Chapter Text
November is the worst month in New York City to have to escape from your apartment in just your underwear.
It’s not cold enough yet for snow but everything is slick with lingering morning frost, and to his usual misfortune, Derek has been driven out the window, driven to wrench it open and jump outside, by the hunter shooting arrows at him from his own bedroom. He shimmied down the fire escape, the frigid metal biting his bare skin, and onto the non-description patio of his downstairs neighbor, and pulled open the (thankfully, unlocked) sliding door.
The bland patio, however, is not an indicator to the character of the man whose home Derek just broke into. A tall, freckled man is holding his palm over a plastic tube. And the tube connects to a body bag. And there’s a person in a body bag, with the tube jutting out of a hole in their gimp mask. And the man (the one not in the bodybag) is wearing too much (and somehow not enough) shiny black latex, pale skin showing in flashes between the tight costume.The room around them is dark and moody with crimson red walls and a myriad of black things that go in people or on people or are used to hit people. The cherry on top— giant X-shaped piece of furniture that leans against one wall with cuffs dangling from each point.
He’s escaped his apartment and landed in some kind of…torture dungeon. The overwhelming scent of arousal and joy coming from the body bag is the only reason Derek doesn’t knock Latex Guy clean out.
“Uh,” the guy says. “Are you robbing me?”
“No,” Derek says after a beat.
“Okay,” the guy says. He lifts his palm off the end of the tube and the person in the body bag gasps loudly. The guy puts his hand over the opening again, sending a full-body wriggle from the body bag inhabitant. “Why are you in my apartment?”
“There’s someone trying to kill me in mine,” Derek grits. He crosses his arms over his chest, freezing despite his wolf nature.
“Right,” the man says after a beat. “Well, I’m kind of in the middle of something. My house phone is in the other room. Feel free to call the cops.”
“Thank…you,” Derek says begrudgingly and then he sidles past the man and his massage table and calls his sister.
The guy has a nice apartment, surprisingly homey for how posh this apartment complex is and for how scary that room was. After Derek calls Laura and gets her voicemail, he sits on the man’s sofa to wait for her to call back. Derek barely escaped the hunter in his apartment and now he’s freezing his ass off on a stranger’s sofa in his boxers. His own phone is still charging on his nightstand two floors up. He’s cold, tired and on edge.
Fifteen uncomfortable moments later, Derek can hear the man unzip the body bag and then two voices begin speaking softly. The door opens and Derek freezes but the man is leading another, the one who must have been in the body bag who is now dressed like a boring business man in his 50s, into the room.
“Jimmy, this is Miguel,” Latex Guy says to Bodybag, gesturing to the mostly-nude, shivering, uncomfortable Derek. “Ignore him.”
“Is he on punishment, Master Genim?” Jimmy/Bodybag Person says.
“Yes, pet,” Master Genim(?) says firmly. He takes Jimmy by the arm and leads him over the breakfast bar and seats him. “Miguel has been very bad.”
“Lucky,” Jimmy sighs and Master Genim laughs.
“Here,” he says, passing Jimmy a glass of apple juice and banana. “How are you feeling?”
“Good,” Jimmy says through a mouthful of banana.
“You did excellently,” Master Genim says. “And you were very brave.”
“Thank you,” Jimmy says shyly.
Master Genim comes around the bar and sits beside Jimmy, rubs his back until he’s finished his banana and juice and then sends him out the door with instructions to have a good day at work.
“Now,” he says, turning to a blatantly staring Derek. “Did you really say someone was trying to kill you?”
As if on cue, the house phone rings. The caller ID says L. Hale and Derek moves to answer it, stopping when he remembers where he is.
“It’s for me,” he says.
“By all means,” Master Genim says, waving a hand. “I’ll go change.”
Derek watches him make his way into his bedroom, mesmerized by the cling of latex on his body. Once Derek ascertains that Laura has chased the hunter away and it’s safe to return to his apartment, he feels weird staying in this stranger’s house in his underwear.
