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.
Stiles
slammed the front door behind him angrily, stomping through his living room and
over to Derek, getting right into his face. Backing him against the kitchen
counter Stiles absently realized his apartment is thankfully void of his
roommate.
Derek
rolled his eyes dismissively while quickly stepping out of Stiles’ personal
space. “It was nothing Stiles, leave it alone.”
“You
call that nothing? A girl flirts with me and you go all territorial alpha wolf?
I’m not your fucking territory, Derek.”
“I
know. It wasn’t about you being territory,” Derek replied through gritted
teeth. It was astounding he could even get the words out with how hard he was
clenching his jaw. If Stiles didn’t know any better, didn’t know that Derek had
impeccable control over his shift, he’d be thinking he was about to wolf out.
He couldn’t help feeling a little smug over the effect he seemed to have on
Derek though, because the guy had frankly been an asshole.
“What
was it then, big guy? Please, enlighten me.”
Stiles
turned around to face Derek again, crossing his arms over his chest. He was not
planning on letting Derek off the hook easily this time. “Care to tell me why
you were suddenly hell-bent on cockblocking me? That was a nice girl back at
the club, and she was actually talking to
me. So you better have a good explanation for basically hauling me out of
there by the scruff of my neck.”
“Oh
come on, Stiles. I wasn’t hauling you–“ Derek let the rest of his sentence
hang in the air as Stiles just kept glaring at him.
“Not
the point, Derek.”
“Fine.” Derek dragged the word out like
it pained him. “You sure you want to know?”
“Oh
goodness, don’t be an idiot wolf. YES,” Stiles shouted, “Should I write it down
for you?”
Derek
exhaled heavily, and, rubbing a hand over his face, he suddenly looked tired.
“Fine. I was jealous. There you have your fucking explanation.”
Derek glares at the unfamiliar icon on his phone, mentally cursing his younger sister. He supposes it’s his own fault for telling Cora his passcode, and it only took her two tries to guess his app store password, and less than twenty minutes later Derek found himself with a Grindr profile.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she had smirked, tossing the phone at him on her way out the door. “Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t do.”
Derek had refused to open the app for a good three hours after she left, even putting his phone on silent and resolutely ignoring it. But six-and-a-half wolfsbane-laced beers later, he finds himself tapping on the ugly black and orange icon, the top right corner a red bubble showing 32 notifications.
Cora’s words ring in his mind as, defenses dulled by alcohol and curiosity sufficiently piqued, he takes a look at his own Grindr profile for the first time. You might think your never-ending foul mood is endearing, Derbear, but trust me, it’s not. You need to get laid, dude, for everyone’s sake.
Yeah, it’s been almost two years since he’s had sex, and even longer since he’s been with another man. And okay, sometimes he’s so pent up with repressed sexual energy that it takes barely a few strokes in the shower for him to come, gasping and biting back the name he’s aching to moan. And sure, sometimes his sexual frustration manifests as an all-consuming irritation with and hatred of everything and everyone around him. His nosy, too-damn insightful little sister is absolutely right, and Derek hates it.
He groans in embarrassment, even though he’s alone, when he sees the photo Cora used on his own profile. It’s from Lydia’s birthday party last summer; he’s shirtless and wearing an ugly pair of green swim shorts that he borrowed from Boyd; he’s standing next to Lydia’s pool and holding a plastic red cup, smiling. He remembers the moment: he was laughing at something Stiles had said while trying to control his lust for him. Stiles had been wearing nothing but a pair of dangerously low-slung boardshorts, and he looked so good it required feats of emotional strength to not fall to his knees at Stiles’ feet.
Cora had cropped out the top part of his face and centered the photo on his chest and abs, and it’s so cliché it’s painful. But, judging by the number of messages he seems to have, apparently cliché works. Ignoring the messages, he thumbs through his nearby matches, doubtful that he’ll find anyone worth his time, cringing at the neediness of it all, not to mention his own desperate thirst.
He’s about to give up and close the app when he sees the photo. It’s hardly any different from a lot of the other profile pics he’s seen, and certainly more tame than some. But it sends a shiver of want followed by a shock of recognition that stuns him, that makes the world spin for a moment.
It’s so overwhelming he has to put the phone down and get up and walk around the loft, stalking a few laps through the place before he finds himself picking up the phone again and tapping on the pic to make it full screen.
