Archive of Our Own

The Sheriff stares at Stiles. 

Stiles stares right back at his father.

They both stand in the living room for a few seconds, eyeing each other.

The Sheriff is still wearing his police uniform, one hand on the television remote. His left eye is twitching.

Stiles is... also wearing clothes.

More specifically, Stiles is wearing a short puff sleeved poet blouse with a low Queen Anne neckline, and red laced corset dress tutu on top of it. The skirt part of the dress barely reaches mid thigh, leaving the expanse of Stiles’ freshly shaved legs exposed.

He is, however, wearing a pair of high laced red boots with barely any heel, so most of his legs are covered.

This is downright classy, compared to what some of the drag queens had suggested.

Tame, even.

Elegant, one might even–

“What–” 

“I have a hood,” Stiles interrupts, one hand up. The other stops halfway, because he’s holding a little basket as part of his ensemble, and the basket happens to be very heavy. “Also, I turned eighteen three weeks ago! Which makes me legal. An adult! Not legal, it makes me an adult!” A pause. “Which is legal. Being an adult. Is. Legal.” 

The Sheriff’s eyebrows manage to climb further up his face – which is really impressive, considering his many frown lines.

Then Stiles remembers he’s the reason for said frown lines, and promptly ignores it.

“I...” The Sheriff blinks and rubs his eyes. Work clearly tired him, because he suddenly looks very done with life. “I don’t know what to say?”

“You could say I look nice?” Stiles offers, trying to ignore the urge to pull his skirt down slightly. His mirror and the voices in his head had convinced him he looked super nice and kind of sexy, but he has a feeling his father is holding back the urge to call him a harlot. Why does he suddenly feel naked? He has a hood.

He wonders if this is why Erica always ends up finishing her make-up and ‘fixing’ her clothes in his car instead of doing so at home.

“You look... nice,” the Sheriff says, somehow sounding like the words are stabbing and choking him on the way out of his mouth. It’s remarkable how clear the image is in Stiles’ mind.

The Sheriff looks down at his boots and sighs, rubbing his face again. “God, you are so much like your mother.” He shakes his head. “Please remind Derek that I have wolfsbane bullets.”

“What?” Stiles steadfastly ignores how high his voice goes with just that word. “What does this have to do with Derek? What does anything have to do with Derek? Actually, Derek who? Who is Derek, and why are you–” There is the sound of horn outside, and his father’s full sentence registers. “Wait, what do you mean I’m like mom?”

The Sheriff does not even bother answering as he moves towards his room.

“Dad?!”

“Take some extra pepper spray with you!”

“What did you mean by that, dad!”

The horn blares again, and Stiles glowers at the staircase once more before deciding that his interrogation will have to wait until after he comes home.

Which, if his plan works the way he wants it to, will be tomorrow.

Afternoon.

He fixes his skirt once more and grabs both hood and basket, before finally walking out of the house.

He barely makes it three steps before the wolf whistles and catcalls start.

Stiles rolls his eyes, because if they think that after everything he’s had to endure in his life this will embarrass him, they have another thing coming, both of them.

“Damn, Stilinski,” says Isaac, as Stiles opens the passenger’s side of the car and slides in. “Where have you been hiding those legs?”

He’s sitting in the back of Jackson’s car, but as soon as Stiles sits down, his hand is between the two seats, pawing at his legs. 

“Why are they so smooth?”

Stiles, who had been just about to smack the hand away, lights up.

“Cool, uh? Erica helped me wax my arms and my legs.”

“Ouch,” Isaac says. “Did it hurt?”

“Like a bitch.”

“I bet you cried,” Jackson says, and it’s only then that Stiles takes a note of what the other wolf is wearing.

It’s... something.

“Dude.”

“Shut up,” he says, glaring at the road as the car starts. “Lydia wanted to match.”

Ah. “So she’s Daphne.”

“And he’s Fred,” says Isaac, trying – and failing – not to laugh.

Jackson shifts his glare to the beta.

“I can and will throw you out of the car and run you over.”

He sounds and looks ridiculous with the orange ascot tie around his neck.

“So violent,” Isaac complains, leaning back in his seat.

Stiles glances over at him, finally taking note of Isaac’s costume.

“Vampire,” he says, making a sound of disapproval. “Isn’t that like against your religion or something? Won't your pack alpha dad disown you?”

At least he's classic Dracula with fake (... please be fake) blood on his chin and white foundation instead of some Twilight wannabe.

“I was going to go as a wolf,” Isaac says, “But Derek rolled his eyes when I mentioned it, and then Lydia vetoed it.”

“That’s why you don’t tell Lydia your costume idea beforehand and instead act like you are still deciding.” Stiles taps the side of his head. “Lydia cannot stop what Lydia does not know.” He eyes Jackson, and then smirks. “Unless you’re Jackson. Then what Lydia does not know just does not exist.”

“Fuck off, Stilinski.” 

Before Stiles can respond in kind, Isaac leans forward once more. This time he grabs Stiles’ chin, turning his face in his direction.

It’s weird how not weird this is. The betas have their hands all over him so often it feels weird when they’re not touching or manhandling him in some way.

