Work Text:
People think Erica has changed. She hasn’t, really. Everything is just much closer to the surface now. Her anger, her emotions. She can afford to be vulnerable now, to let it all out. She feels safe within her own skin for the first time in her life. That’s why she’d never trade this back, not for anything. It’s not like she isn’t afraid for her life, she is. Erica is scared shitless. But for the first time, she actually has a life to lose. A life that belongs to her, fully and completely. A life where she is in charge.
Erica was always angry. How could she not be? Being constantly made fun of for something she could not change, or hide. Not being in control of her own body. Being powerless.
She’d walk through the halls at school and fantasize of kicking their teeth in. Smashing them against a wall, until their skulls burst. Leaving them bruised and battered and broken.
She couldn’t. But now she can. And somehow, that’s enough.
-
Erica had always been afraid of pain. Afraid of the sensation, afraid of what it meant. Afraid of dying, afraid of being humiliated, afraid of breaking something important. Being even less in control than she already was.
She is not afraid anymore. Now, pain means power. It means healing, it means strength. She is not breakable anymore, even less since she now knows she can endure more than others.
And now that she’s not afraid anymore, she finds that she likes it.
-
Stiles and Erica aren’t a perfect match. They don’t fit together like puzzle pieces. But they understand just enough of each other to make it work.
Erica likes being in control. She likes holding Stiles down, just because she can. Holding his arms over his head as she kneels on his legs. It probably hurts, too, but that isn’t her main focus. She likes being on top of him like that, likes being able to smell his skin, nuzzle his neck, bite while he is unable to move. If she tries, she can pin him down and jerk him off, watch him try to move and fail. She can, and she does.
Stiles likes causing pain. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to hold her down, tie her up if she let him, but she doesn’t. That’s okay though, because there are things she’s not allowed to do, either. They talked about it, because if Stiles is good at something, it’s talking, and Erica can talk to him. She’s strong enough, now, that she can afford some honesty, and Stiles makes it easy to be honest.
(“No blood,” he’d said.
“I’m not sure I’m okay with that.”
“No, I meant, don’t make me bleed.”
“So, you can stand the sight of blood? The smell? You won’t faint?”
“No,” he said, incredulous. “But I don’t heal. Since I might be running for my life again soon, I’d rather not do it majorly injured.”
She rolled her eyes. “Well, as long as you make me bleed, I can live with that.”)
-
She’s kneeling before him now, on the floor of his garage. His father’s not home, and this is the easiest place to clean. Topless, with her back to him, she tilts her head forwards so her hair falls like a curtain over her face.
He traces the smooth skin of her back, first with a finger, than with the scalpel they stole from the animal clinic, before he cuts.
Her breath hitches as he slowly carves lazy spirals, down and up and down again, to the small of her back. She can feel the blood oozing, can feel herself healing, too, the droplets not making it all the way down to her ass most of the time, sucked back in by her body. The air tastes coppery and sweet. She sighs a bit, breathing uneven. She could hide it, maybe, if she tried, but she knows he likes hearing it, knowing he makes an impact since he can’t see her face.
“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” she says, voice unsteady. He likes that too. She can smell it.
“Do you think I could get one? Do you think it would stay?”
“Derek has one,” Stiles answers, cutting a little deeper, on purpose, maybe, since she’s talking, or distracted for the same reason. She inhales sharply.
“Yeah, but was that done with normal ink? Like, maybe it needs to be infused with something. I don’t think there are many werewolf tattoo artists in Beacon Hills, and I’d rather not spend a lot of money on something that’ll last two days.”
“Why don’t you just ask him?” Definitely on purpose. She decides to keep talking.
“He’s not exactly forthcoming with personal information if you - ah! - haven’t noticed.”
She can hear him suppress a smile when he answers. “Why are we talking about Derek?”
Erica smiles too. Her eyes sting. “We’re not talking about Derek,” she pants. “You are talking about Derek. I was talking about tattoos.” The next cut is deeper still, and she arches her back, moaning. Stiles makes a sound, too, definitely more pleased than irritated.
“Can you-”
He drops the scalpel and scoots closer, digging his fingers into the open flesh on her back as his other arm snakes around her waist, rubbing her through her panties, open palm and pressure. She presses back into him, groans and comes, eyes closed, tears running down her face.
He holds her for a while after.
“Good?” he asks.
“Perfect.”
-
They clean the garage and shower together, and Erica presses Stiles up against the tiles, kisses his soft mouth, bites it, stopping shy of drawing blood. She blows him as she holds him up, legs over her shoulders. It’s not easy, despite her strength, but it’s rewarding.
When they get dressed again, she doesn’t bother reapplying make-up. They order pizza and curl up on the couch, watching a movie until the Sheriff comes back from work, and Erica has to go home.
They hug at the door. She squeezes maybe a bit too hard, and he jabs a finger between her ribs, making her squeal.
Stiles and Erica aren’t a perfect match. But they are pretty good together.