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Fitz is beginning to make himself a nuisance for Derek. He admits that he’d had somewhat of a foolish notion that the obnoxious hipster twerp would never pop back up again after Derek had fucked Stiles into forgetting his own name. But another day brings the seemingly inevitable appearance of Derek’s most recent nightmare, smiling and smarming all over Stiles.
“Afternoon Stilinski!” he chirps, leaning over the register counter and waggling suspiciously sculpted eyebrows at Stiles. Derek, supervising the placement of new bookshelves, casts his blackest look at the pair, noting how Stiles laughs and smiles and emits friendly pheromones all over.
“Hey Fitz!” Stiles seems pleased, welcoming, friendly even, chatting with the other man as he takes his order. Fitz has one beringed hand on Stiles’ arm and Derek absentmindedly crushes the clipboard in his hands.
“So, I was thinking, we’re pals now right?” Fitz is saying, and Derek says no in his head but Stiles smiles and nods the affirmative.
“Great! So I’m throwing this party, costume, I know, I know, middle of the summer and so random! But it’s a costume party, bring all your friends, it’ll be great! Everyone must be dressed up though!” Fitz says, “so you think you wanna come?”
Something black and poisonous is clawing at the inside of Derek’s chest but he pushes it away, and refocuses on the bookshelves. He’s being ridiculous. Fitz is just another one of Stiles’ many friends, and besides, Derek has no say over him.
Its not like they belong to each other anyway.
“So it’s a costume party?” Scott asks, when the pack assembles later, “thrown by Fitz. That guy from the coffee shop?”
Stiles laughs in that sheepish way of his and rubs the back of his head,
“yeah, it sounds fun?” he offers.
“Idunno…” Scott says, and Derek has never liked the guy more than in that moment.
“Well I’m in!” Erica exclaims, and Derek resolves to give her coal for Christmas.
“Nobody has any good parties over the summer and free booze is free booze!” she says, then turns to Lydia to discuss costumes.
With that, the general tone of conversation shifts to excited mutterings about costumes and dancing and general party talk. Derek doesn’t realize he’s scowling until Stiles slides up to him and sits down close, sliding their hands together underneath the table.
“Hey,” he says worriedly, “you…okay? Your face is doing that whole…broody scowling thing…”
Derek blanks his face and looks at Stiles with his most unreadable expression.
“I’m fine.” He says,
“why wouldn’t I be fine?”
He isn’t fine about this party, he realizes as the night approaches. He doesn’t know what it is about Fitz, out of all the people who have befriended Stiles, that sets him completely on edge. As the days go by, it gets more and more under his skin, making him short and cranky. His wolf is restlessly prowling, and for the first time in his life, Derek does not know why.
“So what’re you going as?” Erica asks two days before the party, posing in front of him in her brand new Wonder Woman costume. Derek raises an eyebrow at her and makes a note to warn Boyd to prepare himself.
“You sure about that costume?” he says, ignoring her question. Erica huffs and admires herself in a mirror,
“Yeah, Lydia’s going as Batgirl, we were trying for a sort of…comic book heroine theme you know?”
Derek rolls his eyes,
“No, I don’t” he says. Erica scowls at him, and then a worryingly sly look replaces it,
“you wanna know what Stiles is going as?” she coos, and Derek hates himself for the interested twitch his ears give.
“No,” he says, perhaps a little too forcefully, “I don’t want to know.”
Erica frowns at him, “you know, you’ve been kind of a dick lately Derek, especially to Stiles.”
And Derek can’t say anything because he knows she’s right, knows he hasn’t exactly been the king of nice recently. But it’s like he can’t help himself, can’t stop the sharp words or cold responses whenever Stiles is around.
“Yeah.” He murmurs. “yeah.”
The day of the party has the pack in a frenzy, trying to finalize costumes. At the coffee shop, Stiles, Erica, and Isaac are practically humming with excited energy. As eager to leave the shop as students awaiting the final bell before summer break. Finally, seeing as business is slow anyway, Derek tells them to close up shop and go home to get ready, the party doesn’t begin until 9 but, as Erica said, people need time to get ready.
Derek goes back to his apartment, resigned to an evening of going over numbers and terrorizing his accounts manager over the phone. He had decided the day before that he wouldn’t go to the party and risk seeing Stiles in the arms of another, getting the heavy reek of Paco Rabanne and strangers all over himself. When he’d announced this, everyone had groaned and rolled their eyes but Stiles, who had been quiet.
He’s probably relieved Derek had thought, feeling bitterness flood his mouth and throat. Stiles had told him pretty things like “only you” when they’d fucked in the break room, but Derek knows better than to trust in words uttered in the heat of passion.
Kate had taught him that.
