
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/543001.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski, Scott_McCall
  Additional Tags:
      Underage_Sex, Loss_of_Virginity, Cunnilingus, Headaches_&_Migraines,
      Hurt/Comfort, Period_Sex, shark_week_cunnilingus, Kink_Meme, Always-a-
      girl!Stiles, Genderswap, Mating, Stream_of_Consciousness
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-10-22 Words: 5556
****** Humans Are So Strange About Blood ******
by blcwriter
Summary
     Originally a fill at the TW kink meme for the prompt: Derek/
     Fem!Stiles - Shark Week Cunnilingus
     Derek loves eating out a female Stiles while she has her period. That
     is all. Original post and fill here. Cleaned up a bit for verb tenses
     & format, a few more inner thoughts on Stiles' part.
Notes
     This PWP prompt turned into Porn, what Porn? with angst, inner
     fem!Stiles monologuing about missing her mom, reflections on ADD,
     grief, depression, self-esteem and eating disorders, explicit
     descriptions of acute and serious migraine pain, and oh, yeah, Derek
     Hale creeperwolf gives Stiles magical healing head at the end before
     dropping the SURPRISE, YOU'RE MY MATE bomb. Because he's good with
     his words, Derek is. But he does like to take care of his pack, and
     he's a grumblewolf when they don't let him.
     Alternate title: ASJKSJ porn + is fem!Stiles still Stiles? I avoided
     a novel about Derek's slamming > words, because I figured Stiles with
     or without a penis could still wield sarcasm like a wolfsbane-dipped
     sword.
     Although someone write Derek going to abuse counseling for srs, man.
     The h/c after his mangstrealizations? GUH.
She’d finally managed to get the cap off the pen—stabbed it into her thigh,
convinced her fingers to uncurl from the injector because every clenched muscle
just sent more waves of agony up to her head and back down her body-- a riptide
of pain and thinking hurt but the pain didn’t stop the thinking, either—
Managed to crawl into bed, got the covers half up despite dizzy—nauseous,
everything inside screaming to get out, like all her organs, her brain, her
eyeballs would feel better if they could just claw their way through her skin
and bones, onto the floor—
Just managed to curl up, clench her teeth because cold, so fucking cold, the
whimper that comes out and gets choked back between teeth that hurt, jaw
cramping because she wasn’t going to puke and chattering teeth made her head
pound even worse than the cold, the shuddering muscles—she wasn’t—not going to,
no—
“What’s the matter with you.”
It was all Stiles could do to wave a hand at the voice because she didn’t care
what he wanted, not right now, not ever, not until the pain went away, he had
to lower his voice.
There was a flicker of light behind her eyelids and a huge hot hand on her
head—she jerked back, couldn’t help it, her skin hurt, head’s an overinflated
balloon and it pounded, she was going to explode, it hurt, hurt, stop touching—
The hand pulled away, the “Stiles,” a command, not a question, tell him what’s
wrong but she’d lose it, cry, puke, lose it, if she said anything so she
didn’t. She burrowed further in—it’d be ten minutes for the injection, all she
could do is wait, wait for the blood in her head to stop sounding so loud, her
heartbeat hard and uneven and fast, worse than anytime anything has ever tried
to kill her. It was always the worst, worse than the panic, worse than Mom not
being here, that’s how bad.
The pounding was so loud and distracting that the bed-dip, the brush of a hand
over her forehead again—she’d forgotten he was there until he was touching, he
needed to stop, “Scott says you get these every month? You should have told
me,” but he was curled up behind her and he had his hand on her forehead like
that was going to help—but no, no werewolf juju for humans, she’d looked it up,
Scott had tried but it hurt more, no surprise, Stiles was supposed to be all
alone, and she could feel his hot breath on the back of her neck as he said—
“Go to sleep, Stiles.”
As if it was that
--
He’d intended to tell Stiles that she needed to stop skipping full moon runs
now that Scott had finally submitted and joined the pack. The bite had been
like a bone snapping back into joint, he could feel it, the pack did, heard the
rest of them huff in relief while Derek cleaned off the bite, then let Allison
clean up the rest. That had been the last time Stiles had shown up at his house
and—it had occurred to him only after that. She. Well. She wasn’t allowed to
skip pack meetings.
