SATURDAY
Stiles woke on Saturday morning buzzing with energy. He'd slept well the night before, better than he had in months, and waking up well-rested put a bounce in his step as he showered and dressed before heading down the stairs to see what was for breakfast.
"You're late," Jackson announced, tossing a dish towel over his shoulder and turning to glare at Stiles. "Everyone else has already eaten."
"I'm not that late." Stiles crossed the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, hoping to see a plate of something he could stick in the microwave. "And Lydia said I could use more sleep—so even if I were really late—which I'm not—I'd be really late with permission." He pulled his head out of the fridge and sent a winsome smile in Jackson's direction. "Come on, you're saying she didn't tell you to save me a plate?"
Jackson widened his eyes in an apology so insincere that Stiles could feel his own narrow. "Gee, doesn't look like it."
"Man, don't make me beg." Stiles wouldn't. Probably.
Jackson barked out a laugh, the first genuine emotion he'd displayed towards Stiles that weekend. "I've heard you beg—trust me, it leaves something to be desired."
"Just because you're the king of 'oh please, Mistress, please let me—'"
"You wish someone could make you beg like I can beg." Jackson smirked, and Stiles rolled his eyes, trying not to be actually jealous of Jackson. Jackson. Of the zero orgasms.
"Ug. Fine, you win. I'm sorry I was late." Stiles let his shoulders fall dejectedly. "You've got to have some cereal around here, right?" He looked around hopefully.
Jackson heaved out a very put-upon sigh. "There's some French toast sitting in the oven for you, and whipped cream and strawberries in the back of the fridge."
Stiles knew Jackson had hid them, the bastard.
"But I'm not serving you, so get it yourself." With a sniff Jackson turned back to the sink and continued drying the dishes.
Trying not to act too pleased with himself, Stiles put the still-warm toast on a plate and added a generous helping of whipped cream and strawberries. He poured himself a large glass of orange juice and carefully balancing both, wandered out of the kitchen to see where everyone else had got to.
He had slept later than he'd intended—it was already after 11am and Stiles tried not to be too disappointed that he'd missed so much of the morning already. It wasn't that they usually started at the crack of dawn or anything, but since they did only have three days at Lydia's Stiles hated to miss half of one sleeping. Still, he felt great, and he couldn't help beaming around his mouthful of breakfast as he headed towards the library where he could hear the quiet murmur of voices.
The door was eased part-way shut, but not closed, and since Lydia had confirmed last night that the library was once again open for public play, Stiles had no qualms about sliding through with his breakfast. He was careful to make as little noise as possible, and eased the door back almost-closed behind him, not wanting to do anything to interrupt the conversation.
He was so focused on not bumping into the various, clearly expensive, pieces of furniture, and keeping his plate and cup balanced, that it wasn't until Stiles had cautiously lowered his butt into a chair and set the dishes down on the side table that he realized with a jolt who else was in the room.
He wasn't sure what he'd expected—maybe Boyd and Erica, or Allison and Scott. But not Lydia and Derek. And especially not with Isaac kneeling shirtless at the foot of Derek's chair.
"Good morning, Stiles," Lydia said cheerfully.
"Morning," Stiles managed, reaching for his plate and trying not to stare at the way Derek's fingers were tangled casually in Isaac's curls.
Isaac's eyes were heavy-lidded but open, though Stiles didn't think Isaac was actually seeing anything. Not with the way his chest moved with deep, sleep-slow breaths and the lassitude of his posture. If it weren't for Derek's hand in his hair, Stiles thought Isaac might just slide dreamily onto the floor.
It wasn't that it was unusual for various members of the group to play, or have sex with, different members than their partners during the course of the weekend. To be honest, monogamy tended to be the odd-man out during weekends at Lydia's. But for some reason the sight of Isaac blissed out at Derek's feet rubbed Stiles the wrong way, and when Derek's fingers tightened, tugging lazily at Isaac's head so that the slender man shifted and suddenly Stiles could see the raised lines of red flesh criss-crossing Isaac's back, Stiles had to fight back a frown.
Isaac was Scott's. And Allison's. He wasn't Derek's. Stiles dropped his gaze, knowing he was unable to hide the heat of frustration in his eyes, and focused on cutting into the thick slice of French toast. It wasn't that he'd never seen Isaac play with anyone else, because he had. For fuck's sake, he and Isaac had fooled around on more than one occasion, and it had been fun, and Stiles would probably do it again, but… but this was different. Stiles had never seen Isaac look so sated—so freaking peaceful—with anyone other than Allison and Scott.
What was it about this Derek guy? Stiles jabbed angrily at a piece of toast and jammed it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing without even tasting the bread.
"Did you sleep well?" Derek's voice yanked Stiles out of his own head, and he jerked his eyes up with another forkful of breakfast half-way into his mouth. Derek's expression was mild, conveying the same polite interest you would have when asking a co-worker or a new acquaintance if they'd packed an umbrella because, golly, didn't it look like rain?
Stiles swallowed, the food a dry lump in his throat, before answering. "Yeah, I—yeah. It was fine."
Lydia shot him a look out of the corner of her eye and Stiles studiously ignored her. "You?" he asked Derek. Not that he cared. Because he didn't, obviously. Whether or not a stranger had a good sleep at Lydia's was literally the least of Stiles's concerns. Or it should have been. And yet, somehow, he fiercely hoped Derek hadn't. Stiles knew he was being petty, but it was hard to put his finger on why.
"I always sleep well here." Derek looked at Lydia and smiled and for the second time in a matter of minutes Stiles found himself choking on his breakfast. He hadn't realized Derek's face could do anything but look stern and serious and mildly disapproving—the bright flash of teeth and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners drove the breath out of Stiles's lungs and it took him a second or two of coughing before he could draw air back into them.
The noise pulled Isaac out of his trance and he shifted on the hardwood floor, making a soft wince as he eased back on his heels to try and move his weight back from the points of his knees. Stiles had done his own fair share of kneeling on Lydia's library floor to know that the pressure was its own form of torture, and he suppressed an echoing wince of sympathy.
Before Isaac could get comfortable though, Derek had fisted his hand in Isaac's hair and pulled him back into his previous position, the smile gone from his face and replaced with a look of thunderous displeasure.
"Did I say you could move?" Derek demanded, the question not a question at all.
