Stiles was covered in freckles, dots of color that were spattered across his skin like stars. That’s what Deucalion was told anyway. He felt none of those things when he touched Stiles. At most, there was a bump here and there of a soft, shallow mole or the slender, silken divot of a scar. The rest of him was a blank canvas for him to work with.
He started soft. His claw was nothing more than a tease against Stiles skin. It was blunt more than anything else with this pressure and this angle, but when he ran the back of his fingers over the pattern he’d drawn, the lines felt warm — flushed and eager.
He had to hold Stiles down for when he pressed harder, dragging his claw with enough force to hurt, until Stiles’ skin was hot and wet with blood. Stiles whimpered as Deucalion touched him to make sure the pattern felt right. He wanted to be certain that he was leaving the right mark on Stiles, and none of his fast talking pleading or desperate simpering would make Deucalion leave the job undone.
Sure enough, the angles were good, if a bit sharp. There would be no doubt that the alpha pack had put their hands on Stiles — and would again, if Deucalion had anything to say about it.
He would have to make sure it scarred, after all. That would require several visits, at least.
C-c-c-combo! Cut for length, serious dub con and coercion.
Stiles was in a harness. A leash and collar would have been humiliating enough, but the straps around his shoulders and waist were beyond insulting, especially since they were being held on a very short leash by Deucalion’s stern grip. The real kicker, though, was the gag — a leather bar tied between his teeth, leaving him to drool and gnaw around it in frustration.
The woman alpha — the one who went around barefoot because of her claws — she sat up when she caught sight of him, crawling on all fours next to Deucalion’s feet. She made a face like she was getting ready to coo at him and approached so swiftly that Stiles lurched back in surprise.
Deucalion held him fast, yanking him back in place with barely a grunt of effort. “Careful, Kali,” he said. “He’s still being trained.”
Stiles snarled around the gag when Deucalion knelt next to him. He hoped that Deucalion could tell how much Stiles wished he could kill him with his mind. Grabbing Stiles by the scruff, Deucalion pulled Stiles back until his neck was bared, until he was leaning back on his haunches. There was a sharp spike of fear in Stiles’ gut, alarmed at the sudden vulnerability and certain that Deucalion was going to be ripping out his throat any second now.
Instead, Deucalion said: “You should be less afraid. Guide dogs are trained with positive reinforcement, Stiles.” He petted Stiles’ cheek over the bindings that held his gag in place. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be happy to lead me straight to every single one of your pack mates.”