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Derek is mad at her. And it's not even the fun kind of mad where Stiles kinda-sort-of does it on purpose. It's the bad kind.
It's the Stiles-really-fucked-it-up-this-time kind. She knew it the minute she'd woken up out in the woods, flat on her back and blinking up into Derek's furiously crimson gaze, that she'd really screwed the pooch on this one. Her vision is still a bit blurry, partly from the hit she took, but also partly from the warm liquid dripping over her eyelid that she's 99% sure is her blood.
Yeah, she thinks, as a crimson drop trickles into her mouth, metallic and sweet – it's definitely blood.
Shit.
She doesn't get the chance to think much more beyond that, slipping into an unconsciousness that's ceaseless, dark, and deep.
…
She wakes up gasping, breath stuttering in her throat. It takes a minute, but eventually even her dull human senses adjust, and she realizes where she is: the loft. Derek's bed. Their bed. Pain zings down the ladder of her ribs and she winces, blinking blindly in the dark.
“That was fucking stupid,” a voice like cut glass and gravel hits her across the face like a shovel – Derek. Stiles hisses and then all the breath she's holding in her lungs spills out when she feels the hot press of the alpha's tongue as he licks at her wounds: the cut on her forehead, the scrapes on her side, her hips, her legs. If something like this had happened in the beginning, Stiles might have protested (okay, more like thrown a hissy), but she's used to it now, the times when Derek's wolfishness slips outside the human shell. She's used to it by now, mostly because it's usually not-quite-always-but-most-of-the-time her fault.
“I know,” Stiles mumbles, shivering, her eyes still squeezed shut, refusing to look at the face of her mate, her alpha. She doesn't need to look at him to feel the weight of his disapproval. Turns out the taste of disappointment is surprisingly bitter even in her own mouth.
“You got hurt,” Derek grunts, still tonguing furiously at a particular deep gash below her rib cage. Stiles winces again. “I was only trying to help. I couldn't let you get kill--”
“I'm not in the mood for arguments, Stilinski.”
Oh, Stiles blinks. She's Stilinski now. Fuck, she's really in trouble. There's that little wrinkle in Derek's forehead that practically screams that he's pissed. But it's fine. Yeah, it's fine. That's what she's telling herself at least, while she's simultaneously wanting to scream because her entire body somehow hurts. Like all of it. Like parts she didn't even know she had, but also because it's really, really hard not to react to Derek's mouth on her. It's so freaking stupid. She's lying on this bed, having lost a not insignificant amount of blood and she's still having to squeeze her thighs together like some kind of...sex-obsessed harlot. And he's gotta know that, right? Right?
“Stiles,” Derek rumbles against her hipbone where he's been nestled for what feels like hours. “Stop. Stop and be still.”
Make me, the irrational and mostly non-functional part of her brain whispers the same way it always does whenever anyone tells her what to do. But she doesn't actually say that. She might maybe possibly have a concussion, but she's not brain-dead.
Derek rolls his eyes. She doesn't see it, but boy can she always tell when it happens. At this point, it might as well be her sixth sense – the one that tingles whenever she annoys him. Which is a lot. So she decides to take pity on him instead and just clenches her teeth and her fists with a whispered sorry and tries her best not to move. See, she can be good. Sometimes.
“Hurts,” she mumbles sheepishly out of the corner of her mouth. Derek hums thoughtfully into the diamond of flesh below her navel, and his grip tightens on her arm and Stiles mentally curses because she knows what he's about to do and she knows that he knows that she hates it when he does.
"You don't have to--” The words die off in her mouth when she watches through her lashes as red bleeds into the whites of Derek's eyes. She lets out an irritable huff because that really shouldn't be so hot but goddamnit it is. And now this whole situation is even worse than it was to begin with.
Because now she's wet. She's wet and he's gonna know because of course he is.
Derek's breath catches and his nostrils flare, and then Stiles is blushing a violent shade of red because she knows she's been caught. It isn't like she can hide it from him. Stupid fucking werewolf senses, god.
“Really?” Derek's eyebrow shoots straight up into his hairline.
And god she must be fucked up because her cunt actually throbs in response and now she has to clamp her mouth shut to stop a very inappropriate noise from slipping out.
“You,” he growls, shaking his head, "are impossible.”
Whatever, she thinks, wrenching her eyes shut tight again so she doesn't have watch the lines of inky black crawl down her arm and up into Derek's. She's been called much worse.
…
Stiles always hates it when he does this, and normally Derek tries to respect that. Really, he does. He might not be very good at it, and he frankly doesn't understand it, but he normally tries. But after seeing Stiles nearly bleed out in front of him today, he's pretty fucking far past trying. His teeth grind together and he winces for just a second when his veins shudder and flex when her pain blisters sharp into his nerve endings.
“Asshole. Hate when you do that,” Stiles mutters.“Always feels like getting drugged. N'not with the fun kind of drugs.” Her voice is slurred, drowsy now that the hurt is gone, but that persistent Stilinski pout is still there. Because of course it is.
