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you steal the air out of my lungs (you make me feel it)

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you steal the air out of my lungs (you make me feel it)

 

Derek doesn't hate his birthday. As a child, he thinks maybe he might have hated it. There was some kind of cruel irony to being born on Christmas, after all. But after Paige, and Kate, and the fire, and Laura, there just didn't seem to be a reason to care anymore. And after everything that's happened now, it seems bizarre to think about, celebrating the passing of another year with something as pedestrian as a birthday party.

 

Not when the pack had spent most of the year being chased by a giant lizard monster.

 

He kind of likes it, how calm and still everything gets on Christmas Eve. Everything's closed in Beacon Hills, and the streets are empty, and he doesn't have to try so hard to shut everything out: the roar of passing traffic, the constant slamming of windows and doors, even the seemingly ceaseless yammering of the people in the building is enough to drive him crazy sometimes. One of the hardest things to learn when he was little was how to turn it all off. It had been a lot more difficult for him than it had been for any of his other siblings. Laura had always been good at it, had made it look so easy, carried herself with so much confidence, so much control. He’d hated her for it. For him, every sound was too loud, every smell too overwhelming, and the world outside of his home had always felt like too much. His mother had called him sensitive. All he knew was that he felt like a raw nerve that people wouldn’t stop pressing on.

 

He takes the quiet now where he can get it.



So yeah, tomorrow's his birthday, and he's unsurprisingly alone, but it's okay. It's almost midnight, and he hasn't bothered to turn any lights on in the loft. He's sprawled out, limbs splayed haphazardly across the lumpy sofa Lydia had insisted he buy because, we can't all sit on your bed, Derek, you need actual furniture.

 

Whatever.

 

He's been rereading the same few paragraphs of Of Mice and Men, the part where Slim's dog has the puppies, but his mind keeps wandering, and he lets it, punctuated by the occasion interlude of dozing. There's no image in particular he focuses on as he wades through the daydreams—the pack, where the hell is Peter, what dumb thing is Scott doing now, and where's Stiles?

 

Stiles, Stiles, Stiles. Boney knees, freckles on a wrist so small and thin he's sometimes worried he'll snap it in half on accident, bright eyes with an obscene red mouth, a mouth that was made by god, or the devil. He hasn't quite decided, because it seems to change day to day. Bless me father for I have most definitely sinned.

 

The wolf in him stirs, sniffs the air.

 

Wants.

 

He must really be dreaming deep, so deep, because he thinks he can smell her for real,: sweet and sour, like licking a penny (and yet, still wanting more), Irish Spring soap because it's what her father buys. Plasticine watermelon gum and cherry chapstick.

 

But then he stills, knows that he hears her for real, because the jeep always rattles when she shifts it into second. Derek's offered to fix it a hundred times. She threw a wrench at his face the last time he tried.

 

In a flash, he's up, still clutching the dog-eared paperback in one hand as he wrenches the door open with the other.

He wonders for a moment if he might've dreamed her up, too, but she's there in front of him, hand raised like she was just about to knock, blinking at him in a too big coat and a scarf wrapped around her nymph-like ears. It's 75 degrees outside, he opens his mouth to say, but she shushes him, honest to god shushes him. He's so shocked that it doesn't seem odd that nobody speaks for roughly fifteen seconds or so until he hears it, the ding dong, ding dong of the clock striking midnight.

 

“Okay, now I can say it. Happy Birthday,” she says, smiling. Her teeth look like the tiny white Chiclets he used to eat on the beach in Mexico. She's holding something in her hand, holding it out to him like it's actually something specifically for him.

It's a cupcake. It looks like chocolate. He hopes it's chocolate.

 

She brought him a cupcake.

For his birthday.

 

“How'd you know it was my birthday?” A pause. He already knows the answer. “You read my police file.”

She blushes, but she doesn't speak. Silence. Nothing. “You're not saying anything.”

“If I say nothing, then it's not a lie,” she says, eyes twinkling,

“Haven't you heard of the sin of omission?”

