Chapter Text
Beacon Hills 1894
Whose shirt was he wearing?
Stiles Silinski raised his head from the pillow and narrowed his eyes at the white sleeve. It was made of soft linen, and at least two sizes too big to be one of his own shirts if the length of the sleeve was anything to go by.
His stomach made a small jump before it clenched uncomfortably. A sinking feeling slowly taking root as he turned his head to let his gaze wander across the room. The bright morning sun that shone through the laced curtains made his eyes hurt and his head started to pound violently.
Clenching his eyes shut he turned his head so the sunshine would not fall directly into his eyes. Opening them cautiously he could see the contours of a table, a green velvet couch and a mirror.
Small tremors of fear shot through him. Nothing in the room was familiar to him.
Where was he?
He groaned softly and let his head fall back onto the soft pillow in an attempt to make his poor head stop throbbing.
The bed suddenly shifted and he could feel heavy arm around his waist. A large hand was splayed across the flat expanse of his stomach. Stiles sucked in a breath as it started to stroke along his stomach and moved to settle across his flat chest, fingers slightly curled around Stiles' shoulder just above where it was pressed into the mattress.
Stiles stiffened and pressed his lips together tightly to stop himself from screaming.
Someone was lying next to him in the bed!
The arm across his chest moved backwards and Stiles was suddenly pulled towards the middle of the bed so he was pressed against a hard chest. He could feel hard thighs pressing against his own, and with widened eyes, Stiles could feel an unmistakable hardness against his bottom.
After taking a shaky breath where he could feel his heart pounding in rhythm with his head, Stiles managed to tip his head backwards just a bit so he could see a dark head of hair behind his shirt-clad shoulder.
He couldn't hold back the choked noise that forced its way from his throat at his current predicament.
A strange shirt, a strange bed, a strange room – and a man! What had he done?
His head was spinning, reeling at the thought that he had... No. It couldn't be true. He had never gone without a chaperone since he had been confirmed a receptive, he had never even kissed anyone! Not even Mr Harris, and they had been...
A picture of his father flashed before his eyes. What would he say if he could see him now? The man who had dedicated his life to make sure Stiles was cared for, that he had the freedom to do what he wanted, providing he had a proper chaperone when not at the estate.
Not that that mattered now. He would now be considered a fallen man. Immoral and without honor. A reputation as tarnished as a common harlot, a bawd, a harridan!
Stiles was suddenly jolted from his thoughts when the hand on his shoulder tightened and a wave of nausea washed over him. If anyone were to know of this, his whole life would be in ruins. His whole body froze as the hand moved from his shoulder to rest across his chest and Stiles pressed his hand against his mouth, afraid that he would throw up if he couldn't keep the bile from rising further.
Behind him the man was taking slow, even breaths and Stiles suddenly found a small glimmer of hope. If he could get away before the other man woke up, no one would have to know about this horrible transgression.
While holding his breath Stiles reached down underneath the covers and grabbed a gentle hold of the strangers arm. He slowly moved it away from his chest and placed it back on the strangers own hip.
So far so good. Perhaps he could actually manage to sneak away?
“Stop right there!”
He gasped as he was suddenly flipped onto his back while the stranger moved to lean onto his elbow. Dark stubble covered what Stiles imagined was chiseled cheekbones and a determined chin. His hair was dark and tousled from sleep, a few strands falling down onto his forehead.
Stiles swallowed heavily.
“You're not running away from me, are you?” The man asked, his deep, sleep-rough timber rolling off of his lips like rich, dark honey. He moved forward and lowered his head and pressed his nose against Stiles' throat, rubbing it against the sensitive skin.
The soft scrape against his throat sent shivers throughout his spine and his skin tingled from the touch. The hard body pressed against his own, the hot breath leaving a moist trail, the deep musky scent from his tanned skin... Stiles was light-headed. It was too much. Too much at once. He wanted to push the man away, but he was afraid of what the man might do if he denied his advances.
He had heard about what some men would do towards a receptive or a woman who refused them.
