
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/935328.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      BDSM, D/s, Master/Slave, Edgeplay, Milking, Sensory_Deprivation
  Series:
      Part 1 of Silent_Sundays
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-08-21 Words: 6580
****** Silent Sunday ******
by mshkfk
Summary
     Stiles and Derek get Sundays to themselves, and they do things just a
     little bit different than normal.
Notes
     This has been floating in my head for months, and I finally got it
     hammered out. I see them grounding each other, and I think it's
     something both of them need.
     Unfortunately I'm beta-less at the moment, so any and all mistakes
     are mine.
     Stiles is still 17 in this and the age of consent is 18 in
     California. The warnings have been changed to reflect that.
See the end of the work for more notes
Stiles likes Sunday mornings. And Sunday afternoons. And Sunday nights. Hell,
Stiles just likes Sundays, period.
This is new, actually. He spent a couple weeks hating Sundays, because they’re
silent.
When they started doing this... thing, calming Stiles’ mind, Derek instituted
Silent Sundays. At least, that’s what Stiles calls them in his head.
After Jackson and the kanima, the Alpha Pack, and the thing with Peter again,
they’re all pretty wrung out. They don’t go their separate ways, but they all
need a little time to regroup.
Stiles, who has better Google-fu skills than any ten people he knows (except
maybe Danny), knows what he is. Years of research and porn taught him a little
bit about himself that even Scott doesn't know. Despite a mouth that can’t seem
to keep him out of trouble, submission comes naturally to him. His dad taught
him never to accept anything, to question everything, but what he really wants
is to take orders and just obey. With a little sass, of course. Because hey,
he’s still himself.
He and Derek kind of fell into--whatever this is--when Derek found the porn on
his laptop one night. Derek, as it turns out, has had a bit of experience
taking the dominant role in a previous relationship. So when Stiles grudgingly
confirms that he’s interested in trying some stuff out, Derek is amenable.
They’ve worked their way from simple orders during sex, to non-sexual orders,
to whole days, to full time 24/7. Stiles is not the perfect submissive; he’s
loud, he’s mouthy, he doesn’t always listen to orders, and sometimes he invites
punishment this way because he can’t just ask for it.
Derek doesn’t seem to mind, though, which is pretty good for Stiles. Because
who wants a boring, obedient sub?
Sunday, though, is the one day of the week where Stiles will blindly obey.
Sunday is their day, when everyone in the pack does their own thing and leaves
Stiles and Derek the hell alone unless it’s an Emergency (with a capital E.
Small-e emergencies don’t warrant interruption).
For the first couple weeks, Stiles couldn’t obey the first rule of the day. Who
spends a whole day not talking? Who, with ADHD, spends a whole day not talking?
Stiles was pretty certain, at the time, that Derek just wanted an excuse to
punish him. Now, though, he knows that it’s to help settle him. ADHD has his
brain going a million miles an hour, a million different ways.
Sundays mean he gets to sink deep into subspace and only worry about what Derek
wants.
When he wakes up, Stiles can feel the sunlight hit his face. He stretches
luxuriously, arms up over his head, toes pointed down, back arched, before
curling up against Derek’s side.
Derek's already awake and watching Stiles, and they just lay in bed together
until Stiles has the urge to relieve his bladder. He taps Derek’s arm twice,
and Derek nods his permission.
“Go ahead.”
Stiles rolls out of bed and pads into the bathroom, leaving the door open. When
he comes back into the room, Derek is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting
for him. Stiles drops to his knees between Derek’s spread thighs and waits.
Derek’s large hand comes up to cup the back of his neck, fingers resting just
above his collar. They’d had to have a long discussion about what it meant,
what kind of step it signified, and Stiles is content with the end result. It’s
not about Derek bossing him around and making him cook and clean. Stiles’
submission is entirely based on trusting Derek’s judgement. Sure, he still
argues, but both of them have gotten better at planning the fights against the
supernatural shitstorm that now consumes Stiles’ life. What he doesn’t fight
Derek on is almost everything anymore. He knows Derek is looking out for him
and that’s where the trust comes in. Stiles trusts him implicitly and that’s
all that matters.
Derek breaks his reverie by pressing a kiss to Stiles’ forehead and murmuring,
“Breakfast,” in his ear.
