#*meme;a

for a dream my character has about yours.

   her hair is long.

   so long the tips of it sprawl a net against his forearms as his fingers nibble the knobbed ’ s ’ of her spine, probing each piece of bone, gentling a scrub only blunt nails could give, curling the touch zigzag and up and further where the pattern of muscle as well as her hair thicken, each inch tickling more in the bend of derek’s forearm.

   he closes the corset, lacing it, tightening around her waist, yarns of silk strain thin as he does so ; and a sound gets stuck in her angled throat.

   liking the buzz of upcoming goose bumps, he hunts it with teeth.

   she’s delicious.     she’s also an anaesthetic. but they don’t bring that up.      he doesn’t ask if he’s ever been useful to her at all.

   the sun is hung high, none of it reaching their dark corner. it reminds him of how she can numb his tongue when it’s about to break on a nightmare’s cry, it reminds him of other things, too, things that aren’t allison’s smooth shoulder now loosening under the hungry force of his jaws.

   flesh comes apart, rigid and unyielding where it adheres to bone, and scrapes loud past blood and her urgent whispers telling derek to stop.

’ brush ’ for your character running their fingers through mine’s hair.

his head snaps backward,                           eyes sinking tiers beneath,              until the motionless fall colours a shadow of himself, and flutters split his throat.      a warning.not the first time physical contact’s made him cower, but its everydayness isn’t applicable now. 

derek’s startled.

     she’s not. she’s —— retreating one inch at a time, without signs of dread, without attempts to shrink herself as a rationally-thinking mind would, like there’s no reason to.      like she’s stupid.       maybe she is.the unspoken invitation is apparent, and just as apparently kept hung between them ; she gives its ceaseless pulse a noise that he won’t let reach his ears.

he enjoys touch and likes intimacy, and not merely for their ability to sew up a few of his rifts. even so —-

        there are lines. miles to traverse, chasms to plummet into, all separating lydia from derek, and lydiaandderek from the risk of a non-existent something. her hand, the one carrying his scent, ought to be burnt but isn’t ; and his mindset is self-explanatory, because that’s the usual outcome of entering open fire.

there should be rules, even within pack liaisons — about pushing luck, about invading one’s isolation when their guard’s been balancing fragmentation for so long that poisonous habits resurface at the barest nudge.      misery does love company, but he refuses to engage and sear her just to briefly ease the suffering.

so he draws at the loose ends of what still makes sense, voice grazing nonchalance ; 

’ brush ’ for your character running their fingers through mine’s hair.

they sit in quiet.backs to the wall, with spines rigid.                                   ( both of them’d yield —- if ordered to at the right moment,                                                                     if handled with care,                                                                      if pushed towards the final snap gently enough. )

around her stretched ankles, and just a step from his own, lie pools of floral ending in heavily mudded lines. like her boots.he pursues a more thorough lean, feeling something cold and concrete against his skull and welcoming its stability.

he knows both of them, he and lydia, are nigh-fractured.

it’s a progressive disease —- worse than pollen following tight inhales into muscle and bone and mind, more efficient any poison could ever be.

she shifts without him expecting an effect to breach his physical awareness. senses and impressions may be dimmed, but this he feels like a fresh stitch.

as if —-as if her hand were chasing the burn of summer, past icicles and into fur, fingertips jarring within a tremble but somehow unshaken. a touch in his hair. patience at his temple, and hesitation. unthreatening, not hunting for a better grip to display menace.it’s been a while.

neither finds it wrong, it seems.they are unsurprised at derek’s lack of self-defence in the matter; no shields drawn out in a routine frenzy, no verbal rejection, but he still sweeps the shadows biting far too above lydia’s cheekbones to belong to lashes for an answer; inquisitive.                                         —— all he gets is a line of her mouth, firm, that of someone wanting to offer an okay badly, but stopping a breath away from the lie.          nothing epic about it. only a desperate kind of togetherness. 

they’re tired.

they both understand.

collarbone kiss

one week later and stiles still treads eggshells when around. great, amazing, just what he wants.