It’s gotten to the point where even Lydia and Allison randomly take his hand, or kiss his cheek, or drag him around by the arm.

It’s probably why the polycule rumours are more popular than the cult rumours in school.

Stiles has theories about the psychology of all of this, but the only person he can interview regarding this would rather dramatically kill himself than confront his feelings for him in person without something forcing him to.

“You’re not wearing mascara,” Isaac realises, after a few seconds of inspection. “I mean your lips and the gloss kind of catch the eye first anyway, but pencil without mascara? That just looks shabby.”

Stiles would ask the reasonable questions in response to such a statement from Isaac Lahey, of all people, but he does have a point.

“In my defence, that mascara shit looks like a torture device! How do the girls put that thing anywhere near their eyes without stabbing themselves? It looks like some sort of creature, how do you– It’s just impossible! I tried so many times, but then I gave up cause I don’t want to lose my eyes. My eyes are one of my top selling points, Isaac! Lydia says they are the soul of my ‘fawn aesthetic’, and who am I without it? Nothing! Nobody! No-fawn!”

“Do wolves eat fawns?” Isaac asks, because Isaac always focuses on the wrong thing.

Stiles still does not understand why and how he’s in a pack with the man.

Jackson snorts. “I know one who will.” Stiles makes another very disapproving sound, and Jackson turns to glance at him. “If you have your mascara on you, I can help you put it on.”

Is this not suspicious? Stiles is suspicious.

“How do I know you’re any good?”

“Lydia.”

It’s one word, but it’s answer enough.

Still, “How do I know you won’t stab me on purpose?”

“Because the same wolf who we know wants to eat this fawn will kill me if I bring said fawn over with any visible injury.”

“So would half of the pack,” Isaac adds.

Jackson grimaces, but nods. “So will half of the pack.” His glare returns. “I still don’t understand how you managed to get so high up the pack hierarchy.”

“Fucked his way to the top.”

“Isaac!” Stiles says, aggravated. “I would never do such a thing! Fucking my way to the top would mean fucking you guys, and I would rather die.”

“Ouch,” Isaac says, at the same time as Jackson says, “Right back at you.”

+++

Still, ten minutes later Stiles finds himself with Jackson half perched on his lap as the werewolf carefully applies layers of mascara over his eyes.

Without stabbing him once.

He does threaten, whenever Stiles’ mouth even hints at a comment, but he’s very gentle in his movements, and suspiciously good.

Stiles makes a note to study Jackson’s face from now on, just to see if the werewolf has been using Lydia as an excuse and is actually wearing make-up to school everyday.

It would explain why he’s so annoyingly pretty (Stiles is very objective like that, can appreciate the aesthetics parents worked so hard to create even when the person is an absolute tool; or just Jackson).

Or maybe he’s a secret MUA.

His lips twitch, and Jackson glares.

“I will stab you.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You thought it!”

“Now I can’t even think?! Lizard-brain, you’re killing me.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Do I ask?” comes a voice from somewhere outside the car.

Stiles can’t really see her, but he still waves in her general direction.

“Hey, Lydia!” 

“Hi, Stile– oh, wow. Where did you get– Did you shave your legs?”

“Waxed,” he says, blinking rapidly as Jackson finally gets off him. He blinks at Lydia until he manages to put her into focus. “Do I look okay?”

Lydia grabs his chin similarly to how Isaac did earlier. She hums thoughtfully, presses her finger against his lashes for a moment, and then releases him.

“More than decent.” She smiles at Jackson, pleased, and presses a kiss on his cheek. “Well done, babe. Maybe we should try that boyfriend tag thing again.”

Jackson kind of looks like he wants to die, so Stiles saves him from answering by stepping outside the car.

Lydia’s eyebrows raise.

“Wow,” she manages, her lips lifting. “You look super slutty.”

“Just what I was aiming for,” he says, immensely pleased.

Some of the drag queens had been kind of worried when Stiles had explained the kind of costume he wanted (something about him being their innocent baby boy and how hard it was to watch him grow up, and also him being the barely legal jailbait son of the Sheriff), but they had absolutely delivered.

He still did not know where the boots or the corset piece had come from, but he refused to ask.

He rocked it.

“Someone is going to lose his mind the moment they see you,” she adds, watching curiously as he puts away the mascara. She links their arms together and they proceed towards the loft. “What do you have in your basket, Little Red?”

“The usual,” says Stiles, waving a hand. “The mascara, three knives – two blessed, one not -, house keys, a pouch of mountain ash, this strawberry smelling lipgloss I found in CVS, the wolfsbane mistletoe compound pepper spray you made, some gum, an extra pair of socks, some healing herbs, one singular silver tipped arrow I nicked from Allison, Erica’s perfume I was meant to return three weeks ago, and my phone.”

There is a moment of silence as they stop in front of the elevator, and when Stiles glances back, Jackson and Isaac are staring at him with very wide eyes.

“What?” he complains. “What if I run into Peter? I need to be prepared.”

“For what? The Apocalypse?!”

“This is why you’re my favourite,” Lydia says, and she presses the button to call the elevator.