Isaac's breath came shallow now, his hands clenching reflexively against his thighs. "No," he croaked.
"'No'?" there was a dangerous edge to Derek's voice and it slid like a razor against Stiles's skin. He could feel his own heartbeat stutter involuntarily and had to bite into his bottom lip to stop his mouth from opening slack.
"No, sir," Isaac corrected, blue eyes unfocusing when Derek dragged his hand down from Isaac's hair to wrap around the nape of Isaac's neck.
Sir? Seriously? Stiles pulled a face and let his attention fall back to his plate, not even bothering to look up when Isaac gave a soft whine of pain. It figured that Derek was one of those doms who needed to be called 'sir' or 'master' or something totally ludicrous like 'dark lord of vengeful pain'. Stiles had never understood the attraction. That's not to say he hadn't had his fair share of fantasies about someone in uniform insisting he use their formal title… but that was different. That was someone already in a position of authority, demanding the respect their position granted them. Or whatever. It wasn't the same thing as some asshole with a crop deciding he was now My Lord or some bullshit.
Real authority, Stiles figured, didn't need to dress itself up. Role play just never had been and never would be his thing.
"It's unfortunate Danny couldn't make it," Lydia commented to Stiles as he was mopping up the last of the whipped cream with his final bite of toast.
Stiles shrugged, popping the toast in his mouth and this time swallowing before answering. "Yeah, but the flight back from Hawaii's a bitch." He and Danny usually found themselves paired up over the weekend, the two of them single more often than not. They'd even dated, briefly, but found out that just because they were all sorts of compatible in the bedroom (or the dungeon) that did not mean that they were as well-matched in the rest of their lives. The realization had been mutual though, and it had allowed them to remain friends and play partners slash fuck buddies after.
"Do you know who you'll play with instead?" Lydia continued, her face a picture of earnest innocence like they both didn't know exactly what she was angling towards.
"Why, are you offering?" Stiles wiggled his eyebrows. "You might not be able to settle for Jackson after getting a taste of this." He reached down and plucked a strawberry off his plate with his fingers, sinking his teeth slowly into the red flesh and taking a long, sucking bite.
Lydia laughed, but Stiles didn't miss the way her cheeks flushed. Smirking, he swallowed the piece of fruit and glanced over to see Derek watching their exchange. Derek's hand was back in Isaac's hair, stroking absently, but his focus was wholly on Stiles.
Stiles knew he shouldn't tease, not when he had zero intentions of letting things go any farther, but he couldn't help locking eyes with the dom. He brought the rest of the berry to his lips, tongue darting out to lick before he pressed it into his mouth. Heat pooled in his belly as Derek's eyes darkened. Stiles's smirk widened.
With effort Stiles pulled his focus back to Lydia, reminding himself that wasn't impressed by Derek and certainly wasn't trying to make Derek impressed by him. "Scott and I have got some time blocked off this evening," he said in answer to her question, licking the red stain of strawberry from his fingers. "He wants to play around with some rope, and I just want to play around." He winked.
What Stiles would really like was a full scene—not just a half an hour here or there with someone trying out something new or demonstrating the effectiveness of ball gags. He wanted to be in the headspace Isaac was in now—the hum of focused/not focused where everything was sharply intense but still blurred around the edges and the only thing that mattered was what he was going to feel next.
Unfortunately, with Danny back at his island paradise and everyone else relatively paired up, Stiles didn't see that happening. It wasn't that he couldn't easily join in with anyone if he asked, they'd all done so before and he was sure he'd be welcome, but it wouldn't be quite the same. Stiles wanted to be the sole focus and to have sole focus. He was greedy like that.
"I'm going to wax Jackson this afternoon. You should come watch." Lydia smiled brightly, her invitation extending to Derek as well.
"I thought Jackson didn't like wax play," Derek commented, a sudden tension in his voice even as his fingers trailed idly down from Isaac's hairline to press against the welts on his back. Isaac gave a sharp hiss of pain and swayed back into the touch.
"I don't mean the kind with candles," Lydia clarified. "Candles fall under the 'no fire play' rule."
Derek nodded, like it had simply been a matter of interest, but as he settled back into his armchair his posture was more relaxed.
"Wait—what kind of wax play are you talking about?" Stiles felt like he had missed something, but he was a lot more interested in what new torture Lydia had devised for Jackson. Stiles was no sadist, but he couldn't deny the pleasure he got from watching Lydia break the cocky bastard down.
"When I'm done, Jackson won't have a strand of hair below his eyelashes." Lydia fluttered hers disarmingly and Stiles broke out into a laugh, imagining the look on Jackson's face when he learned of Lydia's plan.
"Oh, I'm so there."
"Now, why," Allison joined Stiles on his couch in the den, snuggling close so she could not-quite whisper in his ear, "Haven't you taken the opportunity to play with Derek yet?"
Stiles turned from where he'd been watching Lydia gleefully yank a strip of wax off of Jackson's twitching body to glare at Allison. "Just because he's dominant and I'm submissive doesn't mean we have to hook up. You can't just toss us together and assume we're gonna—"
"Hey, hey," she held her hands up in surrender. "No one's saying that, Stiles. Calm down."
Stiles let out a huff of breath and tried to turn his attention back to Jackson and Lydia, but he could feel Allison watching him and so with a quiet groan he stood up, beckoning for her to follow, and made his way out of the room.
He climbed the stairs in silence, waiting until they'd made their way into the living room before dropping down grumpily on a foot stool. "All I wanted," he began "Was to have a nice relaxing weekend at Lydia's, and maybe come away with some interesting bruises and a few good nights' sleep. Is that too much to ask?"
"No one's suggesting any more than that," Allison retorted.
"Then stop asking about Derek."
Allison snorted a laugh. "I didn't ask about him—I asked about you."
"You asked—"
"Why you haven't tried him out. I know what you're looking for, Stiles. We all do. And we think Derek might be it."
"Oh, my god," Stiles dropped his head into his hands. "Did you seriously recruit him into this so you could set me up? Don't you think that sounds completely insane?"
"Trust me, there was no recruiting necessary. Derek was a fully-fledged member of the kink community all on his own before we met him—and really, do you think we would have invited him out for the weekend if we didn't like him? If we didn't enjoy his company? You didn't even make it out last year, and somehow we had a good time."
