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Blood on the rise, it's following me
Anyone who knows Stiles merely has to take one look at her to know that graceful is something she is decidedly not. Yeah, she gets injured a lot, and the sad part is, like seventy-five percent isn't even for supernatural reasons. Most of it comes from being an unfortunate klutz with the frightening ability to trip over every impediment she stumbles (har har) across, and the unfortunate habit of running into every sharp corner of every possible piece of furniture in her vicinity with any number of vulnerable body parts. To be honest, she kind of lucked out with the whole fiance with super-saliva-healing power, because it's really cut down on her overall band-aid usage.
So, she's got a lot of experience with watching Derek both figuratively and literally lick her wounds. What was it her dad always said? One's an incident, two's a coincidence, and three's a pattern? Hell, it didn't even take three instances to figure it out...that Derek kinda had like, a thing about blood, specifically hers. Because she's definitely not stupid, and she's certainly not blind, and Derek might think he's being subtle about it, but he's not.
He's really, really not.
It's not like he's a vampire or anything. The way he laps at her skin, the way his tongue lingers like it's searching for the taste of her, it doesn't feel like that kind of hunger. She's know what kind it is, can tell by the way he always touching her afterward with shockingly reverent fingers, dancing over her split open flesh in a way that isn't just for comfort or to heal. The way he always shivers, so imperceptible she only notices it because it's like the air shifts around him, vibrates, just a little.
Yeah, she knows what kind of hunger that is.
So in retrospect, she really shouldn't have been so surprised.
..
As Lydia had felt the need to tell literally every single person she knew about the status of Stiles's reproductive system, the entire pack now knew that she was firmly on team IUD. And thankfully she, despite her bad luck in literally every other aspect of her eighteen years of existence, had been blessed with the immense fortune of being one of the lucky twenty percent to not get her period while using one. Whatever, karma totally owed her anyway. So of all the things of which to become complacent, her persistent lack of a monthly bleed was not something she gave much thought about.
Until right now, of course, because right now she's sprawled out on the floor of her bathroom alternating between puking her lungs out and wishing for death, because what feels like the shit-weasel from Dreamcatcher (a movie Derek had not appreciated being forced to watch, to which Stiles had replied disdainfully, what, you don't like art?) was trying to eat its way out of her poor, poor uterus. Because apparently being free of the tyranny of aunt flow for two years meant she came back with a motherfucking vengeance, like she was John fucking Wick and Stiles had murdered her dog.
God, she'd thought they were bad before the whole IUD thing. That was the whole reason why she'd gotten it in the first place. Ever since she was ten years old, getting her period had felt like getting run over by a fucking Mack truck. She'd get migraines for days, hardly able to open her eyes, and cramps so bad she'd feel like she was throwing her entire guts up. Sometimes she'd even pass out from any unfortunate combo of either pain, blood loss, or just plain exhaustion. So thank god, she thinks, for Mrs.McCall, because while her dad was many things, willing to talk in frank terms about her gynecological health was just not one of them. And honestly, Stiles was super, duper fine with that. And her dad, he always tried at least, in any other way he could. He'd bring her hot water bottles, painkillers, even chocolate, as cliche as that certainly was, and he never once complained when she'd needed him to buy her supplies. So as far as single dads went, he definitely did okay.
This time though, he just brings her Derek, which she guesses counts as the not-quite-a-person person equivalent of all three of his usual go-to weapons. Still, Stiles looks and feels like death only slightly warmed up, so she's actually not too thrilled to see her disgustingly attractive werewolf mate at the moment. Not when her mouth tastes like something crawled in and died there.
“Your dad said you were sick.”
She can hear it already, that note of anxious concern in his voice, and it just makes her tired. “Go away,” Stiles pleads, covering her clammy face with even clammier hands. “You won't want to marry me if you see me like this.” Sure, that's not true and even she knows that, but she's feeling dramatic, not to mention just little bit vulnerable. And she doesn't mean it either. She doesn't want him to go, but of course he knows that, because he's crouching down next to her on the floor. Almost immediately the scent of him, achingly familiar by now, leather and sandalwood and pine, calms her. Why does he have to be so good at soothing her without even trying? It's not fair.