Stiles doesn’t always cook, but when he does, it’s an all-out affair. He leans
into Derek’s hand at the back of his neck before standing up and making his way
out to the kitchen. Waffles, sausage, bacon, toast, hashbrowns, and fresh
orange juice are all on the menu for the morning and Derek comes down to help
after he showers.
He saunters into the kitchen naked as the day he was born, and that makes
Stiles love Sundays even more. Derek immediately goes to work on the potatoes,
peeling and shredding them on the grater.
Stiles has this down to a fine art, frying the potatoes, sausage, and bacon,
cooking the waffles, toasting the bread, and getting everything on the plate at
the same time. Syrup is set out with butter, salt and pepper. All the food is
placed on a large platter and set at Derek’s seat at the table. As soon as
Stiles is finished moving the pans to the sink, he sinks down next to Derek’s
chair on a pillow to soften the blow to his knees.
Derek watches him and runs his fingers through Stiles’ hair. His fingers
tighten just a little and he tilts Stiles’ head back so Derek can slide a long
strip of black fabric over his eyes and tie it behind his head. Now blind to
the world, Stiles shifts a little and waits for Derek to feed him.
They haven’t used a blindfold in a while. Stiles can roll with the punches, and
eagerly nibbles at the food from Derek’s hand, sucking and licking the fingers
that feed him. He’s hand-fed frequently, though, so the mess they make is
minimal. They have hashbrowns down to a science. Even the syrup doesn’t drip
when Derek transfers pancake from his plate to Stiles’ mouth.
Since Stiles cooks, Derek cleans up after breakfast, leaving Stiles kneeling on
his cushion. Stiles can hear the water running, can hear Derek arranging the
dishes in the order he prefers to do them. They don’t have a dishwasher,
because Derek is “spartan” (his words) and a “giant tightwad” (Stiles’ words).
Before he gets started, Stiles hears Derek leave the room, the soft padding of
his bare feet against the wood floor is easy enough to focus on as he wanders
into their bedroom. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but when he comes back,
Derek is crouching down (Stiles can just tell, even without physically seeing
him), reaching for his hands.
He doesn’t resist, letting Derek bind soft leather cuffs around his wrists and
then he shifts so he can hook them behind his back with a D-ring. Derek presses
a kiss to the palm of each hand before he stands and walks back over to the
sink.
Stiles flexes in his cuffs, testing. He knows he doesn’t have much room to work
with, and it doesn’t bother him. He still has some movement. He’s okay with
that.
He waits, patiently listening to Derek’s wash-rinse-dry routine. Months ago, he
would’ve been shifting restlessly, vibrating with energy, whining to move, to
do anything. Now, he knows how to sink into himself and just wait for Derek.
It doesn’t take too long, as it turns out. There really weren’t that many
dishes, and once they’re put away, Derek touches Stiles’ shoulder and walks out
into the living room. Stiles shifts to stand and follow. Even though he’s
blindfolded, he knows enough to go slowly and he can make it to the couch
without bumping into anything.
Because Derek is spartan.
He finds another cushion on the floor next to Derek, so he kneels again and
leans against Derek’s leg.
Derek’s fingers trace along his neck and back, and Stiles can’t know for sure,
but he’d wager good money over bad that Derek is reading. As soon as he closes
his eyes behind the blindfold, blacking out the grey light of the blindfold,
Derek moves his hand off Stiles and leans forward. Stiles doesn’t move with
him, but waits patiently until he’s told what to do next.
He doesn’t have long to wait.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Derek murmurs in his ear, and the blindfold is
removed.
Stiles obeys, keeps his eyes closed, and is actually surprised when he feels
Derek pushing earplugs into his ears. This only means one thing.
The sensory deprivation hood is three-fold. Stiles can feel the small penis gag
at his lips and he opens his mouth, accepting it as Derek pushes it in. The
leather hood slides on, but not without a little effort, and then Derek is
lacing it up the back. He feels the buckles being locked into place, and that
is exactly all it takes before Stiles is blind, deaf, and speechless. Before he
sits back, Derek slides one hand down to Stiles’ and Stiles shifts his hand
within Derek's, letting him know he’s okay with his hand signal.
