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The Spoils of War

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Derek Hale sits in the command room and oversees his subordinates arguing with each other over the best way to infiltrate and then overthrow the largest stronghold any of them have targeted yet. He feels contempt for them, and a little amusement. He really doesn't think there is any need to get so worked up over something like this, but then again everyone has always told him that he is too confident for his own good. Derek himself doesn't see a problem with it. He is an alpha, one of the strongest that has ever lived, as it's the same confidence some question that has led to him rising to the high rank he now holds in a short period of time.

"Enough!" he barks, getting out of his chair. His raised voice is enough to immediately cease the arguing.

"Commander—" one of the men tries, but Derek is bored and holds up his hand.

"Not another word," the alpha orders, flashing his eyes. He circles the war table with its maps and carefully constructed plans, which the lesser men were just talking about changing, and runs a hand over his bearded jaw. He thinks that the plans are perfect as they are and says as much. His subordinates' self-preservation instincts must be working now, because no one tries to contradict him.

"Now, I think we all know everything we need to know," Derek says, turning away from the table after completing his circuit. "You're dismissed. Until tomorrow, gentlemen. The crack of dawn. Do not be late, or you will get none of the glory from this latest conquest, none of the riches, and you shall face my wrath when the rest of us return."

The other men push their chairs away from the table and scurry out of the room.

"Sleep well, men! You will need it," Derek calls after them.

* * *

Derek made himself the most integral part of this conquest.

The pressure adds to the thrill he feels as he sneaks past a weak point in the stronghold that one of his scouts had located a few days ago, during the reconnaissance mission Derek gave him. He is dressed as inconspicuously as possible, clad not in his usual armour but in a common white toga that had been procured for him by another loyal member of his forces. When asked how he'd come by it, the soldier smirked and said that the men who take imported goods into the stronghold should be more careful.

It's all so laughably easy. Derek wonders what the people in charge of this place could be thinking as he darts through stone alleyways, making his way around to the front gate. The guards he encounters along his way are dumb and slow, not one of them spotting him and several of them actually asleep at their posts. It only adds to the picture Derek's stolen clothing had put in his head of how inept and careless they are. Perhaps they grew complacent. Whatever the cause, if Derek were to see such slackers within his own army, he would never stand for it. The offenders would be killed—likely publicly, to ensure that the others were given a very clear message.

When he reaches the doors, he discovers that the guards here have at least managed to stay awake. Not that it matters. They won't be awake for long—or alive.

Finding a suitable place to hide and watch, it isn't hard for Derek to make a mental map of their patrol routes and then figure out the best way to take them all out without arousing their suspicion. His plan of action decided, Derek leaves his hiding place, takes out the small dagger he has beneath his toga and begins methodically picking off the guards one by one. He covers their mouths, slits their throats and then conceals them in the shadows, just in case someone he didn't see patrols through the same area.

Derek needn't have worried. He dispatches the final guard without a hitch and then, using all of his strength, he raises the heavy wooden plank keeping the doors barred and then pushes them open. The silence is split by the groaning of the dark wood, but Derek pays it no mind and just keeps going until he is out of breath and his armpits prickle with sweat. With a final shove, the doors are opened wide, and now all he has to do is wait.

His lookouts will see the doors, alert the others, and then his army will march.

* * *

Derek's whole body feels alive as he walks through the streets, the sounds of violence, screaming and death all around him. There is nothing like this feeling, and he soaks it up gleefully as he slices down a civilian with his faithful sword, which his most trusted soldier had kept safe for him until the doors were unlocked. Derek's toga is stained red with blood, barely a patch of white left on it, and he is sure that by the end of his fun there won't be any left at all.

He turns a corner, cuts down another man and finds himself standing in front of what looks like a temple. Derek ascends the steps leading up to the doors and is intrigued when he sees that it has been largely untouched so far. Perhaps his solders have too much respect for religion to sully it with bloodshed, but Derek has no such qualms.

The door opens easily. He steps inside and looks over the small antechamber. It looks almost luxurious, lit by hanging gold lanterns inside which flames burn brightly. The walls are marble, helping to make the place seem bright even in the dead of night. When he sees that there is nothing of worth in the antechamber, no one who needs killing, Derek proceeds forward through another set of doors and enters the main room of the temple.

