Stiles may or may not have been drunk when shopping eBay for Halloween costumes, because when it comes in the mail and his dad signs for it and drops it off in his bedroom, Stiles honestly does not remember why he ordered that. He kicks it with his foot, just nudging the box. He’s pretty sure it came with boots and everything.
No, wait, he was seriously tripping out when he ordered that and he does not remember doing it, and that is his story, and he will be sticking to it for the foreseeable future. Although it does seriously make sense.
Him and Scott usually dress up as the zombie version of whatever superhero they’re into at the time, or sci-fi character, whatever. Scott has a love for the Incredible Hulk, Stiles had a big thing for Batman as a kid, and you get the picture. This year though, him and Allison have apparently been talking about, like, matching costumes. Stiles only feels a bit betrayed.
Which is why he got drunk and ordered a questionable Halloween costume off of eBay, sure.
He kicks the box—still unopened—under his desk. Nope, not even going to try it on.
He may not have been as drunk as he’s trying to pretend.
“Fudge,” he says, stretching the ‘dge’ for as long as he can.
He scrambles onto the ground and grabs at the box.
It came with a freaking candy basket, with a tail as a handle and fluffy black fur like some miniature wolf, okay, it’s like gold , and he and Scott may not be doing the trick-or-treating thing this year (because Scott sucks at life and is a horrible best friend, Stiles needs a new one), but Stiles can’t pass up the opportunity to shove a cute wolf candy basket at every single member of this group they like to call a pack.
Especially Derek; he can just picture Derek’s face. Although any candy Derek hands out is likely to be laced with sharp implements.
He has to say, he likes the boots.
were r u ur late
hold your horses, i’m coming.
If you don’t get here in the next five minutes, I’m sending Jackson.
This is the conversation his phone is having on October thirty-first, nine twenty-seven pm, because life has betrayed him and nobody has attacked Beacon Hills in two weeks. You’d think Halloween would be a big season for the whole monster thing, but no, they’re all, quiet and mean. Stiles could technically just squirt some fake blood on his Jedi robes, but he likes those robes, and fake blood does not come out.
He could though. It’s an option.
Do you need a ride?
Not having an escape vehicle would be the worst of all bad ideas. Then again, there is an entire pack of wolves—and two even more terrifying females dating said wolves—waiting for him to get to the club, where at least Derek is legally allowed to buy alcohol. And it’s not even a regular club, it’s a Halloween Party, set up at a club, so there will be people in way weirder costumes than Little Red Riding Hood.
He doesn’t look that bad, maybe. The large amounts of deep red probably make him look paler than usual, but hey, it’ll be dark. He likes the boots. They’re pretty awesome—black leather, nice and sleek, even if the heels are a little taller than he really wanted (like, a whole inch higher, and he has no idea how Lydia walks in stilettos, girls are crazy talented at weird things).
A last minute decision had him pulling on black spider-webbing nylons too, even though he’d spent like three hours shaving his legs (and he had had no idea leg hair could clog drains that fast.)
The red skirt is shorter than he thinks it was in the actual fairy tale, with a bit more lace and black ribbons, but, you know, it was a little girl in the actual fairy tale, not a teenage male who hangs out with werewolves and maybe has a secret desire to wear a skirt, and a... it’s like a shirt, only tighter, and with hard wires pressing up along his stomach and ribs, and silk, padded cups for breasts that he does not have. He’s fairly sure he knows the technical term. He doesn’t care.
There is also the iconic red cloak, hood included, and if he pulls it tight, you can’t even tell he’s wearing a skirt, it could be shorts or something. If push comes to shove, he has jeans in the back of his jeep, and he can laugh like dressing up as Red Riding Hood was a big joke, and not something he actually really wanted to do.
Plus, there’s his candy wolf basket.
He manages to park easily enough, but it’s about a block down from the club, so he has to walk a fair distance in a skirt that seems, if you ask him, much shorter in the cold. Also, lipstick tastes weird. He’d almost got sidetracked trying to look up what it was made out of on Wikipedia, except increasingly annoyed texts kept coming through, even one from Jackson threatening that if Lydia actually made him come pick Stiles up, he would be coming to the club in more than one piece.
He idly wonders if he should put on body spray or something and sniffs at his armpits while walking through the parking garage. Eh, he doesn’t smell any worse than usual, and the only perfume at home is his mom’s. Or was, anyway, and he doesn’t really want to go down that road.
He gets a cat-call from a guy halfway to the club, and lifts an eyebrow because, okay, yes, Stiles is awesome, but very rarely do other people acknowledge this. “Come on over here, lil’ Red,” the guy yells, and then there’s a whistle from someone else, and—
“Oh dear God, that’s embarrassing. I did not think this through.” Of course there are drunken guys standing outside bars to accost poor, innocent boys (who, admittedly, they may be mistaking as girls at the moment...) on their way to a Halloween party in the night life district of Beacon Hills. Of course.
The hood even hides the fact that Stiles has been getting his hair buzzed once a month since he was four. Oh, that was a rock, he is tripping, he is falling, he is—no longer falling.
He blinks up and sees none other than Derek Hale, looking at him with a face that Stiles is pretty sure is the textbook definition of pain, mixed with a healthy dose of surprise, and a fair bit of embarrassment. Ah, back to the jeep for his jeans then. He can still rock the skirt with jeans on. Less classical, more silly, but hey, mortification, it’s a thing. That is happening.
“Hi,” he says, finally, because Derek is literally holding him mid-way through a catch. They are not moving.
“Stiles,” Derek says, and yep, that is the voice of some seriously deep man pain.
“That is in fact my name,” Stiles says, and then, because he is an idiot, “but you can call me Red for the night. Totally not visiting my Grandma, so you don’t need those large teeth better to eat me with.” Derek is actually not fighting off the red eyes, claws and fangs thing right now, although if there was any time he could pull it off... Stiles holds up his candy basket. “Trick-or-treat?”
The men from across the road choose that utterly wonderful moment to yell, “Come on, Red, we won’t bite too hard!”
Derek growls. Howls? Threatens? Whatever, Stiles’ heartbeat is speeding up, through the roof, all that jazz, and with a determination he’s proud of, he pulls away from Derek and his grab-hands. The drunkards across the street are fumbling all over themselves to get back inside the bar, Stiles all but forgotten in their haste. How rude.
