Chapter 5: The Mall Trip
The stale, sun-warmed air of the Jeep was a familiar blanket, thick with the ghosts of a hundred road trips and spilled drinks. Scott guided the rusted Wrangler out of the campus lot, the engine grumbling in protest. He’d chosen a fitted gray tee that stretched across his shoulders and dark jeans that felt restrictive after days of shorts. Beneath, the tight black boxer briefs were a second skin, hugging the muscles of his thighs with every shift of the pedal.
In the passenger seat, Stiles was a live wire. His loose red hoodie swallowed his frame, the cuffs frayed. His ripped black skinny jeans were so tight they looked painted on, and Scott knew, with a certainty that felt both ordinary and intimate, that beneath them were simple white Fruit of the Loom briefs. The generic kind, the cotton waistband forever curling. Stiles had dumped his classic Superman pairs into a drawer that morning, declaring a need for “baseline comfort.” He was drumming a frantic, off-beat rhythm on the cracked dashboard, his long fingers a blur, head bobbing to the distorted punk roaring from the speakers. He shouted along, mangling the lyrics, his voice cracking on the high notes.
Scott smiled, the tension from the other night—the tickling, the near-miss, the charged silence afterward—seeming to melt away in the sheer, stupid joy of the open road. They drove with the windows down, the wind whipping their hair, the world a blur of strip malls and dying grass. For a while, it was just noise and motion and his best friend’s chaotic energy filling the space between them.
The mall was a cathedral of filtered light and recycled air, a humming tomb of consumerism. They moved with the aimless tide of teenagers and families, their large strawberry-banana smoothies sweating cold condensation into their palms. Stiles sucked his down with a reckless, gurgling fervor.
“Dude, slow down,” Scott said, the sweet, artificial taste of fruit and yogurt coating his tongue. “You’re gonna get brain freeze so fast it’ll rewrite your DNA.”
“Life is risk,” Stiles declared, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes scanned the storefronts, landing on the familiar logotype of American Eagle. “Ooh, sale. My wardrobe of graphic tees and apocalyptic jeans yearns for renewal.”
They wandered in, the scent of new denim and cedar chip ambience washing over them. Racks of flannels and tables piled with soft, faded jeans stretched into the distance. Scott lingered by a display of hoodies, half-listening to the inoffensive indie pop piping through the speakers.
A commotion to his left. Stiles had found the motherlode.
A huge, wire-mesh bin, crammed to overflowing with discounted underwear, sat prominently in the center of an aisle. A sign screamed, “MIX & MATCH BOXERS & BRIEFS – 5 for $20!” Stiles made a sound like a prospector spotting a gold vein. He practically dove in, elbow-deep in a rainbow of cotton and modal.
“Jackpot!” he hissed, pulling out pair after pair. He held them aloft, his expressions shifting with each new discovery. “Flames! Because nothing says ‘responsible adult’ like your crotch being on fire.” He tossed them over his shoulder onto a growing pile on the floor. “Pineapples! For when you’re feeling tropical and acidic.” A pair with neon pink stripes. “These are… aggressively optimistic.”
Scott leaned back against a solid wood table stacked with neatly folded sweaters, sipping his smoothie. A fond, amused smile played on his lips as he watched the performance. This was classic Stiles, finding absurd joy in the mundane. But as Stiles continued, the pile at his feet growing into a mountain of absurd patterns—cartoon dinosaurs, tiny tacos, glow-in-the-dark skeletons—Scott’s focus began to shift.
His gaze drifted from Stiles’ laughing face to the underwear in his hands. It wasn’t conscious. It was a slow, warm tide pulling at his attention. He watched Stiles’ long fingers splay across the black fabric of a pair of briefs adorned with tiny, white skulls. He imagined those briefs on Stiles. Not in a sexual way, at first. Just… practically. How the black would contrast with his pale skin. How the elastic would cut across the sharp juts of his hip bones, just like the blue Superman pair had. How the cotton would mold to the familiar shape of him—the slight curve of his ass, the soft, vulnerable drape of his cock and balls beneath.
The thought solidified, gained texture. The tight black briefs. The fabric, stretched. Clinging.
A low, unbidden heat sparked in Scott’s stomach. It wasn’t a wildfire; it was the slow glow of coals being stirred. He took another sip of his smoothie, the cold doing nothing to douse the sensation. His eyes moved to the next pair Stiles held up: boxers with a ludicrous, repeating pattern of neon green aliens. He pictured those instead. The loose fit of boxers, the way they’d hang, concealing and revealing with every movement. The garish green would make Stiles’ skin look even paler, almost luminous. He’d look ridiculous. And strangely, unbearably… his.
