Honestly, Pat isn't sure how they got here. He's had a lot to drink, and they've been engaged in about four hours of what was Mario Kart war but turned into an epic Smash Bros. tournament, and somewhere along the way bets that required badges of honour were made, except instead of badges of honour somebody—okay, probably Pat—decided they were to be badges of shame, and somebody—again, probably Pat—decided the winner got to mark the loser so everybody could heckle him until it faded.

“I’m not doing you in the seats,” Pat says, tilting his head back to grin up at Jonny’s red face. “Turn around.” [Timestamp for put your money where your mouth is]

Derek smirks at her, eyes hooded as he leans closer still, until his lips are brushing her ear. His breath fans hotly over the curve of her neck and Stiles shudders, knuckles going white as she clasps them together between her legs. “Touch yourself,” he whispers, the curve of his lips a shade too wicked.