“My silence is not an admission of guilt, Derek.” She's flushed now, and she's cracking her fingers the way she does when she's nervous. Good. That means his silence is not an admission of guilt either, he thinks, as he says nothing, but swings the door open wider and ushers her inside.

//

 

This is all Lydia's fault. That's all Stiles can think, over and over, as she stands, frozen like a startled deer, in front of the blinding, oncoming headlights of Derek's door. She doesn't even get a chance to run away and then argue with herself until deciding to come back. She doesn't even get a chance to knock. Bastard werewolves with perfect hearing and perfect, stupid bunny teeth.

And then, like too many off her own embarrassingly romantic daydreams, she's suddenly there, standing in the hallway of the loft, holding that cake in her hand like a life preserver, and he's staring at her. His eyes are softer than usual, and his dark hair is all sleep-tousled, like he just woke up. He's buttoned his shirt up wrong, and it makes him seem so boyish and young that it actually makes her chest hurt.

“It's Christmas Eve. Why aren't you with the Sheriff?”

“Hung our stockings, check, roasted some chestnuts on an open fire, also check, caroling, check, etc, etc. Boom. Done . We ate dinner and opened presents with Scott and Melissa, and then my dad ate so much that he slipped into a food coma. He won't be awake until he has to go to work in the morning. It's the only day of the year I let him eat whatever he wants, so he really goes for it.”

She can't stop talking. She literally can't stop. Why is it that being around the literal quietest person in the world makes her mouth vomit words like that girl vomited pea soup in The Exorcist?

“So you decided to come here? And that's...for me?”He mutters, brow furrowed like the idea really, actually confuses him. It'd be adorable if it weren't so sad, Stiles thinks, because she knows Derek doesn't get it, why he shouldn't have to be alone. Because it never even occurs to him that someone would care to begin with.

“Well, duh. It's your birthday. Everyone needs to at least eat cake on their birthday, it's like a rule. And christ knows you weren't going to do it yourself,” shes says, setting the plate down on his little kitchen island. He's there before she even turns around, so close like always, like nobody ever sat down and explained to Derek Hale the concept of personal space. He's so close she thinks she could count the flecks of gold in his eyes, swimming in green. One, two, three--

“Aren't you going to take off your jacket?” He's holding out his hands like those men in the movies who ask to take your coat, all fancy-like and gentlemanly. She's seen him tear a man's throat out. A therapist would have a fucking field day.

She flushes all the way down to her toes. “Okay, yeah,” and she shrugs off her coat and her scarf, and he takes them from her and actually hangs them on a real hanger, in a fucking coat closet that she's never noticed before. How are you real?

 

The dress was Lydia's idea. Actually, it was Stile's compromise. Lydia's suggestions had been borderline pornographic, not to mention binding. This one had been okay though—pretty, even-- soft, crushed red velvet, with a swishy skirt and a scoop neck with bell sleeves. The top was the best part, though. Instead of a zipper down the back or buttons up the front, it had thick, creamy ribbons of white satin that cinched closed across her chest. Honestly it was nothing she could ever see herself owning, much less wearing, which is of course why Lydia insisted she buy it for her.

 

Where am I going to wear this?” She'd asked incredulously, holding the dress away from her like she was afraid to get it too close to her face.

“I know someone who'd like to see you in it, I bet. Better yet, you could let him rip it off you,” Lydia had said, smiling impishly.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Stiles had sputtered.

Lydia had tossed her hair in that way she did, and rolled her eyes. “I swear to god, if you and Derek don't profess your love and fuck already, I'm going to kill myself out of sheer and absolute, crippling boredom.”

 

“Don't get used to it,” Stiles says defensively, resisting the urge to cover herself, because she can feel his eyes on her. When she looks up, she wonders if she's imagining the shadow of wolf that flashes across his human face. Were his eyes always that dark, or have they gotten darker? “I'm only wearing it because we went to church tonight. Tomorrow I'll be back to plain old, ugly, badly-dressed Stiles.”