They’ve only used the hood twice, and both times were when Stiles was
recovering from panic attacks. It’s a sure-fire way to ground him and force him
to rely solely on Derek for everything. With his hands bound behind his back,
he’s completely vulnerable and defenseless. He can’t hear anything, even if
Derek were to place headphones over the hood and blast his ipod at full volume.
It’s a very well-insulated hood, and the ear plugs took away anything that
might get through otherwise. The only outlet is the nose, which really only
leaves Stiles with his senses of touch and smell.
He knows, though, that the only way Derek would ever put the hood on is if he’s
absolutely sure there’s no threat to Stiles anywhere. So Stiles sits back on
his heels, leans against Derek again, and floats on his own thoughts, just
waiting.
Derek could be doing any number of things, but the only thing Stiles has felt
him do is shift once in a while, and every now and then, he feels Derek’s
fingers tracing where his collar meets the skin of his neck. This is the most
peaceful Stiles has been in weeks, and it’s apparent that Derek knew he needed
this.
Stiles has absolutely no way of telling how much time passes, because he’s
zoning in and out of consciousness. Every so often, he feels Derek move his
hand away, only to bring it back seconds later. He never gets up from the
couch, but then Derek doesn’t necessarily need to move as often as normal
people do. Stiles is of the opinion that Derek could play one of those fake
statues that people see in big cities. He’d pay good money to see Derek be The
Thinker.
It could be half an hour, it could be two hours, Stiles isn’t sure, but the
next thing he knows, he feels Derek press on his shoulder. Stiles stands and
waits, because there’s really no way he can move without guidance while he’s in
the hood. His sense of balance is a bit thrown off, especially with his hands
behind his back.
Derek knows that, though, and he knows that Stiles has had his wrists together
for a while now. The D-ring is removed and Derek takes Stiles’ left arm and
stretches it in front of him, then out to the side, then lets it drop. He does
the same thing with Stiles’ right arm before he presses a hand to his shoulder,
this time keeping it firmly planted there and guiding him back to his knees.
The hand stays, still, and Stiles falls to his hands, shifting to get
comfortable.
Derek must step away, because his hand is gone, and it’s a couple minutes
before Stiles feels the hand reappear, this time on his ass. Derek spanks him
hard, right across both cheeks, and Stiles jerks with the sensation. It was
definitely unexpected, though not unwelcome. Spankings are not-so-secretly
Stiles’ thing. More than once, he’s been unable to sit comfortably for days,
because Derek spends hours spanking him bare-handed.
This time, though, it’s only five swats before a lubed finger is slipping into
him, testing and stretching a bit. Stiles is still pretty open from the night
before, so he doubts he needs much, though he doesn’t quite know what Derek’s
going to be putting in him.
The finger is withdrawn, and before Stiles has the opportunity to mourn its
loss, it’s replaced by two fingers, Derek scissoring them, and then curling in
exactly the right place to send Stiles shoving back onto them. He sees sparks
behind his eyes, but they’re gone almost immediately.
Stiles wants to groan.
But then he feels something distinctly not Derek’s fingers pressing into him.
It has a wide head and Stiles tries to relax as Derek applies more pressure to
get it into him. After a little more pressing in on his part, and a bit more
pushing down on Stiles’ part, it slides in and Stiles can feel the base of it
against his hole. A dildo. Not the biggest in their collection, if Derek only
used two fingers (and barely that) to stretch him out, but not the smallest. He
can feel it sitting perfectly inside him, and Stiles knows if (when) he shifts,
it’s going to make him feel good.
Derek’s hands are massaging his ass and Stiles drops his head, biting back the
urge to moan against the gag. It feels amazing, but he knows they’ve barely
gotten started, so he’s nowhere near orgasm territory. He holds his position
until Derek removes his hands entirely and he all but sags with relief. Stiles
shifts minutely and incrementally until he’s back up with his elbows locked
straight. As soon as he’s in control of himself again, he feels Derek’s foot on
his back. And then his other foot.
Aha. He’s being used as furniture.
Stiles breathes in and out through the nose holes in his hood, letting himself
relax as Derek uses him as a footrest. He’s never been used like this before,
but Stiles isn’t going to object. He’s here for Derek’s pleasure, and he
ultimately knows Derek gives Stiles what he needs. This is simply another
avenue to that peace.
