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It’s official. Derek Hale is trying to kill her. And not even in that threatening, jokey, she’s-like-ninety-percent-sure-he’s-kidding kind of way. It’s in a holy shit he’s really gonna do it this time kind of way. Because that’s the only plausible explanation she has for this level of torture. It has to be intentional, premeditated. He has to know, right? What he’s doing to her? Can’t he smell it? Fuck, can’t he feel it?
It was hard enough before when the only time she really saw him was when they were dealing with all the supernatural werewolf crap. Sure, Derek could probably smell her then too but they were normally too busy running or fighting for their lives for it to mean much. Or so she’d hoped. But now, well, now there didn’t seem to be much downtime from the supernatural anymore. Not lately, with the whole ‘kanima terrorizing them all’ thing. Which, for the record, huge bummer.
But now that it was over, and Jackson was back to his normal level of douchery instead of the psycho killer kind, she kind of figured things would go back to normal. Because now there was no reason for Derek to hang around her anymore. Threat vanquished. No need to lurk in her bedroom at all hours of the night, or -- rather, her bed. Because around the fourth night of his self-appointed protect-the-weak-little-human guard dog routine, lying awake and agonizingly aware of Derek sprawled out on the floor beside her, he’d unceremoniously super speeded his way onto the mattress without a single word. Unless, you know, she counted an annoyed grunt as a word. Which she hadn’t.
Although, why he’d thought that would help her calm down and go to sleep, Stiles still has absolutely no idea.
She also has no fucking idea why it worked.
She also has no fucking idea why he’s still doing it.
They don’t talk about it. Well, Derek doesn’t talk about anything ever, so that kind of tracks. And the mere thought of asking Derek any sort of question like that, about feelings, feelings Stiles absolutely doesn’t have...a world of no. Because even if she does have them, which she isn’t admitting to, no way, nuh-uh, she can certainly be mature enough to just keep them squashed deep down inside where they belong.
Or she might be able to if she could stop waking up with Derek wrapped around her like some kind of cross between a werewolf and an octopus. Seriously, it’s like he grows extra arms and legs during the night or something. And he’s not even touching her in, like, a sexy way (which wouldn’t exactly be unwelcome -- and no she’s not going to think about that right now . She’s not, fuck, she’s not). It's as if he’s worried if he doesn’t hold on to her, have every inch of her in his grasp at any given moment, she’s going to disappear or something.
Where would she even go, Stiles wonders? This is her fucking bed, after all.
But more to the point, why the hell would she want to?
It’s not just the fact that he’s still crawling through her window every night. It’s the fact that she’s lying here night after night terrified of the moment he decides to stop. Because the most infuriating thing about all of it is that she’s never slept better in her entire life with him around. Insomnia, night terrors, sleep paralysis -- she’s had it all and then some. Not like Derek was some magical cure or something, she’s not an idiot. But she still remembers the first time she realized what she was feeling with him curled around her back.
Safe.
It’s a dream she has more often than not. Always the same. The same drab hospital with its greying walls and harsh fluorescents flickering on and off. As always, she’s looking for something (someone, her brain tries to prod at her). But no matter how many endless hallways she walks or doors she opens, she never ever finds what she’s looking for.
That’s bad enough. But it’s not the worst part. It’s what she hears whispered in her ears over and over. What she can never ever forget hearing no matter how hard she tries.
I couldn’t stand to be in that room anymore.
I had to get out of there.
She’s trying to kill me.
Stiles, wake up.
Stiles.
Stiles!
Stiles knows she’s screaming before she’s even fully conscious. It’s not that surprising. It’s how this particular episode always tended to end. Which makes her more than thankful that her Dad’s only around roughly half the time to hear it. He worries enough as it is. The weird part is that she’s not waking up in a tangled heap on the floor from thrashing around. That part always really, really sucked.
But when she wrenches her eyelids open, finally, throat hoarse and mouth dry, gasping for breath, she finds herself blinking up at Derek, those ridiculous eyebrows of his furrowed at her in obvious concern.
“You were screaming,” Derek says, and if Stiles didn’t know any better, she’d say he was actually freaked out. It’s a strange reaction, but she has to fight the urge to laugh in disbelief because she doesn’t think she’s seen that expression on his face before.