“I’m going to go,” Derek calls and Master Genim hops out of the bedroom pulling a striped sock on.
“Hold on,” he says, wobbling on one foot. He’s transformed to a normal twenty-something, coming out of the room with joggers and a hoodie on now. “You owe me some answers.”
“That’s…fair,” Derek says. He crosses his hands uncomfortably over his crotch.
“Oh, shit,” Master Genim says and dashes back into his room. He returns with a fuzzy gray mass that turns out to be a robe that he helps Derek into. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
“Not Master Genim?” Derek can’t help but ask and Stikes pauses to look at him.
“Only if you’re my submissive,” he says finally. He smiles a little. “Now you tell me your name.”
“Derek.”
“Derek, why is there an assassin in your apartment and why didn’t you call the cops?”
“It’s complicated,” Derek says. “And private.”
“Uh huh,” Stiles says. He flops down on the sofa with an expectant face.
“My…family has enemies,” Derek settles on. “And they try to kill us. Occasionally.”
The doorbell rings and Stiles jumps.
“Jesus,” he sighs. “All this murder talk has me on edge.”
“It’s my sister,” Derek blurts. He can hear Laura sigh. He winces. “Probably.”
“Okay,” Stiles says slowly and crosses to the door. “Who is it?”
“Derek’s sister,” Laura says dourly.
Stiles opens the door slowly and whistles when he sees Laura.
“Is everyone in your family impossibly hot?” He asks, stepping aside for Laura to come in. “By the way, you got blood on your shirt.”
“Shit,” Laura hisses, looking down at her spotless cream sweater. She looks back at Stiles slowly with squinted eyes.
“Just kidding,” Stiles says, raising his hands in surrender. “Are you guys in the mafia?”
“No,” Laura says firmly. “Derek, come.”
Derek stands on instinct, feeling the pack hierarchy pull him. His eyes find Stiles again, finding a concerned fold between his eyebrows. The urge to reassure Stiles pulls at him as much as Laura’s order did but he just says,
“Thank you for helping me. See you around.”
and follows Laura out the door.
It isn’t until he’s in the back of the town car that he realizes he’s still wrapped in Stiles’ robe.
A week later, he sees Jimmy, of all people, at a gallery showing that the Hales are hosting. Some fundraising benefit thing that will pay for art school tuitions. Whatever.
Jimmy is drinking a glass of champagne, looking at a large pale yellow canvas with black stripes draped across it in rough strokes. He’s wearing a suit more expensive than Derek’s and there’s a beautiful woman on his arm. He spots Derek, perking up.
“Excuse me, sweetheart,” he tells the woman and then he crosses the room to Derek. “Miguel!”
“Hello,” Derek says uncomfortably. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine,” Jimmy says. He leans in conspiratorially. “Have you finished your punishment yet?”
“Uh,” Derek says, intelligently.
“It’s alright,” Jimmy continues. “I’ve been in the hot seat a few times. Master Genim has a—“, a delighted shiver rustles across Jimmy’s $6000 suit,”—firm hand when he needs to.”
“Yes,” Derek decides on saying. “I have finished.”
“You’re one of the Hale kids, right?” Jimmy asks, looking around. “I didn’t realize you lot were open minded. Always seemed to have stiff upper lips. On the other hand, I can see how the pressure of having a mother like the Talia Hale can bend a couple screws loose.”
Derek blinks, absolutely lost at everything about this encounter.
“I guess that’s a little old fashioned thinking,” Jimmy continues, to Derek’s horror. “Freud is kind of a hack, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Here, come meet the missus,” Jimmy says and he sets his hand on Derek’s shoulder, guiding him over to the woman and the yellow painting. “Miguel, meet my Susie. Suze, meet Miguel.”
“Pleasure,” Susie says, holding out a bejeweled hand. “How do you know my husband?”
“Miguel and I run in similar circles,” Jimmy says. “I wanted to show him this piece. It reminds me of a mutual friend of ours.”