Stiles can hear his own heart beating in his head, because he can’t hear
anything else. It's something to focus on. Derek’s feet don’t shift on his
back, and he’s absolutely blind, not a single speck of light being allowed
through the hood. He drifts off, not sleeping, but not really aware, simply
staying put for Derek. He doesn’t think about work this week, or Scott and
Allison’s on-again/off-again relationship, or his dad's doctor’s appointment.
He doesn’t really think about anything. He just... waits.
Or, he waits, until what Stiles thought was just a dildo suddenly surges to
life in his ass and begins sending vibrations through his prostate.
Shit.
It’s enough to make Stiles jerk, but he knows better than to try to grind back
onto it. There’s nothing there, no pressure that’s going to make things better.
All it’s going to do is result in punishment, which could mean no orgasm at
all.
So Stiles recovers and holds his position, keeping Derek’s feet level and
steady. He breathes deeply, letting it all go.
It’s more than a relief when it stops. Stiles doesn’t know if Derek has a
remote or if it has a timer, but the vibrator just stops, and it’s a godsend.
All he wants to do is orgasm, but Derek isn’t ready for that yet, if he’s
planning on letting Stiles do so at all.
Stiles is allowed three orgasms a week (which was negotiated. Stiles wanted
seven, Derek wanted one. Stiles feels Derek won this particular battle.) and
his last was on Friday. So it hasn’t been that long, but for a nineteen-year-
old mated to an exceptionally hot, slightly older werewolf, it’s been forever.
Stiles sucks at the penis gag in his mouth, trying to do anything to take his
mind off his cock and how it isn’t getting any attention. He knows Derek can
hear him, knows exactly what he’s doing and probably why he’s doing it, and he
shouldn’t find it surprising when the vibrator starts up again.
It’s all he can do not to shout. But that would earn him punishments, and
Stiles is trying his best to be good.
Unfortunately for him, Derek is trying his best to get Stiles to misbehave,
because as soon as the vibrations kick on again, Derek’s feet move off him and
his hand wraps around Stiles’ dick.
Fucking God shit damn this isn’t going to end well. He doesn’t have permission,
can’t get it with a deprivation hood on, and Derek is drawing him nearer and
nearer to orgasm. He strokes at an even pace, swiping his thumb across the head
each time he upstrokes, and twisting on the downstroke. Stiles is nearing the
point of no return in seconds.
And then the hand is gone and the vibrations stop and Stiles doesn’t know
whether to cry in relief or frustration. He breathes in and out, bowing his
head to try to get back to equilibrium. It takes longer this time, obviously,
and he has to call to mind thoughts of Deaton naked with Finstock, Jackson and
Scott, and his uncle Benny, who once tried to show Stiles his family jewels.
Once he’s settled again, he pushes those thoughts out of his mind, because
those are disturbing images only meant to alleviate his lust. Now, he focuses
on Derek’s hand on his, lifting it off the carpet.
Stiles makes the “okay” signal into Derek’s hand and then his shoulder is
touched, and Stiles wants to whimper, because he has to shift back up to his
kneel.
Fucking vibrator.
Derek has him lay down on his back, finally getting pressure off his knees, and
he relaxes as he feels Derek disappear again. Stiles lays with his arms at his
sides, his legs straight on the floor, waiting for his return.
It’s a few minutes longer than Stiles expected, but when Derek does come back,
he learns why. Derek unbuckles the gag from the hood and gently tugs it out of
Stiles’ mouth. He’s shifted until he’s sitting upright and Derek presses a
straw against his lips. Stiles takes it and wrinkles his nose.
He hates Gatorade.
But Derek keeps his fluid intake up when they do scenes, which is probably
healthy, because the last thing Stiles is thinking about is drinking anything.
He drinks until Derek pulls the straw out of his mouth and presses the gag back
in, locking it into place. He then presses Stiles back onto the floor.
Stiles assumes he must set the bottle aside and when Derek’s touch comes back,
he’s got a length of rope that he’s winding around Stiles. His arms are pulled
up over his head and tied to the legs of the couch. His feet are pulled up and
over his body so that he’s bent in half, and they’re actually tied to his wrist
cuffs. Derek then weaves lengths of what he’s assuming is the dyed purple hemp
that they ordered online. He can feel patterns of kinbaku being woven across
his chest, stomach, and up his legs.
