A/N: Herps, sorry this took forever to update. I have so many other fics going on right now, somehow this one got designated to the sidelines. :P I would promise that I'd update more regularly, but I'd be lying. D: Sorry!
The need to please your alpha- it's there in all of you.
It manifests itself in many different ways, but from the day each wolf's maturation comes, it's instilled in each and every one of them. When you're small, it just means following orders better, thinking of Pack before the individual, giving small thanks for the simplest of things. It's different with each individual Were and with each individual alpha. With him, the second you accept his authority, your body quakes with the need to please, to make him happy. Ingrained, deep, deep is the physicality of it, to rouse, swell, and sate him. It's heady and thick and so, so good.
He seems to have anticipated it, snaps his fingers and every boy in the room is set to motion, most disappearing out back entrances and down into the basement, leaving only four. The Apostate is given a burlap sack, by one with blonde curls and a fidgety nature, handled gingerly and with obvious fear in his eyes, only calmed by a possessive hand curling around his jaw before coming to rest on his chest for a few short seconds. A sharp, sickly scent cuts through the haze of your lust as The Apostate pulls a damp rope from the depths of the bags, and you instantly understand.
Wolfsbane.
The boys give him a wide berth as he circles behind you- tutting when low growls roll through the room and a vicious snarl rips from your lips. He crouches down and grabs for your wrists, easily fighting your resistance as he binds them. "Hush, hush." The poison burns through your first layer of skin quickly, the friction of the rope grinding it into the delicate flesh beneath and releasing thin tendrils of smoke that smell of rotting flesh. "Now stop squirming- you'll just make it worse." He rubs down your flanks, fingers molding along each bump and groove, firm, but placating. It draws your attention, makes the pain and the fear secondary emotions and though you don't quit growling, you lean into his touch, whining when he pulls away.
"This is all just a part of the initiation, nothing to get worked up about, right boys?" He sweeps his gaze around the room, smiling when their gazes drop. "You're smart Hale- you'll figure it out soon enough." And with one last wicked smile, he throws the bag over your head, not bothering to secure it as the Wolfsbane dripped off the rope and into the burlap begins to invade your senses, knocking you out in a matter of moments.
~~~
You're not sure how long it is before you wake, but when you do, it's alone and in the darkness.
You go to stand, but are pulled immediately back, heavy chains around your wrists and ankles, keeping you shackled to the cold cement floor. The monkshood is starting to clear from your system, sweating out your pores with a sickly sheen and an even worse smell. Once you're more well than sick, once enough has seeped out so you can study your surroundings and question what possible motivation could be behind it all, that's right when he shows up again.
At first it just starts as an itch between your shoulders, something easy to mistake for tension and fear. Unconsciously you sway towards it, angling your body to follow his movements, but when he's close enough, then you can smell, then you know. A low, friction burn sets in, deep in your flesh, and resonates hotter and hotter as it burns through the remaining poison. You want him, need him. Tracking his movements on the upper floor, a low rumble builds up in your chest and reverberates around the room, low and hesitant.
He takes his time crossing to the stairs, and slows even more when he hits the stairs, steps impossibly loud as they travel down into the empty room. You're so focused, so intent, so ready to solidify his claim, you don't even realize that there are others until a lone lightbulb flicks on at the landing, illuminating The Apostate, the blonde boy from before, and another beta around his age with darker hair, darker skin, and a crooked jaw. The stay hot on his heels, hanging just a half-step behind, watching his each and every moment just as carefully as you. He barely even acknowledges their presence, or yours, as he taps away on the small phone in his hands, impeccably dressed as the last time, no sign of weapons or tricks up his sleeve—from here.
When he draws near, you butt your head against his knee and slouch into his touch when an absentminded hand comes to run through your hair. He continues on his phone for several minutes, not minding the way you rub against him, or how the strength of your arousal permeates through the sickness, making the other two Were sway restlessly and curl their lips around a silent snarl. Pocketing the device makes them both snap into attention, back on their best behavior, and he grins wickedly, not having missed it.
It's a particular kind of torture you never could have imagined when he cradles the blonde boy's jaw and kisses him slow and possessive before turning to do the same with the darker boy. They both hum, pleased, letting their own arousal be known, but don't push for more, not in the slightest. You growl as best you can, snapping at your chains, finally drawing his damn attention, and all he does is bark a laugh.
"Best learn how to play well with others Hale—we've got no room for selfishness or petty disputes here." As if to illustrate his point, he reaches behind him and pulls the blonde flush against his back as he reaches for the darker boy with his other arm, trailing it down his flank in what could only be called petting. They rub up against him in tandem, eyes glowing a bright gold, reflected in the pitch depths of his own. You snap and writhe which only makes him grind harder and you can smell the exact moment when the first dewy drop of pre wets his shorts.
The scent is heady, intoxicating, making your eyes shutter and your muscles loosen, ready to be his vessel in every way possible. When he notices the onset of your lucidity, he disentangles himself from the other two, not minding when their grasping lingers, and crouches in front of you, tugging at your chin. He leans into your space, ink roiling along his skin, eyes swimming, but he pulls up short, tips of your noses just brushing. "What do you say?" His breath ghosts across your skin, the phantom touch of his lips, its own siren song. "Gonna be my good little boy?"
It should feel like a trap—you know that, objectively, down deep in the rational parts of your mind that have been pushed away—but though you can identify the threat, none of the bells and whistles go off, and all you can manage is the lethargic nod of your head. You're swimming through a haze of pheromones and other darker, richer, older things. It thrums through your blood and whispers in your head, constant, crushing, rising to a cacophony when he surges forward to claim your lips. He bites harshly at your lips, attacking with his tongue when you open your mouth to cry out. Your blood pulses beneath his palms when he places them against your throat and you arch into the touch, needing so much more.
You hardly take notice of the other betas circling behind you, working quickly to undo the binds, save for the fact that you can finally lunge at The Apostate, roaring rapturous, victorious, when he allows you to tackle him to the ground. You grind down into him, going easily when the other boys strip you down, but lashing at them the second they try to touch him. He merely seems amused that you're refusing full acceptance of your lesson, not caring a mite when their hands and mouths and skin press against your own, but making it clear that this claiming is yours and yours alone.
By the end of the night, you will belong to another—your soul will be, blessedly, sold.