rubykatewriting: (Teen Wolf: Dylan & Tyler H Cheeky)
[personal profile] rubykatewriting
Author: [ profile] rubykatewriting
Title: The Strong Scent of Evergreen
Pairing: Derek/Girl!Stiles
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Derek and Stiles start something new. "I am, you know," she whispers against his mouth, and he tilts his head in question. "Yours."
Spoilers/Warnings: Can be found here.
Notes: Title comes from the song "Passenger Seat" by Death Cab for Cutie.
Disclaimer: Not mine. So not mine. No harm intended.

Allison decides that the pack should “bond.” That’s how Stiles finally gets her movie date. She nearly chokes to death laughing at the look on Derek’s face as he repeats the word, like if he says it just one more time it will suddenly make sense, but if there is anything she has learned in her brief acquaintance with Allison, it is this: she’s only slightly less terrifying than Alpha!Derek when she wants something. Put her together with Lydia, who could stare down Hitler and win, and it’s really no wonder Stiles finds herself spending a Friday afternoon after school at Allison’s getting prepped for the triple date.

Between all male cousins growing up, having a psychologist for a mother who abhorred the idea of gender stereotyping, and then Scott being her only real friend from kindergarten on, Stiles never felt any pressure to be a girly girl. For lack of a better term – and her mother had made no bones about how much she hated it – Stiles has always been a tomboy. It’s likely why she has always been more than a little socially awkward – on top of her inability to sit still, penchant for troublemaking, and intelligence – because if there is anything Stiles has learned it is that girl world is a brutal, scary place where the Lydias of the world thrive and the Stiles of the world take one look and run as far and as fast as she can in the opposite direction. So she’s naturally a little nervous when Allison pulls out a curling iron and the biggest kit of makeup Stiles has ever seen. Allison laughs at the look of terror on Stiles’ face and places a calming hand on her shoulder.

“It’s a curling iron, Stiles. Not a medieval torture device.”

“You say to-may-to, I say to-mah-to.”

After, when she doesn’t immediately die of shock at the multiple applications of mascara and the hairspray and the hint of blush and the sweet-smelling lipgloss, Stiles stands in front of the mirror and can’t help but stare at the reflection. She’s actually kind of pretty, nothing like Allison or Lydia, but she has her mother’s eyes and nose and mouth. It hits her then, suddenly, how much she looks like her mom, and then she’s flailing, tears streaming down her cheeks from out of nowhere. Allison seems to know innately what to do, pulling her into a tight, calming hug, and she promises to fix whatever gets mussed, which Stiles realizes she’s blubbering about even as the tears come even harder.

“I can’t imagine how my dad feels seeing me every day,” she admits, snot and spit going everywhere, and she feels even more like an untrained baboon next to Allison. “He misses her so much.”

“Stiles, he probably likes the reminder,” Allison says, and she pulls back, dabbing at Stiles’ face with a tissue. “It may hurt but to know that a piece of her is still with him, this person he made with her? I can’t imagine that is a bad thing.”

Stiles closes her eyes and just breathes for a few minutes. “I’m glad Scott met you,” she whispers at last.

Allison smiles, a little wistful. “I’m glad Scott comes as a package deal with you. I mean, I love Lydia, but –” She shrugs and reaches for the powder, gently reapplying what Stiles’ has cried off. The silence is less charged with awkwardness, and Stiles watches Allison as she works. When their eyes meet, Stiles can’t help but grin and Allison beams in response, tongue between her teeth. “There, all fixed.”


Derek stops halfway across the circular drive when Stiles steps out onto the Argent’s front porch. Scott whistles, earning him a glare from Derek, but then Stiles is pressing into Derek, crowding his personal space. That’s one thing she likes about werewolves. They are so tactile. Sometimes all Derek has to do is touch her, a simple hand pressed to the back of her neck as she’s doing homework, and she’s getting more than just used to it. It’s one thing to miss a person, but being separated from him has become a kind of physical ache anymore.

“Hi,” she says shyly, arms circling his waist.

“You look…pretty,” Derek finally gets out, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. He keeps swallowing, and Stiles feels like she’s glowing, she’s so happy. He takes a deep breath, eyes drifting closed for a long second. “You smell good.”

“I’m not wearing any perfume though,” Stiles whispers, leaning in close, conspiratorially.

“I know. You smell like you. Like you’re mine.”

“Oh,” she says, blushing. She isn’t surprised; this isn’t news. She presses her nose against his chest, smelling the woods and soap and his skin, and she gets the appeal of scenting all over again because she swears she sometimes gets a contact high from his smell alone. It’s why she can hardly bear to strip her bed anymore; she loves sleeping with him all around her even when he isn’t physically there.

“So we should probably get going,” Scott breaks in, and Stiles glances over to see him smirking and Allison smiling. Of all of the people in her life now, Allison knows exactly what she’s feeling, and for all that she and Scott used to revel in their us against the world mentality, Stiles feels a warmth spread through her at the sense of belonging she has now.

