Chapter Text
He’s already playing with a fidget toy in one hand, but Stiles can’t keep his other hand from tapping a beat on his leg as he watches YouTube and waits anxiously for midnight.
If you’d asked him two days ago, he would have said that the Words aren’t important. That finding your soulmate is so rare anyway and most of the First Words are just such completely innocuous phrases like “hello” or “Would you like fries with that?” that it’s almost impossible to narrow down the candidates. You still have to, you know, figure out if you actually like your soulmate, platonically or romantically or whatever. Just because fate’s doing it’s part to help doesn’t mean everything ends up happily ever after. It’s possible for your soulmate to die before ever delivering the words to you. Or you could be doomed to roam the earth, searching the eyes of every fast food employee that offers you fries. Or you could just forget about it and live your life like normal.
And you don’t need a soulmate to be happy, anyway. His mom and dad hadn’t been, and look how that turned out. And sure, maybe somewhere among the 7 billion other people their soulmates are lonely as fuck, but more than likely they’re making a go of it. Or better, getting married and having the 2.5 and the white picket fence. Or, you know, ending up with a Stiles and frontotemporal dementia.
As always, thinking of his mom gives him a sad little pang, and he bends a knee up, hugging it to his chest.
So yeah, he hadn’t planned on anything like a First Words ceremony or reveal party or hell, even staying up to midnight on the day of his eighteenth birthday to watch them appear. They’d be a nice surprise for morning, and hopefully they wouldn’t be as embarrassing as Scott’s “Hey, asshole!" Although he had totally deserved that after hitting Allison’s car in the parking lot on her first day of school.
Anyway, he hadn’t planned on staying up, but then he had lost track of time getting through calc homework, and then he hadn’t been able to sleep, and then it had been 11:55 and he’d given up the pretense of trying to fall asleep and had sat up in bed, playing with his fidget toy and watching YouTube videos.
The words are going to appear on his left forearm, assuming he has one, which, despite his childhood hijinks, he does. Crazy stuff, fate magic. Stiles had once watched a ten hour Netflix documentary on how amputation and unformed limbs affected the Words. And had then spent the next three weeks ignoring all school work and researching that instead. Only a parent-teacher conference with his dad and mentions of “grief counselor” and “healthier coping mechanisms” had pulled him back. He could deal, and his dad didn’t need more stress.
His dad bought him a beautiful leather bracer for his birthday present. Gave it to him yesterday. So it’s waiting, especially if the words are not something he wants the general public to see. People rarely go without their bracers anyway; the words are private, the human heart far too vulnerable and easily manipulated to really be open to sharing them with the world. Nearly everyone, from celebrities to politicians to his teachers and neighbors wear bracers of various fashions daily.
Those who don’t have generally either already found their mate, or are just the type that don’t care.
Stiles had always figured he’d be one of the latter, but as the seconds tick down to midnight, and the nerves pile up in his stomach, the bracer seems like a comfort he’s definitely going to indulge in.
His phone pings the hour, and as he watches, the words scroll over his left forearm in a steady script of blocky capital letters, as if his soulmate has taken his arm and is writing across it in Sharpie.
What’s your safe word?
Stiles frowns. “Huh,” he says aloud into the quiet of his room.
The handwriting seems to offer no clues, but he knew it wouldn't anyway. Stiles has read the research papers of a dozen studies on First Words and handwriting analysis, mostly because he'd needed to prove Scott wrong and get him to unstick his head from his ass and recognize Allison as his soulmate. Fate magic is tricky and unpredictable that way; well, the scientists all couch it in different terms that eventually boil down to “tricky and unpredictable.” It's sent more than its fair share of scientists crying back to easier fields, like nuclear chemistry or astrophysics. So no, the handwriting doesn't capture his attention.
It’s the content that has him pulling over his laptop and going into deep “Stiles mode” as Scott like to calls it.
So maybe he never really did get rid of that unhealthy coping mechanism. Maybe he just got better about doing his schoolwork adequately enough to cover for the fact that he wasn’t sleeping at night but diving headlong into some obscure rabbithole of research.
He’s fairly sure the context is sexual, right? But where would one greet another person with the phrase “What’s your safe word?” Seems kind of personal. Seems like someone would ask “What’s your name?” or “Do you want to have sex?” first, you know.
Without a second glance at the glaring red numbers on his clock, he dives facefirst into all the internet has to offer re: safe words.
