Derek, and everyone else at the magazine, had wondered about it from the first time they’d shot Stiles.
There was something in the way the man held himself, something about the tilt of his head and the slant of his smirk and the way he took up space in a room. Yet, he wasn’t smug or arrogant so that it stank up the place the way it did with the average model.
Stiles was anything but average, and not necessarily in the ‘cool’ way. He wasn’t the guy that got picked first for the team or had his choice of dates on Saturday night. He liked his hair too short and his jeans too loose and his t-shirts tight but covered in another layer. And yet, despite his flailing limbs and self-depreciating comments and the fact that he favored topics of conversation that were either hard to follow or simply bizarre, Stiles held himself with a conviction that seemingly far outweighed his social capital. He was a bundle of contradictions all wrapped up in a very attractive, very loquacious package.
Stiles sighed, far louder than he would if his faculties were not soaked through with alcohol, and licked his lips.
Derek looked fine. Damn fine.
It was a good thing, Stiles thought, that everyone in the room, even the wolves, were just as sloshed as he was. ‘Cause otherwise they’d be able to smell just how turned on he was by Derek. They also probably wouldn’t all still be naked after their evening run, either, though.
Derek, in Stiles’ completely unbiased opinion, was rocking the whole skin-is-in vibe better than any of them.
It wasn’t wasn’t just because the obvious, either. Oh, Stiles could happily rant and rave — until the moon danced around the earth and back again — about Derek’s perfectly round nipples and the astonishingly exquisite V of his Adonis belt and his superbly furry chest and the impeccable cut of his abs and well, now that Stiles’ had got a look at it for more than a few seconds? Even the man’s cock looked exquisite: long and thick, with a magnificently generous foreskin and heavy, low hanging balls that Stiles just wanted to suck inside his mouth and…
Stiles sat back and hoped no one noticed he was hard, or drooling. Thankfully they were all, apparently, too focused on the fact that Derek had just downed his third wolf’s brew in a row. He was beating the Markowitz pack’s alpha by at least half a glass.
What really turned Stiles on, more even than all of the above, was that Derek was letting himself relax and enjoy and be something akin to what he might have if not for all the shit that Beacon Hills had thrown at him over the years.
He looked happy.
“Hale’s going to beat Dad,” Alexandr, the future Markowitz alpha, moaned as he slid a little closer. He’d been friendly with them all, but a little more so with Stiles. The attention was nice. Even if it could go nowhere because of distance and pack politics and the fact that Stiles was very much head-over-unrequited-heels for his own grumpy alpha. “You’ll help me deal with the shame, won’t you, Stiles?” Stiles could practically hear the guy’s lashes fluttering.
Then he heard a crunch and crash and turned around and Derek’s eyes were rage-red and he was bleeding around the shards of shattered beer glass in his hand. He was making a sound Stiles didn’t think he’d ever heard before — a low, warm rumble that seemed to come from under his lungs rather than in them. His fangs had dropped.
Stiles caught, out of the corner of his eye, the sharp movements as Alexandr bent his neck and then most everyone else followed.
The Markowitz alpha didn’t quite go that far, but the man sounded contrite, even to Stiles’ drunk ears. “Our apologies, Alpha Hale. We didn’t realize Mister Stilinski was spoken for. I’m sure my son meant no offense.”
Stiles blinked and tried not to notice that Derek’s body, all of his body, was at attention, ready to fight: the knot was difficult to miss. He summoned his own voice, hoping that it didn’t waiver. “Derek?”
Derek shifted his gaze from Alexandr to Stiles, his eyes fading back to green. He blinked a few times and seemed to focus his gaze on Stiles and flared his nostrils and.
Stiles could not not notice that Derek’s still-hard cock twitched.
Derek watched as the muscles around Stiles’ eyes finally started to relax. They were closed so that Derek could rinse the shampoo out of his Mate’s hair, and so that Stiles’ didn’t have to watch the blood flowing into the drain.
The stink of it was finally starting to dissipate; the stench of the other Alpha slowly being washed through the sewers where it belonged.
Stiles shouldn’t have had to take another life. Derek hates that he’s glad that Stiles was the one to do it, though. If Scott, or Derek himself, had landed the killing blow, the members of the horrendous man’s Pack would now be something extra they had to deal with. They would have been very, very obedient betas, but they had damage that no one in Beacon Hills had the time, or frankly, the extra compassion, to deal with. The Hale-McCall Pack had their own losses to come to term with.
Stiles hadn’t hesitated in taking the Alpha’s life because he’d taken the lives of three of their Pack, and put four more—Stiles’ father included—into hospital. There were funerals to be arranged, and relatives and several supernatural councils to be informed and dealt with. There was no way they’d have been able to cope with adopting the twenty-something people, many of them the dead-Alpha’s children or wives, into their Pack; the tension would have been insane.
They’d all breathed a sigh of relief when Stiles had separated the guy’s head from his body and one of his Pack’s eyes had bled red. The young woman had gone to her knees almost immediately and offered her own throat as penance for her father’s misdeeds; they’d waived it off, but followed her to the edge of the county.
Now, Derek felt himself breathing another sigh of relief as he could, finally, only smell himself, Stiles and coconut and lime. Derek lifted Stiles’ chin with one hand and pushed his lips lightly into Stiles’. He ran the other hand up Stiles’ chest, over his shoulder, down around his side and then over his ass.
He squeezed Stiles’ buttcheek lightly and asked, “Feel better, love?”
“Yeah. Thank you.” His eyes still weren’t open.
“You ready to get out now?” The water was still hot, but soon it wouldn’t be.
Stiles looked at him, finally, lashes heavy with water instead of the tears that had been there earlier. “Do I smell clean again?”
Derek pulled him as close as he could, and whispered right into Stiles’ ear, “You smell like you and me and over-priced tropical cocktails.”
Stiles smiled, and the stress in his body disappeared and he let Derek take his weight. “Almost perfect, then.” He kissed Derek hard as he turned off the water stream. “Want you to fuck me and knot me so deep that all I smell of is you. Make me forget, big guy.”
AU:Derek comes back to Beacon Hills to protect Stiles, as an Alpha.
“When I pathetically ran out of excuses as to why I should never come back here, I realized I needed to face reality and admit to myself that this is my home. Nowhere else but here. And I also needed to come back because this is the only place where I’m meant to be the alpha I should’ve always been. And I couldn’t be a better alpha without my anchor. So, I’m back home. I’m back, to you Stiles.”
stiles can’t say he actually ever feels bad when he plays up derek’s jealous side. because the slightly-possessive-alpha sex after is really, really hot.
au | 10 months after leaving Beacon Hills for good, Derek returns to help Stiles – and the pack – with their latest supernatural crisis. What no one is expecting though, is Derek’s newfound werewolf status.
S: Oh my god. Derek you’re an -? Holy shit dude, we have a lot to talk about. And I mean a lot. D: Seriously, Stiles?
shealwaysreads 