Stiles is pretty sure that Lydia’s favourite is currently Cora Hale because of the whole incident with the unicorn last week, but he does not mention it.

One, he does not want to ruin this afternoon/evening by starting an argument with Lydia that he is statistically guaranteed to lose.

Two, he has come to this pack meeting with a plan. A Capital P Plan, in fact.

See, Stiles has been called a lot of things, throughout the years.

Oblivious, for one.

An idiot (repeatedly, sometimes affectionally).

A loser, every now and again (Jackson being the one who loved this epithet the most).

One thing he has never been called? Stupid (...Okay, he has been called stupid a lot of times, but nobody has ever meant it) (... fine, some people might have meant it, but those people were just wrong).

Stiles is not stupid. Maybe he’s a little thick when it comes to matters of the heart, maybe he’s a self sabotaging idiot with a habit of selling himself short when it comes to his love life, and maybe he has (used to have) the self-confidence of a snail faced with salt (you know, in the way they curl in themselves as they writhe in pain?), but he’s not stupid.

His father taught him that once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern.

And even though coincidences don’t exist in their world, after the seventeenth time he noticed Derek Hale acting shady-er than usual specifically when it came to him, the dots had started to connect.

And create a very funny-freaky looking image.

Unfortunately (for Stiles, fortunately for the legal system), Derek Hale is held back by this stupid idiot thing called ‘morals’. Or maybe he’s held back by this minuscule thing called ‘your dad is the Sheriff of the town and he’s equipped with wolfsbane bullets and I’ve been terrified of him since he was a deputy and hey, did I mention that he’s your dad, and I’m probably the most well known creeper of the town and, until a month ago you were his precious underage only son? Also Kate Argent trauma’ (Obviously Derek would never say any of those words in this order – or any order... or any words at all – but Stiles has graduated in ‘Derek’s eyebrows language’ with a minor in ‘Hale Family Body Language’ and could read it plain as day in his eyes).

Which means that even though Stiles has now been 18 for 31 calendar days, Derek is still treating him like a blushing virgin he’s terrified of corrupting.

Stiles does not need corrupting. Stiles is corrupt. Stiles is the delinquent son of the Sheriff of Beacon Hills, it’s literally his job to corrupt the innocent teenagers and teenager adjacent of Beacon Hills.

It was written in the stars, even!

He’s sure the Nemeton is holding onto a very specific prophecy saying that he will be the one to corrupt Derek Hale (in a sexy and non Katejennifer Blargent way).

So Stiles had gone to the drag queens with a very simple task: to ‘de-virgin-ise’ him.

This costume and the secrets it hid under it is what they had settled on, and now Stiles was going to put it into use.

The doors of the elevators open, and Stiles takes another deep breath, pulling the skirt just a tiny bit higher up.

“Slut,” Jackson whispers, which Stiles ignores (well, he flips him off, but he very bravely and responsibly does not respond out loud; that’s basically ignoring).

Lydia just looks like she’s having the time of her life, and they finally walk inside of the loft.

Isaac is tall enough to cover him as they walk in, which means Stiles has the chance to spot Derek before Derek sees him.

It also means Stiles sees the second Derek registers what he’s wearing.

He hears what sounds like Scott choking (right, he was meant to show him the costume before he left the house), but his focus is on the Big Bad Wolf himself.

It is fascinating to watch as the wolf’s eyes slowly widen and his mouth opens just enough to make his adorable bunny teeth appear. His eyes shine bright alpha red, and Stiles knows he does not imagine the aborted step forward he makes.

“Jesus, Stilinski,” says Erica, looking delighted. “Is this why you wanted me to help you wax yesterday?”

Derek’s eyes go to his legs, and Stiles grins as he approaches the couch.

He puts a foot on the arm of the couch, perfectly aware of the way the skirt rides up a little at the action.

“Looks nice, right?”

He’s pretty sure he hears something between a whimper and a growl coming from the alpha.

“Wow,” says Allison, reaching to touch his leg. “Did it hurt? When I tried to–”

She pauses at the very real growl Derek makes the second her fingers touch his skin.

Allison and Stiles turn to Derek, identical expression of ‘dude? the fuck?’ on their faces (only one of them is real).

The top of Derek’s ears are beet red, and it takes him a few moments to get his eyes back to normal.

“We don’t have time for this,” he says, and he has to clear his throat to make himself sound steady and alpha-like. Stiles applauds the attempt in his head, but really? Really? “Stiles, just sit down.”

“Yes, Alpha,” he says with a smile, and he does not miss the hint of red returning to the man’s eyes – especially when his gaze lands on Stiles’ lips.

He so has him.

Cora raises an eyebrow when he sits beside her on the couch, placing the basket on the ground. 

“Nice costume.”

“Thank you,” he says, eyeing her in turn. “Are you an FBI agent?”

“I am Supervisory Special Agent Elle Greenaway,” specifies Cora. “With the BAU.”

Stiles has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, and instead sits down.

Someone less smart – like the pouting duo of Erica and Scott, who are not not smart, just differently gifted – might assume that Stiles chose where to sit down at random.