Stiles enjoys the feel of Derek pressing knots into his skin, loves the feel of
his hands anywhere on him. As soon as he’s done, the hands are gone. And still,
not for long. He feels Derek press a kiss to Stiles’ temple, then feels one of
Derek’s hands around his again. Stiles signals okay. This is about as “okay” as
he’s ever been. He’s happily sinking deeper into subspace, ready and willing to
please his Master.
They’ve gone over terms before (they’ve gone over everything before, knowing
hard limits and soft limits for each other. Stiles really doesn’t have any, but
Derek won’t do anything with fire.) and Derek doesn’t so much have a preference
as Stiles does. Stiles not only gets a thrill out of calling Derek “Master,”
but he also uses it to separate his two Dereks. He trusts both implicitly, but
one is private and only for him, and one is available to his pack and anyone
else who might need him, Stiles included. So Stiles dichotomizes him into two
parts: Derek and Master. The pack only gets Derek, but Stiles gets both.
He’s jerked back into awareness when pain rips across his chest, centering at
his left nipple. Stiles had no warning, no clue that the clamp was coming. It
feels like the Japanese clover.
Stiles bites down as the second clamp closes over his right nipple. The chain
linking them is tied to rope that is then tied taut to his big toes. Any
flexing of his feet will jerk the clamps and send pain radiating through him
again.
He concentrates on his breathing to minimize the effect of the clamps on his
nipples, sucking on the gag again to get his bearings.
And of course, that’s when the vibrator starts again.
He bites back a yelp and tries desperately not to react. In all actuality,
there’s not much he can do anyway. He’s tied so tightly that he can’t really
even shove his hips down. So he just lays there and lets the vibrations sing
through him, and he hopes to God Derek isn’t going to--
Oh shit.
It’s a double whammy of stimulation on top of the vibrator. Derek’s hand wraps
around his cock again, squeezing tight. Simultaneously, what has to be a
feather is dancing across Stiles’ feet, causing him to tug at his nipples hard.
Life is unfair. Derek knows he has the most ticklish feet on the planet and the
light dancing across his skin has him reacting before he can even think about
stopping it. But Derek strokes him through it, and eventually he drops the
feather entirely. He would be happy for the relief, but Stiles can feel his
orgasm building as Derek’s skillful hand works up and down, the vibrator
pressing firmly against his prostate. Fuck.
He lies there, hands opening and closing into fists, unable to grab onto
anything to anchor himself. He can’t come without Master’s permission, but
dammit, he’s close.
Without warning, Derek’s hand disappears and Stiles tries to stay as still as
he can, because all he wants to do is push his hips up, search for those
fingers to finish himself off. But then the vibrator stops, too, and all Stiles
can do is breathe and try to get himself back together.
Once he stops concentrating on his throbbing dick, he can see Derek’s plan for
exactly what it is. They haven’t played with edging, despite Stiles listing it
at the top of his to-do list. Now, as he’s laying here, fresh off his second
near-gasm, he can’t figure out why he wanted to try it. All he wants to do is
come and he can’t.
He flexes his fingers, tries to relax his hands, and really, he tries to relax
all of himself. He’s wound tight with want, with need, and he has no idea
what’s coming next.
Derek lets him think on that for a while. Stiles loses himself in calming down,
in breathing, in waiting for Master’s next move. Stiles tugs a little at his
nipples with his toes to keep himself grounded, but mostly he just lets go and
waits.
Derek’s next move is to edge him repeatedly, three times in quick succession,
barely giving him a chance to recoup between the vibrations and handjobs. He
revels in the feeling of knowing that Derek just needs to listen to his heart,
can probably smell when he’s about to hit that point of no return. He always
backs off just as Stiles is about ready to careen over the edge.
Derek noses over the edge of his collar and nuzzles his neck, and Stiles can
feel him breathing against his skin. Derek’s hands ghost up his sides and when
the nipple clamps are removed without more warning than that, he bites into the
gag again to stay silent. It hurts worse when he massages them, bringing blood
rushing back to the tortured nubs.