“That's just the adrenaline wearing off. Sleep.”
He expects another argument because she's been fighting him all night, but there is only the quiet, even breathing of sleep and the sound of her once-frantic heartbeat slowing to a crawl. He pulls the blankets up around her shoulders and slips out of the bedroom without another word.
She'll sleep, and that's good. She'll heal. She'll be okay.
But jesus christ, Derek might not be.
His nerves are shot all to hell and he has ten bloody half-moons on his palms to prove it. Feels like all he's been doing since he brought her home is holding his breath, grinding his teeth, and clenching his fists, his entire goddamn body. Even now the saccharine, copper bite of blood still lingers, and as much as he likes to play pretend, Derek's not human, and it's times like these that he finds he remembers. Because it feels like he can still taste it on the back of his tongue: that tantalizing mix that should be oh-so-wrong but isn't. As if Stiles hasn't repeatedly illustrated her complete lack of self-preservation to him on a daily basis, he shouldn't be so surprised. That she was lying in his bed back there with her pussy dripping wet while her wounds dripped blood all over his sheets.
There's no way Derek's going to sleep, that much is painstakingly clear. And he's not sure he trusts himself to be around Stiles right now anyway. He's on edge on a good day, and this is so far from one of those it's not even funny. A run might help, but the instinct to stay close, to guard his vulnerable mate sleeping only a few feet away, it's still much too strong to allow for that.
He tries a cold shower. That doesn't help either, and he ends up with a hole in the tile from smashing his bruised knuckles into the wall.
He tries to eat, but what he's craving isn't the type of hunger that food can satiate.
So he paces instead. He paces and he waits.
…
It's still dark when Stiles's eyes crack open, and she still feels weighed down, fuzzy-eyed, a little spacey. To be expected with the blood loss, she supposes. She also has an incredibly urgent need to pee, and even though it's definitely going to hurt a lot hobbling to the bathroom, she manages to untangle herself from the blankets and do it anyway. To her eternal surprise, she's not as sore as she imagined she would be and begrudgingly she knows she has Derek to thank for that.
All in all, it's not as bad as it had looked. The cut on her forehead had been the source of most of the bleeding, but it didn't even look that deep. And thanks to Derek's insistent tongue (she shivers at the memory) and his weird alpha-super-saliva, most of her cuts and scrapes have started to close up faster than they ever would have on their own. So, it could've been a lot worse. At the very least, Derek'll have to agree with her about that.
But then again, maybe not, she thinks with a grimace, as her gaze settles on broken bits of shower-tile littering the floor.
There's no point in bothering to be quiet as she pads down the hallway. Derek's impossible to sneak up on. He always hears her. He's told her he could pick her heartbeat out of thousands. He's probably sensed her from the minute she'd woken up, so she doesn't flinch when the first thing she sees are his eyes flashing at hers from across the room. He's sitting on end of the couch, and he's so still that it reminds Stiles exactly of those nature documentaries where the predator catches a scent and it's trying to decide exactly when to strike.
“Are you okay?” Jesus. What a stupid question. A stupid fucking question she already knows the stupid fucking answer to, but she asks anyway. Stiles's voice is still a bit rough from sleep, and the words barely register above a whisper, but they both know he can hear her.
...
“No,” he answers finally, somehow still managing to keep his expression impassive even though everything else about him screams otherwise. Stiles steps closer, all slow and steady and careful. Derek's eyes narrow and there's that needling twinge in his jaw from his fangs threatening to drop. “You should go back to bed, Stiles.”
“I don't want to.” Petulant and stubborn as usual. He could growl, snap his teeth at her, but they both know by now that type of posturing, it's never quite worked on her like that. If anything, it had the opposite effect. “Derek –,” she reaches out her hand, and she's close enough to touch now, and fuck does he want to touch her, but he's also still pissed at her and he can't quite reconcile that yet. Not when the memory of her limp body in his arms is still too fresh. There's a pregnant pause, and he allows himself to take a deep breath,tasting the the scent of her, heady and familiar – soap and sweat and blood and just a little bit of sex, tinged with that ever-present undercurrent of him. Stiles has always smelled like sex. From the first moment he'd seen her scrambling to her feet in the woods that night it had lingered in her wake like a cloud of perfume. Every time he thinks he's getting used to it, it hits him all over again like a sucker punch to the gut. A familiar ache. She feels it too, judging from the way she shivers now under his gaze.
“Derek,” she says again, and it should be criminal, how soft and sweet she sounds. “Hey. You can cancel the brooding session, sourwolf. I'm okay.” Then she's giving him that shy little smile, the one that she always saves just for him, but at this point feels almost cruel.
“But I'm not.”
…
I'm not.