They would, of course, be wrong.

Stiles has been planning for today.

And his studies had included a very in depth analysis of Derek Hale’s loft, specifically in terms of the angles in the room and the measurements of every single piece of furniture the man owns.

Without those in depth breakdowns, Stiles would have never discovered that the couch Cora is currently sitting on (Couch B in his mental 3D rendition of the room) is the perfect place for him to sit down with his legs crossed just so.

Because it’s exactly across from where Derek usually stands during pack meetings, and is high enough from the ground that in the case of Stiles stretching his legs out and crossing them–

Derek’s eyes fix on him for a second, and Stiles observes quite pleased the way his face seems to heat up all over again.

Had it been anyone else, Stiles knows they would have called him out on it (Jackson, Scott), leered (Erica, Isaac), or (im)politely ignored it (Allison, Cora).

However, Stiles has Derek’s behaviour and reactions down to an art . Or science. Or artistic science (scientific art?). 

You see, during the past few months Stiles has come to the conclusion that Derek Hale is obsessed with him.

The sentence ‘you are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires’ comes to mind, in relation to Derek’s behaviour.

And this is not Stiles being needlessly cocky or arrogant. 

Stiles is not capable of that (fine, he is, but not about this).

He has pages upon pages of data. He has visual and auditory evidence. He has internal sources (members of the pack) and external sources (people he goes to school with and a surprisingly large number of enemies) ready to sign sworn testimonies. He has receipts, proof, timelines, screenshots – everything necessary to write the most brutal and detailed report on ‘Derek Hale is obsessed with Stiles Stilinski’.

The only problems are those pesky morals of his.

Which is why Stiles had to create the perfect trap.

“Derek?” calls Erica, when the man keeps staring at Stiles for a little too long. “You need a minute?”

“What?” The wolf glares at her, shaking his head. “No, I–” His eyes shift to Stiles, and then away again. “No. Is everyone here?”

“Yes, Derek,” she says, in that tone that makes people (Derek and Jackson) want to kick her. “Everyone is here.”

“Come on, Catwoman,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyes are on him again. “Let the Big Bad Wolf breathe.”

“Dinah Lance,” Erica corrects, indicating her costume. “Not Catwoman.”

“Missed opportunity,” he says, and glances at Boyd. “Why are you Green Lantern?”

“Yes, Boyd,” says Erica, glaring at her boyfriend from where she is perched on his lap. It sort of undersells her point, but Erica and 'making sense' have never been particularly good friends. “Why are you dressed as Green Lantern?”

“I told you I’m sorry,” he complains. “How was I meant to know that Green Lantern and Green Arrow are not the same person?”

“Dude,” Erica, Scott and Stiles say together.

“Seriously?”

“Come on.”

“You can’t be for real right now.”

“I’m sorry I’m not a nerd,” Boyd complains, disgruntledly pulling Erica closer when she tries to escape him. “Sorry, Derek, you were saying?”

Derek was not saying anything. All Derek was doing was taking the moment of distraction from his betas to stare at Stiles.

Because Derek is very obsessed with Stiles, and Stiles knows this very well.

“Derek?”

The wolf focuses back on Boyd, blinking once, twice, three times.

“Right. Sorry. Uh... omegas in the preserve.”

Stiles so has him.

Stiles does not have him.

It turns out that Derek’s self punishing and outright masochist act is stronger than his lust for virgin no longer jailbait bodies (specific body), and the second Lydia mentions that she needs more soda because someone who she won’t name (Stiles ignored the way she glared at him while saying that, and continues to wonder who on Earth she could mean) forgot to buy them, he and his keys are out of loft (in his defence, Stiles does not have the brain capacity to focus on more than one thing at a time, and his brain had been focused on his Halloween costume all of last week).

And somehow an hour later the man has still not returned, which means Stiles is stuck at a party planned by his pack and having fun.

He’s even forced to ‘dance’ (Boyd always makes air quotes whenever Stiles mentions his dancing, it’s very rude and unfortunately catching on) with Allison and Erica and having fun.

“Stop pouting,” says Allison, pulling him closer as she ‘white girl dances’ (again, Boyd is a very judgemental member of the pack). “Gives us a smile, Little Red.”

“Did you know that Wednesday Addams is a ballerina in the original sitcom? Your rendition is not as inaccurate as one would assume with all the smiles.” He pulls at one of her braids. “I like the pigtails, though.”

“Are we here to talk or to dance?” Erica complains, and Stiles is suddenly in between a All-Erica sandwich. “Come on!”

Stiles is still not sure of how he’s supposed to dance to the current song, but between the two and the fact that he can see Captain America Scott making a fool of himself across the loft, he doesn’t mind too much.

He wishes Derek was here already, but he is having fun.

All he had paid attention to, when Lydia had proposed/begged to use the loft to throw her annual Halloween party was the fact that it was at the loft, aka the place where Derek Hale’s bedroom was (possibly with a bed and a naked Derek Hale inside it), but he can’t deny that the party idea was a success.