After that, Derek unties his legs and rests them back on the ground. His wrists
are released from the couch and Derek presses up on his back, so Stiles sits
up. Once again, the gag is unbuckled and pulled out so Derek can feed him
gatorade. This time his sips are interspersed with tiny bites of cheese and
rolled lunch meat. Stiles supposes he didn’t really realize he was even hungry,
and that’s probably why it’s good Derek’s in charge. Stiles has this tendency
to lose track of time altogether and to skip meals entirely.
After, Stiles’ gag is inserted and buckled, and he almost sighs happily. It’s a
very strange feeling, being this content and free of distraction and worry. But
there’s a reason they do this, there’s a reason Sundays are so important.
Stiles is pretty sure he’d have had a meltdown by now were it not for Silent
Sundays.
His Master is so smart.
Derek wants him hogtied this time, which isn’t Stiles' favorite position, but
then, this isn’t his choice (or he would’ve had at least one orgasm by now).
Derek secures Stiles’ wrists behind his back with the rope, winding it up and
back down his arms, locking them tightly together before looping it down to his
ankles and bringing his feet back. Those are then secured with more rope to a
ring on the back of his hood.
When Derek’s finished, Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek, he flashes his “okay”
sign. Derek’s hand finds his anyway and he squeezes, and Stiles tries to
squeeze back, but he really can’t get any purchase because of the angle his
wrist is bent.
As soon as his hand’s gone, the vibrator switches on and Stiles makes a
concerted effort to not rub himself against the carpet of Derek’s living room.
One does not want rugburn on one’s most private parts.
Stiles concentrates on staying still, breathing, and not thinking sexy things
about Derek, or about orgasms, or about Derek and orgasms. This proves
impossible when Derek’s hand lands hard on his left cheek. Stiles can only
think Master, Derek, Master, Master, Master Derek while both cheeks are
repeatedly subjected to smack after smack after smack.
Stiles is pretty sure this is some insane combination of heaven and hell. He
loves it when Derek spanks him, loves feeling the vibrator buzzing away against
his prostate, but for the love of all things holy, he wants to come. It’s been
hours, but Derek is relentless in withholding his permission.
Stiles idly wonders if it’s possible to die of blue balls.
He’s probably exaggerating, but... maybe not.
The spanking goes past the initial stinging to where Stiles knows it’s going to
last for days. He’ll more than likely spend all day Monday standing, and
possibly Tuesday, and Derek’s showing no sign of letting up. The pain is
radiating, crawling deep into his muscles, leaving Stiles aching somewhere
other than his dick. In fact, the pain is grounding him in a way that even
Derek backing off after edging him hasn’t seemed to do. He’s still aware of his
want to come, but instead of that being his focus, he wants to keep still and
feel every blow against what he’s sure is his bright red ass. Stiles won’t be
surprised if he wakes up to find actual bruises there in the morning, which
wouldn’t be the first time, and more than likely won’t be the last.
It’s a pleasantly uncomfortable feeling not to be able to sit for days on end
without significant pain. Stiles knows he’s weird.
He’s long lost count of how many times Derek’s spanked him so far, and there’s
absolutely no way for him to keep track of how long it lasts, but when he
finally stops and rubs his fingertips over the beaten flesh, Stiles sucks at
the gag because it feels like sandpaper on his abraded skin. Jesus H. Christ on
a crutch it’s good.
Derek leaves him with the vibrator still buzzing away and Stiles zones out
until he feels himself being being untied. The vibrator must’ve shut off while
he drifted on thoughts about his Master’s desire to see him bound and aching
(in so many ways more than one), but it surprisingly went unnoticed until Derek
decided to pull it out of Stiles entirely.
Stiles can’t hear it, but he feels like it squelches as it leaves him, which
isn’t the most dignified sound on the planet. Then again, he’s been hogtied in
a deprivation hood and spanked very thoroughly for the past... however long.
Dignified isn’t exactly an available option for him at this point.
What surprises him is that not only is the gag unbuckled and removed again, but
all the buckles are undone and very slowly, the hood unlaced and slipped off.
The earplugs come out, too, and it feels weird to hear the silence of the loft.
It's different to the silence of his own head.