She just blinks at him for a long moment, her fingertips twitching against her palm, and resists the urge to run her hand through his hair, remembering how surprised she'd been the first time she touched it, when it had felt so soft. She can't believe she used to think there couldn't be anything soft about Derek Hale. Can't believe how long it had taken her to see it was an all an act. Pay no mind to the man behind the curtain. The growling, the manhandling, the monosyllabic grunting. All of it, just armor, a costume. Scar tissue stretched over a raw nerve.
Stiles doesn't even need to hear him say it. I almost lost you. Lost her the way he's lost everybody else.
“I didn't mean to...”
At first she's not sure why she does it, feels like her body's moving of its own accord. But then she's on her knees in front of him, gazing up him through her lashes and she can see it written plain as day right there on his face, what she's done to him. Derek might not have a scratch on him, but it's there, underneath, that place in his heart where she's left him broken and bloodied. “I'm sorry.”
Derek lets out a harsh exhale and Stiles wonders if he's going to yell at her, because from the way he's looking at her right now, it kind of feels like he might. But he doesn't. It's not slow, there's no pause, just another stunning example of those damn werewolf reflexes, because there's only a quick blur of movement and then his enormous palm is there. Cupping her jaw and digging his fingertips into her cheek. It's a firm grip, almost bruising, and she hisses when his nails press into her flesh. She'll have to ask if she wants him to let go, to loosen his hold on her. If that's what she wants. But they both know it isn't, and she won't.
Because she's the girl who runs with wolves.
And she's never run from him before. She isn't going to start now.
…
He was fooling himself to think he could keep his hands off her. They're bad enough on a normal day, the both of them. Once he'd claimed her, left his mark on her, it was like it was always there. Need. Want. Take. Have. Like if he couldn't have her, he'd die like a starving man lost in in the desert – alone and hungry. And when she's like this, looking up at him with baited breath, just watching and waiting. Those glittering golden-brown eyes so full of hope, and lust.
Of love.
Even a better man couldn't resist, and Derek isn't even really a man.
“Never do that again.” The way he says it sounds like a command and he intends for it to be one, but they both know Stiles's track record of obedience. It's a fool's errand, but he still says it anyway.
“I won't. I promise.” It's a lie and they both know it, too.
“Yes you will,” Derek whispers. As if her thundering heartbeat wasn't already giving her away, he's not stupid, and he's nowhere near naive enough to believe Stiles would ever stand by on the sidelines. It's why he loves her. Why he needs her, this brave, beautiful human girl. With a sigh, his iron-clad grip softens, sliding up the perfect arch of her cheekbone before settling in her hair. He scrapes his nails against her scalp before tightening his fist enough for that pretty rosebud mouth of hers to part into a gasp he wants to reach down and swallow whole. Her tongue slips out between her lips to wet them and he watches with rapt attention as her eyelids flutter shut. When she opens them again, the gold is mostly gone, hidden around her blown out pupils. Even now, when he's hanging by a thread and he can't tell the difference between the flash-fire of lust and fury, he wants her. Has to have her.
“You could have done it tonight,” she breathes out like she's been holding the words safe in her mouth and now that she's opened it, they're all just falling right out. “I would have been okay with it.”
It takes him a split second to realize what she means. They've had the conversation exactly once since they'd started this all those months ago. In typical Stiles fashion, she'd blurted the question out one day and completely blindsided him.
The steam feels like fog. It reminds Derek a little of the Amazon. Of breathing in air so hot and humid it's thick enough to swallow. Like they could be a million miles away from Beacon Hills instead of right here where they are, the bathroom in Derek's loft. Stiles always makes the bath pretty much scalding, one of the multitude of reasons he never gets in it with her. He runs hot enough as it is, and there's no way they both could fit comfortably anyway, not with her gangly limbs and his broad...pretty much everything.
“Why haven't you asked?”
The way Stiles's mind works, thoughts racing a mile a minute, it's a pretty common occurrence for him to not have any fucking idea what she's talking about. So he doesn't look up from the book he's been reading, idly turning pages with the hand that's not currently tracing circles on her bony kneecaps peeking up over the edge of the tub. “Is there a subject in that sentence or am I just supposed to guess?”
“You know,” she starts. He doesn't, but the shakiness in her voice is enough to make him look up, curious. “To give me the bite. Turn me.”
“I'm not turning you, Stiles.” To be honest, it's the last question he's expecting, because it's a thought he's only allowed himself to entertain in the abstract. The reality of doing it is something he can't think too hard about. Although Erica had asked him once, and so had Isaac. Even Scott had asked eventually, but Derek had simply ignored them. It wasn't like they were going to press him on it since they all very much preferred their heads attached to their bodies. But the likelihood of Stiles letting him get away with that is basically zero, and even though he doubts his answer will be enough, he can still hope.
“Why not?”
Derek sighs and throws his book to the side. So much for hope. “Do you want me turn you?”
There's hardly a hesitation when she answers, not that he'd expected one. “No.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Isn't it – isn't that what you want?”
