AN: This was written for the Sterek Big Bang on LJ. If you head on over to AO3 (my username there is also iamthelightening) you can check out the amazing artwork and pdf/ebook download that was also created for this fic!

FRIDAY

Stiles could feel the tension start to ease out of his thoughts as he drove up the wooded and winding road to Lydia's lake house. The familiar route was comforting, and the gentle curves of the road as he drove deeper into the forest let him slip into autopilot. For the first time in weeks he could relax, sinking into the blur of green outside the windows and the sound of The Fray spilling from the Jeep's speakers.

He wasn't letting himself think about the project for Mr. Davis that wasn't finished yet, he refused to wonder whether or not Tyler would meet their deadline, and he'd left his work phone back in Los Angeles. He was taking this weekend completely for himself and wasn't going to let anything ruin it for him.

A couple times a year Lydia hosted a three-day-long play party at her lake house. There were never more than ten people and all of them were Stiles's closest friends. Occasionally one of them brought a new partner (or two), but usually it was just the few of them that he'd known for years. Which was why weekends at Lydia's were awesome. Three days of good friends, good food, good conversation, and the indulgence of playing as much or as little as they wanted. Lydia's parties were usually the only time most of them were all able to get together and, since they were held so infrequently, it meant that each time at least one member of their unofficial group had mastered something new and they would often hold a workshop or two to teach the rest of them.

During the last play party Stiles had been able to make it to, for example, Allison had demonstrated the various uses of a Violet Wand on Isaac. Electricity play wasn't something Stiles had ever given more than a passing thought to, but watching Allison glide the wand over Isaac's writhing body until he was slick with sweat and unable to speak coherently had piqued his interest enough that he'd asked her to try it out on him.

It had been fun, especially when Scott and Isaac had each taken one of Stiles's wrists and held him down, but afterwards Stiles had been disappointed by the lack of marks the electricity left on his skin. Still, he was glad of the chance to try it out, and he wondered what new opportunities might be in store for him this trip.

Rounding the final curve, Stiles spotted the driveway to Lydia's and couldn't help grinning widely as he turned the Jeep. He'd left L.A. a couple hours later than he'd intended, which meant that everyone else had probably arrived already, but Stiles would still get there in plenty of time for dinner.

Slowing down as he approached the house, Stiles drove without thinking towards his usual parking spot, and had to slam on the breaks hard when he realized at the last second that someone else had parked in his place.

In the spot usually reserved for Roscoe—everyone knew that was Stiles's spot—there was a sleek-looking black sports car that gleamed in the light spilling from the windows of the house. Stiles scowled at it, his good mood souring.

Earlier this year, the weekend Stiles had been stuck frantically pulling together a last-minute proposal for Mr. Davis and couldn't make it to Lydia's party, there had been a new addition to the group—some guy named Derek who Jackson and Lydia had met and introduced to the rest of them. Apparently he was hot shit, because for weeks after the party Scott hadn't been able to stop gushing about the flogging technique Derek had shown him. Since then, basically every time he talked to one of his friends it was "Derek this" and "Derek that". It wasn't enough that they invited him out to the lake house, but apparently they'd all been hanging out regularly, going to movies and throwing dinner parties. He'd even taken Boyd and Scott and Isaac camping out on the Preserve.

Stiles liked camping, too, but the last time he'd suggested it Boyd had laughed in his face and Isaac had refused point blank. And then apparently when Derek brought it up everyone fell over themselves to pitch the tent.

Muttering something very unflattering about men who needed to compensate with expensive cars under his breath, Stiles reversed the Jeep and pulled into the only parking spot left—right under a sickly-looking pine tree, which meant that by the end of the weekend Roscoe would be covered in sticky sap and old needles.

Stepping out of the Jeep, Stiles grabbed his bag and a couple bottles of wine from the backseat and made his way up to the front door. He didn't bother to knock, just shouldered it open and headed in.

"Stiles!" Scott came around the corner and swept Stiles up in a bear hug. Stiles returned the hug enthusiastically, despite having his hands full. "Glad you could make it this time, man!"

"Me, too," Stiles gave Scott one last squeeze and stepped back. "Everyone else here?"

"Yeah, you're the last to arrive. Here," Scott grabbed the bottles of wine out of Stiles's hands. "I'll take these into the kitchen if you want to dump your bag. You're in your usual room." He nodded towards the stairway.