He hadn’t quite figured out how he was going to do that without Stiles starting
to argue back just for the sake of talking, since so far, Derek figured,
talking and making his life difficult was pretty much was Stiles lived for.
That, curly fries, lacrosse, and something called an MMPORG, whatever that was,
it was on the computer, that was all the sense he’d ever made of the
explanation that had been overcut by Jackson telling Scott and Stiles they were
the nerdiest nerds ever the fuck ever and Erica and Boyd asking which one and
Isaac growling and pouncing on Jackson because “They’re cool, motherfucker,
social, don’t hate, you asshole,” and he’d ended up having to wade in to
separate the pups. He never did figure out what the MMPORG was. He could have
looked it up, but knowledge and the acquisition thereof was Stiles’ province.
But he hadn’t expected to climb in her window to have what she’d call a little
chat just to find her dropping some kind of needle smelling of drugs while she
curled up on her bed and whimpered behind a jaw clenched so tight he would
think she was trying not to fang out. Except. He was well aware Stiles was not
a wolf. And she didn’t answer his question, except to scrunch up her face like
he was talking too loudly, then bat a limp hand at him like she was a cub who
could make him back off after she’d lost a bad fight.
She was pasty—greenish, almost, like she needed to vomit—and Derek had never
seen Stiles sick or hurt unless it was something related to some evil attack.
Which happened too often. The medication in the tube seemed to mark this as
something entirely human. She whined again behind teeth, her forehead furrowing
as he leant down, tested her clammy skin. She jerked away before he could,
because the pain was like a semi-truck slamming into him at full speed. It hurt
as much as that time that he died, throbbing waves of pain, nausea, everything
inundating his senses until he clamped his hand away, over his own mouth,
because he wasn’t going to vomit on Stiles’ bed.
He was going to get answers.
What’s wrong with Stiles?
Scott’s answer was typical Scott, not enough information and too much all at
once. Migraine, leave her alone. She went home to sleep off her meds. DON’T
TOUCH HER, the pain transfer thing doesn’t work, touch just hurts her more.
She’ll be better tomorrow.
Why is she sick?
He could practically taste Scott’s embarrassment through the phone. PMS thing.
This happened to her every month? He was aware that the pack’s female humans
cycled together and that they cycled with the moon because whomever among them
was most dominant had that cycle (Stiles, she didn’t reek of birth control
pills like the rest), but. He had not been led to believe that it was as
painful in its onset at Scott was seeming to say. He managed to not crack his
phone as he sent back another question, because it was important.
All the females get like this?
There was a pause, as if… as if Scott was trying to figure out how to tell a
birth wolf the human birds and the bees. Which he knew. The general details.
Clearly not the specifics.
Just Stiles. Rest of the girls just get cranky. And cramps, sometimes bad? And
food things?
Food things. Great. Scott texted again. Just. Don’t touch her, I tried the pain
thing, it. Doesn’t. Leave her alone.
Derek shoved his phone in his pocket, because Scott wasn’t going to tell him
what to do, even if he was concerned for his friend. He didn’t know everything
about being a wolf yet. The fact that he’d even tried it with Stiles meant he
had tried it with some other human, and that would be Allison, so.
He shrugged off his jacket. Toed off his shoes.
Curled himself flush to—she was shaking, her heart pounding, the blood
thrumming inside her when he put his hand back on her forehead. She whimpered
again at the contact. Jerked, stiffening, but— he told her to sleep, pulled her
closer, gritted his teeth and huffed out a breath because the medication stink
was not doing as much as it should. As he could.
As he drew the pain off and bit through his lip because—fuck, fuck, it hurt,
but it wouldn’t be long, wouldn’t kill him, fuck, she was only human, fuck it
hurt—she sagged, as he drew the rest out, and fell asleep like he’d told her
to. He blinked off the tears because—owie, as Stiles would say—and licked the
blood off his lip as his fangs retracted.
And then, because she’d only gotten the blanket half on herself, he pulled it
up, pulled her in closer and rearranged them both because for once—for once
Stiles didn’t fight him, even if it was because she was unconscious—and closed
his own eyes, breathing in her scent until it changed from vinegar tar molasses
anxiety pain sadness to her usual scent and the nutmeg of deep, human sleep.