“I didn't peg you as the religious type,” Derek drawls, arms crossed, and Stiles can feel his gaze following the swirl of her skirt fabric as she paces around the cramped kitchen. It's as unnerving as it is alluring.

“We're strictly Christmas and Easter Only. The other 363 day of the year, we're good, old-fashioned heathens . Though werewolves are real, so I guess the whole all-knowing, all-powerful, sky monster doesn't seem that far-fetched any more.”

She swears she actually sees the corner of Derek's mouth twitch. Almost like a smile. Can you imagine? He's examining the cupcake now, holding it in his comically large hand like it's a tiny bomb that might go off any moment.

“Wait,” she says, right before Derek's about to bring the pastry to his lips to take his first hesitant bite. “I brought a candle. You can't eat it until you blow it out. It's like birthday law. ”

 

//

Derek is sitting on one of the bar-stools, Stiles practically caged between his knees. His legs are so long that the tops of them are pressed up against the bottom of the counter-top. He's barefoot, and so is she. Her toenails are painted so deep a red that Derek thought she'd cut herself when she'd finally agreed to take her shoes off. For some reason that was a discovery that made the world sort of feel like it had shifted on its axis.

 

Stiles is babbling again, but he's not really listening. Not because he's not interested, it's just, Stiles talks a lot, and usually it's because she's nervous, but when she talks that much, it's really, really hard for Derek not to zone out looking at her mouth. And he feels really kind of like a piece of shit for that.

“You're not ugly, you know,” he says, eyes drawn to a line of moles on the slate of her jaw that he hadn't noticed before.

Stiles has like a hair-trigger for blushing, and he's not disappointed when that pretty pink blooms over the soft swell of her cheekbones. “Okay,” she says softly, suddenly very interested in the pack of matches she's holding that Derek had dug out of his pantry for her. “I mean, maybe you could tell Jackson that. He's been calling me a “Duff” since the eighth grade.”

“I don't know what that is,” Derek says with a thoughtful frown.

“Designated Ugly Fat Friend,” Stiles answers, smirking bitterly

Derek snorts, and Stiles's face falls a little and Derek wants to cringe because that's not at all what he meant to do. “No, I wasn't laughing at you. I just—you look good. Pretty, but I—I think you look nice all the time, ” he says quickly, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Oh, um, thank you, I guess...” she murmurs, and Derek watches as she tries not once, not twice, but three times to light one of the matches because her hands are shaking. Stiles finally does, and the unpleasant scent of combustion and flame tickles his nose, but it doesn't hide the scent that's just her. He shuts his eyes for a moment, breathes her in, and hopes she doesn't notice. He tries to focus on the other sounds, the popping, flickering sizzle of the candle, but all he can hear is her damn heart beating.

“Aren't you going to blow it out?”

“What?” Derek rasps. He blinks and Stiles is suddenly closer, if that's possible, leaning over his shoulder and sliding that stupid cupcake in front of him all expectantly.

“Blow out the candle, dummy,” she says. He can feel her breath hot on his ear and Christ, it's killing him, because she's so close and he can't have her. He can't. All he can do is blow out that fucking candle, so that's what he does. And he blinks, dumbly, because Stiles lets out this disgustingly adorable sound of victory, like she's won some kind of battle he didn't even know they were fighting. And she's asking him something (“What did you wish for?”), and all he can do is look at her.

“Wait! Don't tell me, or it won't come true!” She says quickly.

“I didn't make one,” he says, like he didn't know he was even supposed to. She's looking at him like he's some kind of cross between an alien and an idiot.

“Well, make one now.”

He scowls. “No.”

“Cheer up, Sourwolf,” she says, nudging at his shoulder, “I'm not asking you to cut off your thumb and give it to me. I'm asking you to make a freakin' birthday wish.” And then she's laughing at him, but it's somehow all soft and sweet, because Stiles is the only person he's met since the fire who's been brave enough to do that, to laugh at him.

And he loves her for it. Fuck, he does. He really does.

“Okay,” he says.

The words are out of his mouth before he's even realized what he's saying:

“Dance with me.”

