Under the Blacklight (1/2)
Title: Under the Blacklight (1/2)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,096
A.N.: So Queenitsy sent me an email saying the following: Incidentally, the same friend tweeted yesterday, "Sudden desire for 'Stiles in a gay bar, post-college, wearing eyeliner and hair gel and a tight shirt, running into Derek' fic." If that's an idea you find intriguing... (Not like you need another thing to write, but I just thought I'd put it out there.)
I'm pretty sure that friend is destroythemeek, but I'm not 100%. So... maybe it's for destroythemeek? IDEK anymore.
Anywho. Title comes from Rilo Kiley's song of the same name.
Summary: Derek wants to feel that long, lean body pressed tight against him, wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and just breath until all Derek can smell is him.
Derek is out for a night walk through the city, when he smells it. He pauses mid step, his hands balling into fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. Derek swivels towards the scent, tipping his head back and breathing deep, but it’s too faint to get a good read on it. He can tell that it’s coming from the side street he just passed, so Derek doubles back in hopes of getting a better whiff. He walks two blocks, then turns left and walks one more. The smell is strong now, fresher the closer he gets to the source.
He ought to feel ridiculous, stalking through the city like it’s the woods behind his house, but instead Derek just feels a thrill, anticipation tingling its way down his spine.
Derek knows who he is hunting, it’s impossible for that particular brand of scent to belong to anyone else, no matter how many years it’s been since Derek has smelled it. He smiles to himself, eager in a way he doesn’t want to think about, as he winds his way through the bustling streets.
He traces it to what is obviously a gay club, given the muffled thump of music and the long line of men in tight clothes queuing out front. Derek eyes the line, then huffs. The hell he’s waiting that long. He straightens his shoulders and walks confidently up to the door, giving the bouncer a smirk when he gets there.
The bouncer gives him a coy smile in return, his eyes blatantly scanning Derek’s body. Derek raises an eyebrow and the man swallows, licks at his lips.
“It’s a fifteen dollar cover,” he says. “And I’ll need to see your id.”
Derek tugs out his wallet and then hands over the money before flashing his id. The man nods, then holds up a stamp. Derek offers up his left wrist, then heads inside. The corridor is practically empty, except for the corner that’s home to the coat check. Derek makes his way over, stands in line and then trades his jacket and two dollars for a ticket. The boy behind the counter gives him a wide smile as he passes it over.
“I’ll be here all night,” he tells Derek with a wink.
Derek gives him a tight smile before moving aside for the next guy in line. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath and lets out a pleased sound. He’s in the right place alright. The smell is so thick in the air Derek can almost taste it.
He follows it down the hall and into the noisy heat of the club. The thub thub thub of the music fills his ears as lights flash and bodies sway. Derek works his way through the crowd, edging closer to that scent. He keeps his eyes peeled, searching the dark space for a familiar form.
When he spots it, Derek freezes.
Stiles.
He’s just as Derek remembers him, but completely different at the same time. Derek takes a hesitant step forward, then stops, his hands clenching into fists. This is not normal behavior. Derek knows that. Even for a werewolf, he’s pushing the line. He knew it the whole time he hunted down Stiles’s scent, knew it as he shoved his way through the crowd. Knew it, but didn’t care. But now that he’s reached the inevitable conclusion of his course of action, Derek doesn’t want to face his consequences.
So he just stands there, like the creeper that everyone always accuses him of being, watching as Stiles dances with a circle of friends. He’s laughing, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as his body moves in sync with the beat of the music. Derek’s throat goes dry and he sucks in a ragged breath because this Stiles... this Stiles is nothing like the gawky, awkward Stiles he is familiar with.
This Stiles is sex in motion, with his skin tight jeans and his painted on black tee. His body is taut and toned, his arms bulging slightly with lean muscle, his stomach a flat, impossibly long line. He does something with his hips that makes his current dance partner gasp and Derek feels a burning envy flood his veins.
He wants to close the distance between them, push that other man out of the way and tug the kid-- god, can he even call him a kid? Stiles must be at least twenty-six by now-- into his arms. Derek wants to feel that long, lean body pressed tight against him, wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and just breath until all Derek can smell is him.
