A/N: If you've read any of my SPN stuff then you'll know I have a whole 'verse completely devoted to crossdressing because I just love it so very, very much. When I discovered that I hadn't written it for Teen Wolf yet, I freaked out and started brainstorming like crazy because I need to see all those boys in some quality lingerie. :P There may or may not be appearances from everyone else. Haven't decided yet. Though the appeal of and Isaac in fishnets and corsets is quite overwhelming.

Anyways! I don't know where this is going or what's gonna come of it, but if you want to come along for the ride, that would be grand. ^^ Title stolen from MGMT's Time to Pretend. which I used to kinda set the tone for this piece. Please lemme know what you think!

Stiles

You always put the rouge on first- painting just the outline of your lips with a kind of reverence very few show the process these days.

It's counter-intuitive, you know, but it's how everything started and without the ceremony of it all, you wouldn't be here, wouldn't feel the need for it, wouldn't still be holding on to her. So you perch yourself in front of her old vanity, white paint cracking and peeling, water spots ever present on the old glass mirror, and pull out a bag of wipes, cleaning down every inch of your face before starting in.

Stripping down completely, you are utterly bare in this moment- raw, straddling the knife's edge. From the chest up, without the obvious exception of course, you are nearly androgynous, and you find an odd sense of comfort in it. You could be whatever, whoever you want to be. Right now, you're done with the sheriff's son, tired of the overactive boy who never knows what he wants or when he's wanted. It's time to tuck him away, to let him rest and become someone else entirely.

The deep mauve surrounding your lips turns the pink tissue lush and full, making your face more feminine, makes your pointed features stand sharply out. A thin line of ink black eyeliner, liquid and intense, changes the playful, mischievous brown eyes to something sharper, darker. A dusting of dusky orange eyeshadow sets them aglow- makes them alive and searching, draws attention away from the thick eyebrows. The lightest of blushes with just a smattering of glitter makes your cheekbones delicate, makes the upturn of your nose devilish.

With the cut of your hair you're already the perfect pixie and you can feel these other parts of yourself start to bleed back through, to envelop that blank canvas of before. When you stand and turn, strut to your room, your walk is more confident. There's a sway to your hips, and attitude in the swing of your arms, a purposefulness as you step on the balls of your feet. There's a false bottom in your wardrobe- easily lifted with a spare screwdriver- and in the empty space carefully folded clothes sit, waiting.

You consider black satin for tonight- comfortable, classic, but it's the red lace panties that make the cut. It's a bit of a tight fit, not having been designed with your equipment in mind, but you get situated comfortably enough. You find skirts are best left simple- something with ruffles, to grab attention, but it's the skin that you want to steal the show- legs are the most underrated lure. You don't shave them, your mother was always complaining about how much she hated it, and you never saw the need. If men were going to be scared off by your gender, better it's the hairy legs they find off putting than a growing erection.

You almost go with a floral top, but decide against it. Floral is flirty, floral is asking for your number and biting your lip and a hug with a pat on the back. You want free drinks. You want hands trailing the back of your thigh. You want rutting in the back of the cab and sneaking out of an apartment in the middle of the night. You want something obvious, something… masculine and therefor obvious. You want a tight white v-neck and a black vest, so you abandon the women's clothing and take some from your closet instead. Diversity yields the best results after all.

Jewelry is more hassle than it's worth come morning and high tops are the only way to go. You couldn't walk gracefully in heels no matter how badly you wanted to, and anyway you never did find an appeal in shoes, even if you had a love for all the other pieces of an ensemble. Besides, you don't need the added height. The kind of men that want drunken escapades in a bar aren't all that interested in people taller than them, no matter you're playing at an interesting sort of game. Fake ID, money, phone are all tucked in an inside pocket in your vest, and the next time you pass the mirror on the way out, you aren't you. At least not the version from before. Right now you're Genim, not Stiles, and you're closer to her than ever.

Derek

He's just stepped off the dance floor, legs trembling just the smallest bit from exertion, sweat glistening off his brow, and easy smile hanging off those unbelievably full lips.
You've been watching the whole night, eyes glued to his frame from the moment he came through the doorway. There's something about him, it's hard to explain, but it draws you towards him like a moth to the flame. He's so open, so unafraid, unable to be anything but himself. When you catch his eyes it makes your breath stutter, your stomach drop, your jeans tighten.

You've been warding off every man, woman, boy, and girl that's come up to you throughout the night, not interested in anyone's company but his. And yet, it seems as though he's the only person in this whole club who hasn't tried to approach you yet. You've seen the way he's scanning the crowds, know that he's looking for something to quell the loneliness, but he's been flighty, quite particular the whole night.

He is, without a single ounce of shame, a complete and utter cocktease, and he knows it. You've noticed those smirks, the sparkle in his eyes, the flush of his cheeks and ears when he gets a man going, makes him really hot and bothered, and then just drops all interest. He's done it to a fair handful already- gotten himself several drinks pushed into his hands, numbers tucked into his skirt, knees pressed in the v of his legs, but he's not chosen anyone just yet.

You swear he's made a few guys shoot their load- touching and grinding and stealing their breath until they quake, close their eyes, groan, and walk away. He's a vixen, a big fish in a little pond, and he's waiting for his equal. Making a decision, succumbing to this gravity, you put down your drink, break through the small crowd surrounding you, and stalk over to him.

Boys like him, these manipulators, are usually only playing the predator, more interested in catching the attention of the top of the food chain than exerting any real power of their own. You're certain you've got him pinned, know just how to make him weak, make him fold beneath you. Coming up behind him, you skirt a hand around his naked thigh, cage him up against the bar, breathe hotly down his neck. "You ought to be more careful with yourself, could drive a man mad with this act."

He turns his head, blinks slow and calculated, licks his lips, and damn if he isn't one big fish. He spreads his legs beneath your touch, arches up into you, keeps his gaze half-lidded. "If you can still speak, I'm clearly not being careless enough." He leans in, just slightly, and rakes his teeth down your chin. Your mouth goes dry in an instant and your hand drops off his leg, coming up to touch at the burning lines he just made. "You ought not underestimate me."

With your attention decidedly elsewhere he maneuvers out from under you, puts an extra sway in his step, and makes a bee line for the exit, not bothering to glance back as he disappears outside.