“Oh,” Susie says knowingly. She smiles, kisses her husband on the cheek. “I’ll leave you rascals to it.”
Derek can’t stop thinking about this painting reminding Jimmy of Stiles. The black streaks look more like glistening latex now and the yellow looks like flesh, like stretches of skin. His mouth dries out.
“There ya go,” Jimmy chortles. He’s kind of a jerk.
“My name is actually Derek,” he finds himself saying. “Miguel is—“
“Gotcha,” Jimmy says. “I’ll let Suze know. Don’t worry, she gets it. She won’t spill the beans.”
“Okay,” Derek says helplessly. “It is a—a nice piece.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy says. “I want it.”
“Oh,” Derek says. “I’ll go find the dealer.”
“You’re off the collar, Miguel,” Jimmy says, patting Derek’s shoulder and chortling again. “I’ll take care of it.”
Jimmy wanders off eventually and Derek finds himself stuck in front of the yellow painting. Even its title, strips, seems suggestive.
“How do you know James Van Helt?” His mother suddenly asks, appearing at his side.
“Uh,” Derek says, intelligently. Jimmy is James Van Helt? The big fish investor Talia’s been courting for two social seasons?
“I missed most of your conversation,” his mother says. “However, I heard him saying he wants to buy this piece. It’s a bit…lurid. No?”
“I don’t know,” Derek sighs, a metaphorical white flag. “I ran into him at a—a friend's apartment. They do business.”
“I’m glad to see you making friends,” his mother says warmly.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t be like that,” she says, swatting at him. “Outside of the family, I mean.”
“Yeah,” Derek says. He’s got Stiles’ robe in a dry cleaning bag at home. He should give it back soon, probably. It’s already been a week.
“What’s going on with you?” Talia asks, eyebrows raised. “Did you meet someone?”
“Mother.”
“Fine, fine,” she concedes. “Well, good job on selling this piece.”
“Thanks.”
Two days later, he puts on cologne to deliver the robe.
It’s dumb, probably, but he wants to appear presentable when he returns the robe to Stiles. The whole underwear thing has made him want to prove to Stiles that he’s a functioning member of society. He waits in front of the door until he can be sure nobody except Stiles is inside and then he knocks politely. Stiles is still smoothing his tawny hair down when the door opens. Derek straightens a little.
“Derek,” Stiles in greeting. He smiles, crosses his arms. He’s just wearing normal clothes and Derek finds himself oddly disappointed. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I brought back your robe,” he says, holding it out like a bouquet of flowers. “It’s—I had it dry cleaned.”
“Did you?” Stiles asks, smiling ruefully. He reaches out to take the bag. “That’s very nice of you, Derek.”
Derek suppresses the urge to smile.
“Would you like to come in?” Stiles asks. He kicks the door open wider. “I’m about to eat dinner. Pizza.”
“Yes.”
“Alright, Marvin,” Stiles laughs. “Come on.”
“Marvin?” Derek asks, moving into the living room. The giant yellow painting from the gallery is hanging on Stiles’ wall.
“The Martian. Neither of you are big talkers,” Stiles says. He points at the sofa, “Sit.”
Derek sits.
“So, you want to know why I had a guy in a body bag.”
“I think I know why you had a guy in a body bag,” Derek says. He glances at the painting again. “I think you’re a…a dominant. And I think he was your submissive.”
“Bingo,” Stiles says. He opens the pizza box and drags a slice out. “It’s my job. It’s my passion. Maybe my calling, even.”
“It’s good to know what you’re meant to do,” Derek says mildly.
“Eat,” Stiles says.
Derek eats.
“Now, normally, I wouldn’t lie to one of my submissives like I did with Jimmy. But I didn’t want to scare him when he was coming down like that.”
“I’m sorry I put you in that position,” Derek says around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.
“It sounds like there were extenuating circumstances, Derek,” Stiles says. He pauses for a moment until Derek swallows. “Are you safe?”
“Oh,” Derek says, surprised. “I am. Most of the time. My family is— We’re prominent in society. Sometimes we catch unwanted attention.”
