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It's a joke costume. It's meant to be funny. That's what Stiles tells his dad, anyways. What's one more lie between them? This lie, at least, is meant to preserve the health of the sheriff's heart and isn't on behalf of any werewolf.
Not that his dad bought the lie. The sheriff is too smart for really fall for it, Stiles knows. But it's still a necessity - if the costume is a joke then it's just boys being boys, right? Silly, harmless fun. Admitting the truth means admitting a bunch of other shit that Stiles isn't ready to acknowledge, let alone tell his ageing father about.
He doesn't want to be a girl. Not really. Boobs are awesome but they also seem inconvenient and painful, always needing to be strapped down and pinned into place. He's seen the girl's lacrosse team squeeze into their sports bras and winced. At least his dick and balls can be protected with a cup. Plug and play, that's his style.
And periods? He's heard way too many horror stories from every woman in his life to ever crave that.
Really, it's just that girls get to be… pretty. Sleek, with glossy hair and perfumed skin. That's what Stiles wants.
One of his earliest memories, one that haunts him, is the day he realised this. He was young and it had been Thanksgiving. The women were in the kitchen, cooking and chatting, while the men were drinking beer and watching football. He had been ordered out of the kitchen by his mom, and so he had been sprawled across the living room floor, bored out of his mind with the game. Until he saw them.
The Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. He had watched them, wide-eyed and spellbound, and something inside him became known. The attraction wasn't just sexual, no, this feeling went far beyond that. He wanted to be them. Look like them.
Their long hair. The blue eye shadow and those pure white shorts. Their flat, toned stomachs.
The grown-ups thought it was funny. Look, he's already chasing tail. Who can blame him? Look at their asses. The remarks had been humiliating, biting, and Stiles knew, even then, that the truth wasn't safe to reveal. Whatever he felt watching the cheerleaders perform wasn't normal. It wasn't what men were supposed to want.
For years after that, Stiles had received those Dallas Cowboy cheerleader calendars. His mother had always rolled her eyes, and his dad clapped him on the shoulder. Utterly humiliating. Still, he had hoarded them all like a serial killer's trophies. He would crawl under his bed and flip through them, fingers reverently tracing the girl's bodies. Wanting.
And now he can experience it, thanks to the costume he found. Velma, from Scooby Doo.
Daphne had always been more to his taste, with her long, red hair and her form-fitting dress. In contrast, Velma had always been bundled up and kind of frumpy. Nerdy. But his cover is that this is a joke - haha, look, I'm such a nerd with my glasses - and Daphne is not a joke costume that a teenage boy would wear.
Plus, he already has the short hair and glasses. Buying Lydia a flat-screen had wiped out his savings, and he certainly cannot ask his dad for more money to buy a wig so he can go to a Halloween party. He just can't.
The Halloween party is at Greenburg's house, but Scott has assured him that some dude from Stanford is going to be there with an actual keg. It sounds like complete and utter bullshit, but after spending all summer trying to track down Erica and Boyd with Derek, Stiles could use a release. At the very least, there'll be wine coolers and weed.
And Danny will be there. This has been one-hundred percent guaranteed. It's Halloween and Stiles will be wearing a skirt. Anything could happen.
The costume comes with everything included: the orange turtleneck, the umber skirt, those knee-high socks. Stiles lies everything out on the bed, almost delirious with joy. Orange probably isn't his colour, but this is it.
Using one of his dad's razors, he takes the time to carefully shave his legs. They're long and shapely, nicely muscled. Finally other people will be able to see that. He decides against shaving his arms - it'd be nice to feel all soft and smooth they are, but he isn't sure he can play that off as a joke. At least, not a joke that isn't at his expense.
When he's done shaving, he can't help but run his hands up and down his calves and thighs. Obviously, they don't have any fancy shaving gel, but still, they feel so smooth and brand-new, shining in the bathroom light.
Putting the actual outfit on feels… strange, but in a good way. Stiles doesn't exactly have womanly hips, but the feeling of the fabric swishing around his legs is delightful. The turtleneck is less fun, but when he looks at himself in the mirror, he realises that he looks like a girl. A flat-chested girl, sure, but he could pass for one.
He rubs his sweaty palms on his skirt. God, this is really happening. Stiles turns around so he can check out his ass. Years of lacrosse and track have made it plump, muscled. He looks good.
