starbolin asked you:
SCOUT!!! I want Erica teaching Stiles how to make out.
STAR I WARNED YOU: this got a little out of control.
Erica is the only person in the loft when Stiles gets there. She’s lying long on the couch, blonde curls turned burnt honey from the setting sun, her ivory-white skin orange and pink where the light touches her. “Stiles,” she says without moving. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”
"Delivery for Derek," Stiles says, flat, frowning. He’s always wondered about Derek and Erica; the sight of her staking claim like this makes something tighten low in his belly. "He around?"
"Nope." Erica sits up and swings her legs down onto the floor; her face is silhouetted in the gathering gloom but he can see the wince in her shoulders, the stiffness that tightens up her spine. "I’ve been waiting but who the fuck knows when he’s coming back. I could use a ride, actually." Stiles appreciates her technique: tell, don’t ask.
"Sure," he says, easy. "Just let me leave him a note." Of course the loft doesn’t have anything as usefully domestic as a junk drawer, and his backpack is down in the Jeep. "You don’t have, uh, a pen or anything, do you?"
"In my bag," Erica says, gesturing loosely at the enormous black purse at her feet. "You can fetch, if you want it." Stiles rolls his eyes; dog joke are kind of his domain, and a tired one at that. It’s only as he fumbles through the depths of the bag that it occurs to him that she didn’t want to have to bend over to get it herself. She’s sitting up very straight now, and his hearing isn’t sensitive enough to know for sure but it seems to him that there’s a low rasp to her breath, a drag on the inhale like each one costs her something.
"Those wounds healing up all right?"
"Fine," Erica says, short, tight.
“‘Cause this is a delivery from Deaton. Herbs and stuff. He taught me how to make a poultice. I could— if you want. While we wait.”
"I think it’s past the point of poulticing," Erica says, and Stiles frowns, turns, stops himself from reaching out.
"Not exactly." She lifts the side of her shirt to reveal the rake of a silver-scarred clawmark on the skin above one hip; she has a matching one on the other side, Stiles knows. Last time he saw them they were red, raw, the skin split too wide: now they’re healed up and they look peaceful, almost pretty.
"They’re still hurting you?" In answer Erica shifts slowly back onto the couch, curls her knees up gingerly, rearranges herself with slow concentration. Stiles retrieves the crumpled paper bag he brought over and rips it open, figuring Derek won’t mind. Inside are ten small Tupperware containers of ground herbs and several sheets of neatly folded notebook paper, Deaton’s recipes written out in spider-thin cramped hand. The poultices will be useless, at this point, but there are teas and tisanes: one for healing, one for purifying the body.
"I can make you something," he says. "No guarantees about taste but there’s stuff here that might help."
"Yeah," Erica says. "Thanks, that would be—that would be good."
Stiles flips on the lights, rummages around the kitchen until he finds what he needs: a saucepan and a spoon and a dull knife. He’s not a nursemaid or a natural caregiver but he hasn’t had much choice, the last few months: his friends’ supposedly unbreakable bodies keep coming back broken.
Now, though, he chops and mixes, puts the results on to brew. The pain-relief recipe is blessedly simple, which figures: narcotics are one thing, actual healing kind of another. The first is done by the time the second goes on to steep, so he pours it into one of Derek’s cracked mugs and takes it over to her, settling on the couch at her side.
The effect when she drinks is almost immediate: he watches her uncurl, uncoil, relief flooding the planes of her pinched-up face. “Can I see again?” he asks. Erica shrugs in response.
The wolves aren’t self-conscious about their bodies. On Derek it’s mostly arrogance but with Erica and Isaac and Boyd it’s different, this funny almost-indifference, like now that the thing can take care of itself they don’t need it to pay too much attention to it anymore. She starts when Stiles’ fingertips brush against the scar tissue. “You can feel that?”
"Your hands are cold." Wolves run warmer anyway but the skin of her hips is fever hot. Stiles checks his watch.
"We’ve got ten minutes before the other one’s brewed up, but that should actually help treat whatever’s going on here. You might see Deaton, too. He’s a cryptic fuck but he know more than Derek does."
"Derek is also a cryptic fuck." Stiles tries not to think about what kind of fuck Derek is actually is, whether they’ve fucked, here on the couch or the mattress upstairs, what Erica knows about the size and weight of Derek’s dick, how it feels hot and wet against her, inside her.