Hands that aren’t Derek’s tug at Stiles’s hips, pulling him back firmly against some other man’s front. Fingers slip into the waistband of Stiles’s jeans and Stiles laughs, arching back into the contact. The movement makes his shirt ride up, exposing a band of flesh that Derek is suddenly aching to lick.
He takes another half-step forward, hands reaching out for something he’s not sure he would be allowed to grab, even if he were close enough to touch. Derek growls, dropping his hand and hating himself. This is ridiculous. He needs to either man up and walk over there or turn on his heel and get the hell out of Dodge.
Right.
Walk over there and explain to Stiles how he tracked him down like a bloodhound, following his scent through the city and into this club. That’s a great idea. That won’t freak Stiles out at all.
So. Option B it is.
Derek gives himself permission to take one last look, telling himself that he’ll call Scott in the morning, get Stiles’s new number and do this right. He lets his eyes skim up and down Stiles’s body, then stares at his face, the bright flush of exertion on his cheeks, the swollen pout of his mouth, the-- god-- dark smudge of eyeliner ringing his eyes. Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow.
Then Stiles is pulling away from his partner, leaving his circle of friends and winding his way through the crowd. Derek bites out a curse, turns halfway away, just enough so that his profile is to Stiles. He can still see him, though, can still track his movement through the crowd. He’s getting closer now, too close for comfort, and Derek really ought to make his exit stage right. But before he can retreat, he sees Stiles stiffen, shock stamped on his face.
Oh hell, Derek thinks, then turns back towards Stiles and awaits his fate.
*
Stiles is making his way to the bar for another round of drinks when he spots a familiar looking face in the crowd. He does a double take, narrowing his eyes to try to get a better look at the person's profile in the flashing light of the club. "Derek?" His voice is far too soft to be heard over the throbbing beat of the music, but the man Stiles is peering at whips his head in Stiles's direction and there's no question left to his identity. "Oh my god! Derek!"
He pushes and shoves his way through the crowd until he's standing in front of his not-quite-friend-not-really-enemy. "It's been what, four years? Five?" he shakes his head. "But you look the exact same. Well, duh, of course you do. Those freaky non-human genes at work, huh?" He grins, letting his eyes travel up and down Derek's muscular frame. "Not that that is a bad thing. Damn, Derek. I had forgotten just how above average you are in the looks department." He waves a hand at Derek body. "How is that even supposed to be fair?"
Derek's lips tighten and he rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything, just stands there, staring at Stiles's face like he's trying to memorize it.
Stiles licks his bottom lip and then laughs again. "Anyway, how's it going, man? What brings you to the big city? Aren't you more of a country wolf?"
Derek does that thing with his eyebrows, the one that always made Stiles's teenaged self fear for his safety. "Business," he says, because he's as loquacious as always.
“Pack? Or?”
"Pack," Derek says like he's spilling state secrets.
"Ah," Stiles clicks his tongue, remembering suddenly that he and Derek hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms and that maybe the other man isn't as pleased to see Stiles as Stiles is to see him. "Right. Well, good to see you anyway." He gives Derek an awkward little wave and a crooked grin. "Hope life has been treating you well and all that jazz. Give your pack my regards." He turns to leave, because if he's learned anything since heading off into the big, wide world, it's how not to outstay his welcome.
A warm hand closing around his bicep stops him. "Stiles." Derek's voice is gruff and oddly fond, which makes Stiles blink. He turns his head slowly towards the other man, then blinks again when he sees that Derek's expression matches his tone.
"Is that a smile?" Stiles asks, incredulously. "Dude, I didn't know your face could do that."
Derek rolls his eyes again, but the smile doesn't fade away. "Of course my face can do that, Stiles."
"I don't know, past experience has proven otherwise," Stiles teases, he shifts so that he is facing Derek again, which causes Derek to adjust his grip on Stiles's arm. Which... why doesn't he just let go? Oh, because he's a creeperwolf like that. Stiles glances down at the hand, then up at Derek, then down at the hand, but Derek doesn't get the hint.
"It a lot easier to smile when you aren't being forced to relive your past," Derek says, stepping closer.
Stiles nods because yeah. Not really much you can say in response to that. He sucks on his bottom lip, giving the hand wrapped around his bicep another glance.
Derek's fingers tighten. "Are you here alone?"
"Naw. Got a group of friends with me." Stiles flashes him a grin. "Who comes to a club by themselves?"
