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Trial By Fire

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“No, don’t lift your eyes. Don’t make eye-contact.” Chris slides his palm along the boy’s still-bare throat, as yet unmarked by a collar. It’s really quite a lovely throat; pity that it’ll be scarred and ruined by fangs before long, given that the collar serves more as decoration than protection. “They don’t like that.”

“What do they like?” Stiles whispers, and Chris tightens his hold. The boy wheezes, and remembers his manners. “Sir?”

“They like this.” Chris pushes Stiles down on the practice-mat, soiled by years of sweat and semen and disgustingly rank. Then again, werewolves love the ripeness of scents, don’t they? Stiles will have to remain unwashed for a full day before his first appointment, at the very least. “Face-down. Part your legs.”

Stiles does as he is told, because he’s a clever child, despite his occasional lapses in judgement.

Very clever, indeed. A trail of oil glistens along one inner thigh, leading up to the shadowed dip between the boy’s buttocks, which gleams darkly and invitingly, lubed with yet more oil and held snugly open by an impressively wide plug.

“Nice choice,” Chris murmurs. “Why did you choose to do this?”

A brief silence. Then: “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

Intriguing. “Go ahead.” In fact… “Turn to face me.”

Stiles turns over on his back, and spreads his legs. And doesn’t meet Chris’s eyes. Not merely clever, then, but adept. “You’d mentioned that they like a certain… preparedness? A readiness for the, um - ”

“Knot,” Chris supplies, already slipping off his belt. Stiles’s eyes follow the movement of his hands. Those plush lips part.

“Yeah, that. I just took it a step further. And it gave me an excuse to prep myself. Won’t get hurt as much, that way, and I still please the client. Win-win, right?”

“Win-win,” Chris agrees, indulgently, and kneels between Stiles’s thighs. Contemplates fucking the boy with that massive plug, fucking him viciously, just to hear him scream. No - to train him. To train him for an Alpha, should an Alpha claim him.

“Are you thinking about hurting me? Sir?” Stiles adds the honorific belatedly; Chris definitely is going to have to train that out of him, if he expects the kid to survive.

“You’re healing faster.”

“Th-that isn’t actually an answer, sir.”

Chris snorts. How long has it been since one of the new arrivals has talked back? Or talked, at all? “I’ve changed my mind,” he says, and moves to straddle Stiles’s shoulders, instead. “Today, you learn how to hold your breath.”

Stiles takes one deep, desperate gasp of air before Chris’s fingers find Stiles’s nose and pinch it closed, leaving his mouth gaping open for Chris to thrust right in.

Fuck right in, because he starts rough, no easing in, no patience. A wolf at the full moon shows no patience, either.

Stiles gurgles. His throat works - sweet, milk-pale, unscarred - and his eyelashes clump together with tears. He probably thinks he’s dying. Like Chris did, once.

“Stop trying to breathe,” Chris advises him, as gentle and soothing as he can be, considering -

Considering -

Stiles chokes -

Chris’s hips jerk despite themselves -

And he’s coming, just like that, sooner than he’d planned, but Stiles’s eyes meet his in the moment before they roll back, in the very split second before Stiles loses consciousness, and it’s -

Stiles shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have done that -

Chris is coming too hard to stop -

And he’s choking the boy for real, now. It’s no longer just a reflex; this is killing him. But Stiles shouldn’t have -

Shou -

And then, Chris is done, skin drenched with sweat under his shirt, breath rasping in and out of him like he’s just run a goddamn marathon.

Unprofessional. Unprofessional, and -

No. Chris pulls out of the kid’s mouth and smacks him around a bit, just to wake him up. Except that he won’t wake up. Chris hits him again. And again.

Eventually, Stiles’s eyes flutter open, and he says, voice hoarse and oddly pleased, “I did good, didn’t I, sir?”

Chris’s heart thuds. Like it’s been dropped from a great height. It’s a heavy thing, made of lead and wrought iron, but something within it clenches. A helpless fist. “You did wrong. You disobeyed orders. I told you not to look, but you immediately - ”

“I thought my job was to anticipate my master’s needs, sir.” Stiles’s lips are an obscene red, wet with come, but he makes no attempt to wipe it away. His cheekbones are bruised from where Chris hit him. His eyes are downcast, as if he’s pretending to be a good boy, a tame boy, even though he nearly got himself killed -

“What’re you trying to say?”

“Oh, nothing much. Only that right now, you’re my master, not anyone else.” Stiles’s eyes have a hot, mad light in them. Manipulative. Knowing. Too intelligent to be broken. Too stupid to be -

“You do realize that I have to mark every disobedience on your chart, and that it’ll effect the range of clients you get.”

“You’d be no hardship, if you were a client.”


“You protect everything you care about, don’t you, sir? I like that.”

“Every word you say gets you into more trouble, not less.” Stiles’s mouth snaps shut. Chris continues: “You’ll be disciplined for this. Maybe then, you’ll understand why it’s such a bad idea to look a fucking werewolf in the eye. During the full-moon. It might as well be a suicide run.”

“What if it is?” Stiles asks, idly, like it means nothing to him. Maybe it doesn’t. What did his file say, again? Single father, recently deceased in the line of duty? Mother, deceased even earlier? A serious kid. No matter that he pretends not to be.

“Then I suggest you kill yourself now and save us all the trouble of cleaning your bloody mess in some werewolf’s private suite. Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” echoes Stiles.

And doesn’t look away from him. Even now. Even after being warned.

Is this what he thinks Chris needs? This -

This is madness.

“I’ll think I’ll hurt you, after all.” Chris has to set some boundaries. Save the boy’s pointless little life before he kills himself.

“Yes, sir,” says Stiles, and almost doesn’t flinch when Chris heads for the whip-rack.