Can that be what she actually thinks? Because he can't think of anything further from the truth. Eventually his tongue unsticks itself from the roof of his mouth, but the word comes out stilted and harsher than he means it to.“No.” Again, the silence between them seems to stretch on to eternity, punctured only by Stiles's shallow breathing and the trails of condensation Derek can hear trickling onto the floor.
“Why not?”
Derek groans internally, and he has to shove down the urge to roll his eyes and tear at his hair like a madman. The girl's asked him more questions in the past three months than anyone's asked in ten years. How hasn't she run out of them yet? “If the answer's no for both of us, then why does it matter?”
“Because,” she says, matter-of-fact. “Last year you were giving the bite out like a frickin' party favor. Why didn't you offer it to me?”
Derek's not sure what to say at first, doesn't now quite know how to explain it, because he's not sure he understands it himself. He knows that he likes it, that she's human. It reminds him of what he used to be, of what he lost. Maybe because it makes him think that someday he might be able to get a little bit of it back.
But none of those were the real reason.
“Because I'm not going to turn you into a killer.”
It had been one hell of a fight, one of their worst, and somehow it had still ended with Stiles forcing him to promise he'd turn her only if it came to that: a last resort. If the choice was the bite or death, she could live with it she told him, because it would be better than living without him.
Derek can see it now, the unspoken reality that hangs between them like a gallows knot, just how close they'd come to that tonight. The ugly truth neither one of them have been able to say out loud. Living the way she does, choosing him, choosing them...it's only going to end one way. Someday he's going to have to do it, make that choice for her.
“I wouldn't have blamed you, Derek,” she whispers it like a promise against the pad of the thumb pressed against the swell of her bottom lip. “It wouldn't have been your fault.”
“Don't.” God, he's still so angry with her, at the way she's looking at him, at the way she's talking to him, so sweet, so trusting, so forgiving. Part of him hates her for it. The other, much larger part just hates himself.
Stiles doesn't even falter, continues completely undeterred. “I wouldn't --”
Derek doesn't give her the chance to finish, can't listen anymore. He doesn't want to hear what she would or wouldn't do for him. And suddenly, seemingly without his notice, he's on her, lip curled into a dangerous snarl as he presses her up against the wall. “Shut up, Stiles.”
…
Derek's not in control. Stiles suspects he hasn't been for awhile now, and this was just the tipping point. In the span of a breath, the wolf has her caught. If she had any common sense at all, an ounce of self-preservation in her skinny little body, she would push him off (like she even could, but she could at the very least try). Then again, if she'd had any sense at all, she'd have run screaming the first time she'd seen him stick his claws through another man's sternum.
She guesses common sense just isn't really her thing. She loves Derek, and he can growl and snap at her all he wants and it's not going to change that irrefutable fact.
Stiles reaches for his hand, but he's too fast, catching her wrists and pinning them on either side of her head. “I'm not going anywhere,” she says, eyes blazing indignantly. Because she's not scared of him (it's only partly a lie). Fear, lust, it's always blended together where he was concerned, and she's not sure her nervous system can tell the difference anymore.
“God,” Derek hisses, “just stop. Stop talking.” His lip are fire on her throat, and the scratch of fang is just enough that even she can't bite back the whine that escapes. “You want me to stop talking?" she gasps, her hands uselessly scrabbling for purchase on the concrete behind her, “Then do something about it.”
Derek laughs, but it's not kind. It doesn't shock her though – if she'd wanted kind right now, she wouldn't be riling him up like this. She's a big girl. She knows what she's doing.
At least she thinks so.
“Come on,” she urges, and even though they both know it's fruitless, she struggles against him, grinding feverishly against his hips with what limited motion he's chosen to allow. “Take what you want.” She'd intended that to sound a lot more demanding, but Derek chooses that exact moment to sink his thankfully human teeth into her neck – the piercing cry that's torn out of her throat doesn't exactly lend much force to it. It hurts, and she's already banged up pretty good from the night's previous activities, but god, she doesn't care. Can't bring herself to give a shit when everywhere he touches her scorches, white hot and blinding.
There's not much time for self-reflection after that. When Derek's lips finds hers, it's a less of a kiss and more of an assault on her mouth, with a scrape of teeth that falls just on the side of too harsh. He licks and sucks at every bit of skin he can reach without freeing her, and it's with such a singular focus that she's practically frantic for a breath of air by the time Derek deigns to give her one. Everything in her head is starting to go hazy. Maybe it's oxygen deprivation. Maybe it's just him. It's too much and not enough because when he touches her he may as well be throwing gasoline onto a fire. If he's looking to go up in flames tonight, she's gonna burn right here with him and be fine with it.
…
Normally she trusts him to be careful enough not to hurt her. But right now with rage still bubbling away like poison in his veins, he can't bring himself to care. The way she's pushing him now, it seems more like she's trusting him to do the opposite, to hurt her. To topple over that edge without somehow destroying them both. Playing rough is nothing new for them, but this isn't exactly that. Even when he's rough, there's always some part of him still holding it together, still keeping that monster behind the door locked up tight.
