his arm.
Stiles cries and reaches out to the desk like a mother seeing her child run
down by a horse.
Derek takes a book on long bow archery down from the shelf behind him and gets
comfortable in Stiles’ - no - his chair.
If he chose to, Derek could gag Stiles, hold him over the desk, and fuck him
bloody. Bruise his neck and bite his ribs to remind Stiles of who he belongs to
and what Derek expects from his behavior. Which includes not lusting after his
Uncle’s property.
But why would he when simply leaving Stiles bound to his unmanned leash and
moving his precious parchments are a much more effective form of punishment.
Clumps of dried mud patter over the parchments when Derek hauls his booted feet
up on the desk too.
Stiles groans. “Well now, that’s just unnecessary.”
“Quiet, slave.”
“Quiet, slave,” Stiles snipes back.
“Precisely,” Derek tells him, and licks a finger to turn the page.
Stiles mimics him again on a breath but Derek ignores him.
Held fast to his position by the chain unmanned by Derek, with nothing to amuse
himself with and no attention from his master, Stiles grows restless within
minutes. The soft tinkle of Stiles testing the limits of his bondage do not
make Derek look up, and in fact, Derek becomes engrossed in a chapter on amber
arrowheads and their mythical power against the dead risen. It’s been some time
since he completed his studies and dedicated himself fulltime to combat
training. Swords and spears for books and quills. And preparing for the role of
Black Wolf, of course. As though Peter would ever do something so convenient as
dying.
A familiar buckskin loincloth flies into Derek’s field of vision and hooks onto
his muddy boot.
Derek raises his eyebrow before raising his eyes from a paragraph on the
benefits of dragonstone flint. Stiles is leaning back against the arm of the
chair, hips shamelessly naked.
“Poor effort,” Derek comments.
“Just getting your attention. I'm not done yet!”
“I'm reading. Silence.”
Stiles, for all his youth and mischievousness, does not play coy.
“I know why you’re mad, and I would like to formally apologize for being human.
It’s the burden I bear, not being able to don a mask of indifferent menace as
needed, not like some wolves I know.”
Stiles huffs and drops into the chair, giving up what he thinks is a seductive
pose for sprawling sideways, head resting on the chair arm, pouting at Derek
over the top of his desk.
“It is not only your face you need to work on controlling,” Derek growls.
“Oh, come on now. One would have to be blind not to appreciate a beauty like
hers. Surely you can admit that she is a rare one,” Stiles replies, eyebrows
raised in challenge.
Derek will not. At least not to Stiles. It's true, the Lydia is enticing. The
problem is she's difficult to avoid. What with Peter suckling her little
breasts whole into his mouth while Derek is trying to eat his dinner on any
given night. He's surprised the girl isn't a dry wrinkled husk with the amount
Peter uses her. Even on the training grounds Peter will break between bouts and
tug his hard cock out from under his mail jerkin to feed it into a bored Lydia.
She'll kneel and bend, the split of her sweet pink cunt ready for Peter, and
Peter will fight all the more ferociously after filling it.
Peter often offers her to Derek, her mouth, or maybe her pert, wrinkled asshole
since Peter knows Derek prefers that tight heat. Derek has yet to accept.
“Pretty, perhaps. All pastry, no meat.”
Stiles chuffs a laugh. “Oh, she’s full of something alright. Not a witch to
underestimate.”
“How would you know that?” Derek asks, danger in his voice.
“We were raised in the same village, remember?”
“Do you speak with her now? Here, in the fortress?” Derek gives Stiles free
reign during most days. Only because the torque will tell him if Stiles is
touched by another.
“I-. Ah, no. I don’t. Not about anything but our training,” he says. His
heartbeat is fast, but steady.
“Don’t ever.”
Stiles sits up. “Never? What if she has something in her teeth, or like, an eye
booger?”
“Never,” Derek snarls. He gets to his feet and is standing over Stiles without
remembering how he got across the room.
Stiles frowns but then clasps his hands in the formal gesture of obedience, his
eyes down at their feet.
“Yes, my Master.”
“Stiles.”
“Alright! I won’t! Honestly,” Stiles huffs, putting his hands up to show his
fingers uncrossed. “But hey, I like the look of a fancy pastry. What are you
going to do, cut my eyes out? I need those.”
