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I'll eat you up (I love you so)
“Why do I have to do this, again?”
“Because Lydia’s mad at Jackson and she’s asserting her independence. Er, well, dominance, really,” Allison says, chuckling.
“Yeah, yeah, I understand that, but why do I have to do this?”
Allison sighs and shakes her head, mumbling something about sisterhood and support and other garbage that Stiles really doesn’t think is enough incentive for her to be allowing someone to attack her with an eyelash curler like this. “It’ll be fun, Stiles. Remember fun?”
Stiles has it on good authority that Girls' Night Out at The Jungle would most likely not be fun. Not for her especially, because hello, haven’t they seen her dance? Plus, all those people (and none of them Derek, she thinks, pouting), and terrible music, and oh yeah, that whole thing where the last time she’d gone to the Jungle she’d almost gotten murdered by a lizard monster. No thank you. “I know what fun is, and that definitely is not it,” Stiles grouses, trying to duck away from the curling iron Allison is attempting to accost her with.
“Yeah, but we’re talking about the type of fun that doesn’t involve Derek’s dick,” Erica says from where she’s sprawled out lazily on Lydia’s bed, flipping through fashion magazines with all the bored elegance of a French courtesan.
And that might be a little bit fair, Stiles thinks. They were bad enough before, even Stiles will admit that, but since Derek had claimed her, it’s like they haven’t been able to come up for air. But who could blame her, honestly, with a fiance that... that hot? “I have other hobbies besides my fiance’s dick,” Stiles mutters, but she knows she doesn’t sound all that convincing. Even though it is true, it’s just...well, let’s just say she’s been of a singular focus lately.
“You know, we could seriously expand your wardrobe options here if you didn’t let Derek practically maul you on a daily basis,” Lydia sniffs from the closet where she’s been mulling over options for Stiles to wear. “I didn’t think you’d need me to tell you that love bites, Stiles, are tacky .”
Stiles just rolls her eyes. Even though Lydia’s with Jackson, Stiles isn’t surprised the girl doesn’t get it. It’s just...it’s different for Derek and her. It just is. “I don’t want to cover them. I don’t care what anybody thinks. I like them.”
Lydia sighs, put-upon, but eventually, she finds something that apparently doesn’t offend her fashion sensibilities too badly. It’s a dress, black, that goes to Stiles’s mid-thigh, with buttons all up and down the front, a square neck, and long sleeves that tied around her wrists with shiny black ribbon. And honestly, Stiles thinks, surveying herself apprehensively in Lydia’s full-length mirror, it could be a lot worse. Derek had actually managed to show a sliver of restraint the past few days, and she was largely free of marks, visible ones at least, with the exception of a few small, scattered bruises on her shoulders, and that ever-present bite mark gleaming white against her collarbones. Sure, there were the ones he especially liked leaving high up on the inside of her thighs, but if somebody gets up close and personal enough to see those, she figures she’s got bigger problems.
Stiles had been unwilling to compromise on the shoes though because she doesn’t have a death wish and can barely walk as it is, so in her opinion, heels were definitely out of the question. The sight of Stiles’s scuffed up converse sneakers paired with her fancy dress had apparently upset Lydia enough to make her storm off, muttering angrily under her breath, and Erica had been tasked with talking her off the ledge while Allison finished getting ready. Better to send the person with healing abilities, Stiles thinks, considering Lydia’s talon-like nails. Safer that way.
“Man, she really has gone off the deep end,” Stiles mutters, tugging at her sleeve and resisting the urge to wipe off the eyeliner Allison had just spent the last ten minutes painstakingly applying. Because Stiles being told not to touch her face only made her want to do exactly that.
“Jackson’s having some trouble with the fact that Lydia’s leaving soon for MIT. He’s got it in his head she’s going to cheat on him,” Allison says, slightly muffled as she tugs her own dress over her head.
“Maybe he should worry,” Stiles says churlishly. “Lydia’s way too good for him. She could find someone a thousand times better. And smarter, and better looking, and nicer...”
It’s a joke, mostly.
Allison smirks. “You know, as much as they fight, they are kind of perfect for each other, though. You gotta admit it.”
It was annoyingly true, Stiles thinks, squirming in her seat and briefly considering sitting on her hands to keep from messing with her hair, too. “So, what then? She’s planning on making him jealous or something?”
Allison grimaces. “She’s trying to drive him crazy, I think. Get other peoples’ scents all over her, I guess, since that’s kind of what he’s being all crazy about.”
Ouch, Stiles thinks. Lydia would know exactly how to twist the knife in like that. Which explained why most of the werewolves were scared of her. He might never admit it, but Stiles knows even Derek is intimidated by her. “Wow. That’s brutal.”
“I know, right?” Allison says, shaking her head. And then Stiles watches, amused, as the other girl tries and fails to be subtle about eyeing Derek’s mark on her neck. When she finally catches Stiles’s gaze on accident, she turns bright red, caught. “Did it -- um, did that hurt?”
It doesn’t sound like the question Allison actually wants to ask, but Stiles isn’t going to press it. Things with Scott are better, but she’s pretty sure Allison might still be feeling kind of squirrely about the whole accidentally making Scott think Derek’s hurting Stiles thing, so she isn’t going to make it any weirder for her. “No, well yes, in a good way, if you know what I mean?” Honestly, she’s not sure who’s blushing more between them at this point, so no reason to be subtle.
Allison’s brows are furrowed and she opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, but she doesn’t get the chance because Erica comes barreling back into the room with Lydia on her heels.
“Let’s go, sluts!” the blonde werewolf crows, pumping her fist in the air with a frightening amount of enthusiasm.
Allison and Stiles and Lydia all exchange dubious looks.
“This is going to be the opposite of fun, and I literally can’t wait to say I told you so when this is all over,” Stiles grumbles over her shoulder to Lydia, letting Erica drag her by the arm out to the car.
The Jungle is packed, and Stiles has only been here for approximately forty-five seconds and she already wants to find the nearest exit. Unfortunately, Lydia had anticipated she might try to escape, so as soon as they’d walked in here, she’d taken Stiles’s keys before disappearing into the throng of people with Allison trailing dutifully behind her.
“But I promised to be the designated driver,” Stiles whines, already wincing from the bass thundering in her ears and pulsing so loudly she can feel it shaking the floor underneath her feet. “Why did she have to take my keys? What if I have to --”
“What if you have to what, run on home to go have sex with our grumpy alpha?” Erica asks, eyebrow raised in a frighteningly impressive impression of her aforementioned grumpy werewolf fiance.