At least not where she’s concerned.
“Sorry,” Stiles finally manages to croak. Derek doesn’t respond to this at first, and it might be the middle of the night (a quick glance at her alarm clock blinking neon green on her bedside table confirms that), but her eyes have adjusted enough that she can see the vein pulsing in his jaw. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
Derek frowns. “You get nightmares a lot.” It’s not a question, so Stiles doesn’t bother nodding. “You talk in your sleep.”
Even when Stiles does sleep, she knows she’s probably not the most ideal bedmate. She tosses and turns. And she guesses she figured she talked in her sleep sometimes, but it hadn’t even crossed her mind that Derek would hear her. “Oh,” she whispers, feeling her cheeks flush hot. “Sorry.”
As if it’s possible, Derek’s scowl somehow gets even scowlier. “You say that too much.”
Of course, Stiles’s instinctual response is just to do it all over again. “So--” she starts to say, but something about the way Derek is watching her like he’s daring her to do just that, makes her slam her mouth shut.
Something flickers across the alpha’s face that she just doesn’t understand at all, except she knows it has less to do with Derek the man and more to do with Derek the wolf. And he’s close enough for Stiles to feel his breath, warm and fanning soft against her cheek.
She’s not sure which makes her shiver more. That or what comes out of his mouth next, a rumbling murmur she can practically feel vibrating in his chest. “Good girl.”
Everything goes quiet. Although if that’s because it’s actually that quiet, or Stiles has gone temporarily deaf from the blood roaring in her ears remains unclear. She wasn’t expecting it, how the words make heat flare in her belly so suddenly that she feels her breath catching in her throat because of it. She isn’t used to praise of any kind, from anyone, and the fact that it’s Derek saying it, well -- it kind of makes Stiles’s entire reality sort of split apart at the seams. She doesn’t quite know how to process it. The way it makes her brain literally freeze, every gear grinding to a screeching halt.
And she’s also suddenly very aware of the fact that Derek’s got his impossibly huge hands curled around her wrists, pinning them to the mattress. The contrast in their skin, milky-white and golden-brown, and the weight of him holding her down makes it hard to think. Derek must finally notice this too, because in a blink he’s somehow on the opposite side of the bed, and Stiles is shocked at the ache left behind, at how the space between them feels strangely vast and craterous. She doesn’t like it.
“Go back to sleep, Stiles,” Derek says finally, after all they do for a long moment is blink at each other.
Make me, she wants to say, but he’s watching her still. She can see his eyes, the way they flare preternaturally in the dark. It makes her feel so...seen. That’s the only way she can explain it.
Finally, Derek speaks again, soft this time. Soft enough that Stiles has to strain to hear him. “I get them too, sometimes.”
And then he lays back down, body curling around her as close as he can without actually touching her. She hates how it feels like loss. Like not getting something she wants.
Which she doesn’t want. She doesn’t. No. Nuh-uh. Not her. Not Derek.
Nope.
Stiles says nothing, but turns on her side and shuts her eyes.
There are no more dreams the rest of the night. When her alarm goes off in the morning, her bed is empty. Derek is gone and she is alone, like always.
It’s a memory she replays often. Especially in the quiet, rare moments when Derek’s the one still asleep, and Stiles gets to be the one to watch over him. Derek looks so different when he’s like this, expression calm, face slack. Brow uncharacteristically smooth. He looks young. Vulnerable in a way she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look when he’s awake.
She likes it too much, these moments.
“Shut up. Go back to sleep.” A voice suddenly cuts through her self-indulgent Derek-gazing, hoarse and growly, and Stiles startles.
“I didn’t say anything,” she squeaks automatically. Really though, she hadn’t.
Derek growls again, opening one eye to glare at her. “You think too loud. Can smell it on you.”
“That’s not a thing!” Stiles hisses, fighting the urge to cross her arms. Derek really does bring out her inner brat. “And if it is -- well, that’s -- that’s nonconsensual sniffing, buddy.”
Derek huffs into his pillow (no, she thinks haughtily, her pillow). “You’re ridiculous.”
