this feels like falling in love

Notes: tumblr prompt fic from a kiss meme that ended up being not awful? the two are unrelated and the Ed Sheeran song is perfect.

set in an ambiguous 3a place.

They steal moments when they can: slipping out of pack meetings, quiet knocks on dark windows, trying to catch their breath between too-long stretches of fear and panic and uncertainty.

Right now Lydia's peeling off the shredded remains of one of her favourite sundresses, trying to cull her disappointment and her anger, because a few pieces of fabric is a small price to pay for a victory against Deucalion, and Danny's safety.

The zipper is stubborn against her (admittedly shaking) fingers and Lydia huffs in frustration.

"Okay?" Stiles asks from his seat on her bed, where he stares studiously at the opposite wall. Lydia tilts her head as she turns back to look at him, something sweet and warm taking flight inside her chest.

"I–" She's as loathe as ever to admit her failings. "Can you help me?"

Stiles turns to look at her then, and though this is most definitely not the most incedent she's ever been in front of him, Lydia feels naked and exposed and vulnerable, and her frustration only builds until she's pushing back tears.

Stiles just smiles, soft and calming. "Sure."

She lifts her hair with both hands so he can't see them shake – what is wrong with her? This is Stiles, for Pete's sake, who's seen her naked, who yelled at her about death, who saved her from Peter, who still seems to love her despite her clusterfuck of issues–

who kisses her trembling knuckles before cool fingers find her cursed zipper and tug. The material is unresisting and she shivers at the cool air on her skin.

Lydia closes her eyes before she can cry, opens her mouth to thank him, but the words get caught in her throat when Stiles' lips touch the nape of her neck, the base, then the junction of her shoulder,

and the top-most knob of her spine.

"I'll buy you another dress," he says into her skin, soft even though they're the only two people in the house.

"Stiles…"

More thoughts are lost as his lips trail over her shoulder again, up the column of her neck, underneath her ear where Lydia is most ticklish. She jumps with a gasp, out of breath already somehow and he just laughs in her ear, a small, perfect sound.

"I'll take you Milan," kiss. "Or Paris," kiss.

Lydia has to bare her throat to give him access to the underside of her jaw, where his mouth makes her toes curl, thinking distantly of what Isaac had told her once about pack dynamics and submission and what this would mean if Stiles weren't human.

But he is, imperfect and breakable and human, and Lydia can't take this ache in her chest anymore. She whirls around to catch his mouth with hers, swallowing his huff of surprise as Stiles grabs at her waist to keep them standing.

Stiles is actually breathtaking with his mouth – somehow both gentlemanly and wanting in a way that makes Lydia dizzy with desire. He walks her backwards to the bed, easing her down with one hand on the small of her back, so careful Lydia feels like her heart could burst.

She's usually not like this with boys – Lydia enjoys having control and demanding what she wants, but with Stiles it's like learning how to kiss all over again, a litany of touch and pressure that is somehow always new with him – and she wouln't have it any other way.

His mouth is back in his favourite spot, in the underside curve of her jaw beneath her ear. Lydia can't help the gasp when his teeth graze her skin, nor the upward jolt of her body. Stiles leans back, looking alarmed, and she has to smother a laugh.

"-s fine, Stiles," she says softly, wrapping her arms around his neck to play with his stupidly soft hair. "Nice, even."

He still looks unsure; Lydia smiles and pulls him back down for another kiss, until Stiles finds his way back there again and her toes curl. He's careful with his teeth this time but his desire is clear – and then it's Lydia's too, because she just wants one private moment with Stiles that isn't shadowed by fear and death.

"Go ahead," she breathes, an almost frightening longing tight in her chest and hot in her stomach, and it's almost a dare. "Make me yours."

Stiles makes a noise that sounds more animal than anything, and then it's his teeth and pressure and his tongue stroking rough and Lydia feels it in the very tips of her fingers.

The already-forming bruise burns hot like a brand, but she doesn't mind, not at all, and judging by the too-open expression in Stiles' eyes (wantwantwantmineminemine) he doesn't mind too much, either.

End Notes: this one totally got away from me. (fans self)

annie