Teen Wolf (TV): quick pull trigger
fandom: teen wolf
pairings/ratings: M, Derek/Stiles
summary: Derek and Stiles play a game.
warnings: explicit descriptions of sex, angst
spoliers: none
Available at A03
“My mother died in a car crash,” Stiles tells the therapist, “I spilled juice on myself and she turned to look and drifted into oncoming traffic.”
She makes a small note. “And you feel that the accident is your fault.”
“No,” Stiles says. “But it was a collision, not an accident. Accidents imply there is no one to blame.”
//
Stiles likes to drag his nails across the pale skin at the tiny dip of Derek’s belly, between the two juts of his hipbones. He rests his head on Derek’s upper thigh, makes scores of red welts and watches them fade, witnesses accelerated healing in real time, watches them fade from angry to faint pink lines, flattening out until there’s no mark of Stiles’ touch on Derek’s body. He likes that part the best.
//
Stiles is vocal during sex, but he doesn’t talk. When Derek moves inside him all the words get stopped up in his throat, like a cork in a bottle, and all he can do is make rasped needy noises, his hand clenched around Derek’s grip on his hip. Derek likes it when Stiles keens, breathless, it makes his hips stutter out of rhythm, makes his teeth bite harder at Stiles’ collarbones.
Afterwards Derek rolls off to lie on his back and pant at the ceiling, breathing evening out fast and easy. Stiles turns to lie on his stomach, shuddering at low thread count sheets against sensitized skin, and the fabric sticks to the mess of come and pooled sweat on his belly. Derek stretches in a long easy roll of muscles, pleased, sated. Stiles considers him.
“My mother died in a carjacking,” he says, and Derek frowns at him.
“What?”
“My mother died in a carjacking,” Stiles repeats, “I threw a tantrum when we didn’t have any milk for my cereal, she went to the drugstore to buy it for me and was stabbed in a carjacking. She was pronounced dead on arrival.” Derek stares at him. Stiles waits, presses himself face down, hard enough to feel his pulse thump in the roof of his mouth. He counts his own heartbeats, six, seven, eight, nine.
“Kate Argent loved me,” Derek says suddenly, “that’s why she set the fire when I wasn’t there.”
Stiles smiles into the mattress.
//
“I think you’re depressed,” the therapist says, folding one leg over the other. “Is medication something you’re open to discussing?”
Stiles looks out the window, watches the wind ruffle through red and yellow leaves.
//
Derek likes it when Stiles fingers him without enough lube, so his face clenches up at the first twist of Stiles’ knuckles. Stiles murmurs wetly into Derek’s throat, cursing in hoarse whispers and feeling for Derek’s prostate. Derek can come from this alone, Stiles fucking him with four fingers, angled so his entire forearm is cramping by the time they’re done. Stiles ruts against Derek’s leg, bites down on Derek’s shoulder hard enough to taste blood.
He licks at the teethmarks, little laps until the skin knits and heals in a smooth unblemished patch.
“Kate came back because she knew what she did was against the Code. She wanted closure.”
Stiles moves to get off Derek and Derek holds him in place. Stiles noses behind Derek’s ear, breathes in the scent of Derek’s hair. His fingers scrape across the stubble stretching across Derek’s jaw, and Derek bites the inside of his wrist, a hard snap followed by soft licks with the tip of his tongue, prompting.
“My mother was shot during a mugging,” Stiles says, straightening up far enough to drag his front teeth across the soft part of Derek’s throat. “a nineteen year old meth addict saw the necklace I bought her for mother’s day. It was cubic zirconium.”
//
Stiles’ father limits himself to less than one beer per day since Stiles’ ninth birthday, drinks half a bottle and puts a paper towel over the neck to keep it from going stale in the fridge. He keeps it in place with the blue rubber bands he gets from produce bought at the grocery store. When Stiles is fourteen he puts his nose to the part of the towel over the mouth of the bottle and inhales, smells the pulpiness of the paper product, and then underneath, the sharp tang of alcohol, cheap ammonia burn. He recognizes it from when his father used to tuck him in at night, from the car when his father used to pick him up at school.