Granted, 2:45 a.m. might not be the ideal time to be squabbling, but is she really all that surprised? No. “Me? You’re the one taking up all the room in this bed every night -- and -- and stealing my pillows! You’re a pillow thief.”
Not exactly what she’s really dying to say, but her mouth and her brain are doing their best, okay?
Derek rolls over so he’s looking right at her. He looks so strangely serious like he wants to say something that has absolutely nothing to do with Stiles accusing him of Grand Theft Pillow. Stiles’s heart starts to race, and Derek winces.
Before he can say anything though, his face goes stricken, and he does that ridiculously annoying superspeed thing that always pisses her off and she’s about to go off on one of her rants to say so, but the creak of her door opening sort of puts the pause on that.
It’s the sheriff, peering in with one of those patented looks of fatherly concern that always makes her feel so damn guilty. “Stiles, are you okay? I heard voices -- “
Stiles tries not to fidget nervously even though she desperately wants to if only to have something to do with her hands other than clenching them in her blankets. “Yes, I was just -- sorry, Dad. I was dreaming again --”
The sheriff frowns. “Was it the one with the clowns?”
For a second, Stiles is confused until she remembers how she’d told him that once when he’d asked what one of her nightmares was about on a particularly bad night of tossing, turning, and screaming.
It had been easier to just lie back then, same as it is now. “Uh huh,” Stiles says. “I’m okay now, though. Don’t worry.” She’s not one hundred percent sure he really believes her, but he’s apparently satisfied enough to press a kiss to her forehead and close the door behind him, whispering a soft (and admittedly somewhat sad) goodnight.
She barely gets the chance to sigh before Derek reappears by her side, head cocked in that irritatingly canine way that always feels weirdly judgey.
“Clowns?” he asks, eyebrows arched. Because Derek can obviously tell she's lying with his stupid werewolf lie detector shtick. And after a beat, he adds with that same slightly miserable tone in his voice as her father, "He doesn't believe you, you know."
Now Stiles is the one growling this time. “Shut up.”
No reason to go off script, right?
Derek’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t protest, and this time when he stretches out beside her, he pulls her close without any hesitation. As if this whole thing could get any more mortifying, because Derek is just trying to comfort her. Probably do the whole alpha thing (which she has noticed him actively trying not to completely suck at, at least lately) and take care of the pack. If she counts as that. According to him she does, despite her non-wolfiness (whatever, like she understands any of this anyway).
Point being, he’s probably just feeling sorry for her, and she’s sitting here having to clench her dumb thighs together because just this, just his hands all stupidly huge and stupidly hot encircling her waist, is enough to make her insides throb. Which she could deal with -- if she actually could deal with it that is. Because her jacking off time has also been severely (and tragically, she thinks. Fucking tragically) limited with Derek showing up in her room every night.
So basically she’s screwed.
In that. ‘gonna-die-of-frustration-because-she’s- not -getting-screwed’ way. But she doesn’t get the chance to think much more on that (or on how not to think about that), because every thought in her head gets wiped out by the distinct sensation of what she’s pretty sure are teeth nipping at the back of her neck.
Derek’s voice is ragged against her ear. “Please, Stiles. Please go to sleep.”
Which doesn’t fucking make her want to go to sleep at all, obviously. And whether it’s unfulfilled need or just plain spiteful stubbornness (both, probably), she’s desperate to stay awake. But as annoyed as she is with Derek, as keyed up as she currently is, she’s also fucking exhausted. She’s barely aware of what she’s saying before she finally does drift off, something along the lines of fuck you I don’t have to listen to you probably. Whatever it is, Derek apparently finds it amusing because the last thing she feels before going under is a laugh muffled against her shoulder.
When she wakes up, the space beside her is empty. She feels it, knows it before she even opens her eyes. When she finally does, it’s with a frown pointed up at her ceiling like the very sight of it has personally offended her or something. Fuck, she hasn’t even gotten out of bed yet and she’s already grumpy. And horny. And fucking annoyed as hell that she’s both those things.
And it’s all Derek’s fault.
She’s muttering curse words under her breath like a mantra when her feet hit the hardwood. It’s cold and early and Stiles is so not a morning person and the fact that she won’t even have time to get off in the shower before school, the knowledge that she’s going to have to feel like this all day, again, well, it’s not exactly helping.