That latter was not a smell he smelled often on Stiles, he realized. And didn’t
startle, because he didn’t want to wake her, and he was a grown werewolf. He
could control his reactions, at least now that he’d pulled the pain off.
But without the babble of Stiles to distract him, it was easy to think. She
didn’t often smell of sleep. And she was usually up, pretty much whenever he’d
come by because they needed her to figure out something that Derek could smell
the edges of, but couldn’t sense the whole thing because noses? Not google. Or
grimoires. Or bestiaries. All of which Stiles was good with, and always reading
anyway when he came by.
The only logical conclusion was that she didn’t sleep all that often. And had
headaches so bad every month that even Derek teared up.
Well.
He’d deal with the details later, figure out something once he was sure the
pain wouldn’t come back.
Her cinnamon pepper cedar salt evened out, the acrid tar pain scent receding
until it was just Stiles’ smell overlaid with her baseline tang of worry (why
did Stiles smell of worry in sleep) and the ticklish, sweet nutmeg.
He closed his eyes and stopped staring at the milk skin (not as green, clammy
now), the chocolate freckles at the join of her neck where he’d shoved his
nose, because there was always a pocket of scent behind her round, exposed,
little ears.
Closed his eyes and chased nutmeg.
--
She was delightfully warm when she woke up, toasty and her head wasn’t even as
fuzzy as it got from the drugs. She tentatively started to stretch, to see if
it would set off another attack, since sometimes it did and it was twenty four
hours, not twelve, before she could crawl out of bed.
She didn’t stretch far before she felt a twinge, stopped before she could set
anything off—and an arm—fuck, an arm, who was in bed with her, oh, god, fuck—
“Stiles. It still hurts? Go back to sleep,” and an enormous palm was stroking
over her forehead again even as her brain registered Derek, what the fuck,
werewolf juju didn’t work and didn’t he know it was one creepy thing to climb
in a girl’s window, but to climb
“Sleep,” he breathed in her ear, hot. It smelt like warm pine needles.
She dreamt of running barefoot in the woods. Chasing sunbeams.
--
He’d had to hide four times while the sheriff checked in on his daughter. The
first time, he’d come in and sat on Stiles’ bed, looking tired and old as he
watched her, minutes on end, before adjusting the covers and saying, a whisper,
like he knew anything louder would hurt, “It’s not like I don’t always wish
your mom was still here, kiddo, but I think she’d be better at this than me.”
He’d tentatively patted her hip under the covers, but Stiles hadn’t budged, and
the sour vinegar worry was mostly the sheriff’s, as he sighed and got up and
retrieved the medicine needle and some plastic cover, threw them out, tidied
the few things on the floor and the desk that marked the trail of someone
stumbling into the room and letting things fall where they would.
Derek had been tempted to tidy, but he’d also been sure the sheriff would
notice. And that he would check in on Stiles.
He hid again in the closet each time the sheriff came up, but he would only
stand in the doorway, watching his daughter, the rise and fall of her chest as
she slept on, still curled on her side because the renewed headache apparently
made it the only possible sleeping position. And then he’d crawl back under the
covers, pull Stiles against him again, and try to pull some more of the
discomfort off, all the while trying to tell himself (and failing, Derek was
good at failing) that he had known Stiles for almost two years, and yet it was
okay for him to not have known she had disabling headaches because humans were
strange about their bodies and sex and Stiles didn’t like asking for help
unless it was for one of her friends. (In which case, she wouldn’t shut up.)
It didn’t matter, he finally decided, not long after listening the sheriff
drive off for work, having called Scott to ask his daughter’s best friend to
stop by after school. Derek had learned to push help on people whether they
asked for it or not—and whether or not they were pack and he was their alpha.
Stiles had rubbed off on him that way (and so many others), and if right now he
felt like growling in frustration that Stiles hadn’t believed him when he said
he’d protect her…
Didn’t she know?
Stiles mumbled, hunching and shifting. “Stop growlin’,” she slurred, sighing
and going limp once again when he pulled her back into position. She didn’t
smell like hurt so much anymore. Just like tired. And Derek.
