[Teen Wolf] Stiles/Derek | Turnabout
Title: Turnabout
Summary: Short continuation of Bound For Hell and Falling.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, pack ensemble
Genre: AU (wingfic with angel!Stiles), romance, angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 525
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #21: "We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment." (Audrey Niffeneger) YEAH WELL SORRY NOT SORRY.
The feathers are black as coal. He wonders if it reflects the state his soul is in, but that can't be; this feels right and not wrong. Surely, he'd know if he was doing something unequivocally bad, right? He doesn't understand why there's no one coming to stop them, coming to save him-maybe there's nothing to save. Maybe he doesn't need to be saved.
The thought comforts him and he clings to it even as his wings continue to wither away in the space and time between kisses in the jeep and sex in Derek's bed. Stiles feels good, feels strong and healthy, and a tiny bit guilty if he really is damning his soul to hell assuming it exists, so he snuggles closer to Derek's warm body, tucks his long limbs around heavy muscles and scratchy facial hair until Derek starts to wake up.
Derek never calls him angel, something that he's very glad about, because pet names aren't his thing, even if he does like calling Derek his sour wolf from time to time. Derek blinks, and says, "Stiles," very quietly, and Stiles forgets to breathe for a moment, because Derek is perfect and private and all for him alone. "Stiles," Derek says again, and Stiles kisses him until he can't breathe, and they fall apart, laughing in the early morning.
*
"Stiles!" Derek yells, wiping the grease off his hands as he steps into the kitchen. Grey smoke fills the kitchen and is herded out by impatient hands.The lasagna is burning in the oven, and he growls as he throws the inedible lunch away.
"Stiles?" he calls again, poking his head into the living room, and then checking the bathroom.
"Stiles," he breathes, scrambling as he spies Stiles unconscious in a pile of dark feathers just outside his-their-room. The floor is as cold and unresponsive as the body; Derek hugs him close to warm him up, to wake him up, whispering no and Stiles until the rest of the pack run in, smelling his fear and the lack of Stiles.
"Derek," Lydia says firmly, the tremble in her voice hidden well. "Derek, we need to bring him to Doctor Deaton. He's going to be okay."
He wants to snap at her, wants to demand how she knows for sure when she knows nothing, but Scott and Boyd are pulling him upright, and Derek shivers as he struggles to remain in control. Jackson takes one look at him and takes Lydia ahead to Deaton's clinic; Derek snarls at Isaac when the boy tries to offer to take over Stiles, and Scott immediately growls back, because Stiles is his best friend-but Stiles is Derek's, so they let him carry Stiles in the car.
It's not a funeral, it's not death, it's not dying, but it hurts as much as it did when he'd gotten word about Laura all those years ago before sour wolf even became a snarky nickname, before Stiles had turned from a threatening word to an assuring endearment. Erica squeezes his arm quietly, and he lets her; Isaac leans solidly against his other shoulder and tries not to cry.
Summary: Short continuation of Bound For Hell and Falling.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek, pack ensemble
Genre: AU (wingfic with angel!Stiles), romance, angst
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 525
Author's Notes: For the 30 days writing challenge. Prompt #21: "We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment." (Audrey Niffeneger) YEAH WELL SORRY NOT SORRY.
The feathers are black as coal. He wonders if it reflects the state his soul is in, but that can't be; this feels right and not wrong. Surely, he'd know if he was doing something unequivocally bad, right? He doesn't understand why there's no one coming to stop them, coming to save him-maybe there's nothing to save. Maybe he doesn't need to be saved.
The thought comforts him and he clings to it even as his wings continue to wither away in the space and time between kisses in the jeep and sex in Derek's bed. Stiles feels good, feels strong and healthy, and a tiny bit guilty if he really is damning his soul to hell assuming it exists, so he snuggles closer to Derek's warm body, tucks his long limbs around heavy muscles and scratchy facial hair until Derek starts to wake up.
Derek never calls him angel, something that he's very glad about, because pet names aren't his thing, even if he does like calling Derek his sour wolf from time to time. Derek blinks, and says, "Stiles," very quietly, and Stiles forgets to breathe for a moment, because Derek is perfect and private and all for him alone. "Stiles," Derek says again, and Stiles kisses him until he can't breathe, and they fall apart, laughing in the early morning.
*
"Stiles!" Derek yells, wiping the grease off his hands as he steps into the kitchen. Grey smoke fills the kitchen and is herded out by impatient hands.The lasagna is burning in the oven, and he growls as he throws the inedible lunch away.
"Stiles?" he calls again, poking his head into the living room, and then checking the bathroom.
"Stiles," he breathes, scrambling as he spies Stiles unconscious in a pile of dark feathers just outside his-their-room. The floor is as cold and unresponsive as the body; Derek hugs him close to warm him up, to wake him up, whispering no and Stiles until the rest of the pack run in, smelling his fear and the lack of Stiles.
"Derek," Lydia says firmly, the tremble in her voice hidden well. "Derek, we need to bring him to Doctor Deaton. He's going to be okay."
He wants to snap at her, wants to demand how she knows for sure when she knows nothing, but Scott and Boyd are pulling him upright, and Derek shivers as he struggles to remain in control. Jackson takes one look at him and takes Lydia ahead to Deaton's clinic; Derek snarls at Isaac when the boy tries to offer to take over Stiles, and Scott immediately growls back, because Stiles is his best friend-but Stiles is Derek's, so they let him carry Stiles in the car.
It's not a funeral, it's not death, it's not dying, but it hurts as much as it did when he'd gotten word about Laura all those years ago before sour wolf even became a snarky nickname, before Stiles had turned from a threatening word to an assuring endearment. Erica squeezes his arm quietly, and he lets her; Isaac leans solidly against his other shoulder and tries not to cry.