“I will cut her eyes out.”
Eyes gone wide with fear, rich brown circled in startled white. Stiles knows
that Derek is not prone to making idle threats. He slips down off the chair,
clasps his hands again and presses them to Derek’s thigh, straddling Derek’s
boot.
“Yes, alright, don’t...please don’t do that,” he whispers.
“Look only to me and I won’t have to.”
“Yes, my Master. Yes...Derek.” No mocking hidden in Stiles’ tone. “Derek, I
won’t. Not ever.”
“Good,” he snarls. He unclips the leash from Stiles’ torque and takes his naked
arm, pulling Stiles up and pushing him to the bedroom.
A quiet hum flys to Derek’s ear, the telltale sound of a witch casting a spell,
so soft only wolves can hear it. He's long past punishing Stiles for casting
spells without Derek’s permission. So long as Stiles doesn't misbehave in court
or in front of the family, Derek is damningly lenient. He's well aware it will
sting him someday in the future.
He all but throws Stiles up onto the canopied bed, eyes on him as Stiles rolls
and watches Derek quickly undress, layers of court jacket and vest and pendants
and boots coming off too slowly.
“Let me-” Stiles reaches forward.
“No,” Derek snaps, and rips at the complicated laces of his breeches until they
give and his cock tips out, strong and ready.
Stiles unbuckles his own leggings, a simple belt wrapped low on his hips and
Derek grabs the cuffs, tugging them off, dropping them to the floor. It leaves
Stiles barefoot and naked, all but for the Hale torque resting over his
collarbones, capped with golden wolf heads, glaring at each other with black
diamond eyes.
Derek knees up onto the bed and beckons Stiles closer only to push him back
down on the bed, on his back. Derek then pulls Stiles’ thighs over his own,
legs wide and spread. It is still plenty light outside but here, in their bed,
it is close and warm, smelling still of their coupling from the night before.
Derek pushes two fingers into Stiles’ hole, feels his readiness, tests the give
of the rim and heat of Stiles’ body. He enjoys the exploration, has yet to tire
of playing with this dark, secret part of his slave. He’ll often tongue and
taste Stiles’ here, thumbs spreading Stiles’ sweet young hole so it blooms pink
and swollen for Derek to suck.
“Sometimes I wonder if you’ve enchanted this hole.” Derek mutters, putting the
fingers of both hands in, spreading Stiles’ opening like a lady’s flower, the
magicked slickness making it pliable and glistening.
“Ah, please, Derek. Master. Give it to me. Please,” Stiles begs, hips shoving
down on Derek’s fingers, clutching at Derek’s elbow. His legs wrap around
Derek’s middle, tugging Derek closer, a hand scrambling for the back of Derek’s
neck, hips up, bucking and wriggling like the neediest bitch in heat. His
little arousal bounces with each wriggle, slim and hard above his pleasingly
tight ball sack. It looks almost innocent next to Derek’s red cock, large and
leaking, rising like a tree trunk from the thick black hair in the v of his
open breeches.
Derek removes his fingers and replaces them with his cock, its girth stretching
Stiles obscenely as he jogs it in. Cockhead, shaft, Stiles takes it like a
hatchling until Derek is shoved all the way in, balls knocking against the
strain of Stiles’ ass.
“Ah, yes, yes my Master. Down, here, please, please,” Stiles gasps, pulling
Derek closer with every limb, so that Derek covers him and fills him both.
Stiles locks him into an urgent kiss, a grunt pushed into Derek’s mouth every
time Derek rocks his cock in Stiles’ body.
It is with great care that Derek takes him, his little witch boy. Smooth long
thrusts and steady kisses and keeping Stiles’ eyes on him, met with Derek’s own
eyes or looking down the low cave between their bodies to watch Derek’s wet
cock pull in and out of him.
It’s huge, maybe too big for Stiles’ tender hole, making Stiles’ cheeks bulge
around Derek’s girth. With every stroke out, Derek’s cock pulls at the tight
walls of Stiles’ hole, a sucking, deep wet rose color. Mesmerizing, and Derek
often watches the hug of Stiles’ hungry hole around his cock over and over,
thumbing at the opening to reveal more, to feel the slickness and heat,
stretching Stiles’ thighs out and back, Stiles letting him.