"Jinkies!" he says, because he absolutely has to, and almost dissolves into giggles, bent over at the waist. Velma was a good choice for tonight. He can work out all his nerves before he dresses up like Daphne next year. Because oh yes, he will be doing this again.
The only problem is his hair. Stiles has been growing it out, so he doesn't look like a cancer patient anymore, but it's not as long as he'd like. He runs his hand through his hair, tugs at the strands. One day.
Thankfully, the sheriff is working tonight. Desk bound, hopefully, but as long as he doesn't bust up the party, it suits Stiles' purposes. There's no need to sneak out if his dad is leaning more towards the absentee title.
Scott is going to the party with Kira, so he's probably there already, dressed up as god knows what. That's absolutely fine with Stiles. He needs time to prepare for other people to see him. It's one thing to look at himself in the mirror and feel hot, but other dudes seeing him? Other girls? Is he ready for that?
Before he leaves, Stiles carefully applies a layer of lip gloss. It probably won't last long with all the drinking - and hopefully kissing - but he can't resist seeing his lips all shiny and perfect. He darts his tongue out, tasting artificial cherry, and his stomach swoops.
Ready or not, this is happening. Despite the proclamation that the outfit included everything, it hadn't actually come with a pair of shoes. That's fine. Stiles puts on his white Vans. Good enough. If all goes his way, no one is going to be looking at his feet anyways.
Greenburg lives on the other side of town because of fucking course he does. Taking the Jeep is out of the question: every single deputy will be on high alert, waiting to catch him doing something so they can report him to his father. It's bad enough his dad knows about this; Stiles is not about to waste time explaining to any other cop.
So he walks. Not through town, of course not. But right through the Preserve.
Overheard, pale moonlight filters through the trees, casting everything in shades of grey. Leaves rustle in the wind, branches scrape against each other. It's the perfect Halloween night. Stiles shivers exaggeratedly in his turtleneck. He gets why girls love fall; everything smells crisp, fallen leaves crunch beneath his sneakers, and the breeze is tantalising against his bare thighs.
The moon is swollen and full, an egg about to crack. The hint of danger just makes it better. When the wind gusts up, Stiles can't help himself. He laughs, delighted, and runs, his thighs rubbing together in an unfamiliar way. His glasses slide down his nose, and he toys with the idea of dropping them, just so he can bend over.
Oh what the hell. He's alone. If he's going to dress up like Velma, he might as well get used to selling the bit.
Stiles pretends to trip, and his glasses go flying right off into a pile of leaves. Dramatically, he spins around, the back of one hand pressed to his forehead.
"My glasses!" he cries, biting his lip to keep from laughing. "I can't see anything without my glasses!"
He bends down, snickering, still high from getting to do what he's always wanted. Then he realises he can't actually find his goddamn glasses. Shit. Stiles gets down on all fours and pats around the leaves, like he's literally Velma.
"Shit, shit, fuck."
He brushes against what he thinks are his glasses but it's actually just a stick. He tosses it and keeps looking, crawling along the ground like an idiot. Unlike Velma, Stiles can see without them, but not very well. If something is too far away, it turns all blobby and indistinct.
Plus, if he loses his glasses, his dad is going to kill him.
The wind kicks up, sending his skirt flying up around his waist, baring his ass to the world. His face burns, but he doesn't bother with it. There's no one around and Beacon Hills is mostly werewolf-free.
Of course, he is in the woods. At night. On a full moon.
Stiles pushes his skirt back down and gets up on his knees, twisting around, squinting at everything. The tree trunks have melded together into one big blurry mess, the bushes transforming into a great, furry beast. There's no one around. Just him.
A branch cracks.
He jumps to his feet, ready to bolt, but he can't. Stiles spent all of last year squinting at the whiteboards at school because he accidentally stepped on his last pair of glasses. He cannot fucking lose these because he was being gay in the woods. And like, maybe he's not gay, but he is something, and his first experience with it absolutely can't result in him getting grounded.
Determined, Stiles gets back on all fours. His pasty ass is probably glowing in the moonlight but it's not like he could wear boxers under his skirt, now could he?
When Stiles grabs his glasses, he lets out a victory hoot, pumping his fist in excitement. He puts them back on and stands back up, leaning down to brush leaves and dirt off his knees and socks. They're a little dirty but that's okay, it's not like -
A low growl.