Wetting his lips with a pink tongue Stiles cleared his throat. “Well... I... I have to go.” Stiles said in what could probably not be called anything other than a squeak.
The man raised his head and Stiles could see how his eyes had narrowed. “The whole night includes the morning, too.”
What the devil was he talking about? Stiles tried to pull away, but the strangers grip on his hip hardened. He forced a smile onto his lips. “I believe it is no longer morning, sir.” He said through clenched teeth.
The man just shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. “I could care less about the time of day. I can pay extra.”
“Pay? What do you mean?” Stiles asked and tried to ignore the slight waver in his voice, his heart speeding up at thought of what the man was implying.
Above him the man insouciantly lowered his head back towards Stiles' throat, lips barely touching the thin layer of skin as he spoke. “After a night like that, I'll pay you whatever you'd like.”
As the words left the man's lips, Stiles froze completely. “You believe I am one of... a...”
The man looked up and his eyes locked with Stiles'. “I'm not paying you to talk.”
Ignoring the dark timbre to the man's voice, Stiles' hand flew up and hit him on the shoulder. “Get off of me! Leave me alone you horrid beast!”
He was granted small reprieve as the body on top of his own moved back slightly. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Thrashing wildly, Stiles hit every part of the man he could reach and kicked away the covers so that he could situp. “How dare you!” He yelled in outrage. “How dare you speak to me in such a manner? Never in my life have I been met with such disrespect! How... how could you even imply that I am one of those... people!” His chest heaved as he breathed, trying to calm both his breathing and his beating heart. How dared this... boorish cad imply that he was immoral. No matter that he had just called himself as such just a moment earlier.
Sitting back on the bed across from Stiles, the man leered at him and gave him an appraising look. “Well...” The man began, smirking as Stiles looked down and flushed.
The shirt he was wearing was open almost to his waist, not covering his chest in the slightest as it dangled precariously off of one shoulder. Looking further down, he noticed that the frantic scrambling to get away from the stranger had not aided him in trying to retain a modicum of propriety as the shirt barely covered his privates, leaving his upper thighs and the swell of his bottom bare before the man's scrutinizing gaze.
With wide eyes Stiles grabbed the bunched up covers and pulled them to his chest in a furious motion and he steadfastly ignored the twitch of the strangers lip.
“You can call yourself whatever you want, but it's getting late and I have things to do. Come here!”
As a hand reached for him, Stiles slapped it away. “Don't touch me!”
“For the love of... Well then, explain why you re in my bed.” He said and leaned towards the pillows, rubbing a hand across his face.
With cheeks ablaze, Stiles tried to look anywhere but towards the exposed chest of his unwanted bed-mate, the tanned skin stretched across well developed muscles that dipped invitingly underneath the covers, a trail of dark hair scattered across his lower abdomen, and Stiles once more had to swallow heavily.
“Is this your room?”
As if the man hadn't even realized where they were, he looked around the room and ran his fingers through his hair. “No, it appears not. Is it yours?”
“Of course not!” Stiles growled and got off of the bed. He couldn't take even one more moment of this! Making sure that the shirt covered him as best as it could he hurriedly buttoned it up and began to search for his clothes. He noticed a pile of clothes and after some careful searching, throwing clothes every which way until he found his own shirt and the waistcoat he had been wearing the night before.
One of his socks lay underneath one of the strangers and he started to bend over to pick it up. He stopped and looked over his shoulder at the man who reclined lazily in the bed. He had raised his arms above his head and was watching Stiles calmly, as if the man woke up in strange rooms with unknown people regularly.
As he was probably wont to do.
The mad did look the sort. Or at least what Stiles imagined they looked like. He had that dark, mysterious... depraved feeling to him.
A corner of the man's mouth tugged upwards and a small smirk spread across his face as he realized Stiles' current predicament.