Several hours later, he sets his laptop aside, buries himself under his covers, and touches his aching cock. Because Jesus Christ.
He still has a ton of research to do, some of which is going to happen in person, just as soon as he can come up with a valid excuse to give everyone for a weekend in San Francisco by himself. Or maybe he can convince Lydia to come with him. He’s already shot off a few texts, but she hasn’t replied yet. Beauty sleep and all that.
He wraps his hand around his dick, shuddering at finally giving in to the growing desire that has been revving inside him since the first few clicks. His laptop is still open to an image of someone, bound and gagged, staring up into the camera from their kneeling position. Stiles finds the idea of control appealing. So little of life can be controlled - your family, your background, your soulmate. This, though.
It’s a quickie. He doesn’t even have time to fondle his balls or play with his ass. A few strokes and he’s coming into a kleenex, groaning quietly so as not to wake his dad. He shuts the laptop and sets it on the floor, finally letting his eyes close for an hour of sleep before his alarm wakes him up.
“What’s your safe word?”
Stiles looks up from his glass of water at the man who’s seated himself on the bar stool next to him. He’s cute, so Stiles offers a smile. It takes less than a second to size him up and determine that the man is probably looking for a sub. Still, that doesn’t preclude him from being Stiles’ soulmate. He did say the magic words after all.
It just so happens that, over the years, Stiles has managed to maneuver himself into a position where hearing his First Words isn’t that much of a shock anymore. And none of them have been The One yet. But this guy looks nice enough, so Stiles gives a little nod.
“Kitsune,” Stiles replies, looking for any recognition at the word.
“Kitsune?” The stranger frowns, calling for a water from the barkeep. “What’s that?”
That would be strike one, buddy.
Doesn’t mean we can’t still have some fun, though.
“It’s a Japanese word. Fox. And someone from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“I suppose that’s a fairly unlikely thing to call out during a scene.”
Stiles raises his water, clinks it against the man’s in silent acknowledgement. He wants to play tonight, after all, even something small. And none of his regular play partners had been available. Besides, sometimes the thought of fresh meat is exciting; learning a partner’s likes and dislikes, learning what makes them go under and what brings them up, and what kind of aftercare they prefer and what kind of persona they like Stiles to adopt. It’s all part of the fun for Stiles.
And sure, it’s a low-key way to search for his soulmate, but that quest was sent to the back burner just as soon as Stiles learned how much fun the kink community was.
In a way, he’d always be grateful to his soulmate, even if he never finds them, because his words are what led him here. Part-owner (! Still a crazy thought to Stiles that anyone is trusting him to be part of any business) of a kink club at twenty-eight. A well-known and respected Dom in the community. He’d made a name for himself here, and a good reputation, by teaching kink classes and bringing in experts from other areas. And a research librarian by day to pay the bills, to boot, because who’s great at turning coping mechanisms into viable careers? This guy.
He falls into an easy banter with the stranger, Kevin, about likes and dislikes, but it becomes clear fairly quickly that Kevin thinks he’s a sub, and that’s strikes two and three. They could maybe have some fun vanilla sex, but that’s not what Stiles is looking for tonight.
“I’m going to make the rounds, Isaac.” He slides his water glass to the bartender, who gives him a small nod.
“Packed house tonight.”
“Must be that two-for-one coupon I put in the papers,” Stiles jokes, though they both know the influx is due to the latest 50 Shades movie being released. They always see a peak of newbies after one of those, and it always requires all hands on deck.
Isaac gives him a mocking salute before turning back to his work, and Stiles begins to walk the club, spinning his keys in his fingers to satisfy his fidgeting habit. He checks in with each dungeon monitor personally, pleased that none of them have any disturbances to report. The public play area is equally drama-free, though certainly not in the scintillating spanking scene happening in one corner. All’s quiet, kind of, in the private play areas, but Stiles doesn’t hear any safe words being ignored or any other signs of trouble. He stops and chats with some regulars about an upcoming rope workshop, and listens to their suggestions about specialty nights. All-in-all, it’s a fairly typical night at the club, the only disappointment being the fact that he struck out on play partners.
He’s moved back to the open play area, watching the spanking work up to a crescendo, when a commotion draws his eye.
“Cora,” a man half-whispers, half-yells, ducking into the public play area from the bar. He freezes, eyes wide at the scene unfolding, and Stiles figures he’s a newbie, too.