 

//

Stiles can't help it. She lets out this weird sound, like a mouse that's been stepped on. “Ew,no.” And then Derek's laughing at her, which okay, that's a sound she could stand to hear more of, but that's besides the point. If Stiles were the type to be put off by people laughing at her, she'd never leave the house. Besides, there's something soft to it, his laughter, something affectionate, that takes away any sting there might otherwise have been.

“Ew?” Derek asks, arching one of those ridiculous eyebrows at her. And seriously, who even has eyebrows like that?

“No! Not ew in terms of, you know, you—I just,” She sputters, not quite able to keep the flail out of her limbs as she gestures at him. “I can barely walk most of the time, and you want me to dance with you? What if I fall? What if I break your toes?”

“I won't let you fall. And if you break anything of mine, I'll heal,” Derek drawls, giving her an easy, roguish grin that makes her ears grow hot. When he does that, it's easy to remember how fucking charming he could be when he actually tried to get people to like him. Stiles just thinks maybe he stopped caring a long time ago, probably about the time he stopped giving a shit about playing human (So what does it mean, that he tries with you? She wonders). And he doesn't wait for her to say anything else, just grabs for her hand and pulls her on to the kitchen linoleum.

His palms are so hot, and she can feel them even through her clothes, on her hip where he's holding her close. She can't help it, the way she sort of stares at their hands and they way they're laced together.

“Your skin--” she starts, barely a whisper. She'd always imagined his hands would be rougher, like when he touched her for the first time, there might even be sparks from the friction.

“I know,” Derek says, chuckling. “Soft hands--weird, ironic side effect of instantaneous healing.“ The words are murmured so close to her ear that she shivers.

“We—we don't have any music,” Stiles stammers.

“It's 2012, Stiles,” Derek says, and suddenly she feels like her brain goes offline because he's reaching behind her with no regard for her personal bubble and picks something off the kitchen counter. “The music is on our phones now.”

“Jerk,” she says reflexively, though suddenly she hears it, the music playing soft and tinny, and she barely gets the chance to process it, to the swell of the brass band, before Derek starts whirling her around the kitchen. “Etta James,” she says breathlessly. “I guess you really did come out of the womb a fully formed, 80-year-old man.”

“81-year-old man” he says, squeezing her waist so hard that she aches. She thinks can practically feel his teeth against her as he grins against her neck. “It's my birthday today, remember?”

And this time it's her that wants to laugh, because fuck, how could she forget?

 

//

He's a coward. The dance is just an excuse, a flimsy one at best, too get her close, to take the incredibly selfish chance to touch her, smell her. Even back when he first saw her, back when he was burning up from the inside with all that anger, the scent of her had been enough to send him reeling. Maybe that's why he'd been so rough with her, why he'd done all he could to keep her at arms length.

Funny how things change, he marvels, as she's clinging to him now like her life depends on it (and it doesn't, for once, he thinks dryly).

“This was my mother's favorite song,” he says, not really knowing why he's saying it, murmuring it like a secret into that spot behind her ear that he wants so desperately to claim with his tongue.

And she doesn't say anything. She just looks at him with those unflinchingly wide, brown eyes, her full lips parted in what feels like a breath she's afraid to take, and if it's possible, it somehow makes him love her more, because she doesn't say, I'm sorry, like everyone else does when he happens to talk about them. It's why he doesn't, usually.

“She teach you to dance, too? “ Stiles asks, laughing when Derek trips a little and nearly crashes them into the cabinets.

“No, that was Laura,” Derek says with just a trace of indignation. “I was fourteen, and Misty Parker asked me to homecoming, so I made her show me how. She was a terrible teacher.”