Stiles doesn’t understand what words like only and yours really mean to an alpha, and how can he? He utters them with lips bruised from Derek’s kisses, while they rock together, and probably thinks nothing of them. Pretty words from pretty lips that fall fast but don’t go far.
The costume he’d chosen at the store makes butterflies explode into life in Stiles’ stomach. Nerves that Derek will be able to smell on him the second he crosses the threshold. Still, he clutches the bag tight in his arms, feeling the plastic crackle. He wants to show Derek, wants him to see.
They’ve been doing this with each other for a year or so, ever since Stiles had come home for break before junior year at UCLA, in fact. He doesn’t remember who started it, just that one minute they were Derek and Stiles and the next he was part of a “we” an “us” a “them”. They were subtle about it at first, but no one, especially not the betas of their little Beacon Hills pack, could miss the scent of sultry arousal that clung to both of them. Everybody knows about Derek and Stiles, but they don’t make a big show of it.
This summer is different somehow, both more and less charged with tenseness. Their relationship has always relied on the physical aspect to guide it through patches, it is a connection born from carnal pursuits anyway. Stiles saw nothing wrong with it at first, saw no problem with how they worked. Stiles went to school, lived his life, did everything he wanted, and when he came home to Beacon Hills, Derek would take him into his arms, and slake the thirst that parched Stiles to desperation in the time they spent apart.
Everything was fine until Stiles stopped seeing other people. It was fine until he realized, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat and plunging frenzied fingers inside his swollen, wet entrance, that he couldn’t think of anyone else. Only Derek knew what to do to make Stiles’ scream, and from the moment of that realization, it was only Derek all the time.
For all that Stiles knew months ago, he said nothing. Even now, nervously carrying his costume to Derek’s apartment, he hasn’t said anything. In his mind, Derek should already know. He should smell it on him when he comes back from school still smelling only of him. He should hear it in the uncontrollable hike in his heartbeat whenever Stiles sees him. He’s always telling Derek, “you should know better” and “there’s only you.”
He thinks he’s understood until Fitz shows up and Derek goes on the defensive.
But still, Derek is the only one who can make Stiles burn and Stiles wants to show him the costume.
Ding ding ding!
Derek sits up from where he reclines on his couch. His doorbell ringing is unexpected, but not more than Stiles standing outside clutching a large bag and looking nervous. They haven’t been together alone since that day in the break room that feels like a lifetime ago and there is so little of Derek’s scent on Stiles that it’s as if they are just strangers who happened to touch while walking by on the street. The alpha in Derek roars, battles to the edges of his control almost too quick to grab hold of, makes his hands shake and his eyes flash red with the pure desire to mark Stiles, make sure nobody ever forgets who he belongs to.
“Stiles” Derek says flatly, feeling a pang at the way the other man stiffens before visibly shaking off his apprehension and smiling brightly, walking into the apartment like he has so many times before.
“Hey, long time no see!” he jokes. A corner of Derek’s mouth lifts up in a halfhearted smile, Stiles ignores it.
“So I thought…I thought since you’re not coming tonight, I’d try my costume on for you.” He says, and Derek shrugs,
“It’s pretty awesome,” Stiles wheedles and Derek nods.
“Okay,” he says, and Stiles beams at him. Derek feels it like a punch to the gut.
“I’ll just go change, you…you wait here and do…er…broody things.”
Stiles disappears in a flurry of rustling plastic, shutting Derek’s bedroom door behind him. Derek drops down onto the couch and channel surfs nervously, hyperaware of Stiles who is likely naked, and separated from him by a flimsy wall.
He’s watching Kim Kardashian talk about wanting to have sex with herself if she ever got turned into a man when he hears Stiles’ footsteps approach the bedroom door. His eyes snap to the portal, watching as the knob turns and it swings forward.
The air in the room changes, bringing a whiff of familiar smells from his room, accompanied by the sweetness and spice that is Stiles.
“You ready for this?” Stiles asks, and his voice is low and seductive.
“I don’t know if you can handle it”
He’s teasing, and Derek rolls his eyes, opens his mouth to speak and…forgets words.
Because Stiles steps out from behind the door.
He can’t tell what the costume is, only that it’s probably meant for a woman to wear, if the corseted bodice is anything to go by. The shirt buttons all the way up to fasten at Stiles’ pale neck, complete with a white bowtie. The leotard beneath it is cut 80s swimsuit high, curving over jutting hipbones and leaving the entire thigh exposed.
Stiles turns slowly, does a little wiggle of his ass in the process, and Derek’s heart nearly stops at the sight of it, pert and round, sitting snugly half in and half out of the high cut leotard. The cropped ringmaster jacket he’s wearing above it all sits right above the supple curve of his rear, drawing all eyes down. His legs, looking long and shapely in gleaming black heels, are encased in tight fishnet stockings and are completely smooth.
