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I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it

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Stiles has been anticipating a knock at his apartment door all morning, because his package is getting delivered today. And though there’s no one around to appreciate the costume he ordered, he’s still excited. He can’t wait to wear it around the apartment, feeling sexy and a little adventurous.

He opens his laptop and pulls up the tracking page, hoping to get a better estimate of the time it’ll arrive. But when his eyes catch on the Shipping Address box, his stomach drops.

Fuck.

His previous order had been some books for Derek, which he’d had shipped directly to the loft. That address had apparently autofilled for this order, and Stiles hadn’t noticed.

Worst of all, the notification at the top of the page says delivered.

Stiles scrambles for his phone and quickly clicks to Derek’s number. “Look, I accidently mailed a package to your place,” he says the moment Derek picks up.

“Hmm,” Derek says. “I see that.” Then a quiet rustling sound comes down the line.

“Are you opening it?” Stiles says, just a little too high-pitched and loud. “Don’t open it!”

“Why, is it something embarrassing?” Derek asks, sounding amused.

“Not exactly,” Stiles says, because it’s not like it’s a giant sparkly dildo (he already has one of those), but still. There’s things about him he’s not sure Derek would want to know. “I’ll be there in a little while to pick it up, okay?”

He hangs up and grabs his keys, shutting his laptop on his way out the door. Beacon Hills is about an hour away, but Stiles is hoping to make it in less. At least he doesn’t have any classes today to worry about.

 

*

 

Of course, the drive takes forever.

The more he tries to speed down the highway, the more he seems to get caught up in traffic.

And the whole time he’s sitting there, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel, all he can think about is Derek opening that box and judging him. He doesn’t need a hot, broody werewolf passing judgement on his costume choices. He’s living life to the fullest, okay?

He pulls into the parking lot after what feels like a decade, but is actually only an hour and a half. He trots up the stairs and knocks on the door, like a civilized human being, because he wants to be on Derek’s good side.

There’s a soft, shuffling sort of sound from the other side, and then Derek says, “Come in.”

Stiles grabs the handle and rolls the door open, ready for Derek’s smug look, ready for a mocking tone—but not ready for the amount of skin on display. Stiles is pretty sure his heart stops in his chest for a moment, before racing up to an absurd speed as Stiles’ eyes dart everywhere.

Because Derek is wearing it. Stiles doesn’t know how the thin gold straps are staying up on the flat muscle of his hips, but they’re managing, and the gauzy  strip of fabric they’re supporting just manages to preserve Derek’s modesty. Barely. Stiles knows his mouth drops open when he realizes he can see the vague shape of Derek’s dick, oh god.

He reaches back and rolls the door shut behind him, just barely managing not to collapse against it. All of his blood is moving south very quickly.

“Like what you see?” Derek asks, and Stiles drags his gaze up to the perfect muscular plane of Derek’s abs, lingers for a moment on Derek’s chest, because damn, and then makes it up to Derek’s neck—and fuck.

He’s actually wearing the collar, the chain attached to it wrapped loosely around one of his hands. Stiles can’t quite believe he’s wearing any part of the costume, but he especially can’t believe Derek’s wearing this part, considering the number of dog jokes he’s made over the years. But maybe Derek realized he’d be way too turned on to be making stupid jokes.

All he can manage is a shaky nod, because obviously he’s liking what he sees.

“You haven’t even seen everything yet,” Derek says, smirking, and with a smooth, swaying movement, he turns around.

Stiles can’t help the high-pitched, longing noise he makes as he takes in Derek’s ass, which is just as magnificent as he’d always suspected it of being. He licks his lips as he admires the perfect roundness of it, traces the curve to the dip of Derek’s lower back, then higher, to the sharp black of his tattoo. He notices then that Derek’s looking over his shoulder at him, grinning, and Stiles hopes he’s not actually drooling or anything.

He officially regrets nothing, ever. He’s mailing Derek every sexy thing he comes across from now on.

Derek turns back around, and the sheer material flutters, letting Stiles glimpse a little bit more bare skin. Which makes him realize—he can see every defined muscle in Derek’s amazing thighs, and abs, and—

“Oh my god, did you shave everything for this?” he asks, finally finding his voice. Because he’s pretty sure the only hair left on Derek’s body is his stubble-beard.

“Well, I had the time,” Derek says, bending down and running his hand from the top of the tall boot and up along the outside of his exposed thigh. “And I think it adds to the look, don’t you?”

It’s mostly just making Stiles want to put his hands on every inch of that tan skin, but he nods. “Yeah. I was going to at least shave my legs when I wore it.”

Derek’s running his hand along his stomach and chest, now. “It’s not usually worth the effort, but it feels nice,” he says in a low rumble.

And Stiles is no expert in sexuality—he’d only come to terms with his own bisexuality about a year ago—but he’s very sure a straight guy would not do this. “Please tell me you’ll let me blow you while you’re wearing that,” he blurts.

Derek gives him a heated look, takes a step closer. “That could be arranged.”

“And then maybe I could ride your dick?” Stiles’ mouth says, because it never knows when to quit.

“Yeah,” Derek says with a smirk, turning smoothly. “Or maybe I’d rather ride your dick.”

Stiles nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to follow Derek to the bedroom.