“What's not fair, baby?”
Huh, so that'd been out loud. Interesting, Stiles thinks glibly, and god, now he's stroking her hair. Granted it's not a very sexy moment. She's very sweaty. “I'm gross and you're perfect,” she manages to pout, and since he's there right now, right here in front of her, she just lets herself go limp and fall into his lap.
Why fight it?
…
Stiles whines and says something largely unintelligible, not that it matters really, because Derek's already on his knees and pulling her into the space between them. She must really be suffering, because she doesn't even bother trying to squirm away, just goes willingly.
Derek's eyes have been stinging since he walked in here and saw her, lying all pathetic and prone on the tiled floor. Her pain is a barrage of white dots exploding in his peripheral vision, making him wince. But it only takes him a second to sift through the scent of sweat and tears and sick until it hits his tongue almost as intensely as it hits his nose: the copper-rust taste of blood tinged with something slightly sweeter.
“Oh,” Derek says, and he opens his mouth, breathing her in as inconspicuously as he can manage so he doesn't just pop a claw or a fang right here in front of her. “You're...bleeding. That's why you're sick”
Stiles groans and covers her face, concealing the blush that colors her uncharacteristically sallow-looking cheeks . “I'm gonna die here of embarrassment because my fiance can smell my rotting uterine lining as it literally exits my body.”
Stiles isn't looking at him, so he knows she can't see the frown that falls across his face like a shadow. “I had four sisters, Stiles. It's not gross to me.”
It had been different with his sisters though, obviously. It hadn't quite smelt the same way Stiles smells to him now, which is, barring the vomit that's still lingering, almost criminally good. The wolf in him scratches, restless and feverish, at the barrier of his skin.
“I'm disgusting and everything is terrible.”
“Humans are so weird about blood,” Derek tuts, shaking his head. Stiles just groans again, and he feels her flinch and shudder in his lap, and the harsh glare of her pain flares white-hot in his skull again. “You're hurting. Let me help,” he says, grimacing, before running his palms over her bare legs. They're cold and clammy, too, and goose flesh erupts, prickling underneath his appraising hands.
Stiles just huffs but says nothing, so Derek knows she must really be in pain because she's shutting up instead of arguing with him for once. His grip on her tightens just enough so that she lets out a squeak, and then he shuts his eyes and focuses, feels all that hurt crawl through his nerves and onto his skin like spiders. It makes him recoil at the sting of it, and the sensation blisters hot in his arm before it burns out quick like a flash fire in a pan. He doesn't let go either, just lets it keep drawing, slow and steady, like an IV drip.
There's a beat before he feels Stiles's muscles unclench just a little, and she sighs. “That's less terrible. You can stay.”
“Good,” Derek says, drawing broad, flat circles with his palm over her quivering belly. He's not going to think about anything else but this, making her feel better. He's not, okay.
“Why're you stopping?” Stiles mumbles, burrowing farther into the seat of his lap. Derek blinks and sees that the black has leeched out of his veins, and he flexes his hand testily before putting it back flat against her abdomen. If he breathes slow and shallow enough, he can ignore it, how fucking good she smells. If he doesn't let himself taste it, he'll survive. He'll make it through without completely losing it.
“Sorry.”
“Just don't let go of my stomach,” she says into the broad plane of his chest. “Or I'll never touch your dick again.”
Derek chuckles against her hair, and opens his mouth to say the obvious, lie, but he shuts it with a click, doesn't bother, because Stiles is already asleep, snuffling warm breath into his shoulder.
While she's out, Derek does as she asks, careful not to pull away from her or stop with the pain draining. It makes it a little harder though, to clean up and get her into her bed, but he manages thanks to the whole superpowers thing. Stiles stirs when as he lays her down, arranges her in her nest of blankets and wipes the sweat off her forehead, face, and neck with a warm washcloth and careful, steady strokes of his only free hand.