After a terse exchange, Derek finally relents, and they head for Allison’s car since it has loads more room than Derek’s. A cold wind buffets them as they climb into the car, and even with the thick tights, Stiles can’t help but shiver. She figured when in Rome and all that, and Allison had laughed as Stiles pulled on the slippery skirt. “You would decide to go all out girl in thirty-degree weather,” Allison joked, digging out a pair of velvety soft brown tights from her chest of drawers. But the skirt floats around her thighs, moving in between them when she walks, and when she catches Derek openly ogling her as she slides across the backseat, second-guesses (and likely pneumonia) can’t make her regret the decision. He moves close, catching the fabric between his fingers, and then his big hand is warm against her thigh.

“I like this,” he says gruffly and Stiles can’t help but giggle. In the amount of time it takes Allison to start the car and pull out onto her street, Derek has Stiles in his lap, his mouth at her ear. “You should wear this all the time.”


“Holy fuck,” Stiles moans. She grabs the headboard because holding onto his head isn’t enough. She tries to lift her hips, tries to alleviate the onslaught of sensation. The thing Derek’s mouth is doing to her is almost too much, but he has her locked into place with his arm. He sucks at her clit, laps at it, and then moves down to push his tongue inside her. Then he sighs, a gentle huff of air, as if he is planning to spend the foreseeable future at the All You Can Eat Stiles Buffet. The sounds he makes as he goes down on her, the wet noise of it, is so hot. Why did she insist that they watch Super 8? Yes, it would have bugged her that Derek hadn’t seen it yet, but when they could have been doing this instead? She could have learned to deal.

And that’s enough to do it, to cease any possibility of higher brain function. She cries out, digging her heels into the bed for leverage, pressing up into that mouth and tongue, the scrape of his three days worth of beard, and then she collapses, heavy-limbed and wrung-out, idly wondering if Derek is just really that good at oral or if it’s because she’s new.

Derek presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh and then flops onto his back. He uses one leg as his pillow and pulls the other across his chest, his fingers gently massaging her calf. She stares at him from under her arm, taking in that unreal profile and the eyelashes that seem endless. It never stops surprising her; he’s so damn beautiful. Like, she’s seen the way other girls look at him, and she certainly used it to her advantage with Danny. His seeming obliviousness adds to it, too, makes him that much more appealing.

It isn’t helped by the looks she’s been getting at school, either. After Derek’s brief status as a fugitive, Stiles noticed an uptick in talk amongst the girls in school; she couldn’t fault them. More than once, she found the BOLO for him (hand-drawn because of that trick with his eyes) taped up in the locker room and in some of the girls’ bathrooms around school. (She took a photo on her phone with a promise that the next time Derek pissed her off; she would show it to him. Naturally, he was cleared within days.) She didn’t like the reminder, especially when she was forced to share a room with him; because it wasn’t like seeing him every day inured her to how attractive he was. Oh my god, if only.

Then she and Allison went into the girls’ restroom after Economics one day and all conversation stopped, comically so. A trio of freshman outright gaped at her, then tittered their way out of the bathroom. Stiles looked in the mirror to make sure a pimple hadn’t randomly erupted in the middle of her forehead. Nope. She tilted her head back, but there were no boogers either.

She turned to Allison. “Um…?”

Allison shrugged, reapplying her lipgloss. “Greenberg saw you and Derek eating at Burger Barn.”

“That pink-eyed little bastard.”

“Yeah, apparently he isn’t just generous with infections,” Allison agreed.

Now the discussion has shifted. Now she’s being sized up. Apparently all it takes to be considered “one of the girls” is to have a hot boyfriend, and Stiles really hates the world sometimes. Derek showing up nearly every afternoon to ride home with her gets glances, but for awhile she honestly thought it was due to his former-fugitive status, not that he was dating the Sheriff’s daughter. Which, bad on her because she is the sheriff’s daughter and he is an ex-fugitive, but she’s spent the better part of her life in Beacon Hills a living, breathing nobody. No matter how often she may have wished to be noticed before, she is simply not built for notoriety.

Everywhere Stiles goes there seem to be stares, whispers, or conversations abruptly ended; it feels like she’s slipped into some really shitty teen show on The CW. The worst of it were the looks that felt like a mental comparison, the ones that sized her up and found it severely wanting. Mary Nance, the girl who slipped into Lydia’s position as head pretty, didn’t even leave it to Stiles’ imagination. After school yesterday, she walked by Stiles’ locker carrying a crinkled and worn BOLO of Derek and put a real theatrical flare into it (she always did claim to do commercials in Japan). She and Ginger Frank stopped beside Stiles locker under the guise of talking to her first lieutenant Marisol Lopez who had the locker next to Stiles.

“I just can’t see it. I mean, he’s gorgeous and she’s,” she gestured with her hand.

Not for the first time in her life, Stiles wished she were a confrontational person. She can confront Scott. She can go toe-to-toe with Derek. And yet in the face of a mean girl, no words came; this was when that whole shutting up thing actually kicked in.

“And yet, Mary, Stiles is the one who gets to fuck Derek just about every night.” Lydia’s arm slipped companionably around Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles snorted. She couldn’t help it when Mary’s eyes all but bugged out of her head and her minions let out delicate gasps, as if they weren’t regularly doing half the guys in school. Which, hey, more power to you. From her experience, limited and new though it was, she was extremely pro-sex and pretty sure if more people were doing it regularly, the world would be a much better place. Their hypocrisy was enough to make her gag.