"You don't need to remind me," Stiles grumbled, trying not to feel too jealous that he'd missed out. "And I'm glad you guys got to make a new friend." Well, no, he wasn't, but he should be. "I just have no idea why you think he'd be my type."
Allison just raised an eyebrow.
"He's not," Stiles insisted. "He's exactly the opposite of my type. He's grumpy, for one. And serious. Like, oh my god, does he even know how to smile?" Except Stiles knew he did, because he'd had that flash of it earlier in the library when Derek had smiled at Lydia and it had been—it had been nothing, he reminded himself. Just a smile. So what if it had made Derek look about a bazillion times more attractive? Just because someone smiled didn't mean they had a sense of humour. And that was something Derek definitely didn't have because Stiles was a funny guy, okay? And all through dinner last night Derek hadn't laughed at one of Stiles's jokes. Therefore a sense of humour was absolutely not something Derek-the-wonder-dom possessed. "And," Stiles continued, trying to hang onto the thread of his outrage, "He made Isaac call him 'sir'!" Stiles flung his hands up. "What even is that? Isaac doesn't call you 'sir'."
"Well, no," Allison conceded, "He wouldn't."
Stiles gave her a flat look. "You know what I mean. You're not 'ma'am' or 'mistress' and Scott isn't anything like that either, not to Isaac. So how come Derek is?" He didn't wait for Allison to answer. "He's like every bad dom cliché. I hate those guys. They can't have fun—everything is too formal and too serious and they think the only way to show they're in charge is to have a stick up their ass so big that—"
"Yeah, I get it," Allison cut him off with an amused shake of her head. "You've sure got Derek figured out after being in the same room with him for, what, a couple hours?"
"Oh, fuck off," Stiles said, though it lacked heat.
"You fuck off."
"You first."
"Sweetheart, I always come first."
"Don't I know it." They grinned at each other, and Stiles leaned forward so that he could grab Allison's hand in his. "Scott said you asked him to move in?"
"Isaac and I did, yes." Allison squeezed his hand. "Should we have asked your blessing first?"
Stiles laughed. "You know you have it. You guys are great together. I don't know how—I mean, my last relationship lasted about as long as Jackson does when Lydia lets him get off—but the three of you have something good."
Allison's face softened. "You know we just want the same for you, right? I'm sorry if you feel like we're pushing Derek at you. It wasn't that calculated, honestly. It just seems like… the two of you might balance each other out. But I'll tell everyone to back off if you're sure there's nothing there."
"No, I…" Stiles bit his lip, not realizing he'd spoken until too late. Allison had the same way of disarming him as Scott did. Probably why the two of them got along so well, and probably why Isaac was stupid in love with the pair of them. It was impossible not to want to be a better, more honest person when one of them was staring at you with their dark eyes so big and earnest. Cheaters. "Maybe tomorrow, or something."
Allison beamed and Stiles blushed, unable to help the warm glow in his chest at having pleased her. God, he was such a sucker. Those dimples of hers should be illegal.
"Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you hadn't discovered, y'know, this?" Scott gestured back to the lake house from where they could see it at the bottom of the hill.
"Lydia's cabin?" Derek asked wryly.
"No, you idiot," Scott rolled his eyes, oblivious to Derek's sarcasm. "Like, the whole kink thing. I thought I was weird, like, fucked in the head. Thank god I had Stiles," he grinned, rubbing his hands together to warm them up. "He's always so on top of stuff." Scott paused for a moment, snickered, and then continued. "I never said a word to him. Not about any of it. I mean, he was my best friend and I knew I could tell him, but then it'd be too real." He looked down at Derek who'd settled himself on a log, his own hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.
"He's the one who came to me about it. Just casually, you know, when we were hanging out at his place and his dad was working late and we were, well," Scott flushed. "We were wrestling, even though we were like seventeen and kind of too old to roughhouse and shit. But we never stopped. We both liked it…" he trailed off, awkward. "I guess it's obvious enough now. And it was obvious to him, but I never admitted it. But then," and Scott smiled at the memory, clearly too amused to keep feeling ashamed. "I had him pinned, right? I always got him pinned. And we were out of breath and panting and he's staring up at me with his face all red and sweaty and just says 'I like this', and I'm too busy trying to pretend like it's just kid stuff and there was nothing in it for me, and he goes 'No, I really like this'. So I'm freaking out because I like it too and what does that mean? And because he's Stiles and because he just knows he sits up and starts telling me about all this research he'd been doing and about how he found these websites and how it's something a lot of people are into, and because I'm his best friend he wanted me to know. Obviously though, like obvious now, he wasn't freaked out about it at all—he was just trying to let me know that it was okay. That I wasn't some screwed up pervert." Scott blew out a breath and sat down beside Derek, leaning close enough that Derek could feel the companionable warmth of him through the layers of clothing between them. At the time Scott had thought Stiles must be some kind of psychic to have figured out that Scott was into BDSM just because he liked wrestling a little too much, but years later Stiles had confessed he'd actually found Scott's porn. Not as good a story that way, but still—Stiles could have just ignored it, but Scott was glad he hadn't.
"He comes off as all jokes, you know? But there isn't anyone who's as thoughtful as him. He sees people, like really sees them." Scott scuffed his shoe through the dead leaves on the forest floor. "He's my best friend in the entire world and I just want him to have what I have, with Allison and Isaac."
Derek shifted, uncomfortable with the implication. "I just met the guy—don't you—all of you—think it's a bit pre-emptive to throw us together with that kind of pressure?"
"What?" Scott turned to him, honest bewilderment in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"
Derek frowned. "Lydia, and Allison, and Erica. They won't stop trying to set us up."
"Who—you and Stiles?" Incredulity sent Scott's voice up a couple octaves, and after a second he doubled over with laughter. "Seriously?"
"It's not funny," Derek insisted, scowling in annoyance when Scott only laughed harder.
"It kind of is, man. I mean, I don't know two people who are more…" Scott trailed off again, forehead creasing as he considered it. "Actually, no, I could kind of see that. You guys are different, like, really different, but I think, like, good different? The right kind of different," he clarified after a moment of staring earnestly at Derek. "They might be on to something."
"Scott."
"Dude, I'm not saying you should start sending out wedding invitations. But like… you could fit."
