After

by M0untain_Ash

Summary:

Derek needs help with the Hale House (he doesn't know it yet). Stiles needs someone to dominate him (he doesn't know it yet). They both need each other (they don't know it yet).

Context: non-specific historical AU, Stiles' gets a job in the Hale House years after the fire, he and Derek come to a sexy little d/s agreement which... Grows.

Chapter 1: After Work

Summary:

Stiles simply cannot stand to look at the Hale House falling to ruin anymore. So, he breaks a few rules.

Notes:

What's this? A new chapter posted in the same year the last one was? Unheard of!

Shameful. He thinks, same as he thinks every time he walks past the house. If there was another road to market he'd take it, but the town was small and the only other way was through Deucalion's land - and even the state of the Hale house was not worth that risk. He passes the house almost every day, carrying his various tools to and from the market to offer his expertise in odd jobs to the locals. And every time he passes, his indignation over the state of the house grows almost as fast as the weeds. The laneway to the house is shorter than most in the area, so one can see all the way to the house from the road - but not for long, if the weeds keep on as they have been.

Stiles huffs again.

He knew about the fire, as everyone did - had even been party to some of the more sordid details, due to his father's role in the investigation. But the fire hadn’t let the weeds grow and choke Talia's roses, hadn't built the piles of scrap and debris along the laneway, and it certainly hadn't sagged the walls of the stable, creating a hazard for poor old Bill when heading in from the rain.

No - Derek Hale, the sole inheritor (and survivor), had neglected this gem since the day it took his family from him. Stiles understood to a point - he knows the paralysing pain of loss, and has heard that Derek spends most of his time in the nearest city rather than staying in the house - but he could hire help at the very least. The Hale fortune had furnished him well enough for several lifetimes, even without his work as an accountant for some of the largest businesses in the city.

“Shameful”, Stiles says it aloud this time - no one to hear, and no one to see the indignant shake of his head.

He's not sure what possesses him - perhaps it was trekking his tools all the way into town, only for the sole job he caught to be oiling the hinges on the Sheriff’s office door - but he opens the gate and steps through, muttering all the while about what a sin it is to waste the land.

He only means to pull the brambles away from where he knows the Lord Robert’s rhododendron is suffocating,really, he does - but the next minute he looks up and dusk is drawing in. Stiles swears and stands up straight, only now feeling the wrenching ache in his back from being bent over for so long.

In all fairness, he's cleared a good thirty feet of weeds on one side of the lane, and that was without his good scythe. As he inspected his handiwork and imagined what he could accomplish with proper tools, he caught a movement in the corner of his eye. It was on the second floor of the Hale house, a shadow moving in the window. Stiles didn't believe in ghosts, but he was certainly not going to stick around to be proven wrong. He packs up his tools with haste and hurries home, cursing whatever came over him.

When he arrives, he apologises to his father for missing dinner entirely - though he evades giving a reason, and he's not quite sure why.

The next morning, his muscles scream at him for his antics the day before, and a pained groan leaves his throat as he stands up for work. Stretching some of the ache away, he eats a quick breakfast of bread and butter and heads out to the market again, hoping beyond hope that a proper job would come to visit today.

It's not the money he's worried about - his father's job keeps them comfortable - but keeping his days full of satisfying projects keeps the lull of a small town from driving him mad.

On his way, he notes with satisfaction the difference in his side of the Hale Lane to the other - before blanching at the realisation that he called it his.

The only jobs he caught that day weren't even worth the walk into town - Mrs. Morell needed advice on planting mint, and Mr Mahealani needed a new screw to fix a pair of old pliers. Stiles offered to clean and polish the pliers as well - just to pass some time - but was rebuffed, and so he trudged home dejected yet again.

He didn't mean to stop at the Hale house again, only… the laneway just looked so dreadfully uneven now, and he simply couldn't leave a job half done. So he found himself pulling weeds again, to the great dismay of his back muscles.

He made a mental note to keep a better eye on the height of the sun this time - missing dinner two nights in a row would surely make the Sheriff suspicious. It wasn't until he started that he realised he'd brought his good scythe and clippers, though he doesn't remember packing them that morning.

About a half an hour after starting, just when he was getting a pace going, a hand grabbed his shoulder. Stiles spun around, his heart in his throat.

It was Derek Hale.

It had been years since he had laid eyes on Derek Hale. By virtue of living in a small town, they had overlapped quite a bit in their youth - despite residing in separate echelons of society they attended the same church, their fathers had been part of the same hunting party, and their mothers had gone to the same seamstress.

In fact, up until the Hale fire, Derek and Stiles had quite a cordial relationship. Not quite friendship - Derek was a handful of years older, and on a very different life path than Stiles - but good enough to exchange how-are-yous briefly in the street when they passed each other. Back then, Stiles had quite the crush on the cocky older boy. Always well dressed, with a smirk his constant accessory - and those eyes had entranced Stiles from day one.

But then the Hale fire happened.