Fear skitters up his spine. Slowly, Stiles turns around, heart in his throat, and sees the - the werewolf.
At least he thinks it's a werewolf. It doesn't look like anyone he knows. For one thing, it's monstrous, all furry and black, standing on two hock-jointed legs. Its chest is broad, skin inky-black and shiny under the moonlight. Its hands are massive, the fingers long and curved into wicked claws. Its face is utterly inhuman, with a snout and everything.
The eyes burn like fire, searing red.
An Alpha werewolf.
For a wild moment, Peter Hale comes to mind. But no, Peter had been a misshapen, twisted thing, running around on all fours. This looks like something from Skyrim: an actual wolf-man, with a goddamn tail.
The werewolf growls again. Its - his - ears are shaped like triangles, aimed right for Stiles. Because this werewolf is male, oh yes. He's standing upright, showing off his sheathed cock and heavy, fuzzy balls.
"D-Derek?" Stiles stammers out. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry, as his eyes dart over what he thinks is Derek Hale. It has to be Derek. Who else could it be? Derek's the only Alpha in town, and if this is some interloper, then they're all fucked.
The werewolf's mouth opens and, in a guttural voice, says, "Stiles."
"Oh, Jesus, you can talk. Okay. Um." Stiles takes a little step back. And then another and another. "I'm just - I'm gonna go and let you have your special werewolf boy time. Just -"
Derek growls in warning, those sharp fangs gleaming. Saliva drips out of his maw, down his chin. Stiles tracks it, following its path down Derek's chest, then almost chokes when he sees something red and shiny slip out of Derek's sheath.
No. This isn't - this just isn't happening. Stiles shakes his head and holds his hands up. "Just stay there, don't follow me. This isn't what it looks like, I'm not - I'm just not."
Because yes, Derek Hale is attractive but in an unattainable way. Derek normally looks like he should be in movies, and now he looks like he should be some cult classic horror movie with great special effects. No. Absolutely not, no way.
"I'm leaving now," he squeaks out. Then he turns and runs, as fast as he can. Behind him, Derek howls at the fucking moon. Oh fuck. Stiles darts to the left instinctively. Werewolves are fast, Derek especially so, but maybe he can outmanoeuvre him.
If nothing else, Stiles has to try.
Clouds pass over the moon, blocking the light. Blindly, Stiles runs forward, hopping over small logs, sliding down the gently sloping path. When he lands in a thin, reedy creek, he cries out in surprise as the cold water soaks into his shoes. He staggers forward, yanking his skirt up, his dick swinging freely.
Stiles spins around, searching for the glimmer of house lights, but sees nothing but dark forest. His lungs burn with every breath, his arms damp beneath his turtleneck. God, he probably fucking reeks. But he doesn't see Derek. That's something. At least he won't get raped by a werewolf tonight.
Not that Derek would. Derek's not into him, and even if he was, he's not the rapist type. Maybe he just had to piss and Stiles overreacted. Yeah. That's it. That's how dogs pee, right? Stiles prefers reptiles, he doesn't know a damn thing about dogs or wolves.
Right. He can salvage this night. Stiles shakes his skirt out and taps the toes of his shoes against the ground. His feet are squishy, but it's a party, so who will notice? It'll be fine.
He's just so sweaty now. Wet and clammy, face probably an unattractive bright red. His thighs are wet and starting to chafe together. How do girls deal with this shit?
It's no use. He can't go to the party now. Not with dirty knees and wet shoes and socks. Danny is going to take one look at him and turn away, disinterested. Lydia will give him one cutting look, and that will be it. His dreams of being Daphne will be over.
Stiles hops over the thin little creek and clambers back up the hillside. At least the breeze is nice and soothing against his sweaty, red skin. When he gets to the top, he lifts his skirt, swishing his hips, airing everything out. He lets out a happy sigh, and casually looks back down the hill.
And sees Derek, still in full movie-monster form, glaring up at him.
"Oh fuck," Stiles says.
Derek jumps over the creek, powering up the hill on all fours.
"Oh fuck," Stiles yells, bolting forward.
He doesn't make it very far. Derek grabs him by the neck and slams him up against a tree. Air rushes from Stiles' lungs in an oof. The rough bark scrapes against his cheek.
Derek is massive, towering over him by at least two feet. And he's so strong. Stiles struggles, trying to pull free, but with one hand, Derek keeps him pinned against the tree.