"We're not going to fit."
"You don't know that."
"He doesn't even like me."
Scott scoffed. "You should have seen how much he hated Allison when he first met her. And now they're like, super BFFs."
"No one could hate Allison."
"Stiles could. He did. But it didn't last long." Scott grinned like this was just another wonderful aspect of Stiles's personality. "I think you should give it a shot."
Derek groaned. "Stop forcing it. Nothing is ever going to happen with the whole lot of you throwing us together."
"I haven't thrown anyone. I'm totally blameless. You're the one who brought up how perfect you and Stiles are together."
"What? No, I didn't."
"You did. I was talking about me and Stiles and then you went and made it all about yourself." Scott raised an eyebrow and Derek had to look away, irritated because damn if Scott wasn't right.
"Come on," Derek rose to his feet, voice gruff. "It's almost dinner. We'd better head back."
As they headed into the dining room Stiles hesitated, chewing on his lip. He was supposed to sit beside Scott, because he always sat beside Scott, but… he'd been sitting beside Scott for years now, and maybe Scott wanted to sit between Allison and Isaac, and there was a spare seat on the end beside Derek and—fuck it. Stiles mentally threw his hands up before making his way around the table to slide in beside the older man, who couldn't quite hide his look of surprise.
"You mind?" Stiles asked, butt hovering over the seat of the chair.
Derek shook his head. "No, go ahead."
"Thanks." Stiles dropped down and tried to tell himself that it wasn't really as awkward as it felt. He was the king of small talk, after all. Everyone knew he was the guy who chatted up strangers and made friends by accident on the subway or the sidewalk. He could handle supper sitting beside Derek. And he had told Allison he would try to get along with the new guy. This way, if it all blew up in Stiles's face, no one could say he hadn't made an effort.
But no bad jokes, he reminded himself. Derek clearly didn't understand how 'funny' worked, so Stiles would be on his best and most serious behaviour. He could totally do that. It'd be like a game. A fun game where no laughter or sarcasm was allowed.
…Yeah it was going to be a long meal. Stifling a sigh he turned to Derek and plastered his most disarming, friendly smile over his face as Jackson came around with the first course.
"Isaac mentioned that you're actually from Beacon Hills, originally?"
Derek was mid-way through a sip of wine, but unlike Stiles earlier that morning he chose to swallow before answering. "Yes. I was born here."
Stiles waited for Derek to elaborate, but the other man remained silent. Alright, well, Stiles had done more with less. Probably. At some point.
"Do you have much family in—"
"Lydia said your father is the Sheriff?"
Or not. "Yeah, good ol' Sheriff Stilinski."
"He's a good man." Derek met Stiles's eyes, and Stiles had to remind himself that staring was still staring even if you were trying to figure out exactly what shade fell between green and grey, and whether it had an entirely different name if there were flecks of gold in the depths. Had anyone even come up with a name for eyes that colour? If Stiles was the first to discover it did that mean he got to name it?
"Uh," he realized after a moment that the silence had stretched on, and all around them the rest of the table was chatting loudly. "Yes. Yes he is. What did he do, help you out with a couple parking tickets?" Stiles shook his head, bemused. "He's always a sucker for a pretty face. Though," he frowned. "Usually they're female, but hey, it's never too late to come to terms with non-normative sexuality, amirite?" He tried a grin, but there was no answering one from Derek, and Stiles wanted to crawl under the table and out of the room. Maybe out of the house. Maybe he could crawl all the way back to the Jeep and then drive to the airport and just pretend this weekend had never happened.
"So," he continued hurriedly, not wanting there to be another awkward silence between them, "Speaking of non-normative sexualities and what not—how'd you get into the, ah 'lifestyle'?" He raised his hands in finger quotes, which wasn't easy when one of them was holding a fork, but he managed.
Derek's face closed down further—which, until now Stiles would not have thought possible. How was Stiles fucking this up so badly?
"An ex-girlfriend," Derek said shortly.
Another beat, both of them staring at their plates as Jackson whisked them out of the way and replaced the salads with a couple juicy looking steaks.
Derek shifted next to Stiles, and for the first time that weekend Stiles thought maybe Derek was just as uncomfortable as Stiles was.
"Yourself?" Derek tried, obviously attempting to make an effort. Stiles appreciated that, at least. It was nice to know that he wasn't the only one struggling to find some sort of common ground.
"I kind of always knew." Stiles shrugged. He hadn't struggled with it the way Scott had. Not really. He'd known, even as a kid, the things that attracted him weren't necessarily things that ought to have attracted him. But they did, and he'd seen no sense in denying that. "It wasn't until my dad finally got around to getting us the internet that I learned there was a name—kink, BDSM, submissive—but, like, it was always a part of me."
"You're lucky."
"Yeah, I was. I am. I know it's not an easy thing for some people to come to terms with… but it was just so natural for me that I didn't really think much of it. It felt right." He smiled, and his heart stumbled a bit when Derek gave a tentative smile back. "And, you know, like the song says," he let himself half-sing the next few words, "'If it makes you happy, it can't be that ba-a-a-a-d'."
"That's a good attitude to have."
"Yep." The steak was grilled to perfection, and Stiles shoved another bite in his mouth as he talked, not even thinking about how he was supposed to be on his best behaviour still. "Of course, it could have been terrible if the thing I was into was, like, killing people, and then you've got this kid running around thinking 'well it makes me happy so it can't be that wrong', and then next thing you know there's a mysterious string of murders in Beacon Hills and—" his brain finally caught up with his mouth and he snapped it closed with a flush. "Well. It's lucky I like receiving pain and not giving," he gave a weak laugh. God, no wonder he was single.
"Lucky indeed," Derek murmured, and Stiles looked over to see Derek's eyes on his. Stiles could feel his cheeks darken further, the rush of blood no longer having so much to do with embarrassment and a whole lot to do with pure, unadulterated lust. Shit. If Lydia and Allison turned out to be right, Stiles was never going to live this down.
When Scott pulled back and began loosening the rope wound around Stiles's arms and torso, Stiles tried not to feel too disappointed. It wasn't like he'd gone into this thinking he'd get off—this was Scott, after all, and while they'd definitely had times when they were more than platonic, it had never been a regular thing. And Scott was absolutely devoted to Isaac and Allison. So Stiles had known playing with Scott wouldn't lead to anything. Not for Stiles, anyways.