“My jeep is right over there,” Stiles says, slowly moving away from Derek. “I’ll go put my jeans on, I brought them. The skirt was just, you know, for fun.”
Derek is growling again, this time at Stiles. Seriously, Stiles’ outfit is offending him that much—
“No,” Derek says, less man pain and more typical Derek pain. He grabs Stiles’ hand roughly and starts dragging him in the direction of the club. “We don’t have time for that,” Derek says, finally, after Stiles protests. Sadly, Stiles knows any embarrassment he gets from this (and there will be a lot) will all be his fault, because he’s the one who chose to dress up in a girl’s costume in the first place.
He bemoans the loss of his jeans until Derek tells him to shut up, and they reach the club doors. It’s weird, there’s a line and it’s not exactly short, but Derek yanks him right up to the front. The bouncer, a big guy with a large amount of blood on his face (hopefully fake, for reasons) gives them both a look over. He pauses on Stiles’ imaginary boobs. Derek growls and the guy nods, letting them in without a problem.
Once again, Derek’s magazine cover looks can probably be blamed for this. He’s not even wearing a costume, because he is a jerk, a party pooper, and also a sour wolf. Stiles tells him so too, and Derek huffs and points at his t-shirt, which does not count as a costume at all. It’s just a black shirt with a bold ‘WEREWOLF’ printed across his chest, and Derek’s typical leather jacket is mostly blocking the word out anyway.
The music is loud, proud, and vibrating the walls as they get further into the actual club. He’s fairly sure Derek and every other werewolf in the vicinity should be crying, but Derek seems fine, at least. It’s not as dark as Stiles would have liked either, lots of bright flashing lights of various colors sliding all over the masses of people dancing in every costume imaginable.
He’s pretty sure there are other dudes dressed as chicks in here, there has to be.
“Over here!” is the yell Stiles does not hear, but Derek presumably does, because he is suddenly being pushed in the direction of the bar—managing not to touch a single person along the way, which is weird, considering how many people there are—where he catches sight of his friends fairly quickly. Scott is, much to Stiles’ eternal displeasure, dressed as Batman. Stiles was Robin last year. It was his turn to be Batman, seriously, Scott sucks so much.
Allison is clearly Catwoman, and the outfit looks much better on her than Batman does on Scott, and Stiles intends to tell Scott this immediately. But then there’s Lydia, who is a very distracting orange-yellow sexy witch, with glitter and a black cloak kind of like Stiles’ only without the hood, and Stiles might be into dudes now, but he can still have a healthy appreciation for Lydia in a sexy witch costume.
Jackson went the zombie-lacrosse player route. Figures.
He assumes Erica, Isaac, and Boyd are all out dancing, because he doesn’t see any of them. By the time he and Derek reach the bar though, he remembers that he’s wearing a skirt. Mostly because Scott reminds him.
“Dude, you’re wearing a skirt.”
“Thank you for pointing that out, Scott, I hadn’t noticed,” Stiles quips back, because Scott’s mouth is still hanging open like he’s trying to catch flies.
“You look good!” Allison says, finally, hitting Scott as she jumps up to come grab at his costume. “You’re Little Red Riding Hood?”
“That is so utterly perfect,” Lydia muses from behind her, and Stiles just nods, being forced to turn in a slow circle and try to ignore Derek and the four friends he has that are ogling him. “I almost wish I’d thought of it,” Lydia keeps on, “but it really suits you better than me or Allison anyway.”
“What do you mean?” Stiles frowns, and Jackson huffs. Lydia hits him on the shoulder.
“Because you like to wear red sweatshirts and walk through the woods at night,” Allison says, almost apologetically, except she’s smirking. Stiles narrows his eyes. Whatever, he picked the outfit because it was ironic.
Besides, he can totally pull a skirt off. Even if he was a bit nervous at first.
“I never walk through the woods alone at night by choice,” Stiles chooses to point out, though he does not deny the red. Irony is a beautiful thing, they can all stuff it. And if there is a bunch of lore about werewolves being attracted to red, well...
The club is blasting ‘Monster Mash’ by the time he finagles Derek into buying him a shot that tastes like cinnamon and apples and nail polish remover. Then, Lydia orders something called a Pink Pussy. It’s absolutely vile, and yet still awesome, simply because it’s called Pink Pussy. He can drink to that.
Derek looks disgusted, but it’s his loss.
“Can you even get drunk? That’s a no, right?”
Scott has gone back to ignoring him in favor of making out with Allison, Lydia has dragged Jackson onto the dance floor, and Derek is on his second beer, so it’s a conversation that needs to happen. Besides, alcohol is fairly disgusting, so what’s the perk in drinking it if you’re not going to get drunk? Or at least tipsy?
“Not on alcohol,” Derek says, side-eyeing Stiles. Stiles ‘hmph’s and steals Derek’s beer, taking a long drink, before handing it back and grimacing. That’s not as bad as his dad’s whiskey, but it’s up there.
A loud howl echoes from the sound system, and fake smoke starts curling around at everyone’s ankles, when Erica, in a skintight black number as Sandy from Grease, Isaac, her slick-haired Danny Zuko—ankle-high jeans and all—and Boyd, dressed like himself, but with vampire fangs and a suspicious layer of blood on his chin, fall onto the table, sweaty and laughing. Or not sweaty so much as hot, because they are werewolves and don’t have normal bodily functions.
Erica takes a second, but then says, “Oh, Stiles, I will be your big bad wolf.”
This is what he gets for hanging out with teenage werewolves. Derek growls and grabs Erica’s hand before she can start groping his non-existent breasts—although they are nicely padded, it’s a good costume.
“That’s a good look though, really,” Isaac says politely, and Erica manages to get her hand back from Derek’s grip. Stiles wants to say Derek is acting weird, but really, he’s not. He’s just acting like Derek. “Is that why you were so late?”
“Girls always take longer,” Boyd says, not even looking at Stiles. He’s trying to get the bartender’s attention instead. Stiles guffaws anyway, and yells, “Hey!”
Erica winks and says, “That’s why we look better, right Red?” with a smirk, bumping her hip against Stiles’. “Come on, dance with me,” she says, and then grabs his hands and starts dragging him out even though she literally just came back from the dance floor.
