It’s the red glow of his eyes that Derek will never really get used to. Of all the uncanny things about Stiles – the almost glowing pale skin; the slender, rangy body that’s nevertheless frighteningly strong; the thin red robes he wears despite the howling winds that push freezing drafts through the castle; the scent that drives him to distraction – it’s the eyes that get Derek.
He knows what sorts of creatures are supposed to have red eyes, and Stiles isn’t one of them. He’s not even entirely sure what Stiles is. All he knows – all anyone knows – is that he sailed in from the east, bringing a new, all-powerful god of fire to replace the Seven.
A god who seems to laugh at Derek’s fervent prayers even as he burns all others to the ground.
Derek has been staring at his battle diagrams for hours. Despite the size of his fleet, there’s no way to breach the walls of King’s Landing, which could withstand a siege for months. No sooner does Derek growl with frustration than Stiles is standing in the doorway, robes unruffled as if he simply appeared there.
“What vexes you, Your Grace?” he asks, gliding into the room.
Derek stands, shoving the chair back with a long scrape. “It has been months, and yet my uncle still sits on the Iron Throne. We have ships, but so few men and very little remaining gold. Your god has not delivered on his promises.”
“My god?” Stiles’ face remains solemn, but there is a quirk of mischief about his eyes. “Is the Lord of Light not also your god?”
“I burned the sept to the ground,” Derek says, advancing on Stiles. “I pulled the sword Lightbringer from the flames. I have performed every ritual, done everything that has been asked of me. I have begun to wonder if I’m being mocked.”
Stiles doesn’t flinch, even when Derek is right in his face, and it drives Derek mad. It’s hard to look into those red eyes from so close up, so Derek’s glance catches on the long shadows that Stiles’ lowered eyelashes cast against his cheek. The color of those plush lips and the tongue that sneaks out to wet them. Derek can feels his fangs dropping, his claws lengthening. Stiles’ robes are so thin; it wouldn’t take more than a flick of the wrist to rend them—
“I have seen your victory in the flames many times, Your Grace,” Stiles says, his lips curling up. “It is assured – the usurper will fall. Your devotion will not go unrewarded.”
“How much longer must I wait?” Derek growls, taking in Stiles’ sharp, fiery scent with every breath. Stiles’ robes have shifted enough that Derek can see the pulse at the base of his throat, can practically taste the salt of the skin there. Would it burn Derek’s lips to taste it?
“Patience has many advantages,” Stiles murmurs, his tone teasing, intimate. “But it is not always the necessary virtue.”
The thick scent of arousal hits Derek’s nose. He once thought Stiles to be a holy man, but not like any old, gluttonous septon Derek has ever known. No, Stiles is something completely new, powerful in a way that transcends virtue. Derek craves that power almost as much as he craves the man who wields it. “Would you have me sail on King’s Landing tonight?” he asks, leaning so far into Stiles’ space that his intentions are unmistakable.
Stiles doesn’t fail to understand. “I would have you be the king you were born to be.” He grins, wicked and wild. “And a king takes what is his.”
Derek only has to shift his weight forward to wrap clawed hands carelessly around Stiles’ waist, to capture Stiles’ mouth in a hard, hungry kiss. Stiles yields with surprising ease, moaning into Derek’s mouth and pressing back into his touch. His body is all lean, corded muscle that seems to mold itself to Derek’s. Desire licks like flames through Derek’s blood, and he’s startled by the sound of tearing fabric when his claws begin to shred Stiles’ robes.
But Stiles only bites down on Derek’s lower lip, hard enough to draw blood, and the coppery taste of it pushes Derek further into madness. He drags Stiles bodily to the table, sweeping all his maps and scrolls to the floor so he can bend Stiles over it unhindered. Stiles throws aside his cloak and the rest of his robes tear away like parchment until all Derek can see is a long stretch of pale skin, sprinkled with small dark spots like the stars in the sky. Derek’s eyes travel hungrily down the arch of Stiles’ back, not yet trusting himself to touch the firm, perfect swell of Stiles’ ass without marking him.
Then he sees it.
A flat, dark circle that looks like black glass and smells of lightly spiced oil, nestled firmly between Stiles’ cheeks.