“I bet,” Stiles says, letting out a yelp when Derek suddenly spins her. She digs her nails into his shoulders, and instead of pain, it just sends a pleasant shiver up his spine. The song ends and after awhile they're just sort of swaying, Derek's hand on her hip, thumb brushing the bone, Stiles resting her forehead against his chest, giving Derek the perfect excuse to nose at soft silk of her hair. She's let it grow long, though he wonders if it's because she wants to or it's that she just hasn't even thought to cut it with everything else going on. He thinks about how it would feel to wrap those strands around his fingers, or what soft, sweet sound she would make when he yanked on them. Christ, he needs to pull himself together. With a shaky breath, he lets go of her hand, brow furrowed because he doesn't think he's imagining the flash of disappointment on her face. And if he isn't imagining it, then that means something, and that something, that possibility alone stokes a terribly wolflike hunger in Derek's belly that has absolutely nothing to do with food.

“You should go home, Stiles,” Derek whispers, a pleading tone he can't remember ever remember hearing in his own voice before.

She doesn't say anything at first, but her heartbeat alone speaks volumes. It's like thunder, and so quick it's like she's two seconds away from a heart attack. But he doesn't miss how her pupils dilate, how she bites her bottom lip that's already red and swollen with blood.

“Your damn heartbeat,” Derek growls between gritted teeth, and he knows he sounds crazed, close to snapping, because that's how he feels, like a cord that's being pulled too tight, like a branch this close to breaking. “It's so fucking loud. I can't tune it out—I can hear you, everywhere, all the time.” And then she lets out this sound, a whine that Derek recognizes for exactly what it is: need. And something in him must snap, because suddenly he's got her up against the counter and he's not even sure when he consciously chose to move, but she's pinned against him and she doesn't even struggle, just melts against the marble, hands fisting in his t-shirt with this contented little sigh like she's finally gotten exactly what she wanted after a long, agonizing wait.

“Stiles, why—why did you come here?” Derek hisses into her throat, feels her pulse fluttering against his mouth, feels her gasp like it's coming from his own lungs. “What do you want from me?” And then she's tugging on his hair, stroking his beard, angling his face to try and get him to look at her. He doesn't want her to see him, see his eyes all blood-red, see the jut of his fangs coming out of his mouth but he lets her lead him anyway.

“Have I called you an idiot lately?” She asks. Her voice is a little wobbly, but warm and fond, and she's smiling at him, and the scent that's rolling off of her is the complete opposite of fear—lust, desire, love, all spice and flowers and Stiles.

“Not in the last forty-five minutes,” he huffs, sounding pained.

“Okay,” she says, and he can't decide if he wants to laugh or cry at the way she's looking at him, and then she leans in, and Derek is frozen, feels like he couldn't move even if he wanted to, because she presses her lips against his throat, slow and gentle, and he can't tell whose heart is beating faster—hers, or his own. The wolf is urging him to take, take, take. And then she's reaching up to pull on one of those damn ribbons, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips, daring Derek to watch her, but he shuts his eyes and groans because he can hear it, the slide of her nimble, callused fingers against that slick, white satin. “I want,” she says, with a shuddering intake of breath “for you to unwrap your present, idiot.”

 

And then he breaks.

 

 

Derek kisses like it's his sole duty in life to trace every corner of her mouth with his teeth and his tongue, and he doesn't seem to worry or care about oxygen deprivation, because he only pulls away when Stiles starts to see spots, when her lungs feel like they're collapsing in on themselves. It's worth it though, because every time he pulls away, she aches for him to come back, can't help how her hands automatically reach for him, clutching at him like she's terrified he'll let go and not come back. When she digs her nails into his arms, he growls and she whimpers as his teeth scrape against the bone of her shoulder in warning.

Stiles definitely feels like she's being unwrapped. Derek's hands are everywhere, and his palms and his fingers are hot like brands, searing her even through her clothes. He bites at her lip and she tastes blood, but she doesn't shy away, just chases that sweet, metallic taste with her own tongue. It should be off-putting, and maybe she should be terrified, but all it does is send pulses of desire deep down in her belly. She's all kinds of fucked up, she knows that, but god she doesn't give a shit. Not one.

Derek groans against her mouth, his big hands squeezing her thighs, inching the hem of her skirt up, up, up. But he stops, fingertips just brushing the edge of her panties, little swirls of his thumb over the top of the fabric. But he doesn't go any furthur, and she wants to kill him, because he's teasing her. He's teasing her and she's going to combust, explode, die right here if he doesn't do something.