It didn't just destroy the house, it almost destroyed the town with it. For as long as Beacon Hills had existed, the Hales had run the town. When all but Derek - sixteen at the time - perished in the fire, an election was held and Chris Argent was unanimously elected as mayor, thrusting the Argent family into power. When the investigation found that his sister Kate had deliberately set the fire, he was forced to step down in shame. With the two most powerful families in the town decimated - by fire, and by scandal - the town devolved into chaos for months with no leader at its helm.

It was Stiles' father, the newly-elected Sheriff, who had suggested the Council. Instead of one leader susceptible to corruption or sabotage, the town would have a council elected from each sector of society - doctors, teachers, police, etc. So far, the council had led the town from strength to strength.

The memory of a younger Derek clashes with the vision in front of him - eyes unchanged, but the rest almost unrecognisable. Stubble generously coated his face, framing his high cheekbones and meeting his well-trimmed but ruffled hair.

“What. Are you. Doing.” Derek's gravelly voice pulls Stiles from his thoughts, filled with barely bridled rage. It sounds almost as if he hadn't spoken aloud in weeks, his first enraged words growing from a croak.

“Oh, you scared me! I'm sorry sir, I shouldn't have– I just walk past here all the time, and– well it really is a sin, and– I shouldn't have– but you should really hire someone, and–” Stiles stutters and stammers, fighting the urge to duck his head in deference, and every second growing more conscious of how close Derek is - almost touching him - and how little he'd prepared for being caught.

“Go home.” Derek cuts through his babbling and turns, swiftly walking back to the house. Stiles takes a deep breath, and almost chokes as a familiar smell gets caught in his throat. Derek's unique, woodsy musk had been a strong feature of his fantasies all those years ago, and it seems some things don't change. His stomach twists, desire fighting the fear still prickling at his skin, and it bolsters his confidence.

“Can I at least… finish the lane? May as well even it out,” He speaks louder than he means to before trailing off, calling across the growing distance between them. Derek pauses in his long strides but doesn't turn.

“... Fine. But don't come back.” He huffs, and stalks off again. This time, Stiles doesn't stop him, instead wiping the sweat from his brow and watching him retreat back to the house. Even over the distance, he hears the heavy oak door slam shut.

It takes a while for him to resume his flow in pulling the weeds, the encounter with Derek having shaken him. He looked so different - one was the grinning teenager who'd been caught “courting” Paige behind that big old tree in the forest. This new, stoic man had honestly frightened Stiles.

He shakes his head, trying to get the thoughts out of his head. But, he figures, best to let the ideas run their course now, when there's time to think and get distracted, than to let them drive him wild later. So he indulges himself, thinking about the broad shoulders that had retreated from him earlier. He wonders what Derek's arms would look like underneath the linen shirt he had worn, spotlessly clean in contrast to his rough stubble and tousled hair.

Even with the distraction, he finishes this side of the laneway before the light begins to glow dim. Or, at least, has done enough to match yesterday’s work. Straightening up, he looks back up to the house for a long moment - only to judge his handiwork, he tells himself.

Not seeing any movement, he turns and heads home.

“Late home again, Stiles?” His father folds the weekly paper and sets it down beside a steaming mug of tea, dinner plate well cleared away by now.

“Sorry, I… got distracted.” He doesn't make eye contact as he turns and busies himself ladling out some stew to eat.

“Fair enough. You notice the Hale house?” At this Stiles jerks up.

“Ye- no, what about it?” He speaks cautiously.

“Good bit of the lane’s been cleared, if you can believe it. I'd have thought you'd have noticed - been complaining about that place for years." He knows his father well enough to read his all-knowing tone, and he knows he's caught. Again. He turns, slowly, and meekly meets his father's gaze. A smirk tugs at his father's lips, and he raises an eyebrow.

“You know I solve crimes, right?” There's a long pause as they stare at each other, until the older man sighs, setting his mug down.

“Alright, I saw you working on my way home. You get permission?” The sheriff is shaking his head with exasperation before he's even finished speaking - as well as Stiles knows his father, he knows Stiles.

“Of course not. Just… don't get caught, alright son? That Hale boy. He's not been quite right since…” he doesn't need to finish his sentence. Stiles nods jerkily and turns back to the stove, hiding his reddening face.

“Don't worry Dad, I- I won't.” Derek's stormy face flashes into his head, and he almost drops his bowl. He hears his father re-open his paper, and lets out a relieved breath - this conversation is finished for now.

- -

 

The next day, his muscles aren't any happier - he drags himself out of bed, already pessimistic as to the day's success at the market.

Passing the Hale house, he keeps his head down as much as possible - but the sight of Bill in the stable forces him to stop.

Bill had been the Hales’ horse since before the fire - he had begun as one of many, but the fire and the intervening years had taken care of the rest. He spends his days as Derek's main mode of travel, and wandering the property in between. The stable doors had rotted away, so he was never locked in - not that there was any need. He seemed attached to the property, and any passing thieves would surely neglect the aged horse.

Along with the rotted doors, the fenced internal wall of the stall had begun to sag inward, leaving Bill with only half the space allotted while housed there. Stiles stares at the horse, bowed head belying a feeling of dejection. After his success clearing the weeds, he thinks of how easy it would be to replace the fence. All he would need is some scrap wood, plentiful in the neglected piles along the property line, and a– and suddenly he remembers Derek's order.