He huffed, pressed his nose under her ear, listened to her heartbeat settle
again.
--
When Stiles woke up, it might have been, probably, maybe, okay, kind of
definitely, because she had a horrendous cramp and also because someone was
mouthing her neck. Mouthing. Like. Whuffling. And lips. And little flickers of
tongue.
“It’s me,” Derek growled, then promptly went back to breathing her shoulder in
like her t-shirt had mortally offended him but he was going to be wolf-polite
and not eat her while she was sleeping.
No one had ever answered her question about what she smelt like, because she
wasn’t dumb and Derek. Sniffed. Sniffed her a lot, and he probably thought he
was being subtle, but he kind of got this constipated wolf face (and was that
possible, even, constipated wolves?) sometimes, so, she figured she probably
smelled funny. Off. Though not so off that he didn’t still come leaping in her
window when the most recent monster was tearing it up in the woods or Scott had
done something stupid and he wanted Stiles to call him and tell him he was
being a moron (Stiles pretty much always agreed) or the pack was over his house
and Stiles was the only one who could cook, so she should come over and play
den mother for them and make extra lasagna because Boyd loved her lasagna.
“Stop thinking so loud,” Derek growled. Actually growled. And his arm, which
had been kind of—clasped up her chest, his hand kind of hooked onto her
collarbone like he was trying both not to cop a feel of her boobs (not that
there was much there to cop, boobs, she meant) and feel her pulse—pulled away,
and he started to rub her belly. Like he knew she was getting cramps or
something. Or could probably.
Oh.
God.
Smell the blood.
Okay. Then.
Officially most embarrassing thing ever.
She could feel the patented, signature, Stiles-full-body-blush start, feel it
rise up her neck, her cheeks feeling molten because.
Well.
Fuck if she knew, wolves could smell everything else, they could probably smell
menstruation. And while she might be a scrawny tomboy (who kicked ass, and
played lacrosse because softball? Sucked) she was still. A girl who got her
period, because her dad had been kind of an asshole when she’d stopped eating
after Mom died and then stopped getting her periods, too, and that whole “No
eating disorders under my roof” fight had kind of gotten them over the
immediate shock of Mom’s death though frankly, it had been a relief, not to get
the migraines, because periods were bad enough without the headaches and
nothing had worked, so, a little anorexia had been helpful, that way. In. You
know, hindsight. But dad had this thing about Stiles not dying, too. So. Curly
fries were okay.
Sometimes ice cream.
But.
Derek’s hand was still rubbing her stomach, over her pjs, and she had no idea
why he was a) in bed with her b) in bed with her and c) did she mention Derek
freaking Hale was in her bed?
The fact that her cramps didn’t hurt at all now so—it was an alpha thing, the
were-human-pain-thing juju? But Scott had said Allison, so. More to research.
She should probably get out of bed and get some tampons. Before she ruined
sheets and. You know. Menstruated in a bed with a werewolf.
“You never listen to me,” Derek huffed, but there was no follow-up picking her
up so he could slam her into a door, just his hand rubbing her stomach. Which
felt nice. Really nice. But.
She’d blame it on her Adderall, or the lack of it, or the way the migraines
always left her stupid when she woke up, because she just rolled on her back
and looked up at Derek, who had epic bed head that in no way detracted from how
Derek he was, and answered.
“It’s not your problem.” Because it wasn’t.
Derek’s eyes flashed, sea-blue-green to red, but he didn’t fang out—just
propped himself up on one arm at her side and kept one hand on her stomach—as
he said “I told you I would always protect you, and you didn’t believe me.”
The fact that he’d borrowed one of her Batman t-shirts and that it was
stretched impressively over her chest (dude had more cleavage than her, those
pecs, seriously…) was not at all distracting. Nor was the way he mouth-
breathed, right then, like he was scenting what Stiles was thinking and just.
“Um. Okay. Look. It’s a headache, for fuck’s sake, and there’s a full moon,
like, tonight, and you’ve got a pack of teen wolves who can’t control
themselves at the new moon, much less the full one, so do you honestly think I
was going to be like, um, hey, Derek, female humans do this thing every month
where they feel shitty and bleed and mine happens to coincide with the full
moon, so, screw getting ready with the pack and come over and take my migraine
away?”