He could tell by the gleam in Scott's eyes, and the way Scott's fingers trailed a little too long on Stiles's skin as he pulled the knots free, that Scott would be headed straight towards the aforementioned couple for what would probably be a lot of enthusiastic sex. Stiles tried not to be jealous.
He was happy for Scott, like, way happy for his bro. But it did irk slightly to know he was only the warm up to the main attraction. Not that Scott wouldn't be horrified and apologetic if he realized that was how Stiles felt, which was why Stiles wasn't going to say anything, because otherwise this would have turned into the weekend of kink where Stiles didn't get any kink.
Which meant when Scott was gathering the rope back into his hands, his movements smooth and mechanical and clearly focusing on what he'd be doing in a few short moments and not what he was doing now, Stiles took the opportunity to duck out of the room. They hadn't done anything intense, nothing that required any kind of aftercare, not for him, and for Scott it had probably been nothing more than the opportunity to practice rope. Stiles knew rope—or restraints of any kind—were a hard limit for Isaac, and while Allison and Scott played with it on their own occasionally Stiles knew Scott enjoyed the chance to try what he had learned on a male-bodied person.
Stiles was more than happy to provide that male body, but now that it was over he had to admit that he felt more wound-up than he'd thought he'd be.
He could feel the heat in his cheeks, his chest, and it coiled down to his belly so that he had to adjust himself in his jeans as he made his way through the first floor of the house. It wasn't that late, not really, but the common areas seemed to be deserted. Stiles was glad of it since it meant no one would see how much the relatively light play had affected him.
It had just been a while, that was all. A long time since he'd had the chance to indulge in this sort of thing. It wasn't like Stiles never dipped a toe into the community in L.A., but he didn't have time to commit to getting involved and to make friends, so whatever encounters he had were always brief. Take an evening to scratch a particular itch, and move on, easy as you please.
Only now he was forced to admit that maybe he'd been kidding himself to think that the occasional, random hookup would be enough.
Scott hadn't touched him anywhere below the waist, hadn't done anything overtly sexual, and yet Stiles was ready to jump out of his skin with the need for more. More contact, more sensation, more something.
Tugging irritably at the neck of his t-shirt, Stiles made his way through the first floor of the house and out through the wide glass doors that led to the deck out back. It was dark outside, the wind rustling through the branches of the trees, and Stiles could see the gleaming reflection of the moon in the water of the lake. He closed the door behind him and just stood for a moment, letting the cool air glide against his heated skin and closing his eyes to try and pull himself back together.
It didn't work. Stiles still felt edgy, still wanted to feel something more intense than the bite of winter in the night, and he made a sharp sound of frustration. Opening his eyes, he wandered farther down the deck.
Like everything in Lydia's lake house, the deck was huge, and wrapped around the entire house. At one end, the side closest to the lake, there was a hot tub large enough to fit twelve. The cover was off, the water bubbling and steaming in the air, and without a second thought Stiles reached down and pulled his shirt off as he headed towards it.
His jeans were next, and then his boxers, both tossed carelessly to the wooden floor of the deck as he reached the hot tub and pulled himself over the side, easing himself in with a quick, indrawn breath as the hot water closed over his body.
The contrast between the cold air and the heat that swirled around his middle was exquisite. Stiles stood in the centre of the pool, arms stretched out at his sides, and tilted his head back so he could feel the breeze against his throat even as the water frothed hot at his hipbones.
He couldn't help the shudder, nor the low, needy groan that was pulled from his throat as he brought his wet hands up and slid them over the exposed flesh of his chest, letting water run down cold and bracing as the wind picked up and his nipples pebbled in response.
This wasn't exactly what he wanted, wasn't the same as having someone else hold him down and pull sensations from his body with nothing but the bruising force of their hands or the sting of leather or the rough drag of rope, but it was close.
His hand slid down, gliding over the flat pane of his belly, fingertips light over the line of coarse hair that led down further. Jerking off in the hot tub was firmly against the rules, but Stiles thought no one could complain if he didn't actually come in the hot tub, right? His fingers dipped into the water, eyes closed as he imagined the wet heat surrounding him was not water at all, but a mouth, lips pink and swollen and so soft in contrast to the dark stubble—
There was a noise behind him, a polite cough, and Stiles jerked his hand out of the water like he'd been bitten, nearly slipping into and under the water in his haste to turn around.
Derek had expected Stiles to look embarrassed at having been caught out in the manner he had been, and Derek was already regretting having announced his presence—though was he supposed to just watch Stiles get himself off, naked and wanton, with the impressions of rope still coiled around his pale torso? Since Derek had nearly done just that, had been tempted to melt back into the shadows of the house and watch greedily, it had been his own guilty conscience that drove him to let Stiles know he wasn't as alone as he might have thought. But when Stiles turned, minor flailing aside, his eyes were bright and hot, the flush in his cheeks from desire and not shame.
He met Derek's gaze with a stubborn tilt of his chin, challenging and utterly arrogant in a way that made Derek's fingers flex at his sides with the urge to see Stiles on his knees in front of him, all that cockiness at Derek's disposal. For Derek to break or build.
God, he wanted. Wanted to see Stiles writhing, begging and desperate, pleading and strung-out and focused solely on what Derek chose to give him. What Derek decided to make him take.
"That's all it took?" Derek kept his voice even, perfectly modulated, and as he stepped further into the moonlight he raised one eyebrow—deliberately skeptical, deliberately meeting Stiles's challenge with one of his own.
"What's all it took?" Stiles refused to cross his arms over his chest, refused to let himself react to the way Derek's gaze was dark and heavy on his bare skin. He could almost feel it pressing into him like a bruise, and under the water he was helpless to stop arousal pulsing thick in his blood.
"Just that," Derek nodded, eyes tracing over the criss-cross of the rope marks on Stiles's chest, already fading pink, "A little rope and you're already on the edge?"
"I'm not—" Stiles began, outraged and defiant and finding himself drawing closer to the edge of the tub as Derek continued to make his way across the deck.
"Don't lie." Don't lie to me was unspoken, obvious, and the implication made things low in Stiles's body clench, sweet and aching.
"I'm not on the edge of anything." Oh, but he was, and the thrill of it was dizzying.