Unfortunately, Stiles has never been one to follow rules, and a plan is already brewing in his mind. He walks faster toward the market, mentally taking stock of the tools he'll need.

The day passes faster than the previous few, as he jots down what measures of wood he'll need. Passing by the Hale house had some perks, as he can already pick out which pieces are present in each rubbish pile. The last lengths he's not sure of, and he's overthought it so much he digs in his satchel for some coins to purchase them from another market seller. The hammer and nails he needs are part of his work tools anyway, and he doesn't mind losing a few long nails - the local blacksmith gives him a discount for his consistent custom.

By the time he makes his way home, he's got a solid plan in mind. If he works inside the stable, he won't be visible from the house, and he can use some scrap cloth to mute the hammer and nails as he works.

He makes a good mockery of walking right past the Hale house, scoping the scene out of the corner of his eye, before neatly hopping the fence and ducking behind one of the piles of weeds he'd pulled.

His heart beats loud in his chest as he sneaks into the stable and sets down his tools, gently shooing Bill out of his shelter. As the large horse ambles across what once was a lawn he follows beside, stopping at the first pile of debris that contains the wood he'll need to begin. Making his way back to the stable was more difficult - he knows he's even more visible and slow-moving carrying his load.

When he's safely in the stable again, he sets down the wood and pauses, straining to hear any movement from the house. All he hears is the gentle breeze threading through the ancient willow trees surrounding the property, and the faint clip-clop of Bill’s hooves. He takes a breath, calming himself before starting his restoration.

He takes a short break after pinning the first row of beams to the existing slats - hand on hips, inspecting the level. The light is dimming fast, and he curses himself for not bringing a lantern. It would be too much of a risk to light it, he supposes, but more of a risk to leave the work half done.

There's a rustle behind him, and he turns expecting Bill to amble in - but a solid force slams him bodily into the back wall of the stall.

In his surprise and fear, it takes a second to recognise that it's Derek, and in that second the taller man is upon him. His strong arms pin Stiles to the wall, and one ruthless hand braces his chest.

“I told you not to come back.” He snarls through gritted teeth, breath hot against Stiles' face. If it weren't for his height, they'd be nose to nose. As it is, there's only a handful of centimetres between their lips. Stiles’ heart pounds in his chest, with fear but also - dreadfully - desire, and he swallows thickly, attempting to calm it.

“I'm sorry sir, I– poor Bill had no space, and–” his inadequate apology is forcibly quieted as Derek's hand repositions itself around his throat. This very action had been a consistent feature of his young fantasies, and he can't help his reaction - unbidden, the corners of Stiles' lips twitch up as he lets out a choked moan. Derek's breath hitches as his eyes soften from rage to confusion, and then darken to something quite different.

“Please,” Stiles pants. He's not asking to be released.

And just as suddenly as Derek had accosted him moments ago, their lips meet in a clash of tongues and teeth. Stiles' hands gain a mind of their own as they grip Derek’s muscular back, the thin linen shirt serving as a weak barrier against the heat of his body. The stubble that adorns the older man's jaw scratches at Stiles' bare face, and Stiles is sure he'll have marks tomorrow.

Derek's hand slips from Stiles' throat to the back of his head, tugging at his hair and bringing him impossibly closer.

Stiles hadn't quite got his breath back from his fright, and every heaving breath he takes is full of Derek's scent. He licks into Derek's mouth and nips cheekily at his bottom lip, taking immense pleasure in the gruff hum it elicits. Derek's hand on his hair tightens and pulls down - forcing Stiles' head to the side to let his teeth sink into the crook of his neck. He can't stop the desperate wail that leaves him, and is suddenly very glad of their rural locale. His hips buck forward of their own accord, and he feels something stiff press into his stomach - with their differing heights, he knows exactly what it is.

Derek's hand relinquishes the grip on his hair, only to press his hand firmly to Stiles' shoulders. Stiles opens his eyes, and meets hungry hazel eyes, dark with need.

“Kneel.” Derek's voice is breathless but commanding, and Stiles couldn't have disobeyed - even if he wanted to.

He eases himself down, mouth falling open naturally as he stares at Derek from below, and Derek's hand moves again. Their eyes lock together as Derek swipes a thumb across the kneeling man’s kiss-swollen lips. Stiles should be ashamed at how quickly he takes it into his mouth, but for now he obeys readily, sucking and grazing his teeth over the pad of it. Derek takes a deep, shaking breath, then another - and undoes the buckle of his belt.

Again, the corners of Stiles' mouth lift in anticipation, and he breaks eye contact to watch Derek’s deft fingers undo the belt and buttons of his trousers. He pushes down his underwear, and his cock springs from them. Stiles' freshly-caught breath leaves him in a disbelieving gasp - he's had a few men in his time, but never in his life has he seen anything of this size.