Except then he sees something that always tears at his soul, just a little, and that’s the fear of a sub slipping into subdrop. The man drops to his knees, face white as he takes a submissive pose, cowering in front of the Domme that’s working a paddle on her sub’s beautiful red behind.
Stiles double checks the scene, but everything is fine, there. No one has called for a stop, nor made any signal, and the sub is groaning in ecstasy.
But the man on his knees - he’s clearly not okay, and Stiles approaches, letting his footsteps fall deliberately so he won’t scare him.
The man’s hands are clenched at his knees, his head still bowed, his cheeks growing ever paler. Stiles isn’t sure he’s taken a breath since he assumed the position. Whoever this man is, he’s been trained - and then triggered, which makes Stiles sick to his stomach.
He kneels in front of the man, putting them on an equal level. Actually, the man is a little taller than him, even with his hunched back and submissive stance. He refuses to meet Stiles’ eyes, and he’s muttering to himself, though what he’s saying, Stiles can’t make out.
“What’s your safe word?” Stiles blurts out, the words coming to him naturally at this point, and then, belatedly, “Color?”
The man seems to freeze, then shudder, then shake his head as if trying to clear it. “What’s your safe word?” he says back in a mocking tone, though Stiles isn’t sure whether he’s mocking him or himself.
He flinches at the sound of another hit.
“I have a quiet room I can offer. Some hot tea, maybe? Can I give you a hug? We have blankets in the quiet room, too, if you prefer that. Your skin looks a little clammy and I’m worried about subdrop.” Stiles’ need to provide after care for a hurt sub kicks into overdrive, and his verbal diarrhea blurts out of control. “At least let me get you out of here?”
The man is looking at him with big, wide eyes, the pupils dilated in shock. He nods feebly, holding out his hands when Stiles offers to help pull him up. He leans into Stiles. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispers, about three seconds before Stiles grabs a trash can and holds it up for him to spew into.
It’s that his personal space is closer, that’s why he takes the man there and not to the quiet room. He has all the supplies he needs, anyway, and helps the man into a chair. “My name is Stiles, and I’d like to be able to touch you to take care of you. May I do that? Just wiping your face off and stuff. I just want to help you feel better.” He bites his tongue, knowing that his tumult of words is always overwhelming to people who aren’t versed in Stiles-speak.
“I- Um- Sure.” The man sits down on a spanking bench, then flinches when he seems to realize what he’s sitting on.
“I’ve got a chair over here. Facing away from everything. Let me just put stuff away and get you a cloth, okay? And some water.” Stiles keeps up the soothing tone, the talking, as he moves in and out of his small bathroom.
“Stiles?”
He pokes his head back out, pleased that there seems to be a little more color in the man’s face. “Yeah?”
“No, I mean, what kind of a name is Stiles?”
Stiles lets out a little laugh. “One that’s way easier to pronounce than my first name. What can I call you?”
He drags another chair over away from his kink setup and hands a glass of water off, then gently wipes at the man’s face. The man closes his eyes at the touch, but it’s not from relaxation. There are little lines around his eyes and at the corners of his mouth that betray how tense he is.
“Derek,” he replies eventually. “Thanks for, um- I’m not weak, or something.”
“Having a trigger doesn’t make you weak. Everyone has something. You should see me when I see a spider. And like, I know a lot of people say they’re afraid of spiders but they’re not the ones who’ve done the research on just how likely spider bites are and all of the complications from improper care and the possibilities of paralysis or death or-”
“You talk a lot.”
Stiles laughs again, self-deprecating, but appreciative. “I like to fill up the empty spaces, because they make me nervous. I’m sorry that you were triggered here. Unfortunately there’s often something of that nature going on in the play area so it might be best to avoid it in the future.”
Derek takes a drink of water and scoffs. “Oh, believe me, I have every intention of avoiding it in the future. I wasn’t ever planning on coming here, but Cora-” He sits upright, shoving the half-full water glass back at Stiles. “Um, thanks. I need to get back to Cora. I’m better now.”
Stiles stands as Derek does, so he’s there to catch him when Derek wobbles. “Your blood sugar is probably still out of whack. I’ve got some candy stashed in here somewhere, and who’s Cora? Is she in danger? We rarely get trouble here. I like to run a nice, drama-free club.”
