Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3119627.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      No_Archive_Warnings_Apply, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Stiles_Stilinski
  Character:
      Derek_Hale, Stiles_Stilinski
  Additional Tags:
      Always_Female_Stiles_Stilinski, Knotting, Dom/sub, Werewolf_Sex, Werewolf
      Mates, Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-01-05 Words: 3820
****** may still become the wolf, when the autumn moon is bright ******
by orphan_account
Summary
     “You’re feeling weird because I told you to knot me,” Stiles
     announced a week later, when she was feeling emotionally up to the
     task. She was totally killing a multivariable calculus assignment
     which was definitely putting the wind back into her sails.
     “Ugh,” Derek replied noncommittally, watching in fascination as she
     finished off a proof for class.
     “I’m 18 now. It’s legal.”
     His expression became stern. “You don’t even know what you’re talking
     about.”
     “What? I do. I know lots of things.”
     “Yes,” he agreed. “Not this though.”
     She frowned deeply, scribbled a final line onto the assignment, and
     tossed it aside. “You’re frustrating,” she said, mostly to herself.
     He didn’t disagree.
The most embarrassing part was how the panic attacks stopped. Stiles spent the
majority of her 15th year on earth praying for and bargaining with any deity
that came to her attention, for a way to get rid of them. The answer came to
her in two hundred and forty pounds of werewolf. It was not really the solution
she had been expecting. It also felt kinda incongruous with her firmly set
feminist beliefs. That, you know, sometimes the only thing that made the room
stop spinning was his palm flat against her back. The anxiety would gave her
the sensation of being crushed, like some creature was sinking down on her,
slowly, splintering her ribs apart one by one, and it was his breath on her
neck that made it release. It was pretty fucking dumb. Why couldn’t she be
saved be the nobleness of own character, or whatever?
Scott tried to make her feel better by telling her that Derek wasn’t really
stopping it, just taking the worst parts away, so she could struggle through
the rest on her own and come out on the other side. Derek – the fucker – never
really confirmed or denied it, but just looked at her blankly if she ever
brought it up. Derek was world class terrible about talking about feelings, his
or her’s. That was weird, since Stiles was technically mostly made out of
water, but the runner up ingredient was DEFINITELY feelings.
In a funny way though, it worked itself out. Stiles could admit that just
because he wasn’t great at discussing them ad nauseum, that didn’t mean he
didn’t recognize them. Stiles could be moody, the generalized anxiety disorder
didn’t help with that, but that didn’t bother him. In a rare moment of verbal
dictation of what was actually going on inside his brain, Derek told her he
liked that she reacted to everything. It could be exhausting to cry over small,
kind gestures and to become enraged at the slightest injustice, but he told her
she was a good barometer of what it was to be human. She had her doubts a lot
of the time, but if she was going to bet money on it, that would’ve been her
guess about what he liked in her the most.
That was good, because for a while she had been pretty sure it was her cunt.
It’s not like that sort of attention didn’t help with the anxiety either – holy
shit. The first time Derek ate her out she slept for almost 14 hours afterwards
and wouldn’t have noticed if the neighbourhood had been set on fire. She was
pretty sure she didn’t have a negative thought for the next three days. She
once called his tongue therapeutic, as a terrible joke, and his face turned so
pink that she couldn’t decide if his reaction delighted her more than it
horrified her. She kept that memory tucked away, something to giggle about on a
rainy day, but sometimes when he was between her legs, the moment would reveal
itself to her and she had to try her best to not laugh and knock him in the
side of the head with her knee.
However, as talented as he was at eating her out, it often made her ache for
more. She suspected he was on the same page, but something was stopping him.