Maybe that’s why when she gets out of the shower and sees Derek’s shirt hanging off her desk chair, the one he was wearing last night, she doesn’t hesitate to pick it up. The faded green fabric is worn a little thin from repeated wear, but it’s soft in her hands and she guesses it’s her lizard brain in control now because she puts it on with no hesitation, not a single thought in her head other than needing to feel it against her skin. Because it’s as close as she’s really gonna get, after all, right?
Although maybe there’s some self-preservation instinct that she possesses still somehow, deep, deep down, that makes her grab one of her hoodies at the last second to pull over it.
Yeah, by the time she gets to school, Stiles is regretting her choice for a plethora of reasons. For one thing, she’s barely touched the dial on her locker when Scott turns to her with a look of pure disgust that makes Stiles actually question whether or not she remembered to shower. She totally did...right?
“Fuck, Stiles, you reek,” Scott says, wrinkling his nose. “Is Derek still pulling guard duty in your backyard?”
In her what -- Stiles thinks, staring blankly. Oh. Right. That’s the blatant lie she’d told Scott because while he may be the most unobservant werewolf in existence, his nose still worked well enough to pick up the scent of his own alpha (however reluctant his allegiance to said alpha might be). And it wasn't like she was gonna tell Scott that his best friend was now sharing her bed every night with Derek Hale.
It’s just not the kind of information you volunteer when you don’t want your best friend and that aforementioned alpha to murder each other.
“Uh -- no,” Stiles says quickly, wrenching her locker door open so it covers her reddening face, “no, why would he? That kanima stuff is over, right? Maybe it just takes a while.”
“What takes a while?”
“I dunno,” Stiles says perhaps too casually, slamming the door shut. “Like smells, or whatever. To like, dissipate. I don't know. I’m not a, you know, -- why the hell would I know?”
Scott throws his hands up in obvious surrender. “Okay, okay, jeez. Never mind. What is with you late--”
Thankfully at that exact moment, Allison and Lydia walk by, meaning Stiles might as well have suddenly turned invisible, not that she’s complaining because crisis averted.
Not that the morning progresses any less irritatingly. Because Scott’s not the only werewolf who notices. The betas are weird in general, how could they not be when they have Derek as a role model? But the whole following her around not-so-subtly is new. And super invasive, to be frank. She nearly has a heart attack coming out of the girl’s locker room after gym class when Erica appears seemingly out of nowhere. Isaac follows her in her footsteps down the hallway so closely that at one point she sees Boyd grab him by the collar out of the corner of her eye and physically drag him away.
She’s not sure if he catches it, but Stiles shoots Boyd her most grateful smile anyway.
Jackson is the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Because the guy might be kind of pack now, and Lydia mostly has him on a short leash. But she can’t be everywhere all the time, and it’s not like Stiles doesn’t fully expect him to continue with his dickish ways. But the smelling her thing?
Extremely unwelcome.
But it’s not even just that (Jackson is annoying and kind of creepy, sure, but a “ Fuck off” and a well-timed kick to the balls mostly takes care of that problem). It’s the fact that sure, wearing Derek’s shirt feels good, is almost uncomfortably comforting to her, but it’s also -- it’s also driving her kind of fucking crazy.
And if the wolves can smell Derek on her, surely they’re going to be able to smell the fact that she’s like five seconds away from losing her mind from the sheer sexual frustration of it all. It’s bad enough when Derek’s got his arms wrapped around her and he’s close enough for her to breathe in that scent that’s all him, leather and pine, coffee and the mint from her toothpaste that he’s been borrowing every night.
Wearing his clothes kind of feels like she’s drowning in it -- in him.
She lasts until lunch before making a run for it.
Sure, maybe leaving school in the middle of the day to jerk off is both peak cringe and embarrassing, but it feels practically like a fucking medical necessity at this point. Like she’s going to literally burst into flames in her own skin, explode, die if she doesn’t take care of it. Whatever, she can add the loss of her dignity to Derek’s ever-increasing tab.
