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Derek flicks his gaze to Stiles in the passenger seat; twitching fingers, skin pale and flushed by turns, knee jiggling.
He trusts Stiles to use his safeword, but... “We don’t have to do this, you know.”
“Seriously, dude, stop coddling me.”
His palm curls snug around the back of Stiles’ head.
“It’s not coddling, Stiles. It’s just taking care of what’s mine.”
The rest of the ride is quiet; out of the corner of his eye, Derek watches Stiles sink into his skin, the edges smoothing out quietly. There are times when Stiles likes to be a brat about it, fight and fuss and goad Derek into punishing him; this isn’t going to be one of those nights.
It gets to Derek, the soft, fluid lines of Stiles’ body. Crawls up his spine and sits in his brain stem, whispering filthy, bloody commands. Reminding him that Stiles is already open, skin painted with Derek’s come, plugged up and full with it.
He can see it in the ginger hitch of Stiles’ walk as he climbs from the car; can smell dried sweat and wet come, the pungent snap of boy-lust.
From the way the bouncer’s nostrils flare, everyone else will smell it, too.
Good. It’s a claim and a challenge, all wrapped up in a tall, sloe-eyed package, and Derek knows that the other patrons will be interested. Everything about his boy says well-used and willing for more, that luscious scent coupled with painted-on jeans and a net shirt displaying a host of vivid bite marks.
And the collar, cupping the soft skin of Stiles’ neck obscenely.
He wants people to try, just for the searing pleasure that curls in his stomach when Stiles rejects them, when he tucks himself that bit closer to Derek. When he lifts an eyebrow and lets Derek demonstrate that the answer is, unequivocally, no.
The bouncer nods as they make their way to the discreet black door.
“Long time, Derek. This your boy?”
“Hey, Seth. Yeah, he’s with me.”
Seth’s bright blue mohawk tips towards the door.
“Keep an eye on him tonight, then. Full house in there.”
It should make him cautious; it doesn’t. It gets his blood pounding, itching to preen and pose, to show off the delectable boy in his possession.
Stiles and Seth are both smirking at him; Seth can scent it in the air, the sudden spike of Derek’s lust, but Stiles... Stiles just knows him that well.
Their fingers tangle together as Stiles tugs him towards the door.
“Come on- I want to see this place. You didn’t mention that you’ve been here so often the bouncer knows you by name.”
No, he hadn’t mentioned that. The “hey, remember that time my family was dead and I was a total fucking wreck, so I spent a lot of time banging everyone that moved at a secret, shifter club” line wasn’t something he could just slip into conversation. And later, when it was less about his family and more about forgetting young flesh, the play of new muscle under skin still baby soft, well.
So yes, he’s been coming to Defixio for a long time. It’s been a while, though, and he sees it fresh through Stiles’ wide-eyed, darting gaze.
Dark and spacious, the shadows cool and secretive, suggestive of what might be hiding in the corners. Pools of light spill out over the stage, a few scattered through the room to highlight various... performances. For the most part it’s like any other BDSM club Derek’s visited; there’s a bar and a dance floor, crowded with twisting, slick bodies, an upper level with scattered tables and private booths. The biggest difference- minus the clientele, of course- is the music.
There’s no eardrum-shattering, techno-goth soundtrack pounding away at sensitive shifter hearing; instead, it’s a throbbing, pulsating bassline that Derek feels more than anything else. Shaking the floor, vibrating up into his bones. It’s primal- the cadence of the hunt and the chase, the rabbit-fast pace of his prey’s heart.
A beat that’s matched by Stiles’ own blood, now. It thrums, frantic, in the tips of Stiles’ fingers where they rest against Derek’s palm.
Derek can hear the whistle of air past Stiles’ lips, smell the adrenaline rush as his human body tells him to run from the predators it senses all around him.
The taste washes over Derek, a heady, sour-sweet mix of fear and fervor, puckering his mouth like the Warheads he devoured as a kid.
Heads turn as the tang of it rolls out into the room. He’s spent so much time around humans, and habit tells Derek not to respond, to act normal, soft, to lock his more animalistic responses away in the corner of his brain.