//
Derek presses Stiles against the wall and kisses him, ever so gently, cradles Stiles’ face in his fingers. One hand drifts down to push up under Stiles’ shirt and press him closer by the small of his back, big palm splayed out flat and warm on the base of Stiles’ spine. Stiles jerks them off, scrabbling to get his fingers around the the both of them, and his breath catches when Derek withdraws to lick a flat stripe from the top of his wrist to the tip of his middle finger so he can nudge Stiles’ hand out of the way. He’s better at it then Stiles, and Stiles tilts back against the wall and moans a little, brings his hand up to lick at the drops of precome on his fingers. Derek watches him, mouth open and slack, and Stiles bites at his lips when they come.
Stiles slides down the wall, shuddering, and Derek goes down with him, pressed between Stiles’ legs and his hands on Stiles’ waists. He kisses him again, softly, and leans their temples together.
“Kate Argent never loved me,” he whispers. Stiles rolls his head, rubs the scratchy short buzzcut of his temple against the soft of Derek’s hair.
“My mom died of cancer,” he says, “it had nothing to do with me.”
//
“I don’t think I’m going to see you anymore,” Stiles tells the therapist. The tree outside the window is bare, the branches twisted up like arthritic joints.
//
Lydia stopped them from taking the length of rebar out of Stiles’ side, and she’s wrapped her shirt and Scott’s jacket around the edges of the wound before running for help, for a car. Scott is holding Stiles’ hand, and Stiles thinks, distantly, that Scott is crying, little shuddering sobs that hitch in his chest. It’s hard to breathe, and Stiles can feel something warm and metal and slippery, like mucus, rising in his throat. He convulses in a cough that burns, and when he’s come back from the pain he can feel hot droplets on his face. He’s spit up his own blood, he’s drowning in his own blood.
Derek’s face is freckled with it. He looks down at Stiles, his face twisted, and Stiles thinks of the way Derek tilts his head into Stiles’ nails on his scalp. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says, “Stiles, you’re gonna be fine.” Stiles rasps in a breath, feels it gurgle and bubble in his lungs. Something slips from the corner of his mouth and runs down the side of his throat. Derek makes a broken, desperate noise. “You’re gonna be fine,” he repeats, and Stiles reaches up to touch his cheek, brush his thumb under Derek’s eyes. Derek leans into his touch, gripping Stiles’ wrist hard enough to bruise. Stiles smiles at him, and Derek flinches from the blood coating his teeth. Stiles drops his hand to loop around the nape of Derek’s neck, gentle.
“Liar,” Stiles says.
pairings/ratings: M, Derek/Stiles
summary: Derek and Stiles play a game.
warnings: explicit descriptions of sex, angst
spoliers: none
Available at A03
“My mother died in a car crash,” Stiles tells the therapist, “I spilled juice on myself and she turned to look and drifted into oncoming traffic.”
She makes a small note. “And you feel that the accident is your fault.”
“No,” Stiles says. “But it was a collision, not an accident. Accidents imply there is no one to blame.”
//
Stiles likes to drag his nails across the pale skin at the tiny dip of Derek’s belly, between the two juts of his hipbones. He rests his head on Derek’s upper thigh, makes scores of red welts and watches them fade, witnesses accelerated healing in real time, watches them fade from angry to faint pink lines, flattening out until there’s no mark of Stiles’ touch on Derek’s body. He likes that part the best.
//
Stiles is vocal during sex, but he doesn’t talk. When Derek moves inside him all the words get stopped up in his throat, like a cork in a bottle, and all he can do is make rasped needy noises, his hand clenched around Derek’s grip on his hip. Derek likes it when Stiles keens, breathless, it makes his hips stutter out of rhythm, makes his teeth bite harder at Stiles’ collarbones.
Afterwards Derek rolls off to lie on his back and pant at the ceiling, breathing evening out fast and easy. Stiles turns to lie on his stomach, shuddering at low thread count sheets against sensitized skin, and the fabric sticks to the mess of come and pooled sweat on his belly. Derek stretches in a long easy roll of muscles, pleased, sated. Stiles considers him.
“My mother died in a carjacking,” he says, and Derek frowns at him.
“What?”
“My mother died in a carjacking,” Stiles repeats, “I threw a tantrum when we didn’t have any milk for my cereal, she went to the drugstore to buy it for me and was stabbed in a carjacking. She was pronounced dead on arrival.” Derek stares at him. Stiles waits, presses himself face down, hard enough to feel his pulse thump in the roof of his mouth. He counts his own heartbeats, six, seven, eight, nine.
“Kate Argent loved me,” Derek says suddenly, “that’s why she set the fire when I wasn’t there.”
Stiles smiles into the mattress.