“Derek,” she gasps, arching her hips, “touch me, please, please, please.”

“I am touching you.” He's laughing at her, the asshole. She lets out a very undignified noise, and Derek kisses her in a way that's probably supposed to be soothing, but Stiles chases his mouth when he tries to pull away, and it turns into something much messier, wet and desperate.

This time it's Derek who breaks first with a hiss, and she feels a strange sense of pride that the red has bled back into his eyes. And she definitely feels like prey, with the way he's looking at her, wild-eyed and starving. But she's not scared of Derek. She hasn't been for a long, long time. Seeing him like this, losing control because of her, all it does is make her shudder and clench, causing a fresh wave of slick to run down her thighs. Her underwear is soaked, she can feel it.

“Do you know why I laughed when you mentioned Jackson?” He asks, and she arches an eyebrow at him because the last person she fucking wants to think about right now is that douchebag. “Oh my god, don't ruin this by mentioning him.”

Derek ignores her. And then, fuck, and then he's getting on his knees and Stiles's brain short-circuits, because he's nuzzling and mouthing at the backs of her knees, the tops of her thighs, and she can't seem to spread her legs wide enough for him.

“Greedy,” he mutters, like it's some marvelous secret he's just uncovered. “Maybe if you listen, I'll give you what you want.”

He bites down hard on the fleshiest part of her thigh, humming approvingly when he sees he's left a suitable imprint of his teeth behind. “Jackson's been having trouble controlling himself. So he came to me and begged for my help. Do you know why?”

“I guess I would be an out-of-control monster too, if Lydia was my girlfriend,” Stiles gasps. She can't seem to stay still, bucking desperately against the hand that's still keeping her pressed against the counter.

“No,” Derek tuts, shaking his head and pinching her hip so hard she squeals, and then he's hooking his fingers into her panties and sliding them down her legs, achingly slow, and she's going to faint, she knows she is. “Because of you. His sense are out-of-whack enough from the kanima, oversensitive. And you...you smell so fucking good, all the time. So needy, and wet, like you're this close to just begging for it.”

Fuck.” Stiles wonders if it's possible for anyone to orgasm just from words, because she's pretty sure she can feel Derek's inside her like the fingers she so desperately craves. “What—what did you tell him?”

“I told him,” Derek growls, and she wants to scream because she can feel his breath hot against her bare cunt, and the contrast to the cool air around them is too much. It's all too much. “That if he touched what didn't belong to him, I'd rip his arms off so he wouldn't ever be tempted again.”

“I do, you know,” Stiles whispers. And Derek looks at her, askance, like he doesn't quite know what she means.

I belong to you.

//

 

Those words are enough. That's all it takes, those four words, for the last of his resolve to fall away. The scent of her is intoxicating, so thick in the air that he wonders if she can smell it too, and he surges forward, presses his mouth against her with a snarl, plunging his tongue into that all that perfect heat because he needs to know for certain that she tastes as good as she smells. And christ, she does. She's magnificent, and he digs his nails into her thighs, licking into her with long, wet strokes of his tongue.

Ah,” she cries out, spasming like she's somehow both trying to pull away and somehow get closer. Her hands are tugging at his hair so hard that it hurts, but it's a good pain, a grounding pain that's keeping his claws and his teeth in check. He could do this for hours, make love to her with his mouth, categorizing every sound she makes, see how they change when he sucks on her clit, or when he crooks a finger inside her.

“Derek, Derek, Derek,” she coos, soft as a turtledove, and he knows that she's close from the way her heartbeat jumps and skips, how her walls are fluttering around his mouth.

Let go,” he commands, “come for me.” And it's the wolf's voice, not his, he thinks, deep and sharp like cut glass. And she cries out, lets out a shuddering sob and falls apart, just for him.

She's still shaking from her release, but she's pulling him up and he goes gladly, moaning when she crushes their mouths together, eagerly licking her own juices off his lips. She's clutching at him, nails scraping against his chest, and her eyes are glassy, hazy with want and lust.