Because the way Stiles runs up the stairs, practically throwing herself onto her bed and sighing in relief when she feels the cold sheets against her flushed skin, well, it certainly doesn’t feel very dignified. Neither does the frantic and frenzied way she tears off her jeans, peels her mortifyingly damp panties off, and yanks them down her legs. Her fingers go to the hem of her shirt and she fully has the intention of taking it off, of throwing it into a pile with the rest of her clothes.
But Stiles just can’t bring herself to do it. It still smells like him, so if she keeps it on, if she closes her eyes and focuses on the feeling of worn cotton grazing her skin -- it’s like she can almost imagine he’s really there.
It’s not like she hasn’t whiled away her post-puberty hours with plenty of self-pleasuring, but Stiles is still coherent enough to recognize how different it feels this time. Because in the past, she’s done her best not to think of any concrete person -- shoving the thoughts of bright green eyes and big hands away any time they tried to weasel into her fantasies (with varying levels of success). But this time, when she starts the slow drag of her hand down her body to slip between her legs, she isn’t thinking of anything or anyone but him.
Fuck, is the only recognizable word floating around in her brain when her fingers finally graze heated flesh. What would it feel like, she wonders, for Derek to touch her there, touch her like this? Would he be rough -- it seems like he would be. But there are moments she’s not quite sure, where she catches him watching her with this look in his eyes, almost... gentle. That wouldn’t be so bad, either, she thinks, her eyelids fluttering shut, her hips thrusting off the bed when she slips two fingers inside herself, her thumb stroking over that swollen nub of flesh that pulls a whimper from her dry throat.
She doesn’t have a chance of lasting. Normally, it takes a while to get herself there, work her body enough to push herself over the edge. But not now, not when she’s picturing Derek touching her, kissing her. Would he use his teeth? His tongue?
And god, he’s so big -- his hands, his shoulders, his whole damn body, surely that had to extend...well, everywhere, right? The thought of that coupled with the memory of how it felt, waking up to him looming over her, his long fingers curled around her wrists, holding her down. The way he’d pinned her not just with his hands, but with his eyes.
Good girl. Good girl. Good girl. Good girl.
It’s a chant in her head with the same rhythm of the fingers she’s currently fucking herself with. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so fucking wet before, hot slick dripping down her thighs, making each thrust sloppy and messy and --
When she comes, it’s sudden, intense, hits her harder than she can remember any orgasm ever hitting before. She’s never been more grateful for her empty house, for the fact that her father won’t be home for hours (so hopefully she has the time to do this at least once more when she recovers). Stiles is shaking so hard she can practically hear her bones rattling around in her own jaw. And she might not be fully aware of it, the way she screams his name as it happens, but when she comes back to herself a little when her breathing slows to shallow gasps, Stiles is painfully aware of one irrevocable, inalienable fact.
She was head over heels in love with Derek Hale and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do to stop it. To turn it off.
Fuck, she is so screwed.
…
Derek is going to hell. To be fair, he was already pretty sure he was going there anyway. But now, now he’s one hundred percent certain, like the hey, might as well book a first class ticket downstairs kind of certain.
And it’s all Stiles’s fault.
Well, no, that’s not fair. It’s not her fault -- unless she’s doing it on purpose, but he doesn’t think she is. He’s pretty sure he’s just an asshole who wants something he has absolutely no business wanting. Someone. Fuck, he’s so close to losing it as it is these days, so now that Jackson was sort of dealt with, the smart thing would be for Derek to stay away from her. To stop climbing into her bed every night.
That would be the smart, obvious thing, yes.
But Derek isn’t just a bad man. He’s also a fucking idiot.
And possibly (probably) a masochist, because what other explanation is there for him torturing himself like this. Of letting himself get just close enough, whether that meant ducking his head into her shoulder to breathe in her scent, or a hand splayed over her hip. He’s careful not to touch bare skin though because he’s learned from that mistake -- it had taken him weeks to get the way her wrists had felt in his hands that night out of his mind -- tiny and fragile, skin so soft under his fingertips it made him want to die. Just a little bit.
Fuck.