But now he cups one hand under Stiles’ head, the other steadying Stiles by the
shoulder so the boy isn’t fucked right off the bed. Kisses him while Derek’s
hips thrust hard and strong, crouched and rocking his haunches like a wolf on a
bitch.
“You will feel this tomorrow, I'll make sure of it,” he says against Stiles’
lips. “You may never want to sit again.”
Stiles gasps a laugh, tugs at Derek’s hair. “Not...if I heal...myself..”
“I forbid it,” Derek growls. He nips the point of Stiles’ impish chin.
“Yes, Derek. Alright, yes. I will feel it all the day and...think of your big
cock. I’ll shame myself blind at court…”
That wakes Derek’s wolf and he snarls, pulling out of Stiles to quickly turn
the boy over, guiding his pulsing cock back into Stiles’ swollen hole, his knot
already forming, seed spilling in great gouts. He clutches Stiles by the hips
and pulls Stiles down over his rapidly swelling knot, Stiles moaning and
bucking at the resistance.
Derek grunts, pushing as carefully as he can, Stiles’ hole yawning huge and
pink-rimmed over his red knot. He can feel his cock filling Stiles already,
great weighty sprays from his clenched balls to the end of his twitching cock.
He finally slips in, the pressure easing in a burst of euphoria, Stiles
gripping the soft sheets in both fists, screaming into the bed as Derek fills
his belly.
Derek gives a grunt of victory and sits back on his haunches, pulling Stiles by
the unyielding knot tied in his ass. Derek lets them both catch their breath as
he inspects the stretch of Stiles around the swell, pushes it gently to and
fro, bigger than Derek's fist, obscene.
“Mine,” Derek hears himself growl, the sight of his knot in his witch making
ridiculous words escape him. He reaches beneath Stiles and gently cups Stiles
cock and balls, but they are spent and retreating, the mass soft and well-
weighted in Derek’s palm. Stiles is sticky with his own release and Derek
gently rubs it into Stiles skin in time with the measured, light thrusts of his
knotted cock.
He spends some time like that, sat back on his knees, Stiles limbs loose but
his hole still sucking around Derek’s knot, eyes drowsy and satisfied. He
eventually whines for Derek’s kiss and pulls him down awkwardly, whimpering at
the shift of Derek’s cock plugging him up, and Derek gives the kisses freely
until the urge to admire Stiles’ hole tight and pink lures him back up, to rub
Stiles’ thighs and thumb at the stretch.
Nearly everyday he takes his slave like this and yet he never tires of it,
still craves Stiles like a thirsty man craves rain.
“How do you fair?” he asks quietly, petting Stiles’ asscheek. The air under the
canopy is thick with the smell of wolf seed and Stiles’ own sweet satisfaction.
Stiles sighs and Derek thinks it is a happy one.
“Help me up, my Master,” Stiles mumbles, and they both gasp at the shift of
Derek’s cock as he pulls Stiles up to his chest, holding him there.
Stiles sighs again and shifts a little in Derek’s lap, enjoying the feel of
Derek still so deep and secure inside him, his face drowsy but happy.
Derek looks down over Stiles’ shoulder and cups Stiles’ abdomen, low, where
it’s swollen with Derek’s seed. He pushes against it lightly, enjoying the give
and Stiles’ breathy, “Ah!”
“You did good, Stiles. You did very good,” Derek tells him, patting the swell.
“Mmmm, does this mean all is forgiven?”
“For now. Where should your eyes be?”
“Only to you, Derek.”
“Yes.”
They wait like that for Derek’s knot to recede, Stiles’ head resting on his
shoulder, letting Derek press and palpate his abdomen, fingers occasionally
wandering down to fondle at Stiles’ soft cock, Derek’s fingers huge on his
little sack.
When Derek finally pulls free, he gently pushes Stiles forward onto his his
elbows and knees, patting his side for being so obedient. Derek’s seed falls
from Stiles’ loose hole in a steady trickle, and Derek fingers at the leak.