"Prove it."
"Why?" Stiles looked down at Derek, a stubborn tilt to his chin.
Derek's teeth flashed, his grin quick and knowing. "Because you want to. Because you think you have that much control." He was so close now that Stiles could have reached out with a wet hand and touched him. "And because," Derek continued, his hands gripping the edge of the tub as he leaned in, "A part of you hopes I'll make you lose it."
"What are you suggesting?" Stiles didn't have anything to prove, he didn't, but he could feel the thunder of his pulse in his ears and he couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down from Derek's to glide over the soft curve of his lips.
"Let me flog you." Derek wanted to put his marks on that flushed skin. To leave lines sharp and stark and red, to raise welts. Things that wouldn't fade in a matter of minutes, but stay vivid and tender so that Stiles would still feel the touch of him days later. So that every brush of his shirt over the skin of his back would feel like Derek pressing a hand there.
Stiles said nothing, but Derek could see the way his breath had caught, was close enough to watch Stiles's pupils swallow the honey gold of his irises. "If you last—if I don't make you come—you win."
"Yeah. Yeah, alright." Stiles felt suddenly unmoored standing at the side of the pool, his hands clenching uselessly at his sides as he resisted the urge to wrap them around the edge of the tub simply to have something to hold on to. But that would put him too close to Derek—he'd be mirroring the older man's stance—but where Derek's fingers rested on the edge like he was amused by the excuse for a barrier between them, Stiles's would grip the slick plastic because he wasn't sure his knees would keep him upright. Not with the way Derek's grin grew at Stiles's 'yeah'. Not with the intensity in those wolf-wild eyes.
"Come on," Derek took a step back and held a hand out to Stiles to help him down. "Let's go inside."
"No." Stiles's response was immediate, defensive, and it brought him back to himself even as his eyes drifted down to the calloused palm upturned in front of him. This was game that they were playing, a game they'd played before—not with each other, perhaps, but a game they were familiar with and a game Stiles wasn't going to lose (even if, a part of him was forced to acknowledge, he was already dangerously close and Derek hadn't even touched him). Going inside, some private room where it was just the two of them, would make it nearly impossible for Stiles to remember that it was his pride at stake here.
Maybe he did have something to prove.
"Here?" Derek glanced at the deck, surprised, and seeing Derek caught off balance even if it was only for the briefest second let Stiles's earlier cockiness return.
"Here," he confirmed. "Unless you think it's going to take you long enough that we're in danger of getting frostbite…?" He arched an eyebrow in echo of Derek's earlier challenge and was rewarded with Derek's eyes narrowing. The grin was gone now, and Derek's face had settled back into what Stiles assumed was his normal, neutral expression. Only now Stiles could see the tightness in his jaw, the soft, barely-there colour in his cheeks over the dark shadow of stubble, and he knew Derek wasn't as unaffected as he appeared.
"Very well." Derek stepped back again, let his hand fall, and Stiles waded to the very edge of the tub and without an ounce of shame hauled himself out. He was half-hard, his arousal obvious enough even in the shadows of the deck, but if Derek wasn't equally as turned on, Stiles would eat Jackson's jockstrap.
Bending down he picked up his discarded pants, wriggled into the jeans even as the heavy fabric clung uncomfortably to his wet skin. It was too cold to stand on the deck bare-ass naked, and for a moment Stiles reconsidered his position about going inside. But then he saw the way Derek's eyes dropped, lingered, on the open button that Stiles hadn't bothered doing up, and Stiles stopped thinking about anything but getting Derek to touch him.
"There," Derek nodded towards the edge of the deck, pleasure spreading heady through his veins as Stiles obeyed without question and moved to stand where Derek had indicated. "Turn around. Hands on the railing." He could see Stiles bite down on his bottom lip, apprehension and eagerness plain on his face as he turned and settled his palms against the rough wood.
"Good." Derek paused for a moment, waiting to see if Stiles would twist his head around to see what Derek was doing, but Stiles remained still and quiet against the rail. "Stay there," Derek commanded, and without waiting for any sort of agreement from Stiles he headed back into the house to retrieve one of his floggers.
Stiles stared out at the lake before him, watched the soft ripple of the water against the shore and the uncertain reflection of the moon. His breath was coming slow and easy, and he could feel himself slip away into the quiet place where he didn't have to think, didn't have to question or argue or understand, just obey. It was the sweetest kind of surrender. As his mind emptied of anything but 'Stay' Stiles could feel the tension glide out of his muscles. This was why he came to Lydia's. This was why he craved the things he did—nothing else could bring Stiles to this point of clarity, of the blind awareness of every inch of his own skin and the complete blankness inside his own mind.
It felt like seconds, like eons, and then Derek was back behind him. Stiles could feel the minute Derek stepped onto the deck, was helpless to stop his head from tipping back as Derek moved up behind him, the heat of the other man almost burning against the bare skin of Stiles's back.
Derek didn't say anything, just settled one hand around Stiles's denim-clad hip and pushed him forward so that Stiles was pressed fully against the wood, the skin of his stomach pressing against his thumbs where his hands were wrapped around the railing. Stiles made a low noise in his throat, barely audible, and his eyes slid closed as Derek ran that same hand up his back, Derek's palm warm and dry against Stiles's skin until it fisted in the short hair at the nape of Stiles's neck and forced his head forward.
"Colour?" Derek breathed against his ear and Stiles shuddered.
"Green," he managed, skin tightening with anticipation as Derek stepped away and once again Stiles felt the cold air against his back.
The first hit was always a shock—the force of it rocked Stiles forward, a biting blaze of heat that drew the breath from his mouth.
Derek felt the impact of the blow through his entire body. It ran from his arm straight down to his groin and his mouth parted as he drew in a quick breath. The flogger he'd chosen was one of his largest, a heavy-duty whip that packed a solid, thudding punch as opposed to some of his smaller, thinner ones. To the inexperienced eye the large flogger with its many strips of leather might have looked intimidating, something to flay skin from bone and cause maximum damage to the human body, but it was really the small whips, the single tails or few strings of knotted leather, that had a tendency to draw blood.
