[ Simple explanation or not, Derek might be... pretty sated by that answer. Even since being imPorted, he's fucked people he shouldn't have fucked entirely because he was in a shitty state of mind and wanted a quick high to keep himself distracted, and he's a fucking werewolf, drugs don't even work on him. He's wary to admit it's a relief to chalk this all up to an emotionless, drunken fumble in the dark, but - it kind of is? His dick has led Derek to making some pretty fucking awful decisions in his life, and it's much easier to overbearingly protect Tate from the same mistakes if he and Reggie aren't secretly seeing stars in each other's eyes and if Reggie doesn't like him enough to want to break his legs for turning him down. So... good. Great. Everything... worked out.
Reggie's starting to push back, and any distantly percolating thoughts of slapping him on the back, saying hey thanks, good talk, i think i've got what i wanted and bailing out the window are swept from his mind. He's arching his eyebrows and Derek's arching his back, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This piece of shit is trying to give him attitude? Oh, man. Okay. Let's drag this out, then. ]
Aw, Reg.
[ He looks at Reggie almost sympathetically, taking a slow step forward, cornering him tight against the wall. Derek puts his hands on Reggie's shoulders, dusting them off and fixing his jacket - quiet, invasive little gestures that close the distance between them completely without being strictly threatening. A subtle assertion that he's not afraid of putting his hands on him, if touch is what it will take to keep him quiet. ]
I'd hate to think you were that stupid.
[ His claws are retracted, his body now only as threatening as... well, as any other ridiculously heavily muscled athlete's with a chiseled jawline and huge arms who smells like a campfire and leather and has actually sort of killed more than one person with his bare hands before, I guess. He dusts Reggie's jacket down again and offers him a smile, bright and white and shit-eating, and when he makes eye contact, he keeps his palm spread open on Reggie's chest, holding him down against the wall. Part of being a werewolf is having super-strength - he's not using too much of that, but it's there, a flex of his forearm attempting to anchor Reggie in place, hopefully make him feel powerless to move. ]
I mean - as much as I'd like to say otherwise, I'm not the boss of you. If you want to talk to him, go ahead? Just as long as you realize I'd have to visit you again. Kiiinda think you wouldn't like it if I had to visit you again.
no subject
Reggie's starting to push back, and any distantly percolating thoughts of slapping him on the back, saying hey thanks, good talk, i think i've got what i wanted and bailing out the window are swept from his mind. He's arching his eyebrows and Derek's arching his back, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. This piece of shit is trying to give him attitude? Oh, man. Okay. Let's drag this out, then. ]
Aw, Reg.
[ He looks at Reggie almost sympathetically, taking a slow step forward, cornering him tight against the wall. Derek puts his hands on Reggie's shoulders, dusting them off and fixing his jacket - quiet, invasive little gestures that close the distance between them completely without being strictly threatening. A subtle assertion that he's not afraid of putting his hands on him, if touch is what it will take to keep him quiet. ]
I'd hate to think you were that stupid.
[ His claws are retracted, his body now only as threatening as... well, as any other ridiculously heavily muscled athlete's with a chiseled jawline and huge arms who smells like a campfire and leather and has actually sort of killed more than one person with his bare hands before, I guess. He dusts Reggie's jacket down again and offers him a smile, bright and white and shit-eating, and when he makes eye contact, he keeps his palm spread open on Reggie's chest, holding him down against the wall. Part of being a werewolf is having super-strength - he's not using too much of that, but it's there, a flex of his forearm attempting to anchor Reggie in place, hopefully make him feel powerless to move. ]
I mean - as much as I'd like to say otherwise, I'm not the boss of you. If you want to talk to him, go ahead? Just as long as you realize I'd have to visit you again. Kiiinda think you wouldn't like it if I had to visit you again.