“R'you gonna be okay?” she slurs, her own small hand splayed over his leg, her fingertips twitching some unfamiliar pattern against the bone of his knee.
“Me?” Derek asks, confused. He's not the one who spent the morning doubled over and hurling into the toilet.
“Yeah,” Stiles says, though it's muffled into the blanket she's got clenched in her other fist. “Cuz I'm bleeding and usually that makes you, y'know,” and he's pretty sure she's pantomiming claws and lets out what he thinks is a growl muffled into her pillow.
Derek cocks his head and blinks. “What?”
“Cuz there's a part of you,” Stiles giggles, but it comes out more like a hysterical snort as she rolls over just enough to grin at him lazily. “That thirsts for my blood.”
He's also pretty sure that Stiles is laughing at him. He might not understand half of what she says, but he can at least tell that much. “Is that a reference to something?”
“Yup,” Stiles says, her lips popping like she's chewing bubblegum, which isn't fair because the sight of her tongue always makes Derek go a little cross eyed. Her eyelids are starting to flutter closed again, and Derek is starting to panic because the casual, lighthearted way in which she's referring to something he is the opposite of proud of is kind of breaking his brain.
“I'm not a vampire,” Derek says desperately. “I don't want to like...eat you.”
“You kind of want to eat me,” Stiles says, grinning in spite of her sleepy, almost-closed eyes. “Just maybe not that way.”
“Stiles,” Derek says, and god, he'd be halfway out the window by now if he wasn't absolutely positive she'd murder him for letting go of her. She's the one who's seen through him from the beginning, so hindsight being what it is, he really fucking should have accounted for this.
“Derek,” she sing-songs, and then Stiles is hooking a hand in the collar of his shirt and yanking him down to the mattress, shuffling a little to make room for him next to her body, her sharp knees tucking immediately into his side. Not that she could actually force him to move, but he goes anyway, for her. “Just shut up and go to sleep. I promise to let you brood about this when we wake up.”
“But – “
“Shhh.”
…
Stiles sleeps, buoyed by the warm blanket of drugs, werewolf mojo, and Derek. When her eyes finally drift open again, it's dark, just the muted glow of the street lamp that always flickers on,off, on, off all night outside her window. Derek's arm is thrown over her stomach, and she is remarkably, mercifully pain free. At least she thinks so, because there isn't even that lingering head-under-water, bubble-brained feeling she always gets after a migraine finally subsides. Mostly she just feels that bone-heavy tired that's almost more mental than physical.
When her vision finally adjusts to the dim room, she almost has a heart attack, because Derek is staring right at her, not even blinking. “Jesus, Sourwolf, you realize you take years off my life when you do that.” He looks kind of grayed out and sick himself, or else Stiles is just imagining the shadows under his eyes that have suddenly appeared since this morning. “You didn't sleep at all, did you?”
Derek says nothing, but Stiles thinks he doesn't need to.
“You told me not to let go of you,” he finally says, although that only sounds like partially the truth. “You were in a lot of pain.”
“That doesn't mean you should kill yourself for my sake.” Of course it would never occur to Derek not to do that for somebody he cares about, so she can't really blame him for it.
Derek shrugs, but the meaning is clear. But I'd do it for you, if you asked.
Stiles sighs and it's with an embarrassing amount of effort and a number of very unsexy grunts that she wrestles her way out of the blankets so she can actually sit upright and be face to face with him. It's seems appropriate for the conversation they're about to have. “You can ask for things you want, too, you know.”
He just gives her that look again, the one where she thinks he can't decide whether he's more confused or mortified. It's the kind of look that makes her want to kiss the frown off his face and shake him until he realizes what a dumb idiot he is sometimes.
“Like – like the um...blood thing,” Stiles starts, carefully, and Derek's eyes dart away from her face, and he goes still like he's some skittish thing that'll bolt if she makes too sudden a move.
