She hasn’t had a partner-assisted orgasm in over a week and a half, and she is just beyond done. She wants to lie down on the cold bathroom floor and cry. Derek is starting to look like a permanently kicked puppy. “Look,” she tells him after dinner, “I love your inner self and your personality or whatever, but can I just tie you up and use your body until I come a couple times?” Derek fumbles the sudsy glass in his hand. “Awesome!” Stiles says brightly.

Derek sighs, envisioning Stiles pulling a file out of the nightstand and ruining whatever mood they might have managed to capture completely. What Stiles has in his hands when he turns back around is definitely not a file, though. Instead, it’s thick and black, curved into a wicked-looking c-shape with a small bullet vibrator jutting out of one end. “That is not what I was expecting,” Derek admits honestly. “Yeah, I can tell, you’re turning,” Stiles gestures to his own face, “you’re kind of, um, pink.”