Is he getting hard?
The question formed in his own mind, shockingly clear. His own body responded with a subtle, treacherous shift. A faint, answering pressure against the tight black cotton of his own boxer briefs. It was confusing, a tangle of emotions that tightened his chest. It wasn’t purely about attraction, though that was a thread in the knot. It was about knowing. It was the memory of Stiles in the blue briefs, palming himself with that cocky smirk. It was the terrifying, fascinating moment on the bed, with Stiles writhing beneath him, breathlessly pleading he was about to piss himself. It was the secret, shameful urge to have seen it happen. This was an extension of that. A cataloging. A possession. He wanted to see Stiles in every single one of these stupid pairs. He wanted to know how each fabric would look against his skin, how each waistband would sit, how each would contain—or fail to contain—him.
His heart gave a single, hard thump against his ribs. The ambient noise of the store—the chatter, the music—seemed to recede, replaced by the rushing of blood in his own ears. He was staring. He knew he was staring. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the parade of underwear in Stiles’ hands, but he wasn’t seeing the patterns anymore. He was seeing the ghost of Stiles wearing them.
Stiles’ laughter cut off. Scott’s eyes snapped up. Stiles was looking right at him, a pair of blue-and-red race car printed briefs dangling from his index finger. The knowing, mischievous glint in Stiles’ eye was back, sharper than in the dorm. He’d seen it all—the stare, the distant focus, the faint flush Scott could feel warming his neck.
“See something you like, McCall?” Stiles asked, his voice dropping to a theatrical purr. He waggled the race car briefs. “Admit it. You’re envisioning a whole new chapter for my underwear drawer. Curating the collection.”
Scott’s mouth was dry. “Shut up. I was zoned out.”
“Zoned out directly at my crotch-level merchandise. Again.” Stiles’ grin was predatory. He inspected the race cars. “These are pretty sweet, though. Vroom vroom.” He looked from the briefs to Scott, and his expression shifted into one of pure, devilish inspiration. “You know what? These are perfect for you, dude. Buy ‘em.”
He didn’t wait for a reply. He tossed the briefs, a soft wad of cotton, directly at Scott’s head.
Scott flinched, his reflexes catching them awkwardly against his chest. The fabric was soft, cheap. He could feel the raised, plasticky feel of the printed cars. He shoved them back into the bin as if they’d burned him, heat flaming across his cheeks. “I’m not buying race car underwear.”
“Why not? They’re cool! They say ‘I’m fast and I like to go places.’” Stiles was gleeful, digging back into the bin. “Or is the black skulls more your aesthetic? Moody. Broody. ‘I hum the Supernatural theme song while I brood.’”
“Just pick your five pairs so we can go,” Scott muttered, turning to examine a shelf of socks with forced concentration. The coals in his stomach still glowed.
He heard the rustle of fabric, the clatter of hangers. When he chanced a look back, Stiles was at the checkout counter, dumping an armful of underwear onto the belt. The pile was a riot of color and absurdity. And on top, sitting neatly, was the pair of race car briefs.
Stiles caught his eye again and gave a tiny, conspiratorial wink.
The walk back through the mall was different. The smoothie sat heavy and cold in Scott’s gut. He was hyper-aware of Stiles beside him, of the plastic bag swinging from his hand, the rustle of the new clothes inside. He watched Stiles’ posture, the set of his shoulders. He saw the way Stiles’ free hand occasionally pressed, almost absently, against the front of his skinny jeans, low on his abdomen. A tell.
They were passing a bank of gleaming, mirrored restroom doors. Scott slowed his pace, an unspoken question. He didn’t say anything, just let his gaze flick from Stiles’ face to the doors and back.
Stiles didn’t break stride. He walked right past, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. “I’m good,” he said, his voice a notch higher than before. “I’ll go when we get home.”
“You drank that smoothie in, like, thirty seconds,” Scott said, keeping his tone casual.
“I have a system. A finely-tuned vessel.” Stiles’ bounce was a little more forced now. “Besides, mall bathrooms are biohazards. I’d rather hold it and risk a minor internal catastrophe than touch those door handles.”
The ride back to campus was quieter. The punk playlist still played, but Stiles wasn’t singing. He was drumming his fingers on his knee instead of the dash, a rapid, staccato beat. He shifted in his seat frequently, crossing and uncrossing his legs. Scott’s enhanced senses picked up the rest: the slight increase in Stiles’ heart rate, the subtle, sweet smell of the strawberry-banana smoothie processing through his system, the faint, anxious scent of sweat at his temples. He could hear the liquid sloshing inside him with every bump in the road. It was an intimate, brutal symphony of impending need.