With this one, the thick handle a pleasing counterweight to the heavy strips of leather that dangled from the end, he would leave bruises. It would raise welts—Derek could already see Stiles's skin swelling—but the real pleasure was knowing how long Stiles would feel the dull ache in his back. Once the red began to fade there'd be purple lingering deeper in Stiles's flesh and every time he reached for something, every time he bent down, every time he leaned back against a surface, he'd feel it.
Before Stiles had time to recover from the first blow, just as he began to drag in a breath, Derek struck again. And again. And again. He varied the blows, right and left, higher and lower, until Stiles's upper back was a map of reddened skin and his breath was coming hard and fast to match Derek's.
Sweat had broken out over Derek's brow, damp against his chest, and he was straining hard and throbbing inside of his jeans. Stiles hadn't made a noise, not a single whimper or cry past his first, gasping breath, and it filled Derek with a fierce sense of pride.
Stupid, really. It wasn't as though Stiles was his. It wasn't as though he'd taken it so beautifully, so soundlessly, because he knew it would please Derek. Maybe Stiles was just absurdly quiet when he played—maybe it was a personal quirk, a counterpoint to a mouth that usually seemed to run off without thought, but Derek couldn't suppress the pleasure he felt at having rendered the younger man non-verbal.
Lowering the flogger to his side, letting his fingers finally relax around the handle of it, Derek crossed the deck until he stood close enough to Stiles that there was less than an inch of space between the front of him and Stiles's naked back.
"Colour?"
"G-Green," It took Stiles a moment to speak, his voice hoarse. The skin on his back felt pulled taut over his bones, an ache sunk deep into his body, and he could feel the heat of Derek. Stiles's chest heaved as he sucked in shuddering breath after shuddering breath, his fingers stiff as he slowly unwrapped them from around the railing, flexing to bring the blood back into his joints.
He stilled when he felt Derek's hand wrap heavy around the base of his neck, Derek's thumbnail digging into what had to be a fresh welt because the sharp shock of pain—an unexpected change from the thudding blows from the flogger—had Stiles's knees ready to give out under him.
Derek seemed to have anticipated Stiles's reaction because there was another hand firm around his hip and he pulled Stiles back against him so Stiles's back, the skin raw and tingling, was pressed firmly against Derek's front. Stiles gave a grunt of surprise, unable to react with his usual speed, and when his hands came up to try and regain his balance they felt heavy, moving through the air like it was syrup.
"No," Derek growled, close enough that Stiles could feel the brush of lips against the shell of his ear. "Hands on the railing."
Stiles obeyed without thought, settling his hands back in their earlier position as the hand around his nape slid around to the front of his throat and dragged his head back so that it rested against Derek's shoulder. The angle was awkward, restricting Stiles's breathing, and he could feel his pulse pound, steady and solid, against Derek's large palm.
Derek's second hand slid, slow and purposeful, into the open waistband of Stiles's jeans and found his cock. Stiles's mouth dropped open, hips jerking into the touch before he could think to be still. Derek began to stroke, a fast, brutal rhythm that matched the ruthless efficiency of how he'd flogged Stiles, and it didn't take more than a matter of seconds before Stiles's fingers were digging into the wood and his back was arching and he was coming in hot, liquid bursts into Derek's fist.
When Stiles sagged back against him, boneless and limp, his entire weight resting in Derek's hands, Derek let his own head dip forward so that the side of his cheek was pressed against Stiles's ear. Stiles's skin was hot against his, Stiles's temple damp with sweat, and Derek let his eyes fall closed, his hands sliding to wrap around Stiles's body until they stood embraced like lovers on the deck.
The air stirred around them, Derek's t-shirt sticking damp and chilled against his skin, and he knew he'd have to take Stiles inside in a moment, get him warmed up, but for a second longer he wanted—needed—to stay there with Stiles. The younger man was beginning to shake, not from the cold, but small tremors of aftershock working through his system as his heartbeat began to slow from the high of the orgasm. Derek wanted to push Stiles to his knees, watch Stiles's unfocused eyes as he tried to stay upright before Derek fisted a hand into his hair and pressed his cock into Stiles's slack-open mouth.
It would be hot and wet and without any kind of finesse, Stiles too drunk from the feel of Derek's whip against his skin and Derek's hand pulling an orgasm out him to do anything but take it. When Derek finished, Stiles's mouth would be as bruised as his back, his face covered in drool and come and he'd look up at Derek with those whiskey eyes blurred and Derek would pull him up and hold him close and they'd fall back into the bed where Derek could trace the marks he'd made with his fingertips and Stiles would fall asleep wrapped around him and when they both woke up they'd—
Derek opened his eyes and lifted his head, drawing in a long breath of the cold night air to clear his head. They'd discussed none of that. They'd agreed to nothing but the flogger, nothing but Derek making Stiles come. He was getting caught up in fantasy and he knew better than that, he was a better dom than that.
"Here," his voice was gruff when he spoke, hands gentle on Stiles as he stepped back and began to guide Stiles towards the house, stopping only to bend down and pick up his flogger and wrap the blanket he'd brought out with him around Stiles's shoulders. Stiles flinched when the rough wool came into contact with his back and Derek couldn't help sliding his hand down, ostensibly to smooth the blanket but enjoying Stiles's satisfied wince of pain.
Once they were inside, he turned and closed the doors behind them, setting his flogger down on a nearby table before stepping back to Stiles and running his hands up Stiles's arms, pulling the blanket in tighter around his front. They were in California, so it wasn't like it was freezing outside, but Derek wasn't sure how long Stiles had been out before he'd come across Stiles naked in the hot tub and he didn't want Stiles catching a chill.
"Do you want to go to bed, or do you want to sit with me for a while?" Derek reached out, cupping Stiles's chin so that Stiles focused on him. The scene they'd just had hadn't been as intense as it could have been, was certainly nothing like what he'd done with Isaac that morning, but aftercare was important and Derek wouldn't send Stiles off without offering.
"Um," Stiles's eyes were still hazy, his mouth opening as Derek's thumb stroked unthinkingly along his jaw. "Yeah. Yes. I'll stay."
Derek led Stiles to the couch, settling him down before disappearing briefly into the washroom to clean his hands, and then sinking down beside Stiles. He lifted his arm up and Stiles slid under without hesitation, pressing in close against Derek's side and making a small noise of contentment when Derek dropped his arm around Stiles's shoulders.