Derek doesn't give him long to stare, instead gripping the back of Stiles' head and tilting it up, letting the head of his cock bump Stiles' nose. Stiles obediently opens his mouth wider and licks a long, wet stripe up the underside of his cock. Derek emits a choked-off noise as Stiles continues, taking just the head in his mouth - he laps at it with short kitten licks, braces the tip with careful teeth, and relishes in every movement that causes Derek to firm the grip on his hair.

Stiles opens his mouth wider and takes as much as he can, the heady taste wettening his mouth further. He reaches and braces his hands on the back of Derek's thighs - trying to assert even the idea of control - but they are swiftly slapped away.

“Hands behind your back,” a voice cuts through his kiss-drunk stupor, and his hands fold themselves neatly at his lower back, without him even thinking to obey.

There's no way he can take it all in his mouth - the girth alone stretches his lips wide - but Derek's strong hands, returning to his head and tugging at his hair, ease him onto it, not leaving an inch to resist… as if Stiles would want to.

His speed inches up slowly, and Stiles relaxes his throat as much as he can. He gags slightly as it reaches beyond his palate, and uses his tongue to lap at the underside. This causes the standing man's hips to jerk, forcing his cock even further - Stiles can barely breathe, sucking in short desperate breaths in through his nose as he tries to acclimatise. Stiles can feel how wet he has become - kneeling, even without friction, has him wet enough to soak his clothes through.

In that moment - a heavy hand weighing down his open mouth to serve the cock above him, and his desperate, weeping, untouched cunt below - he knows his place. Once Derek's hips start moving they don't stop, and Stiles is pinned between his hands and the other man's body. He lets his head fall lax, and surrenders to being used - doing his best to breathe in between thrusts that get rougher every second. He relaxes his tongue and fights his gag reflex, letting Derek’s cock slip deep into the back of his throat, but can't hold back the choked half-moans that slip from his lips - he sounds truly debauched.

Derek's steady rhythm suddenly stutters, and he seats himself fully inside Stiles’ mouth, grip on his hair vice-tight. He hears a long, low growl from above and can't do anything but try to swallow as Derek comes, cock so far down his throat he barely tastes it. He almost succeeds in taking it all, until Derek pulls out - he's not quite finished, and Stiles’ swollen lips and open mouth get painted with the rest of it. He licks his lips and reflexively moves his hands to wipe it off, but again, they are slapped away. He looks up and can barely see the other man's face in the dusky light, but he catches a glimpse of a softness around the eyes that he hasn't seen in years.

Wordlessly, Derek slides his thumb across Stiles' cheek and pushes the last of his come past Stiles' lips. Greedily, he laps at Derek's fingers and swallows, only now noticing the ache in his jaw. It takes a minute for him to catch his breath for the third time tonight, and almost starts to stand, before tipping his chin up to catch Derek's eye.

“May I, sir?” He knows exactly what he's doing with his words, and through the dim light he swears he sees the corner of Derek's lips twitch before he nods. With gentleness that contradicts everything that came before, the older man helps him to his feet until they are face to face again. Now closer, Stiles can see his eyebrows knit together, mouth opening to speak before clamping shut again. Stiles leans up and kisses him sweetly, using his newly-free arms to wrap around Derek's broad back.

“Maybe I can come back… to finish the stall?” His voice is innocent, but his face is not - eyes dancing wickedly in the dark. Derek's eyes meet his, and his taut expression relaxes slightly.

“Tomorrow.” Derek's voice, still raspy from his recent orgasm, comes accompanied by a gentle forehead bump and a slight upward tilt to his lips.

Stiles beams with delight as he makes his way home - once there, he makes every effort to stay silent as he readies himself for bed, the memory of the last hour playing heavily on his mind.

Chapter 2: After Dinner

Summary:

No porn here this time, just some good old tired fluff. :)

"After dinner, I expect you to serve me. I have some work to get done first, but you may sit at my feet until I am finished." His tone left no room for question.

Stiles nodded - just once, so he could dip his head in a feeble attempt to hide his burgeoning smile. His eyes darted to Derek's woefully full plate of food as he poured more wine. Why had he piled the plate so high? But the answer came just as fast as the question when Derek took another bite, closing his eyes as he chewed. By now, Stiles could tell he was enjoying it - and he was enjoying watching.

Excitement thrummed through him as he carried the wine back to the kitchen. He took a deep breath and resigned himself to waiting for his master to beckon him - command him. He nervously gripped a teatowel at the thought, wringing it between shaking hands.

Just when impatience began to get the better of him, Derek appeared in the doorway.

"Come." His voice was low and decisive. Stiles' stomach twisted as he recalled the various other times he'd heard that word uttered in this house.

"Yes, sir - let me clear the table and I shall follow you upstairs." There wasn't even a moment for Stiles to kick himself for possibly delaying their time together before Derek spoke again.

"The table can wait. Follow me now."

"Of course, sir, I'm sorry. After you." Stiles was speaking to an empty doorway - Derek was already on the way to his office.