“What? No, I don’t, Scott, help—“ but Scott isn’t paying attention to him at all, and Erica is kidnapping him.
The music seems even louder in the middle of the floor, the lights furiously brighter. There are sweaty bodies everywhere, bumping into him at every turn, and Erica just grins at him when she finds a place to stop. She grabs his hand, draping it over her shoulder where she presses her back against his chest and starts, like, pretending he is a pole, and she is a stripper strip-dancing on the Stiles-pole.
Okay, he can do this. He’s totally gone to school dances before, although he was usually wearing pants, and there was significantly less groping going on. He’s pretty sure the guy behind him just grabbed his ass, but digress, there is a beautiful girl in front of him, dancing all up on him, and he will master this like Yoda.
“Move your hips,” Erica says, quiet, barely loud enough that he can even hear, and then she’s grabbing at his hips and making him move them with supernatural strength. He lets his hands slide to her waist, and she bumps back against him, slipping and sliding like all of the bodies around them, until she gets him to sort of move with her. Stiles has never been known for being graceful, or having much rhythm, but he bends his head so it’s on her shoulder, and his hips move in tune with hers, finally.
“See, not so hard,” Erica murmurs, and then grins, pulls away, and bounces off, abandoning Stiles in the middle of a mass of sweaty, dancing strangers, and there is a dude dressed in nothing but a pizza box, what, except then he’s being pulled flush against a long, warm body, like a wall of body, and he knows without turning around that it’s Derek.
“Hey,” Stiles says, stretching the word out for all its worth. His heart may also be beating loud enough to overpower Fergie, who knows. “Come to join the little people?”
Derek’s hand is suddenly on his shoulder, unrelenting as Stiles tries to turn around. His chest is literally pushed up against Stiles’ back, leaving no room for air between them. Derek is like an honest-to-God furnace out here, and Stiles finds he can barely breathe. The hood’s long fallen down, and Stiles can’t control the surprised whimper that comes out of his mouth when Derek leans his head down just the inch he needs to to breathe over Stiles neck, like some kind of creature that walks the night.
Other kind of creature that walks the night.
And then Derek actually nips at him, all mouth and no teeth, but seriously, nipping just happened. Stiles hips jump, because Derek’s hand is on Stiles’ abdomen, right where his shirt—corset, okay, it is a corset, but it’s fake one, it shouldn’t count—ends and his skirt starts, and oh, oh dear God, there’s just enough skin peeking through that Derek’s thumb is on Stiles’ stomach, skin-to-skin contact, Jesus mother loving Christ.
Stiles lets his head fall back, bares his neck up like a wolf showing its submissive nature to an alpha—or maybe that’s exactly what this is, here, but either way it makes Derek groan and lick quickly at the pulse in Stiles’ neck. Stiles shivers despite the heat, and reaches back to splay a hand against Derek’s side, fingers gripping the soft cotton fabric of the stupid t-shirt Derek is wearing.
He must have left his jacket at the bar, Stiles thinks, but then he isn’t thinking about it anymore. Derek’s hand is going low, completely bypassing Stiles’ dick and instead roughly grabbing at his thigh, hiking his skirt up an inch, pulling at the fabric of his spider-webbed nylons like he can magically make them disappear. This would be annoying—Stiles worked hard on this costume—if it didn’t feel really, really good.
He’s barely even noticed the way his hips keep moving, jerking with little movements every time Derek pulls or pushes just a little too hard. His mouth is wide open, breathing loud and heavy because it’s too hot, too much, too suffocating to let his lips close and cut off the air that already feels limited. Derek’s grinding up into him, slow and steady and like some fine form of torture, because God, God, Stiles can feel every bit of him, and his skirt is flimsy to begin with, let alone when Derek keeps pushing it up, like it’s personally offending him that it’s getting in the way of some serious public indecency, not that Stiles would even mind at this point, fuck.
Derek growls low in his throat when someone gets too close to Stiles’ other side, and he pulls Stiles’ skirt back down like he’s just now remembering he’s not the only person who gets to look, not in here.
Stiles is almost scared Derek’s going to stop, so he pushes back with ass, and does that little move Erica had, where you slide down, and then slowly climb back up, rubbing against the guy behind you for all you’re worth as you do. Derek’s grip on his arm is tight, tight enough to lose bruises even, maybe, but he doesn’t move off either, just pulls at Stiles even tighter and then, when Stiles is back to standing fully up, slides his mouth, hot and wet, all the way from Stiles neck to his shoulder, pushing his red cloak out of the way until he snaps it off altogether.
Stiles yelps and grabs for it before it can fall to the ground, barely catching it, and then his shoulders are bare and Derek is attacking him, and those are teeth, Stiles can feel the sharp edges that mean they’re not quite as human as they should be. His pulse must rack it up, because Derek pulls back and just breathes against the wet patch on Stiles shoulder for a minute.
“Seriously?” Stiles manages. “That’s all you’ve got?”
Aha, never taunt a werewolf when they’re all hot and bothered. Stiles makes it a mental note when Derek rubs forward and slides a hand into his skirt at the same time, not actually touching but getting pretty damn close to it. Shit, shit, shit, “Derek, that’s—“ not a good idea, probably, they are in public, and there is a thing as too much touching in public maybe, he thinks. Except Derek growls into his ear, this deep sound that goes straight to Stiles’ dick, under his little red skirt that’s hitched up way higher than it was when he arrived.
Plus Derek does this move—this thrust of his hips, pushing him right up against Stiles’ ass, and Stiles can feel a bulge through his skirt and Derek’s jeans, and oh, Jesus Christ.
“I want to fuck you,” Derek says roughly into his neck, and oh, shit, what, where did. “I’d do it right here, in the middle of this club. I’d show everyone here who you belong to, make sure they know not to touch.” He says it with such a ferocious, angry threat in his voice that Stiles almost doesn’t recognize the desperation in it too, like Derek actually thinks he needs to prove to these people, to strangers, that Stiles doesn’t belong to them, that he’s Derek’s.
Holy shit, when did he suddenly start belonging to Derek?