A plug? Derek has heard of such things, but…
He carefully presses against it with the pads of two clawed fingers, and Stiles rocks back into the pressure. They both gasp at the same time, Derek unaware until that moment that he had stopped breathing entirely.
Derek forces his claws back so he can work the plug out with a shaking hand. It’s holding Stiles open and ready, and Derek can’t help but slide the thickest part of it back and forth in tiny, teasing movements against Stiles’ rim, his blood heating at the way it stretches so prettily. By now, Stiles is making quiet whimpering sounds, and Derek takes pity on him, twisting his wrist as he pulls the plug free. Stiles’ hole contracts, clenching around nothing until Derek pushes two fingers in, the oil making the slide easy.
Too easy. The plug is still body-warm in his other hand, heat that should be surrounding Derek’s cock. It’s a little thicker than even the plug, and the thought of Stiles stretched wide and tight around him makes Derek’s vision haze over with red.
He claws through his belt neatly and wraps a careful, clawed hand around his cock, already hard and wet at the tip. He has a mind to tease Stiles again, rub the head of his cock against Stiles’ hole until Stiles begs for it, but the moment he presses against slick, oiled skin, his mind goes blank and he’s thrusting in, in until his hips are flush against Stiles’.
Stiles cries out, and though Derek can smell a hint of pain, Stiles’ arousal is much stronger. He’s eager for it, already trying to work himself on the thickness of Derek’s cock, and Derek’s last thread of control snaps. His hands fit so easily around Stiles’ narrow hips, his claws not quite piercing Stiles’ flawless skin until Stiles squirms, and Derek stills him by giving in to his instincts, shoving Stiles forward and dragging him back until he’s once again firmly impaled on Derek’s cock.
The sound Stiles makes is surprisingly deep, nothing of pain or uncertainly about it, so Derek does it again. Then again, harder, driving the breath out of Stiles in a low grunt. Stiles doesn’t speak, but he spreads his legs wider, bending lower over the table like an offering.
A king takes what is his.
The pace Derek sets is nothing short of brutal, snapping his hips almost viciously. The only consideration he shows Stiles is to brace himself on the table so that his claws will dig into the heavy wood instead of Stiles’ tender flesh. Stiles’ breath is coming out in one long groan as his hands keep slipping on the surface of the table, unable to give himself any leverage. He’s completely at Derek’s mercy like this, his skin flushing blotchy red with arousal. Derek imagines Stiles’ cock hard and dripping, wonders if he can fuck Stiles through more than one climax like this.
Derek himself feels like he could go for hours. He’s found the perfect rhythm, plunging into Stiles over and over like an oar through the water. It’s almost hypnotic, the hot clutch of Stiles’ body, the heavy sound of his breathing over Stiles’ gasps and moans, the obscene squelch of their bodies joining and parting. The red haze settles over Derek again and he welcomes it, this primal lust that’s thick in the air, brushing his skin, filling his lungs. He can feel the moment he surrenders to it, nothing like surrendering to the anger that controls the beast within him. This is a much softer submission, almost gentle despite the ferocious movements of his body. He can barely feel his body anymore, though the pleasure remains. Grows, in fact, swells to fill his entire self, no longer rooted in his cock or in the base act of rutting.
For just a moment, he loses all sense of himself, dissolved in syrupy bliss as thick as blood. He’s floating. He’s flying.
He’s flat on his back.
Derek recognizes the coarse weave of the sheets beneath him and the dark curtains around the bed. He’s still buried to the hilt inside Stiles, who’s now straddling him. The ethereal, hazy pleasure that had captured Derek becomes physical once more, a sharp, sweet ache where their bodies are connected.
Above him, Stiles’ throat is bared, his head thrown back in ecstasy. For a moment, Derek is distracted by the symbols drawn on his smooth chest. They’re jagged, unfamiliar runes smeared in dark red. Blood? Derek thinks, and then Stiles rocks down hard and Derek can’t think anymore.
Stiles’ hands are planted hard on Derek’s shoulders, and he’s not rising up and down so much as rolling his hips, pleasuring himself as though Derek is a plaything, little more than a hard cock for Stiles to ride. The thought sends an unexpected shiver of thrill down Derek’s spine. Still, he lifts his knees to plant his feet on the bed for leverage, and when he thrusts up, he chokes on his own breath.
He’s locked inside Stiles.