She was sprawled across his lap one night, his fingers working rhythmically on
her cunt, as he made little bruises down her neck with his mouth. She was
making lots of noises, because she couldn’t ever play it cool, and then got
stupidly, exceedingly brave and whispered in his ear, “fuck me please, I want
it so bad. I want your knot. I want it as hard as you’ll give it to me.” He
pulled his head away from her neck so fast it was almost violent, eyes now blue
and brutal looking. His fangs were out. She breathed in, startled at the
suddenness of his transformation, and with that he threw her off his lap and
onto the bed.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He yelled. It was bizarre to hear him yell,
especially at her. In his worst moments he tended to become almost entirely
silent.
“Fuck you!” She screamed back, embarrassed and confused. Her foot had twisted
beneath her as he tossed her aside, and now her ankle was throbbing. She didn’t
even have a time to register another thought before he yanked her bedroom
window open and disappeared out of it.
She didn’t seem him for two weeks. She tried to pretend that the anxiety attack
she had in the middle of that time wasn’t the worst one she’d had in years. The
sprained ankle she’d acquired didn’t help.
When he did decide to show up again, she thought his presence was a
hallucination from all the Ativan. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his
hands wrapped gently around her aching foot. It felt like the throbbing that
encompassed her foot was now a block of ice, and the pain was trickling away
from it like little rivers of water running onto the floor.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice was low and cracked a little, and he was actually
apologizing so there was no other option than she was been stoned out of her
mind.
“Don’t let go of my foot,” she ordered imaginary Derek.
“Okay,” the hallucination cordially agreed. “I won’t.”
 
When she woke up, her foot was resting in his lap, his big hands enveloped
around it, like they were housing a baby bird. He was sleeping sitting up near
the edge of her bed, back against the wall, head tilted down at an
uncomfortable looking angle.
“Oh God,” she muttered. “You’re real.”
He woke up at the sound of her voice, looking immediately miserable. “What?”
“Why are you here?”
He blinked a few times. “Sorry.”
She shifted and tried to pull her foot out of his grasp.
“No, don’t,” he said.
“You’ve been taking away my pain all night? You’re gonna kill yourself.”
“I’m fine.”
With that her eyes welled up, and holy fuck she HATED when she did this, why
was she crying, she wasn’t even that sad, seriously. He was just a dumb
werewolf giving her a tremendously dumb look, with his beautiful, dumb werewolf
eyes –
He did let her foot go, reluctantly, and crawled over to her. When he hugged
her, she would disappear inside of him. Not even in a melodramatic way – just
that his arms were so big, and her frame was so spindly, when he tilted his
head down and cradled the side of her face against his palm, her whole being
disappeared from sight.
“Don’t cry,” he said, which was basically a Shakespearean sonnet where Derek
was concerned. “That night was bad. I can’t handle it if you stay stuff like
that to me.”
“Like what?” She said, honestly confused, and the ache in her ankle returning.
“Shhhh,” He said, apparently deciding the issue was resolved. “I won’t leave
again. I promise. Here, I got you something.”
He dug his hand down into his pocket to reveal a simple heart shaped gold
locket, slightly rusted, and easily twice as old as she was. “Seriously?” she
said. “You’re bribing me with jewellery now?”
He shook his head. “No. I just want you to have it.”
She scoffed and grabbed it from him. “You must think I’m dumb as fuck.”
 
Stiles wasn’t dumb though. That was the thing. Hopefully, really, that was
ACTUALLY the thing Derek liked about Stiles. She was full of tears for little
old ladies who got fractured hips and needlessly complicated revenge plots for
those who cut in line at McDonalds – and she was clever.
“You’re feeling weird because I told you to knot me,” Stiles announced a week
later, when she was feeling emotionally up to the task. She was totally killing
a multivariable calculus assignment which was definitely putting the wind back
into her sails.
“Ugh,” Derek replied noncommittally, watching in fascination as she finished
off a proof for class.
“I’m 18 now. It’s legal.”
His expression became stern. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
“What? I do. I know lots of things.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Not this though.”
She frowned deeply, scribbled a final line onto the assignment, and tossed it
aside. “You’re frustrating,” she said, mostly to herself.