Derek—she hated them all, how fast they moved—rolled and was two inches away
from her face as he propped himself over her body, caging her in.
“Yes.”
Right. Because remember, Derek Hale, king of explanations.
But then he nosed along her jaw—again with the whuffling, and murmured—“You’re
mine, it’s offensive that you wouldn’t ask me.”
Ah. So. Apparently she’d got adopted with Scott, even without the biting thing.
Lydia had rolled her eyes at her last week when she’d made Stiles come shopping
with her and Jackson at the mall when Stiles had asked if they shouldn’t have
brought someone pack like Isaac (Isaac liked shopping. Stiles did not.)
instead. And Erica had not said anything about weird pain-snuggling with Derek,
but then. He didn’t seem to like girls very much. Especially Stiles.
“Um. Okay. Sorry? But. Well. Wolfing and not rending, more important than
headaches.”
Derek blinked at her like she’d said something in Greek. Well. No. He probably
knew ancient Greek and was humoring her with the research because otherwise
Scott would be lonely without his best friend and Derek was all about pack
harmony, or harmony with wolves he wanted inside his pack or just overall less
rending and tearing unless he was calling the shots. So. But he still look
perplexed, and then he sniffed the base of her neck, his black hair tickling
her nose. In a softer, non-fangy, not coarse wolf-haired way.
“I’ll decide what’s important,” he muttered. And then he licked her.
She yelped, because “What the hell, Derek?” He didn’t even like her.
Derek, though, was looking satisfied with himself, like his tongue was a
calculating super computer or something and he’s just figured out something
important by painting her neck with his spit.
“You’re a virgin,” he announced, and Stiles couldn’t help it, because duh. She
rolled her eyes. Everyone knew that, including the neighborhood and visiting
witches, they kept trying to sacrifice her and shit.
Derek licked her jawline. In a less tasting-to-learn information way. And in a
way that. She didn’t know, because then he was talking again. “And for the
record, I like you. But you’re a virgin, so you wouldn’t know that endorphins
and regular orgasms are a way of relieving…”
“Menstrual discomfort and PMS?” Really. They were having this conversation.
“Um. Knew that. But. Ew. And. Migraines are not cured by sex. I own a vibrator,
thanks. And. There’s no research. Or I’d be buying so many batteries that…”
Derek growled at her, and then he was nipping the end of her chin, licking
again, tasting, his breath hot over the trail he’d left.
“Humans are so strange about blood,” he murmured, and then he was pulling away.
She was about to, well, she didn’t know what, and then Derek had pulled the
covers with him and she was cold, damnit, but he was sitting back on her legs,
looking at her with this inscrutable look on his face like he was offended by
her pajamas. And then he tugged her pants down and off, said “Don’t start
wearing girly clothes, ever, no one’s allowed to see you,” and started.
Eating.
Her.
Out.
In the good way. With teeth. In the good way.
This was her life, getting magical healing head from Derek Hale after anti-
migraine snuggling, and she was going to ask what the fuck, Derek, but his
tongue was sucking her clit into his mouth after he’d shoved her legs open and
licked her all over and all she could get out was a rattling gasp, because
Derek.
Ahhhhh was about the only sound she could make. And then not even that, because
he was alternately sucking and licking at her cunt, nipping her clit, thumbs
stroking the inside of her thighs as he held her open and—she screamed when he
shoved his tongue inside, wiggling it deeper and thick, hot, wet, she was
cramping but not in the way that hurt, just,
“You can pull my hair if you want,” he mumbled, then slurped—oh god, she was
leaking, she could feel it—whatever was leaking out of her cunt. It was blood.
Her blood. She could smell it, that and something musky and Derek and something
else musky that was. Her? And then his contented growl against her clit made
her hips buck because she didn’t know how she knew that growl was contentment
but—he had her clit back under his lips and was teasing her, sucking it in and
out and licking it lightly, too lightly to… she could feel it burning, all of
her, burning and hot and—she tugged his hair, yanked, because he was chuckling
and backing away like he thought he was going somewhere, and even if this was
just magical healing head for purely pack-healing measures, he was going to
stay there and suck at her clit until she came.