“I suppose this was your intent all along. Rile up your Master for a good
dicking.”
Stiles smiles over his shoulder and shifts his hips, pushing out a gout of wet
onto Derek’s hand. Derek rewards him with four fingers up his messy hole, thumb
stroking the wrinkled rim.
“Mmmm, you're too shrewd, my Master. Though it could be said all I do is in the
pursuit of your seed.”
“And I surrender too easily,” Derek sighs, leaning down to suck a bite into
Stiles’ left cheek.
“Credit to my cunning.”
“You are useful in many ways. But no one would suspect that face of hiding
cunning.”
“Well that’s just wounding. Though I suppose no one would suspect your scowling
face of hiding a sense of humour.”
Derek bites again, leaving a few tooth marks behind and thinks of slipping his
thumb in beside his fingers, of rocking his closed fist in the channel of
Stiles’ hole, so sloppy with his seed. Of cradling Stiles to his chest like a
child, wrist-deep between Stiles’ skinny legs, letting Stiles suckle the thin
milk from Derek's tiny nipple. It's not much, but Stiles always goes heavy eyed
and calm, lets Derek play with the swell of his hole while feeding, Stiles’ own
hands curled innocently under his chin.
“Enough.” He gently slips his hand from Stiles. “You’ll anger me again and I’ll
need punish you some more. We have training.”
Even now Derek’s guard will be sparring without him on the training ground,
blades flashing in the sun.
“But I’m so hungry,” Stiles whines, turning over to pout at Derek down his
messy belly. His legs knock open, hole and thighs smeared with drips of seed
nearly to his knees.
It’s only when Stiles’ inching foot nudges up under Derek’s heavy, spent cock
does Derek realise he’s been staring.
“Let me have a small taste, my Master. Then we can go shoot straw men with
flaming arrows until bedtime.”
Derek grabs Stiles’ ankle and moves it away from his stirring cock.
“We can’t wile away the afternoon.”
“Please, Derek?”
His chest tingles traitorously at the sound of his name on Stiles’ lips, so
bold.
“Come here,” he finally sighs, casting off his ruined breeches and sitting up
against the mountain of pillows at the head of the bed. Stiles follows
immediately, stretching out over Derek’s thigh like a kitten. Derek helpfully
bends his knee so Stiles can rub his defeated hole against Derek’s hairy leg.
Stiles bends his head and Derek cups the back of it, watching as Stiles happily
takes his right nipple, mouthing at it sweetly until Derek’s pectoral tightens
and a warm stream starts flowing.
Stiles relaxes against him fully, only his little ass moving against Derek’s
leg with soft, wet sounds, complementing the quiet sucks of Stiles feeding.
Derek pets his hair in time, giving into the warm, dim tranquility under the
canopy.
It feels so good to have Stiles at his breast, safe and quiet. The gentle
little pulls at his nipple are heaven itself, and he starts to harden again,
but without urgency, just enough for his cock to flop full up onto his belly,
the head of it pushing sticky spent seed out from the hood.
His left nipple starts leaking in aroused sympathy, milk pearling up at the tip
before dripping off his pectoral and down his chest. He moves his hand from
where it’s steadying Stiles’ back and slowly squeezes the nipple, sighing deep
as it fountains a thin spray down his chest, a little splattering his cock.
Stiles pulls off his right nipple with a noise, knocking Derek’s hand away to
fall on the left one.
Derek’s laugh shakes through his chest and Stiles on it, and he holds tight to
Stiles’ torso with one arm, the other sneaking down to dig three fingers into
Stiles’ restless hole, stroking and smoothing inside the rim of it.
When Derek finally runs dry and Stiles has spent upon his leg again, Derek
tumbles them out of the bed, steadying Stiles and picking up his leggings.
“Clean me up. Leave yourself,” he commands.
Stiles looks down his front, his short hair a sticky riot.
“You want me seed-covered and smelling like a New Moon sacrifice out on the
training grounds?” he asks, incredulous.
“I want you smelling like me,” Derek replies, turning to his dressing room for
his leathers.
“This whole side of the fortress stinks of you!” Stiles yelps after him, but
does as Derek says, obedient for all his lip. Derek would have him no other
way.
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