"Y'know," Stiles murmured, nuzzling against Derek's chest where he could feel the beat of Derek's heart against his cheek, "I'm pretty sure you cheated."
"Hmm?"
Stiles couldn't see Derek's face, not without pulling away and looking up, and he had no intentions of doing that, not with Derek's arm settled a heavy, comforting weight on his shoulders and the firm muscle of Derek's thigh against Stiles's own, but he could perfectly picture the raised eyebrow Derek was most likely giving him.
"Yeah. You used your hand."
There was a pause, and then Derek's chest was shaking under Stiles's head and it took a moment before he realized Derek was laughing—and that, Stiles had to see.
Using a hand on Derek's thigh to push himself up Stiles twisted and saw Derek's head thrown back, shaking with silent laughter, his mouth open and wide in a grin. As soon as he realized Stiles was watching him, Derek tried to get himself back under control, pressing his lips closed but his body still shook and his eyes danced with mirth.
"I didn't cheat," Derek insisted. "I said I was going to make you come. Not my flogger."
"Really? You're going to get off on a technicality?"
"I think you're the one who got off on that technicality."
Stiles stared, opened mouthed and speechless as Derek doubled over, unable to quell the rich burst of laughter that finally broke free at the dumbfounded look on Stiles's face.
"Did you just make a joke?" Stiles demanded. He couldn't take his eyes off Derek's face, couldn't help but stare at the transformation of the stern, 'yes, sir' dom to this person who cracked himself up with his own bad puns. For the first time Derek looked, fuck, he looked human in a way Stiles hadn't seen until now. Real, and human, and Stiles wanted to crawl fully into Derek's lap and take Derek's face into his hands and press kiss after kiss against that laughing mouth. The ferocity of the urge took Stiles by surprise, and he had to clench his hands tight around the blanket around him to stop himself from reaching out.
He barely knew Derek—barely liked Derek—he shouldn't be this attracted to him. He shouldn't be so suddenly, irrationally, jealous that he hadn't been the one to make Derek laugh. That was just stupid.
If any part of Stiles wondered why he was trying so hard to deny what he was feeling, he ignored it. Never mind that there was no good reason for Stiles to dismiss the way his chest glowed warm when Derek settled back against the couch and tucked Stiles back under his arm, never mind that the way he fit so perfectly against Derek's side made Stiles snuggle closer, never mind that Derek's fingers tracing idle patterns on Stiles's shoulder though the fabric of the blanket made Stiles's eyes slide closed and a sigh of contentment slip from his lips.
It was all endorphins, he told himself. He was only feeling this way because of the flogging, because of the way his entire back ached with the sweetness of a bruise, because he'd, as Derek said, gotten off. It was only physical. Nothing more. He'd feel the same if it had been anyone else—Scott, or Lydia, or Boyd.
(Never mind that he'd played just as hard with all three before and never once felt like he'd come home).
"Stop thinking so much," Derek said, his hand moving up from Stiles's arm to run through Stiles's hair, making Stiles stretch and purr unconsciously under the touch. "Just relax for a few minutes, alright?"
Stiles didn't want to, he didn't, but Derek's fingers kept carding through his hair and pressing into his scalp and he couldn't help but melt into the sensation and within a matter of moments his mind emptied of anything but the gentle tug of Derek's hand in his hair.
Derek wasn't surprised when Stiles fell asleep, when the younger man's breath slowed and his eyes slid shut, and he drifted off lying against Derek's chest. From what he'd heard from Lydia, Stiles rarely had the chance to play in L.A., and though the two of them hadn't done anything too involved on the deck, it had still taken a lot out of Stiles.
It had taken a lot out of Derek, if he was being honest.
He was always careful, always calculated when he played with a sub. It was too easy for a dom to step over the line, to abuse the power they'd been trusted with, as Derek knew all too well. He always forced himself to take a step back, to observe and watch and make sure he never pressed for more than had been offered. But something about Stiles standing still and silent and just waiting to take what Derek had to throw at him—god, Stiles hadn't even been restrained, hadn't had anything but the force of his own will to hold himself still as Derek drew welts from his skin with the unflinching bite of leather.
It had been beautiful, watching Stiles so in control. It had left Derek breathless when he'd wrapped a hand around Stiles's hard cock and felt Stiles relinquish that control to him. The power Derek had felt, the power Stiles had given him, had flowed through Derek's blood like the most expensive wine and even now, when Stiles was lax with sleep against him, sent shards of desire lancing through Derek.
He was hard still, could feel the eager press of himself against the fabric of his jeans, and with a groan Derek forced himself to get to his feet. Stiles made a soft noise of protest, still asleep, and reached out.
Derek debated leaving him there—it wasn't like the couch wasn't soft, wasn't a perfectly acceptable substitute for a bed—but he knew Stiles's back would be stiff and sore enough tomorrow that he wouldn't need a crink in his neck or a twisted arm when he woke up. Muttering a curse under his breath Derek leaned down and gathered Stiles into his arms, hauling him up so that Stiles's legs hung on either side of Derek's hip and his head lolled forward against the side of Derek's neck.
"Stupid," Derek chastised himself, but he was careful to cup his arm around Stiles's ass, careful to avoid the bruising on his back, and with his other hand keeping Stiles steady he made his way up the stairs until he found Stiles's room, kicking open the door and bending down awkwardly to slide Stiles onto the bed. He took pains to ensure Stiles wasn't lying on his back, but the second he let go of the younger man Stiles flopped over, his mouth pulling down into a perfect cupid-bow frown as his bare back pressed against the mattress. Derek scowled but rolled him over again, touch light but unable to help tracing a soft line down one of the more pronounced marks on Stiles's back. He could feel the heat of the flushed skin on the pad of his finger and it made things low in Derek's body twist, lust coiling serpentine.
He stepped back from the bed, refused to let himself linger in the room even as Stiles made another soft noise and dragged a pillow close to his chest like now that he didn't have Derek to wrap himself around he needed something. Closing the door firmly behind himself Derek walked down the hallway until he got to his room, and closed that door behind himself as well.
Yanking off his shirt, he dropped his jeans to the floor and pulled off his underwear, falling gracelessly into his own bed, his hand around his cock before he'd even landed on the mattress.
It took barely a minute for Derek to come, back arched and panting as he pictured Stiles spread out beneath him with Derek's marks fresh against his skin.