Stiles, he thinks she gets it most of the time, though she's always talking about how he doesn't have to, that she can take it, but he just shakes his head and says no way because she's got no idea. No idea how hard it is for him still, even after all this time, when he hears her heart jack-rabbiting in her chest. It haunts him. What it does to him when she smells the way she does whenever she's underneath him, begging him to take her. There was a reason why most werewolves chose other wolves as mates. When he got old enough, he'd gotten the same awkward talk from his mother as the rest of his siblings did when they came of age. About fighting his instincts. How sometimes it was appropriate, especially when those instincts were telling him to fuck and claim every person who gave him a hard-on. Thankfully, the older he got, the easier it became to ignore.
At least until Stiles came along. Because right now he can't think about much beyond the way she's rubbing herself against him like a bitch in heat as he mouths desperately at the slope of her shoulder and the purpling bruise of teeth he's left behind. He thinks about just ripping her clothes off right here and fucking her against the wall because it's obviously what she wants. But right now he's not feeling very amenable to giving in. It might make him a bastard to admit it, but he fucking loves it when she begs. So he grabs her legs instead and pushes them up around his waist and hauls her off to bed.
The room is still filled with the metallic-rust scent of her blood and it does him no favors in calming down. With a snarl and another rush of speed he's got her pinned to the mattress. Now that her hands are finally free, Stiles is trying to both frantically rid herself of her clothing and keep touching him at the same time, but it's all pointless. Within seconds, the shirt she's borrowed from him is in tatters on the floor and he wastes no time in dragging the tips of his hands over the concave of her belly, following the trail with his mouth. When he catches a pert nipple between his teeth and bites down, her back bows off the bed, a perfect arc, and she lets out a shriek that he feels like a lightning strike all the way down his spine and through to the floor.
She's muttering something under her breath, but he's too distracted to hear, and feeling too selfish at the moment to give a fuck anyway. Another growl from deep in his chest and he's wrenching her thighs apart and he can practically feel the heat of the blush that blooms across her normally pale cheeks. Derek tears his eyes away from her cunt long enough to watch it spread over all that milky white before making quick work of her panties with another vicious swipe of his claws that sends Stiles's hips shooting off the bed. She's so wet already that he can't help but stare shamelessly at all that pretty pink between her legs. It goes on long enough to get her squirming again, and he can't have that, so he bites down hard on the curve of her thigh until the girl goes limp like she's prey playing dead. “Don't talk,” he rumbles against the broken skin between his jaws; “Don't move,” he skims a path upward with slow and steady laps of his tongue until he's right there where she clearly needs him. “And don't come,” Derek finishes hoarsely, the noise in his throat building as he just waits for her to accept her orders as he sits there breathing her in. Stiles sounds like she's hyperventilating already, and as he watches the rapid rise and fall of her chest, he wonders if she'll pass out before the night is over.
Only one way to find out. With one last, red-eyed once-over, Derek flashes her a hungry, if not slightly crazed smile that's mostly a baring of teeth, before spearing her with his tongue without any more pretense.
…
Oh god, it really isn't fair. Okay, yes, Stiles had already resigned herself to the fact that nothing about this was going to be fair because Derek had made it pretty clear that fair wasn't what she was going to get tonight. But surely he had to be kidding she thinks feverishly, because no talking? No moving? No coming? Hasn't he ever met her? Those are pretty much all the things she loves doing all the time, whenever she can, as much as she can, in pretty much any order Derek's willing to let her. But she doesn't even get the chance to mentally curse Derek's entire existence before her brain goes completely offline, because the wolf's gone and thrust his tongue up inside of her. She whines and it's piercing, and then there's only Derek, only the unyielding, hot, wet slide of muscle across her aching slit.
“You're dripping, baby.” God, his voice shouldn't sound so good. Nobody's voice should sound that good. And when he calls her that...why does that have to sound so good, too? “You've been soaked since I brought you home. Do you know how much I fucking wanted to do this?” Stiles thinks has some idea, considering she was the one about to lose her shit earlier and all he was doing then was cleaning her up and grumbling at her. “I was trying to take care of you,” he says and she feels the vibration practically down to her bones. Somehow Derek can go what feels like days without saying much, but get him in bed like this and he never stops talking.
“And all I could fucking think about was eating this pussy.”
He's being so filthy and all it's doing is making her hotter.
God, what is wrong with her?
Derek groans into her folds like the very memory is hurting him, and christ, he sounds almost pissed at her about that fact, which is ridiculous, but he's not stopping, thank jesus. Just pausing long enough to punctuate each word with more licks and sucks and nips from his fangs that send shock waves up and down her entire body. She's not sure if the shutting up part pertains to noises, but if it does, he might as well quit now (oh god, please no) because that ship has long sailed. Nnnnggghhhh surely doesn't count as a word, right?