“That’s—that’s stupid,” Stiles pants out, and he just wants to touch, wants to slide his fingers all over Derek’s skin, because he can, he’s allowed, he is, except he isn’t, Derek won’t even let him turn around, “nobodies even trying—“
The snarl cuts him off, and if they get a weird look or two, Stiles doesn’t even care. Derek has a hand tight on his hip, focusing on the way his hips are moving, sliding against Derek’s, and he starts talking again, in that voice, rough and bothered, like Stiles is somehow driving him off the deep-end instead of it being the other way around. “This fucking costume, you think it’s a joke,” Derek says, and Stiles wants to protest, wants to deny that, but he can’t, because the song is changing and he’s blinking up into Scott’s face when Derek moves back a pace, letting Stiles go.
Why is he letting Stiles go?
But Scott is smiling and laughing and grabbing at Stiles’ hand, pulling him away while yelling, “Stiles, man, they’re bobbing for freaking apples at the bar, you have to do this!”
He’s getting dragged from the dance floor before he can so much as complain, and it takes a good two minutes of staring at some girl in a cheerleading costume try and fail to grab an apple with her teeth for what just happened to really sink in. He hits Scott for good measure before looking back for Derek, and then realizes he’s right there, right behind Stiles, watching him.
Making sure nobody else touches him, more like, Stiles thinks, and he must have a stupid expression on his face because he gets called next to try for the bobbing of apples thing. Which, he is awesome at apple bobbing; he used to do it all the time, easy. Scott was always jealous when they were kids, which is probably why he was so excited he pulled Stiles away from the alpha who was essentially getting off (with Stiles!) in the middle of a crowded dance floor, the dumbass.
Even though Stiles is pretty sure they designed the bucket height to be just right so that girls in short skirts would have to bend over, he does it anyway, arms behind his back, and manages to submerge his head in the cold water and sink his teeth into a green apple. There is loud cheering, everyone drunk and happy, and Stiles shakes his head, drops of water flying off everywhere.
He gets a free shot he has to drink in front of the whole bar, and gets to keep the apple. He drinks the shot back, all of it at once, and doesn’t even feel embarrassed when he knows everyone is watching him do it, because Derek is watching, is focused on the way his throat swallows the liquid down, and the way he licks his lips after, and this is crazy, how aware Stiles suddenly is of the way he drinks a goddamn shot, just because Derek is watching him do it.
He wants to drag Derek out of the club, push him down in the seat of his jeep and have his wicked way with him. Except no, that’s too much like someone dressed up as a witch; Stiles wants to kiss Derek open and draw his claws out, wants to make the wolf come out and fucking play.
“Stiles, your nylons are ripped,” Allison says, suddenly, gesturing at his thigh, and she’s right. There’s a thin stretch where the material is pulled apart exactly where Derek had been handling him earlier. Stiles has no doubt how the rip happened, but his skin, pale compared to the black of the fabric, is pressing out, and looks kind of funny, like the nylons are too tight. Maybe they are.
“I think,” Stiles says, “I’m going to—“
“Go off to Grandma’s house?” Jackson snorts. Scott is blinking and looks like he wants to say something, but Allison steps on his foot and shuts him up. Plus one for Allison, zero for Scott.
Stiles grabs his cloak and wolf basket, and then turns and says, “Derek?”
“Yeah,” is the response, low and rough, like he’s been ready for hours. Stiles will be wearing this outfit more often than once a year, is all he can think, and this time it’s him grabbing Derek’s hand and pulling him through the crowded club, pushing past people until they’re tripping out into the night air.
It’s cool and, except for the streetlights, dark. Stiles realizes how sweaty he is, especially compared to Derek. The cleaner—at least less stifled, because clean is relative in this part of town—air feels good against his skin. It’s almost a blessing how much quieter it is outside too, he’s not sure how Derek even managed it in there. He knows Boyd had a pair of earplugs in the entire time, but then, Boyd is the only sensible one, really.
“It feels so nice out here,” Stiles says, and just because it feels good, he starts to spin on impulse, looking up at the stars and the half-moon and the dark sky. It’s possible he’s starting to feel a bit of the alcohol too—three shots and a beer, and he’s technically only gotten drunk twice before—but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in his stomach when Derek slips in behind him, stilling him in the middle of the road, hand flat against his abdomen, body wrapped around Stiles’.
“Car,” Stiles breathes, and then shakes his head, “I mean, my jeep, it’s—come on—“
“I know where it is,” Derek says, not bothering to put any space between them at all as they start moving, “I could smell it before you even parked.”
“Your nose cannot be that good,” Stiles says, because his jeep is like two blocks away.
Derek harrumphs, but doesn’t say anything, so he must just be giving up in preference for jeep sex. Not that a healthy debate would stop that from happening, not now, when Stiles is still half-hard under his skirt which is suddenly far too short for comfort... He’s not sure how girls manage to wear skirts on a regular basis without feeling like they’re walking down the street naked.
His boots fumble over the entrance to the parking garage, and Derek’s hands never stray from his hips as he pulls his keys out of his wolf basket, letting it, the green apple and his red cloak fall into the drivers’ seat as he turns and pushes Derek into the passenger side.
Derek’s hands won’t stop touching him, roaming everywhere. He’s rubbing against the naked skin of Stiles’ shoulders right now, because Stiles is reaching down under the seat, so that he can push it back as far as it’ll go, and Derek reclines when Stiles breathes out the command to do so, pushing the chair down.
It puts Stiles’ face up against Derek’s lower chest, where his shirt is creeping up, and oh, that’s, he’s seen Derek shirtless before, has even been in very close proximity with a naked Derek before, but this is different. And then Derek’s hand is scraping through Stiles’ hair, still looking straight down at Stiles’ face like he’s some Joss Whedon quality movie you can’t turn away from.
Stiles clutches a hand into the material of Derek’s jeans, and he wants to move down, wants to unsnap the button on Derek’s jeans and pull his cock out. He’s hard, he has to be; Stiles can feel it pressing against him, and he definitely felt it earlier when they were dancing, pressing against his ass with every roll of Derek’s hips. And, and the way Derek is looking at him isn’t exactly describing a lack of interest, and Jesus Christ, he just wants it, okay, he wants to swallow the whole thing, slide past the head and take it down his throat, and yeah, maybe he’s being ambitious for a first timer, but he wants it, wants it like he wants to breathe.
