A/N: Oh my god you guys. Remember that time I finished a multi-chapter fic? Me neither, it's been so long! But look! Look at this! Done! D-O-N-E! It happened. I am, quite obviously, amazed. Let's hope I can follow through on getting all the others now.

Oh, and also, I found the perf example of how I imagine Stiles to dress and what I templated his outfit on for the last chapter, thanks to Korey Kuhl.

Stiles

The club feels like a living thing—the thundering bass its lethargic heartbeat, the wispy smoke its heated breath, the energy thrumming through the air a part of all of you. You lean with your elbows against the bar, watching the dance floor with something like awe. All these people, in this moment—drunk and horny and angry and excited and devastated and oblivious and in love—are so alive it makes the place seem electric. It's infectious and heady and everything you love about being here and being reckless and being free.

It only takes a few more seconds before you can't hold yourself back any longer, before you have to be out there and with them and of them. You weave purposefully through the crowds, not lingering with any of the heated gazes or possessive touches that caress your body and try to keep you still. You swim through them all, feeling increasingly desperate until you burst into the center—directly beneath the spinning colored lights—where the music beats against your skin as if trying to break inside and the musk and sweat and smoke is so strong you feel like you're choking on it.

Tonight's not like the other nights. Tonight you dance for yourself and not anybody else. You don't pull anyone in to grind against your back. You don't plaster your hands along anybody's chest or hips or ass. You close your eyes and roll your body and stretch your arms as high to the ceiling as they'll go.

Getting lost in it is easy. You're there for hours, for minutes, for an eternity and a blip in your timeline. The songs bleed together and so does the crowd and you feel completely and utterly gone. At this point you're just part of the throng, part of this writhing mass working together to make this ordinary building something so much more by the heat of the night. All your collective passions make this place something it can never be during daylight, something the sun will never get to see. It's terrifying. It's magic. It's everything.

And just when it feels like it's going to overwhelm you, like you're going to be swallowed up and lost to it, hands find your hip and your throat. They slide across to your waist and your jaw and they're strong and calloused and so self-assured. The touch is familiar, comforting, and it brings you back down, pulling you with their density. They're hot against your sweat-chilled skin and the dull nails dig in to scratch just this side of painful.

He's just behind you, riding the wake of your body like a wave—stubble scraping against the back of your neck and teeth nicking the shell of your ear. He doesn't try to pull you into him, just lets you know that he's there, that he's ready, that he's wanting. It makes you shiver and hum and fall back into his presence.

You dance in tandem until the temptation's too much, until you can't keep playing coy and turn your head to lick at the seam of his lips. He rumbles possessively, contentedly against your tongue, and the only way you can tell through the music is the vibrations coming from his chest and through his lips. He bites at your tongue and lets the hand on your waist drift until he's cupping you through your leggings, pulling you back against him by your crotch and grinding filthily into you.

You moan and lift your hands up behind you to tangle in his hair and the both of you give up the pretense of dancing to rut against each other until there's whoops and cries coming from the crowd. It takes everything you have to pull away, looking first at his soft, heated eyes and then the lipstick smeared all across his face. You wipe at it with your thumb and the smiles before nipping at the pad of that finger. He smiles and you smile back before craning your neck to whisper in his ear.

"Take me home."

Derek

It's a month and seventeen days until he turns eighteen and he's counting down the days on a calendar. His birthday square has 'SEX WITH DEREK' written with Sharpie and circled in red pen. You can't wait until you never have to see that mortifying reminder ever again—for more reasons than one (you swear your foreskin's starting to chafe).

When you hear him coming back down the hall, you back away from the calendar and sit back in front of the vanity where he'd made you wait. He smiles when he walks in—all bright eyes and crooked lips and wrinkled nose. It makes you stand and pull him in by the small of his back, pressing languid, close-mouthed kisses to that wicked mouth.

He makes quiet, whimpering noises before pulling away, rubbing your noses together, and then pushing a mug of decaf into your hand. You watch as he takes your seat at the vanity, grimacing at his reflection—sweat damp hair, smeared lips and eyeshadow. He crosses his legs at the knee— distracting you with the miles of bare skin until the pale blue of his cotton panties, half-hidden by one of the tanks you'd left here and he'd never returned—collar falling off one shoulder.

He's practiced and precise as he wipes his face down, and you see the boy that you think you might be falling for peek through, though he's closer and closer to the surface every day now. You're silent while he does it, watching with fascination and fondness, but knowing there's a process to it all that you're not yet quite a part of. He lets you know when he's done, when he's ready, by turning to look at you over his shoulder with something close to sadness.

You kneel beside him slowly and wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing chaste kisses to every mole you can reach. He runs his hands through your hair and watches the both of you in the mirror. It's quiet for a long while until he clears his throat, voice a little hoarse as he whispers, "She would have liked you."

You look ahead to catch his eyes and smile, nosing at his jaw. He threads his fingers through yours and clenches at your hand. It feels right.