“That’s an understatement,” Stiles sighs. “Well, you’re always welcome to use my house phone. But I really, really hope you don’t need to. You need to get better security on your place.”
“Yeah,” Derek says. “My mother said the same thing. I’m moving to a place with security guards, actually.”
“Smart lady,” Stiles says with a smile. He turns his head in the direction of the painting and inclines his chin. “You keep looking at it. Why?”
“I was—Well. I was at the gallery when Jimmy bought it,” Derek says. “My family was hosting an event and he happened to be there.”
“Oh,” Stikes says, laughing a little. “Oh, man. Was Jimmy cool? He’s not very subtle usually.”
“He was fine,” Derek says. “But not subtle. I was surprised to see it here, that’s all.”
“It’s funny,” Stiles says, turning in his seat to look at the painting closer. “It’s not in your face at all but once you see it…”
“You can’t unsee it,” Derek says. He looks at Stiles, imagines him wearing the black latex from that first meeting.
“Right,” Stiles says. He meets Derek’s eyes. “You know, Marv, you have a very specific look on your face.”
“I do?”
“It says ‘I want to try that’,” Stiles says.
“I’ve tried that,” Derek answers. He thinks of a curtain of blonde hair falling across his face and fingernails pinching into the flesh of his underarms. “It was— It wasn’t how it’s supposed to be. I don’t think.”
“Then you haven’t tried that,” Stiles says. “If you’re not sure.”
Derek doesn’t speak up to argue.
“I have room to pick up a new client,” Stiles says, picking up a second slice. “If you’re interested.”
“Oh,” Derek says. He thinks for less than a second. “Yes.”
Stiles wants to know what he likes and doesn’t like.
He’s supposed to bring it to their first official meeting. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done because all he can come up with is the things he doesn’t like.
Stiles’ face is impartial when Derek tells him that. Stiles is at a coffee shop with him, hands folded around a frappe, and Derek already feels like he’s done something wrong. Derek moves his fingers over the notepad page in front of him, covering his dislikes with one hand. His stomach hurts. His head feels distant and the earth moves in jumps and leaps around him.
“Hey,” Stiles says softly. He reaches out and tugs the notepad away from Derek, flips the cover shut and pushes it off to the side.
Derek already feels the pressure in his chest releasing once the list is out of sight.
“Let’s try this another way,” Stiles says. He moves his hand again and takes Derek’s trembling one. He waits for Derek to look up from their fingers and then he says, “Do you like being tickled?”
“I— Tickled?” Derek asks, thrown. He inhales.
“Tickled. I sit on you and I tickle you. With a feather or my fingers.”
“I haven’t been tickled in a long time,” Derek answers. “I remember enjoying it as a kid. But I haven’t— I’m not sure.”
“Would you want to try it?”
“Yes,” Derek says. He thinks about the weight of Stiles on him and of laughter bubbling in his mouth. “Yes.”
“Great,” Stiles says. He reaches over their entwined hands and moves the notebook to where he can write on it, opens it to a blank page and then pulls the pen from the spiral and writes maybe and then, under that, tickling. “How about slapping on the face?”
“No,” Derek says immediately.
Stiles makes a new no column and writes clearly face slapping.
“Hand feeding?”
“Yes,” Derek says. “Yes, please.”
“Okay,” Stiles says and he makes a third yes column. “Good job. Remember, even if you’re calling me Master, you can stop or cancel or change your mind at any time. This is a mutual power exchange, Derek. We’re in this together, it’s not about what I want or even what you want. It’s what we want. And if we don’t want it, that’s the end of it.”
“Okay,” Derek says, wanting to mean it.
“I swear it,” Stiles says. “This is the foundation. I don’t do things you don’t want. You can trust me.”
“Okay,” Derek says again. He thinks of Kate’s teeth, her furrowed eyebrows. He looks at Stiles’ shiny eyes and tries to believe him.
“Alright,” Stiles says. “Bondage?”