Mary made a face, but it was rather empty when she then turned on her heel, Marisol and Ginger trailing behind her.

However, in her more self-doubting moments, she can’t help but agree with them. She finds herself wondering why he chose her. Was it just a matter of biology? Like scenting but deeper, and he was hopeless to deny it and just went with it instead? She isn’t ugly, but she certainly isn’t the prettiest girl either. While Kate was an unrepentant psycho, she was undeniably beautiful. It’s moments like this that she’s happy her brain is often spinning along too fast for her to get bogged down in self-reflection because it really fucking sucks.

“How is it possible that you are noisy even when you’re not saying a word?” Derek rises up onto his elbows to look at her. His eyes drift to her cunt and his jaw muscles jump, nostrils flaring, and she flushes, momentarily forgetting that she’s supposed to be worrying if he actually likes her or if he’s just following a biological necessity. He likes her smell, but he really loves the smell of her sex. She can still remember turning beet red when he told her that, staring at the top of his head as he settled down between her knees, and then he’d met her eyes as he licked up her slit. It’s the wolf in him, she knows this, and yet it’s the way his animalistic qualities turn her on, make her burn for him, that has been the most surprising. Like his penchant for sniffing her underarms, licking them, and the way no part of her is off-limits to touching or tonguing. She’s even come to love when he goes full-out dominant on her, the way he manhandles her.

“I’m thinking,” she admits, trying to focus.

He takes one long, deep inhale of her, almost humming with it, before he meets her eyes, giving her his full attention again. “Always dangerous.”

“I know.” She bites her lip, hedging for as long as she is physically able, and then curiosity overwhelms all rational thought. She wouldn’t be her if she weren’t wrecking the moment somehow. “When did you start liking me?”

He cocks his head, his lips quirking. “What?”

“I was just thinking how I – and Scott, we must never forget about his very big role in all of the stuff that happened – basically made your life a living hell for a while and there were lots of threats to my person, usually involving your teeth. And – and then –” She gestures at them. “But then you’re also you. And look like that.” The way she says it sounds like an accusation and Derek’s eyebrows go up. “I – just when did it go from murderous, blackout rage to you wanting to kiss me?”

Derek surprises her by laughing. Like, an honest-to-god laugh, and even though they’ve been doing this for two months now and Stiles has seen an endless number of actual smiles, this is the first time she’s ever heard him laugh. Now that could become addictive, Stiles thinks, because she would really love to hear that daily, on the hour, for all eternity.

The mirth is still there in his eyes as he starts talking, and for a second she just wants to trace his lips, follow that smile and forget everything else. “I had seen you around town before…” The way he trails off for a second, gaze going inward, she realizes he means before the fire, and just. Whoa. She tries to calm her heart but the admission kind of shakes her anyway. “You were a little bit more noticeable because of your dad and his job. Then your mom was assigned as my school counselor and I’d see these pictures of your family.”

Stiles can’t help but sit up at this, reaching out for him, and she takes his hand in both of hers, holding it up against her mouth. He knew her mom? Her heart thumps wildly. It’s like this gathering inside of her, this amassing of all the memories of before, of her parents and her, and somehow it’s brighter, better, knowing he shares even a tiny bit of it. That she isn’t alone anymore, and maybe that’s how it is for him too.

“You made me nervous. I could just see you, even when you were being noisy and your arms were everywhere, and I could see those eyes of yours –” A rough finger traces her left eye, the lashes, and she leans into his touch. “I knew you weren’t missing anything. It was all taken in and filed away.” She likes the affection in his voice, loves the way it weaves this sort of spell over her – “And then you climbed into the front seat of that cop car –” Her eyes fly open at that last bit, and his eyes have taken on that look that she knows now, knows means want, and she swallows because sometimes the sheer amount of it is more than a little overwhelming. He’s on his knees now, crawling forward until she has nowhere to go but on her back, and he hovers above her.

“So basically what you’re saying is you wanted a piece of this since I was in elementary school,” she stutters out and fucking Christ, that shouldn’t be hot. Shouldn’t make her legs fall open like they’re doing right now, all invitation and so much fucking want on her part that she’s finding it hard to breathe even before he lays down on top of her, adjusts himself until the bulge of his jeans is pressed into her.

“You’re sick, Stilinski,” he mutters, a smile quirking his lips. “Confession?”

Stiles nods though she’s having a hard time holding onto the thread of the conversation. When can they get back to the sex?

“My car hasn’t been in the shop since Argent shot it up at the Iron Works.”

For a second, the words don’t penetrate and then they do, realization blooming inside her brain. Her mouth falls open and she just stares at him. Words are failing her, and if she doesn’t have words, what does she – He smirks, rolling his hips just so, but the joke’s on him because she isn’t moaning alone.

“I am, you know,” she whispers, staring at his mouth, and he tilts his head in question. “Yours.”

“Mine,” he agrees, so self-satisfied that Stiles can’t help but smile as his face blurs and his mouth meets hers.

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