“I have a cape too, but I figured you’d wanna see the look without it first.” Stiles grins cheekily.
“I’m Zatanna by the way,” he says. The name means nothing to Derek normally, looking at Stiles dressed like her, it means even less. Only that there are miles of leg to behold, completely unfettered by the usual jeans, and Derek suddenly regrets deciding not to go.
“It…it ah…you look nice” Derek says, voice scraping over the words. Already he feels is blood sizzling, his cock plumping in desire.
“Nice?” Stiles teases, “just nice?”
He saunters over to where Derek sits on the couch, switching his hips enticingly. Then he’s standing above Derek, looking down from his towering height in those heels,
“is that the best you can do?”
His alpha side is there in an instant, never really abated from earlier. It screams into action, bleeding red into his eyes and forcing his nails into claws. He growls and stands, lifting Stiles easily, satisfied at the squeal of surprise he emits.
He walks them back into his bedroom, dumps Stiles on the bed, and looks down at the picture he makes, limbs akimbo and breathless with shock on his bed.
“Think we can play games do we?” Derek growls, eyes narrowed and jaw tight,
“Off.”
And Stiles doesn’t need explanation, doesn’t need anything else. He just knows. Knows to push off his little jacket and shirt, to slide his legs out of the leotard with haste. Derek’s eyes devour him, revealing himself piece by piece for Derek’s eyes only.
“Jesus,” he groans, when the leotard is off and Stiles legs are covered in the fishnets only. When the pale pink panties with miniscule bows, are revealed.
“Call me Stiles” Stiles breathes and Derek almost smiles.
Almost
Instead he bares his teeth in what could only be called a smile by a blind man and moves in.
“Always jokes with you” he growls, “even now, even when you came over here to tease me.”
Stiles bites his lip and looks at Derek, eyes heavy with desire, and something inside Derek, something not entirely man or wolf, shifts. It expands, touching his every nerve ending, burying itself deep in his heart.
And he thinks suddenly,
What if this could be mine?
Stiles looks up to see red eyes.
He’s lost, hopeless to the surge of the wolf as his instincts break free of his control. He knows his eyes are red, can hear Stiles’ heart beat faster when he looks up and sees them glowing out through the gloom; but Derek can’t reign himself in, can’t stem the flow of pure want that slams into him harder than any opponent, rendering him speechless.
What if Stiles could be his? What if he was the only one whose mark lay proud on Stiles’ pale skin? What if his was the seed that eventually bred him and it was his pack that grew inside Stiles’ belly? What if he woke up in a bed that smelled of both of them more often than not? What if, what if, what if?
That night, he fucks Stiles slowly. In rolling thrusts and whispered words he writes an agonizing seduction, drawing the soundtrack from the moans he wrests from Stiles’ lips. Over and over he plunges into the wet heat, balancing both of them on the knife-edge of climax until Stiles is sobbing and his entrance is swollen around Derek’s cock.
“Please” he repeats, from between lips turned puffy and red from Derek’s kisses; and Derek just presses closer, fucks into him harder, drags trails of electric sensation along his heated skin.
“What do you want?” Derek whispers, “what do you need?”
And Derek can hear the ghosts of earlier pleas making Stiles’ voice ragged when he replies,
“I want to come,” in a whisper.
I want you. Only you. And you forever
Derek thinks, but doesn't say anything. Just wraps a hand around Stiles’ weeping cock, stroking only a few times before he’s seizing up, clenching hot and wet around Derek’s dick inside him, and coming with a broken moan.
Derek closes his eyes on the sight of Stiles’ neck, bared so openly to him as he arches up, and rides out his own climax, emptying his load inside.
Later, when they’ve both showered and Stiles has climbed back into his costume, they stand at the door to Derek’s apartment.
“Well…I guess I should get going” Stiles says, but his expression is off. Derek looks steadily at him, but is consumed with forcing his instinct to keep down and away,
“have fun…” he mutters stiffly.
“Oh…kay….” Stiles says, irritation creeping into his voice,
“be safe.” Derek says flatly, and steps back into his apartment, shutting the door before the urge to stop Stiles grows too strong.
There’s only a brief moment of hesitation before the sound of Stiles going to his car and pealing out of the parking lot comes through the door, and Derek breathes easy…until he walks back into his bedroom and is hit with the scent of their earlier activities, the undeniable spice and musk of sex that hangs heavily in the air.
And like a ghost he can hear it reverberating in the silence.
What if?
He collapses onto the floor and runs a hand through his hair. Frustration making him suddenly irritable.
Now what was he going to do?