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Derek doesn't recognize her, but he wouldn't have to recognize someone to keep them from tripping, and it seems like she's already been partying too hard with the way she's wobbling. It's when he grabs the girl's elbow that the scent hits him and suddenly he's looking into Stiles' panicked eyes, and Derek's hard as nails in one breath of the boy's smell, hidden under perfume.

If the scent of him hadn't confirmed it for Derek, Stiles' voice would have, but Derek's too busy staring to care, pulling Stiles away from the stairs quickly and ignoring the protests as he herds the boy into a nearby bedroom. "Derek, what the hell," Stiles says, but Derek's looking at the boy's pink and glossy mouth. He crowds Stiles up against a wall and feels everything else go a little blurry, tunnel-vision on his boy. "Oh my God, what are you doing, oh my God!"

Stiles' normal scent is frustrating to Derek because it calls to him, makes him ornery and achy from forcing himself to stay human, keep his feral side at bay, keep from mounting the boy and fucking him until he screams Derek's name. Stiles' perpetual low-grade arousal smells almost like the longest heat to Derek, begging him to breed the boy full and he knows that some wires are crossing now because it doesn't even occur to him to ignore it this time. He might have to apologize later.

The boy's cheeks are flushed, his eyes brightened by makeup and fear, his heart thundering the same beat as Derek's. His wig is a short bob, bouncing around his cheeks as he flinches back hard from Derek, stilling beautifully at Derek's growl. He has curves that he shouldn't but Derek touches anyway - he palms Stiles' bare waist and runs his thumb down, from the knot tied in Stiles' shirt above the boy's belly button and lower to tuck into his skirt. His skirt, which is so short on his legs, and bare of anything except the stockings. When Derek touches lower, running his hand over the rough material of the skirt and down Stiles' thigh, he growls.

His boy is hairless, shaved smooth, and Derek's cock jumps, straining against his jeans. "Stiles, did you really come to this party looking like you do, expecting not to get fucked?" Derek asks, and the teen shudders against him now, legs parting, heels trying to brace on the ground. He knows the way it sounds, and he can smell the effect it has. Fear spikes and so does arousal, and Derek gets his hand up Stiles' skirt to slide against his thigh, the crease of it. His thumb rubs against a soft and pliant material, lace catching on a callus, and then Derek's down.

He kneels quickly and lifts the boy's skirt, ignoring the hand tugging his hair for the cock in front of him, straining against white satin panties. "Derek, what is going on," he distantly hears Stiles say, but if it's not obvious now then Derek can't really help the kid. Stiles tries to close his legs, but Derek pries them apart and shoulders his way in. When Derek buries his face against Stiles' hard dick the boy stops and moans, and Derek pulls his legs apart further, licking against where Stiles' cock is staining his panties with pre-come.

The smell of the boy and the taste of him make Derek cling to the threads he has tying him to humanity. He licks and sucks, completely ruining both the satin and Stiles before he claws the panties off, and Stiles jumps as Derek leaves raised welts on his skin. Derek loves the sight of them turning red, marks that he's made on his boy. One day he'll really dig his claws in and make them permanent, taste the blood inside. The thought makes him growl with anticipation. Stiles jerks away from him, his skirt fluttering around Derek's head and Derek presses his hips harder to the wall. Fear smells so good on his boy, his heartbeat sounds so alive with it.

He drops the satin shreds to the ground and sucks the tip of Stiles' dick into his mouth. The sounds the boy is making are so sweet, moans and gasps, and Derek likes the sharp pain as his hair gets tugged when Stiles buries a hand in it. "Derek, Derek, oh my God," Stiles tries to thrust but Derek has him braced against the wall, and then he has to hold him up as one of Stiles' legs slip, his ankle giving way on the heels.

That's fine with Derek because Stiles is light, and Derek holds him up against the wall, helpless and beautiful. Derek pulls off and licks his hand, again and then again, to get it slick before wrapping his fist around Stiles' cock and pumping. He ducks his head to lick at the boy's balls, tight and pink and hairless, so smooth and soft. He smells it before it happens, feels the way the soft sacs tighten from the touch of his tongue. A settled, heavy contentment is deep in Derek's chest, the new feeling that a satisfied mate projects to his wolf is in the air around his boy.

