(no subject)
as reckless winter made its way (~750 words, Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, a wee end-of-year present from me to you! ♥) (also on AOOO)
"HAAA!" someone yells, just before Derek gets his face mashed into the snow. He pushes himself up again easily, shakes off, and then he's chasing, leaping, tackling Erica, who's laughing helplessly, soundlessly, her mouth wide open and her eyes squeezed shut.
They roll over and over, and when Erica squirms away, still laughing, Derek stays where he is, the cold and wet soaking into his jeans. He feels the air whoosh in and out of his lungs, thinks about the last time he romped in the snow like a pup, the winter he was 7 or 8 and the whole family went up to the mountains. The memory brings others dogging its heels, but Derek pushes them back and away-a new trick he's learned. He wants to hold onto whatever good is in this moment just a little longer.
The snowy woods are quiet, muffling even the sounds of the pack's roughhousing, and Derek blinks up at the bare trees silhouetted against the sky, watches it deepen to indigo, feels small.
It feels like stolen time, secret time, these last short days before the new year, this snow squall that was supposed to be a rainstorm. Derek rests his palm over his heart to feel the steady thump of it, wonders whether the twist and flutter in his chest could be hope, as if the turning of the year might actually change things.
"Later!" Isaac calls out, and Derek can hear the pack discussing plans, voices fading as they move farther away, and then the dull thumps of car doors. It's dark enough now that the first bright pinpricks of stars are visible, and Derek hears the squeaky crunch of snow under boots getting closer until Stiles is standing over him.
"I can't move," Derek says, groaning a little for effect. It's not true at all, but there's the ghost of a sweet ache in the long muscles of his thighs, and it feels good.
"Been there, done that. Come on, my ass is freezing, and I'm not the one lying in the snow." He holds a hand out. Derek takes it, thinks about pulling Stiles down, tugs at his hand experimentally. Stiles narrows his eyes, and Derek lets Stiles haul him up instead, strong and sure.
Stiles's Jeep is parked back at the house, the closest thing they have to a home base when they're out in the woods, and Derek expects him to get in and take off, but he veers toward the porch when Derek does, and they end up sitting side by side on the top step, hips pressed together.
Derek slants a look at him, watches Stiles and the flurry of little motions-stamping his feet, chafing his palms up and down his thighs, rubbing his hands together, wriggling himself into a whole-body shimmy that tucks him more firmly into Derek's flank-that apparently means he's settling in.
Once he stops shifting, the quiet settles again, too, the house behind them silent and still and finally, maybe, ready to be put to rest.
"Do you think I should-" Derek starts and cuts himself off, surprised that he's the one breaking the silence, that he's asking the question at all; surprised that he's asking Stiles, that Stiles is here and that he's so close.
But Stiles is watching him, waiting. The world's shifted; the days are getting longer and lighter; the year's about to turn. Derek exhales, watches the cloud of his breath hang in the air.
"I was going to ask whether you thought I should try to rebuild this place, or just tear it down."
"But . . ." Stiles says.
"But I think maybe I need to-" He cuts himself off again, surprises himself again by leaning into Stiles's warmth, by turning his head and finding Stiles's mouth.
Stiles sucks in a breath and clutches at him, as if Derek's the one who might want to get away, and Derek feels the twist and flutter in his chest again along with a sudden, sharp pull of want somewhere deeper. Stiles's mouth opens hot against his, and Derek licks inside, chases the shivery, achy noises he makes.
Stiles's hands are back in motion, fingertips skimming gently, deliberately over the inside of Derek's wrist, his belly, his throat, and Derek gives himself over the best way he knows how, kisses Stiles's temple, his palm, the damp fabric over his heart, says, low, like it's a secret, "I think what I really need is to make something new."
"HAAA!" someone yells, just before Derek gets his face mashed into the snow. He pushes himself up again easily, shakes off, and then he's chasing, leaping, tackling Erica, who's laughing helplessly, soundlessly, her mouth wide open and her eyes squeezed shut.
They roll over and over, and when Erica squirms away, still laughing, Derek stays where he is, the cold and wet soaking into his jeans. He feels the air whoosh in and out of his lungs, thinks about the last time he romped in the snow like a pup, the winter he was 7 or 8 and the whole family went up to the mountains. The memory brings others dogging its heels, but Derek pushes them back and away-a new trick he's learned. He wants to hold onto whatever good is in this moment just a little longer.
The snowy woods are quiet, muffling even the sounds of the pack's roughhousing, and Derek blinks up at the bare trees silhouetted against the sky, watches it deepen to indigo, feels small.
It feels like stolen time, secret time, these last short days before the new year, this snow squall that was supposed to be a rainstorm. Derek rests his palm over his heart to feel the steady thump of it, wonders whether the twist and flutter in his chest could be hope, as if the turning of the year might actually change things.
"Later!" Isaac calls out, and Derek can hear the pack discussing plans, voices fading as they move farther away, and then the dull thumps of car doors. It's dark enough now that the first bright pinpricks of stars are visible, and Derek hears the squeaky crunch of snow under boots getting closer until Stiles is standing over him.
"I can't move," Derek says, groaning a little for effect. It's not true at all, but there's the ghost of a sweet ache in the long muscles of his thighs, and it feels good.
"Been there, done that. Come on, my ass is freezing, and I'm not the one lying in the snow." He holds a hand out. Derek takes it, thinks about pulling Stiles down, tugs at his hand experimentally. Stiles narrows his eyes, and Derek lets Stiles haul him up instead, strong and sure.
Stiles's Jeep is parked back at the house, the closest thing they have to a home base when they're out in the woods, and Derek expects him to get in and take off, but he veers toward the porch when Derek does, and they end up sitting side by side on the top step, hips pressed together.
Derek slants a look at him, watches Stiles and the flurry of little motions-stamping his feet, chafing his palms up and down his thighs, rubbing his hands together, wriggling himself into a whole-body shimmy that tucks him more firmly into Derek's flank-that apparently means he's settling in.
Once he stops shifting, the quiet settles again, too, the house behind them silent and still and finally, maybe, ready to be put to rest.
"Do you think I should-" Derek starts and cuts himself off, surprised that he's the one breaking the silence, that he's asking the question at all; surprised that he's asking Stiles, that Stiles is here and that he's so close.
But Stiles is watching him, waiting. The world's shifted; the days are getting longer and lighter; the year's about to turn. Derek exhales, watches the cloud of his breath hang in the air.
"I was going to ask whether you thought I should try to rebuild this place, or just tear it down."
"But . . ." Stiles says.
"But I think maybe I need to-" He cuts himself off again, surprises himself again by leaning into Stiles's warmth, by turning his head and finding Stiles's mouth.
Stiles sucks in a breath and clutches at him, as if Derek's the one who might want to get away, and Derek feels the twist and flutter in his chest again along with a sudden, sharp pull of want somewhere deeper. Stiles's mouth opens hot against his, and Derek licks inside, chases the shivery, achy noises he makes.
Stiles's hands are back in motion, fingertips skimming gently, deliberately over the inside of Derek's wrist, his belly, his throat, and Derek gives himself over the best way he knows how, kisses Stiles's temple, his palm, the damp fabric over his heart, says, low, like it's a secret, "I think what I really need is to make something new."