At first, Derek thinks the place is devoid of other life. He listens intently as he walks, because as confident as he still is, it wouldn't do to become reckless. He hears nothing for a while, and then, as he turns around and begins the journey back outside, a sound reaches his ears, like that of a sandal scuffing against the floor. Derek knows it wasn't his own, so he turns toward where he thinks it came from and approaches, his sword held at the ready.

He discovers a young omega boy hiding behind a pillar, his small body trembling all over.

"P-please don't kill me!" the boy cries, tears of fear in his pretty honey-coloured eyes. Derek likes those eyes. He likes them a lot.

"Hush, little omega," he says with an air of menace, sheathing his sword. "I won't kill you."

The boy's gaze fills with foolish hope, perhaps as he imagines retaining his freedom. "You won't?"

"No. I'm going to make you mine instead."

Without ceremony, Derek picks the boy up over his shoulder and carries him outside. The boy struggles at first, but after a few minutes he seems to realise that there is nothing he can do to get free and goes limp, like Derek is carrying dead weight. Good, Derek thinks with a smirk. This one should be easy to break.

* * *

Stiles sits in the corner of the tiny room inside which the scary alpha had put him after stripping him of all of his clothing, his legs pulled up against his chest, his arms wrapped around them and his chin atop his knees. Tears run unbidden down his cheeks as he wonders where his life will go now, what plans the alpha has for him. They can't be anything good.

Stiles is brought out of his thoughts by footsteps outside the room. He tenses up when the door opens and tries to make himself look smaller, as if that will prevent whoever is coming in from seeing him.

"Ah, there you are," says a voice. The voice, which Stiles knows will haunt his nightmares—if he lives long enough to have any, that is.

When Stiles doesn't react, the alpha speaks again. "Look at me, omega."

Stiles keeps still.

"Alright then."

A few seconds pass, and then Stiles kicks wildly as he is lifted into the air and pressed against the wall by a hand around his neck.

"Look at me!" the alpha roars.

Such a powerful command is impossible to resist, and Stiles finds himself staring into the red eyes of the man who, from the bloodied state of his toga in the temple, has no doubt killed countless people. Stiles' people. The alpha is now dressed in the red linen undershirt and the metal and leather armour that is presumably his usual attire on the battlefield, complete with armguards and greaves. He looks even more formidable now, not just because the difference in both their weight and muscle mass is even more apparent now that Stiles isn't half-delirious with terror, but also because, dressed like this, the murderer exudes alpha with everything he is.

Stiles' inner omega whines, wanting to show its belly. Stiles himself wants to spit in his face.

"There. That wasn't so hard was it?" the alpha croons. Stiles flinches when he strokes the back of his other hand down his cheek, an affectionate caress.

"W-what are you going to do with me?" Stiles dares to ask, just managing to choke the words out around the pressure on his throat.

"I'm going to claim you, pet," the alpha says as if it was obvious.

Stiles supposes it was, but he'd still hoped that he would get a different response. He attempts to lean away when the alpha brings their faces close and inhales, his nostrils flaring, but as he is pressed to the wall, there isn't anywhere for him to go. He clenches his eyes shut tight when the alpha moves lower, invasively shoving his nose in his neck as he continues to scent him.

"Ah, pet, you smell just amazing," the alpha murmurs, scraping his blunt teeth over Stiles' skin. "I bet you'll smell even better when you're wet for me."

That'll never happen, Stiles wants to shout, but he holds his tongue, not wanting to anger the alpha.

"But I'm afraid that will have to wait a few more hours yet," the alpha says, his voice like it physically pains him. He removes his face from Stiles' neck, drops him to the floor without care and walks back over to the door, where he looks back at Stiles over his broad shoulder. "We've got a ceremony to prepare for, and after that I can make you mine. Someone will be by shortly with food, and then tomorrow you will be bathed and prepared for me, and the ceremony will begin. I can't wait to see how you look in your collar. Until then, pet."

With that, the alpha closes the door and leaves Stiles alone with his all-consuming dread.

* * *

Like the alpha promised, what he guesses is twelve hours later two other alphas come to the room that has been Stiles' temporary prison and drag him out.

Still naked, he is humiliated as he is all but carried through many hallways filled with many people, their curious eyes drinking in his pale skin without compunction, and then Stiles is taken into another room. A bathroom. The alphas deposit him on the floor and then leave, and he believes for a moment that he is going to be allowed to bathe himself. But then he raises his head and sees three women standing in front of the large wooden bathtub. They vary in height and secondary gender, but Stiles is already sure that it will do him no good to put up a fight here either. Even if he thought he could win, he doesn't actually have the fight in him anyway.