Glaring at the infuriating man, Stiles indignantly bent his knees and snatched up his sock and stomped throughout the room, collecting as much of his clothes as he could find before shutting himself into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
His heart thundered away deep within his chest and his blood pounded loudly in his ears. He slammed the back of his head onto the solid wood of the door twice before he managed to force himself to get move. Dropping his clothes onto the floor he started moving on wobbly legs. His stomach churned in protest when he staggered to the sink, grabbing it with both hands to keep himself standing.
How had this happened?
He had left San Francisco and his aunt to escape one scandal, and apparently walked right into another one! Stiles was sure that if his aunt ever found out about this, she would die of shame. Had he not been living with her for the last four years so he could learn proper etiquette and to learn what was expected of him as a receptive?
It seemed that for the most part, Stiles was bad student. Or generally just rubbish at implementing the theoretical knowledge into practice.
As it was, now he was inside a bathroom at some undisclosed location with one of the most striking men he had ever seen, albeit perhaps also one of the most annoying ones, too, and the man had hardly said more than a handful sentences!
Not knowing where he was or how he had ended up there, only one thing permeated Stiles' mind. He had to leave right away. He needed to leave and hoped he would never see either the room or the man ever again!
He turned and looked down at the heap of clothes, the formal evening attire he had worn at the wedding the day before when he had been accompanied by his father.
A shiver ran down his spine t the thought of showing himself outside in the morning dress. He had no gloves, no hat... did he even have his coat with him? What would the servants say? What would his father say?
No, he could make it home without being seen. He had only been back in town for a week, and he was sure he wouldn't be recognized immediately. Once he got home he could probably climb up the latticework that lead up to his room.
While Stiles rummaged through the pile of clothes, he all but groaned. In his hurry to get away from the man, he had left some of his clothes in the other room. Cursing his bad luck he grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it over his head, throwing it into a corner. He quickly pulled on his undershirt and the white single cuffed shirt was promptly buttoned. He could see his red checkered ascot tie, but the detachable wing collar was nowhere to be seen.
Suddenly a knock reverberated off of the tiled walls, and Stiles jumped, turning to the door. What if the man was trying to force his way inside? What if he refused to let him go?
On the other side of the door, the man's deep timbre traveled through the wood. “You forgot these. You might need them.”
His voice was almost steady when he answered. “Forgot what?”
“Your undergarments.” Came the amused reply. “They were underneath the covers.”
Stiles' cheeks blossomed once more as he unlocked the door and cautiously opened it an inch. A finger teasingly reached forward, dangling the cotton garment in front of his face and Stiles tore it away abruptly. When he moved to close the door, another piece of clothing was presented.
His collar.
“This was on the dresser.”
Stiles grumbled something through clenched teeth that m,ay or may not have been a thank you, or a curse before he grabbed his collar.
Suddenly a sock was hanging off of the man's finger. “This was on the table.”
“There is no need for you to recite the place where they were found. Please stop embarrassing me and hand me the rest at once if there are more!”
“Do I embarrass you?” The man asked, clearly amused.
Stiles' eyes narrowed. “It is bad form of you to even ask such things! Hand me the rest at once!”
“That was all so far.”
It had been more than enough. Stiles promptly shut the door and continued to dress himself. Pulling on his undergarments before reaching for his black trousers. Fastening the wing collar he threw the ascot tie around his neck, scrunching his nose when he realized he was unable to tie it properly.
If aunt Agnes could see him now.
He could all but hear her soft spoken voice as it chanted from the thick volume of 'Etiquette and proper conduct for Receptives'. ”Learn to govern yourself to be gentle and patient, Stiles. While the gift of speech may be valuable in its own, silence is often held at twice the worth.”
Apparently this was the day when he disappointed and shamed his whole family.
Slipping on his dark silken waistcoat, he looked around for his morning coat. It was nowhere to be seen in the bathroom, which meant that it was still in the other room.
With him.
As another wave of nausea hit him, Stiles took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. He could do this, and he could do it with dignity.
Opening the door he slowly walked back into the bedroom. The sound of clinking coins mare him look towards the window where the man was looking out of the tall window. He had his hands in his pockets and was presumably watching the street below. The edges of his tanned skin seemed almost golden as the sun gently lapped at it.