Stiles wonders, honestly, how Erica could even stand being in a place like this. With the bright lights and flashing neon, that overwhelming mix of strangers' scents, stale beer, sweat, and cigarette smoke. Stiles is human and even she’s overwhelmed. Then again, she thinks, surveying Erica’s enthusiastic grin, maybe that’s why she likes it. Derek would be ready to climb the fucking walls if he were stuck in here “That’s not what I--”
“Lie,” Erica says, sounding bored.
“I didn’t even say anything,” Stiles retorts.
“You definitely didn’t need to,” Erica answers, “because we can all smell what you two get up to literally all the time. But don’t bother, because Derek’s busy.”
At that, Stiles is the one arching an eyebrow suspiciously. Of course she's suspicious if Erica has anything to do with it. “Busy doing what?"
Erica smiles, but it’s absolutely devilish. “Derek told Boyd to tell everyone they were having boy’s night, but it’s actually -- “
“Training?”
Erica laughs, nodding. “Training.”
Well good, Stiles thinks, at least Derek’s night is going to be just as frustrating as hers because he'll be trying to wrangle his betas into actually learning something, which experience proved happened pretty much never.
And Stiles really wishes these werewolves would use their words instead of dragging her around all the time, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in fighting it now. Not like she can go anywhere, so she just lets Erica corral her onto the dance floor where they get swallowed up by the throbbing mass of partiers. Something to pass the time until she can see Derek again.
Not that she’s counting down the hours or anything because that would be pathetic.
Totally and completely pathetic.
…
“This is not what I had in mind when Boyd told us we were having boy’s night,” Isaac says, sounding slightly out of breath, which would make sense considering Derek just threw him nearly a hundred feet across the forest floor. “I’m not having fun.”
“You’re not supposed to be having fun,” Derek growls, “you’re supposed to be learning something, you know, so you guys don’t die next time hunters decide to come to town.” Or any number of other crazy supernatural shit that seems hellbent on killing them all on a monthly, if not weekly, basis. So far, he’s just been standing here letting them come at him, but it really hasn’t gone all that well. They’re sloppy and unfocused and he’s pretty sure it’s mostly his fault since he’s supposed to be the alpha here, so maybe he shouldn’t be too hard on them. Still, so far Boyd and Scott are the only ones who’ve managed to knock him off his feet and that’s mostly because Boyd is built like a tank and Scott’s probably just happy to have the excuse to hit him.
“I was promised pizza,” Isaac says, flinching when Jackson’s back hits the trunk of the tree right next to him, nearly cracking it in half, “not concussions and broken bones.”
“My heart is fucking breaking for you,” Jackson grits, stumbling to his feet and brushing dirt off of his t-shirt with clear distaste.
“Shut up. This is all your fault anyway, dickwad,” Scott complains. “If you weren’t such a jackass to Lydia, we could have all gone out. Boyd could be with Erica, and I could be with Allison, and Derek could be with -- “ At that, Scott trails off, clearly attempting to suppress a shudder. Derek just rolls his eyes.
“Why don’t the girls have to do this, too?” Isaac asks petulantly, dodging Jackson’s attempt to sucker-punch him in the gut.
“Because the girls fight better than you,” Derek answers tonelessly (and truthfully). Then he opens his mouth to add that he absolutely would never ever, ever choose to go to The Jungle, possibly not even for Stiles (lie), but he gets cut off by Boyd's body slamming him into the grass. At least one of them is taking this semi-seriously, Derek thinks, as he gets himself upright, grunting as he shoves his shoulder back into place (ignoring the horrified look on Scott's face). He knew there was more than one reason why Boyd was his favorite. After Stiles, obviously.
Stiles . They were joined at the hip before the claiming bite, but really it had calmed down some, their incessant need to touch, be close. Calmed down, Derek thinks, but not completely gone. It’s stupid, he knows it is, but it still doesn’t stop him from missing her when she’s not around. Feeling the lack of her the way an amputee feels a phantom limb, he imagines. An itch he can’t scratch until she’s standing right in front of him.
“Ugh gross, dude,” somebody says from behind him. Jackson, he thinks. “We can all smell that, you know.”
“You can smell that, but none of you could tell Boyd was lying to you all to get you to come here?” Derek asks through clenched teeth. They’ve only been at this for a couple of hours and Derek already wants to blow his brains out. Teenagers.
Nobody answers him, but Derek’s instincts prickle, make the hair on the back of his head stand to attention, and before Isaac and Scott can even touch him, flying through the air in attempt to double-team him, he’s got them pinned to the floor, claws digging into their chests with his eyes blazing red and his fangs bared in a snarl.
“I really thought you’d be nicer, considering you two have been non-stop boning for like, months ,” Isaac says, wiping blood from his mouth from a cut that’s already healed, letting Scott pull him to his feet.
Derek groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting a migraine. “If I order pizza, will you all please promise, for the love of God, to shut up for at least five minutes?”
“While we’re eating? Probably. But,” Isaac says with a satisfied smirk, “no promises.”
At the loft, Derek goes off to clean up while the rest of the pack descends upon the recently arrived food (enough to feed a small army, or maybe just a few teenage werewolves). Since training seemed like a wash for the night anyway, he’s not surprised that when he comes out of his bedroom, they’re all sprawled across the furniture in the living room playing some kind of annoyingly beepy video game on the obscenely large flatscreen Stiles had insisted he buy. For pack bonding or something, she’d claimed, but Derek knows it was mostly just because she wanted to force him to watch Star Wars in high definition.
“Are you guys drinking my beer?” Derek asks, arms crossed as he surveys the three out of the four wolves in front of him (but not Boyd, of course) fumbling with the bottles like they’re actually attempting to hide them from his view.
“Um, no?” Isaac says, which only makes Boyd groan and hide his face in his hands like he too is thinking exactly what Derek is, which is something along the line of morons.
In a blur of movement, Derek’s got all three bottles, leaving three pouting wolves in front of him.
“We can’t even feel anything from them,” Jackson says haughtily, “so why does it even matter?”
Derek pretends to think about this, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “You know, you’re right...”
Isaac’s eyes go wide. “Wait, really?”
“No,” Derek snaps, draining one of the beers pointedly in front of them, “try again in two years, assholes. Stiles has sodas in the fridge. You can have those.”
