And I Followed You Home
Title: And I Followed You Home
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 2x04
Word Count: 1800
Warnings: dub-con
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Stiles did this and there's no way to undo it.
AN: Written for the 'Accidental Mating for Life' square for hc_bingo.
It's been eight days.
Which is exactly as long as the first time, and the time after that, and every time since. Stiles has been working on the assumption that this thing will eventually wear off, or fade away, or at least become something that it's possible to live with. He's been clinging tightly to that hope with a sort of quiet desperation, almost to the point of madness. But even he's starting to realise that this thing may be permanent. That there's no waiting for it to get better. Which leaves an empty, gutted sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, and that feels a lot like guilt. Or maybe something worse than guilt. Because he did this, Stiles did this and there's no way to undo it.
The shaking is already noticeable. It's a fine tremor that Stiles can watch traveling from his fingertips to his elbow, a low vibration under the skin like the first stirrings of an addiction. He's already cold inside, in a way he can't quite reach, or warm, no matter what he does. Stiles knows because he's tried, he's tried everything, even some of the idiotic, desperate suggestions that Scott helpfully provided. It's an alien sort of cold, buried somewhere inside him that doesn't even feel like it exists. There's no way to describe it, this going numb slowly from the inside out, body shaking like it's trying to jumpstart him back to life. It feels like dying - though Stiles has no personal experience of that, of the messy, up-close-and-personal kind of death. He's felt the shocky, terrified possibility of death. But nothing like this slow, protracted misery.
He pulls himself deeper into his bed, grits his teeth and takes every shudder as it comes. He has his face buried in the pillow, breathing the warmth of his own breath, and it's the middle of June but he can still feel himself shaking like it's the end of Winter and someone left a window open. He knows it'll be worse by morning, he knows he'll barely be able to move the next day, arms and legs gone numb with cold, twitching shocks of pain under his skin, going off like fireworks, over and over. After that - they've never gone longer than that. Stiles doesn't want to know what comes after that.
It's bad for him, but he knows it's worse for Derek, it's always worse for Derek, something to do with the speed at which his body runs, the heat of him, his special, werewolf body chemistry. It's not like they know much about werewolf biology, there are no medical text books getting passed around. But Derek is the one who pulls against it the most. He's one who refuses to give in to it. Stiles doesn't know if it's more about anger or desperation. Or something inherently Derek that refuses to surrender. Derek's the one who fights it, to the point of pain and beyond. Stiles is the one who gives in, and he hates it, hates how it makes him feel weak. But it's like being cored out, like becoming a shaky, freezing thing with nothing inside him, and it's terrifying.
If he'd known it was going to be like this - Stiles would probably still have saved him. Because the way the others had looked at him over Derek's body. Scott and Isaac and Erica and Boyd. That horrible, hollow fear had been cut through somehow with the absolute certainty that Stiles would be able to save Derek. That he'd know what to do, and that he'd do it without question. Stiles is too young and too stupid for anyone to have that sort of unshakable faith in him, and it makes him angry that he had to prove it. It makes him angry that they made him prove it.
But he's still trying to save Derek, and it's bullshit that the world is punishing him for it.
There's a thump on the far side of his room and Stiles pushes himself upright, pillow falling out of his tightly clenched hands. They hurt when he straightens them, when he flattens them on the bed and holds himself upright.
Derek's half leaning against the window, shaking like he's been dragged out of a frozen lake, skin damp with sweat, eyes sunk so deep in his face they look black. Stiles watches him, watches him shake, and can't help but shiver in sympathy. He stares at him in the dark, and he doesn't know how to apologise any more, doesn't know any new ways to say that he's sorry. But something in him catches and loosens just a little, just enough. Having Derek close enough to see, almost close enough to touch - and suddenly it's not enough. This is why he's always the one who gives in, the one who always leans. Because he's not built for this, he's still too young to deal with everything that it means. The only thing he can do is kick the sheets aside and dig his nails into his own thighs.
Derek still resists, the clack of his teeth loud in the silence. Stiles can feel him pulling against it. The distance between them feels like pinpricks all over his skin.
"You know you'll have to eventually," Stiles says, he wants to be angry, because this fighting hurts them both, but his voice is weak and tangled in his throat. "There's no way to win this game."