When Derek leans down to snuffle at his hair, Stiles elbows him again and again, even stomping on Derek's dumb, little wolven feet. It doesn't work. Derek snarls, right in his ear, and shakes him like a toy.
Stiles doesn't give up, can't give up. He grabs Derek by the ear and yanks, as hard as he can. With another snarl, Derek tosses him to the ground. Stiles lands flat on his back, stunned, and stares up at the pitch-black sky.
Derek prowls towards him, that shiny-red cock fully free from its sheath. Still winded, Stiles watches, wide-eyed as pearlescent drop of precome pulses from the tip and slides down the shaft. It's big. Too big for his virgin ass.
"Please don't," he says, voice shaking.
But Derek falls upon him. Stiles tries to scoot away, but Derek grabs him by the legs and drags him back. His skirt rides up, bare ass resting on the forest floor, dick flopping out. Derek leans down, and for one nail-biting second, Stiles thinks his dick is about to be ripped off. But there's no biting, just a cold-wet doggy nose snuffling at his cock and balls, nosing at them, leaving behind a wet trail.
It's bizarre, and Stiles is powerless to fight against it. He's never been so vulnerable and small in his entire life. Even being chained up in Argent's basement hadn't made him feel like this.
The strangeness continues. Derek opens his great maw and licks Stiles' balls. Slobbering all over them. Stiles face heats up. He squeezes his eyes shut and covers them with his hands, unable to watch as Derek laps at him like a dog.
But unlike a dog, there is purpose with every movement. Derek isn't chasing the taste of peanut butter or sweat, no, he's getting Stiles ready. That becomes blatantly obvious when Derek hauls his legs up and spreads them, revealing Stiles' asshole.
Derek drags that silky-smooth tongue over his cleft, wetting him. Prepping him with thick, werewolf drool. It drips over Stiles' balls, down his back and stomach. Stiles keeps his eyes covered, whole body shaking, as this pleasure is forced upon him.
Because it feels good. How can it not? Derek's tongue drags over his balls, curls around his shaft, dips into his hole. Bent in half, Stiles can only bite his lip, holding back his whimpers, hips wriggling. He can't help it; Derek's tongue is long and surprisingly dexterous. Even the threat of those sharp teeth can't keep Stiles from getting hard.
Stiles' legs kick, toes flexing in his shoes. "Jesus, fuck," he pants out. He peeks out from beneath his hands and meets Derek's eyes. "You should - you should stop now, oh my god."
Derek doesn't stop. He hauls Stiles up higher, claws digging into his waist, until only his shoulders and head rest on the ground. Stiles' legs flop over Derek's furry shoulders, blood rushes to his head. His glasses slip to his forehead. Is this really happening? It's like a horribly erotic nightmare.
With a growl, Derek worms his tongue all the way inside. Helpless, Stiles clenches around it, gasping, sparks of pleasure shooting up and down his spine. He's burning up, sweat soaking into his turtleneck as he writhes, hips working uselessly in Derek's tight grip.
It's not enough, not enough for Stiles to come and not enough for Derek's thick cock to fit. Even with his entire tongue squirming and wriggling inside Stiles' ass, it could never be enough. But heady pleasure crashing over him is enough for Stiles to want to try it. Just to see.
"Derek," Stiles whines, his cock twitching, fully chubbed up. Precome splatters against his sweater. "You're killing me, dude, just - ah!"
That horrible, delicious tongue scrapes against something inside. Prostate. Stiles' toes curl and flex, legs shaking as he fights against the instinct to rock back, to fuck himself on Derek's long tongue. He can't give in, he can't, he can't.
Almost carefully, Derek drops Stiles' legs to the ground, then crawls over him, effectively pinning him down. He snuffles at Stiles' temple, huffing in breaths, silky tongue lapping at Stiles' hairline. Blearily, Stiles looks between their bodies, staring in disbelief at Derek's cock.
It's big. Big and inhuman, with a tapered head and spider-webbed veins along the shaft. At the base, above his balls, is a bulging ring of flesh.
A knot. It's a goddamn knot.
Whining, Derek rubs his dick against the sweater, hips jerking forward erratically. Doggy breath fans out over Stiles' face, cloyingly humid. The sweater rides up, baring more of Stiles' pasty skin to Derek and the night. Watery precome jets out of Derek's cock, soaking into the sweater, ruining it.