Erica shifts and smirks and Stiles realizes that his hands her still on her, palms flat against her hips. He can feel the sharp rise of her bones and the fragile curve of her waist; he takes it for permission that she hasn’t pushed him away yet and urges the hem of her tee shirt up higher, higher, so that he can see the bottom of the span of her ribs, the delicate architecture of her body under the skin. “Careful,” Erica says.
"I know what I’m doing."
"Do you." She must be feeling better: she’s up lightning quick, throwing a knee over his legs to trap and pin him, hands tight against the small bones of his wrists. "You know I kissed Derek once." Stiles does know this: Boyd and Isaac did a re-enactment for him, which marked maybe only time Stiles has really had fun since Scott got turned. It’s different thinking about it now, though, with Erica pressed warm and lively against him, on Derek’s couch, when Derek could walk in at any moment. "He kisses like he’s on fire," Erica says, low and rough. "Like he wants to open you up, take you apart."
"You like that?" Stiles asks, hands flexing uselessly on her hips.
"Sometimes." She settles herself a little more carefully, rocking against Stiles so that he can’t help a frantic squirm, his body begging for friction. "Sometimes it’s nice to go slow, though. Have you ever kissed a girl, Stiles?"
"Not, um. Not really."
"Wanna learn?" Eight minutes, maybe, before the stuff on the stove needs him. Plenty of time.
"Think you can teach me?"
It shouldn’t take him by surprise but it does: the kiss comes slow and careful, close-mouthed, chaste. She kisses him soft and teasing, scrapes her blunt teeth over the swell of his bottom lip, makes him chase her for more. His fingers fit neatly into the lines of the clawmarks, the scars her body bears: he moves his hands up, up, finds the heavy curve of her breasts and thumbs at one nipple over the lacy edge of her bra.
"Good," she breathes, pulling away, "good, yeah, okay. Slow. Like that." Stiles pulls her in, this time, kisses her until her mouth opens under his, until he can lick into the warm wet space of her. She gets her fingers in the soft mess of hair at the back of his neck and pulls. "Don’t be so shy," she says.
"You want me to open you up." A year ago this would have been fucked up beyond imagining, sitting on some grimy couch in a mostly-abandoned loft, making out with Erica Reyes, both of them fantasizing about a man Stiles tried to get arrested for murder. But at this point it’s kind of par for the course, Stiles’ first kiss getting lost in the mess of sex and violence that’s been making short work of his life for months and months now. "Okay," he says. "Okay, then."
He lets go of tender affection, of worry, of fear. She’s not unbreakable but she’s more than strong enough to take whatever he has to give, so he bites at her mouth and her neck, scrapes his nails down her back, slams his hips up against hers, careless, sloppy.
"You look like a jackrabbit," Derek says, amused, from the front door. "Humping her like that. If that’s what you wanted, Erica, I would have recommended Stiles to you ages ago." Erica flushes hot across her cheeks, the top of her collarbones, and Stiles thinks about her saying I kissed Derek once, thinks he’s pretty sure that once was enough.
His fingers are just at the top of her shoulder, so he reaches up and turns her back to him, gathers himself just enough to look her in the eye. She bites her lip a little and leans down to start them all over again, soft, soft, slow, so that Stiles has to arch up into her, until he wants to plead for something, something more. “I know what I’m doing,” she says, when she pulls away.
Stiles musters his dignity, adjusts himself as best he can and goes to turn the heat off under the tea on the stove. Derek is still standing in the doorway watching them, his face turned off, closed down. Stiles pours the tea into a mug, jerks his head towards the door. “Wanna get out of here?”
"Yeah," Erica says, getting to her feet easily, blowing on the second batch to cool it. "This smells like asshole, Stilinski."
"Take it up with Deaton," he advises her, watching Derek move himself out of their way. "I’m pretty sure it’s good for you anyway."
"Probably," Erica says. "Gross stuff always is."
They spend most of the drive in silence, the sky heavy and dark above them, navigating empty streets, past rows and rows of well-lit homes. “Do your parents wonder where you are?” Stiles asks, when they get to Erica’s.
"All the time," she tells him. She leans across the gearshift and kisses him once, on the forehead, before she opens the door and slips out into the night.
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- ladyofthelog said: now I’m imagining boyd and isaac as cordy and wes reenacting buffy and angel / erica and derek’s doomed love
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- starbolin said: SHIT! Fuck! How did you know! The only thing I’m more into than Stiles/Erica is any two of Stiles/Erica/Derek being weird about the missing third while hooking up. Can I just put my head in your lap and have you tell me stories forever or
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