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    Summary

    “Just stay still.” Derek says, almost snarling, teeth elongated into pointy fangs. “I can control it.”

    Stiles shudders as Derek rests his face on his chest, clawed hands coming up to grip his sides; he can hear Derek's agitated breathing, can feel the way he's pressing Stiles harder, harder, against the wall.

    “Sure, big guy,” he breathes out, tapping the fingers of his left hand on his own leg nervously, biting at his lip until the sensitive skin there feels sore, and the cold air coming through the open window makes his lips tingle, wet and abused.

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