zoeofthecoven asked: Prompty prompt! Stiles and Derek in tuxedos. For any reason. And preferably slowly divesting each other of their garments.
Stiles’ sex life so far has been equal parts mind-blowing and mind-blowingly frustrating. He had lists; he had plans. But sex in the Jeep is awkward and cramped and sex in the Camaro is physically fucking impossible, given the length of his limbs and the breadth of Derek’s shoulders, and sex in the woods means leaves and bark and no lube, which is less fun than he’d thought it might be.
So it should be no surprise that trying to untie Derek’s bow tie with his teeth goes… poorly. It’s hand-tied, of course, because Derek is a secret hipster dandy with opinions about menswear, heavy black silk that feels rich and serious against Stiles’ lips.
“Don’t get your gross spit on it,” Derek says.
“Don’t ruin the mood,” Stiles grouses back, letting the thing be in order to mouth at Derek’s much more forgiving neck.
“You aren’t going to be able to do it,” Derek breathes, tilting his head back because he’s shameless, really.
“That isn’t a challenge, Stiles, seriously, can we just—”
“No!” They’ve stopped kissing; somehow they’re back in a familiar standoff stance, the kind of kill-you-or-kiss-you thing they did long before either of them figured out that option b was even really on the table.
“Tell you what,” Derek says, the hand on Stiles’ hip tightening, pulling him in so tightly that it’s just this side of painful. “You figure out how to get it off, I figure out how to use it to tie you up.”
It doesn’t end up taking so long, after that.
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