Disclaimer: See initial chapter.
A/N: So, the Muse came online and this is what decided to be written, of everything else I've got in the works. I just want to write, so I'm not about to argue.
Free Reader Tip #10: You have no friends that are not pack. This is okay. Really. It's not insular, or controlling. It just is. And it's not all that bad. Honestly. It keeps the wolf happy, and what keeps the wolf happy keeps you happy. Trust me on this. You don't even want to go there.
Things could be worse. Stiles knows this as well as he knows that the scowl on Derek's face is not directed at him, though he's looking at Stiles, and, as far as scowls go, it's pretty intense. It is, in a round about way, directed at the boy sitting in the booth on the left of Stiles.
The booth's crowded with members from the team, and Stiles is sandwiched between the kid that Derek is not-scowling-scowling at, and Derek. Stiles is stuck between the proverbial rock and a very, very hard (ice cold, bordering on fire) place, what with the way that Derek's thumb is running along the inner seam of his jeans, a little too close to a certain part of his anatomy that, should it be activated, would make this whole gathering even more hot and uncomfortable than it already is.
The kid's name is Patrick, or Ronald, or maybe Barry. Something with a P, or maybe an S. Stiles can't quite remember what the kid's name is, he's a benchwarmer. An over-enthusiastic freshman. A touchy-feeling, over-enthusiastic freshman whose hands, and shoulder, and thigh brush against Stiles a little too often for it to be accidental.
The kid's face is flushed, and he's speaking animatedly about some move that Stiles apparently made on the field (he doesn't remember), and his eyes (they're brown, or hazel, or blue, Stiles doesn't really know) are lit up with something that might be hero worship. Stiles really hopes it isn't, catches Derek's hand in one of his own when the wolf's fingers start to curl in a fist.
Derek's sub audio growl is more than a little disconcerting, but no one else seems to realize what's happening, they're listening to Patrick-Barry-Ron-Sal? wax on about how awesome tonight's game was. He's giving some kind of play-by-play rendition where Stiles is somehow featuring in plays that he hadn't even been in. None of the others are paying any attention to the glowering, nearly growling friend that Stiles has brought along for their get together.
"When can we leave?" Derek leans in to whisper, voice taut, and there's just a touch of the growl that he is, thankfully, suppressing.
Stiles takes another bite of the slice of pizza that he's been attempting, for the past fifteen minutes, to eat. It's gone cold, and tastes like rubber. He's only had a single bite and a sip of soda, though Derek's inhaled three slices, and he's moved on to sneaking sips from Stiles' soda, because Derek's stomach is apparently a vacuum, and Stiles doesn't even want to think about how dry his throat is, or the picture of sex that Derek made when he'd had his lips wrapped around the straw, throat undulating as he sucked.
Derek leans in closer, reaching for Stiles' soda, thumb circling the danger zone, elbow jostling Stiles' ribs, and Stiles closes his eyes, holds his breath as he tries, and fails, to stifle a moan. He bites his lip, and scoots back into his seat in a vain attempt to put some distance between himself and Derek, shoves at Derek's hand, and, when that doesn't work, he inwardly groans, plasters a smile on his face, and makes up some kind of excuse for leaving early.
At least he hopes he does, because the next thing he remembers is sitting in the passenger's seat of Derek's car, bucking up into Derek's hand where it rubs at him, his erection straining against the confines of his jeans.
Let me know if you like. Thanks