A predator is watching Stiles from across the bar.
Not a predator-predator. There isn't any fur to be seen (that's a whole 'nother can of worms) and Stiles hasn't heard the damning Hi, I'm Chris Hansen with Dateline NBC schtick.
And yet, there he is. The Big Bad Wolf.
He's been watching Stiles from across the dancefloor for the past twenty minutes, and Stiles can't take much more of it.
The man's not overly tall, but he's big.
Muscled and chiseled and broad.
The man's got longish dark hair styled roguishly on his head and a stylized wolf mask covering the top half of what Stiles is sure to be a lust-attack inducing face.
Admittedly, if this were any other time and in any other place than Halloween night in Beacon Hills' shitty rave district, Stiles wouldn't have the balls to approach Big Bad. No, Stiles has the self-esteem of a freshly beached blobfish and would never, ever think a man like that would want a piece of his lily-white ass.
But, it is Halloween. And from the sound of the ear-melting trance music and the salty humidity in the air, it's safe to say that Stiles is standing fifty EDMers deep in a rave.
A shitty rave. Because that's the only class of rave there is.
So he taps Scott on the shoulder, his best friend twisting around in time to the beat as he grinds up against his long-time girlfriend Allison. Scott gives him a vodka-laden grin and shouts out a happy, "Duuuuude!”
Allison giggles and lovingly pats Scott's hands, which are currently wrapped around her waist.
Stiles just rolls his eyes and grins back. He tosses back the rest of his drink—it's alarmingly green and what Stiles is praying is the main reason why his shoes are sticking to the floor—and cups a hand around his mouth. He flails dramatically over his shoulder and announces with his newfound confidence, "I'm gonna go get laid!"
Both Scott and Allison laugh, whooping and cheering. Allison mouths out a, "Have fun!" and Scott gives him a bro-fist.
Stiles gives them both sloppy kisses on their cheeks and then struts off to the other side of the warehouse.
He makes it over to Big Bad, walking straight up into the guy's personal space until they're standing nose to nose. The man has a couple of inches on Stiles, and goddamn does that make him even hotter. Big Bad has thick arms and even thicker thighs, and his hands look strong and capable.
All the better to manhandle you with, my dear.
"What's your name?" Stiles asks over the thumping bass.
"No," says Big Bad, leather-encased arms crossing over his broad chest. Abrupt it may be, but Stiles catches the guy's lips quirk upwards a bit, so he feels no shame in trying again.
"Want to dance?" he asks.
"Get a drink?"
"You wanna take some highly suspect drugs?"
"How about you take me around back and fuck my throat?"
"N—" the guy freezes instantly, nostrils flaring slightly as he sucks in a surprised breath. "What did you just say?"
Stiles lets a mischievous grin stretch across his face. "I want you to put me on my knees and fuck my face. Is that something you'd be interested in?"
The man's mouth parts softly, like he can't quite believe Stiles just said that.
He has that effect on people.
"I'd, um—yes, very much. I would very much like to do that."
"Well then, what are we waiting for? Follow me, Sourwolf."
The asphalt is rough and cool through his jeans, Stiles' knees rocking unsteadily as Big Bad pushes him to the ground.
Stiles moans at the roughness, tiny sparks of pleasure shooting up his spine as his knees dig into the ground.
"You like that, huh?" the man grunts, leaning against the warehouse's back wall and carding one of those big hands through Stiles' hair.
Stiles moans again, nodding as he drags his fingers up the guy's thighs and starts undoing his tight jeans.
It's Wolf's turn to moan as Stiles reaches a hand inside the man's briefs, pulling out his large cock into the night air.
"Oh, fuck," Stiles pants. "Oh, fuck yes." And then he looks back up at the man, wolf mask still hiding the intensity of his gaze. "Don't be afraid to pull my hair." Stiles winks, licking the drooling head of the man's dick. "I love that shit." Then he slowly lowers his head, taking the man all of the way into the back of his throat. Stiles only stops when his nose touches the man's cut abs. He sits there like that, thick cock buried in his spasming throat, until he hears Big Bad fucking whine.