"Great, thanks." Stiles clapped Scott on the shoulder with his free hand and headed up the stairs, shaking off his superstitious frustration as his earlier enthusiasm returned. Just because someone else had parked in his space, that didn't actually mean the entire weekend was going to suck—and who knew, maybe this guy Derek was really as great as everyone seemed to think.

Dropping his bag onto the edge of his bed, Stiles allowed himself a moment to stretch, loosening the muscles that had stiffened up during the drive. He pulled off the t-shirt he was wearing and tossed it on top of his bag before going to the bathroom to wash up.

With his face freshly scrubbed, he rummaged in his bag until he found a new shirt. The weekend tended to be pretty casual, though no one was ever discouraged from bringing out their fetish wear if they wanted, but everyone usually dressed up a bit for dinner on Friday night. It was like a family tradition at this point. Stiles shook out the white button-up he'd packed, hoping it wouldn't look too wrinkly after spending a couple hours in a duffle bag, and slid it on.

Back downstairs, he headed straight for the living room on a bet that everyone would be enjoying a drink or two before dinner.

"Hey, Stiles," Boyd greeted Stiles in his usual reserved manner, lifting his glass of scotch in acknowledgement. Stiles grinned as Erica jumped up from the couch beside him and bestowed a smacking kiss on Stiles's lips, leaving behind a red smear of lipstick that Stiles rubbed at with his thumb even as Allison wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and nuzzled against the back of his neck.

"Good to see you," she murmured before pulling back. "Scott's missed you."

"I know," Stiles winced. "I meant to make it back for his birthday, I swear, but work…"

"Hey!" Lydia's voice was sharp and scolding from across the room. "No work talk, you know the rules."

"Sorry, babe," he winked, crossing the room to give her a peck on the cheek.

"And if you call me that again I'll have your balls for breakfast," Lydia said sweetly, smiling up at him. "Jackson," she called, glancing over to the hallway that led to the kitchen, "Come get Stiles a drink. He looks like he could use one."

"That bad, huh?" Stiles dropped down to the chair beside Lydia's, resisting the urge to run a self-conscious hand through his hair.

"You just look like you need a good night's sleep. But don't worry about that," she patted his knee. "We'll fix you right up."

Jackson emerged from the hallway wearing a slim black apron over his dress slacks and a light blue shirt. He passed Stiles a glass of wine and slid a plate of brie and crackers onto the coffee table.

"Thanks," Stiles said. Jackson, as usual, ignored him, heading back into the kitchen. Jackson and Lydia's relationship fascinated Stiles. Jackson was one of the most arrogant and self-centred people Stiles had ever met—on a good day, the nicest thing you could say about him was that he was "only kind of a dick". But when it came to Lydia, Jackson was a completely different person. He worshiped the ground she walked on. He would, and did, do anything she asked of him. Not that Lydia usually bothered to ask—she ordered, and Jackson hurried to oblige with a smile on his face. The guy was never happier than when kept on Lydia's extremely tight leash.

Literally.

To be fair, it was a nice leash, and Jackson wore the collar with the same amount of cocky pride that some guys wore a platinum Rolex, but Stiles didn't think he'd ever be able to commit to the kind of service Lydia demanded. He knew for a fact that if Jackson was lucky he was allowed one orgasm every other month. That was only six a year.

So yeah, no thanks. Stiles liked orgasms. Liked them a lot. And hey, he understood that other people got off in different ways and denial seemed to be Jackson's, but nothing had killed his all-encompassing crush on Lydia faster than learning what she wanted from her partners.

Well, that and she'd shut him down on no uncertain terms.

Turning his attention back to his glass of wine, Stiles raised it to his lips and took a swallow, giving an appreciative hum as the peppery syrah hit his tongue. "Glad to see you opened up the good stuff."

"Derek brought it." The gleam in Lydia's eyes had Stiles narrowing his.

"Uh-huh," Stiles made a noncommittal noise and took another sip to avoid having to say anything else.

"You're going to like him."

"Don't push it, Lydia."

"Please," Lydia leaned in, her hand on his knee and her breasts brushing his arm, "You love it when I push."

It was true, but Stiles was saved from answering when two more people entered: Isaac, followed by a man who could only be the aforementioned Derek. Derek was tall, dark, and handsome—of course—and he was wearing a pair of black slacks and a dark purple collared shirt, both of which appeared to have been painted on because he filled them out in all the right places.

"Derek, you have to meet Stiles." And then Lydia was pulling Stiles up from his seat and he had only half a second to put his wine glass down on the table before he was being hauled across the room.