Scott focused on the road, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. He wanted to say something. To offer to pull over at a gas station. But the moment felt fragile, charged with the unspoken rules of their new dynamic. Mentioning it was a minefield. So he drove, the silence stretching taut between them, punctuated only by Stiles’ restless movements and the hum of the engine.
When Scott finally pulled into his parking spot behind the dorm, he’d barely yanked the parking brake before Stiles was moving.
“Gotta unpack the goods!” Stiles chirped, but the words were tight, clipped. He fumbled with the seatbelt, his fingers clumsy. He shoved the Jeep door open and practically spilled out onto the asphalt, clutching his shopping bag. He didn’t run, but his walk was a marvel of controlled urgency—a stiff-legged, brisk pace that was just shy of a jog.
Scott followed more slowly, locking the Jeep. By the time he pushed through the heavy door into their dorm’s hallway, Stiles was already halfway down it, his keycard jabbing at the reader on their door. It beeped, he shoved the door open, and disappeared inside.
Scott entered their room to the sound of the bathroom door slamming shut and the distinct, metallic snick of the lock.
He stood there in the sudden quiet, the stale coffee and old-pizza scent of their room enveloping him. He dropped his keys on his desk. He could hear everything.
The rustle of clothing—the frantic unbuttoning of jeans, the shove of fabric down thighs. A sharp, bitten-off curse. Then a moment of profound silence.
And then it came: a loud, powerful, unmistakable rush of liquid hitting water. A sigh so deep it was almost a groan tore through the door, a sound of utter, desperate relief. It was long, and continuous, and intensely private. Scott stood frozen, listening. His own body reacted sympathetically, a phantom pressure in his bladder. But more than that, a wave of heat washed over him. It was the sound of surrender, of a struggle ended. It was visceral and humiliating and profoundly human. He’d heard Stiles pee before, a thousand times in locker rooms and through thin apartment walls, but this was different. This was the culmination of the afternoon’s tension, the mall, the smoothie, the stubborn refusal to stop. This was Stiles, alone on the other side of the door, finally letting go.
It seemed to go on forever. Finally, the torrent subsided into a trickle, then stopped. The toilet flushed, a roaring blur of sound. The faucet ran.
A minute later, the lock clicked, and the door opened. Stiles emerged, looking both exhausted and relieved. His hair was mussed, his face slightly flushed. He’d changed. The skinny jeans and red hoodie were gone. He was wearing a pair of the new boxers—the ones with the tiny tacos—and nothing else. His torso was pale and lean, the sharp lines of his collarbones prominent.
He shuffled to his bed and collapsed onto it face-first with a muffled oof.
Scott finally let himself move, sitting down at his own desk chair. He swiveled slowly to face Stiles. The air was thick with what had just happened, with everything that had been happening for weeks.
“So,” Scott said, his voice carefully neutral. “Finely-tuned vessel, huh?”
A groan from the pillow. “It was a tactical retreat. The smoothie was a traitor.”
“Sounded more like D-Day from out here.”
Stiles turned his head, one eye peeking out from the crook of his arm. “You heard that?”
“The whole floor probably heard that, Stiles. I think you just solved California’s drought crisis.”
Stiles pushed himself up on his elbows, a weak smirk on his face. “Hey, at least I made it to the bathroom.”
Scott chuckled, the tension bleeding away into their familiar, teasing rhythm.
Stiles rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “You know, for a werewolf with super-hearing, you’re kinda an asshole for not warning me about the smoothie’s covert diuretic operations.”
“My bad. Next time I’ll file a full sensory report: ‘Target has consumed beverage. Liquid levels critical. Recommend immediate restroom recon.’”
“See, that’s the support I need.” Stiles sat up, his smirk turning into a genuine, tired smile. He reached into the shopping bag, rummaged, and pulled out the pair of race car briefs. He balled them up and threw them at Scott. They bounced off his chest and landed in his lap.
“A gift,” Stiles said. “For your emotional support during my time of bladder-based distress.”
Scott looked down at the silly print. The glow in his stomach returned, softer this time. Warm. He picked them up, the cotton soft between his fingers. “Thanks,” he said, and he meant it.
Stiles flopped back down. “Don’t mention it. Ever. To anyone.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence settled again, but it was comfortable now. The kind that exists between people who have seen, and heard, too much to ever be truly embarrassed again. Scott folded the race car briefs and set them on his desk, a small, absurd monument to the afternoon. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long, orange shadows across the messy floor. The chapter was closed, the crisis averted, the secret witnessed and folded into the fabric of their world. For now, it was enough.