Not tonight. Tonight his spine lengthens and his neck rolls; older, deeper instincts coming to the fore. He doesn’t realize his claws are extended until copper blooms in the air and Stiles is whimpering.
He isn’t trying to get away, though. He presses into it, hard, drives Derek’s claws that little bit deeper into easily-parted skin. And then, oh, he lifts his wrist to Derek’s mouth, lets him lap and suck until Derek is full of the candied-metallic taste, StilesStilesStiles on his tongue.
Derek gives it back, bringing their lips together, blood-smeared and slick. There’s a bitter hint of come leftover from their earlier play, and Derek shivers, thinking that he’s everywhere in Stiles tonight; ass and throat, belly and scent and skin, all of it.
They’re winding a path to the bar when a hand catches at his elbow. He’s unforgivably distracted, focus narrowed entirely to the sway of Stiles’ hips as they twist through the crowd. All it takes, though, is one deep breath before he recognizes the scent, leather and a piquant, cinnamon perfume; hot blood and the bite of ginger cologne not far behind.
Of course it’s them. Of course, on his first night back in months, with Stiles in tow. His possessive, protective instincts already riding high, the taste of blood in his mouth; this could go so badly, so quickly.
Ursula likes to share, to steal, really, and if she puts one finger on Stiles, Derek isn’t sure he can keep from biting it off.
“Derek? I was starting to think you were gone for good, it’s been so long since we’ve seen you here.”
A careless snap of her fingers, and her sub sinks gracefully to the floor, kneeling next to her boots.
“You remember Nick, don’t you?”
He remembers everything about Nick, from his pretty, plush mouth to his narrow waist and his obscene fucking fingers. Right now he wishes he didn’t, because the same things are replicated in the tall, beautiful boy standing at Derek’s side. There’s no way, no way, that Stiles isn’t going to make the comparison.
It only takes a second- just long enough for Derek to close his eyes and take a deep, grounding breath- before a surprised little oh sound is popping out of Stiles’ mouth. The noise, and the pout of his lips as he does it, is enough to snap Ursula’s gaze to his face, and from there it’s a slow glide down to the floor; an even slower one drags back up, so weighty that even Derek can feel it.
“Well, well. Looks like you found a substitute, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I think you’ll find that I’m the original,” Stiles drawls, sliding an arm around Derek’s waist as his head tips to the side just enough to showcase Derek’s marks. “No offense to your boy there, of course.”
Derek’s interest in Nick had been what brought the three of them together. The way that Nick looked, the... thirst he quenched. Ursula was entertaining in her own right- a nagini, tall and lush, sharp-tongued, an excellent hand with a whip- and when she’d noticed him eyeing her boy, she’d been extremely generous.
On more than one occasion.
Derek had been so frustrated then, unsettled, lonely in a way he refused to admit, and Nick took it all, bled out and begged for more when the wounds healed too quickly. Nick was lovely, and so close to what Derek wanted, but it was never quite... enough. There was never the same fire in his eyes, the push, that Derek was craving. Nick’s submission was whole and perfect, practically an artform- exactly what Ursula needed.
Derek, on the other hand, needed Stiles, all smart mouth and snark, shoving and snapping until he folded, gracefully, at the moment Derek least expected it.
Although there are times when he’s less than appreciative about Stiles’ ability to run his mouth off. Like now, when facing someone who could literally tear Stiles apart, and is used to much, much sturdier play toys.
Ursula lifts an elegant eyebrow. “Aren’t you the feisty one?”
Stiles leans forward conspiratorially. “Daddy likes me that way,” he says, smug and smirking, completely confident.
God damn, but it’s sexy.
He’ll never get over the fact that this gorgeous, brilliant creature puts himself in Derek’s hands with utter faith, falls apart and trusts Derek- of all people- to piece him back together.
He craves it, the way they crash against each other.
“Ursula, if you’ll excuse us?”
“Darling, you’re crazy if you think I’ll miss this.” She gets her hand in Nick’s hair and gives a single, sharp yank. He unfolds in one smooth, supple gesture, practiced and perfect. Eye-catching.
Or, it would be, if Derek was at all capable of pulling his gaze from Stiles.
“I had the crux booked for the next forty-five minutes, but I think the two of you might get better use out of it. You do still appreciate the crux, don’t you, Derek?”