They've tried, they've both tried. It's painful and endless and exhausting. Stiles hates the fact that he's the one who always pulls them back, who coaxes and bargains and begs. But this time he won't. He bites his tongue and stares and breathes and shakes. Even though everything in him wants to stumble from the bed and go to the window, claw his way underneath Derek's jacket - and Stiles knows he makes a noise, something quietly raw.
That's what breaks Derek. He lurches towards the bed, dropping his jacket and shirt, pushing his jeans down his thighs - leaving everything on the floor - and sliding into bed with him.
Derek's skin is cold, Stiles knows he's been pacing outside, straining against whatever this is in angry denial, snapping at the demand of it. Until he ends up exhausted and brittle and incapable of doing anything but coming here. It's mindless and desperate. Stiles has given in to it himself. The day Derek refused to come, too far away once the shaking started. Stiles found himself in the dusty, broken mess of an abandoned warehouse, without the faintest idea how he'd gotten there. Saying Derek's name, desperate and angry, until he'd had no choice but to give in.
Stiles did this to him. He did this to the both of them.
He's still doing it.
Derek's hands twist him around, onto his side, push him until there's room enough to curl in behind him, cold hand possessive on his waist, fingers working their way into the elastic of Stiles's shorts. Derek's hand goes still then, the same way it always does, nails pressed to the sensitive curve of his hip. Derek forces himself still because he knows he shouldn't - though he's never been able to stop himself. He doesn't now, stripping material down Stiles's legs and off, pushing a knee between his thighs like it belongs there. Until Derek's curved all the way into the back of him, touching everywhere, arm curled round Stiles's waist, fingers tight at the bend, folded underneath him, so tight Stiles doesn't know how he manages to breathe. Derek's always hard when he pulls them together, pressed so tightly to Stiles's skin that it's impossible not to notice. But this isn't intimacy, this is Derek's instincts fucked up beyond belief, and it's so amazingly wrong. It's an angry compromise until they work out how to break it.
Derek doesn't speak, he doesn't say anything at all. He just lays there in the dark, completely still, nose buried in Stiles's neck, body hot and naked and too big for Stiles's bed, arm curled possessively round Stiles's waist like he's expecting to be ripped away from him. It's different for Derek, Stiles knows that much, but Derek won't tell him exactly how, he won't talk about it. He digs his nails - short human, not so lethal - into Stiles's skin if he tries to ask, growls into the back of his neck, words of refusal, and warning, low and final. Derek doesn't fall asleep, Stiles doesn't think he trusts himself to. But he needs this, needs it like the worst sort of addiction, and so does Stiles.
He can feel every one of his muscles relaxing, slowly, painfully. The warmth from Derek seeps into his skin, into his bones, until the shudders slow, turn into long, helpless twitches. No longer painful but sluggish and euphoric. Stiles is taking slow, deep breaths and clutching Derek's arm like a lifeline. Until he's warm and still and breathing Derek in. It always feels like he's everywhere, and at first Stiles thought that was part of it too. Messing with his mind, his senses. But he notices it even when Derek's gone now. He thinks the smell of him has permeated every part of his room, the sheets of his bed, his skin. Until he wonders how everyone can't smell it on him, all the time. If it's like that for him then what must it be like for Derek?
Derek's arousal is a raw, constant thing. Stiles's is awkward and restless, a jittery heat that he's not used to denying in the darkness of his room. But he does, he grits his teeth and refuses to feel the way Derek's chest expands and relaxes against his back, the way his breath leaves his neck warm and damp, the clench of his arm and the curl of his fingers and everywhere they touch. Derek's hands will tighten on his skin, face turned into his hair, too close to pretend he doesn't know - that he can't smell it. Stiles will spend the long, dark hours drifting between arousal, shame and exhaustion until he falls asleep.
It feels like Derek's punishing him. Which isn't fair. Because Stiles did what he did to save him. He did this to save Derek, because Derek was too important to lose. The pack needed him too much, needed him to survive, to hold them together, to protect them all. He didn't know this would happen. He didn't know this would be the price.
And now Derek hates him for it.
In the morning Derek will uncurl his fingers from Stiles's skin, body stiff like it hurts to leave, hurts to stop touching him. They'll both spend another week pretending to be normal, pretending that everything's fine. But Stiles can see the slow, fine tremors that linger under Derek's skin, and he knows that this isn't enough for him.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Spoilers: 2x04
Word Count: 1800
Warnings: dub-con
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: Stiles did this and there's no way to undo it.