"My name is Aelia," the closest of the women says. A beta, she wears a typical toga, her skin almost as white as the fabric, and her long brown hair is plaited elegantly over one shoulder. Her eyes seem kind, but Stiles doesn't trust her. "We'll be helping you get ready for your claiming ceremony with Commander Hale."

"Come," another of the women says, this one an omega like him, with blonde hair. She doesn't give her name.

Stiles considers being petulant just to make their jobs difficult, but he doesn't want to face whatever punishment he would receive if he were. He gets shakily to his feet and warily walks over to them, trying his best not to recoil when the third woman, another omega who also remains nameless, takes his wrist in a firm but not painful grip. She leads him over to the bathtub, which Stiles now notices is already filled with steaming water and has several different jars and pots lined up next to it on a wooden table. The strong perfume of their contents irritates his nose.

"Step into the bath," the woman says, moving to help him do so.

The next few minutes are even more humiliating than the journey there. All three women work with efficiency as they wash him from head to toe, paying special attention to the places on his body that have begun to smell during his captivity. He isn't able to hold in his whine when the women touch his genitals and his sensitive asshole.

Once the cleaning is done, the one named Aelia picks a sharp blade up from the table.

"No!" Stiles cries, resisting them for the first time.

"Calm yourself, omega," Aelia says sternly. "I will not harm you. I am simply going to make your body suitable for claiming, as per Commander Hale's preferences."

The other two women, sensing that he won't stay still for very long, grab his arms and hold him in his place as Aelia tries again. The first touch of cool metal against his skin causes him to start crying, but after a few moments, when all Aelia does is shave off what little body hair he has, he at least isn't terrified of being mutilated anymore. She is careful as she runs the blade cleanly and concisely over his underarms, around his genitals and ass, and over his forearms and legs. By the time she is done, Stiles' skin is completely smooth all over. The only hair that remains is the hair on his head, his eyelashes and his eyebrows.

"All done, omega," Aelia says softly, putting the knife back on the table.

The other two women release Stiles and retrieve a robe for him made of the softest material he has ever felt. The sensation is made even stronger because he isn't used to feeling fabric against his newly smooth legs.

As soon as the robe is secured, the door opens and one of the alphas who had brought Stiles to the women pokes his head in.

"It is time," he says.

The women bow to him as he and his partner take Stiles again by his arms and lead him through yet more hallways. At least he isn't naked this time.

Despite his current predicament, the room Stiles is taken to next leaves him in awe. It's huge and grand, with a high vaulted ceiling and murals painted on the walls. Stiles doesn't know what they depict, but they're beautifully rendered nevertheless. The next thing he notices is the sheer number of people present. There must be nearly a hundred, maybe more, all of them dressed in what must be their finest clothing. All heads turn to him as he is ushered down an aisle straight down the middle of the crowd, which closes as he goes and people cluster together to get a better view of what is basically a stage at the front of the room.

And standing on that stage is the alpha who intends to claim him.

The man is again dressed in his armour, but it seems cleaner somehow and is now complete with the helmet. The way his red eyes never leave Stiles as he is brought around to the small staircase at the side of the stage is unnerving.

Also on the stage is another man of some sort of religious standing, and a pedestal on top of which is a pillow and a black leather collar.

Stiles knows where that will go.

Getting through the ceremony is like torture. If Stiles wasn't so scared for the future, he would be bored out of his mind.

"Commander Hale, if you please," the religious man says, making Stiles focus again. He can't even guess how much time has gone by.

The alpha picks the collar up from the pedestal and approaches Stiles, who tries not to cower under his continued unflinching gaze. The religious man says something else and then the collar is secured around Stiles' neck, loose enough not to restrict his breathing but tight enough for him to feel it.

Stiles hopes that's it, but then the alpha leans down and bites into the stretch of skin between his neck and shoulder. Stiles screams from the pain.

"It is done," the religious man says when the alpha picks up his head again, his lips red with Stiles' blood.

A loud cheer of celebration comes from the crowd, as if Stiles hasn't just had his entire life stolen from him. It's hard not to cry again, but he won't give any of them, especially not the alpha, the satisfaction this time.