“Cora’s my little sister, and this was all her idea. She wasn't going to come out without anyone, and I convinced her to bring me, because I have experience, and- because I don’t want her to get hurt.” Derek makes a move for the door again. “Look, I’m sure this is a very nice place but the kink scene is full of predators and Cora’s inexperienced, and I need to find her.”
Ignoring the inaccurate 'predators' comment for now, Stiles hands a chocolate bar over to Derek, then takes his hand and leads him out of his private rooms. “Come with me. I’m sure she’s fine, but it’ll be faster if we just go to the security room ourselves. I’ve got cameras in all of the public places, and if she’s not just fine in one of those areas, then we can panic, okay? And eat that. Please,” he adds belatedly.
“I’m not being overprotective,” Derek mutters defensively behind him.
“Didn’t say you were,” Stiles murmurs back. “This way." He uses a key card to swipe himself into a small room buzzing with equipment. "Hey, Danny.” He nods at Danny Mahealani, working the security cameras with attention.
“Nice catch with that guy earl- oh, um. Hey, guy from earlier.” Danny’s cheeks darken, looking at Derek, and he turns back to Stiles. “What can I help with, boss?”
“Derek, Danny, Danny, Derek. Derek’s looking for his sister.” Stiles moves out of the way, indicating a seat next to Danny in front of the cameras. He watches as Danny helps Derek scroll through them on the big screen one-by-one, and he’s surprised when his fingers are drawn to the nape of Derek’s neck, to play with the dark, whispy hair there. He draws back right before contact, obviously. He doesn’t have consent, and besides, it’s obvious Derek has trauma.
“There she- is.” Derek pauses, frowning. “Just fine.”
Stiles leans over, peering over Danny’s shoulder to see a pretty young woman, ensconced on one of the couches, watching a bondage scene and talking animatedly with the Dom.
“Do you want to stay here, keep an eye on her?” Stiles asks Derek quietly.
Derek’s eyes meet his, searching for something. “Can I?”
“Yeah, of course. Danny, can you take over my spot as dungeon monitor for now? I haven’t been back to the bar for a bit.”
“You got it, boss.” With a mock salute - really, he's going to have to talk to his employees - Danny’s up and out, and Stiles is seated in his warm chair, watching the rest of the monitors while Derek watches over Cora.
“It’s creepy, isn’t it? I shouldn’t be doing this.”
“I guess it depends on your relationship with your sister.”
“Yeah, she’ll think it’s creepy.” Derek clicks away, brings up another monitor like Danny had shown him. Stiles reaches over and sets the monitors to run through the big screen in a timed sequence.
“Are you going to be okay if a punishment scene comes up?”
“I will be if I don’t look.” Derek turns his chair away from the monitors, facing Stiles. He has a broody countenance that Stiles can’t help but find attractive. “This okay?”
“It’s fine with me. I know it’s hard to resist this really, really, really, ridiculously good looking face.” He grins, so Derek knows he’s joking, but Derek just stares at him. “Zoolander? The movie?”
“I’m more of a book person.”
“...Fair enough.”
Derek plays with the leather bindings on his First Words bracer, the brooding intensifying on his face. “Why’d you name this place ‘What’s your safe word?’ anyway? Seems like a weird name for a club.”
“It is, and we go by Safeword mostly. And, because I have a terrible sense of humor.”
“What do you mean?”
Stiles lifts his bracered arm. “They’re my First Words. They’re why I got into this whole thing.”
They’ve already met, so it’s not like Derek will be able to use his First Words against him or anything. And still, it’s not until Derek’s dumb-struck expression that he remembers. Derek’s lips, mocking, yes, but forming “What’s your safe word?” And hey, tone is never implied for First Words. He looks down at Derek’s bracer, but Derek’s holding his arm protectively against his chest, the Words resting under the bracer against his heart. Like his arm is broken and he has to cradle it until he can get help. The bile in Stiles’ stomach rises again.
Instead of saying anything, he just undoes the ties on his bracer and slips it off. His skin is a little musty from the long day of wearing it, and it feels good to let it breathe again. There they are, the blocky little black letters of his First Words. Derek’s eyes are wide on his pale, exposed skin, but he’s still protecting his own. Stiles gives a little shrug, like it doesn’t matter that Stiles can be vulnerable with Derek but not the other way around - because truly, it doesn’t matter. There’s something in Derek’s eyes that makes Stiles want to be vulnerable.