“I will. But I’m going to finger you, too. And then after you come, I’m going
to do it again. Because I want to.”
So apparently she’d said that complaint out loud.
She never could shut her mouth.
Apparently, though, Derek minded less than she’d thought, and the growling and
slamming and glarey looks of indecipherable glares were all foreplay, or no,
this was foreplay, this, with Derek tugging her pubic hair—just a bit, sharp,
and it hurts, hurts so good, and he’s still sucking on her clit before—
“Oh, God,” she hissed, when he crooked a finger inside her, went right for the
g-spot like he’s got a map to the inside of her cunt. Which maybe that had been
what the neck-licking was for? Wolf MRI? She lost the thought as he crooked his
finger inside her again, pulled out, and then there were two fingers in her,
stretching her wide.
A whorish moan (she knew it was, she watched porn, thanks) escaped her when he
found her g-spot again, and he nipped at her clit before backing off and
licking her folds, sucking and tugging and nipping and flat human teeth and
hot, hot tongue all over her cunt as he drove his fingers inside her, twisting
and crooking and holding her open with this studious look on his face he was
learning something he liked for once. Because Derek? Not such a fan of things
academic, at least he didn’t like it when Stiles babbled about them, but.
Okay. She may have gotten herself up on her elbows because she was not going to
miss the spectacle of Derek Hale deflowering her.
His eyes flashed red as he flicked a glance up, and oh, she must have been
babbling, but he smirked and shoved her back into the bed, grunting as he
simultaneously pulled her legs up over his hot, broad, inhumanly hot shoulders
and settled in for a moment alone with her clit that had her grabbing his ears
and holding on for the ride because—fuck.
Fuck.
His fingers inside her were relentless; she couldn’t catch whatever rhythm he
didn’t set. She just. Shook and shuddered and moaned, because her vibrator
never told her that she was a screamer. Rude. He mouthed at her, licking,
obscene wet sucking noises and she could feel, her cunt spasming around his
fingers as her skin tingled and burnt and she couldn’t catch her breath even
though Derek was the one acting like he had gills because seriously? His mouth
has not peeled away from her cunt for like...
She screamed through the first orgasm, bucked against him and he just shoved
his nose against her clit, rubbing it and licking, licking at her now empty
hole as wet-sticky fingers grabbed the underside of her leg and pushed her legs
open even more widely.
He shoved his tongue inside her and sucked—hard—and she screamed, barely aware
of whatever she was babbling, because he was twisting her clit with his
fingers, rubbing it back and forth under his thumb as she shuddered and whined
because oh, fuck, it’s too—
She panted through the third orgasm, whined through the fourth, begged Derek to
stop for a sec and no, no, why was he stopping, barely twitched because she was
rubber, really, couldn’t stitch a thought—when she squeaked again because even
her orgasms are having orgasms, there’s just, like, this continuous shiver as
he lapped at her, up and down, pausing every so often to slurp, like she was
ice cream in August. She. Can’t.
He finally stopped, but there was more licking. Licking and rubbing a stubbly
wet face all over her stomach, her chest as her t-shirt rode up and then got
shredded off in impatience and that made her come again while Derek lay claim
to her nipples like they were the last patch of frontier. His fingers were
inside her again, crooking and squelching and his thumb worked her clit as he
nuzzled and made this continuous rumble that sounded… like a purr. If wolves
purred, while smearing cum-bloody Stiles juices all over her breasts.
In the way that they did.
Which was apparently a Stiles thing, too, because the smell made her dizzy, and
not like she was going to puke.
Her body did something like—well, she hadn’t been hit by lightning, yet, though
she was sure it was just a matter of time, but in any event, there was a jolt,
everything burned, ached, stung, her skin cold and wet and hot and everything,
everything, and Derek had his arm under her shoulders, licking her face,
licking under her nose because she was sobbing gross snotty tears, this was why
Stiles didn’t cry, but Derek kept licking, that and crooning “Mine, mine, give
it to me, I want all of it,” which didn’t make any sense but she couldn’t stop
shaking and sobbing because.