Derek makes a noise when Stiles moves to do just that, and instead adjusts his legs and bends down to pull Stiles up, closer to on top of him, and in the jeep enough that Derek can grab the handle and pull it shut. Oh, that’s probably a good idea. Stiles’ head is so out of it, so focused on just, sex, that he hadn’t even realized he was trying to give Derek a blowjob with the car door open. His boots hit the dash, and he says, “Ow!” when his thigh slips and hits the clutch. He is coming to the startling conclusion that his jeep really might not be big enough to accommodate sexy times. It was never an issue during his masturbation fantasies, but as it turns out, sex in cars: not as easy as the movies make it look.
“Stop moving,” Derek growls, and Stiles responds with a, “Yeah, okay,” as he pushes on Derek’s chest, just, trying to find leverage, because this isn’t really comfortable, alright, let alone sexy. Except then Derek is pulling Stiles’ knee up until he’s balancing on the edge of the seat, and the other is actually pushed in-between Derek’s legs where he’s split them, sitting in Stiles’ passenger seat like some kind of college frat boy getting a lap dance.
Not comfortable, per se, but he’s no longer in danger of falling into the drivers’ seat. His boots are still propped up against the dash behind him, awkward, and he twists just a little, reaching to take them off altogether—
“Don’t,” Derek says, catching Stiles’ wrist and pulling it back.
“They’re kind of in the way though,” Stiles complains, except his breath hitches when Derek’s hands, both of them at the same time, grab hold of the silk material of his corset, on both sides of his waist, under his arms. “I like them,” Derek says, like that’s all that matters or something. He tugs up with the material, dragging it slowly against Stiles skin, bunching the red fabric until the wires won’t let him anymore, not without ripping it off altogether. There’s a good two inches of skin visible above his skirt now.
Derek rakes his fingers back down Stiles’ sides, harder as he goes lower. He doesn’t stop at the newly discovered skin like Stiles thought he would, and Stiles can’t help but lean forward, press his mouth hot and open against the collar of Derek’s shirt as his hands slide under Stiles’ skirt, pushing it up and out of the way with hard fingers that press into Stiles’ skin.
“Ah,” Stiles mouths, quiet and harsh and barely more than puffs of air making their way out of his mouth. He presses his forehead against Derek’s shoulder, his knees pushing hard into the leather of the seat as he can’t control himself from lifting his ass up, pressing it harder against Derek’s hands, just—“Oh my God.”
Okay, he’ll leave the boots on.
“These though,” Derek says, voice throaty, and Stiles can feel the vibration with how close he is, “these are in the way.” ‘These’, Stiles realizes belatedly, are the nylons he pulled on last-minute so that his pale, skinny legs weren’t quite so visible. He groans when he feels Derek pull them down from where the material is clutching his waist, slip over his underwear and pop down onto just his thighs, fabric pulling his legs together, and that with the combination of Derek’s hands, and the feel of nails that are just a little too long pressing against his bare skin, it makes him tremble.
“I worked hard on those,” Stiles says, and shakes his head against Derek’s collar, lifting up a little more to press his mouth against his neck, just to do something, to distract himself from the feel of nails against his legs as Derek pulls his nylons down.
Stiles licks a wet spot against Derek’s neck, just under his ear, and smiles into it when Derek adjusts the way he’s sitting, and fuck, this is so ridiculous, he’s having sex with Derek Hale in his jeep. He talks against the spot, hot breath roaming over it and Stiles grins even more when Derek’s shoulders roll, and he lets out a big sigh. “I need to take the boots off if you want to get the nylons off, you know that, right?”
Stiles makes yet another mental note to never challenge a werewolf while having sex, because Derek just growls and rips the nylons in half, literally, they are no longer nylons, they are black wisps of cloth snapping back at Stiles’ legs, like particularly silky, pathetic socks.
“Really? Did you really have to do that?”
“There are better things you could be doing with your mouth, Stiles,” Derek growls out, and while this is true, Stiles still takes momentary offense, because he’s not the one ripping essential parts of Halloween costumes here.
Still, there’s a mile of hot, muscular werewolf underneath him, so he should really be taking advantage of that. He sits back, and winces when his elbow hits the steering wheel, but adjusts until his knees are on either side of Derek’s legs—not an easy feat, he needs a bigger jeep if this going to become a thing—and slips his fingers into Derek’s jean belt straps, tugging him down further. Derek lets him do it too, doesn’t put up an ounce of resistance, and even just watches Stiles while he does, a strange, scary focus in his eyes that makes Stiles’ pulse quicken when he notices.
Blunt nails push Derek’s shirt up, and okay, he wants to be sexy about it, but mostly he’s just scrambling to feel as much of Derek as he can, all warm skin, solid and moving in deep breaths under his hands. “Why are you so hot,” Stiles mumbles, mostly to himself, but Derek laughs, short and soft and completely unexpected.
If there was ever a time to make a big deal of something, that would be it, because Stiles is pretty sure he’s never actually seen Derek laugh, not for real, and he’s opening his mouth to do just that, when Derek surges up and kisses him. Stiles is pushed back hard into the door, handle digging into the crook of his back, but Derek’s kissing him.
Somehow, it’s like ten times bigger. Bigger than the laugh or the dancing or the grinding or thigh touching and nylon ripping, bigger than the stupid growls and breathy commands and the whispered dirty talk on a crowded club floor. Bigger than the fact that he’s harder than he’s maybe ever been in his life, and he’s being kissed by Derek Hale in his messy jeep, dressed in a ridiculous costume, and fuck, what is his life, what is—
Derek licks at his lips, and Stiles pulls back just frantically enough to bump his head on the ceiling of the jeep and pull at his underwear, and Derek can groan all he wants when he realizes they match the costume, he’s not waiting for Derek to torment him by taking them off all slow so he can molest Stiles’ legs for hours.
His dick is standing up tall, begging for attention and peeking out from under his skirt even as he struggles to pull the stupid underwear over his boots in this absurdly small jeep and throw them over somewhere else that he does not even care about. Derek is fumbling at his jeans at the same time, lifting his hips off the seat to unbutton and unzip, and pull the heavy material down just enough that his cock can pop out, bright red and huge and uncut, of course he’s uncut, he’s a werewolf so they probably didn’t want to circumcise, and holy shit, Derek Hale’s cock is looking at him.