And really, Derek should have anticipated they were up to something considering how shockingly easy it had been to settle that argument. Any time they agree with him is suspicious, so hindsight being what it is, he really should have noticed Isaac’s devious grin when Derek had drained that beer in front of him. Instead, it’s only a few minutes of Derek standing there, leaning against the kitchen island, that he starts to feel it. He’s never been drunk or high because he can’t be, usually, but there’s a distinct lack of control of his body that he starts to become increasingly aware of. Then everything starts to go a bit shimmery, and he feels his eyes shift, unbidden, and suddenly everything is too enhanced, hyper-detailed, and he can’t figure out how to turn it off no matter how many times he blinks or shakes his head.
He opens his mouth to try to talk, but his tongue has gone fat and useless in his mouth. So while he means to say, “What the fuck have you fuckwads done to me?” all he really manages is Isaac’s name in the form of a curse, and a gurgling snarl cut off by his sudden inability to stay standing. Then he doesn’t know anything else because he’s pretty sure he passes out.
Maybe not completely, because while he can’t quite open his eyes yet, his ears appear to be working fine, because there’s a cacophony of noise to suddenly sort through. The typical stuff he can normally block out -- the traffic from outside, the ceaseless whir of the air conditioning unit, the humming of the ice machine in his fridge, the noisy tenants in the apartment building across the street. And then there’s all the yelling:
“Dude, I think you killed him.”
“Oh my god, you killed our alpha.”
“He’s not dead. I can hear him breathing. What did you do to him, Isaac?”
“Why does everyone always assume it was me?”
“Because it’s always you. Or Erica, but she’s not here, so it’s definitely you.”
Derek finally manages to open his eyes and move, just a little bit, wincing as the bright lights overhead seem to pierce right through his retinas. His limbs feel too heavy, like he’s trying to walk wearing water-logged clothes. Everything just feels slightly wrong, and it’s making him feel crazy. He’s not crazy, is he? “Which one of you,” he finally manages to grit, a bit garbled through the fangs he can’t seem to keep sheathed in his gums at the moment, “did this to me?”
“Um,” says one of them. Isaac , he thinks. “Brett told me it was just herbal. Like weed. You know...just, for werewolves. I just thought he could, you know, stand to loosen up a bit. Live a little. Anyway, it was supposed to be for me, so shouldn’t I be the one who’s pissed? ”
“M’gonnakillyou,” Derek growls, but the words come out slurred, and he can’t quite manage to get himself to move fast enough to back up the threat.
“Oh shit,” Isaac says, panicked.
“I wouldn’t worry so much about him,” Boyd says, shaking his head. “I’d worry more about Stiles at this point. When she finds out what you did to him, she’s going to be the one to actually murder you.”
And he’s not sure why and he’s not sure how, but all of a sudden when Derek hears that, Stiles, pretty much everything else falls away. The wolf in him stirs and sniffs the air hungrily. Mate. Stiles . Need . That’s all he can think and for some reason that voice that’s always just there, reining him in, keeping him as close to human as he, a non-human, can be -- it’s gone. Instead, it’s just the image of her face that’s practically seared into his brain, and her scent swirling around him, in him. Her and need and have and take .
But most of all: want.
It’s not like a switch flips or anything, or if it is, he’s not aware of it, but suddenly he finds he doesn’t care about anything else but finding her. Even in this state, the wolf recognizes pack, so the four teens’ attempts to stop him from leaving aren’t seen as anything close to a threat -- more like a mere annoyance, and he treats them as such. When Scott grips him by the arm and tries to pull him back, Derek grunts and shakes him off, sending the younger boy sailing across the room where he hits the wall with a thud, plaster dust raining down from the ceiling like snow onto his head. Jackson doesn’t fare much better, and he takes a hit to the chest that knocks him right onto his back. Isaac and Boyd don't even bother to try, baring their throats in submission when Derek stalks by them and out the door without even looking back.
“At least we can guess where he’s going,” Scott wheezes, still obviously trying to catch the breath that was knocked right out of him.
“If we take the Camaro we might just catch him,” Boyd says, grabbing Derek’s keys off the counter. “Because there’s no way we're going to be able to in my truck.”
“This is so very not good,” Isaac says, covering his face with his hands.
“Oh, really?” Jackson sneers, rolling his eyes. “What gave you that idea, jackass?”
…
Okay, okay. So maybe she’s having a little fun. Stiles isn’t sure she’d ever outright say it (she can already imagine the self-satisfied smirk on Lydia’s face if she did), but there is apparently something to be said about losing yourself for a while. And that, well, it’s easy to do it here with the relentless pulse and thrum of the music moving through her, the swirling blink of neon lights flickering above her head, around her. The press of bodies caging her in. And lord knows she’d never, ever call herself a good dancer (probably not even a decent one), but nobody here seems to notice or care since they’re all doing the same thing, albeit with the added lubrication of a little, or a lot, of liquid courage.
Dancing like this, with Erica, just for the sake of it, for no one else but themselves, it’s freeing, delightfully uncomplicated in a way that everything else in her life, for the most part, just isn’t. Derek isn’t there, yeah, so that’s a major point against, but at least when she’s lost in the pulse of lights and music and bodies, she’s not thinking. And that’s something that almost never happens. The only time it ever really does is when she’s with Derek and even then, they both know what it really takes to get that to happen. Which is something she should not be thinking about right now, because Erica, and stupid Girls' Night. No, she definitely should not be thinking about any of that. Not how good it would feel to be on her knees for him right now, how it would feel if his hands were in her hair, yanking, pulling--
“Oh my god, gross! First of all, I still don’t understand how you turned out to be the slutty one out of all of us,” Erica yells, still dancing wildly in circles, while Stiles looks on, bemused, “and second of all, he’s not even he--” Then she stops, tossing her white-blond hair overhead and rolling her eyes. “--never mind, he’s here.”
Stiles swears she actually hears the noise of a record scratch. “Werewolf says what?”
Erica points toward one of the exits and Stiles’s eyes follow the gesture. It only takes a second, because she’d recognize her wolf anywhere, even lost in a mass of people like she is now. It’s like she can feel him, like he’s there already, slipped under her skin, leaving her whole body humming for him just because he’s close.
“Um, I guess I better -- “ Stiles murmurs, her words breaking off when Erica shoves her in Derek’s direction with a far-too-knowing grin. And even though it takes a while to fight her way through the crowd to reach him, it’s like she can feel his eyes on her, drawing her in. Like she couldn’t fight it, the pull, even if she wanted to. But that begs the question, why would she want to?