His vision bleeds red at the edges as Derek pictures Stiles, held open and pinned to the crux; skin pulled tight across collarbones, hips, wrists; blood skating in thin sheets down the long muscles of a white thigh.
Fingers dig into his shirt, wet lips brushing his ear as a sly, little-boy voice whispers, “Please, daddy?”
It would be an unbearable tease, if Stiles’ need wasn’t thick and syrupy-sweet in the air.
He sucks in a deep lungful, rolls it over his tongue and feels it all the way down to his dick. They’ve talked about this for weeks, discussing rules and limits, safewords, all of it, and Derek’s so fucking grateful because he can’t wait any longer.
They come together in a scorching kiss, teeth and fangs and the sharp taste of iron. Derek doesn’t stop, just takes and takes until Stiles is clutching at his biceps, swaying and weak-kneed, scarlet smeared across his chin.
The serrated-edge scent of young blood is drawing a crowd. Ursula coughs once, delicately.
“If you’re not careful, Derek, people are going to start to get handsy.”
Even knowing that someone would have to be crazy to attempt it here, where the patrons tend towards murderously territorial at the best of times, there’s a flashburn of rage at the thought of someone else’s hands on what’s his.
He doesn’t rush, though; instead it’s a sultry, steady prowl, circling in on the dais where the crux decussata is installed. His grip is tight on Stiles, two fine-boned wrists caught in Derek’s palm.
They step into the pool of light as a murmur moves through the throng. Derek can hear them whispering, commenting on the glow of Stiles’ skin, the line of his spine, the sweet dip above his ass and the claw marks that decorate it.
Yes, Derek thinks. Look and see, see what’s mine. Look at the curve of that hip, bare above an obscenely low waistband. Listen to the way that his heartbeat is already begging.
And then Stiles steps onto the dais, stripping off his clothes as he walks. He bends over to take off his pants, slowly revealing the sweet curve of his ass, the barest glimpse of the plug buried inside him. Stiles lifts his arms to the crux, and everything else just fades away.
They both shiver as the last restraint locks into place. Derek cups flushed cheeks between his palms, tipping Stiles’ head back, checking his eyes carefully.
“Remember your safeword, baby?”
“Hyacinth,” Stiles says, voice hushed; Derek takes in the haziness of his eyes, the compulsive clench and release of his fingers.
“Look at you, sweetheart, you’re ready to go already. So wet for me, aren’t you?”
Derek trails one finger up the solid line of Stiles’ dick, pulling away as Stiles’ hips jerk sharply.
“None of that.”
Stiles whines, high and thin in the back of his throat. It’s a small, animal noise, a prey sound, viscerally appealing.
Shh, Derek whispers to the piece inside himself that has a hunger for more, that wants to fill his stomach with tender flesh. Shh.
Derek knows how to slake one desire with another, to satisfy himself on what Stiles has offered up- pale forearms, exposed throat, soft belly. Sweet, hot blood, his for the taking.
He strips off his own shirt, enjoying the hot press of air against his skin.
Now, his body says, now.
Derek starts slow, a fine, thin line down the length of Stiles’ forearm, so shallow that only a few drops of blood bead the surface. He catches them on his fingertip and leaves a scarlet stripe over the swell of Stiles’ lower lip.
“Yes,” Stiles whispers, tongue snaking out to clean off the stain.
The next slice is deeper, a drag of his nail so slow he can watch the skin separate, blood welling up, thick in his nose.
Mouth-watering.
He’s moving before he even has the thought, sealing his mouth around the wound and sucking hard, pulling more blood to the surface, chasing droplets down the length of Stiles’ arm. Derek sinks his teeth into the fleshy skin of Stiles’ armpit, sweat and sex layered over the charged flavor of blood.
Stiles’ whole body jerks at the pinprick of fangs against one of the softest, most tender parts of his body. He’s sensitive here, Derek knows, twitches and flinches when poked. It’s fucking delicious, the way he squirms under Derek’s tongue.
So Derek takes his time, works Stiles up into a lather and brings him back down so, so carefully. He builds a crosshatch of coppery lines over Stiles’ ribs and eats the moans from his mouth, lets him twist and sweat, not stopping until Stiles has begged himself hoarse.