Stiles pulls back, slurping loudly as he does. He looks back up at the Wolf, finding only awe staring back at him.
"You weren't kidding about me fucking your throat, were you?"
Stiles licks his lips and then the underside of the man's bobbing dick. "No. No, I really wasn't."
If Stiles had thought the man was predatory before, it's nothing compared to the curve of the Wolf's smile now. "Oh, baby," the man growls. "That's the best news I've heard in a long time." And then the man grabs ahold of Stiles' face, strong fingers digging into his jaw until Stiles has no other choice than to open his mouth wide.
He thrusts forward into Stiles' mouth, heavy balls slapping into his chin. The suddenness makes Stiles gag a little, and Big Bad seems to revel in the sound, fucking faster and faster into his throat.
"Your goddamn mouth," he hisses, digging his fingers into Stiles' hair as he starts to grind against his face. "Jesus Christ."
Stiles grins around his mouthful. He can't help it—he fucking loves it. He loves the hand in his hair and the one on his jaw. He loves the sharp slap of the man's hips against his face, and the sloppy sounds they're making. He loves how filthy he is, down here on the ground, drool dripping down his face and creamy throat-fuck foaming at the edges of his mouth.
He's never had anyone go this deep, this hard, this fast.
Stiles is in fucking love.
He starts stroking himself over his jeans with one hand, using the other to fondle Big Bad's big balls.
Stiles wants him to come. God, Stiles wants him to come on his face, in his mouth—anywhere this sex-god wants. Stiles nee—
Stiles is yanked from his lust-fog by that wonderful cock being removed from his throat.
He looks up at the guy blearily and whines. "Wha—?"
Big Bad looks fucked-out, his face is slack and his chest is heaving like he's just competed in the Sinful Olympics and gone for gold.
"I can't—" the guy gasps out. "I can't finish until I ask..."
Stiles looks up at him, completely baffled. "Dude, you were the one that didn't want to exchange names."
Wolf-man waves a careless hand. "Not that. I just..." He looks down at Stiles' outfit. "Did you lose a bet or something?"
Stiles looks down at his shirt, the one declaring him a member of Team Jacob, and grins. "No way, man. I'm proud of my costume. It's hilarious!"
And it is.
Stiles smirks at Big Bad. "And apparently, it's scarily accurate."
The guy rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath of reluctant laughter. "You have no ide—"
And then he moans again, Stiles' mouth sliding down his cock once more. Stiles works him harder, faster, sloppier—he works him until he feels Big Bad start to twitch in his mouth. Stiles moans, thrusting against the pressure of his own hand as he comes in his pants. Stiles watches as Wolf-man's nostrils flare and his jaw clenches.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Sex-god comes down his throat with a guttural groan, hips rocking mindlessly.
Stiles swallows it all, staring up at him as he clenches his throat around the man's spent dick.
He pulls off with a slick pop!, and wipes the back of his hand over his swollen mouth. Stiles glances away, reality settling back over him as he realizes what they've just done.
It doesn't really matter though—he's still in love.
Strong arms suddenly lift him up off the ground and haul him into the rock-hard line of Big Bad's body. Soft lips capture his own in a searing kiss, and Stiles shivers as the man's rough stubble scratches his face.
"My name's Derek. Derek Hale."
Stiles opens his eyes wide, their lips still touching. "Stiles."
Derek nods once, gives him another kiss, and then steps away. "It was very nice meeting you, Stiles." And then he walks away.
Stiles gapes, watching the sex-god saunter off into the night.
"Wait!" he shouts once his brain has kicked back online. "Can I give you my number?"
Derek stops and turns back, smiling cockily. "There's no need. I'll find you again."
And then he rounds the warehouse and out of sight.
"Derek!" he calls out. "What the fresh hell does that even mean?"
Stiles leans back against the wall, his body loose and lazy.
Maybe he ruled out the Chris Hanson thing too early.
Stiles mulls it over and then starts off toward his Jeep, deciding that, it doesn't even matter at this point, because he's in fucking love.