Derek doesn’t give her the chance to say anything, not even a hello. When she reaches him, he’s tucked into a dark corner near the exit. He doesn’t speak, just simply grabs her by the hip and pulls her to him. Stiles doesn’t fight him of course, why would she, but she is still a little surprised how roughly he puts his hands on her (not that she minds) in front of all these people. When she feels his teeth scrape that ticklish patch of skin underneath her jaw, she whines. “What are you doing here? Where are the guys?”
“Too many questions,” is all Derek says, grunting it against her throat, worrying at her pulse point with teasing nips. Stiles just shivers in response when his stubble scrapes against her sensitive skin, her mouth falling open when he growls against her neck.
“That,” she gasps when he bites down hard enough to bruise, her hands tightening their already iron-clad grip on his arm, “was only two questions.”
“Wanted to see you,” he rumbles and then Stiles can’t respond because Derek’s lips are on hers, his tongue in her mouth, which normally would thrill her but for some reason, this time gives her pause. It's something in the way Derek’s voice sounds -- gruff, monosyllabic (more so than usual, that is), edged with something, some kind of hunger she can’t place.
“Are you okay?” Stiles asks, finally, when Derek pulls back enough for her to catch a much-needed breath.
Derek, of course, remains silent other than another frustratingly vague noise he presses against the crown of her head before attempting to catch her by the mouth again.
Stiles is quick though, and she turns her head to the side at the last second, so all she feels is scruff against her jaw again. Derek growls, clearly irritated, but it’s then she finally gets the chance to pull her head out of the damn clouds and think straight, just for a second. This allows her to notice a couple of things that could definitely be classified as odd, the first being that when she glances down, she sees that Derek’s feet are completely bare, like he’d just decided to walk right out of the house without even taking the time to put on shoes. “Derek,” Stiles prompts gently, “why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
She’s expecting an answer, but all she gets is another noncommittal grunt before Derek attempts to bury his face back into her collarbone again. Stiles sighs, irritated, and tugs on his hair so maybe he’ll actually look at her. Which brings her to the second odd thing -- Derek’s eyes are blazing red, which wouldn’t be strange if not for the fact that they’re in a completely public place and the wolf is making absolutely no efforts to be coy about it. And if she’s not mistaken, she’s pretty sure she sees the hint of fangs poking out from his bottom lip.
“ Derek,” she hisses, “not that I don’t enjoy seeing you all wolfed out and grrr and stuff, because you know I do, but we’re in a building literally full of people, and this is like the opposite of stealth and -- “
“Too much talking,” Derek grits out, and Stiles can’t help the reflexive shiver that runs down her back because she can hear it in his voice, the wolf, which for whatever reason appears to be out in full, unmitigated force tonight. Then Derek’s teeth are back, searching for a foothold in that tendon along her neck again, and Stiles balks, squirming in his hands. Her movements don’t appear to deter him, because Derek simply tightens his grip on her hips, forcing her to be still, and she startles when she feels the pinpricks of his claws poking through the thin silk of her dress.
“What’s wrong with you?” Stiles asks. “You’re not -- oh god, you’re not like, hurt or shot or being chased by hunters or something right? You’re not, like, dying, and this is some weird, fucked up, incredibly sexually-charged goodbye? Because if you die, I swear to god that I will literally bring you back just so I can kill you myself, Sourwolf.” She’s babbling, Stiles knows she is, but talking is all she seems to have the power to do at the moment, caught in the incredibly alluring trap of Derek’s arms like steel cables wrapped around her slender frame.
“Wanted to see you,” is all Derek says again, and Stiles grumbles because that’s all he’s been saying since he got here, and it’s not an answer, okay? Not a good one, anyway.
“That’s still not a --” Stiles starts to say, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly they aren’t alone in that dark corner anymore. Because suddenly Scott, Jackson, Boyd, and Isaac are just there. Staring at her .
“He hasn’t killed anyone, has he?” Isaac asks earnestly, blue eyes flickering anxiously between the two of them.
Stiles raises her eyebrow, taking in Isaac’s guilty-as-hell expression. All Derek does is growl warningly when the other boys attempt to move closer.
“What the fuck did you guys do?”
…
“Jeez, you’re right. Look at his eyes -- he really is fucking blasted, isn’t he?”
“And whose fault is that exactly, Isaac?”
“I already told you it was an accident! A prank! A moment of whimsy!”
“More like a moment of dumbassery.”
“Hey!”
Derek has barely been following what’s going on, more out of disinterest and boredom than any confusion as to what was actually happening. So far, it had been a lot of yelling, mostly on Stiles’s part. The upside of that being he gets to appreciate that pretty pink blush on her cheeks, the way her bottom lip is all red and swollen from biting at it angrily. Mostly it just makes him wish he was the one biting it. Biting her. Touching her. Yes, that’s a good idea, his lizard brain whispers at him. And just like before, he’s unable to fight the urge. Or maybe he just doesn’t care to -- Derek can’t seem to tell the difference anymore.
“Stop that,” Stiles says huffily, swatting Derek’s searching fingers away from her face where he’s been valiantly trying to get his hands on her and failing. He growls, irritated, but Stiles only rolls her eyes at him.
Pretty eyes, the voice in his head, the one that’s sounding more and more wolf-like with every passing moment, growls too. Pretty mate . He says nothing -- words seem somehow too difficult and too easy to say at the same time, whatever the fuck that means.
Instead, he simply edges closer, ignoring Stiles’s grunt of annoyance (she’s not so annoyed that he can’t smell her, how she ripens for him when he leans in close to nuzzle at her jaw). An apology, sort of.
Stiles swats at him again, and he briefly considers nipping at the offending hand but decides against it, for now, he thinks grumpily.
“What if he freaks out? What if he loses control? I mean, more than, you know, this, ” Stiles says, motioning exasperatedly and still apparently doing her best to wriggle out of the wolf’s grasp, much to his chagrin.“You can’t just give high strung people like Derek drugs, Isaac. Especially without them knowing about it!”
And yeah, Derek might not be listening all that well in general currently, but he most definitely heard that . “I’m not high strung,” he says automatically, frowning. Although after a moment, he pauses and breaks out into a hysterical sort of laugh, not even sure why really until he hears it in his own ears: the unsteady beating of his heart. “Wow, that was a lie.”
“Oh my god,” Jackson says, disgusted, “Did he just lie-detect himself?”
“Is this what it’s like to not care about stuff?” Derek asks offhandedly, peering over Stiles’s shoulder at his pack’s bemused expressions. “Because I can understand why people do shit like this if this is what that feels like.”