So he might be all those things, sure. A bad person. An idiot. A masochist. But Derek’s absolutely not a stalker (he is). He’s not (he is). Beacon Hills is small enough that he can probably justify passing by Stiles’s house or the high school at least one or two times a day. That could just be a coincidence. Or, if not that, concern. Because he’s an alpha, her alpha, this is his territory, he’s just --
Fuck. He is. He’s fucking stalking her. So Derek can go ahead and add creep to his expanding list of character flaws. Big surprise there, Derek thinks bitterly, white-knuckling the steering wheel of the Camaro as he drives down Main Street toward the loft. And like every time, it’s agony. Pure agony. Because even now, separated by at least a mile, who knows how many people, how many walls -- he can still feel her.
Still smell her.
This is always how it happens: the closer he gets to the school, the stronger it is, the cloudier his head gets. But this time, this time there’s something different about it. Something different enough to make him practically slam on the brakes because he’s about this close to completely wolfing out.
Somehow the scent that’s been torturing him, aggravating his senses the way a sliver in his finger might, ever-present pain, distracting pain, is somehow suddenly a thousand times more intense. Because it’s her, and that obscene lust-filled sweetness that surrounds her like a fog, but it’s also all mixed up with his now in a way that triggers every feral instinct he tries so hard to keep locked down. For not just her sake. For everyones.
There’s the creaking whine of metal warping under brute force, and when Derek opens his eyes, he sees his steering wheel hanging by a thread. Which is definitely a thing he should be ashamed about, losing control like a fucking pup for christsake, but the wolf brain has clearly taken over. All rational thought gone. His brain might as well be fucking filled with cotton. Because it’s like he has no choice, like he’s a puppet being yanked by his own strings.
He’s halfway across the school parking lot before he even realizes where he is. Thank god he finally does though, because it’s only by the grace of his speed that Derek’s able to slip into a shady corner of the nearest wall, hidden from view just as Stiles walks by him. He stares, bemused, as she hurries across the lot to her car and clambors inside, rolling his eyes when she nearly slips before pulling the door shut and getting herself buckled.
He’s not quite sure where she’s going in such a hurry, but he does know the smell of her, ripe and needy, so thick in the air, it’s enough to nearly choke him. Enough to make him dig his claws into his palm hard enough to draw blood. Mostly in an effort to distract himself into not following her like every instinct is screaming at him to.
Thankfully, there’s an even better distraction, because Derek’s hackles rise automatically when he notices someone else doing the same thing. Jackson, looking furtive and guilty, stalking across the pavement with a look on his face that Derek absolutely recognizes for exactly what it is -- hunger.
It’s the middle of the day, so the lot is mercifully empty with everyone in classes still, but Derek doesn’t think it would have mattered even if that wasn’t the case. He wouldn’t have been able to stop himself anyway -- that much is evident by the mere half-second and blur of movement it takes before he’s got the younger boy pinned to the hood of the nearest car, teeth bared.
“Why are you following her?”
Jackson doesn’t immediately submit, which doesn’t exactly cool the indignant rage making Derek’s insides coil tight like an angry snake. Instead, the boy bares his teeth right back. “What the fuck, Hale. I wasn’t doing anything, jesus. You freak --”
Derek snarls and flashes his eyes. “Don’t lie to your alpha, Jackson.” Another pointed slam against steel. " Why are you following her?”
Jackson flails, or attempts to, so Derek tightens his grip on the boy’s chest, digging his nails in just enough to make him hiss in pain before Jackson goes decidedly limp. “I wasn’t -- I can’t help it, okay? Fuck -- " Jackson finally spits. “I don’t even like her, you know. I mean -- I can’t even fucking stan--” Derek growls and Jackson gulps before going on, pained, the words coming out all rushed and strangled. “Shesmellsofuckinggoodhowdoyoustandit?”
It takes a lot of willpower to release his grip, but Derek thinks the boy looks so pathetic (and it’s a look he definitely doesn’t recognize from looking in the goddamn mirror, nope). It's sort of his job. To help. Right? Even though the wolf in Derek’s chest says he should be shredding the kid like paper with his claws anyway. “By controlling myself,” he grits. “Which is what you’re going to learn to do.”
Jackson growls, the back of his head hitting metal with a loud thunk. “Do you know what she smells like? Like she’s -- like she wants it. Like she wants someone to --”
Derek really wishes he would have just kept his mouth shut.