“It's not enough,” she pleads, begging with her mouth and her hands. “I want--”

“What do you want?” Derek asks. “Tell me.”

And then she looks right at him, gaze unflinching, and the wolf is gleeful at the challenge, but then she bares her throat and his mouth waters at the thought of sinking his fangs into her skin and claiming her. “I want everything.”

 

//

 

Derek's not even that much taller than her, but when he gathers her up in her arms, she feels small, feels protected, dwarfed by the wide breadth of his chest that feels like steel, and the arms thick and corded with muscle that effortlessly hold her up. She can't stop kissing him, pressing her lips to every inch of skin she can reach, pulling on the collar of his shirt and rubbing her cheek against the soft hair like down on his chest.

“How attached are you to this dress?” Derek asks as he lays her down on his bed with an unexpected tenderness that makes her knees weak.

“Not one bit,” she pants.

“Good,” he says, and then there's the sound of fabric tearing, and fuck that shouldn't be hot, but it is. And she feels so exposed, vulnerable, because she's naked and he's not, but the way that he's looking at her, like he's trying to commit every inch of her to memory—no one has ever looked at her like that before. Like she's...beautiful.

“I want to see you too,” she whines, and to her surprise, Derek lets her scramble over him until she's straddling his waist, his hands squeezing her hips, her ass, tugging on her ear with his teeth. “Stop distracting me. I want to do it,” she all but pouts, slapping his hands away with he moves to unbutton his shirt. She wants to rip it off him, just like he did to her, so she pulls, and pulls, but threads won't separate. Derek's smirking at her, and she frowns.

“Do you need some help?” he asks hotly into the shell of her ear.

No,” she says pettily, sticking out her tongue, which Derek doesn't hesitate to grab with his teeth. After several more embarrassing seconds, thankfully she hears the satisfying sound of threads ripping, the plink of the plastic buttons hitting the floor. She lets out a cry of victory, though it gets caught in her throat when Derek suddenly flips them, and she finds herself pinned underneath his weight, well and truly caught. Though she doesn't feel a bit like running, not when she looks into Derek's eyes and sees how much he wants her, how far gone he is because of her. She can feel it. Christ, she can practically taste it.

“We do this, and you're mine forever,” Derek hisses, biting down so hard on her shoulder that she's sure he's broken the skin. What he's saying, it's all she wants. It's all she's wanted since the first time she saw him in those woods, how it felt like her body already knew him the same way she knew herself.

“Oh, yes. Please,” she mewls, hands scrabbling for purchase on his back. And somehow Derek manages to get his jeans off without completely letting go of her, which she's thankful for, because the idea of his hands not touching her for even a second makes her want to cry.

And she knows it's supposed to hurt. She's heard the whispers of the other girls at school, giggling in the locker room before gym, how they had made sex out to be some kind of painful chore, a necessary evil. But when Derek slides his cock, so hot and thick and heavy against her, inside her, she just feels full, like whatever she's been missing, it's this, it's this and she's finally whole again. And Derek is being so careful with her, nuzzling into her neck, running his hands over her skin like he's worried she'll break apart if he doesn't reign himself in. But it's not enough, she needs more, letting out a low, sharp sound and bucking her hips to force him deeper inside her. That seems to be all it takes for him to abandon slow, and he's thrusting into her now with a vengeance, and with every push of his cock inside her, Stiles knows for certain that no one else will ever be enough. And hearing Derek lose himself like this, enough that he's not thinking, just murmuring praise into her skin that falls over her like warm rain, it's so good, it's everything. Because she's one who gets to see Derek like this, his control broken down for something other than anger, other than fight and rage. It's only for her, and god is that a fucking rush, to know that. Stiles herself is lost for words because she's half out of her mind with sensation, trying to focus on a thousand nerve endings at once, so splintered apart, she's reduced to sounds alone, but they speak volumes in and of themselves. Every whimper, every gasp, they say more than enough.