He didn’t disagree.
 
It was a testament to the way Derek ate Stiles out that, for a while, she
really was pretty okay with them not fucking. Mostly. Still, on lonely nights
when Derek was out running mysterious werewolf errands, she got herself off to
the thought. When he showed up though, gracefully maneuvering himself through
the window into her room, her ability to lay out all of her desires went a bit
fuzzy. It was silly think that she still got flustered around Derek, a year
into them fucking around. It still startled her on occasion how handsome he
was, that her skinny limbs and weird constellations of moles were on the
receiving end of his attention. Along with the fact that he was highly adept at
making himself entirely unapproachable when he chose to (which was the majority
of his moments, if she was being honest with herself). When he climbed through
her window, it was always with purpose. Sometimes it was to collapse onto the
floor and try to heal before he bled out on the rug. Sometimes it was to get
her on the bed with her sleep pants around her ankles, the lovely twinge of his
scruff scraping against the inside of her thighs. His appearances were never to
discuss when they would take their relationship to the next level.
She always came. It was like, law in Derek’s mind that he could not leave her
until she was properly taken care of. It was incredibly agitating to her that
the rule wasn’t mutual. Once in a while he’d let her suck him off, usually a
hand-job, but often he would shrug her advances off altogether, that cold,
untouchable look falling over his face. He’d grip her wrist and carefully move
her aside, like she was in danger of injuring herself.
“Fuck, Derek!” She spat out, entirely unsatisfied by the two orgasms she’d just
experienced. It was a frustration that was palpable in the room, and her tone
was sharp enough to cause his expression to waiver. “Am that disgusting? You
can’t even stand to let me touch you?”
He blinked. “I….no.”
She wrenched her wrist away and tried to climb over top of him, attempting to
get away from the bed.
“Hey,” he argued, hands finding their way to her hips and stopping her. “Wait.”
“Fuck off!”
His eyebrows lifted but he held her in place. “Sorry,” he said, offering no
further explanation.
“Why do you come here? If you won’t even let me….or you almost never. I mean. I
want to-” She stopped because her vision had gone blurry with tears and she’d
reached a critical threshold for humiliation for that evening.
His tense grip on her relaxed and his face changed. The wall was gone.
“Stiles,” his voice was soft. It was eerie to hear him say her name like that.
He almost never did. His steely, untouchable expression was gone. “Stop.”
“Can you let me go?”
He nodded and shifted so she could get off the bed.
“Do you want me to leave?” He asked.
“Yes,” she said immediately and then followed it with a shake of her head.
“No.” If she told him to get out, he would. “I don’t know what I want.” She
locked her gaze on the window, trying to focus on the way the fat, blueish
clouds blanketed the moon, masking all of the stars.
His hand found his way to her shoulder. It was a tense touch, maybe even
awkward. “I won’t hurt you. I can’t.”
The first night he kissed her, he was high off of a run, sweat still slicked
down his back, the taste in his mouth slightly metallic. She’d wondered if he’d
killed something. It sent electricity down her body, the reminder that he could
– and sometimes did – do that. Kill things.
She pushed his hand off of her back.
“I’m tired,” she said softly. “I think I’m gonna sleep.” She closed her eyes
briefly and tried to think of some other boy she could imagine fucking that
night. Maybe an entirely human one. Maybe one that would fuck her in real life.
Then he was in front of her, eyes wild. Her heart lurched and she stepped back.
It frightened how little she understood about what his sense of smell conveyed
to him about her. It was unnerving, his access to so much intimate information
about her, while she stumbled around in the dark, always trying to suss him
out.
“You don’t get it,” he sounded angry. “I just – you’re a person. You’re human.
A relatively small human, frankly, you’re built like a fucking sparrow.
Sometimes it feels like if I move the wrong way I’ll crush you.”