“It's not a thing, Stiles,” Derek says, and she can hear how tightly his teeth are clenching. “Just leave it alone.”
Stiles gives him a withering stare, because hello, has he met her? “I can tell it's not a thing because your eyebrows are so clearly communicating it.”
Derek growls, but Stiles isn't sure why he even bothers. All it does is make her stomach flip in that way that's just so...good. “You're impossible.”
“Maybe. But you should eat me out, anyway,” Stiles says, and then slams her mouth shut immediately, because she's almost a thousand percent sure she hadn't meant to say that out loud, at least, you know, not yet. Damn him and his...Derekness.
Derek makes a sound like someone has stepped on his lungs.
“Oh, god,” Stiles sputters, her hands flying up to her face to cover the blush that's absolutely lit her entire head on fire. “You don't even want to do that, and I'm a monster, I'm so sorry, Derek, just – “
“Stiles, shut the fuck up, please,” Derek says, and the growl that follows is a lot more threatening than the one that came before, so she actually stops and listens, a knot seizing in her throat like an impenetrable barrier trying to keep her from swallowing.
“M'sorry,” she murmurs again, her palms pressed firmly over her eyes, because if she can't see him, maybe he'll just go away, disappear right before her eyes. “I'll just be here making no noise and pretending I don't exist.” Also, she hopes he can ignore that pulsing in her cunt that she's got to squeeze her legs together to try to dissipate. She doesn't think she's doing a good job though, because she can hear Derek's breathing starting to go quick, deep. Fuck.
“Stiles,” Derek hisses, and then his big hands are grabbing her wrists and pulling them away from her face, and she hiccups and then laughs a little bit hysterically afterward. Maybe the drugs haven't entirely worn off yet, or Derek is in fact a much more potent drug than migraine medication.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you actually being serious right now?”
Stiles dares to open her eyes just a little bit, and just as she suspected, Derek's frowning at her in that way he does where it looks like he might bite off his own tongue if he's not careful. “As a grave,” she whispers, because god, she hates that look on his face, especially when it's got to do with her because she never means it, to cause him any pain, especially where she's concerned.
God, and he actually shudders, visibly, when he finally manages to open his mouth and answer her. And his voice sounds like straight sex when he does, and it goes right straight to her clit like hitting a fucking bulls-eye. “I've been wanting to put my mouth on you since I walked in here.”
Fuck. She whines but no other words seem to be able to find their way out, for once.
“I don't think I should though,” he says, sounding pained, but his actions don't necessarily match the words, because faster than she can follow, and he's suddenly looming over her, her legs pinned helplessly underneath his hips.
“Why not?” she whispers, her eyes wide and unblinking.
“Because,” he says, and then he's bending down, burrowing his nose into that place behind her ear and breathing in full, shuddering breaths of her. “I don't know if I'll be able to stop, if you ask me to.”
“Then I won't ask,” she says, gasps into his hair, her hands digging for handles in his shoulders, making him growl again.
“You're insane,” Derek says forcefully, but he's already crawling down her body at this point, before he literally rips her pajama shorts in half, yanking them down, and she almost sobs, hand to bible. And yep, that's her underwear and a dirty pad on the floor, and she should be so grossed out and so pissed at him because he obviously never learned wolfy manners, but there's really no time to be, because she can feel his hot breath against her thigh and she moans, unable to stop herself.
“So you keep saying.” Derek is nosing around her legs and her pubic hair, but he hasn't done anything other than just smell her. She knows there's dried blood crusted on her skin, she can feel it, but all he's doing is just scenting her. How is it fair that she's already lying here, dying, and he's just...waiting? Teasing? “Please do something, Derek,” she finally whimpers, “Or I'm going to puke or die.”
“Wouldn't want that,” he says softly, and then she feels it, just the tip of his tongue darting out to flicker over the meaty curve of her thigh, and she just about kicks him in the face by bucking up into the touch. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, before pressing a kiss right against her clit that makes her want to cry.
