(no subject)
Because spring is finally blooming here, something tiny and self-indulgent . . .
The Skies I'm Under (650 words, Teen Wolf, Derek and Stiles and al fresco make-outs, set in the same future as Full Sun) (also on AO3)
Stiles finds him in the garden. Derek's not trying to hide; he just likes this corner where Stiles lets the strawberries and the borage run wild. The air smells sweet and clean, and the ground is sun-warm, and he's starting to get used to this, letting his guard down, letting himself bask like something tamed, sleepy and content.
He listens to the sounds of Stiles getting closer-pausing to check on a plant, tugging a few weeds out of the earth, crouching and pressing his fingers into the soil to see how damp it is. Derek keeps his eyes closed, but he knows when Stiles is standing over him, casting a cool shadow. Something tickles his arm, and he slits his eyes open enough to watch Stiles scoop up a ladybug and set her down on a nearby leaf, crooning, "That's right, you go, girl, eat up all those aphids." And then he's folding himself down next to Derek, wrapping his long fingers around Derek's bare ankle, familiar and grounding. It makes Derek feel light, somehow, like he might float away or disappear without Stiles there to hold onto him. He reaches out, finds the closest part of Stiles, rubs his thumb over his bony knee and asks, "What's up?"
"Oh, well, not much, you know, just checking up on how everything in my garden is doing." He brushes his fingers against Derek's brow lightly, says, "You had a petal, leaf, something . . . " Derek can hear the lie in it, and he lifts his eyebrows where Stiles is still touching him. "Whatever, shut up, okay, I can't help it that you're, like, my very own wild thing out here, and you're all dark and pretty and you smell like freaking strawberries, it's very confusing, I can't tell whether I'm hungry or horny and mmmpf-"
Derek pushes up onto an elbow and kisses him, because Stiles's cheeks are flushed pink in the dappled sunlight and shade; because he's lit up and happy, inside and out; because some instinct makes him want to roll over and nuzzle close when Stiles so easily counts Derek among the things that are his.
"-and I can't keep a straight face when I look at the cucumbers," Stiles finishes mournfully, then claps his hand over Derek's mouth when Derek starts to grin. "Shut up!"
Derek shuts up. He doesn't have to talk to tell Stiles what he's thinking. He drags his tongue over Stiles's palm, tasting the dirt and grit caught in the creases, scrapes blunt teeth against the base of Stiles's thumb, licks up his wrist, chasing salt on his skin until Stiles shivers and sways close, holds Derek's jaw between his hands and kisses him again and again, his mouth lush and hot and wet and open.
By the time they pull apart, Stiles is sprawled heavy on top of him and the ground is hard under Derek's back. Green leaves make a canopy above them, and it feels like they're somewhere secret and safe. Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek's chest, says, "Mmmmmm, you're all warm." He hooks his fingers in the collar of Derek's t-shirt and blinks lazily at him, and Derek can't get enough of Stiles like this, drunk on fresh air and sunshine and the steady buzz of insects and melting against Derek like it's the only thing he wants. He can feel the press of each of Stiles's knuckles into the skin above his heart.
(This is what Derek didn't expect: That he'd ever find somewhere he felt like he belonged again. That the sound of Stiles's voice and the force of his attention would be enough to make Derek flourish, to make him feel like there's something bright and blooming inside his chest.)
"Youuu like it when I find you," Stiles says, sounding smug and sure, even though he's drowsy now, drifting and half-asleep.
"I love it," Derek says.
The Skies I'm Under (650 words, Teen Wolf, Derek and Stiles and al fresco make-outs, set in the same future as Full Sun) (also on AO3)
Stiles finds him in the garden. Derek's not trying to hide; he just likes this corner where Stiles lets the strawberries and the borage run wild. The air smells sweet and clean, and the ground is sun-warm, and he's starting to get used to this, letting his guard down, letting himself bask like something tamed, sleepy and content.
He listens to the sounds of Stiles getting closer-pausing to check on a plant, tugging a few weeds out of the earth, crouching and pressing his fingers into the soil to see how damp it is. Derek keeps his eyes closed, but he knows when Stiles is standing over him, casting a cool shadow. Something tickles his arm, and he slits his eyes open enough to watch Stiles scoop up a ladybug and set her down on a nearby leaf, crooning, "That's right, you go, girl, eat up all those aphids." And then he's folding himself down next to Derek, wrapping his long fingers around Derek's bare ankle, familiar and grounding. It makes Derek feel light, somehow, like he might float away or disappear without Stiles there to hold onto him. He reaches out, finds the closest part of Stiles, rubs his thumb over his bony knee and asks, "What's up?"
"Oh, well, not much, you know, just checking up on how everything in my garden is doing." He brushes his fingers against Derek's brow lightly, says, "You had a petal, leaf, something . . . " Derek can hear the lie in it, and he lifts his eyebrows where Stiles is still touching him. "Whatever, shut up, okay, I can't help it that you're, like, my very own wild thing out here, and you're all dark and pretty and you smell like freaking strawberries, it's very confusing, I can't tell whether I'm hungry or horny and mmmpf-"
Derek pushes up onto an elbow and kisses him, because Stiles's cheeks are flushed pink in the dappled sunlight and shade; because he's lit up and happy, inside and out; because some instinct makes him want to roll over and nuzzle close when Stiles so easily counts Derek among the things that are his.
"-and I can't keep a straight face when I look at the cucumbers," Stiles finishes mournfully, then claps his hand over Derek's mouth when Derek starts to grin. "Shut up!"
Derek shuts up. He doesn't have to talk to tell Stiles what he's thinking. He drags his tongue over Stiles's palm, tasting the dirt and grit caught in the creases, scrapes blunt teeth against the base of Stiles's thumb, licks up his wrist, chasing salt on his skin until Stiles shivers and sways close, holds Derek's jaw between his hands and kisses him again and again, his mouth lush and hot and wet and open.
By the time they pull apart, Stiles is sprawled heavy on top of him and the ground is hard under Derek's back. Green leaves make a canopy above them, and it feels like they're somewhere secret and safe. Stiles rubs his cheek against Derek's chest, says, "Mmmmmm, you're all warm." He hooks his fingers in the collar of Derek's t-shirt and blinks lazily at him, and Derek can't get enough of Stiles like this, drunk on fresh air and sunshine and the steady buzz of insects and melting against Derek like it's the only thing he wants. He can feel the press of each of Stiles's knuckles into the skin above his heart.
(This is what Derek didn't expect: That he'd ever find somewhere he felt like he belonged again. That the sound of Stiles's voice and the force of his attention would be enough to make Derek flourish, to make him feel like there's something bright and blooming inside his chest.)
"Youuu like it when I find you," Stiles says, sounding smug and sure, even though he's drowsy now, drifting and half-asleep.
"I love it," Derek says.