His fangs drop and he’s got Jackson by the throat, and his voice isn’t anything close to human when he leans in close, the younger boy’s carotid inches from the needle-like points of his incisors. “If you don’t leave her alone -- if I find out you’ve touched her, I’ll rip your arms off and beat you to death with them. Then it won't matter if you can control yourself or not.”
Jackson whines and tilts his head to the side in clear surrender. “All right, all right -- fucking christ, dude. Sorry, I didn’t know.”
Derek tilts his head, confused.
“That she, you know -- belonged to you.”
“She doesn’t,” Derek grits, turning on his heel if only to hide the way his face reddens, “but she sure as fuck doesn’t belong to you.”
She doesn’t belong to us yet, the wolf under his skin all but purrs. Yet.
If the parking lot had been a bad idea, what Derek’s currently doing now, pretty much exactly what he’d just warned Jackson not to do, is even worse. Does he even care at the moment? It’s kind of hard to when his head’s so fucking full of her that it feels like it might float right off his neck.
She’s driving him crazy. Why else would he be vaulting onto her roof in the middle of broad daylight like this -- after following her halfway across town to boot. Yep, he’s cracked, lost it, full-on bats-in-the-belfry crazy.
And if he isn't yet, what he smells as he gets closer, hand just curled around the windowsill, ready to lift it open -- well, he is now. Because all at once it hits him, everything that’s just her, what's been haunting him like phantoms for months now (from the first time he fucking saw her, let’s be honest): strawberry shampoo, irish spring soap, the bubblegum she likes to chew constantly (yeah, he’s noticed the oral fixation, how could he fucking not?), and stronger than it ever has been before, him. All that coupled with pure unadulterated arousal.
Pure sex.
And when Derek finally pulls it together enough to open his eyes, he sees exactly why that is.
Stiles is wearing his shirt, the one he’d forgotten this morning when he’d slipped out of her room, desperate to escape like the coward he is. Because last night he was so, so close to giving in that if he didn’t leave before she woke up that morning…
Well, clearly karma was making its point. Because not only is she wearing his clothes (how the fuck doesn’t she know what that means? How?), she’s wearing his clothes...while touching herself. All he sees is pale skin dotted with moles, her long legs spread obscenely, his shirt rucked up far enough over her hips that he can see her, how fucking wet she is, can see all that slick shiny and dripping down her thighs.
And if he couldn’t see it, well he can certainly taste it on the back of his tongue.
There’s a high-pitched whining sound, like nails on a chalkboard, and Derek realizes that his claws have come out and he’s digging them into the glass. He jolts, realizing just how fucked up it is that he’s still standing here watching her, and pulls his hands away, digging them into his legs instead as if that could bring him back down to earth.
Because he’s leaving. Right now. He is.
But then he hears her.
He hears her say it.
His name.
His fucking name.
Even though the wolf in Derek’s chest is practically howling, scratching at the walls of his insides and ready to tear its way out, he somehow manages to turn away. It takes every single ounce of willpower he has to do it. It’s easier to block out his thoughts, at least the human ones, when he shifts. So he stashes his clothes in the tree just outside Stiles’s window and jumps off the roof with a desperate whine.
When he lands, he’s on four legs, and before instinct can fully take over, Derek bolts. Runs, runs, runs. As fast as he can and as far as he can because if he doesn’t get away from her right the fuck now, he’s not sure what he might do. In fact, he’s kind of terrified of what exactly that might be.
Once he’s deep enough in the forest, it feels safe to shift back. Now that he can breathe without suffocating on her. But breathing doesn’t really help the fact that when he shifts back, stands up on two legs, shuddering as his bones slide back into place, he’s so hard still that it kind of feels like he’s dying.
Which Derek has always thought was misogynistic bullshit -- nobody dies from having an erection (unless it’s that whole longer than four hours business, or you know, Sex Sent Me To The ER, or whatever. Fuck, anyway). But standing here with his forehead against a tree, definitely wishing for death, at least a little, Derek kind of thinks there might be something to it.
Because when he closes his eyes, she’s all he can see. Stiles, spread out on her mattress, her long, thin fingers stuffed inside of her swollen pussy, thrusting in and out, her full lip caught underneath her teeth, the slope of her throat exposed as she throws her head back in pleasure.