…
“Only for you,” Stiles gasps out, and all it does it stoke that fire in Derek that he can never seem to quell when he's with her. Derek used to hate fire, used to be scared of it, but with Stiles it's like something he can't control, can't beat back the spread even if he wanted to. Because it's like she knows how hard he's trying, to control himself, to tamp down those animal urges just so he can try to be as human as he can with her, she just doesn't care. It's like she actively wants him to not to be, human, that is (“I don't need you to be anything other than what you are,” is what she's told him a thousand times. He's pretty sure he'll need her to say it at least a thousand more before he finally believes it).
“Please shut up,” Derek grits, because that's the last thing he needs to hear right now when he feels lost enough already, and he hasn't even actually fucking tasted her yet, not really. God, the smell of her, the wolf in him is practically dizzy with blood-lust, wants to roll around and howl for her, already drunk on it. When he finally lets himself, laps carefully at the crease of her upper thigh, sampling the the flakes of cracked, dried red hidden there, it hits him like a blow to the head. Jesus. He hisses, and feels his fangs drop almost immediately. The points drag over the skin there, and Stiles sounds like she's swallowed her tongue and she's choking on it.
He freezes, feeling her tense underneath him. When he looks up, she's still got her eyes squeezed shut, and it looks like she's muttering something under her breath, but he can't quite seem to hear it. “If you're having some kind of existential crisis about this, we should really, probably stop.” That's about all she's going to get in terms of him pulling himself back. God, he hardly recognizes his own voice right now, husky with lust and hunger.
She whines. “It's not 'cuz I wanna stop. It's just..,” and she takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls her hands away like the very effort to do so is hurting her. “It's so hot, and I don't know what that means for me as like, a human being at this point...”
Derek's heart swells with such a ferocious and intense sense of adoration for her that it feels like it really might burst right here in his chest like some kind of busted open blood-and-guts pinata. “Means you're fucking perfect for me, baby,” he says, and she quivers beneath him like it's a call and response. He doesn't give her the chance to say anything else, because he buries his face in her cunt and licks a long, slow stroke into her with the flat of his tongue.
“Jesus fuck, Derek – “
All he can do is growl now, because the scent of her, musky sweat mixed with the hot, sweet tang of her blood, it's made his senses all cloudy to the point that even her heartbeat sounds sort of dim and far away. That's probably not a good thing (definitely not a good thing, the small voice of sanity still lingering prods at him). She's probably sensitive already just because she's actively bleeding still, but the animal part of him really doesn't care. The animal is what spurs him to lick into her hard, faster, rougher. He's not even focused on getting her off at this point, selfishly, just tasting her with insistent stabs of his tongue and sharp little nips of his teeth, slurping at her folds before pulling them into his mouth and sucking like he's worried he might waste a drop.
Ah, ah, ah, ah. All other words seem to have failed Stiles for a moment, at least, because she only seems to be capable of making those needy, desperate little sounds that drive him fucking wild on a normal day. Right now, it just makes him feel too hot and too big in his paper skin.
…
Derek hasn't stopped growling since he put his mouth on her. Funnily enough, Stiles is pretty sure she hasn't stopped screaming either. Bless the the understaffed Beacon Hills Police Department for needing her father for so many night shifts, because he might be more okay with Derek now, but begrudging acceptance can only get you so far. She's pretty sure he might actually shoot Derek if he walked in on something like this. Thankfully, right now, she only has the nosy neighbors to worry about, and if they haven't called the cops by now, they're aren't going to. And if it's anyone's fault she's a screamer, it's not hers – it's Derek's. Because it's just so good, and so fucking wrong, but hot – but so wrong, Jesus; if he stops she won't survive it, but if he keeps going, sucking on her clit like that, it's probably what's going to end up killing her anyway.
“Oh my god, shut up,” Derek growls, and that must be a record for him, she thinks, because that's got to be at least the fourth time in the last hour he's said that to her. Even for her, that's a lot.