Derek's eyes do that red flashy thing. "Stiles, are you here alone," he asks again, his thumb rubbing gently on bare skin of Stiles's inner arm.
"Oh!" Stiles finally clues in. "You mean alone alone. As in, not with anyone alone? Yeah, totally. Out to catch some tail, if you don't mind the metaphor." He gives Derek a wink. "Or, you know, be caught. Whichever the case may be."
“Do you want to be?” Derek asks, his eyes going intense, his thumb still stroking back and forth.
“To be what?” Stiles shivers, pinned under Derek’s gaze like a bug.
“Caught.”
Stiles’s heart sorta stutters at that because, dude, Derek oh-don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-a-Greek-god Hale is legit hitting on him. But then Stiles remembers that I’m-just-a-Greek-god types tend to hit on him fairly frequently these days, so instead of losing his cool the way his younger self might have, Actual Adult Stiles steps forward, closing the scant distance between them. His body brushes up against Derek from chest to hip and he tips his head back so he can look up at Derek through his lashes.
“Depends on who's doing the catching,” he says, his voice going coy on the last word.
Derek sucks in a breath, his pupils going wide as his fingers tightening on Stiles's arm.
Stiles smiles, beyond pleased with himself, and tilts his head in the direction of the bar. "I need a big, strong man to help me carry drinks back to my friends. You game? Or should I hold out for someone else?"
Derek's hand flexes once, then drops away from Stiles bicep, coming down to rest on Stiles's hip, tugging him even closer. He angles his head and nips at Stiles jaw, the scratch of his stubble making Stiles skin break out in gooseflesh. "I'll be your big, strong man," Derek says, his voice a low growl.
"Oh good," Stiles replies, moving out of Derek's grip like his body isn't instantly ready for them to be somewhere private right now. "How about you lead on, put those broad shoulders of yours to work, why don't you?"
Derek nods, his eyes still ringed red and his mouth set in a taut line. "Drinks," he says. "On it." Then he's spinning on his heel and shoving his way towards the bar, Stiles trailing along in his wake.
And if Stiles's eyes just happen to be firmly fixed on that ass, well who the hell can blame him?
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,096
A.N.: So Queenitsy sent me an email saying the following: Incidentally, the same friend tweeted yesterday, "Sudden desire for 'Stiles in a gay bar, post-college, wearing eyeliner and hair gel and a tight shirt, running into Derek' fic." If that's an idea you find intriguing... (Not like you need another thing to write, but I just thought I'd put it out there.)
I'm pretty sure that friend is destroythemeek, but I'm not 100%. So... maybe it's for destroythemeek? IDEK anymore.
Anywho. Title comes from Rilo Kiley's song of the same name.
Summary: Derek wants to feel that long, lean body pressed tight against him, wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and just breath until all Derek can smell is him.
Derek is out for a night walk through the city, when he smells it. He pauses mid step, his hands balling into fists in the pockets of his leather jacket. Derek swivels towards the scent, tipping his head back and breathing deep, but it’s too faint to get a good read on it. He can tell that it’s coming from the side street he just passed, so Derek doubles back in hopes of getting a better whiff. He walks two blocks, then turns left and walks one more. The smell is strong now, fresher the closer he gets to the source.
He ought to feel ridiculous, stalking through the city like it’s the woods behind his house, but instead Derek just feels a thrill, anticipation tingling its way down his spine.
Derek knows who he is hunting, it’s impossible for that particular brand of scent to belong to anyone else, no matter how many years it’s been since Derek has smelled it. He smiles to himself, eager in a way he doesn’t want to think about, as he winds his way through the bustling streets.
He traces it to what is obviously a gay club, given the muffled thump of music and the long line of men in tight clothes queuing out front. Derek eyes the line, then huffs. The hell he’s waiting that long. He straightens his shoulders and walks confidently up to the door, giving the bouncer a smirk when he gets there.
The bouncer gives him a coy smile in return, his eyes blatantly scanning Derek’s body. Derek raises an eyebrow and the man swallows, licks at his lips.
“It’s a fifteen dollar cover,” he says. “And I’ll need to see your id.”
Derek tugs out his wallet and then hands over the money before flashing his id. The man nods, then holds up a stamp. Derek offers up his left wrist, then heads inside. The corridor is practically empty, except for the corner that’s home to the coat check. Derek makes his way over, stands in line and then trades his jacket and two dollars for a ticket. The boy behind the counter gives him a wide smile as he passes it over.