Stiles tossed the teatowel behind him and rushed to follow his master, grabbing the candle from the dining room table as he passed - briefly noticing only a mouthful or two had disappeared from the plate since he left. He knew Derek needed no light to guide him, but Stiles hadn't yet spent as much time in this house as his host had.

When they reached Derek's office, Stiles placed the candle on the large oaken desk - making sure to avoid any important looking papers - and hurried to light the sconces. He expected Derek to seat himself immediately but was surprised to see him stalk to the couch and select two soft cushions. He dropped them beside the chair, finally seating himself as he gestured for Stiles to do the same.

Stiles settled as gracefully as he could on the floor, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap. He snuck a tentative look up at Derek, but the man had already picked up his quill and begun scratching away.

With Derek's focus elsewhere, Stiles took the opportunity to inspect his face in the flickering candlelight. He looked softer here, almost gentle, though his brow furrowed as he flipped through various ledgers. Seeing those long fingers curl around pages brought Stiles to wonder what Derek's plans were for later.

His request - command - earlier hadn't revealed anything, but from previous experience, Stiles was sure he wouldn't be disappointed. He just hoped Derek wouldn't either.

Just as he was starting to spiral anxiously, Derek settled his free hand on the back of Stiles' neck, delicately threading his fingers through Stiles' growing hair.

A shiver danced down his spine as he unconsciously leant into the touch, barely there but enough to redden his cheeks.

Alas, it had been a long day, and it wasn't long before the dim light and the quiet had slowed his thoughts. Stiles stifled a yawn and blinked furiously, listing the chores he had completed today in order to stay awake.

Market. Sweeping. Lunch. Dusting… polishing… lau- No! He had to stay awake. He had to do his best for Derek, to show how good he could be.

But… those cushions were plush, and the gentle sound of Derek's breath combined with the scritch-scritch of the quill against paper, and the soft fingers stroking his head was… too… much…

Derek huffed gently as he checked the numbers on Deucalion's account. He could tell there was something awry, but couldn't quite put his finger on it. Slowly, he noticed a warm pressure on his thigh - he looked to where his hand was cupping Stiles' head, and to where that head was leaning on him.

Surely, he couldn't have been working that long? But he had seen Stiles move through the house like a reverse-hurricane today, cleaning everything in his path. Derek suddenly had a pang of guilt for not choosing a better day for his indulgences.

He slowly - oh, so slowly - moved his hand so as to tilt Stiles' head up, allowing himself to unabashedly scan the younger man's face. It was barely visible in the shadows but he could just about see the soft, blank expression, void of the curiosity and stress it normally held - even the subtle crease between Stiles' brows had disappeared.

Derek had, of course, seen this expression before - but only for a few seconds at a time, in the afterglow of their last few dalliances. Derek yearned to see it more often, yearned to be the reason for it.

Trying hard not to wake up Stiles, he shifted in his seat to maneuver his arms under the man's knees and around his back. In one almost-silent movement, he stood and lifted the sleeping servant.

Derek had meant to carry Stiles back to his room in the servant's quarters, he really had, but the warm breath tickling his collarbone - joined with the hand curling around his lapel - had completely distracted him. Before he even knew he had moved, he was suddenly at his own bedroom door. The thought to turn around and bring Stiles downstairs only lasted half as long as the thought to bring him into a different bedroom on this floor. Not a soul had slept in those beds in years, and today was not the day to change that.

Derek crossed the room and settled Stiles on his bed, delicately untangling the fingers from his collar. He pulled the duvet up and smoothed it out, taking this moment to indulge in caring for the younger man while he had the chance.

Just as he was straightening out the last corner, a drowsy hand snaked out from beneath the duvet and gripped his wrist.

Derek wasn't sure what he expected to see when he lifted his eyes to Stiles' face - confusion, annoyance, a mocking smile - but he certainly didn't expect lidded amber eyes, unfocused yet yearning.

"Stay."

The murmur was barely audible over the rushing in Derek's ears, but he had seen Stiles' lips move, and maybe he wanted to convince himself that this was real. He nodded silently and gently extricated his wrist from the hand around it. Without thinking, he lifted the hand and pressed a gentle kiss to it before tucking it back under the blankets.

Forgoing any sense of decency - Stiles had, after all, seen everything already - he stripped down to his underwear and padded to the other side of the bed.

In for a penny… Derek thought as he slid underneath the duvet, hand already groping for Stiles' in the dark. Once found, he interlaced their fingers and settled, feeling more at peace in this bed than he had since, well, Before.

Chapter 3: After the Market

Summary:

Derek leaves Stiles restrained as he goes the the Market. When he gets back, Stiles gets his reward.

Notes:

Finally, some porn gets added to the fic which is supposed to be just porn. Sorry! this was also supposed to be a lot shorter, but I figured after three years I should actually put in some effort. Hope you enjoy <3

Stiles wakes as he hears the front door close, the solid weight sounding loud despite the distance - and the locked door between him and it. Immediately and unconsciously, he clenches around the long, thick plug inside of him. Risking sleep wasn't the best of ideas considering the rules Derek had left him with, but thankfully it still sits deep inside of him with a heavy weight. He swallows around the gag in his mouth, his mouth dry.