Evidently it doesn't, because Derek actually releases the vice grip on one of her thighs long enough to slide his thumb across her throbbing clit and thrust two fingers so far up inside her that she sees literal fireworks exploding behind her eyelids. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. She's a goner.
It's cheating. He's cheating. Derek knows her body better than she knows it herself. Knows just how to touch, how to kiss, how to play her like a damn radio. She doesn't stand a fucking chance and judging from the stupid smug look on his stupid handsome face, he knows it. He expects it. Because he's a jerk. But it's too late to fight it because Derek brushes his impossibly long fingertips just right against that place inside her she can never reach herself and then she's done for, thrashing under him like a fish out of water as her first orgasm rocks through her and she shakes and shakes and shakes so hard she doesn't think she's ever going to stop.
And It feels so good, that pins-and-needs pleasure sensation spreading it's way through her entire body. But also she just feels like crying. Firstly because she had actually planned to give it her best effort, to try and be good for him and show him just how sorry she was. But she just couldn't take it.
It's too much.
But also because now he's going to stop and if he stops she doesn't know what she's going to do. For what feels like an eternity, all he does is look at her with that same unreadable expression. His eyes are dark and hooded and he certainly doesn't look happy with her but he hasn't moved away from her yet. Feels like they're both holding their breath, a stalemate, neither of them sure exactly what's going to happen next. But then Derek's lowering his head back down, and Stiles wants to sob in relief. Maybe he's already forgiven her. Maybe tonight he's feeling merciful.
She's still sensitive, but Derek is surprisingly gentle as he licks into her again, lapping up the remains of her orgasm before returning his attention back to her swollen clit. When he closes his mouth over that little bundle of nerves and sucks, her hips buck automatically and she squeals, biting her lip so hard she's surprised she doesn't break through the skin. Already she can feel it building again, that shiver in her spine, and the way Derek starts swirling his tongue faster and faster, he can tell. God, he can always tell. She's gonna come again and all she wants to do is dig her hands in his hair, suck his fingers into her mouth, anything to get him close, close, closer. But she's already broken one rule. How nice is he going to be if she breaks another? All she can do is twist her fingers in the sheets and hold on as Derek literally fucks her with his mouth. His teeth catch on her clit and that's it, she goes over the edge for a second time.
…
God, she must have been halfway there before he even laid a finger on her. Honestly, he hadn't expected her to last long, but even for Stiles, who's more sensitive than anyone he's ever been with before, this is quick. Normally after she comes, she's all loose-limbed and pliant, but underneath him she's still tense, like she's waiting for it – punishment. When they play like this and she disobeys him, he'd usually just end it right now, leave her empty and wanting until he decides at some point during the evening that she's suffered enough. But he's too wound up to stop now, too far gone already and they've hardly even started.
Christ, Stiles is already getting close again; she has so many tells: alabaster skin flushing scarlet with blood, the hop-skip of her pulse thrumming in her throat like a hummingbird as he feasts on her, the way her breathing quickens and then actually stops, just for a second, when she finally breaks. Stiles lets out an unintelligible mix of moans and what might be words, he's not quite sure, and then he feels her walls contract around him, squeezing him like she would his cock. She gushes, molten hot around his tongue, and it tastes so fucking good, impossible to describe because it's just so utterly Stiles. So purely her. Fuck, he's so hard it takes every ounce of control he doesn't have to stop himself from mounting her and just taking.
She's already trying to close her legs, bucking her hips to try to move away from his mouth, from the tongue still flicking lazily through her slick. When the shuddering stops, Derek doesn't let her go.
Stiles whimpers piteously and Derek almost feels guilty, but all it takes is one look at her, spread out, quivering and glistening with sweat and spit and her juices, already half-way to ruined. The animal in him just wants to wreck her even more. Because she's human and alive and entirely his and he wants to revel in it.
“You think I'm done with you?” Derek kisses his way sloppily down her body, rubbing the sensitive flesh red and raw with his beard. If she wants to come, then he'll make her come. And he's going to give it to her until she's begging for him to stop. “Oh no, baby. I'm just getting started,” he promises huskily, sucking a line of bruises up her inner thigh before burying his face back into all that swollen heat.
…
To think that she'd thought he was being merciful. She gets it now. Because this is Derek and he could never really hurt her, so this is it. This is her punishment. He's going to torture her with all this exquisite pain because that's just him, it's them, how they are together. It's loving somebody so much that it physically hurts. Until you're burning with it. This is what she realizes when her third orgasm hits. When he drags her kicking and screaming into her fifth, there is no revelation, only sensation, too much of it, and she sobs all the way through it, fat tears rolling slowly down her ruddy cheeks.
She's completely and utterly lost in it, like an ocean with no land anywhere in sight. There's no rhythm she can cling to because Derek refuses to set one. It's a relentless and unpredictable rollercoaster ride of fast, slow, faster, glacial, enough and not enough at the same time. She's lost track now of how many times she's come. It feels never-ending at this point, her pussy just one continuous throb, pulsing endlessly around his mouth and his fingers. She'd given up thrashing about six orgasms ago, so she just lays back and takes it. Again and again and again and again. Derek's pissed off that she almost died tonight, and here he is, the one actually killing her. It actually hurts now, in a way that her body can't quite process and she must be going crazy because somehow it feels like heaven and dying all at the same time.