AN: Written for the 'Accidental Mating for Life' square for hc_bingo.
It's been eight days.
Which is exactly as long as the first time, and the time after that, and every time since. Stiles has been working on the assumption that this thing will eventually wear off, or fade away, or at least become something that it's possible to live with. He's been clinging tightly to that hope with a sort of quiet desperation, almost to the point of madness. But even he's starting to realise that this thing may be permanent. That there's no waiting for it to get better. Which leaves an empty, gutted sort of feeling in the pit of his stomach, and that feels a lot like guilt. Or maybe something worse than guilt. Because he did this, Stiles did this and there's no way to undo it.
The shaking is already noticeable. It's a fine tremor that Stiles can watch traveling from his fingertips to his elbow, a low vibration under the skin like the first stirrings of an addiction. He's already cold inside, in a way he can't quite reach, or warm, no matter what he does. Stiles knows because he's tried, he's tried everything, even some of the idiotic, desperate suggestions that Scott helpfully provided. It's an alien sort of cold, buried somewhere inside him that doesn't even feel like it exists. There's no way to describe it, this going numb slowly from the inside out, body shaking like it's trying to jumpstart him back to life. It feels like dying - though Stiles has no personal experience of that, of the messy, up-close-and-personal kind of death. He's felt the shocky, terrified possibility of death. But nothing like this slow, protracted misery.
He pulls himself deeper into his bed, grits his teeth and takes every shudder as it comes. He has his face buried in the pillow, breathing the warmth of his own breath, and it's the middle of June but he can still feel himself shaking like it's the end of Winter and someone left a window open. He knows it'll be worse by morning, he knows he'll barely be able to move the next day, arms and legs gone numb with cold, twitching shocks of pain under his skin, going off like fireworks, over and over. After that - they've never gone longer than that. Stiles doesn't want to know what comes after that.
It's bad for him, but he knows it's worse for Derek, it's always worse for Derek, something to do with the speed at which his body runs, the heat of him, his special, werewolf body chemistry. It's not like they know much about werewolf biology, there are no medical text books getting passed around. But Derek is the one who pulls against it the most. He's one who refuses to give in to it. Stiles doesn't know if it's more about anger or desperation. Or something inherently Derek that refuses to surrender. Derek's the one who fights it, to the point of pain and beyond. Stiles is the one who gives in, and he hates it, hates how it makes him feel weak. But it's like being cored out, like becoming a shaky, freezing thing with nothing inside him, and it's terrifying.
If he'd known it was going to be like this - Stiles would probably still have saved him. Because the way the others had looked at him over Derek's body. Scott and Isaac and Erica and Boyd. That horrible, hollow fear had been cut through somehow with the absolute certainty that Stiles would be able to save Derek. That he'd know what to do, and that he'd do it without question. Stiles is too young and too stupid for anyone to have that sort of unshakable faith in him, and it makes him angry that he had to prove it. It makes him angry that they made him prove it.
But he's still trying to save Derek, and it's bullshit that the world is punishing him for it.
There's a thump on the far side of his room and Stiles pushes himself upright, pillow falling out of his tightly clenched hands. They hurt when he straightens them, when he flattens them on the bed and holds himself upright.
Derek's half leaning against the window, shaking like he's been dragged out of a frozen lake, skin damp with sweat, eyes sunk so deep in his face they look black. Stiles watches him, watches him shake, and can't help but shiver in sympathy. He stares at him in the dark, and he doesn't know how to apologise any more, doesn't know any new ways to say that he's sorry. But something in him catches and loosens just a little, just enough. Having Derek close enough to see, almost close enough to touch - and suddenly it's not enough. This is why he's always the one who gives in, the one who always leans. Because he's not built for this, he's still too young to deal with everything that it means. The only thing he can do is kick the sheets aside and dig his nails into his own thighs.
Derek still resists, the clack of his teeth loud in the silence. Stiles can feel him pulling against it. The distance between them feels like pinpricks all over his skin.
"You know you'll have to eventually," Stiles says, he wants to be angry, because this fighting hurts them both, but his voice is weak and tangled in his throat. "There's no way to win this game."