Stiles sighs again and pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s fighting off the biggest migraine in the world. “I’m going to take Nietzsche here home before he does something stupid, or really before I do something stupid,” she adds fiercely, glaring at Isaac who at some point had taken cover behind Erica and Boyd, “like murder you.”
Home, Derek thinks contentedly, unable to stop himself from rumbling happily at the thought. Yes, he would take his mate home and leave her so well-fucked and cared for that she wouldn’t ever want to leave his side again. Yes, the wolf in him agrees, this is a solid plan. A good plan. “When we’re home, I can fuck you and feed you, and then tomorrow I’ll kill Isaac for you,” he murmurs, leaning down to mouth at the sliver of pale shoulder he can reach with his tongue. He’s mostly kidding about the last part, he’s pretty sure.
…
“Um, can we please stop joking about killing me?” Isaac asks shrilly from behind Erica’s mane of untamed curls.
“Oh, for the love of god,” Stiles groans, covering her face with her hands to hide her blood-red cheeks. “Boyd, can you please make sure everyone gets home? You and Erica can just drive Derek’s car back later.”
Boyd nods and offers her a kind smile, and Stiles can see he’s blushing almost as much as she is, which somehow only makes her feel even fonder toward him than she usually does.
“Wait, wait, why do you never get mad at Boyd for borrowing your car?” Isaac asks haughtily, and Stiles thinks it’s pretty fucking bold of him to look so insulted, all things considered. Which somehow also makes her secretly fonder of him, too, albeit begrudgingly so.
Still, the question doesn’t seem to bother Derek, although to be fair, nothing much seems to at the moment. “Because Boyd’s my favorite.”
“Dude...you fucking ranked us?” Jackson asks incredulously, eyebrows sitting practically sky-high on his forehead.
“Not officially. But if I had to, Boyd would be my favorite.” Derek does that infuriating head-tilt thing and Stiles is honestly surprised he answers at all. Though after he speaks, she kind of wishes he hadn’t. “After Stiles, of course,” he adds, and Stiles is even more annoyed at how she can’t help but feel all tingly and warm when Derek smiles at her like that. Such an asshole.
“Aw, babe, congrats!” Erica says, kissing Boyd enthusiastically on the cheek. He rolls his eyes, but Stiles can tell he’s not immune to Derek’s irritatingly effortless charms either.
“So who’s last?” Isaac asks.
“Scott, obviously,” everybody seemingly answers at once.
“Hey! What do you mean, ‘Scott, obviously?’” Scott scowls, clearly offended. Stiles just groans and covers her face again, because why poke the bear ( or rather, the wolf)? Why?
Derek seems entirely unconcerned by any of this, of course. “If we were wolves in the wild,” he says, “and the winter was lean, I would let the pack eat you first.”
Surprise, surprise--this clearly upsets Scott, whose eyes flare goldenrod. Which only makes things worse, because she hears the answering snarl building in Derek’s throat, and Stiles realizes she’s going to have to do something before this turns into another werewolf dick-measuring contest between her best friend and her fiance.
Stiles is pretty sure this is the hundredth time she’s sighed exasperatedly since Derek’s gotten here. “Obviously he doesn’t mean it, Scott. He’s probably not even going to remember this, and if he does, I’m sure he’ll be sorry.”
“I did mean it,” Derek insists stubbornly, “and I’m not sorry.”
“Have I called you an idiot today? Because you’re an idiot.” Stiles smacks him lightly upside the head, which of course does absolutely nothing. Derek doesn’t even flinch, and she’s simply left cursing and cradling her now-throbbing palm. “Actually, you know what? All of you are idiots, and I’m going to go get my keys from Lydia so I can take this one particular idiot home.” And then take an aspirin. Or blow her brains out. Honestly, she’s not sure which one it’s going to be at the moment.
The plan was that she’d venture back inside to look for Lydia while the rest of the pack babysat Derek until she returned. This, of course, didn’t happen, because the minute she’d tried to pull away from him, the wolf had gotten all snarly and possessive and grabby, and really it’d just been easier to drag him along with her. Despite the fact that he clearly hated every second of being inside the club, and to be frank, Stiles feels pretty much the same. They can’t get out of here fast enough.
It’s easy enough to wade through the crowd, which seems to part around Derek like he’s fucking Moses and they’re the goddamn Red Sea (color her completely unsurprised). Still, Derek is clearly on edge and agitated, and Stiles can only hope that everyone in here is too drunk, or high, or whatever, to notice the fact that his eyes are still that inhuman red. Not to mention that she’s pretty sure he hasn’t stopped growling since they’d gone back inside. And god, don’t even get her started on the shoe thing.
“I hate it in here,” Derek says, flashing those damn eyes of his and grimacing. “It’s too loud and there are too many smells, and somehow they’re all bad. Except you, of course,” he says, smiling all infuriatingly adorable at her.
Stiles resists rolling her eyes because she’s pretty sure if she does it one more time they really might stick like that. “Well, I told you to stay outside, Sourwolf. But did you listen to me? No.”
Derek seemingly ignores this comment and goes on, growling, “and too many people here want to fuck you.”
Um...beg your fucking pardon? Is what Stiles wants to say, but all that comes out is some kind of garbled squeak because surely he can’t be serious, can he? “No, they don’t!”
“She does,” Derek says, nodding toward the bar where Stiles is perhaps willing to admit that the look that the leather-clad woman he’s motioning at gives her when Stiles accidentally catches her eye might be just a little bit predatory. “He does, too,” he continues. And then Derek points, to Stiles’s horror, the deejay (and even more mortifying, the guy winks at her). Stiles shakes her head and tries to drag him past the stage, but she might as well be trying to move a freaking boulder because Derek’s apparently not interested in going anywhere at the moment.
“Ugh, no, Derek, that’s not --” Stiles mutters, scanning hopefully for Lydia in the crowd, but no dice. Because that would be too easy.
“And him,” Derek starts, and Stiles somehow finds herself even more embarrassed (if that was possible) because now the wolf is pointing at the tall, blonde guy standing right next to her. She opens her mouth to vehemently protest, but she doesn’t get the chance because Derek’s cocking his head to the side and adding, “No, wait. Nevermind. He wants to fuck that guy.”
The blonde looks completely shell-shocked, his mouth opening and closing like he’s forgotten how to speak. “No, dude, we’re just friends, I mean --" And god, Stiles isn’t sure, between the two, her or that guy, which one of them wants to currently die more.
“Don’t worry,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. “He wants you to.”
“Oh my god,” Stiles hisses, dragging her hands across her face and fighting the urge to scream. “I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to tell you all the things that are currently wrong with him.”