“I’ll be here all night,” he tells Derek with a wink.
Derek gives him a tight smile before moving aside for the next guy in line. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath and lets out a pleased sound. He’s in the right place alright. The smell is so thick in the air Derek can almost taste it.
He follows it down the hall and into the noisy heat of the club. The thub thub thub of the music fills his ears as lights flash and bodies sway. Derek works his way through the crowd, edging closer to that scent. He keeps his eyes peeled, searching the dark space for a familiar form.
When he spots it, Derek freezes.
Stiles.
He’s just as Derek remembers him, but completely different at the same time. Derek takes a hesitant step forward, then stops, his hands clenching into fists. This is not normal behavior. Derek knows that. Even for a werewolf, he’s pushing the line. He knew it the whole time he hunted down Stiles’s scent, knew it as he shoved his way through the crowd. Knew it, but didn’t care. But now that he’s reached the inevitable conclusion of his course of action, Derek doesn’t want to face his consequences.
So he just stands there, like the creeper that everyone always accuses him of being, watching as Stiles dances with a circle of friends. He’s laughing, his head tipped back and his eyes closed as his body moves in sync with the beat of the music. Derek’s throat goes dry and he sucks in a ragged breath because this Stiles... this Stiles is nothing like the gawky, awkward Stiles he is familiar with.
This Stiles is sex in motion, with his skin tight jeans and his painted on black tee. His body is taut and toned, his arms bulging slightly with lean muscle, his stomach a flat, impossibly long line. He does something with his hips that makes his current dance partner gasp and Derek feels a burning envy flood his veins.
He wants to close the distance between them, push that other man out of the way and tug the kid-- god, can he even call him a kid? Stiles must be at least twenty-six by now-- into his arms. Derek wants to feel that long, lean body pressed tight against him, wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles’s neck and just breath until all Derek can smell is him.
Hands that aren’t Derek’s tug at Stiles’s hips, pulling him back firmly against some other man’s front. Fingers slip into the waistband of Stiles’s jeans and Stiles laughs, arching back into the contact. The movement makes his shirt ride up, exposing a band of flesh that Derek is suddenly aching to lick.
He takes another half-step forward, hands reaching out for something he’s not sure he would be allowed to grab, even if he were close enough to touch. Derek growls, dropping his hand and hating himself. This is ridiculous. He needs to either man up and walk over there or turn on his heel and get the hell out of Dodge.
Right.
Walk over there and explain to Stiles how he tracked him down like a bloodhound, following his scent through the city and into this club. That’s a great idea. That won’t freak Stiles out at all.
So. Option B it is.
Derek gives himself permission to take one last look, telling himself that he’ll call Scott in the morning, get Stiles’s new number and do this right. He lets his eyes skim up and down Stiles’s body, then stares at his face, the bright flush of exertion on his cheeks, the swollen pout of his mouth, the-- god-- dark smudge of eyeliner ringing his eyes. Tomorrow, he thinks, tomorrow.
Then Stiles is pulling away from his partner, leaving his circle of friends and winding his way through the crowd. Derek bites out a curse, turns halfway away, just enough so that his profile is to Stiles. He can still see him, though, can still track his movement through the crowd. He’s getting closer now, too close for comfort, and Derek really ought to make his exit stage right. But before he can retreat, he sees Stiles stiffen, shock stamped on his face.
Oh hell, Derek thinks, then turns back towards Stiles and awaits his fate.
*
Stiles is making his way to the bar for another round of drinks when he spots a familiar looking face in the crowd. He does a double take, narrowing his eyes to try to get a better look at the person's profile in the flashing light of the club. "Derek?" His voice is far too soft to be heard over the throbbing beat of the music, but the man Stiles is peering at whips his head in Stiles's direction and there's no question left to his identity. "Oh my god! Derek!"
He pushes and shoves his way through the crowd until he's standing in front of his not-quite-friend-not-really-enemy. "It's been what, four years? Five?" he shakes his head. "But you look the exact same. Well, duh, of course you do. Those freaky non-human genes at work, huh?" He grins, letting his eyes travel up and down Derek's muscular frame. "Not that that is a bad thing. Damn, Derek. I had forgotten just how above average you are in the looks department." He waves a hand at Derek body. "How is that even supposed to be fair?"