An unobtrusive attendant in Defixio’s black-on-black uniform sets a bottle of water on the dias, and Derek feeds Stiles tiny sips in between the barest brush of lips, pets and caresses him until they’ve both got their breath back. And then, oh, he winds one hand around the slippery skin at Stiles’ nape and takes, feeds on bitten-red lips and a wild tongue.
Only when Stiles screams does Derek realize that he’s driving claws into the clenched muscles of of Stiles’ abdomen, fighting back the urge to rip and rend. He pulls back, flattens his hand against the spill of blood, staring into Stiles’ face.
The safeword he’s half-expecting doesn’t come. Instead he receives a tiny, shaky nod, tears slipping down Stiles’ cheekbone. Derek hesitates; he’s seen people so far gone they can’t get their safeword out.
“Daddy,” Stiles mumbles, “hurts, daddy, oh, oh, please, more, please...” His voice trails away, softer than Derek’s ever heard. Pitiful little sounds are falling from his boy’s lips, exquisite gasps and sobs. Usually he has to force Stiles to stop talking, ends up spanking him for breaking the rules, but now it’s as if all of Stiles’ focus has turned inward.
Derek drops to his knees with a thud, uncontrolled, desperate to get his mouth back on Stiles. One would think that after the first few tastes, he’d be inured to it, but the blood hits him like a lightning bolt, straight to the core each and every damn time. Derek’s rock-hard, aware that his dick is throbbing in his jeans, but it’s secondary to the knowledge that Stiles’ life is flowing over Derek’s tongue.
There’s nothing elevated about the flavor- it’s not spice and wine, not something out of a teen vampire novel. It’s blood- scorching, fundamental, sweeter than any deer he’s taken down after a swift chase.
Derek spreads his fingers out into the vee of Stiles’ hips, claw-tips following the line of his iliac crest, tracing down and down until his thumbs brush the hair at Stiles’ groin. Blood skates along the pale arc of hipbones, the bowl of his pelvis, slips down the expanse of Stiles’ thighs.
Derek bites and sucks until his face is smeared and filthy, until he can feel blood soaking into his skin. Stiles is shivering against him, trying so hard not to thrust against the kiss of Derek’s lips.
“You’ve been so good, haven’t you, sweetheart? So perfect for daddy.”
Their eyes meet, Stiles’ gaze foggy and a little bit lost. He’s entirely silent now, and Derek’s own blood is thrilling in his veins, singing of power and lust and the hunt.
He slides up Stiles’ body until he’s sticky and smudged, mad with the way their scents intertwine, the blood-slick drag of their dicks. There’s no way Derek’s going to last, orgasm already burning at the base of his spine.
“Fuck, baby boy, come on, give it to me, give me everything.”
His palm cups the length of their cocks, jerking them with tight, dirty pulls. No finesse, the head of Stiles’ dick catching against Derek’s foreskin as he fucks into the clench of his own fist.
Derek stretches his other hand down, driving his fingers against the plug still clenched tight in Stiles’ hole. It isn’t more than two or three thrusts before Stiles breaks with an indrawn breath and a shudder. He’s so quiet, mouth wide and wet against the muscle of Derek’s shoulder.
Derek can’t stop, not now, he’s so goddamn close, caught on a razor-fine edge, rutting frantically. He can’t- fuck, fuck, he can’t, and then a fragile, over-sensitized whimper slips out of Stiles, buried in Derek’s flesh as human teeth pierce skin, and the scent of his own blood rips through the air.
And he’s coming, understanding suddenly why Stiles has been so silent, because this, it’s too much, Jesus, turning himself inside out in front of a room full of people and Stiles, Stiles who’s staring at him with wide eyes and blood-smeared lips.
Everything is spread across Derek’s face, he knows, and he’s shaking with more than the force of his orgasm.
It’s Stiles, like always, who takes the first step; who leans his forehead gently against Derek’s, breathing in and out until the words fall quietly in the space between them.
“Love you, Derek.”
With careful, steady fingers, he reaches to undo the restraints, folding to his knees without taking his eyes from Stiles. The last buckle falls away and he gathers Stiles into his arms, tucking him close.
“I love you too, baby boy.”