Just like everything else has been ruined. Adrenaline and rage floods his body. Acting fast, Stiles kicks at Derek's balls.
Derek yelps and rears back. There's not much time. Stiles skitters back, stumbling to his feet. He runs, tripping over his own feet, his erection swinging back and forth, rubbing against the soft fabric of his skirt.
When Derek grabs him, dragging him back, Stiles screams. Derek slaps a hand over his mouth, nearly covering his entire face. Jesus. He's so screwed. He yanks at Derek's hand, but it doesn't budge at all. All he can do is make angry, muffled noises.
Derek bends him over, hand still clasped over his mouth, so his ass sticks out. This is it. Terrified, Stiles clenches his hole, trying to keep that giant cock out. Not that it matters. Derek's first thrust goes wild, sliding down his hole, the tip banging into his balls. Stiles winces, struggling in Derek's implacable grip.
His next thrust is more careful. Deliberate. Derek lines himself up and twitches his hips. Stiles tightens up, trying to keep him out, but the tapered tip slides in, in, spearing him open. Stiles sobs, fingers twisting in the fur on Derek's arm, knees shaking. He's never felt pain like this, carving him open, leaving him clenching around Derek's shaft.
It keeps going. Inches and inches, sliding into him, ruining him, stretching his hole wide. His rim burns, the thin skin threatening to split, as Derek pulls all the way out, leaving his hole gaping. Derek rubs his cockhead around Stiles' hole, hot splashes of precome rolling down his taint and balls.
Dimly, Stiles is aware that it's a kindness. Derek's trying to get him sloppy wet, ready to be fucked without any lasting injury. He doesn't even know how to unpack that.
Stiles' protests are muffled and ignored as Derek works his fat cock back inside. He can no longer squeeze tight in an attempt to keep this from happening. He just can't. Stiles goes lax, letting Derek hold him up. Derek growls in apparent approval as his hips begin to snap, fucking into Stiles ruthlessly fast, working him over.
Pleasure and pain combine, rattling through his ribs. His cock is still hard, tenting the front of his skirt, a wet spot of precome blooming around his cockhead. The fabric rubs against his slit, and it's enough for Stiles to go cross-eyed. His glasses fly from his face, lost to the forest, as Derek fucks him and fucks him, using him like a fleshlight.
When he comes, Derek doesn't stop, barely seeming to notice. Stiles sobs through it, come spraying on the ground uselessly. An endless wail emanates from his throat, held inside by Derek's giant hand, still splayed across his mouth. Stiles lets his arms hang down and arches his back, willing Derek to just come and get it over with.
But he's not that lucky. Of course he's not.
Derek lifts him off the ground. Stiles slumps back against that broad chest, whimpering as more of that thick cock sinks into him. Like this, he can feel the knot, threatening to force him wide open. Stiles whines and wriggles in protest, trying to climb off of Derek's dick, but it's no use. With one arm wrapped around his waist, Derek binds him in place.
Stiles digs his fingers into Derek's forearm, pushing at it, as Derek's hips snap. His cock drags endlessly against Stiles' prostate, and to his horror, Stiles realises that he's getting hard again. He kicks and struggles, tears pouring down his face, fighting against the glut of pleasure-pain.
He won't be able to get off. Not like this. He presses a hand to his stomach, moaning when he feels Derek's dick, rearranging his guts from the inside. There's no coming back from this, he's utterly ruined. His thighs are wet with spit and precome, rolling down his legs. A fuck-toy, that's all he is.
Derek's heart is pounding so hard, Stiles can feel it. God, this was never supposed to happen. Not like this: held up, fucked mercilessly, limbs hanging down uselessly. Stiles' eyes roll back in his head as the knot batters against his rim. It won't fit. It can't.
At least not in this position. Derek lifts him up off his cock. Stiles hangs loose in his grasp, practically delirious with arousal. He's so fucking hard, a stiff breeze would make him shoot off. Gently, Derek sets him down, then backs off, like he's seeing if Stiles is going to run.
But not again. Stiles' legs are jelly, and what's the point? He won't make it two feet in this condition, wet and fucked up. He might as well just lie back and let it happen.
Stiles pulls his ruined turtleneck off and tosses it to the side, shivering in the sudden chill. He leans back on his hands, showing off his torso to Derek. Maybe the werewolf will see it as a placating please don't rip me apart gesture. His knees are bent, his skirt rucked up around his waist, doing nothing to hide his erection.