* * *

What follows is a feast and several hours of celebration. Stiles is at first surprised that such an ordeal is being made of Commander Hale claiming him, but it becomes clear to him very quickly that the alpha is revered by pretty much everyone. Even the captain of the army, an incredibly intimidating alpha whose name Stiles doesn't catch, is there to congratulate him on doing such a good job ransacking Stiles' old home. The omega tunes out of the conversation after that.

At the feast itself, Stiles isn't given a chair but is expected to stay at his new alpha's feet. It's a difficult adjustment, and he isn't even given something soft to kneel on, the hard floor hurting his knees. Every time he readjusts himself to alleviate some of the pain, his alpha puts a strong hand on the back of his neck.

"No moving, pet," Commander Hale murmurs.

The worst part is having to eat from the alpha's hands. Commander Hale fills his own stomach first, without so much as a glance toward Stiles and his audible hunger. But when he is done, he picks up his leftovers from his plate and holds them out for Stiles on his palm. Stiles goes to take the meat and pastry in his own hand to spare himself some of the indignity, but he is very firmly scolded. The alpha raises his voice for this, no longer murmuring. He draws the eyes of the other convives still seated around the long rectangular table.

Stiles feels his face heat up under the scrutiny, and even though he doesn't like a single second of what is happening to him, the fact that he has done something so wrong that it warrants a public chastisement niggles at him enough to get him to comply, eating right out of Commander Hale's hand like a dog. It makes sense to Stiles; the Commander does call him his 'pet', after all.

He thinks it's a good thing when the feast winds down and people start leaving, but then he realises that he will be left alone with his alpha.

And only one thing can happen then.

It's with his heart beating a mile a minute that Stiles trudges behind Derek—the name he'd heard some of the other people calling the Commander—when he is told to. He follows the man through more hallways—just how big is this place?—and then they arrive at what has been their destination since Stiles was taken from the temple: Derek's personal quarters.

The alpha shuts the door, puts Stiles on his knees in the centre of the room and circles him appraisingly.

"Just as gorgeous as ever, pet," he compliments. "You are going to look amazing when I've filled you up with my knot."

Stiles ducks his head to hide the renewed stinging in his eyes.

"Come, pet."

Derek curls a finger beneath his collar and drags him over to a bed big enough to comfortably fit four people. What one person could possibly need with all of that space, Stiles doesn't know—he was perfectly happy with his small bed back at the temple—but now he supposes that it won't just be the alpha sleeping alone here. Stiles will be with him from now on too, keeping him warm whenever he wants a hole to fuck. Stiles can barely breathe as he is instructed to kneel in the middle of the bed with his hands behind his back. Once Derek deems his position acceptable, it begins.

"Now, I know this is going to be hard for you, my pet," the alpha says. His voice is soft, but the slight growl to it betrays his eagerness. "But you're going to be good for me, aren't you? You don't want to find out what happens if you disobey me, do you? Speak, pet."

"N-no…" Stiles mumbles reluctantly.

"No, master," the alpha corrects. "From now on you will call me master and nothing else. Understood?"

"Yes, master."

The word tastes like dirt on the omega's tongue.

It's then that Derek begins to disrobe. Despite himself, Stiles can't help but watch, the omega in him enraptured by the sight of an attractive alpha, even if said alpha is a bad man.

Gradually, more and more skin is revealed, until Derek stands before Stiles in all his glory. His body is tall and muscular, which the omega already knew. His chest is broad and hairy, his nipples hard and dusky. His chest hair tapers into a thin trail down the middle of his perfectly defined abdominal muscles and meets a nest of dark curls. From this nest, Derek's alpha cock sticks out straight, so long and thick that it dips slightly under its own weight, the foreskin still partially hiding the head even though it's fully erect. Stiles has never seen another man's erect cock before, and he is concerned. How is he going to fit that inside of his hole?

Beneath Derek's cock hang large hairy balls ready to breed. Stiles doesn't want to be bred, but he doesn't have a choice in the matter now, does he?

"Like what you see, pet?" his master asks him cockily, stroking himself.

Stiles snaps his mouth closed, which he hadn't noticed had been hanging open ever since Derek started divesting himself of his armour.

"Good. I like what I see too."

Derek climbs up onto the bed and fists his hands in the hair on either side of Stiles' head. Stiles is powerless to resist as he is dragged down until his face is right in front of Derek's cock and his nose is filled with the musky scent of him. Without giving him a chance to acclimate himself, Derek forces the head of his cock past Stiles' lips and then thrusts in deep. He moans loudly when he enters Stiles' throat and it convulses around him.