Stiles knows enough to keep his eyes closed against the harsh light waiting for
him, because despite not having been able to see for the past couple hours,
he’s pretty sure he’s still facing Derek’s windows. He’s got a mildly accurate
sense of direction.
He blinks quickly, adjusting to having his sight back, and when he finally is
able to focus and not just see blurry shapes, he’s shocked to see that it’s
dark outside. He works his jaw a bit, which is sore from having the gag in all
day. He’s surprised, because he knew he’d lost time under the hood, but the
whole day? It’s an incredible feeling to have been down for so long.
Stiles looks up at Derek for the first time in hours and bites his lip. His
Master is a sexy, sexy beast.
Derek, who’s kneeling beside him, having just removed him from his bondage,
stands and places a hand to his shoulder. Stiles stands and pauses a minute to
regain his balance before he follows Derek into the bathroom.
Huh.
The only clue as to what lays ahead is their rubber vacuum bag lying on the
floor.
Stiles blinks.
So many kinks in one day. It’s kind of heady.
When Derek presses his hand to Stiles’ wrist, Stiles sinks to his knees and
crawls to the bag. There’s no easy way to slither in, but he wiggles and
scooches inside, eventually lining his mouth up with the air tube. He bites
down on it so he can hold it easily when Derek eventually sucks the air out of
the bag. He notices the plug Derek left inside the bag as Stiles crawled in and
he grabs it as he lays down. Now that he’s settled, it’s easy to shift his leg
a bit and press the plug into himself. It slides in easily after having the
vibrator in his ass all day. The plug isn’t big, but it curves a little and,
just like the vibe, presses right against his prostate.
Master is a very evil, evil werewolf.
He’s not particularly surprised when Derek uses the available hole to also tug
his cock out. It’s a small hole that Stiles’s dick easily fills and he kind of
feels a little strange, being sealed in a rubber bag with only a breathing tube
and his cock sticking out.
But not strange enough that it doesn’t feel awesome when the air is gone and
he’s trapped with his arms at his sides, unable to do much more than wiggle his
fingers and toes.
He doubts he’s just going to lay there against the bathroom floor, and he’s
proven right when he hears the bathroom tub turn on. Interesting. Master must
be working through a list of his own tonight. Which Stiles is totally on board
with. He likes crossing things off lists.
The tap shuts off after a few minutes. Stiles can only breathe in and out of
his mouth, blinking against the black rubber now flush with his face.
He can feel Derek lift him in a bridal carry and he’s gently set in the tub.
Stiles is floating, but he can’t actually feel the water, so he’s floating.
Drifting. Literally.
Mind? Blown.
Stiles tries not to get excited when he feels Derek’s hand wrap around him
again. He’s pretty sure he’s been good enough to warrant an orgasm tonight, but
he’s never quite sure on what Derek’s requirement tonight will be. Has he met
it? Does he still have work to do? Inquiring minds (Stiles’ mostly) want to
know.
Derek is rolling something--a condom??-- down his shaft, and Stiles has to
admit, he’s mildly confused by this turn of events. They don’t use condoms,
except--
Oh.
Shit.
Except when it’s not a condom at all.
Stiles wants to wiggle and buck his hips and whine and cry out, and nothing’s
even happened yet. This is going to be so good, and so very, very bad.
Derek thumps his chest lightly five times and Stiles might actually cry.
Derek’s hooked him up to the sucking machine, a machine that Stiles likens to
The Machine from The Princess Bride. He feels like this thing takes years off
his life, despite how good it feels in the beginning. Because the thing is,
Master never lets it stop at one orgasm. Usually it’s three, but with the five
taps to Stiles’ abdomen, he knows he’s expected to come five times before the
machine is shut off.
Fuck.
Derek must flip the switch, because he’s startled a little when harsh sucking
envelops his dick. Oh, it’s most definitely not unpleasant, not at first. In
fact, Stiles is more than content to ride the wave of the first orgasm as it
builds in his groin with the firm insistence of the machine.
He can’t buck, he can’t move again, because then he’d spill water, and he
doesn’t really want to know what his punishment will be if he does that. He’s
already got a bruised bottom and five orgasms to squeeze out.
True to form, after being teased all day, his first orgasm hits him light a
freight train and he’s sucking in air as the machine continues to try to pull
more out of him.