They've tried, they've both tried. It's painful and endless and exhausting. Stiles hates the fact that he's the one who always pulls them back, who coaxes and bargains and begs. But this time he won't. He bites his tongue and stares and breathes and shakes. Even though everything in him wants to stumble from the bed and go to the window, claw his way underneath Derek's jacket - and Stiles knows he makes a noise, something quietly raw.
That's what breaks Derek. He lurches towards the bed, dropping his jacket and shirt, pushing his jeans down his thighs - leaving everything on the floor - and sliding into bed with him.
Derek's skin is cold, Stiles knows he's been pacing outside, straining against whatever this is in angry denial, snapping at the demand of it. Until he ends up exhausted and brittle and incapable of doing anything but coming here. It's mindless and desperate. Stiles has given in to it himself. The day Derek refused to come, too far away once the shaking started. Stiles found himself in the dusty, broken mess of an abandoned warehouse, without the faintest idea how he'd gotten there. Saying Derek's name, desperate and angry, until he'd had no choice but to give in.
Stiles did this to him. He did this to the both of them.
He's still doing it.
Derek's hands twist him around, onto his side, push him until there's room enough to curl in behind him, cold hand possessive on his waist, fingers working their way into the elastic of Stiles's shorts. Derek's hand goes still then, the same way it always does, nails pressed to the sensitive curve of his hip. Derek forces himself still because he knows he shouldn't - though he's never been able to stop himself. He doesn't now, stripping material down Stiles's legs and off, pushing a knee between his thighs like it belongs there. Until Derek's curved all the way into the back of him, touching everywhere, arm curled round Stiles's waist, fingers tight at the bend, folded underneath him, so tight Stiles doesn't know how he manages to breathe. Derek's always hard when he pulls them together, pressed so tightly to Stiles's skin that it's impossible not to notice. But this isn't intimacy, this is Derek's instincts fucked up beyond belief, and it's so amazingly wrong. It's an angry compromise until they work out how to break it.
Derek doesn't speak, he doesn't say anything at all. He just lays there in the dark, completely still, nose buried in Stiles's neck, body hot and naked and too big for Stiles's bed, arm curled possessively round Stiles's waist like he's expecting to be ripped away from him. It's different for Derek, Stiles knows that much, but Derek won't tell him exactly how, he won't talk about it. He digs his nails - short human, not so lethal - into Stiles's skin if he tries to ask, growls into the back of his neck, words of refusal, and warning, low and final. Derek doesn't fall asleep, Stiles doesn't think he trusts himself to. But he needs this, needs it like the worst sort of addiction, and so does Stiles.
He can feel every one of his muscles relaxing, slowly, painfully. The warmth from Derek seeps into his skin, into his bones, until the shudders slow, turn into long, helpless twitches. No longer painful but sluggish and euphoric. Stiles is taking slow, deep breaths and clutching Derek's arm like a lifeline. Until he's warm and still and breathing Derek in. It always feels like he's everywhere, and at first Stiles thought that was part of it too. Messing with his mind, his senses. But he notices it even when Derek's gone now. He thinks the smell of him has permeated every part of his room, the sheets of his bed, his skin. Until he wonders how everyone can't smell it on him, all the time. If it's like that for him then what must it be like for Derek?
Derek's arousal is a raw, constant thing. Stiles's is awkward and restless, a jittery heat that he's not used to denying in the darkness of his room. But he does, he grits his teeth and refuses to feel the way Derek's chest expands and relaxes against his back, the way his breath leaves his neck warm and damp, the clench of his arm and the curl of his fingers and everywhere they touch. Derek's hands will tighten on his skin, face turned into his hair, too close to pretend he doesn't know - that he can't smell it. Stiles will spend the long, dark hours drifting between arousal, shame and exhaustion until he falls asleep.
It feels like Derek's punishing him. Which isn't fair. Because Stiles did what he did to save him. He did this to save Derek, because Derek was too important to lose. The pack needed him too much, needed him to survive, to hold them together, to protect them all. He didn't know this would happen. He didn't know this would be the price.
And now Derek hates him for it.
In the morning Derek will uncurl his fingers from Stiles's skin, body stiff like it hurts to leave, hurts to stop touching him. They'll both spend another week pretending to be normal, pretending that everything's fine. But Stiles can see the slow, fine tremors that linger under Derek's skin, and he knows that this isn't enough for him.