Derek's lips tighten and he rolls his eyes, but he doesn't say anything, just stands there, staring at Stiles's face like he's trying to memorize it.
Stiles licks his bottom lip and then laughs again. "Anyway, how's it going, man? What brings you to the big city? Aren't you more of a country wolf?"
Derek does that thing with his eyebrows, the one that always made Stiles's teenaged self fear for his safety. "Business," he says, because he's as loquacious as always.
“Pack? Or?”
"Pack," Derek says like he's spilling state secrets.
"Ah," Stiles clicks his tongue, remembering suddenly that he and Derek hadn't exactly parted on the best of terms and that maybe the other man isn't as pleased to see Stiles as Stiles is to see him. "Right. Well, good to see you anyway." He gives Derek an awkward little wave and a crooked grin. "Hope life has been treating you well and all that jazz. Give your pack my regards." He turns to leave, because if he's learned anything since heading off into the big, wide world, it's how not to outstay his welcome.
A warm hand closing around his bicep stops him. "Stiles." Derek's voice is gruff and oddly fond, which makes Stiles blink. He turns his head slowly towards the other man, then blinks again when he sees that Derek's expression matches his tone.
"Is that a smile?" Stiles asks, incredulously. "Dude, I didn't know your face could do that."
Derek rolls his eyes again, but the smile doesn't fade away. "Of course my face can do that, Stiles."
"I don't know, past experience has proven otherwise," Stiles teases, he shifts so that he is facing Derek again, which causes Derek to adjust his grip on Stiles's arm. Which... why doesn't he just let go? Oh, because he's a creeperwolf like that. Stiles glances down at the hand, then up at Derek, then down at the hand, but Derek doesn't get the hint.
"It a lot easier to smile when you aren't being forced to relive your past," Derek says, stepping closer.
Stiles nods because yeah. Not really much you can say in response to that. He sucks on his bottom lip, giving the hand wrapped around his bicep another glance.
Derek's fingers tighten. "Are you here alone?"
"Naw. Got a group of friends with me." Stiles flashes him a grin. "Who comes to a club by themselves?"
Derek's eyes do that red flashy thing. "Stiles, are you here alone," he asks again, his thumb rubbing gently on bare skin of Stiles's inner arm.
"Oh!" Stiles finally clues in. "You mean alone alone. As in, not with anyone alone? Yeah, totally. Out to catch some tail, if you don't mind the metaphor." He gives Derek a wink. "Or, you know, be caught. Whichever the case may be."
“Do you want to be?” Derek asks, his eyes going intense, his thumb still stroking back and forth.
“To be what?” Stiles shivers, pinned under Derek’s gaze like a bug.
“Caught.”
Stiles’s heart sorta stutters at that because, dude, Derek oh-don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-a-Greek-god Hale is legit hitting on him. But then Stiles remembers that I’m-just-a-Greek-god types tend to hit on him fairly frequently these days, so instead of losing his cool the way his younger self might have, Actual Adult Stiles steps forward, closing the scant distance between them. His body brushes up against Derek from chest to hip and he tips his head back so he can look up at Derek through his lashes.
“Depends on who's doing the catching,” he says, his voice going coy on the last word.
Derek sucks in a breath, his pupils going wide as his fingers tightening on Stiles's arm.
Stiles smiles, beyond pleased with himself, and tilts his head in the direction of the bar. "I need a big, strong man to help me carry drinks back to my friends. You game? Or should I hold out for someone else?"
Derek's hand flexes once, then drops away from Stiles bicep, coming down to rest on Stiles's hip, tugging him even closer. He angles his head and nips at Stiles jaw, the scratch of his stubble making Stiles skin break out in gooseflesh. "I'll be your big, strong man," Derek says, his voice a low growl.
"Oh good," Stiles replies, moving out of Derek's grip like his body isn't instantly ready for them to be somewhere private right now. "How about you lead on, put those broad shoulders of yours to work, why don't you?"
Derek nods, his eyes still ringed red and his mouth set in a taut line. "Drinks," he says. "On it." Then he's spinning on his heel and shoving his way towards the bar, Stiles trailing along in his wake.
And if Stiles's eyes just happen to be firmly fixed on that ass, well who the hell can blame him?