All of a sudden Derek is pulling back, pulling away from her, and the sound that leaves Stiles' lips is fractured, a sharp broken sound between a sob and a scream. She's so fucking close, and now she's so empty, she swears she's going to kill Derek for this later, honestly-- but then she's being moved, hands gripping bruise-tight at her hips, shifting her, rolling her until she's on her side, and Derek is draped around her back. His arm is tight against her, almost around her throat and she mews because just the thought that he could press down hard enough to leave her breathless, it's enough to make her fly apart. “Please, I need you. I love you,” she gasps.

And then Derek roars, and she can hear it, how the animal in him is so close to the surface, and then he's slamming back into her, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her head back so he can kiss her like he's drinking her down, like he's trying to devour her. And then he's snaking a hand down to where they're joined, entwines their fingers together and guides them to her throbbing clit, and that's it-- she sees stars behind closed eyelids, honest to god. And then her vision blacks, and she doesn't see anything, just feels, so fucking perfect and connected and filled, like this is what she's made for, where she belongs, wrapped up in Derek, the other's marks, his scent on every inch of Stiles' skin.

“Love you. You're mine,” Derek murmurs into her neck, and then he's coming and Stiles can feel him twitching and spilling inside her and she sighs this contented sigh, feels like her bones and muscles turn to jelly because she's never felt anything so good in her life. She's sure of it.

She's not quite sure if she passes out exactly, or if she just falls asleep, but when she opens her eyes again, she's on her back, and Derek, god, Derek is between her spread thighs, licking into her like she's an all-you-can-eat-buffet and he wants firsts, seconds, and thirds. It should gross her out, the fact that he's literally eating his cum out of her, but every stroke of his tongue, even though she's swollen and sensitive, sends little shockwaves of pleasure shooting through her.

“Welcome back,” Derek rumbles against her, and the vibration against her clit makes her legs twitch almost uncontrollably.

“Is this a pervy-werewolf-sex thing, or is this a you thing?” Stiles breathes, though it comes out more of a strangled moan, and she has to cover her face with her hands because she's pretty sure she'll die if she looks at him right now.

“Tastes like you, like us,” Derek says, pressing his teeth against her thigh. “Should I stop?”

“If you do, I'll kick you,” Stiles says brokenly. He laughs and nips at her ankle. She can feel him smiling, the way he presses his teeth against the bone.

“Do you think I can get you off again, like this?” Derek asks, and she groans because there's that shit-eating alpha grin that simultanously makes her want to punch him and kiss him. He does make her come again, an orgasm that rips through her so hard that she actually feels her eyes well up with tears, big, fat ones that roll down her cheeks.

“So perfect,” Derek croons, winding his body around her with the full extension of his limbs. She's still shaking, chest heaving, but Derek is stroking her hair and licking at her neck and it's so good. Her eyes start to close again, but she lets out this soft noise of protest, fighting off her drowsiness.

“You're exhausted, baby. Sleep,” Derek says, nosing at the skin behind her ear that he seems particularly fascinated with.

“No,” she pouts. “If I go to sleep, then that means this is over.”

She doesn't have to look at him to imagine the way he's looking at her, brow furrowed and eyes bright and discerning.

“You're my girl now, aren't you?” And bless him, the way he says it, it's like he's afraid she's going to say no. It makes something inside her clutch and seize.

“Yes,” she says breathlessly, unable to dampen the spread of warmth in her chest when she hears him say it, even though it's crazy possessive and she should hate that. But she doesn't. It just fills her with an unbelievable lightness. Happiness. “Of course I am.”

“Then go to sleep. It's not over. It's just beginning. When you wake up, I'll fuck you again, and then I'll take you out for pancakes,” he says into the back of her neck, lips against her hairline.

“God, I love you,” Stiles says, and Derek laughs, somehow manages to pull her even closer. “But don't think I'll do whatever you say now just because you ply me with sex and breakfast foods.”

“I have no illusions about that,” Derek murmurs against her lips. “Sleep, Stiles.”

 

And Stiles finds she can't deny her alpha, if only just this once.