I Will Run You Like A Thread (Fem!Stiles x Derek)

It's your fingertips and the music they play

Derek is mad at her. And it's not even the fun kind of mad where Stiles kinda-sort-of does it on purpose. It's the bad kind.

It's the Stiles-really-fucked-it-up-this-time kind. She knew it the minute she'd woken up out in the woods, flat on her back and blinking up into Derek's furiously crimson gaze, that she'd really screwed the pooch on this one. Her vision is still a bit blurry, partly from the hit she took, but also partly from the warm liquid dripping over her eyelid that she's 99% sure is her blood.

Yeah, she thinks, as a crimson drop trickles into her mouth, metallic and sweet – it's definitely blood.

Shit.

She doesn't get the chance to think much more beyond that, slipping into an unconsciousness that's ceaseless, dark, and deep.

...

She wakes up gasping, breath stuttering in her throat. It takes a minute, but eventually even her dull human senses adjust, and she realizes where she is: the loft. Derek's bed. Their bed. Pain zings down the ladder of her ribs and she winces, blinking blindly in the dark.

"That was fucking stupid," a voice like cut glass and gravel hits her across the face like a shovel – Derek. Stiles hisses and then all the breath she's holding in her lungs spills out when she feels the hot press of the alpha's tongue as he licks at her wounds: the cut on her forehead, the scrapes on her side, her hips, her legs. If something like this had happened in the beginning, Stiles might have protested (okay, more like thrown a hissy), but she's used to it now, the times when Derek's wolfishness slips outside the human shell. She's used to it by now, mostly because it's usually not-quite-always-but-most-of-the-time her fault.

"I know," Stiles mumbles, shivering, her eyes still squeezed shut, refusing to look at the face of her mate, her alpha. She doesn't need to look at him to feel the weight of his disapproval. Turns out the taste of disappointment is surprisingly bitter even in her own mouth.

"You got hurt," Derek grunts, still tonguing furiously at a particularly deep gash below her rib cage. Stiles winces again. "I was only trying to help. I couldn't let you get kill--"

"I'm not in the mood for arguments, Stilinski."

Oh, Stiles blinks. She's Stilinski now. Fuck, she's really in trouble. There's that little wrinkle in Derek's forehead that practically screams that he's pissed. But it's fine. Yeah, it's fine. That's what she's telling herself at least, while she's simultaneously wanting to scream because her entire body somehow hurts. Like all of it. Like parts she didn't even know she had, but also because it's really, really hard not to react to Derek's mouth on her. It's so freaking stupid. She's lying on this bed, having lost a not insignificant amount of blood and she's still having to squeeze her thighs together like some kind of...sex-obsessed harlot. And he's gotta know that, right? Right?

"Stiles," Derek rumbles against her hipbone where he's been nestled for what feels like hours. "Stop. Stop and be still."

Make me, the irrational and mostly non-functional part of her brain whispers the same way it always does whenever anyone tells her what to do. But she doesn't actually say that. She might maybe possibly have a concussion, but she's not brain-dead.

Derek rolls his eyes. She doesn't see it, but boy can she always tell when it happens. At this point, it might as well be her sixth sense – the one that tingles whenever she annoys him. Which is a lot. So she decides to take pity on him instead and just clenches her teeth and her fists with a whispered sorry and tries her best not to move. See, she can be good. Sometimes.