His dark eyes had gone pale, like he was on the cusp of a shift. She wondered
if those were the most words Derek had ever said consecutively.
“You won’t crush me,” she said flatly. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“I can’t hurt you,” he repeated. He looked confused at his own words. Lost,
almost defeated. “I can’t. I won’t.”
“Oh,” she whispered. “You can’t. Except….you want to.”
Stiles imagined his reaction would have been the same if she’d backhanded him,
her mom’s old ruby ring that she'd started wearing slicing through a perfect
cheekbone. The skin would only stay open for only a moment before he'd begin to
heal. His wounded expression was similarly temporary.
She closed the space between them. It was his turn to look frightened. “You
won’t hurt me. I know what I want.” Something in his eyes flickered,. “I want
you to fuck me. If that means knotting, then I want that too. I want more. I
trust you. Trust me too.”
He was out the window so fast, the curtains moved like a ghost had just passed
through them, fluttering soundlessly against the starless night
Somehow, this time, she knew he’d be back.
 
It took 17 hours. When he came back, there were no apologies or explanations
for his sudden departure (what else was new). She returned home from the
physics tutor session she ran every Wednesday afternoon to find him sitting on
the edge of her bed, looking intense (also not a startling development).
“The locket. Open it,” he ordered. She glanced at him. There was nothing
particularly romantic about the tone of his voice, or him barking instructions
at her.
“Okay, hello to you too,” she said dryly.
He blinked. Like it just occurred to him that his actions might be perceived as
rude. “Sorry. Just. Can you open the locket? It’s important. I couldn’t tell
you before…but I know that I need to.”
She sighed and carelessly dropped her pile of textbooks into his lap, even
though her desk was literally right beside him. The locket had been placed on
top of her dresser, untouched since she’d received it.
She grabbed it off the desk, and struggled with the clasp. “I think it’s
stuck,” she sighed. If there was a picture of Derek in there she was going to
be so creeped out. Finally, it popped open. Inside the locket was a small,
bright blue capsule. He stepped away as soon as she opened it. “It’s
concentrated wolfsbane,” he said. “I want you to use it on me. If you ever need
to.”
She stared at him. She couldn’t remember the last time when she actually had no
words. “I mean it. You can take the capsule and break it in your hands. Rub it
in my eyes, whatever. It will protect you. If I…you know.”
She closed the locket and he took it from her, nimbly opening the clasp on the
delicate chain and placing it around her neck. He stepped back, to admire it,
and actually smiled. He looked relieved, like he’d just gotten good news after
fretting for weeks.
“This is a fucked up relationship,” she finally announced.
When he leaned in to kiss her he let the faintest sound, a soft desperate
thing, escape his lips before he touched her.
 
This time when he ate her out, it was different. He got her on her belly, ass
in the air and face buried into the pillow, his hands firmly clenched around
each of her thighs. His tongue and lips – all the control and precision she was
used to with him was gone. He lapped at her cunt greedily, sucking on her clit,
fingers teasing the opening of her asshole. She was shaking from the building
orgasm, her thighs so slippery from his mouth and her own juices that
occasionally he would lose his grip on her.
When he flipped her over, he pushed the loose t-shirt she worse up past her
breasts, and climbed on top of her. She could feel his weight, his strength,
the press of his cock through his jeans against her hip. It felt huge. She
gasped a little and he grinded into her, knowing that was what had sparked her
reaction.
“Should I stop?” He asked, strained, like it was through gritted teeth.
“No,” she whimpered, legs finding their way around his sides, struggling to
pull him closer. “I want it. I want you.”
She had fucked a couple guys in her day, mostly out of boredom and curiosity to
be honest. His cock though, precum glistening on the tip when he pulled his
jeans off in a swift movement, made her stomach drop. She’d seen it before,
she’d sucked it, she’d gotten him off. This was something different.