He feels heat pooling in his stomach, anticipation flooding his senses. His hand twitches to clear the sleep from his eyes before he thinks of the restraints, tying each of his limbs to the four heavy posts of the bed. The chains rattle as he pulls at them restlessly, suddenly impatient.

Heavy steps approach. With practice, Stiles can tell where on the stairs Derek steps - the grand staircase with its gentle creaks, the hallway with its plush carpet. Stiles needs to strain to hear those footsteps, and there. The long, slow creak of the floorboard right outside the door.

The lock jiggles briefly as the key is turned, and Derek is inside. He doesn't look back as he closes the door, instead inspecting Stiles with tilted head and hungry eyes. The edge of his full lips tug into a smile as he speaks -

“I'm sorry I took so long, but the market was busier than I thought. Looks like you've been good since I've been gone - have you followed the rules?” Stiles jerks his head in a desperate nod, praying for Derek to move closer, to touch him.

He does. Setting a glass bottle of water on the bedside table before kneeling beside Stiles’ head, he cradles it in his hand and threads thick fingers through Stiles' hair. They stay like that for a long moment as Stiles breathes in Derek's musk and tries to fight the urge to tug against his bonds yet again. He fails miserably. But to his credit, pulling against the chain linked through the headboard gets his outstretched fingers just close enough to ghost against Derek's hair.

Derek grins and leans into the touch - one small act of mercy before the ruthless scene he has planned.

With Derek fully clothed and Stiles so, so naked, he feels inescapably vulnerable as their eyes lock on each other.

With one hand, Derek reaches to hold Stiles' hand, thumb rubbing reassuringly at his palm. His other hand glides from Stiles' face down to his throat, gripping gently for a second before continuing down. Tweaking Stiles' nipples elicits a shaky breath, before his wide palm skates down Stiles stomach. A high whine escapes Stiles' throat as he pushes the solid end of the plug, forcing it in fully. Hazel eyes still gazing deep into amber, Stiles feels himself drowning - but unable to look away.

“You look so desperate,” Derek mutters. “You've done well to keep this in. I won't begrudge you the last inch.” He tugs at the end and lazily pushes it in again slowly - once, twice, and one last time before easing it out completely. Stiles' pussy twitches in protest to the loss, and he looks away in embarrassment, feeling his slick escape and wet the tops of his thighs.

“Look at me.” Stiles doesn't hesitate to follow the instruction, meeting Derek's intense stare again. “This is what you're here for - staying nice and wet and open for me. I'll bet I can fit three fingers in you already.” His fingers dip ever so slightly into Stiles' open hole, gliding through his wetness and back up to curl lazily around his clit. Stiles' hips buck towards those fingers with a mind of their own, chasing the contact. Derek releases Stiles' hand and grips his hip, forcing it still against the mattress. Stiles keens with need, straining his legs against the cuffs to open his legs wider. Derek huffs a laugh at the sight and indulges Stiles with two fingers, easily sliding in with how wet Stiles has become.

He groans, long and satisfied as he feels the fingers crook against that spot inside him, hips fighting to buck underneath Derek's other solid hand. The satisfaction doesn't last long, as Derek withdraws his fingers too soon, bringing them to Stiles' mouth. He hooks his fingers around the gag and pops it out of Stiles' mouth, giving Stiles a second to clench his jaw before nudging his fingertips against his lips. Obediently he tastes himself, salty and thick. He uses his tongue to clean off Derek's fingers, nipping gently at the pads of his fingers to showcase his skill.

“Don't worry," Derek lilts teasingly, "You'll have plenty of time to use that mouth. But for now, I promised you a reward for following the rules.” Derek's fingers slip out of his mouth as Stiles smiles, a shiver of anticipation threading down his spine.

Derek unlocks his hands first, then his feet. Without thinking, Stiles pulls himself into a ball on his side, the hours spent outstretched taking its toll on his body all at once. Derek gives him a minute to adjust, using his nails to scratch down Stiles' back and thighs. He steps away and Stiles hears him pick up the bottle of water.

“I was planning on just turning you over, but I think a new position is called for. Sit up.” Stiles rises and neatly sits with his legs crossed, enjoying the feeling of the metal leg cuffs digging slightly into his calves. Derek lays a hand on his shoulder and brings the bottle to Stiles’ lips, gently tilting to let him take a few long sips. When he nods to signal he's had enough, Derek replaces the bottle to the table and the gag to Stiles’ waiting mouth. He stands, and a long second passes as Derek inspects his prey. Stiles can almost see the cogs turning in his mind, and holds back a nervous giggle.

“On your front, knees to your chest.” Derek speaks decisively. Stiles rolls over and settles there, arms folded in front. Derek hums approvingly and reaches down scratching his way across unmarked skin leaving long, red lines in his wake. His hand scrapes its way to the back of Stiles' neck and pushes down, forcing his arms to buckle in front of him and his back to arch. As Stiles’ face meets the mattress, he hears the distinct chink of the handcuffs.