It’s an old superstition, one that dates back to the coming of the First Men, meant to paint Derek’s kind as animals. But it never happens outside of books, the kind Derek’s mother used to hide on the highest shelf of their library. She hid it not from him, but from Peter, who never ventured deep into the library. She never suspected that Derek would be the one to find it, to read ancient tales about bestial coupling between humans and wolves, the way a male could tie a female to ensure his seed took root. Derek never believed it could be true.
He’s also never felt this before, this swelling sensation at the base of his cock, now trapped inside Stiles. But when he looks up, Stiles is grinning, his red eyes ferocious and hungry. If he’s in any pain, he’s not showing it in the slightest.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, circling his hips lazily until Derek’s eyes nearly roll back in his head. “Give me your knot, Derek. Fill me.”
He can feel it building already, the tension in his body tightening and tightening until he’s certain he’s going to break. He doesn’t even feel the stinging in his palms until Stiles is trying to unclench both of Derek’s hands, where he’s dug his claws so deep that he’s bleeding. The wounds heal quickly, but the blood remains. Heedless of the blood – or perhaps because of it – Stiles takes Derek’s hands and puts them on his chest, dragging them down to smear the symbols painted there. When his hands reach Stiles’ taut belly, Stiles jerks, clenching down on the full thickness of Derek’s knot, and it’s enough to send Derek catapulting over the edge.
Instead of a series of pulses, it’s one swift, hard jolt that nearly has Derek jackknifing up off the bed as it rips through him. Derek howls, gripping Stiles’ hips hard enough to bruise, and he’s just starting to breathe again when a second wave hits. It’s every bit as intense as the first, if not more so, and this time Derek thrusts up, lifting Stiles up off his knees in an attempt to bury himself even deeper. It takes a third and a fourth time for Derek to realize that it’s not going to stop, that it might still be building.
While the spasms don’t weaken, they start to come a little farther apart, and Derek forces his eyes to focus on Stiles. His body is rigid, locked up like he’s the one coming, but his cock is still hard, flushed dark and leaking all over Derek’s stomach. That’s all Derek has time to see before he’s struck with another wrenching contraction. Stiles is making broken little noises, and this time Derek feels Stiles tighten around him, milking his knot as Derek spills inside him again. His seed should be long spent, but with each wave, Stiles seems to pull more out of him.
Derek grinds his teeth against the gutting pleasure, now so intense it’s bordering on pain. He has a moment where red flashes behind his eyes and he’s not certain he’ll survive this, that Stiles will milk him dry and leave him as nothing but a shriveled husk. If that’s going to happen, the last thing Derek’s going to do in this world is make Stiles come, too. Make him feel a little of this burning ecstasy that’s threatening to consume Derek entirely.
All it takes is a tight grip around Stiles’ cock, Derek’s hand still tacky with blood, and Stiles is shooting across Derek’s chest in thick, white spurts. Derek keeps stroking long past the point of oversensitivity, until Stiles’ whole body is shuddering and he’s crying out so loudly that the entire castle must hear him.
One last, ruthless spasm wrings Derek out so thoroughly that his hand slips from Stiles’ cock and he collapses back to the bed. His body still echoes with the aftershocks of sensation he doesn’t know how to process, but he knows he’s still hard, his seed still plugged deep inside Stiles.
But while Derek feels worn, ragged around the edges, Stiles is practically glowing. He’s breathing hard, his torso a mess of blood and sweat, but he’s smiling serenely. Only his eyes retain that fierce hunger.
“I’ve never…” Derek tries, when he can speak again. “I don’t know how long this will…”
Stiles rocks a little on Derek’s knot, as full and sensitive as ever, making Derek groan. “Long enough,” Stiles says, rubbing a hand over his own belly. “Long enough.”
Derek doesn’t know what that means, but he feels like he wouldn’t understand even if he asked. Stiles bends down over him, presses his lips right against Derek’s ear.
“Your Grace,” he whispers, and it sounds obscene like this, with Stiles straddling his rightful king, still clutching Derek’s cock inside. “The usurper will not trouble you much longer. The Lord of Light will deliver you from this impediment, I can promise it.”
Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat, steady and strong, not a trace of falsehood to be found. But when Derek closes his eyes, all he sees is darkness.