It dawns Derek then that if he recognizes him based on a faceless pic of his bare chest, then there’s a damn good chance he’s gonna recognize Derek’s photo, and that realization fills him with an embarrassment that borders on panic.
He takes a screenshot of the photo, and then deactivates his account and deletes the app for good measure.
My friend, my friend. You have touched upon one of the things that I love the most in this world, and that is Derek Hale angrily drinking beer and PINING as he watches Stiles with someone else on the dance floor. Because at some point Stiles grew up and figured out how to move, and now he no longer dances like he’s doing the sprinkler (okay, so SOMETIMES he does but it’s endearing), but he MOVES SINUOUSLY. He just ROLLS his hips, his shoulders, his whole body moving perfectly to the beat and it looks like sex in midair.
Sex in midair that he is having with everyone but Derek, apparently.
Because Derek cannot get up and go to him, oh no. He can’t even make himself move. Because Stiles is happy and Stiles deserves better than someone like him. Even if Derek seethes with a new spike of envy every time someone else sidles up behind or in front of Stiles, slotting their body against his and just writhing together.
It’s awful.
One beer becomes two, which becomes four, and the next thing Derek knows he is miraculously on his way to drunk, and…wait, is that Stiles coming over?
Maybe Derek’s hallucinating from the alcohol.
But then Stiles wraps a hand around his wrist, and it’s warm and slightly sweaty from all the dancing. “Come dance with me, big guy.”
And really, after this much alcohol, Derek can’t deny Stiles. Or rather, he’s gotten to the point that he realizes he doesn’t WANT to deny him.
So he follows Stiles to the dance floor and Stiles just presses up against him, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling their foreheads together. And Derek just kind of…forgets that there’s a dance floor, forgets that there’s people, forgets that there’s music, forgets that there’s anything but the heat of Stiles’s body and the thick smell of his sweat and arousal and the steady ba-bump ba-bump of his heartbeat.
And when Stiles leans in to kiss him, deep and filthy and so, so right, Derek forgets everything but that, too.
“Nice butt!” someone shouts from
across the park, and Stiles glares in the general direction of the
voice as he clenches his fingers more tightly around Derek’s.
“Assholes, seriously,” he mutters.
“I am literally holding your hand, you’d think it’d be
obvious that you’re taken, ugh. Some people…”
Derek stops, and seeing as their hands
are locked together, Stiles is forced to stop too.
“What?” he asks when he realizes
Derek are staring at him.
“I’m taken?”
“Well… yeah,” Stiles says,
suddenly cautious. Because they are exclusive… aren’t they?
“Unless you-”
“Don’t,” Derek cuts him off. “Don’t
start that again. I’m definitely taken. By you and with you,” he
adds, because he’s an adorable goober like that, and Stiles leans in
to peck his lips, heaving a small sigh of relief.
“Judging from how many hot people
catcall you even when you’re attached to me, you can’t blame
me for worrying just a little bit.” That you might one day take
someone better than me up on their offer. He
doesn’t say it, but it’s obvious Derek knows that he’s thinking it,
and barely a heartbeat later Derek is pulling him in, until they’re
touching from knee to neck, Derek’s hands clutched possessively on
his ass and the back of his head respectively, as he licks into his
mouth.
Stiles
is a little dazed when Derek finally slows down, and lets their lips
part, slow and lingering.
“Idiot,”
he breathes fondly. “They’re talking about you.”
“Bwuh?”
Stiles asks, still a little kiss-dumb.
“The
catcallers. Do you even know what you’re wearing?”
“…jeans?”
Derek
makes a hot noise in his throat. “Yeah. The good ones Lydia got you
for Christmas.”
“So?”
“So…
they make your ass look fucking edible.”
Stiles
blinks slowly, because what?
“But…
but you’re the one-”
“I’m
wearing board shorts and tennis socks, Stiles.”
Stiles
has to look down and check, because he hadn’t even remotely noticed
what Derek was wearing, too busy that morning lamenting that Derek
chose to wear clothes at all. And he’d worn his own jeans because
Derek had handed them to him while he was busy ogling. Damn, that was
a sneaky move.
“You
picked these for me to wear,” he accuses, though he can’t help but
smile, because he loves it when Derek is a little bit devious.
“Yes,
I did,” Derek admits smugly, not a hint of shame on his face.
“Soooo,”
Stiles drawls. “I should just take one of these offers, then?”
The
heated snarl and thorough necking he gets for that is very
satisfying.
shealwaysreads 