"Uh, hey," Stiles held his hand out awkwardly and after a beat Derek's fingers wrapped around his in a firm, warm grip. This close, Stiles could see that Derek's eyes were surprisingly light, a pale colour that might have been green, or maybe grey, made all the more startling by their frame of thick eyebrows and dark lashes.

"Hello." Derek's voice, like his eyes, was not what Stiles had been expecting. It wasn't as deep as the muscles and the beard implied, but soft and steady.

Stiles dropped his hand as Derek released it, tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. There was a beat of silence, tension mounting as Stiles realized that the rest of the room was watching their exchange. Barely holding back a sigh of annoyance, Stiles went with his default tension breaker, bad jokes, and flashed a cheeky grin. "So, I hear you're into kinky sex?"

Derek raised a single eyebrow, looking past Stiles to Lydia with his expression conveying an unspoken 'Really?', before turning his attention back to Stiles. "BDSM isn't just about sex. Not for me," he said, with disapproval heavy in his tone.

Stiles blinked, taken aback. He hadn't meant to offend the guy—it was just a joke. Hell, he even felt the same way. He opened his mouth to explain, but Derek was already brushing past him to join Boyd and Erica on the couch. Isaac met Stiles's eyes and gave a slight shrug before moving to sit at the foot of Allison's loveseat.

Closing his mouth with a snap, Stiles turned on his heel and went back into his earlier chair, picking up the glass of wine from the table and bringing it to his lips to hide his scowl. He didn't appreciate being dismissed, and he didn't appreciate the implication that he didn't know as much about kink as Derek, either.

"Real nice guy," Stiles muttered to Lydia when she returned to her seat beside him. "I can see why you think I'd like him—great sense of humour."

"It just takes him a bit to warm up," Lydia insisted. "Give him some time."

"Right," Stiles scoffed, watching Derek accept a glass of the wine from Jackson without even a nod of thanks. "How long was the last ice age? Cause I'm pretty sure I only have a life expectancy of—"

Lydia cut him off with a roll of her eyes.

After dinner, Boyd and Allison helped clear away the dishes while the rest of them made their way back into the living room. Jackson came around with coffee and Stiles accepted a cup gratefully. With the big meal, the brandied pears for dessert, and the few glasses of wine he'd had throughout he was dangerously close to dozing off. Deciding he'd be much better off standing than sitting in case he did just that, Stiles crossed the room to where Scott stood looking out the large window at the lake beyond.

"Hey," Stiles bumped shoulders with his best friend, who lifted his own cup in a salute. "You look good, man. Happy."

Scott's eyes went soft as he glanced past Stiles to where Allison had come back into the room and sat curled around Isaac on the same loveseat as earlier, her fingers combing gently through his hair. "I am," he said simply, looking back at Stiles. "It works. We work." He rubbed a hand over his mouth, attempting to hide the grin that split his face. "They asked me to move in."

"Dude!" Stiles punched Scott's arm, his own grin nearly as wide as Scott's. "That's awesome."

"Yeah," Scott beamed. "It is."

Stiles was about to ask how soon Scott could get out of his lease when Lydia cleared her throat and rose from her chair to stand in front of the fire place, waiting for the conversation in the room to die down before she started speaking. "It's great that so many of us have been able to make it this weekend, and I know we're all looking forward to seeing what Boyd has to share with us later on." On the couch Erica stretched out, long and languid like a cat, and winked at Stiles when he caught her eye. "But first," Lydia continued, "We're going to go over the house rules for the weekend.

"All parties must receive an enthusiastic yes before engaging in any play. We will continue to use 'traffic light' safe words to avoid any confusion: 'green' is go, 'yellow' means slow down, and 'red' means an immediate halt to any play or scene. If the person or persons bottoming are restrained or gagged then the non-verbal safe words are as follows: a two-finger tap," Lydia demonstrated by tapping the two fingers of her right hand against her left arm, "Or," she held out her hand and Jackson handed her an expensive looking silk handkerchief that she balled up in her fist and then dropped, "This. Does everyone understand?"

She received a chorus of 'yes' and with a satisfied nod continued on. "There are first aid kits located in the medicine cabinet of every bathroom. Gloves, condoms, and dental dams—both latex and non-latex—as well as lube, can be found…"

The spiel was the same every year and Stiles let his attention wander. Like him and Scott, the new guy had chosen to remain standing and was leaning against the door jam with a tiny cup of espresso, watching Lydia with careful attention. Probably only the second time he's ever heard the speech, Stiles thought sourly. Boyd sat, still and solid, on the couch while Erica drummed her fingers against her thigh, stopping only when Boyd closed his hand over hers.