So is Derek Hale, actually, heated and impatient, just this side of unnatural, glinting the barest red in the limited light. He wonders if he should be worried that it just makes his dick jump in anticipation. Probably. Derek wastes no time in grabbing at Stiles’ waist though, pulling him back down to straddle Derek in the seat, and wrapping his hand around Stiles dick where it’s met Derek’s, and so Stiles decides to think about that particular kink later.
He moans, of course he moans, loud and aching, and his fingers must dig into Derek’s shoulders hard enough to hurt, super werewolf strength or not. He’s never actually had someone else touch his dick unless you count that one time with Scott that he really doesn’t want to think about right now. “Oh, oh, God, yes, Derek, fuck,” and it feels good, it feels like he’s going to explode, but it’s dry, maybe too dry, even though Stiles is dripping pre-come already, and he can’t even be embarrassed, Derek can just take it as a compliment.
“Wait, wait,” Stiles pants, and Derek groans but stills, and this time his eyes are completely human when he forces Stiles face up from where he was craning to look over Derek’s shoulder.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh my God, yes, shut up, don’t do that, I just need—“ and oh, his dick is rubbing all up against Derek’s stomach as he reaches, grabbing for his backpack and pulling it out, yes, lube, yes, thank God his dad made him do the whole boy scout thing when he was little, because you must always be prepared.
Not that the boy scouts told him to carry lube around, but the point stands.
Derek frowns when he sees the tube, and Stiles rolls his eyes and says, “For purely masturbational purposes, alright, you never know when you’ll have the need to—“ and then there’s more kissing, and Stiles moans into that too, doesn’t even notice where Derek’s hands are until the corset is coming unlaced, slipping until it gets thrown somewhere, probably joining the panties that managed to land and catch on the steering wheel. Sanitizing that later, maybe. The whole jeep actually.
Their dicks appear to be on their own for the moment, because Derek doesn’t go back to jerking them off the way he was a minute ago, although he does wrap a hand around Stiles’ just long enough to get slick and oh, fuck, yes, that’s better, so much better, which is saying something because it was really good before the lube, too.
But then Derek’s hand is rubbing over Stiles’ ass again, and Stiles’ doesn’t get it until Derek is holding him open and gently prodding at his hole, brushing against it with a finger, like he’s testing the waters.
“Fuck, yes, permission granted, do it,” Stiles babbles, because dear mother god of all that is holy, waters have been tested and found absolutely perfect, it’s time to swim, and there are about a billion other metaphors Stiles can come up with here, but he really just wants Derek to fuck him.
“This alright?” Derek asks gruffly, and then his voice goes even lower, and the tip of his finger pushes in, and Stiles fucking mewls, fucking cries out his approval, he can barely even hear Derek’s filthy declaration, promise, vow, whatever, to fuck Stiles in his own goddamn jeep, make him come all over his own seat, make it so his jeep smells like sex for the rest of his life.
“You’re leaking everywhere,” Derek says, like he’s musing, like it’s amusing, and Stiles would hate that smirk, except Derek is actually sweating, Stiles thinks, not from physical exertion but from holding himself back, from pure want, need, and it makes him suddenly wonder how long Derek’s been wanting to fuck him, because there’s no way it just came out of the blue like this tonight. The thought makes him flush even more, and he keens forward when Derek rotates his finger in, pushing until he can’t anymore, and it’s weird, it’s weird but it’s so good, and God, he can’t believe he ever thought he wasn’t into dudes.
Hurts a little more when Derek tries for two fingers, and Stiles bats at his shoulder and says, “More lube, more, oh my God, go slow,” because yes, it’s good, and it’s so wrong, to be doing this in the front seat of a jeep in parking garage, and oh shit, he hadn’t actually thought of that before? Not that he and Derek would have made it home, yeah, sure, like that was a—oh, Jesus fuck, he moans so loudly he has to bite into Derek’s shoulder to keep from yelling.
He can just tell Derek is smirking, but his hands are trembling too, and his thighs, Stiles can feel him underneath, and it’s even hotter, that Derek is struggling to go slow, forcing himself not to just go for it, fuck into Stiles’ ass without abandon. His cock is straining against Derek’s chest, because he’s too amped up to balance himself anymore, he’s leaning onto Derek just because he can’t stay up straight, there’s too much and it’s so good, he can’t keep his mouth shut, or his eyes open.
The third finger feels a little less good, and a little more not going to fucking happen, but Derek whispers into his ear, hushing him through his open mouthed gasps of a little too much stretch and not quite enough pleasure to drown it out. Watching gay porn on his laptop did not properly prepare him for this at all, and maybe doing it in a car was not the best idea, really.
But then Derek says, “Fuck, you’re so good,” like he can’t believe this is happening, and lets out a harsh breath as he moves his fingers, pushes in knuckle-deep, and says, “this is... Stiles...” and just trails off, and Stiles gets it, gets how good this is for Derek, and that makes it better for Stiles, too. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to relax, breathing like some pregnant lady doing yoga—and he feels like he’s doing the sex version of yoga right now anyway, so it’s totally appropriate, although if Derek’s werewolf sperm manages to knock anybody up, silver will be in his foreseeable future, lots of it.
Derek’s entire wrist is trembling when he gets all three fingers in, and Stiles thighs are shaking as a distracting drip of sweat slides all the way down his leg, slowly and not distracting enough, really, except reminding Stiles of how gross he probably looks compared to Derek, who is still totally composed except the way he’s trembling, like he’s afraid of moving, and the way his cock is so hard it’s standing upright, veins deep and pulsing.
Stiles would like to swallow that down one of these days, he really would. And thinking about that is distracting and good enough that his own dick makes a surprising twitch. He jerks up and hits his head again, and it makes Derek’s hand move in a really fucking good way before Derek pulls all three fingers out like he’s been startled.
“Oh no, put them back in, keep doing that, what just happened, do that again!” Stiles cries, grabbing at Derek’s hand. “Derek, please, that was,” literally sparks behind his eyes, is what that was, and the back of his head is saying, “Yay, prostate!” but he just cannot focus on what it was, so long as it happens more.
