[Teen Wolf] Stiles/Derek | Falling
Title: Falling
Summary: Sequel of sorts to Bound for Hell. For the most part, Derek watches.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek
Genre: AU (wingfic with angel!Stiles), romance
Rating: R; non-graphic? sex
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 355
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #11: image (Clutch, Adam Raasalhague).
For the most part, Derek watches. He doesn't comment when the feathers turn from a light silver to a dark angry grey, not when the first of many start to fall, or even when Stiles turns to him with an expectant look; Derek can never interpret what Stiles wants him to do or say in those moments.
"I'm molting," Stiles says, a half-hearted grin on his face, clutching a handful of those mournful feathers in his hands.
Derek just pulls him closer, running his hands down Stiles's back. It's easier now, to card his fingers into the softness of the wings, at least physically. It pulls at him inside though, the idea that what they're doing together is hurting Stiles. Inasmuch as he wants to stop, to push Stiles away and tell him that it's better if they're not together, he can't. Not anymore, and not just because they're mates or anything; it's simply because Derek's used to having Stiles by his side, because Derek can't just walk away from what they've done.
New feathers stop growing when they fuck for the first time. Stiles is eighteen, and he's in Derek's newly rebuilt house. He looks radiant in Derek's room, despite the still-falling feathers. They cushion his fall onto the stiff mattress of Derek's bed, and scatter in the air when Derek takes his time to lick Stiles open. Derek doesn't think he'll ever forget the sight of Stiles panting and moaning underneath him, his wings fluttering meekly under their combined weight, ash-colored feathers floating down and resting on the two of them as Derek fucks him in an uneven rhythm of hard and fast and slow and sweet.
After, Stiles spits out feathers that have unceremoniously landed in his mouth, and Derek laughs, stomach rubbing against Stiles's soft and sensitive cock, which only serves to elicit a noise halfway between an indignant huff and a moan. Derek claims it all, only pulling back from the suddenly savage kiss to roll them over, the full length of Stiles against his chest.
The damp cloth wipes away come and sweat, and still more feathers fall to the floor.
Summary: Sequel of sorts to Bound for Hell. For the most part, Derek watches.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek
Genre: AU (wingfic with angel!Stiles), romance
Rating: R; non-graphic? sex
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 355
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #11: image (Clutch, Adam Raasalhague).
For the most part, Derek watches. He doesn't comment when the feathers turn from a light silver to a dark angry grey, not when the first of many start to fall, or even when Stiles turns to him with an expectant look; Derek can never interpret what Stiles wants him to do or say in those moments.
"I'm molting," Stiles says, a half-hearted grin on his face, clutching a handful of those mournful feathers in his hands.
Derek just pulls him closer, running his hands down Stiles's back. It's easier now, to card his fingers into the softness of the wings, at least physically. It pulls at him inside though, the idea that what they're doing together is hurting Stiles. Inasmuch as he wants to stop, to push Stiles away and tell him that it's better if they're not together, he can't. Not anymore, and not just because they're mates or anything; it's simply because Derek's used to having Stiles by his side, because Derek can't just walk away from what they've done.
New feathers stop growing when they fuck for the first time. Stiles is eighteen, and he's in Derek's newly rebuilt house. He looks radiant in Derek's room, despite the still-falling feathers. They cushion his fall onto the stiff mattress of Derek's bed, and scatter in the air when Derek takes his time to lick Stiles open. Derek doesn't think he'll ever forget the sight of Stiles panting and moaning underneath him, his wings fluttering meekly under their combined weight, ash-colored feathers floating down and resting on the two of them as Derek fucks him in an uneven rhythm of hard and fast and slow and sweet.
After, Stiles spits out feathers that have unceremoniously landed in his mouth, and Derek laughs, stomach rubbing against Stiles's soft and sensitive cock, which only serves to elicit a noise halfway between an indignant huff and a moan. Derek claims it all, only pulling back from the suddenly savage kiss to roll them over, the full length of Stiles against his chest.
The damp cloth wipes away come and sweat, and still more feathers fall to the floor.