He was wearing dark fitted trousers with astonishingly crisp creases for a garment that had spent several hours in a heap on the floor, and a white undershirt that hugged the broad back tightly. His arms were thick and muscular.
Stiles came a little closer and reached out with his arm, the white shirt he had been sleeping in tightly clutched in his fingers. “I do believe this is yours.”
Without looking at him, the man grabbed the shirt and let it fall onto the table in front of the window. “I think we are at the Madison.”
“The hotel?” Stiles glanced out of the window and saw the carriages below and felt his stomach churn again. It was becoming a familiar, albeit wholly uncomfortable feeling. “We're at a hotel?”
The man nodded. “Do you need help?” He asked, surprisingly gently.
Stiles took a step back and a hand sought its way towards his neck, grabbing the tie as if it would magically tie itself. “N... no.. I...”
“Don't be stupid.” The man said and took a step forward. Stiles tried to ignore the heat coming from the firm body in front of him as the hands moved to take away Stiles' own.
The touch made his skin turn into gooseflesh and Stiles had to suppress a shiver as the stranger tied his ascot with surprising ease.
Stepping aside the man once more shoved his hands into his pockets. “Would you like me to order you something to eat?”
Stiles pressed a hand to his stomach and grimaced. “I believe I will never be able to stomach food again.”
“Is your head hurting, too?”
Stiles looked up and met his eyes. “Yes. How could you...”
Waving Stiles' question away the man pulled on his shirt, letting it hang open from his shoulders. “You are suffering the aftereffects. What you need is a drink.” He frowned as he began to button the shirt. “And so do I.”
Squaring his shoulders Stiles began to shake his head, but quickly stopped as the pounding grew worse. “I don't drink. I only took a sip of champagne when the bride and groom toasted. After that, I only had some of the punch.”
“Were you at the wedding?”
“Yes.”
The eyes narrowed and his gaze turned cold. “As an invited guest?”
Raising his chin defiantly, Stiles pressed his lips together. There was no need for this man to know that his father was acquainted with the bride's family. He also had no need to share that he had just arrived at Beacon Hills and was presently running away from the aftermath of a scandal that had made his aunt unable to look him in the eye.
The man simply rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. “Very well, just remember to stay away from the punch the next time you're at a wedding. It is probably the best way to avoid the aftereffects of a crapulent head – amongst other things.”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Stiles took a deep breath. He had been inebriated and ended up in bed with a strange man. How humiliating.
With one last attempt at retaining some of his dignity he looked up at the man. “I believe it is best if I were to be on my way, Mr...?”
The man gave a stiff bow. “Derek Hale, at your service.
Hale?
Stiles' eyes widened and he felt faint. This man was a part of one of the oldest, most powerful families in the state, and Stiles had acted like a common bawd. His face was white as he turned around to leave the room.
“Wait. I'll escort you home.”
“I don't believe that it would be appropriate, Mr Hale.” When he saw the smile on Hale's face, Stiles realized how utterly ridiculous that statement had been.
“In any case, you are probably in need of money for a cab.” He began to rummage through his pockets and then grabbed his coat from the chair to search that as well.
“Mr Hale, I have no idea how I ended up... here, but it has to have happened with your assistance. Therefore, you have done more than enough for me. I sincerely hope that I will never have to lay eyes upon you again.” With clenched teeth Stiles marched towards the door and grabbed his morning coat and slipped on his shoes.
“Excuse me.”
Annoyed, Stiles paused, hand poised on the handle.. “Yes?”
“Are you Ge... Gen... Genim Stilinski?”
He turned around and saw him reading from a wrinkled paper he had obviously found in his pocket when searching for his wallet.
“Yes. That is correct, though it is pronounced Genim.”
“Genim John Stilinski?”
Stiles felt another shiver down his spine. How could he know? “Yes.”
“Then I believe you should stay a while.”
He sighed heavily. “Why?”
Hale raised his gaze from the paper and looked directly at him. “Because, Mr Stilinski, we are apparently married.”