Derek is moving underneath him, adjusting, and then he’s pulling Stiles down until their dicks grind against each other again, and Stiles’ whine teeters into a groan. But Derek pulls Stiles up even further, like, putting both hands on Stiles ass and hitching him up, fingernails pressing into his skin a bit more sharp than they probably should be. That’s okay though, Stiles has acknowledged he’s a kinky bastard, and Derek’s dick is sliding against his balls, and oh, oh, that’s what Derek’s doing.
Derek is still holding him up with one hand, even with Stiles getting the picture now, but his other hand has reached down and wrapped around his cock (and Stiles could get on board with just sitting back and watching Derek jerk himself off, long and wet and slow, oh but God, not right now, stick a pin in that thought). There’s not quite enough lube on his dick for actual penetration, and Stiles will definitely protest if he tries, but Derek just spends a long minute letting his dick slippery slide along the cleft of Stiles’ ass, making Stiles jerk and moan with every bit of almost-but-not-quite-thrust.
Finally (and really, it took way more time for this to happen that Stiles thought it would), his knee slips and he loses his balance altogether. The only reason he doesn’t fall and become a particularly bruised pretzel is because Derek manages to literally hold him up by his hips, and then he doesn’t even let Stiles get his precarious balance back (which involves way too much hunching, his back might hurt more than his ass tomorrow) before he asks, deep and growly and hot as fuck, “Are you going to let me fuck you now?”
So that’s what being a human noodle feels like. Stiles leans even further forward, and kisses Derek while wrapping an arm around the alpha’s neck and then pulls his mouth away just long enough to say, “Yes, yes, so much yes, let’s do it,” and then he’s panting into Derek’s shoulder, trying to relax instead of freaking out, even while Derek is squeezing more lube out onto his fingers over Stiles’ back. Some of it drips onto his back, dribbling down until it’s blocked by his skirt, which somehow he’s managed to keep on, like his boots.
His chest is pressing close to Derek’s now with the way they’ve maneuvered, and it’s getting exhausting, holding his ass up in the air, and his knees and thighs are straining already, which is why he slumps a little more, and can suddenly feel Derek’s heartbeat, strong and erratic and just like Stiles’ own right now. They don’t match, they’re not in some perfect, synchronized rhythm, but it calms Stiles’ down long enough that Derek can bare up, and pull Stiles down.
It doesn’t just pop in, the way Stiles was sort of expecting it to, because, uh, Derek’s dick is actually larger than a couple fingers. Derek gives Stiles a bit of control, telling him, “Push—down, when you’re, fuck, when you’re ready,” even while shifting his hips to try and coax his way in.
Slow and steady, with lots of lubricant and lots of breathing, and groaning sounds that aren’t entirely from pleasure pressed against Derek’s shoulder (he has a thing for Derek’s shoulders, they are tantalizingly broad and firm and perfect for moaning into), this Stiles can do. It feels like it takes hours, and his legs are practically vibrating with how exhausted and wobbly he is by the time his ass touches down against Derek’s lap, his entire cock buried inside of Stiles, so tight he’s not sure how this is going to work at all.
Derek’s hand is rubbing soothingly over his back, has been the entire time, and he’s hushing short little apologies, promises for it to get better soon, and Stiles is thankful, so thankful for that, because he’s not crying or anything, but it hurts, it does, and there’s no way he can pretend it doesn’t.
He tries pushing himself up, just enough that he doesn’t slam his head into the ceiling again, but the movement sends a spark of pain through him, and maybe a little pleasure that tries to make itself known too, but it’s not enough, not nearly enough. His shoulders are set and his back feels like a wooden board, and his stomach is taut as he tries not to move, tries not to let that pain in. If he just... stays still, maybe.
Somehow, his dick is still half-hard, and he didn’t realize how much it was begging for attention until Derek grabs hold of it, rubbing the top and then jerking him off slowly. It’s a good distraction and Stiles focuses on it until he has to bite his lip with how good it is. Just as slowly, his shoulders and back start relax, and his stomach loses some of that rigidness as he loosens up.
He nods, but Derek doesn’t seem to get the go ahead, so he says it out loud. “You can, ah, you can move, I think—just slow, okay?”
Derek nods back, a look of complete focus on his face, like he has to get this right. Then, the shallowest thrust possible, barely a rolling of Derek’s hips, and Stiles can’t control the moan that falls out of his mouth. Derek does it again, a little more, and Stiles bares back against him, hissing through the burn, even though it’s—it’s not bad, not really, it still aches a little, but there’s that tendril of pleasure building up, promising it’s getting better, that it’ll be amazing if he just gets used to it.
And Derek is going slow, the smallest thrusts in time with the roll of his fist over Stiles cock, until it’s... too slow, maybe, and Stiles tentatively pulls up a little, and then pushes back down. It doesn’t do much for him, exactly, but Derek slams his head into the chair and says, “Fuck! Don’t—do that,” and that—that’s hot, excruciatingly hot, and so Stiles lifts up and does it again, this time a little faster, a little harder. Derek lets go of him and grabs onto the handlebar next to Stiles’ head, gripping it so hard he thinks Derek might break it off.
Okay, so this is working for Derek, at least.
“Come on,” Stiles says, softly, “I thought you promised to fuck me.”
And oh, the sudden up thrust of Derek’s hips catches him by surprise, because yeah, he was taunting, but he didn’t think—but it’s just sparks of pleasure this time, heat and pressure in all the right places drowning out the tight ache that had been there before. Derek stutters to a stop though and he says, “I didn’t—“ like he’s going to apologize for figuring out how to make this amazing and sexy instead of painful and awkward.
“Do it again,” Stiles pants, and pushes down hard, resting his hands on Derek’s chest for purchase when Derek hesitates, like he’s not sure if he really should or not. “Derek, please, do it again,” Stiles whines, and that finally pushes Derek into action, and he’s grabbing onto Stiles’ waist and holding him in place as he thrusts up with what feels like his entire lower body.