When Stiles comes Derek makes sure that he catches it all in his hand, and when it gets too sloppy he sucks the tip of the boy's cock into his mouth to get. God, the smell of him is enthralling; Derek inhales deeply through his nose and just licks under the head, keeping it all on his tongue. He growls as Stiles moans his name, sounding choked and shocked, fingers gentle in Derek's hair.

It doesn't last, though, because as soon as Derek gets a come-slicked finger parting Stiles' ass and rubbing against the boy's hole he tugs hard at Derek's hair again, and dribbles out a bit more onto Derek's tongue. "Oh God, you're really going to fuck me?" Stiles asks, and the sound of his voice thrills Derek because it's excited, low-key and sleepy, fearful and submissive and his. Derek pulls off with a wet slick noise and Stiles shivers, hands clenching on Derek.

Derek nods against his boy's thigh and leans back, keeps a hand on Stiles' hip to hold him against the wall with his skirt up. He swallows and says, "I can wait until you're ready." Derek wills himself to mean it. He looks at Stiles and the picture he makes: his boy is a mess, with Derek's rough stubble having rubbed red and irritated patches on his smooth skin, with Derek's claws having left angry ridged marks on Stiles' hips, with the boy's cock shiny from spit and come, half-hard and softening.

"God, I'm so ready." His boy is beautiful, sagging down, and when Derek looks up he sees that Stiles' makeup is mussed, a little tear-streaked. He's mostly bitten off all the gloss. Derek stands and presses a little harder against Stiles' hole, covering his boy's body with his own, and bites his own color onto Stiles' lips.

Stiles' arms come around him to keep him close but now that Derek can think a little more clearly, something occurs to him. "I'm going to ask again, Stiles: did you really come to this party expecting not to get fucked?" Derek has to ask once they part. Stiles is gasping for air in between them but he clutches at Derek like he can pull him back in.

Derek's so very tempted to let him, but then Stiles seems to realize that he's been asked a question. "Did I - dude," Stiles leans forward and buries his face in Derek's shoulder, but not quickly enough for Derek to miss the flush along his cheeks. "You know, I really did." His boy is laughing into his shoulder and when Derek rubs a little harder against his hole Stiles arches beautifully, gasps loudly and grips Derek a little harder. "God, yes, that's a story for later though, there's a perfectly good bed behind you for right now."




Because God hates him, Lydia is at the store. Stiles sees her and for once in his life wants to run in the other direction. It would be another once-in-a-lifetime event, too, that makes her notice him and head in his direction with a remarkably evil smile. It's a smile for him, though, and so he stays, staring like a deer in headlights.

It's probably because he's holding a skirt and looking at the bras with confusion and slight terror - terror that only increased when he saw her. "Why are you looking at bras, Stiles?" See, it's a neat trick; what she did is say Stiles, but she obviously meant pervert. It's all in the tone.

"Um. I don't want to tell you," Stiles says, but she's the most beautiful girl he's ever seen, and she's glaring at him. "Oh my God, Scott bet me to dress up as a Catholic school girl for Jackson's Halloween party as a joke, and Jackson overheard and laughed and bet me that I'd chicken out, and then Danny got this look in his eyes that I might be attractive to gay guys if I did, which is weird, which now that I think about it shouldn't have been the cincher that it was, my God I should probably just set this down and leave," Stiles says quickly, and does exactly that. The skirt he's holding gets hung across the laciest and lowest-cut bras because it's easier if he doesn't have to look at them, and he is about to turn around.

Only he doesn't, because Lydia has this look in her eyes that he's seen when she's solving a complicated theorem, and he has always wanted her to look at him like that. Except it's kind of terrifying being under the microscope, and he's pretty sure that he has toothpaste on his shirt, and while it didn't matter all that much before it does now. "All right," she says finally, and picks up the skirt, handing it back. "We should get you measured; I bet they'll let me borrow their tape measure."