…
“You are so fucking beautiful,” Derek murmurs the praise against her belly as she jerks underneath him like she's been shocked with a cattle prod. At first she'd been so loud, screeching like a banshee, cursing his name and begging for relief he's never going to give. Now Stiles is strangely quiet, her mouth thrown wide open in a silent scream as she rides his hand with erratic thrusts of her hips. One finger had become two, and now he's three fingers deep, stretching her wide and open and ready.
“You want something, sweetheart?” Derek purrs, pistoning his fingers in and out, in and out. The sound is absolutely obscene, because she's so goddamn wet, fucking drenched in her own cum and still dripping every time he twists his wrist just the right way. If he wanted to, he could probably fuck her with his entire hand and she'd take it, that's how easy he'd slip inside her.
Stiles has long since made up for her first indiscretion. She's been so, so good for him that he's feeling unexpectedly generous.
Stiles's eyes have been wrenched shut since roughly her seventh orgasm, and when she opens them, they're red-rimmed, a little puffy from all the crying, but still darkened with lust and need. The way she's looking at him, he's not sure she's ever looked at him like that before. Like he was some kind of god that could take her confession and grant her salvation and damnation all in one. Derek can't help it, he's drawn forward by her eyes like she's reeling him in on a hook, and he's crawling up her body until he's just there, looming over her, nuzzling into her neck, sucking at the hickeys he'd left earlier in the dip of her collarbone and licking at the tracks of dried tears staining her jawline.
Truth be told, he's not sure she can still speak, because doesn't say anything for a long while, just wraps her shaking legs around his waist now that he's no longer got her trapped against the bed and whines. She soaks the front of his sweats grinding deliriously slow against his cock and Derek laughs into the hollow of her throat. After all this, she still wants more. Still the same greedy Stiles. “Tell me, baby. Fucking say it.”
Stiles lets out another string of slurred curses. Nothing he can make out clearly until she finally takes a breath deep enough that she can actually form words. “Please,” she wails, biting her lip to try and stifle the earsplitting cry. “Need you. Inside.”
There it is. That feeling, like a missing piece falling into place, a key fitting into a lock and turning just so. Click. There's no way he can deny her now. Derek might be a monster, but he's not cruel, not unnecessarily. His fingers are still slick with her wetness when he slips them under her knees and pulls them wide open. And then he simply drinks in the sight of her, pussy utterly wrecked and glistening. Evidently he takes too long admiring her, because Stiles mewls long and high in her throat like a wounded animal. “Please, Derek,” she begs. “Alpha.” Derek eyes shift red reflexively and he snarls, sending Stiles flailing in his grasp, trying in vain to reach the cock hard and achingly pressed against her thigh. He can't wait any longer after that, catching her lip between his teeth and sucking as he finally buries himself inside her. There's that catch in her breath when he fills her to the root, just one skip in the pattern of her breathing, and she keens brokenly against his mouth, her hips rocking in a way that tells him she's got one last orgasm in her. He just has to get her there.
“Are you going to give it to me?” He asks, teeth grazing her earlobe. “Or am I going to have to take it?” She's so wet, so fucking tight, he needs to get her off that last time because he's so close to coming himself he's not sure how much longer he can last.
...
Stiles can't do anything but shake her head, her eyes wild and unfocused as she trembles underneath him. “I can't,” she whispers, almost shamefully, because she wants it so bad but she's oversensitive to the point of numb right now. It's too much and she can't take it. Not unless he takes it from her. She whines again, needy, arching her neck to rub her cheek against his. Derek's lips skim her throat again, whispering something against her skin that she can't quite hear, but the tone is warm enough to soothe her. His words might be soft, but the way he takes her then is savage. He's ruthless, snapping his hips back and thrusting so hard inside her that she feels like she's being split open. He has her knees pinned practically to her chest and he's so deep Stiles can't think straight beyond the way he feels so hot and hard and goddamn huge inside of her, how he's holding her just right, how his lips feel like the sweetest brand on her neck.
….
Derek grumbles against her lips before claiming them, plundering her mouth with his tongue, the tips of his claws leaving pinpricks of blood on the back of her neck. He chases those droplets with his tongue, the wolf relishing in the taste, and the rare chance to indulge his blood lust. “You're so perfect for me, Stiles,” he moans, tracing that spot he loves behind her left ear with his tongue where her scent always pools sweet like honey. “Made for me,” he whispers, pressing shockingly gentle kisses along her shoulder-blade, even as he pounds into her mercilessly, grinding against her clit with unrelenting fury. “Going to make you mine forever,” He's drunk on her, her blood and her cum and the way she smells like she belongs to him.
