His hands tremble the first time they make love.
"Stiles, it's okay." She whispers the words against the shell of his ear, her fingers closing loosely around his wrist to steady him. She's his anchor, his rock, but no amount of whispered words or breathy confessions can calm his racing heart.
Lydia promises to take it slow. Kisses him slowly, softly, her lips just ghosting across his skin. Vows to ease the ache in his chest, to drown out the nightmares that plague him night after night after night.
He doesn't think it'll work. Her lips taste like heaven and her touch feels like home, but the nightmares are unbearable. Reminders of what he did, of the power that once thrummed through his veins. A sudden reawakening of the thirst for terror, for chaos, for pain.
He hates it. Hates the way he startles from sleep hungry. Not for food nor for drink, but for a taste of the power once granted by the nogitsune. A reminder of his potential, of a way to escape this horrific cycle of never ending pain and heartache.
But if anyone can make it go away, can drown out the screams and the metallic taste on his tongue and the desperate search for more, it's her.
It's Lydia.
Not for the first time, he realizes how deep their connection runs. With his head between her thighs and her lips parted in a cry of his name, the world starts to slip away. He licks, bites, and sucks at her warm folds, tongue delving past her walls in search of all the places that make her moan. Her fingers twisting in his hair are the sweetest form of torture and suddenly his desire for more power is outweighed by his desire for more of her.
He makes her come three times before he crawls along her body, lips pressed reverently to every inch of her skin. Her fingertips never leave his hair as their foreheads join, all the words they haven't bothered to say getting lost somewhere in their eyes.
Later, they'll talk about this. Later, she'll say how she feels.
Now, she'll show him.
Her touch is featherlight when she pushes him onto his back. Dainty fingers close around his length and pump him one, two, three times to make sure he's ready. He loses himself in the sensation - lets the nightmares slip away, leaves his mind filled only with her.
She's beautiful hovering over him like this, strawberry blonde locks flowing around her shoulders. A goddess in her own right, beauty too ethereal for his mind to comprehend. His hands are too big, too fumbly and awkward as they grip onto her thighs, but she doesn't care. It's perfect, he's perfect, even in this imperfect mess made from their lives.
And when she slides onto his length, his whole world seems to stop. Brain shuts down, heart sputters out of control, and he's left speechless. The countless dreams from his horny youth can't compare to the reality of this, to the reality of her, to the emotion that builds between them.
It starts out slow, a gentle rocking, her fingers tangled in the sheets on either side of his head as they move together. Eyes never leave his, their gazes burning with an unquenchable fire. He reaches out for her, one hand curving around her jaw - nothing short of pure awe settles on every feature.
It's beautiful. Slow, steady - loving even when their movements grow choppy. It's heaven, the warmth of her walls clenching around his erection. He's pretty sure he could spend his whole life watching her like this, feeling her like this, and never once grow tired of how good this is.
He wants to try it, to make this last forever, but there's a tightening in his lower abdomen and she's saying his name and he can't - he can't hold on any longer. He thumbs at her clit desperately, a touch too rough and eager to please, but it's good, it's so good. She comes with a muffled cry of his name; he follows soon after with both hands wrapped around her hips.
She collapses on top of him, body warm and sweaty and pliant above his. He doesn't care - is all too happy to brush strawberry blonde locks from her forehead as they gasp for breath in tandem. Doesn't care that they haven't talked about where they stand or what they want, because he knows. He's known since the third grade, and finally - with soft green eyes that peer up at him in the dark and a smile that's reserved only for him - she knows, too.
A/N: Just a quick little drabble I thought up today. You can find me on tumblr/send me prompts at notwithoutlydia :)