"Ah, there you go, pet, get nice and used to having your mouth on me this way, because it's going to happen very often," Derek promises.

Stiles gags and chokes and pushes frantically against the alpha's hairy thighs to get him to stop, but it's useless. He soon feels lightheaded and has to give in just to conserve oxygen, simply kneeling there with his mouth hanging open and spit running down his chin, like he is some inanimate object for his master to use to pleasure himself. Stiles' vision is blurry from tears and he thinks he gets precariously close to passing out before Derek lets him go. Stiles falls backward against the sinfully soft bedsheets, his chest heaving as he gulps in oxygen.

He has barely recovered when Derek flips him over onto his front and pulls his hips up so that his ass sticks out.

"Knew you'd look good like this, on your hands and knees, the perfect bitch for me," Derek says behind him, big hands on Stiles' smooth, pale cheeks.

Stiles gasps when Derek parts them and he feels something slick running in circles over his virgin hole. It knows right away that it's his tongue and cringes, hiding his face in his elbow because it feels so foreign and wrong. He feels disgusting, violated, especially when the sensation becomes pleasurable and he starts to produce slick.

This new development just spurs Derek on, to the point where he is prodding at Stiles' hole to get inside. Stiles' body betrays him even further, unable to deny his alpha entrance. He will never be able to deny his alpha something like that, a part of his biology that he hates with a fiery passion. He bites into the flesh of his arm to prevent the pleasured sounds in his sore throat from escaping, cheating Derek out of them. He doesn't deserve them, and Stiles is vindictively pleased to at least be able to deny his alpha this.

After a while of Derek licking at his hole, he retreats. Stiles expects him to use his fingers next, to stretch him out to take his cock, but he isn't granted that mercy. He really should have known better. In the next second, after coating his cock with the omega's slick, Derek shoves inside without any further preparation, causing Stiles to break the skin of his forearm with his teeth.

He was nowhere near ready to take something the size of his master's cock. It feels like he is being split apart, and he wouldn't be surprised if Derek were to pull out and find his cock covered in blood.

The alpha immediately starts up a brutal pace, snapping his hips forward with his hands on Stiles' hips to keep him in place. Stiles winces with each thrust, now unable to stop the sounds he is making from spilling from his lips. He tastes his own blood and spits his arm out, grimacing when he sees the state of it. There is a clear ring of teeth in his forearm, a deep, sluggishly bleeding wound that will leave one hell of a scar, just like the one Derek had left on his neck.

It's all Stiles can do to fist his hands in the sheets and hold on for dear life, obscene squelching sounds joining his whimpers in the air as the alpha's large cock forces its way inside of him again and again. Stiles is dismayed when, a few minutes into their first coupling, he feels himself beginning to get hard as well, Derek's cock unrelenting in its abuse of his prostate. He doesn't want to get hard, doesn't want to get off to this or even be aroused at all, but again he can't change his biology. His alpha is fucking him, therefore he gets hard and will probably end up coming on his knot. Stiles would rather not, but he likely won't get a choice.

Sure enough, too soon after it started, he is jerked back and forth as Derek's knot grows, making it more difficult for the alpha to force it past the resistance of Stiles' hole. Stiles winces every time it happens, his hole stretched wider and wider until Derek shoves his knot in all the way one last time and stays buried to the hilt. The alpha moulds his front to the omega's back, their skin sticky with sweat, and mouths at Stiles' neck, over his still-tender claiming bite.

"Ready, pet?" he rasps, breath hot against Stiles' ear. "Ready for my come?"

Stiles isn't, but he doesn't say as much.

"Here it comes…"

With a couple of dirty grinding motions, Derek howls and spills inside of Stiles, flooding his guts with thick alpha seed. Stiles doesn't think it's just his imagination that his stomach is soon made heavy by it, distending to the point where he looks like he is a few months pregnant already. He is just thankful that he isn't in heat and won't actually end up that way. This time.

After a few more minutes, which Derek spends draped over Stiles' back, he moves with purpose again, grinding his knot against Stiles' prostate.

"Come now, pet, you can do better than that," he says. "Show your master how much you love his knot."

Stiles can only obey, his body betraying him all over again. He comes with a muffled scream, painting the sheets with his useless omega seed.

"There you go, pet…"

Stiles blacks out after that.