Derek relinquishes his neck and pulls his hands through the cold metal loops. The cuffs click shut and, almost as a reflex, he pulls against them - he's given the mercy of an inch before the steel restricts him. He navigates his arms into a more comfortable position, his forearms almost parallel.

He doesn't see Derek move around the bed. He doesn't need to, as Derek drifts a finger in a long circle from one wrist to the other, dragging along his shoulder blades as he goes. He steps away quietly, and Stiles can hear rustling beside the bed. He hears his master place a few items on the bed beside him, and a hollow metallic sound immediately recognisable as the long spreader bar - one of Stiles' favourite tools.

With a gentleness that contradicts his rough hands, Derek tilts him to one side and then the other, looping rope around his folded legs. He secures the rope with expert knots, then the leg cuffs to the bar.

Stiles feels his face redden as he realises how exposed he is, kneeling prostrate upon the bed. Calves bound to straining thighs with rope that cuts into his sallow skin, and the bar keeping him wide open - vulnerable. With the chill of the air combined with Derek's touch (delicate, slow, sensual), Stiles feels himself growing wet again. Unconsciously, his hand reaches down to touch himself for some relief, only to meet the cold unforgiving steel.

He knows full well that Derek stands above him, fully clothed. Stiles pictures him now, with furrowed brow and a slight smirk - planning where to strike first, and with what. The thought makes him feel even more exposed, like a meal to be devoured.

“We both know how loud you can be, don't we?” Stiles nods, forehead jerking against the soft sheets. “Well, how about we find out how quiet you can be for once? We need to work on your manners if you're going to be my toy.” At this, Stiles hesitates, uncharacteristically. He's never been good at keeping his mouth shut, but he needs this - to be kept. He nods slower, praying the gag does its job. He'll need all the help he can get.

There's a long second before the impact begins where Stiles, daydreaming about what could be, wonders if anything will actually happen - if Derek will simply walk away and leave him wanting, as he has before (when Stiles has been particularly impertinent).

And then it happens - a strong, sure strike to his left buttock. It seems that Derek has chosen a riding crop to break him in. It's been repurposed from training the horses, but it'll do just fine on Stiles.

It's the surprise that pulls a gasp from his lips moreso than the pain, but as the second - third - fourth - strikes land, it's clear Derek isn't trying for a long warmup. In fact, if this pace continues, Stiles muses, he won't last very long at all.

Derek, to his credit, lays equal punishment to both sides. He strikes with almost scientific specificity - he stripes Stiles’ ass and thighs with marks that redden by the second.

Stiles breathes deep and absorbs each impact, fighting the desperate moans that threaten to leave his mouth with every breath. He feels his skin building heat as his master doles out his punishment, prickling with white hot pain.

Derek alternates the height of his strikes, snapping the whip from Stiles’ lower back along the curve of his ass. Every so often, he pauses and - with calm, measured breaths - drags the thick head of the crop along Stiles' welted skin with care that contrasts his blows, before continuing. Stiles struggles to keep quiet while the pain builds, back arching as he tries to prove his worth.

The minutes feel like hours as Stiles tries to keep himself grounded and silent by matching the sting to an image in his mind of the marks left by the crop. Even considering how carefully Derek aims his strikes, one particular spot near the crease of his ass builds heat and excruciating pain faster than the rest. With each strike to this spot he twitches, willing his body not to shift away from the impact.

It takes just one strike too many - too hard - to that spot that breaks Stiles, and a desperate high whine leaves his lips around the gag. He sags with disappointment in himself, arms shaking with the effort of keeping still. Once the dam has broken, it's a struggle not to call Derek every name under the sun as the pain slowly fades, but as he un-grits his teeth and lets the air leave him in a long shaky breath, Derek's voice cuts through.

“You lasted much longer than I thought you would. Such a shame you couldn't get all the way through, but it's a start. You'll just have to do better next time” A hand strokes his back down to his red-hot ass, cool skin helping with the pain. Stiles tries to apologise, mumbling around the gag, and gets a sharp slap to that spot again.

“I didn't say you could make noise yet,” he can hear a smile behind Derek's words, “But I suppose you've been good so far, and I want to hear you for this next part.” Stiles begins to sigh with relief before the hand resting on his ass slides between and cups his pussy, forcing him to gasp with need.

Derek uses deft fingers to spread his lips, growling hungrily at the sight of Stiles' cunt, slick and dripping after the relentless abuse. He licks a long line up Stiles' slit, causing another gasp to fall from Stiles' lips.

Suddenly, Stiles feels himself pulled bodily to the edge of the bed by hands gripping his hips, doubtless leaving bruises where they lay.

“God, you're so wet already - I know I should warm you up with my fingers first, but - “ and the large, blunt head of his cock pushes into Stiles without warning. He lets out a pained wail as he feels himself stretching around the intrusion, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. The toy he'd had earlier was certainly no comparison to Derek's size, and he tries to move away, fingers scrambling futilely at the sheets. The hands on his hips prevent him, pulling him further onto Derek's thick cock inch by slow, unrelenting inch, until he feels Derek’s hips meet his ass, still red and raw from the beating. He hears Derek let out a low growl of satisfaction, feels his cock twitch deep inside him. They stay like that for a long second, and the burning stretch subsides to a dull ache. He feels so full, his stomach must be distended.

