[Teen Wolf] Stiles/Derek | Autumn Moon
Title: Autumn Moon
Summary: It began with sour wolf and ended with goodbye, Derek.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek
Genre: Hurt/comfort, angst
Rating: R; swearing, sex
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 940
Author's Notes: Prompt 25: Howl, Florence + the Machine: "Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; it starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters." EHM IDK EVEN THOUGH I WAS EXCITED FOR THIS DAY BC I LOVE THIS SONG SFM. COULD BE ANGSTIER? MB I'LL ADD TO IT.
"Derek?" he says quietly, edging towards the house. It looks much the same as it did when he'd last seen it, all those years ago. He's past twenty now, a degree and a job under his belt, but he feels similar to when he'd stood here with Scott and confronted the best and worst thing that could have happened to him. "I know you're here."
The woods smell of rain and dead leaves. His jeep idles nearby, the engine's silence incredibly loud in the crackling wind against the ground. The hush lasts for a few more minutes; a snarl rends the air soon after.
Stiles grins.
"Hey there, sour wolf." It began with sour wolf and ended with goodbye, Derek. He'd never been one to control his mouth-well, until he'd left. Until they'd all left. "It's Stiles." It's dumb; of course Derek knows it's him. Derek knows every inch of his smell and taste and touch. Or knew, rather. The past tense is always so filled with regrets and should have beens and pain and good and tears. Stiles knows this, knows this as certain as the memories of curling up in bed and dreaming of people he once hugged and loved.
Red eyes gleam in the dark space of the doorway, and the corner of Stiles's mouth quirks upwards.
*
The thing is, Stiles isn't soft. He isn't helpless; he's never been helpless despite his lack of werewolf strength or fangs or incredibly uncool sideburns. He has his intelligence, his relatively long legs, his slightly above average athletic ability-thank you Coach Finstock and lacrosse-so he's not completely useless.
The problem has always been in his mind.
*
"What are you doing here?" It's not a question, not really. It's a cold statement that thinly covers go away, and you left.
Everything hits Stiles at once. The familiarity of Derek: the frown, the leather jacket, and slightly hunched stance that speaks of authority and need for affection, the hurt and the want. Stiles swallows down the conflicting desires in his throat, and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"I just-I wanted to see how you were doing, dude," he mumbles, looking up. "It's been a while, you know?"
*
He runs-flees-with his heart beating out his fear in time to his pounding footsteps. He can hear the wolf closing in, can feel the panic and anxiety threaten to gulp him up from the inside out and runs. It's tiring; his muscles burn and the air is freezing in his endless motion, but Stiles doesn't stop, even when Derek barrels into him and tackles him into the ground.
He wriggles, but claws pin him down. They're delicate, careful not to pierce through skin, and Stiles just stares up into ruby-red eyes crazed with bloodlust, breathing, hurting, wanting.
*
They need to be careful, so Stiles always keeps tabs on when his dad comes home, so Derek never spends too much time in case the pack notices.
They need to be careful, so it never happens anytime near the full moon, when a slip would mean that Stiles would be turned.
They need to be careful, so when it ends, Stiles doesn't need to explain anything to anyone, and Derek can go on living like he doesn't give two shits about Stiles at all.
*
It takes considerable effort for Derek to shift back, but the wolf remains in his tense body language and impassive eyes. Stiles shivers in the cold, and lifts a pale hand to stroke Derek's cheek. Human teeth close firmly around the flesh of his thumb, hard enough to sting and leave a mark, gentle enough to not break the skin. Stiles doesn't hide the whine, and so it begins.
Derek growls; the moon shines blankly down on the shadows of them in the midst of autumn leaves, just as Stiles's jacket is tossed aside, and long fingers make short work of the buttons on Derek's shirt. The belt buckle glares at them midway in its arching descent, and Stiles closes his eyes as rough hands turn him over onto his stomach.
"Left pocket," he says, pulling Derek down for a kiss, and keens as thick fingers slippery with lube slide down his back. "Don't waste it; travel packets are really useful, dude, and Scott keeps stealing them and-fuck-I don't have too many and they're really, really useful-"
"You said that twice," Derek murmurs against the dip of Stiles's spine, and Stiles trembles, because it's suddenly tender despite the contrasting friction. "Now shut up, Stiles."
Stiles doesn't shut up. He never shuts up, and he's fucking proud of it. Derek doesn't say anything else, just grunts as he pushes in, all long and thick and burning, and Stiles-Stiles has no other words to say except for Derek and fuck and more. His palms and knees ache with promises of bruises, but it's good and not enough at the same time, so he pushes back defiantly, crashing their hips together, and takes delight in the way Derek chokes and snarls.
They push and pull and Derek covers him with his body and Stiles doesn't know how to feel, the rush of emotions playing war with his arousal, but then Derek nips his shoulder and licks and sucks down and says, "Mine," in such a broken whisper and Stiles's elbows hit the ground as he comes, his own teeth biting a moan into his arm.
*
"I'm here," Stiles croaks out, smiling through the residual hurt. He threads his fingers through matted hair, holding the whimpers tight against his chest. "I'm not going to leave, I promise. I'm here."