Derek evidently gets bored of this, because now he’s the one pulling her along, entwining their fingers together in a way that should not seem as sweet to her as it does at the moment. Out of the blue, he stops in the middle of the dance floor, and Stiles practically trips all over herself because he literally goes completely stock-still and exclaims, “Lydia is that way. Bathroom, I think. All I can smell is that horrible pink soap they always have in these places.”
“So now you decide to be helpful,” Stiles grumbles. At least this time Derek follows her willingly. And apparently must be right, because Allison is waiting outside the women’s restroom looking just as bored as Derek does, actually. Until they get closer, and she must notice something’s going on, because her eyebrow shoots up and the look she gives Stiles is full of loaded questions. “Don’t ask. Just babysit, please. If he does something stupid, you have my permission to shoot him. Just a little though. No important parts.”
Derek growls, and Stiles shakes her head. “Oh no you don’t. You stay.”
After explaining everything to Lydia, who’s, to put it lightly, pissed, Stiles had actually allowed herself to entertain the thought that she was finally getting out of here and going home and god, please, finally going to bed (and fuck, maybe she is boring, but she absolutely doesn’t care right now). Of course, that was stupid of her, because nothing is ever easy. And she’s absolutely never setting foot in this fucking club again.
It’s the skeezy winking guy from before, and he’s making a beeline for her and Lydia.
“Hey, baby --” he starts, but Lydia doesn’t even give him a chance to finish his sentence.
“No.”
Lydia’s shrewdness seems to throw him for a minute, and he just stands there with what’s becoming a very familiar expression tonight Stiles thinks she’ll call the dying fish.
“For fuck’s sake --” Stiles grumbles, and she attempts to brush past, but DJ Douche blocks her path.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he says, smirking. And there’s absolutely nothing enticing in that smile at all. Not one bit. The thought of another person putting their hands on her is frankly revolting, actually. “I won’t bite.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Lydia says in that way she does where she manages to sound nice and terrifying at the same time. “She’s not worried about you.”
Ain’t that the truth, Stiles thinks. “Listen, I just want to go home, so...you know, no thanks…”
That’s when DJ Douche makes his fatal error. Stiles doesn’t even have time to process what’s happened when the guy grabs her wrist, because it’s only half a second before the offending hand is gone. Instead, the guy’s now halfway off the ground, back pressed against the wall, a distinctly recognizable clawed hand around his throat.
“Aw, fuck --"
…
It’s not like he’d intended to throw this asshole up against the wall. Derek was actually, really trying to be good for Stiles and do as she asked, but he doesn’t think he can be blamed right now. It’s like he can’t quite keep them locked in, chained up, all the most wolfish parts of him, the instincts he’s always trying to tamp down, clawing their way to the surface. Feels like he can’t stop it even if he wanted to. Because his head feels full of noise, buzzing like it’s full of bees and the howling of wolves, and how exactly can he be expected to think clearly with all of that ricocheting around in his skull?
And this fucker was the one stupid enough to put his hands on what didn’t belong to him. “He touched you,” he snarls. “He put his hands on you.”
“Yes,” Stiles agrees, yanking on his sleeve. “But he’s clearly a moron, so if you could just let him go, please?”
Derek honestly should shred this guy, That’s what the voice in his head, the one that’s all growling and instinct tells him. And for a split second there’s a part of him that’s not sure who he’s going to listen to -- Stiles, or that voice.
“Please, Derek? If you don’t, they’re going to call the cops, and you know who the cops are, don’t you?”
Derek grumbles, but even in this state, he knows what she means. Stiles’s father. And god, is that the last fucking thing he needs: for the sheriff to see him like this. With another growl and baring of teeth, he relinquishes his grip (albeit reluctantly). The guy doesn’t stick around, and Derek hardly pays him any notice when he hightails it away from them with an impressive amount of speed for a human, coughing and hacking from his nearly crushed windpipe. “I wasn’t going to kill him,” he says, and he's pretty sure it isn’t a lie, but honestly, it could go either way.
Stiles does that thing where she pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s trying to keep her brains from falling out of her head or something. It makes him feel pretty guilty. “Normally I would believe you,” she says, sighing, “but you’re kind of a wild card now, so let’s just get you out of here okay, big guy?”
Derek really does try to maintain control, follows Stiles as dutifully as he can. He’s being good. He really is. But as soon as they make it out of the club, the big metal back door clanging shut behind them, Derek breathes lungfuls of mostly (finally) clean air; suddenly all those unwelcome scents swirling around Stiles, competing with his own on her skin, it triggers something primal in him. It wasn’t his intention, but somehow (like so many times before), he’s suddenly got Stiles crowded up against the wall, her back dug into that rough concrete, and he doesn’t know how it happened and he really doesn’t care.
“Derek,” Stiles says, half-gasps really because he’s sure she’s a little thrown by the sudden movement, “the car is right there, can’t you just --”
“No,” Derek murmurs and doesn’t bother saying more, licking a heated stripe up the curve of her throat, pressing his teeth against the flesh there with a smile when she mewls softly, her hands tightening in the fabric of his shirt.
“You’re such an -- “ she growls, but doesn’t let him go, and Derek doesn’t give her the chance to finish anyway, catching her mouth in a bruising kiss that makes the wolf in his chest purr, finally content.
By the time he pulls back, releases his hold on her jaw, she’s panting for breath, her hand scrabbling for some kind of hold against his chest, but he grabs that hand and twines their fingers together, trapping it against the wall. “Need you,” Derek says, “can’t wait. Don’t want to wait.” The words he punctuates against her jaw, laving his tongue against his mark on her throat.
Stiles lets out a desperate noise that makes him laugh into the bowl of her collarbone. “We shouldn’t --"
“Why?”
“Because you’re -- you’re all, you know, impaired -- god, ” she whispers against his mouth when his finds hers again, his tongue swiping over the cupid's bow of her lip. “I don’t want you to ever feel taken advantage of --”
“M’stoned, baby,” Derek grumbles irritably, “not brain-damaged.” He doesn’t like the way she says it, like he’s concussed or something. “Doesn’t mean I forgot what I said to you.”
“What’s that?” she mutters, her eyelids fluttering closed when Derek nuzzles into that place behind her ear that somehow manages to make both of them crazy.
Derek’s just about to stop long enough to answer her question, but he doesn’t get the chance. There’s a loud bang and they both jump, Derek baring his fangs automatically, ignoring Stiles’s warning thwack against his shoulder. “It’s just the door, you loon,” she hisses.