It will.
Apparently his refractory period today is diminished, because he doesn’t even
get soft before he’s on edge again, listening to his blood roaring in his ears
due to the rubber and the water. It’s... solitary, and Stiles likes knowing
that Derek’s watching him struggle to stay still through his orgasms.
Watching isn’t all Derek’s doing, though. Usually Stiles is on his own with the
machine, but Derek must not be able to resist, because he feels a finger
running over the underside of his dick through the condom tube encasing it. It
feels amazing and Stiles wants to press into it without moving, but it’s
impossible, because he can’t really even shift his hips like that. Plus, Derek
would withdraw the finger as soon as he even thought Stiles might move toward
it.
Damn werewolf senses.
Instead, Stiles feels the feather-light touch and bites the tube for a moment,
because it’s almost enough to kick him over the edge again.
It is enough when Derek kicks the suction up a notch and Stiles is powerless to
stop it. His second orgasm is just as mind-blowing as the first, sucked
completely out of him. Oversensitivity is an issue on round three, and Stiles
really has to struggle against moving and bucking against the overwhelming
feeling.
He knows it’s only going to get worse with each impending orgasm, and it does.
His third orgasm takes three times as long as his first two took combined, and
the fourth takes even longer.
Stiles is delirious after his fourth orgasm in a row and quite unsure of his
own ability to do what Derek’s asking him to do. He doubt he has any semen left
inside his poor over-used balls, and he has no idea what Derek expects to get
out of him, other than torture.
Stiles would be concerned that five orgasms in one day are more than he’s
normally allotted in a week-long span, but he’s fairly sure his brain’s been
sucked out of his dick by this point. The machine must be going for the rest of
his organs, because it doesn’t stop. It gets more intense, and Stiles is on the
verge of admitting defeat. He doesn’t think his erection’s gone down the whole
time the machine’s been on, but Derek apparently has one last trick in store to
get that orgasm forced out of him, because Stiles forgot about the plug. It
starts vibrating just as Derek wraps his hand around his cock and squeezes.
Stiles doesn’t make a sound, but it’s a close thing. He doesn’t move either,
which is a miracle in and of itself. All the combined sensations send him over
into his last orgasm and Stiles sags as the machine is shut off. Blissful
relief is not an overstatement when the vibrations are gone as well.
Master lifts him out of the water and unzips his bag. Stiles gingerly and
slowly pushes himself out of the bag, moving to kneel at Derek’s feet. Derek
doesn’t say a word, instead opting to shift Stiles so his face is pressed
against the cool tile. It’s a much easier position to remove the plug. It comes
out with an audible pop and he pushes himself back up while Derek tosses it
into the tub. They’ll clean their toys later. Probably tomorrow. Tomorrow is
likely.
When they move into the bedroom, Stiles is relieved to see the clock on their
dresser showing 12:58 AM.
He climbs into bed beside Derek, the place where all of this started more than
twelve hours beforehand, and he snuggles into his chest.
“I love you,” Stiles whispers into his skin.
He can feel Derek sniffing his hair. Stiles doesn’t get it, but apparently it’s
been a thing since they got together. “Was everything okay?”
That makes him sit up. Which he mostly does under protest, because this has
been a taxing day on his body and he’s in bed, dammit. He shouldn’t have to sit
up. But Derek just asked a dumb question, and Stiles needs to show him exactly
how stupid it is.
“I’m pretty sure I came five times. I’m shocked--shocked I say!--I’m still
conscious. What do you mean, was it okay?”
Derek’s hand comes up so he can trace his fingertips over Stiles’ cheek. “I
mean,” he starts, “that I did more than I normally do. A lot more. That was
about a month’s worth of kinks in one day, Stiles. You’re okay?”
Stiles just stares at him.
“Yes?” Derek raises an eyebrow. When Stiles doesn’t answer, “...No...?”
“Yes, you idiot. I loved it. It was exactly what I needed. And I don’t know how
you know that every time, but you do.”
Derek pulls him back down, into a simple kiss, and then lets Stiles rest
against his chest again.
“I just read you well.”
Stiles closes his eyes and curls into his Master a little bit more.
Because yes, he really does.
End Notes
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