Derek's hips stutter when Stiles's cunt grips him like a vice. Fuck, she's just there, just teetering on the edge. He can get her there easy, and he'll probably follow right along with her. “Marry me,” he murmurs, and as soon as he says it, he knows the same way he knows the wolf that he means it. If by some miracle Stiles is able to actually hear him, he doubts she realizes a thing he's saying. Her eyes are rolled almost to the back of her head, and she's got that glazed far away looks that makes Derek think she probably doesn't even know what planet she's on, let alone what he's whispering in her ear. It's a conversation for another time. What matters now is this, and her. He'd slowed his pace, lost in thought, and it's a sting of pain with all the strength of an insect bite that he slowly realizes is Stiles's teeth nipping underneath his jaw. “Please, Derek. I need it.” she says desperately. Derek's eyes flicker red, and that's when he loses his last tiny shred of restraint, grabbing her by the hip and pressing his other hand just hard enough against her mouth to make her eyes water and her breath hitch, and drives her into the mattress. It doesn't take long, for either of them. She breaks finally, wide-eyed and screaming into his palm and he feels her gush and pulse around him for the last and final time tonight. Derek's vision flickers as he comes with a roar. His fangs jut out from his mouth and he turns his head just in time to sink them into his own forearm instead of Stiles's shoulder.
He can't tell which one of them is shaking more, but with Stiles wrapped around him like an octopus, neither one of them seems prime to move anytime soon. Which is fine, Derek thinks, his own eyelids suddenly heavy as he listens to Stiles's heartbeat get slow and soft and quiet.
…
She's not sure how long they stay like that, Derek pulling out eventually only to be the creepy werewolf stalker that he is and watch his cum spill out of her like it's the most captivating thing he's ever seen. It would make her more uncomfortable if she didn't find it so weirdly hot. He's rubbing it in streaks across her skin and licking it off his fingers like it's candy, which should disgust her and it probably will later when she thinks about it more, but now she's still trembling, still needs the weight of Derek's body to anchor hers. She thinks she might just fly right off the bed otherwise.
Eventually he finds her mouth and Stiles kisses him without hesitation, not that surprised to taste the lingering mix of copper and her slick, sighing happily against his blood-and-cum-stained lips. Derek apparently likes this, because he's whispering praise against her skin again. I love you, I love you, I love you.
He always says such sweet things to her when he gets like this. Who knew that Derek Hale could be sweet? Lord knows she'd never accept a compliment in any other situation. He likes to knock her walls down and take advantage, and it never fails to – Oh. Dear. God. Stiles opens her mouth but no words come out. When she finally manages to speak, it's a lot more shrill than she intends it to be, and laced with panic.
“You asked me to marry you.”
….
Derek is drifting in that happy place between sleep and awake. He's not completely out yet, and Stiles's outbursts don't generally shock him anymore, so for a second all he does is stare lazily at her. “What time is it?”
Stiles looks completely aghast but tells him anyway, sighing exasperatedly. “2 hours, 23 minutes,” he mumbles sleepily. “That's how long it took you.”
“You---you asked me to marry you,” Stiles stutters. “And I didn't say anything.” Derek can't quite tell what she's thinking yet, but she smells okay. A little anxious, but nothing too offensive, so he just waits for her to work through it on her own. Stiles goes quiet for another moment and then her eyes widen with what must be another realization, because she turns to him and says in horror, “You asked me to marry you and all I did was beg for your dick.”
“Correct,” Derek says, maybe a little bit smug, watching his own hand as it dances over the small of her back. “And I'm not a lunatic. I didn't expect an answer at the time.” And to be honest, he doesn't expect one now if she doesn't want to give it.
“And it...wasn't a joke?" she asks quietly, like she can't quite believe it herself, like she's testing how the words sound in her mouth because they couldn't possibly be true.
Derek rolls his eyes. “Because we know how much I love jokes.” Stiles blinks at him. “It's okay,” he adds seriously. “You don't have to say anything yet.” He expects her to be at least semi-okay with that and if she wants, they can move on to other things, like a shower and at least twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“Are you sure you're not crazy?” At that Derek arches an eyebrow, while Stiles gawks at him like he's sprouted horns and a third eye. “Of course I'm gonna say yes. What, do you think I'm some kind of idiot?”
He couldn't tell her fuck all what he thinks, because he's pulling her to him and sealing their mouths together. He's quite happy to do this for the foreseeable future, sucking roughly on her tongue and her bottom lip. But then Stiles is shoving him away. He frowns and stifles the growl in his throat.
Stiles laughs. “One condition though,” She's breathing heavily and her cheeks are flushed, but her eyes are still bright and she's giving him that shy smile he loves so much so it can't be that bad, can it?
Derek hums agreeably, his lips still permanently attached to her skin. Stiles leans in to whisper it in his ear like a secret.
“You get to tell the sheriff.”
Turnabout is fair play.
Well fuck.