All he can hear is his name falling out of that same perfect mouth.
He’s fisting his cock before he can stop himself. It’s rough and fast and so embarrassingly quick when he snarls and spills all over his hand that even though the relief is palpable, all Derek’s really left is with is a crippling sense of shame and a pile of wood splinters scattered at his feet from where his other hand had ripped into the tree trunk he’d been holding himself against.
Yep. No doubt about it, he thinks, banging his forehead against the bark, cringing when the tree shudders and groans from the force of it.
Hell, table for one?
The chains hadn’t really worked the first time he’d tried them. Or the second. But maybe, maybe the third time’s the charm, Derek thinks, fiddling with the steel cuffs around his ankles before looping the chains around his waist, his throat, and his wrists before hooking them into the wall. Because he’s one thousand percent certain that if he tries to fall asleep in his own bed tonight without restraining himself, the wolf isn’t going to give him a choice on where he ends up. That ship has long since sailed with Derek waving as it went by.
The easiest thing of course would be not to fall asleep at all.
Surprise, surprise. It doesn’t work.
“I leave you alone for a few months and this is what happens?”
“You’re dead.” Derek mumbles automatically when he hears that irritatingly familiar voice. “You’re not real.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” the voice says, and Derek finally, begrudgingly opens his eyes because he knows who’s going to be looking right back at him. Peter. Peter, who is currently peering down at him with that same bastard smile on his face that he had right before Derek tore his throat out. He’s also, weirdly, holding a magic 8 ball. Like one of the ones Derek had as a kid.
Derek looks down and sees the chains are still looped around his wrists, giving them an experimental tug. They feel real. Still, the Magic 8 Ball and the dead family member sort of leads him to believe....”I’m dreaming, aren’t I?”
Dream Peter shakes the ball. “Ah,” he says, holding it up in the air and squinting. “Signs point to yes.”
“How are you even more annoying dead than alive?” Derek growls. “Why are you here?”
Peter snorts, hopping up on the counter looking far too much like a cat who got the canary. Only Peter would still be smug and dead at the same time. “Why would I know? This is, as they say, your birthday party.”
What does that even mean? “Can’t you ever be normal?”
The 8 ball gets rattled again. “Don’t count on it.”
“So what, I’m supposed to let my murderous-psycho-uncle conscience be my guide?”
“Maybe,” Peter says, shrugging. “Or maybe you could just stop being a fucking idiot and see what’s right in front of you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Derek retorts, scowling.
Peter hmms and there’s that rattling sound again. “Very doubtful. You know,” Peter says, holding the toy aloft in front of him. “I kind of missed this thing.”
“Well, you’re the one that stepped on it and broke it,” Derek says, attempting to cross his arms and snarling when the tension from the chains yanks his shoulders back.
“That was never proven,” Peter says. “And stop changing the subject. Just wolf-up already and do it.”
“Do what?” Derek grumbles, even though somehow he already knows the answer.
“Tell her.”
“No.”
“Tell her.”
“No!” Derek says, this time baring his teeth.
Peter rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m so scared. What are you gonna do, kill me again? I could do this forever. I’m dead, remember?”
How could he forget, Derek thinks, his fingers flexing with the flesh memory of shredding the older man’s throat into ribbons. He groans, letting his head fall back against the wall with a thud. “I’m going to wake up in Stiles’s backyard again, aren’t I?”
“Without a doubt.”
Derek opens his eyes to see the blues and pinks of the sky just before sunrise. He’s naked, of course, which means the chains had been about as effective as he expected. The half-broken manacle on his wrist attests to that fact. With an annoyed grunt, he rips it off with a loud clunk and tosses it aside.
With a resigned sigh, he gets up and leaps onto the roof, pulling on the pants he’d left there last night before pulling Stiles’s window open and going inside. Stiles is still asleep, curled up in the middle of the bed. She doesn’t stir when he crawls in beside her, but when he pulls her close, she lets out this little pleased sound that hits him right in the gut. He'll be there when she wakes up for the first time since they'd started this. Whatever this is. Whatever this is going to be.
God, he is so fucking screwed.