Also, that monologue wasn't in her head?
“No it wasn't, so please stop fucking talking, or I'm going to gag you.”
Her knees knock and twitch in response to that, and the sandpaper roughness of his voice that always just destroys her, and then Derek's pulling that little nub of nerves into his mouth and she couldn't make actual words come out even if she wanted to. It's just incoherent babbling and moans as she lets the first wave of her orgasm crash over her, and then Derek's snarling against all that heat and she feels things leaking out of her, god, and the metallic, iron scent of it all is strong enough that even she can smell it.
And it only makes her want to die a little bit. Her hands unclench from the blankets and she covers her face again, panting, her fingernails curling fretfully over her mouth as she tries to keep herself from screaming too loud.
Then Derek does the unthinkable, stops, and she wants to fucking weep. “Wha –”
“Don't fucking cover your mouth again, or you're gonna regret it.” He doesn't seem to mind the sounds, it appears. It's the words he's got a problem with. It's Derek's first real, serious threat of the night, and he really means it, she can hear it in his voice. For the first time in a while, her eyes open, slowly, and all she can see in front of her is red. The devil-red of his eyes, and, fuck, the wet streaks of crimson that's all her, her blood and her juices coating his lips and smeared into his cheeks like war paint, drops of it clinging to his beard like rain.
Stiles really is going to die and it's all his fault.
“M'sorry,” she squeaks, and Derek eyes her suspiciously for a moment, rubbing her own cum into her thighs like he's writing some kind of secret message for himself to find later. When her leg jumps off the bed, he digs his nails into the fleshy part and slams it down with a forceful noise that sounds a lot like a reprimand. The sting of it zings up and down her spine before settling heavy and hot in her belly.
She's only a little bit fucked up, apparently.
…
It hadn't been his intention to get so rough with her, but he shouldn't be so surprised. It's like she's got a direct line to that part of him, the wolf, and she can pull that string, make him dance, whenever she wants and he can't seem to stop her, not ever. And the worst part is he never seems to want to.
And god, the talking just makes it so much worse. Stiles's fucking mouth. Because the things she says to him, all rapid-fire-stream-of-consciousness, are so desperate and filthy and she doesn't even realize it, that she's literally killing him.
Is it good? Am I being good for you? I wanna be. Please don't stop, Derek. I'll shut up, I'll be good. Please, baby, please, please, please... (and it was about here that Derek nearly has a stroke and has to pull away so fast he's pretty sure he feels his brain knock against his skull, just so he doesn't sink his fangs into her hip right there, right now).
Clearly it's a moral quandary he has yet to figure out how to solve.
“Baby, what'd I say?” he manages to ground out, sitting back on his heels for a moment and scowling at her. She quivers and looks away from him, biting so hard at her lip that it turns white under her teeth, another thing that drives him up the fucking wall. He just watches her for a moment, trying to calm his own thundering heartbeat, slow the pounding in his chest. Fuck. The wolf bites like it's trying to chew its way out of his ribs, with frenzied, wild snaps of its jaws. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Stiles squirms under his gaze, somehow spreading her legs even wider for him, looking up him through those fluttering lashes of hers. Derek shuts his eyes and groans, but it's like she's yanking him forward again, with her eyes, with her hands, with her stupid, beautiful mouth. He slides his hands back up, and she keens, sharp and broken, when his fingers find her folds soaked in all that slick and heat. He spreads her, and he can feel that low, continuous growl rumble in his chest like a purr. He pulls away to suck at the pink staining his fingers, and Stiles watches him curiously with darkened, lust-filled eyes.
“What's it taste like?”
Derek rolls his eyes. Stiles is still staring at him like she's waiting for him to move, but she still can't blink fast enough to follow him as he surges forward and slams a palm over her mouth. She gasps, but Derek can smell the way her arousal flares like flash-paper, so he doesn't let go, just flashes his eyes at her right back. “Ripe. That's what you taste like.”