With Lydia, Jackson and Cora (shockingly) (not) (being a Hale and being ‘badass’ was apparently the same thing) being as popular as they are, Scott and Allison’s newfound social status, and most of their (non werewolf) friends being part of the popular crowd, it was easy to get their classmates to show up.

Stiles is happy for them.

After a few more minutes of jumping around, however, he manages to free himself from the duo, latching onto a passing Boyd on his quest for drinks.

The wolf looks amused.

“You okay?”

“Dude, my feet are killing me,” he complains, not bothering to raise his voice. “All that dancing–”

“‘Dancing’.”

“Fuck your air quotes, I was capital D Dancing out there. But I don’t think these boots are made for dancing.”

Boyd’s eyebrows rise. “No way. The tight sexy looking red boots with a little bit of heel that probably took you ten minutes to put on are not made for dancing? Are you shitting me?”

Stiles’ eyes narrow, even as he accepts some of the punch he’s offered. 

“I think I liked you more when you were quiet and weird.”

The wolf grins and playfully snaps his (human) teeth at him, snickering when Stiles does the same.

“You here for a while? Lydia is asking for a drink.”

“I’m good,” Stiles promises, waving him off. “I’ll sit here and drink until I can feel my toes again. Is it weird that I can’t feel them? I think it’s weird.”

Boyd doesn't tell him if it’s weird or not. He just pats him on the head and is quickly swallowed by the crowd again. 

Stiles stands there for a while, nursing his drink and watching the crowd.

Captain Scott and Wed-Allison have now found each other and are dancing together. Erica Lance and FBI analyst Cora are on another side of the room, chatting up a Danny Zuko guy who looks scared for his life (as he should), and Green Boyd and Daphne-Lydia are holding their drinks and watching them in clear amusement. Fred-Jackson and Vamp Isaac are closer to where Stiles stands, in the middle of a vaguely incestuous looking dance (he knows they are not siblings, but brother, eugh) with Danny (Stiles has no idea what the guy's costume is supposed to be).

It’s good that they’re having fun.

Things have been quiet lately, and while he hopes this means Beacon Hills has finally calmed down (he can’t even think about it without laughing at the absurdity of the notion), this is probably one of their few reprieves before some more shit starts going down.

So, he’s glad they’re having fun.

Though he’d prefer if Isaac and Jackson were having less fun.

Seriously, why are they so close? Why hadn’t the authorities intervened yet? Why–

“Oh good, I’ve found you,” says a voice. Stiles glances to his left, surprised to see a guy he vaguely recognises from the lacrosse team donning a suspiciously well done Sheriff uniform and grinning at him. “For a second I worried the Big Bad Wolf got to you.”

God I wish. 

Stiles did not say that, smirking at the guy. “Could have sworn it was a hunter in the story saving me, not the Sheriff.”

“Sheriff, hunter,” the guy (Mark? Martin? Matt?) waves him off. “Doesn’t matter, I’m still here to keep you safe.”

“Safe from who?” Stiles glances over at the ‘dance floor’. “There is a distressing lack of wolves, of the natural or were kind around us.”

He can feel the glares of half of the pack, and Stiles pats himself on the back for his ability to be irritating no matter how far he is from any of them.

The guy is standing close enough that his arm touches Stiles’ (which is weird, why is a human touching him?) (okay, he can hear how that sounds, but it makes sense to him). 

“Wolf or not, someone is bound to come and eat you up if you’re not careful.”

He’s... he’s flirting, realises Stiles.

Lydia has been training him to be able to recognise flirting, and this guy is totally flirting with him right now.

“Maybe I don’t want to be careful,” he says, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe I do want someone to ‘eat me up’.”

“Still better make sure it’s not a savage beast,” says the guy (Michael? Max? Milo?).

“I always saw the wolf as misunderstood,” Stiles says, nose twisting at the ‘savage beast’ comment. The guy is definitely starting to sound like a hunter.

“No compassion for the hunter?” the dude (Maxwell? Seriously, what the fuck is his name?) places a hand on Stiles’ waist and moves a little closer. “You know, in some versions he’s the one who ends with Red.”

Stiles is perfectly aware of how hypocritical it sounds coming from him, but ew? 

Ew!

Before he can start to explain why that’s very nasty not good, however, the dude’s arm disappears from his waist and Stiles finds himself suddenly pressed against a very familiar set of muscles.

He would know those abs anywhere.

And he would know the arm wrapped around his middle anywhere too.

“Go,” Derek says.

Dude-who’s-name-Stiles-still-could-not-remember goes from looking pissed to about to piss himself (see what he did there) the second his eyes fix on Derek.

Then he lets out a very mouse sounding eep, and disappears from sight.

“That was rude,” Stiles says, putting his hand over Derek’s arm. “We were flirting.”

Derek growls very rudely right in his ear.

He’s lucky Stiles has some disorder he can’t diagnose that presents in symptoms like being attracted to displays of violence specific to Derek Hale (Lydia has promised that when he inevitably dies prematurely due to lack of self preservation, she will study his brain and name all the mental illnesses she ends up finding buried in there).

“What? I thought you were going to ignore me. Have to get my fun, somehow.”