//
“I think you’re depressed,” the therapist says, folding one leg over the other. “Is medication something you’re open to discussing?”
Stiles looks out the window, watches the wind ruffle through red and yellow leaves.
//
Derek likes it when Stiles fingers him without enough lube, so his face clenches up at the first twist of Stiles’ knuckles. Stiles murmurs wetly into Derek’s throat, cursing in hoarse whispers and feeling for Derek’s prostate. Derek can come from this alone, Stiles fucking him with four fingers, angled so his entire forearm is cramping by the time they’re done. Stiles ruts against Derek’s leg, bites down on Derek’s shoulder hard enough to taste blood.
He licks at the teethmarks, little laps until the skin knits and heals in a smooth unblemished patch.
“Kate came back because she knew what she did was against the Code. She wanted closure.”
Stiles moves to get off Derek and Derek holds him in place. Stiles noses behind Derek’s ear, breathes in the scent of Derek’s hair. His fingers scrape across the stubble stretching across Derek’s jaw, and Derek bites the inside of his wrist, a hard snap followed by soft licks with the tip of his tongue, prompting.
“My mother was shot during a mugging,” Stiles says, straightening up far enough to drag his front teeth across the soft part of Derek’s throat. “a nineteen year old meth addict saw the necklace I bought her for mother’s day. It was cubic zirconium.”
//
Stiles’ father limits himself to less than one beer per day since Stiles’ ninth birthday, drinks half a bottle and puts a paper towel over the neck to keep it from going stale in the fridge. He keeps it in place with the blue rubber bands he gets from produce bought at the grocery store. When Stiles is fourteen he puts his nose to the part of the towel over the mouth of the bottle and inhales, smells the pulpiness of the paper product, and then underneath, the sharp tang of alcohol, cheap ammonia burn. He recognizes it from when his father used to tuck him in at night, from the car when his father used to pick him up at school.
//
Derek presses Stiles against the wall and kisses him, ever so gently, cradles Stiles’ face in his fingers. One hand drifts down to push up under Stiles’ shirt and press him closer by the small of his back, big palm splayed out flat and warm on the base of Stiles’ spine. Stiles jerks them off, scrabbling to get his fingers around the the both of them, and his breath catches when Derek withdraws to lick a flat stripe from the top of his wrist to the tip of his middle finger so he can nudge Stiles’ hand out of the way. He’s better at it then Stiles, and Stiles tilts back against the wall and moans a little, brings his hand up to lick at the drops of precome on his fingers. Derek watches him, mouth open and slack, and Stiles bites at his lips when they come.
Stiles slides down the wall, shuddering, and Derek goes down with him, pressed between Stiles’ legs and his hands on Stiles’ waists. He kisses him again, softly, and leans their temples together.
“Kate Argent never loved me,” he whispers. Stiles rolls his head, rubs the scratchy short buzzcut of his temple against the soft of Derek’s hair.
“My mom died of cancer,” he says, “it had nothing to do with me.”
//
“I don’t think I’m going to see you anymore,” Stiles tells the therapist. The tree outside the window is bare, the branches twisted up like arthritic joints.
//
Lydia stopped them from taking the length of rebar out of Stiles’ side, and she’s wrapped her shirt and Scott’s jacket around the edges of the wound before running for help, for a car. Scott is holding Stiles’ hand, and Stiles thinks, distantly, that Scott is crying, little shuddering sobs that hitch in his chest. It’s hard to breathe, and Stiles can feel something warm and metal and slippery, like mucus, rising in his throat. He convulses in a cough that burns, and when he’s come back from the pain he can feel hot droplets on his face. He’s spit up his own blood, he’s drowning in his own blood.
Derek’s face is freckled with it. He looks down at Stiles, his face twisted, and Stiles thinks of the way Derek tilts his head into Stiles’ nails on his scalp. “You’re gonna be fine,” he says, “Stiles, you’re gonna be fine.” Stiles rasps in a breath, feels it gurgle and bubble in his lungs. Something slips from the corner of his mouth and runs down the side of his throat. Derek makes a broken, desperate noise. “You’re gonna be fine,” he repeats, and Stiles reaches up to touch his cheek, brush his thumb under Derek’s eyes. Derek leans into his touch, gripping Stiles’ wrist hard enough to bruise. Stiles smiles at him, and Derek flinches from the blood coating his teeth. Stiles drops his hand to loop around the nape of Derek’s neck, gentle.
“Liar,” Stiles says.