She’s right, of course. And then they both watch, bemused, as two figures stagger out into the parking lot, briefly illuminated by the flickering streetlight overhead.
“Isn’t that…” Stiles starts, incredulous, but she doesn’t need to finish. The pair in question are those two guys from inside. The No, wait, he wants to fuck that guy guys.
“I think so,” Derek says, and then he’s smirking because the two guys are stumbling, all intertwined between sloppy bouts of kissing. They stop though, suddenly, like they’ve just finally noticed they aren’t alone.
“Dude,” the blonde one says, beaming as the smaller brunette in his arms nuzzles into his throat almost exactly the way Derek had Stiles's only minutes earlier. “ Thank you.”
Stiles and Derek watch them go for a stretched, quiet moment before they both turn to look at each other and burst out laughing.
By the time they stop, Derek is able to think clearly enough not to immediately jump Stiles again, though the urge is definitely still there, humming the same as always under the surface.
“What were you going to say?” Stiles asks, and even though Derek knows he’s been annoying her all night, she’s still smiling at him.
“Want you.” he sighs, pressing his forehead against hers and taking a long, shuddering breath. “Want you all the time. No matter what. Always.”
“You fucking jerk, how am I supposed to say n--” Stiles grumbles, though Derek can smell her and knows without a doubt that he’s already won. She’s wet and needy and why won’t she just let him --
“Don’t say no then,” Derek says, and then he leans down to sink his teeth into her shoulder, pulling the fabric of that damn dress to bare her perfect, snow-white skin.
“Not here,” Stiles finally says, her lips open and parted, revealing that bubblegum pink tongue that makes him ache for her. “Car, please. Let’s just get to the car.”
…
It’s just not fair. Stiles is used to Derek being the responsible one. So what the hell is she supposed to do when he’s like this, all wild, and uninhibited, and sexy as hell, and goddamn infuriating. How the hell is she supposed to say no to him? The worst part is, she knows that on the inside (and god, not even that deep on the inside), she doesn’t want to say no. When he’s rough and commanding and needy like this, it drives her crazy. And the worst part is, he knows it.
“Stop thinking,” Derek growls into her ear, practically hanging off her back because now they’re the ones stumbling blindly through the parking lot to the jeep. It takes a while because they’re stopping every few seconds because apparently that’s the maximum amount of time Derek can go without kissing her, without putting his hands on her.
“I wasn’t -- “ Stiles protests, but Derek knows it’s a lie, and she knows that he knows, and isn’t that the fulcrum of their relationship in a nutshell?
They make it to the car, thank god, and Stiles’s hands are shaking while she fumbles with the key. All of this made even more difficult because Derek’s got her flush against his chest, his teeth dug into the back of her neck in that way he knows she also loves. God damnit. She manages to wrench the door open, finally, with absolutely no help from Derek. So, Stiles feels justified in the way she cackles when they quite ungracefully tumble into the backseat and Derek hits his head on the roof.
“You know, I hate this car,” he grumbles, wincing.
“Well, it only has lovely things to say about you,” Stiles says, snickering before kissing his forehead apologetically.
Derek huffs. “It should. I’m the one that’s been keeping it running for the last six months.” Stiles gapes at him, and Derek only laughs at her. “Did you think that the air conditioning got fixed and the oil got changed by magic?”
Stiles rolls her eyes because she wants to be annoyed at him. Because her car is like, sacred, okay, but she can’t really be. Instead, she’s oddly touched, because yeah, he took care of her car. But really, Stiles thinks, he takes care of her. “It wouldn’t be the strangest thi--”
Derek bites at her mouth and the words don’t matter anymore when she finds herself pinned underneath him, his hands hot and searching. The way he’s sucking on her lower lip, scraping his teeth all up and down chin, it’s hard to keep thinking about much of anything. But when she feels his fingers toying with the buttons of her dress, she at least has the sense to curl her fingers around his wrist and pull them away.
Unsurprisingly, he growls, eying her suspiciously, but she only smiles before nimbly undoing them herself. “This dress isn’t mine, dummy,” she says, shivering when the wolf leans down to press wet kisses down her chest, stopping to swirl his tongue over every damn freckle she has. “Lydia would kill me, and then you. Actually, probably you fi--”
Like he’s been doing all night, Derek licks the rest of that sentence right out of her mouth. It’s always dizzying, never stops being that way when he’s touching her, branding her with kisses, sharp nips of his teeth, the scratch of his beard over her breasts, and all that soft, fragile skin under her bellybutton.
“No talking, I’m guessing?” Stiles sighs, her hands knotting his hair.
She feels his toothy grin against her ribs as he plays in the rungs with lazy flicks of his tongue. “You can talk. I’m just planning on doing more interesting things with my mouth.”
God, she should tease him for being such a dork, but then Derek’s pulling down that thin scrap of lace, the last barrier between her and what she's guessing is going to be a positively earth-shattering orgasm. When he spreads her with those thick fingers, slides his tongue against her clit before sucking on it, she can’t think of doing anything but sing his praises. “Jesus, fuck, you’re so good.”
Derek only hums, evidently pleased by the words. His eyes are glowing so bright in the dark, blood-red, as he devours her.
She’s bucking against his hands, but it’s pointless. She knows that. He’s holding her down, his fingers sure to leave bruises on her hips where he’s dug into them. This is just one of those times all she can do is drift, hold on for dear life as plunders her pussy with urgent thrusts of his tongue and god, his fingers. Derek’s curling them inside her just right and she can’t.
Derek must know. He always knows. He can always tell. The rhythm of his fingers pistoning in and out of her becomes relentless, and fuck, they feel so huge inside of her, stretching her, making her hurt and need all at the same time. “Come ,” he commands, and he’s using that voice, all rough and deep and beastly. What else can she do but obey? In the back of her mind, she knows she should try to be quiet. They’re technically still in public, and god, that’s the last thing she needs -- a public fucking indecency charge. She’d never live it down. But it’s Derek, and the orgasm that slams through her when he sinks his teeth into her thigh is so intense it curls her toes and pulls a scream from her throat anyway.
“So beautiful,” he mumbles, licking at the mark he just made with soothing, attentive swipes of his tongue.
Stiles can only moan weakly in protest as she comes down, her breathing still not quite caught up with the rest of her yet. Derek doesn’t appear to care about that though, because he doesn’t wait to kiss her, surging upward to slam his mouth against hers without a moment’s hesitation. After he’s thoroughly tasted her, Derek finally pulls back and lets her breathe, nuzzling against her forehead in a way that’s so fucking sweet it makes her teeth ache. “My turn,” she finally says, and she’d be embarrassed how needy and whiny she sounds saying it, but she doesn’t care. She’d bet money Derek doesn’t mind it either.