Derek’s hold on him tightens just a little, but the wolf sighs as if in defeat.

“Trust me,” he says. “You’re very hard for me to ignore.”

Stiles tries to detangle himself from him so that he can turn around and face him, but Derek seems very opposed to the plan.

This is fine, Stiles can work with this.

He makes himself more comfortable, leaning so that all of his body is pressed against Derek’s front.

“Then don’t,” he says, pushing his head back and looking up at Derek, perfectly aware of how exposed his neck is in this position. “Why fight it?”

Derek’s eyes flash again, and there is something so exquisitely exhilarating about how much Derek is fighting for his control right now.

Stiles knows (has known) that he’s Derek’s anchor. Finding out that he’s both the reason he has such a grasp on his control and struggles to maintain it is like someone injected pure heroine into his veins (or something. He doesn’t know how drugs work, he’s a delinquent, not a crackhead).

“I shouldn’t,” Derek says. “We shouldn’t.”

His other hand, as if to contradict him, ghosts over Stiles' neck. 

“Says who?”

“Stiles,” Derek says, brows furrowed. “You–”

Stiles latches on Derek’s hand, pressing it against his throat.

“I spent days on this, Derek Hale,” he tells him, eyes narrowed. “Days looking for the sluttiest Little Red Riding Hood costume I could find. I wore ridiculous boots that look great but are not very conductive for dancing. I went through torture at the hands of Erica Reyes and waxing products. I spent hours on YouTube trying to understand how to wear make up and then hours listening to confusing video essays about the James Charles, Jeffree Starr, Tati Westbrook’s drama – you are not ready for that tea, let me tell you that – and then allowed Jackson to do my mascara for me.

“You want me, I know you want me, and you know I know you want me. And I want you, and you and the rest of the universe knows I want you. I think aliens know I want you. I think my dad knows that you want me and I want you. I think concerned citizens of Beacon Hills know we want each other. I think the mermaid we saved last month knows we want each other. I bet–”

“Stiles.”

“Point is, the fact that you want to fuck me is the worst secret in Beacon Hills after werewolves.” Stiles shrugs. “So, either you do something about this alarming levels of UST between us...” He finally releases Derek’s hand, but the wolf does not move it from his neck. “Or I go find another big bad looking to get a piece of–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, because Derek growls again then.

And then he bites him.

It’s barely a nip of human teeth against his earlobe, but it’s all that is necessary to shut Stiles up.

“No,” he says.

Stiles’ lips lift in a smile, and he raises an eyebrow.

“No?”

“No,” repeats Derek, and he lets his eyes flash red now for a full second. “You’re mine.”

“Am I?” Stiles wonders. He turns around, and Derek lets him, until he’s standing chest against chest with Derek. “Prove it.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Derek’s lips are on his.

Stiles should probably be worried about Derek's attempt to devour him whole in the middle of the loft while his classmates surrounds him (because this is not a kiss, this is Derek trying to literally consume him, and Stiles is very tempted to let him), but he can't bring himself to care.

Because he's wrapped around Derek, and he can feel the heat of his body against his, and god, maybe he should care a little, otherwise he might end up turning this party into a public indecency criminal charge (Stiles has a feelings his dad would happily book them both instead of making it go away, just to make a point).

As if reading his mind (or maybe because Derek Hale is a very possessive person), Derek’s hands suddenly lifts him in his arms, hands on his ass, and Stiles' yelp is swallowed down.

He hears “Get it, Stilinski!” from somewhere, but he’s barely paying attention to anything that isn’t Derek’s hands on his ass, or Derek’s tongue in his mouth, or Derek’s teeth on his lips, or Derek’s mouth, or Derek, or–

Next thing he’s aware of, he’s being thrown on top of Derek’s bed.

He’s been in Derek’s bedroom before. He is naturally inquisitive (not nosy, fuck you Boyd), and studying the parts of himself Derek normally hid from the pack had been an important part of Stiles’ study into the man’s psyche.

It feels different, now.

It is different.

It is very different, laying on his back with Derek standing a little farther from him in the barely illuminated room, red eyes roving over every inch of him.

Stiles pulls himself up on his forearms and crosses his legs invitingly. Or tries to, because the boots are in the way.

And speaking of the boots.

“Shoes on the bed,” he complains, momentarily distracted. “Bad. Nasty bad, hold on–”

He reaches for the laces, but Derek’s hand on his stops him.

The wolf’s eyes are still alpha red.

“Keep the boots on,” he says, voice low and gravelly.

Oh.

Oh!

The European in Stiles loudly protests this idea.

The sex deprived (and depraved) part of Stiles however is so all for is. 

“Really?” he asks, delighted. “The boots do it for you?”

Derek’s knees sink on the edge of the bed, and his hand traces the material of the boots, all the way to his knee.

“Every part of you does it for me, Stiles,” he says, and his fingers trace Stiles exposed legs.

He has never considered his legs a particular sensitive part of him, but as Derek slowly leans forward and places his lips under his knee, he can’t help but shiver.

“Derek,” he says, eyes fixed on the wolf as he does the same to his right leg, this time on his knee.