“Are you ready?” When she looked up to meet his gaze, she saw that his eyes had
become entirely blue. He wasn’t struggling anymore. He’d let that part of him
overtake her, but she knew at that moment, the wolfsbane was never something
she’d really need.
She slipped her fingers into her cunt, deep, and slicked them up before
reaching up to hold onto his cock. She gave it a few pumps and he shuddered in
appreciation.
She kissed his temple. “Fuck me,” she instructed sweetly.
The stretch was good, holy fuck it was good, but it still hurt. She gasped, she
knew she would, and she accepted the tears prickling at the corner of her eyes
but she made no movement to stop him. She buried her head into his shoulder,
forehead pressed against the curve of his muscles there.
“Breathe out,” he told her, voice faltering.
She did and nuzzled against his neck. “Am I tight? Does it feel good?”
He groaned and touched the side of her thigh, rotating her hip outward slightly
to open her up more. “Don’t wanna knot you,” he choked out. “Can’t control it
though.”
She pulled her other leg open and he slid in all the way. She cried out, the
pain and the relief of finally getting what she wanted.
He started fucking her slowly and she felt tension slide right out of her,
dripping down to her toes and a steady, pleasurable hum filling her up. Derek
steadied himself over her body with one arm, his other hand finding its way to
her clit.
“You take it so good,” he murmured. “You take all of it.”
She felt her orgasm building and her hands grappled for his shoulders. “Fuck,
fuck, fuck,” was the only warning she could give him.
She came hard, her pussy clenching around his cock. Derek fucked her through
her orgasm, his strokes staying steady, his head low and his breath heavy in
her ear. She was so sensitized after coming, every movement he made forced a
tiny sob out of her.
Then, it happened. He pulled himself up, blue eyes flashing down at her. It
took her a second to notice the teeth, the hair that had sprouted along his
temple. The orgasm had taken so much out of her, she was surprised her heart
was able to quicken in speed.
In one movement, like she was nothing at all, he rolled her onto her side, his
cock still deep within her. He pulled her leg up, giving him better access to
her cunt. “Try not to move,” he said lowly, his voice guttural with the change.
“It will hurt less.”
She didn’t have time to ask questions, as began to fuck her steadily again. Her
body shook with his thrusts, but she closed her eyes and as she felt the base
of his cock swell within her. The pressure inside of her was uncomfortable, but
not agonizing, and made the slightest movements back to meet his thrusts – to
let him know she was okay, that she was still there, that she wanted it.
The sound he made when he came was distinctly animal, low and aggressive. The
breathy gasps that followed, and the appreciative, happy moan that he let out,
was so candid and rare for him – like eliciting an elusive laugh– that actually
giggled.
He pulled her against him as tight as he could, which she didn’t think was
possible at this point. He nuzzled her hair, breathed in her scent, made happy
little sounds against her ear. “Are you okay?” His voice was light again. His
own.
“Yes,” she said, struggling to turn to face him, to see the darkness of his own
eyes again.
“Shhh,” he said, holding her still. “Just…give it a few.”
She relented and turned back over, wiggling her ass slightly, feeling his
hipbones against her. He grunted, happily.
“See,” she whispered. “Not broken.”
“Mmm,” he agreed, hands traveling down her sides, carefully feeling the edges
of her ass and down towards her cunt. “I hope you still are saying that an hour
from now?”
She had to stop herself from jerking her head around again. “An hour??”
His laugh was light, freer than she’d maybe ever heard it. He kissed her
temple. “I’ll take care of you.”
She pretended to grumble, but the smile didn’t leave her face. “I know.”
She paused suddenly, her fingers at her own throat, the smooth metal of the
locket against her fingers. With one pull, she had snapped the chain, releasing
it from her throat. She jerked her hand sideways and they both listened as it
sailed out the open window, hitting the roof with a distant clink.
She could still feel him inside of her as she faded into sleep, his breath
steady behind her. His fingers lingered where the necklace had been and she
closed her eyes. She was safe.
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