“You're still so tight, even after the toy - we'll have to find you something bigger to train you.” Derek's voice sounds strained above him, and one hand leaves his hip to slide down to his clit, rubbing slow circles. Stiles jerks and moans, inadvertently pulling Derek's cock out of him slightly with surprise. Despite himself, he pushes himself back, forcing himself down fully again.

“Ah, see? I knew you'd get used to it.” Derek's voice is stronger again, with a definite smile behind it. His fingers strum at Stiles' clit expertly as he speaks again.

“This is why I chose you. You know your place, you know this is what you're made for. God, your pussy was made for me, wasn't it?” The question, Stiles knows, is rhetorical, but he nods anyway - partially in agreement, partially to spur Derek into moving. He does, withdrawing slowly until just the head stretches Stiles’ hole, then pushing forward to fill him again.

Stiles can barely breathe as the cock inside him, the pain of his ass and the fingers on his clit overwhelm him. He's glad of the position they're in and the permission to make noise, as he lets out a croacking whine with every breath.

Two slow thrusts is all the mercy he gets before Derek speeds up, keeping pace with the fingers playing with Stiles. The ropes binding his legs are the only thing keeping him on his knees - without them, no doubt he'd have fallen prone with that first ruthless thrust.

The faster Derek drives into him, the more he can hear how wet he is, and his face reddens at the wet slap each time Derek bottoms out.

“Listen to how much your body needs me. You're mine, you know. Mine to use whenever I want,” With each word he gets more rough, slamming into Stiles with unbridled desire, “Mine to use however I want.” And with each violent thrust, Stiles nods and moans hoarsely.

Derek's other hand leaves his hip and grabs the back of his neck, forcing his head further into the mattress. He can't move even an inch now, kept fully pinned and utterly helpless - and that thought causes a wave of heat to course through his body. He's close, he realises, and getting closer with every ruthless touch of his clit. He tries to breathe, to slow down the inevitable, but he can't lift his head to get some air and he's suffocating, he's stuck and he's choking and -

The last of the air in Stiles lungs escapes as a punched out cry, the orgasm flooding his body and causing him to spasm. He's never come as hard as this before in his life. His toes curl as his vision goes white and waves of pleasure crash over him. He's glad of the gag in his mouth, as it gives him something to bite down on and quiet the feral keening coming from his throat. It lasts for what seems like hours, as Derek feeds it - continuing to piston into him at a wild pace - until Stiles' body goes limp.

Only then does Derek pause and lift his hand from the back of Stiles' neck, stroking his back.

“That was gorgeous,” he murmurs, and Stiles smiles a lazy grin, the aftershocks - and Derek's cock still hard and heavy inside him - making him twitch. “Would you like to lie down?” To this, Stiles shakes his head. Derek reaches around and pops the gag out of his mouth.

“Want you… to come…” his voice is hoarse but meek.

“Good boy.” The gag is popped back into his mouth and Derek strokes his hair for a second before grabbing a sure handful. He places his other hand around Stiles' throat and pulls, forcing him upright. He starts fucking Stiles again, slowly but building fast, holding him through each overstimulated jerk. Stiles whines and bucks, not sure if his body wants to escape or match Derek's thrusts. Regardless, he doesn't get a choice - Derek holds his full weight in his hands and uses it to force Stiles onto his cock again and again, chasing his own orgasm.

It doesn't take long until his measured thrusts become erratic and his grip on Stiles' throat tightens, almost cutting off his breath yet again. Then he tenses, pushing his cock all the way inside and letting out a choked-off groan. Stiles, in his breathless delirium, feels this master’s cock twitch and release inside of him, filling him up completely. He smiles faintly at this, and Derek's grip loosens slightly as he shudders. They stay in this embrace for a moment - both breathing hard - and Stiles leans his head back against the taller man's chest - in exhaustion, but also reassurance.

“Fuck,” Derek exhales, “you were amazing. So well behaved, and you took me so well.” He goes to pull out, but Stiles resists - with cuffed hands, he grunts and gestures to the plug, long forgotten on the pillow.

“You want to keep it inside?” Derek almost purrs. Stiles nods, and obliges as Derek navigates them to be lying down. He grabs the plug and, in one smooth motion, pulls out of Stiles and slides it in. Stiles gasps at the sudden emptiness, but once the plug is fully seated inside him, he sighs contentedly. Laying down, a wave of tiredness hits him, and he closes his eyes. Derek strokes his cheek before sitting up and gently undoing Stiles' bonds. The rope goes first, letting Stiles stretch his cramped legs. Then the bar, the hand and leg cuffs, and finally the gag. At last, Derek settles on the bed beside Stiles - who promptly curls into his chest and lets out a soft, contented hum. Derek responds with his own hum and wraps his arms around the smaller man, carding his fingers through his hair.

They stay like that, in silent embrace, until the room gets dark around them, and sleep takes them both.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of After