“Your skin,” he says, going back to the left leg and kissing the point right above the knee. “It’s so soft. How... why are you always so soft?”

“Moistori–” Stiles gasps mid word as Derek’s teeth sink onto the next patch of skin. Not hard enough to hurt, no – just enough to leave the barest of marks.

Of course, Stiles bruises like a peach, which means it does not take anything to do this.

Derek fixes his lips on the mark quickly, and then moves to the other leg again. He keeps at it, peppering his skin with kisses and feather light bites. He continues, until he’s on Stiles’ left thigh, right under the hem of the skirt.

Stiles keeps watching him, heart going a little faster than normal as Derek lifts his head, trying not to squirm at how tight his underwear has become.

He gasps when Derek pulls him forward by the calf, but then Derek’s lips are on his again and any complaint Stiles might have had evaporates immediately.

There should be a study on the way Derek kisses.

Or, at the very least, a class.

Stiles is sure that if more people were taught to kiss the way Derek kissed, there would be far less wars in the world. Why fight when the Presidents could just kiss each other better?

Then again, if there was a class, Stiles would have to share Derek with the masses.

Stiles does not want to share Derek, so he wraps his arms around the man’s neck, pushing until Derek re-arranged them, placing Stiles in his lap.

“God, Stiles,” Derek says, pulling back just to immediately zero on his neck. “You’re so–”

Stiles doesn’t find out out what he is, but that’s fine because Derek’s mouth is on his neck and apparently Stiles likes that. He likes that a lot.

“Fuck,” he says, moaning when he feels the press of Derek’s teeth on his skin. “Derek, ugh–”

It feels so good, Stiles’ fingers curl in Derek’s hair, pulling a little painfully at it. Considering the answering groan he gets for that, he comes to the conclusion that Derek enjoys that too.

He’s so lost on the feeling of Derek’s lips on his neck and the friction of his beard on his neck, it takes him until he makes a very frustrated growl to realise that Derek has been trying to undo his costume for the past few minutes.

“Hold on, oh okay,” Stiles manages, trying to detangle himself from him with a little groan. Derek makes a whining sound, and Stiles fixes him with a look, pretending he’s not very obviously struggling to keep his own composure. Why does both Derek's growly macho alpha shtick and Derek's whining puppy sounds have to be so hot? Surely this is not legal? What did the Geneva Convention have to say about this?

“Do you want to spend the next few minutes trying to figure out how to take this off me or do you want to be inside of me by the end of the day?”

Derek’s finger tighten around his cape.

“I could rip it off you.”

“You do not have enough money to pay me back for this,” he says, and slides off him. “Okay, you probably do but it has emotional value. I do not want to have to explain to the costume ladies why I’m coming back to buy the same costume over and over.”

“Over and over?”

The sight of Derek standing over him while Stiles laid on the bed fully clothed had done things to him.

The sight of Derek sitting on the bed and watching as Stiles stood, quickly undoing the buttons of his cape... it also does things to him.

Stiles was pretty sure it was just the sight of Derek, in any capacity, doing anything that was doing things to him, but he was going to need further data to confirm this.

Stiles undid the brooch in the middle of the corset, one eyebrow raised.

“You think that after your reaction today I’m not going to blackmail you with this costume whenever I can? Derek, you know what happens when you give me access to any of your weaknesses.” He undid the lace of the corset, and paused. “I am not waxing again, though. That shit hurt. I am not sure I will ever grow hair again. I think Erica legitimately scared any future hair follicle hiding in my skin.”

“Trust me when I say I do not mind,” Derek says, continuing to watch him closely. “Keep going.”

Was this a strip-tease? Did it count as a strip tease? Did boots need to be completely off for it to be a striptease, or could you keep your boots on?

For once, Stiles is happy to keep his questions on the inside (at least for the time being).

Instead, he tries to seductively pull down the sleeves of his corset. It takes him three whole tries to pull one down, because the shit is tight, and then he unfortunately has to shimmy around to get the entire dress thing to fall to the ground.

Perhaps not his most sexy action of the night, but Derek does not mock or laugh at him.

His eyes remain on Stiles the whole time, watching as Stiles steps over the dress, now only wearing the white blouse, the red boots, and–

He slaps his thigh, pretending he’s not blushing under Derek’s alpha eyes trained on the red silk panties he’s been wearing under it, and smirks.

“Got to match,” he explains.

“Come here,” Derek says.

His voice is lower than before, and Stiles does not hesitate to slide right back in his lap again.

This time Derek’s kiss is languid, slow.

It’s like he’s on a mission, like he wants to map every single part of Stiles' mouth with his tongue, and Stiles is more than willing to let him.

His fingers dig into Stiles’ sides so hard it almost hurt, but Stiles does not care. He’s been half hard from the moment Derek started kissing him during the party, and sitting on the man’s lap in nothing but a stupid pair of panties does nothing to help.

Then Stiles shifts slightly, and he feels something hard, and big, and it suddenly becomes imperative that he gets his mouth on that.

And because he is both impatient and very polite, he immediately asks.

“Cniskcyrdik.”