Derek meets his gaze again. “Tell me what you meant. About how you got into this whole thing.”
Stiles settles back in his chair, giving the security cameras a thorough glance before turning back to Derek. “I have major ADHD. Like. I made it through school on a wish and a prayer and a legally binding IEP that my dad made sure was enforced. Oh, and meds. One of the things I have the attention span for is research. Give me a topic, and I’ll tell you everything you want to know within twenty-four hours. Most likely because I’ve sacrificed my night’s sleep to do so. That’s why I’m a librarian.”
Derek takes in his outfit, leaning heavy on the black leather, and gives Stiles a small smile for the first time that evening. “You’re a librarian.”
“I look incredible in tiny glasses and a tight blouse, I’ll have you know.”
Derek makes a choking sound, then looks surprised. The same surprise touches Stiles’ heart when he realizes it was Derek’s attempt at laughter.
“So, research. I was all bound and determined to totally ignore my First Words but then they seemed so unique that I had to do research on them. What even is a safe word? I was totally vanilla. So that led me to the kink community, and as soon as I started there, I was a goner. Now I have another thing that I can concentrate on without feeling like my brain is pulling me a thousand different directions. When I’m Domming someone, my focus is totally on them. Their happiness, their pleasure, making their experience perfect. It’s so- peaceful seems like the wrong word, considering how often it’s absolutely not, but… peaceful is what I’m going to go with. So I got really into the kink scene, and I pitched the club idea to my friend Lydia, and, well. She’s actually the owner, I’m just the manager.”
“So you manage this place and have a full-time day time job.”
“Yeah, I don’t really sleep? Haven’t really been able to since my mom died. I know it’s not healthy but.” Stiles gives a little shrug. “Lots of things aren’t healthy. At least I’m not on drugs or whatever.”
Derek watches him, wary, then closes his eyes for a long enough beat to breathe in and out calmly. Very slowly, he starts to work at the bindings on his bracer. “Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“I think you might be my soulmate,” Derek replies, letting the bracer slip off his arm.
What’s your safe word? appears in a tidy scrawl that Stiles immediately recognizes as his own. Twin feelings of shock and an absolute correctness flow through Stiles’ body. His own wide eyes drift up to Derek’s sad ones. “Two roads?” Stiles asks for clarification.
“Two paths. Two outcomes. Yours, and mine. Brought to the same conclusion. And here we are.” Derek’s face looks tortured.
Stiles wants to pull Derek into his arms, to see what he feels like there. Right now, it feels like a part of him is just aching to feel Derek there. With him, around him, in him. Everywhere. But two roads. Stiles, troubled, yes, but ultimately happy, contented. Which means…
“I like research, too. That’s why I’m a book person. And now I’m a PI. When I first got my words, I looked into them as well. And I found...Kate.”
The utter hatred with which Derek says the name is all Stiles needs to hate her as well.
“I was young, and stupid. Or at least easily manipulated. And Kate said the Words, so I thought…” Derek gestures weakly between the two of them. “I still don’t know how she got them. She seduced me. Told me that if she trusted me then I’d believe her about the Words. How I didn’t need to see hers to really, truly believe in us. She was my Domme, and she was my intro to the kink scene.”
After a few more quiet moments, Stiles murmurs, “And she abused you.”
“Almost textbook, really. Physical, mental. She was a predator.”
Stiles’ hands clench in his lap. “You got away.”
“My sisters helped me. She came after me. There was… a fire. She died in it.” Derek’s mouth makes a flat line.
Stiles’ heart is pounding in his chest. He knows there must be much more to the story, but he has enough to know one thing: “I’m so glad you got out.”
Derek looks back, finding his sister, his whole demeanor seeming to be soothed when he finds her safe and sound still. “I’m probably not what you were expecting.”
Stiles shrugs. “I wasn’t expecting anything, not really. Two roads, same destination.” He traces over his own First Words, then lifts his hand. “May I?”
Derek hesitates, but nods. Stiles slides his left forearm against Derek’s, clasping below the elbow. He can feel Derek’s life pulse, the warmth of his skin, the slight tickling of his arm hair. They breathe together like that for a few seconds, eyes on each other.
“Can I travel your road with you?” Stiles whispers.
With the smallest of smiles, Derek nods.