Shifting on his feet, Stiles downed the rest of his coffee and glanced around for a place to put the empty cup.

"…the white room upstairs can be reserved for private play at any point over the weekend, and everyone's bedroom is considered their own space so you may not enter without permission. For those of us who don't mind or prefer an audience," Lydia looked pointedly at Erica, "the den and the library are open for public…"

Stiles spotted a small end table against the wall beside the doorway and quietly made his way towards it, setting the cup down with a clink. Derek glanced over at the sound, but returned his attention back to Lydia before Stiles could mouth a 'sorry' at him. Shrugging, Stiles leaned against the wall and reached into the pocket of his jeans to pull out his phone to check the time.

"…the use of cameras or other recording devises is prohibited…"

He had a new email from Mr. Davis, on his personal account no less, and with a sigh Stiles tapped to see what was so urgent when a hand clamped down over his wrist.

"Put it away," Derek's voice was as firm and unyielding as his grip, though barely above a whisper. "And pay attention."

Speechless, Stiles tried to yank his arm free, but Derek's fingers just tightened. For a moment Stiles's outrage was eclipsed by a hot spark of desire at the strength in Derek's grip.

"Have some respect for the rest of us." Derek dropped Stiles's wrist and watched pointedly until, now seething, Stiles slid his phone back into his pocket.

"One last thing," Lydia was saying, "There will be absolutely no fire play this weekend. So. Any questions?"

Stiles had a couple. Like, who the fuck did this guy think he was and how soon could they get rid of him? The worst part, he acknowledged grudgingly, was that he felt properly scolded. He knew it had been rude to take out his phone, but come on! He'd heard everything before—okay, not the fire play thing, that was new—but it wasn't like he had been distracting anyone else.

Shamefaced and more irritated than the situation probably merited, Stiles made his way back towards Scott, shaking his head at his friend's questioning look. Scott, unlike Stiles, had obviously been paying attention to Lydia and hadn't noticed Derek and Stiles's exchange. Stiles wasn't going to fill him in.

Derek glanced out the corner of his eye at Stiles. They were spread out through Lydia's basement, the room converted into a large and comfortable den with various chairs and couches strewn throughout, all of which had been turned to face the far wall where Boyd was in the process of suspending Erica in an elaborate rope harness. Boyd was good teacher—his instructions clear and concise as the knots became more complex. Scott seemed particularly intrigued, and Boyd was patient as always as Scott peppered him with questions, but never stopped his frequent check-ins with Erica. It was an excellent demo, and Derek wished he was better able to focus on it.

Unfortunately, again and again, he found his eyes drawn to the slender man sprawled out over one of Lydia's couches. They hadn't gotten off to a good start and Derek was frustrated. It wasn't that he agreed with Lydia's assessment that they would be well-matched—Derek couldn't say one way or another whether he and Stiles were compatible, not without having a chance to play with the younger man—but he'd heard so much about Stiles over the last year and knew how important he was to the rest of Derek's new group of friends. He wanted to like Stiles and wanted Stiles to like him.

At the rate the two of them were going, though, it didn't look like there was much hope for that.

Derek hadn't meant to come off as gruff or humourless, but Stiles's blasé attitude had thrown him—and then infuriated him, when instead of giving Lydia, and the rules, the attention they deserved, Stiles had been texting. Derek knew he'd come off as a stick in the mud, had probably reacted more aggressively than the situation called for, but he'd been shocked by Stiles's casual disrespect. Codes of conduct, especially within the BDSM community, were hugely important. There was a reason that so many play parties began with a run-down of the rules—that way no one could plead ignorance later for breaking any of them.

From everything he'd heard about Stiles, Derek hadn't expected someone so careless. The way the rest of the group spoke about him, with fondness and respect, he'd pictured someone like Scott—and instead he'd been presented with someone who acted more like Jackson.

And yet, Derek's mind couldn't stop playing over the way Stiles's slender wrist had felt in his hand. The way his pulse had raced when Derek had tightened his fingers, and how Derek's had sped up in response. That had been interesting. After, when Stiles had moved back towards Scott, absently rubbing at his wrist, Derek couldn't help but want to do it again. To press down until he'd left a circle of bruises around that pale skin so that even when he'd let go, days later, Stiles wouldn't be able to look down at his arm without being reminded of Derek's touch.

Maybe Lydia had been on to something, after all.