As Stiles gapes, Lydia heads over to the counter to ask the cashier - a mean old lady who glared at him when he came into this section - for a tape measure, and by the time Lydia has it the woman is sending him the most earnest and pinch-your-cheeks-worthy looks he's ever gotten, like she wants to bake him cookies and pie. "What'd you tell her?" Stiles asks, and sucks in a quick breath as Lydia wastes no time getting close and around him to take his measurements.

He's not a creeper, so he doesn't sniff her hair. He does have to breathe, though, and it's an awesome breath. "I told her that you are trying to accept who you are, and that you wanted to be comfortable with yourself," Lydia says breezily, and that's enough to kill any boner that her proximity would have given him. It stays away even when she's picking out lingerie for him - "Of course you have to have a matching set. Don't worry, I'll pick it out," - and decides that her shades of makeup just won't go with his skin.

"Makeup?" Stiles asks, and this is a terrible, spider-webbing process. "I can't wear makeup," he insists, and he's getting kind of used to her glares. "I mean, I don't -" he shuts up quickly when she gets close again, looking into his eyes.

"You'll need a shade of eye-shadow that I have, but you're more tan than either Allison or I," Lydia says, and Stiles doesn't want Allison in on this, maybe he should sneak off now and then run to his Jeep and, like, live in it. For the rest of his life, away from here. "But you have great eyelashes," she continues, and it's the jealousy in her voice that makes him stay put. "You won't need much mascara," Lydia concludes, before turning to face the palettes of skin tones, tugging him along and holding his hand - holding his hand - to test the colors.

But wait, "Mascara? Isn't that a dance?" Stiles asks, and his stomach does a funny swooshing feeling when Lydia giggles unexpectedly. It's wonderful, and she's smiling genuinely at him, but then she's mentioning things like plucking his eyebrows and Stiles thinks that he's going to hate Nair, because it sounds painful. It's when she asks his shoe size that he really starts to worry, though.


Because God loves him, no one recognizes him at the party, at first. He arrives with Lydia and Allison, since he spent the day at Allison's house - a tense and terrible and embarrassing time - getting waxed and plucked and Nair'd and coerced to shave down there when he refused to Nair on account of oh holy fuck ow not on my balls, and then they decided that he should wear a wig, and that he should tie up his shirt like Britney, and that he was basically their living doll.

He walks in between them, and they're like his very own set of consciences: Lydia is an angel to his right, and Allison is a devil on his left. It seems backwards when he wobbles on his heels and they brace him, because Allison is definitely not the person who bought him the satin panties that he's wearing. Or the bra that gives him the illusion of curves with the help of his tied-up shirt.

It's when Scott looks at him - the double take he does is reminiscent of the pigeons in Moonraker, honestly - that Stiles tries to flee. "Oh my God. Stiles?" Scott reaches out to pluck at Stiles' brown - brunet, he hears Lydia in his mind, correcting him - wig. Or maybe Scott's trying to feel him up, because he's squeezing at Stiles' stuffed bra, whoa there.

"You know," Stiles says after Lydia smacks Scott's hand away, "that could have been really awkward if I were really a girl." He's strangely aware of how he's speaking now that he's wearing lipstick and gloss. Stiles refused the girls when they tried to make him talk more softly and more feminine, and then they agreed because they said that he looked so good as a girl it'd really mess with people when he spoke in a deeper voice. He almost thought that they were trying to trick him with reverse psychology, and really, Lydia telling him that he's pretty isn't how it's supposed to work. "You know what? I'm just going to be over there, because it's awkward anyway."

Stiles edges away from everyone, and feels a rush of terrifying elation when he walks right past Danny - dressed as a cowboy, complete with chaps and stirrups, wow - and doesn't get recognized. He can't walk very quickly, and he doesn't manage the stairs gracefully at all, and would have faceplanted at the top if someone hadn't caught his elbow.

Stiles looks up and is pretty sure his heart stops, because Derek Hale is staring at him, and suddenly Stiles is praying that he doesn't get recognized. Derek's eyes narrow and Stiles knows he's fucked when the werewolf inhales, scenting him, and the hand on his elbow tightens. "Oh my God," Stiles says faintly, before Derek's pulling him away from the stairs, his eyes flashing red. Stiles' heart starts again, going double-time.