Like he's drinking from the fucking fountain of life, that's what it tastes like. Like the promise of it, what could be. Like she's ripe and ready just for him. It's disgustingly primal and simple-minded, and he's not proud of it, but hell, he seems to have abandoned any sense of shame when it came to Stiles, so, so many already-crossed lines ago.
…
Derek's palm is flat against her mouth, just hard enough to make her breath catch and her heart beat just a little bit faster, a tad unsteady in her chest. Heat flares like he's fucked her with it, and she feels herself clench down on nothing, and she feels cheated, and shocked by the bolt of despair that discovery leaves her with.
“Feeling empty, baby?” Derek asks, his lips curved into a smirk stretched over gleaming fangs. The way he does, like he knows the answer, she's struck with the sudden, all-consuming fear that he's going to tease her, leave her like this.
No talking. She'll be good and that'll show him. She nods, bucks her hips pointedly. Derek's expression softens a little, and Stiles sighs, because thank god. Derek uses the hand that's not currently keeping her quiet and brushes his thumb over her clit, slow and steady circles that tear a moan out of her throat that she can't bite back. He growls approvingly, and then he's spearing her with two fingers, scissoring and stretching her wide and she doesn't just moan, she shrieks. Because she's soaked with more than just cum, and the slide is almost criminally easy, it's enough to practically knock her out when he adds a third when she adjusts, only just barely.
He curls them inside her, like he's got a map right to her G-spot, and the too-much-not-enough graze against that place inside and he may as well have shot her right into orbit, because she's fairly certain she leaves her body when she hears that obscene squelch, when he pistons in and out of her the same way he likes to hold her down and fuck her.
There's tears prickling at the corner of her eyes, and she can feel them get hot, the way they itch, and she wants to shut them but she doesn't want to miss it. There's just something in the way that he looks at her when she's coming, like he's seeing the face of god and it's like her pussy's the god damn burning bush or something. Like he's having some kind of religious experience.
The shaking finally stops, and her belly cramps and she reflexively curls her legs into her abdomen, whimpering softly. Derek's fingers slide out of her, and she's not sure why, but she feels inexplicably shattered by that fact, by the sudden emptiness.
“Don't cry, baby, I'm right here.”
“M'not,” Stiles slurs, but she tastes salt and then Derek's licking at the tear tracks drying tacky on her cheekbones and she realizes he's right.
“Shhh,” Derek says, and the softness has bled back into his voice, and he's there suddenly, so close and nuzzling into her throat, and he hasn't kissed her yet at all and it's suddenly the thing she wants most. “It's okay...”
Of course it's okay, Stiles thinks, and she rubs her cheek into his beard and god, she should care more that those are her juices she feels, and holy fuck, tastes, when her mouth finally finds his and all she does it breathe against him like the only way she can get air is from his lungs, not hers.
He just holds her like that for a long time, threading careful fingers in the strands of her hair, keeping his mouth at her throat like he's tracking her pulse and her breathing with his teeth and his tongue and maybe he is, it wouldn't surprise her. After awhile, she can finally speak again, her hand resting on his stomach, the ripples in his abdomen. He shivers a little, but is otherwise calm.
“What about you?
“That's already been taken care of, sweetheart.”
Stiles blinks at him, dumbly.
“I haven't come in my pants since I was seventeen, so thanks for that.”
Stiles finds herself frowning, and Derek's eyebrow disappears into his hair. “I missed it,” she says.
Derek laughs and Stiles wants to box up that sound and carry it with her everywhere, god. “Are you seriously pouting because you didn't get to watch?”
Stiles nods, because doesn't he realize he's beautiful? Of course she's mad she missed it.
“You,” Derek says, catching her lip between his teeth, “truly are impossible.”
There are worse things to be, she supposes, leaning into the kiss, giggling a little when Derek smiles and his teeth bump clumsily against hers.
She'll be impossible, that's just fine. Because Derek, he really, really doesn't seem to mind.