She’s right because even though it’s all for show because Derek moves only when he wants to, he lets her push him up until she can crawl into his lap and straddle him. When Stiles finally meets his eyes, it sends those pulses of need right through her again, like she hadn’t just come a mere thirty seconds ago. They’re still all crimson fire, blown-out pupils, so focused on her it’s like he’s trying to see right through her skin. Like maybe he actually can. God, at this point she wouldn’t even doubt it.
He’s always so warm, and somehow tonight he seems even warmer. Flesh blazing hot against her palm even through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Off, off,” she pleads in his ear as she yanks on the hem, Derek’s rumbling laughter vibrating through her chest so loudly she can feel it too.
“Whatever my mate wants,” Derek says, grinning against her lips before leaning down to bite at one of her nipples peeking out from her still-open dress, making her let out a very undignified squeal. She’d think after all this time, he wouldn’t be able to throw her like that, make her blush, and yet…
…
It’s hard enough to maneuver in the cramped backseat, especially considering he’s in no way a small person. It takes a second to pull off his shirt. He nearly elbows Stiles in the face, and it’s such an awkward and ridiculous process that when he finally gets it off, they’re both laughing. It makes Derek’s heart feel like it’s going to burst in his chest because he’s never, ever had anything like this before. With Stiles, even when they fuck, even when they’re both desperate and hungry, there’s laughter and smiling and teasing and all those things he never thought he’d get. He just didn’t know that sex could be like this until her.
Stiles doesn’t waste any time, pressing kisses, soft and sweet, all over his chest, his shoulders. It makes him shiver and shudder under her touch and she’s hardly done a thing to him yet. It’s just so gentle and tender the way she touches him. It leaves him breathless every time.
“Want you,” Derek mumbles, his hands tangled in those golden-brown curls, a messy halo around her head.
Stiles giggles and kisses him fiercely again. “You have me, you idiot, so take me.”
“Your idiot,” Derek reminds her. Stiles hums in agreement, pressing another kiss to his neck, her little pink tongue licking its way down his collarbone. Her hand slips from where it’s been anchored on his forearm to unzip his jeans and free his cock. He groans when she grips him, bucking into her hand. He’s so hard it actually feels like it hurts. He wonders if that’s the drugs, or if it’s just her. Or both, he doesn’t know. Doesn’t give a fuck either way, because he needs her.
Stiles can tell, obviously, from the teasing way she’s rocking against him, her cunt slick and wet and hot and jesus, just out of his reach. “ Stiles,” he hisses when she doesn’t do a thing, keeps him there just pressed against her, not quite inside. Torturing him.
“Say please,” she whispers, biting at his earlobe and pulling sounds he didn’t even know he could make right out of his chest.
Any other day, he might say no, take her exactly how it suited him, but right now his heart and his head are so fucking full of her, he’s desperate to give her anything she wants. “Please, baby. Please.”
She’s smiling still when she finally sinks down on him, though her mouth twists into a sigh, and she hisses as he fills her up. Derek’s palm slides down the curve of her spine, wraps around her waist, and they both groan, their foreheads pressed together when he finally bottoms out. “ Fuck,” Derek curses, and Stiles’s breath hitches when he ducks his head into the crook of her neck and bites down on her shoulder.
Every roll of her hips is achingly slow, and she’s so tight, and he’s so deep inside her that it feels a little like drowning, in her scent, the silk of her skin, the taste of her that he can never, ever get enough of. God, and she’s being Stiles, so she won’t shut up, and with every filthy, perfect word she murmurs against his throat, he gets more and more lost in her.
God, Derek, how are you so fucking big? So good, love you, love you, love you, wish you could be inside me forever. Don’t let me go, don’t stop, please don’t stop.
“Stiles, I can’t -- “ Derek groans, and he can feel that itch in his fingers when his claws come out, and just like before, he’s too far gone to do anything about it.
“It’s okay,” Stiles pants against his mouth, and Derek wants to warn her to turn her head because he feels his fangs unsheath their way out of his gums. But she doesn’t care apparently, because of course she doesn’t. When she flicks her tongue over the sharp points jutting out of his mouth, it feels like literal stars explode behind his closed eyelids. “I got you,” she says, whispers it like a secret against the slate of his jaw.
It’s too slow, and he needs, needs, needs, and it’s like Stiles can read his mind because she’s practically bouncing on his cock now, writhing like a beautiful, wild thing above him. Derek tries to keep his hands at his sides so at least the seats can get the brunt of his needle-like claws, but Stiles doesn’t let him get away with that either. Instead, she guides his hands back to her body, letting out a pleased little noise when he drags them down her back, squeezes her hips, her ass, before digging the points of his claws into the swells of her thighs. He doesn’t mean to, but he breaks the delicate skin there, filling the air with that familiar coppery scent. As if it wasn’t already too much. “Fuck, sorry --”
“No,” Stiles says, “It’s good, Derek. Fuck, it’s so good.” She curls her hand around his wrist and drags it up to her kiss-swollen lips, and promptly short-circuits his brain when she takes each finger into her mouth, sucking off the taste of her own blood.
He comes so hard and so fast, for a second he thinks maybe he’s died.
“Told you I got you,” Stiles says softly, still pressing those wet kisses into that place under his jaw when the room finally comes back into focus and their heartbeats slow down enough that hers isn’t quite so deafening.
“Think you broke me,” Derek mumbles, grinning against the crown of her head as she nestles in close against his chest.
“Such a whiner,” she hums happily, kissing his chest before rubbing her cheek against the hair there like a contented cat. “Although, if you let me fall asleep in the backseat of this car, I’m divorcing you.”
He laughs, pulling on the strands of hair tickling his face. “We’re not married yet.”
“Pre-divorce,” she retorts. “Do you still feel all fucked up?”
“Not really,” Derek says, though his head is still spinning. That could just be Stiles’s effect on him lingering though. “Can’t believe humans actually choose to do that to themselves.”
“As a general rule, we’re here for a good time, not a long time,” she mumbles drowsily, and Derek can tell she’s half-way to sleep already. “Are you gonna go kill Isaac now?”
“Tomorrow,” he says, smirking.
“Tomorrow,” she agrees. And then there’s only the sound of her quiet snoring in his ears. He’ll let her sleep, just for a little while.