Summary: It began with sour wolf and ended with goodbye, Derek.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Characters/Pairings: Stiles/Derek
Genre: Hurt/comfort, angst
Rating: R; swearing, sex
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 940
Author's Notes: Prompt 25: Howl, Florence + the Machine: "Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; it starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters." EHM IDK EVEN THOUGH I WAS EXCITED FOR THIS DAY BC I LOVE THIS SONG SFM. COULD BE ANGSTIER? MB I'LL ADD TO IT.
"Derek?" he says quietly, edging towards the house. It looks much the same as it did when he'd last seen it, all those years ago. He's past twenty now, a degree and a job under his belt, but he feels similar to when he'd stood here with Scott and confronted the best and worst thing that could have happened to him. "I know you're here."
The woods smell of rain and dead leaves. His jeep idles nearby, the engine's silence incredibly loud in the crackling wind against the ground. The hush lasts for a few more minutes; a snarl rends the air soon after.
Stiles grins.
"Hey there, sour wolf." It began with sour wolf and ended with goodbye, Derek. He'd never been one to control his mouth-well, until he'd left. Until they'd all left. "It's Stiles." It's dumb; of course Derek knows it's him. Derek knows every inch of his smell and taste and touch. Or knew, rather. The past tense is always so filled with regrets and should have beens and pain and good and tears. Stiles knows this, knows this as certain as the memories of curling up in bed and dreaming of people he once hugged and loved.
Red eyes gleam in the dark space of the doorway, and the corner of Stiles's mouth quirks upwards.
*
The thing is, Stiles isn't soft. He isn't helpless; he's never been helpless despite his lack of werewolf strength or fangs or incredibly uncool sideburns. He has his intelligence, his relatively long legs, his slightly above average athletic ability-thank you Coach Finstock and lacrosse-so he's not completely useless.
The problem has always been in his mind.
*
"What are you doing here?" It's not a question, not really. It's a cold statement that thinly covers go away, and you left.
Everything hits Stiles at once. The familiarity of Derek: the frown, the leather jacket, and slightly hunched stance that speaks of authority and need for affection, the hurt and the want. Stiles swallows down the conflicting desires in his throat, and stuffs his hands into his pockets.
"I just-I wanted to see how you were doing, dude," he mumbles, looking up. "It's been a while, you know?"
*
He runs-flees-with his heart beating out his fear in time to his pounding footsteps. He can hear the wolf closing in, can feel the panic and anxiety threaten to gulp him up from the inside out and runs. It's tiring; his muscles burn and the air is freezing in his endless motion, but Stiles doesn't stop, even when Derek barrels into him and tackles him into the ground.
He wriggles, but claws pin him down. They're delicate, careful not to pierce through skin, and Stiles just stares up into ruby-red eyes crazed with bloodlust, breathing, hurting, wanting.
*
They need to be careful, so Stiles always keeps tabs on when his dad comes home, so Derek never spends too much time in case the pack notices.
They need to be careful, so it never happens anytime near the full moon, when a slip would mean that Stiles would be turned.
They need to be careful, so when it ends, Stiles doesn't need to explain anything to anyone, and Derek can go on living like he doesn't give two shits about Stiles at all.
*
It takes considerable effort for Derek to shift back, but the wolf remains in his tense body language and impassive eyes. Stiles shivers in the cold, and lifts a pale hand to stroke Derek's cheek. Human teeth close firmly around the flesh of his thumb, hard enough to sting and leave a mark, gentle enough to not break the skin. Stiles doesn't hide the whine, and so it begins.
Derek growls; the moon shines blankly down on the shadows of them in the midst of autumn leaves, just as Stiles's jacket is tossed aside, and long fingers make short work of the buttons on Derek's shirt. The belt buckle glares at them midway in its arching descent, and Stiles closes his eyes as rough hands turn him over onto his stomach.
"Left pocket," he says, pulling Derek down for a kiss, and keens as thick fingers slippery with lube slide down his back. "Don't waste it; travel packets are really useful, dude, and Scott keeps stealing them and-fuck-I don't have too many and they're really, really useful-"
"You said that twice," Derek murmurs against the dip of Stiles's spine, and Stiles trembles, because it's suddenly tender despite the contrasting friction. "Now shut up, Stiles."
Stiles doesn't shut up. He never shuts up, and he's fucking proud of it. Derek doesn't say anything else, just grunts as he pushes in, all long and thick and burning, and Stiles-Stiles has no other words to say except for Derek and fuck and more. His palms and knees ache with promises of bruises, but it's good and not enough at the same time, so he pushes back defiantly, crashing their hips together, and takes delight in the way Derek chokes and snarls.
They push and pull and Derek covers him with his body and Stiles doesn't know how to feel, the rush of emotions playing war with his arousal, but then Derek nips his shoulder and licks and sucks down and says, "Mine," in such a broken whisper and Stiles's elbows hit the ground as he comes, his own teeth biting a moan into his arm.
*
"I'm here," Stiles croaks out, smiling through the residual hurt. He threads his fingers through matted hair, holding the whimpers tight against his chest. "I'm not going to leave, I promise. I'm here."