Derek has the audacity to lick his chops before letting his tongue hang down in a doggy grin.
"Asshole," Stiles says weakly. "If you wanted to fuck me so bad, you could have asked. Maybe even used lube."
"Stiles," Derek growls out. He crawls over Stiles, pushing him down. He sniffs along Stiles' chest, that cold nose leaving behind a wet trail. Derek growls again, animalistic, his tail actually wagging, sending leaves flying every which way.
It's so fucking stupid and comical. Stiles snort-laughs, reaching up to pat at Derek's furry shoulders. He's losing his fucking mind. It's like Derek's fucked the fear and rationality out of him.
Derek hooks his arms under Stiles' legs. Okay, game time. Stiles winces as he's bent in half, legs held open wide. Derek jerks his hips forward, cock sliding down Stiles' back, whining in frustration.
"Jesus, dude," Stiles complains. He reaches down and grabs Derek's cock. Derek's hips stutter forward, tongue lolling out of his maw, fucking Stiles' hand. His dick is so wide, Stiles' fingers can't even close around it. Jesus, fuck. And then there's the knot.
This is going to hurt.
It's difficult to get Derek properly lined up. Derek's whining and snapping his jaws, breeding instincts fully online, evidently crowding out any humanity left in him. Precome flows out freely, the knot pulsating, covering Stiles in a sticky layer of pearlescent fluid.
When Derek's next thrust goes wide, Stiles snaps. He grabs Derek's bottom jaw and yanks him down, so they're face to face.
"Stay still," he barks out. "Wild animals manage to do this, you dumb fucking - ah!"
Derek fucks back inside, practically bottoming out, knocking all the air from Stiles' lungs. Fuck. His mouth drops open, head falling back. His jaw hitches with each thrust, little whimpers being forced out with each thrust. Sticks and rocks dig sharply into his back, the sharp pain a contrast from the dull pain in his ass. Each thrust pushes him across the forest floor, and Derek yanks him back onto his cock. Again and again, until his back is a mess of dirty and scrapes.
Needing to see, Stiles forces his head up so he can watch Derek fuck him. Even in the dim moonlight, he can see the way his stomach bulges with each thrust. Stiles slumps back down, going slack, opening himself as best he can for what he knows is coming.
The knot. It kisses his rim with each thrust, forcing him to stretch around it. Stiles sobs, back arching, legs kicking useless. He needs some kind of contact, so he reaches up and grips Derek's forearms, hanging on for dear life as Derek fucks him ruthlessly.
Stiles comes with a little cry, writhing and twisting, fingers digging into the muscle of Derek's arms. Again, Derek barely seems to notice, his own hips working to shove the knot inside. With a rough growl, Derek pulls on Stiles' legs, hard, forcing him all the way onto his cock.
He's so full. So full. The knot pulses inside him. Derek's cock twitches, trapped inside, as the knot swells and swells, until Stiles is snotty-crying with pleasure-pain. Derek pulls Stiles' hips up so he can fuck down into him. A mating press. God. Stiles feels his stomach and wails as he feels it swell up.
Derek's coming. God, he's coming. The werewolf tips his head back and howls. His hips jerk forward in tiny thrusts, unable to stop, chasing his pleasure. Stiles is trapped beneath him, legs hooked in his arms. Mindlessly, Stiles wriggles his hips. Needing more. He's stretched painfully full, but it can't be over, it can't be. He does his best to rock into each abortive thrust.
It creates a feedback loop. Stiles clenches down, writhing on Derek's fat cock, and in turn, more come pulses out of the knot as Derek grinds into him, working them both back up into a frenzy. Strands of drool hang from Derek's open maw, those blood-red eyes slitted with pleasure.
Stiles can't help it. He reaches between them and fists his cock. Derek snaps his jaws, but Stiles is beyond fear. When he comes, his back arches, ropes of come shooting clear up his neck. He goes utterly boneless, feeling like he's going to fall through the earth.
But it's not over. It'll never be over. Derek keeps moving his hips in dirty little rolls, filling him up until his stomach is bulging obscenely.
"You ruined me," Stiles slurs out, eyes fluttering.
Derek growls in agreement, leaning down to lap the tears from Stiles' face.
Above them, the moon shines bright.