She didn’t know.
When she finally came to her senses, Derek’s got her pulled onto his shoulder
and chest, his own heart for once almost as rabbit-uneven as Stiles’ feels most
of the time. He’s, his—brain short circuits about abs/pec/naked Derek—pale and
dark hair, soft, hairy, she wasn’t surprised, is all smeared with. Pink. Which
she wasn’t going to think about too much. But he apparently managed to get
himself off, because his jeans were open and there’s a spray (reverse
waterfall? Going up?) of cum up his chest, on his belly, under her arm where he
had it pulled across his. Yep. Rock-solid abs.
She blinked, because.
Well.
“I think the host is supposed to offer a washcloth. Or something. But I don’t
think I can move.” It got mumbled into Derek’s nipple, which was. Tan. Round.
Perfect, like if she calculated its circumference it would be the goddamned
golden mean. Surrounded by dark hair that smells like pine needles and spice
cake and leather and had to be what Derek smelled like. Plus cum.
So that was what guys’ cum smelled like. Her fingers wandered of their own
accord because—and Derek growled when she sucked it off, tasting, because
apparently, two can play at this game that heretofore was all in her head.
Except now Derek has given her head. Spectacularly.
There was a silence that for once isn’t lurky or loomy or filled with Stiles’
imagination because she was, frankly, pooped, and then Derek said, his voice
quiet as he ran his fingers through the hair she’d been growing out, just a
bit, short enough for lacrosse but maybe not quite so butch—“Pain sharing only
works between alphas and the wolves that they’ve made, or wolves and their
mates.”
Ah.
That would make sense, then, the Scott and Allison thing, except…
“If you ever let Scott or anyone else snuggle you ever again I will rend him,
and then I will rend him again,” Derek said, and his voice is good-humored, but
Stiles can tell he means it. "Lydia, too."
“Um. My dad likes to…” They’re going to have to talk about the slamming and
rending of things. One of them had to be the responsible one. She might as well
carry on. And she thought he understood she was so over the Lydia thing.
“Your father is fine,” Derek huffed, like he hadn’t just announced she was his
mate and he would kill anyone who touched her, which suddenly put all the
sniffing and growling and emo-pout-wolf faces into. A. Different. Perspective.
A wolfy one. But still. Talking. Later. “In small doses.” He did something,
because then she was lying on top of him and he’s licking her face again before
he licks into her mouth and there was a real, human kiss.
Which did not leave her quivering at all or thinking about the taste of herself
and her blood and her cum in Derek’s mouth. Hello, unexplored kinks, goodbye,
rapidly fading virginity.
He huffed, like he could taste what she was thinking, then said—“We should take
a shower.”
Of all the things Stiles expected, post-coital showering wasn’t the thing.
“Don’t you. I don’t know. I figured. Wolves? Marking?”
Derek smiled, and there’s no other adjective.
“Oh. They’ll know. Apparently you missed the memo. Which I didn’t send.” His
smile was all self-deprecation, I’m-only-a-wolf-I-expect-you-to-know-you’re-my-
mate, and she should be mad, but he was—upset that she hadn’t asked him for
help, really, so. She’d yell at him later. For now, she let him kiss her again,
and this time she was a more active participant because the word mate meant
lots of things that were scary but a lot of things that were more awesome, but
she’s seventeen and it was Derek, Derek who she can now see by her alarm clock,
spent fourteen hours snuggling her because her head hurt, even though she
didn’t ask, and then another hour thoroughly sexing her up because. Mate? Wow.
Her cramps really were better.
She’d be embarrassed about the scent thing when she actually sees the pack
again. Right now, she reached between them, dipped her finger between her legs
to get them wet because—six hours before moonrise—and grabbed Derek’s cock,
hardening even before she takes it in hand.
“Well,” she said, feeling a smile curl her mouth and a pulse throughout her
body that’s not pain at all—“maybe we’d better make really sure.”
Derek’s eyes shaded even more red and his smile widened, white, blinding. She
panted a bit at how pretty he was as he grunted and pushed up into her hand.
“You’re probably right. Don’t want anyone to get confused.”
It was the last thing either one of them said for quite a while.
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