Derek, who is not as fluent in Stiles-ian as Stiles is in Derek-ese, stops mid kiss, eyes a little unfocused.

“What?”

“I need to suck your dick,” he says, watching the focus quickly return to his eyes. “Please? Can I? Please?”

“Jesus,” Derek says, which is basically a yes?

Either way, Stiles is immediately off Derek’s lap again and on the floor – his knees are so thankful for Derek’s ugly carpet – fingers going to his trousers.

“You have no idea of how many times I’ve dreamed about this,” he tells him, fumbling with the zip. “At home, at school, at pack-meetings. Sometimes I watch you doing your alpha struts around the house and I want your dick in my mouth so bad I have to put something in my mouth so I don’t drool.”

“Jesus,” Derek repeats, lifting himself up to help pull down his trousers a little bit.

And here it is (no underwear, exults some distant part of his mind. Praise be!).

Derek’s cock is just as Stiles has imagined it (and Stiles has imagined it, many many times, in disturbing amount of detail) – long and hard, thick and veiny, and completely delicious.

“Stiles,” Derek says, when Stiles pauses for a little too long. “You know you don’t have–”

“Quiet,” Stiles says, continuing his study. “This is my thesis completion moment: let me enjoy it.” 

It’s not like Stiles has sucked many dicks before, but he has had nothing but compliments from the guys at the Jungle he’s hooked up with. Apparently he has ‘cock-sucking lips’ and an ‘impressive gag-reflex’, both things Danny assures him he should be proud of.

Still, swallowing Derek completely will be a challenge.

Luckily for everyone involved, Stiles Stilinski loves a challenge.

He looks up at Derek, who is just staring right back at him.

His eyes are not alpha red right now, which is simply unacceptable. Control is overrated, and Stiles plans on ensuring any Derek might think he has is completely shattered and snapped by the time he’s done with him.

Stiles leans forward, hand gripping Derek’s thigh, as he noses at Derek’s crotch, lips just barely touching him at all. 

He does this a couple of times, feeling the way Derek seems to tense more and more at the teases, and then he lets his tongue dart forward, licking at the underside of his dick.

He works him up slowly, carefully. Kitten licks that turn into longer and longer drags of his tongue. He lets out a groan of pleasure, tonguing at his balls and then pressing his tongue over the expanse of his dick, mouth wide open and–

“Fuck,” hisses Derek, hand fisting Stiles’ hair. “Fuck. Shit, Stiles–”

As soon as he feel Derek’s fingers in his hair, Stiles wraps his lips around the head of Derek’s cock, tongue pressed flat against its underside.

Derek’s fingers tighten, and Stiles starts moving, taking his dick deeper, swallowing around it. This time Derek lets out a moan that goes straight to Stiles’ dick. Stiles pushes himself as far as he can, sucking and swallowing until Derek gets with the program and starts moving forward, slowly but surely fucking into Stiles' mouth.

It’s not enough, not yet.

Stiles lifts his head slightly, eyes finding Derek’s. 

He knows what he looks like: lips wet with precome and spit, eyes watery from the effort of not gagging, pupils blown and cheeks flushed, Derek lips hard and glorious on his tongue.

He is made to be ruined, and Derek’s hips jerk forward.

When all Stiles does in response is moan and press his nails in his skin, Derek gets the memo.

He starts fucking into Stiles’ mouth even more earnestly, at a pace that would have killed an asthmatic child, and it’s so animalistic, so uncontrolled Stiles has to make a conscious effort not to come right in his pants.

Derek tries to push him a way with a warning before he comes, but Stiles does not budge. He swallows Derek’s cock as far as he can take it, and that’s what pushes Derek right over the edge.

He comes with a sound that is not a whimper or growl, and Stiles gags as he tries to swallow it all, eyes fixed on the wild alpha look on Derek’s face as he does. He can feel some of the come dribbling down his chin and cheek, and it should be nasty but it’s really not.

Stiles pulls off Derek’s dick with a soft plop, licking his lips as he does so.

"Thank you for this meal," he says, grinning up at him, voice wrecked.

Derek just straight up growls, and Stiles finds himself back on the bed a second later, Derek’s lips back on his, and the kiss is so filthy, and Derek is getting his own come on his face, he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he groans, sparing a moment of silence for the brand new panties.

He’s not even sure he can wash them with his normal laundry.

Derek pauses, nose twitching slightly.

“Did you come?”

Stiles narrows his eyes, one finger pointed at him.

“Don’t laugh.”

“Laugh?” His eyes are still alpha red. “You came in your pants after sucking my brain out through my dick, Stiles. Trust me when I say I’m not laughing.”

Stiles immediately brightens up. “Yeah?”

The wolf licks himself off Stiles’ cheek, and then bites his cheek again.

“Hot,” he says, and kisses the mark forming on his skin. “Really hot.”

Stiles beams, then immediately pouts.

“Still,” he complains. “I wanted to come with your dick inside of me.”

“Trust me,” Derek says. His eyes shine bright red in the darkness of the room. “That is still happening.”

Needlessly to say, 'mission: Little Red Riding Hood' is an absolute success.