Stiles can’t even push back anymore, even though he’s on top, because Derek is fucking him so hard he can’t keep his head straight, can’t even, and the entire jeep is moving with them, with Derek’s ridiculously powerful thrusts that are designed to specifically drive Stiles crazy. He’s moaning harshly at every snap, cursing into the air, or his hand when he reaches up to bite onto something, even though Derek doesn’t stand for that, ripping his hand away with a, “Don’t do that,” in a tone that leaves no opportunity for argument. “I need to hear you, every sound,” Derek says, and presses his hands even harder against Stiles’ waist, no doubt leaving the sorts of bruises that would make his Dad grab the shotgun.
“Fuck,” Derek says, and then, “damn it, Stiles,” and Stiles moans loudly in protest as Derek slows the pace, and then just stops moving altogether, although he does move a hand up to push against Stiles back and force him down, so that he’s smooshed up against Derek’s chest, his face pressed into the crook of Derek’s neck. The change in angle makes him moan again (even though he’s sure that if dicks weren’t involved, this would be the most uncomfortable position ever), but Derek kisses him suddenly, swallowing the noise whole.
Stiles realizes why a second later, when a lady walks into the parking garage just out of the corner of his eye. She’s shuffling through her purse, looking for her keys, and Derek must have heard her coming ages ago.
His dick is back to being rock hard, leaking, throbbing, between their stomachs, and all he wants to do is push back down, grind his ass on Derek’s cock until Derek says, “Fuck with it,” and starts moving again, but the lady is having an issue finding her keys, is just standing there by her car like some kind of idiot.
“Derek,” Stiles whimpers, and Derek growls, shifting his hips just enough that Stiles can’t hold back the moan. He does it against Derek’s neck, practically howling at the injustice of it all, because it was good, it sucked and then it got better and then it got amazing, and then they had to stop. It was the most ridiculous situation he’d ever been in.
He still has the boots on, too, Stiles is going to make fun of Derek forever.
“Oh my God, if she does not get in her car,” Stiles vaguely threatens, because while there’s something innately pleasurable about being completely pressed up against someone while their dick is literally inside of you, if Derek doesn’t start moving soon, Stiles is going to start killing people. Violently.
Derek huffs at him, and pushes his nose up against Stiles cheek, sniffing like he’s a dog—which, okay, werewolf, he gets it. “Your scent is overwhelming,” Derek says, breath hot against Stiles’ skin.
“Not helping, man,” Stiles tries, and then, “wait, do I smell good or bad? ‘Cause—“
“You smell like sex,” Derek groans, “like you’re being fucked open, and you like it.”
“A-ah,” Stiles manages, and then thinks, fuck this, and kisses Derek. It’s hot and wet and neither of them can seem to hold in the whimpering moans, and Stiles doesn’t even try when Derek’s teeth slide over his bottom lip, almost biting but not really, just threatening to, maybe, and that kind of biting wouldn’t even count for the werewolf-turning-thing, right? Desperately, he wants to ask, wants to find out because holy shit, so many new kinks he’s discovering tonight, and—
And Derek is pushing his hips up again, thrusting in at this new angle, and dear God, that lady better be gone, because Stiles can’t hold back the cry as Derek’s cock slams into that spot, the same spot from earlier that made him go crazy and start begging.
This new angle is even better than the first one, and Derek fucks into him again, harder and panting in Stiles ear as his hands rake down Stiles’ back, over his skirt and squeezing his ass like it’s some kind of prize worth holding. Stiles doesn’t care, Derek can fondle whatever part of his body he likes, so long as he keeps fucking him like this.
His thighs are aching with the strain and the positioning that is taking way more yoga skills than Stiles has, but he doesn’t care, he’s so close. He knows Derek has to be too; his rhythm isn’t so much a rhythm anymore as it is random thrusting, spastic and frantic.
Stiles finally pushes back away, pressing a one hand on Derek’s chest and another on the ceiling of the jeep as he closes his eyes and opens his mouth in a silent cry. He can’t, he can’t even, his breath won’t stop hitching, like he can’t breathe, oh, fuck, it’s like a flash of lights in his head when he comes, and his cry isn’t silent this time, it’s loud and practically a sob. Derek fucks him through it, a hand on Stiles’ dick again even though Stiles doesn’t know when that happened, and he’s talking, he’s saying something about Stiles being good, about coming all over, something Stiles can’t hear, it’s like the world’s gone all hazy, and Derek is still fucking him, a dense pleasure that’s wrecking him.
In all honesty, he’s not even sure how long it takes Derek to come, but it can’t be long. He’s still dizzy from it himself when Derek abruptly stills and and lets out a low, keening growl, more wolf than any sound he’s made all night. Then he’s sliding out with a wet pop that’s practically obscene, and Stiles wants to see, wants to turn around and watch Derek come, but Derek moves up and catches Stiles’ mouth in the wettest kiss possibly ever, and comes hard enough that the shudder wracks through him.
Stiles plops down on top of Derek, sweaty and exhausted, and says, “Next time, a bed should be involved. You think?”
Derek just sighs, and runs a hand through Stiles’ hair. It feels amazing after the fast-paced sex, and when Derek reaches up and rolls down the window just a bit, the cold air feels even better.
“Not that this wasn’t awesome,” Stiles adds, suddenly self-conscious.
There is going to be a next time, isn’t there?
“Yeah,” Derek says softly, and when Stiles turns his face up and looks at him, Derek’s eyes are all hazel-brown and watching him, soft smile and looking exhausted as all hell.
“Good,” Stiles says, and then, with a grimace, pushes open the door and half falls out. He makes Derek throw him the jeans stuffed behind the drivers’ seat, and pulls them on as quickly as he can, pulling the skirt over his head and throwing it at Derek as the guy buttons up his jeans.
“Come on, up,” Stiles says, pulling at Derek’s arm while he glares. Stiles dumps himself back in the passenger seat with minor aches and pains from his many forming bruises, and then tentatively grabs the box of tissues from his backpack (they went with the lube), and wipes up the mess Derek made of his dashboard. He hands one to Derek so he can wipe off the mess Stiles made all over his stomach.
“What are you standing out there for?” Stiles asks finally, leaning back. “You’re so driving, I can’t be behind a wheel for at least the next two hours, I’d probably wrap my jeep around a tree.”
Derek keeps on glaring, but he walks to the other side and gets in the driver’s seat anyway. Stiles figures it’s a win-win until the red panties from earlier come flying at his face, and he sputters while Derek grins and starts the jeep.