it’s not like derek forced their tongues to venture on an impromptu rendezvous and taste one another repeatedly, thank you very much. on top of that, everything’s too clear, crystalline, even, shown through a filter of brightness—— shortened, he’s painfully aware. according to stiles’ corset-tight rules a limit’s been ignored, intimacy overshared. not that you can get physically further than dicks go, than their went, and — well, you can. he’ll ponder over that one later within the non-privacy of his room, though.   “dude.” he doesn’t twitch a muscle, simply pretending to be drawn to the tv like a moth. a very educated one.   “duuuuuude.”there’s the tidbit he may like making stiles an attention whore, which he’s noticed had been quite frequent prior to the unfortunate thing (no, he didn’t tell danny), and thus continues his little personal riot.

it feels as though his gums have been dented, the beer in his grasp pouring into the holes at each slurp, acidic. obviously under-baked. thing is, ever since the jerk-off involving mouths and whatnot, they’ve kept their distance; but not in the dick area, never in the dick area. they might’ve ended up on the carpet a few times, hands wrestling to grip an inch too tightly, a breath too carelessly, bodies lined up in gusts of hot exhales and excessive number of vodkas (literally let no one ever combine that and weed), and it all turned out to have drowned and weighed out nicely the undue proportion of feelings input by one of the sides.

derek’s side, really, at this point that’s no secret to anyone owning a good pair of eyes, except for stiles. his are severely damaged. stiles likes derek, though — likes likes him, or at least likes him more than your average bro should like another bro, despite the cavity of denial he hibernates in.

   “duuuuuuuuuu—-”splash.    “—-what the fuck, man? did you just —- are you seriously —-”stiles is fuming whilst derek mourns the loss of his beer’s contents.yeah, he did.    “what was that for?”he sent his drink sloshing onto stiles’ face distorted in another of the stilinski i’m going to annoy you until you pay attention to me trademark expressions, and it was glorious. a shot to die for.he shrugs, tilting to preen at his oeuvre. “i was having a moment.”   “you were having a ——,” stiles glares, painted comically with the hops rivulets bisecting his forehead, “—- okay.”that’s a murderous pitch.    and he provokes, “don’t tell me this is about to turn into one of those `fight-to-make-out´ contests soap opera style.”and, okay, he may’ve slipped there. shit. fuck.    “it totally is.”oh?

then stiles is where he prefers him most; draped over derek, not that much of a difference between the catlike technique and an actual kitten. he’s unsure what they’re to be fighting for, but regaled regardless as he isn’t able to latch onto stiles’ too fast wrists.                      ankles tangle, pulses readying themselves to pound, and he’s trying not to let his competitiveness melt away, but he’s beyond enthused at stiles’ effort and his ridiculous face which he can’t see for all the struggle, but still. he’s pretty sure if he labelled stiles as anything close to adorable, he’d get a rib fracture. free thinking, what a blessing.

surprisingly (the ratio of their measures emphasized), stiles has managed to have the upper hand and to get a hold of the bottle derek’s refused to give up. stiles’ lean in smells like beer, and derek’s too sober for all this, so he attacks fully equipped. with tickles. in no time, stiles is giggling —stiles is giggling. the piece of glass is officially forgotten, rolling into the vicinity of binks’ catacombs, from where nothing has returned whole yet. if they’re lucky, the cat’ll have been wasted by dawn.

preoccupied with laughter and the challenge of not losing the victorious position, stiles insists on not moving apart from full-body tremors that, to derek’s ears, sound very much like defeat. he kisses what’s nearest, and that turns out to be stiles’ clavicle; its jut earning teeth, then more of them, nips growing intentional. far from caresses, even if meant otherwise.stiles’ spine’s fixed bow breaks, his body slackening under a sigh. he lands on derek. firmly. it’s all nice and friction-filled and breathy, but.

something is different from the last handjob, missing the previous sense of light-headedness derek knows was offered of his own volition to stiles as a recovery time. a tone that doesn’t play aright, won’t leap. 

or, maybe, one that’d leap too high.they both note, stiles going rigid in seconds, retreating, shrinking to his half of the couch. some distrustful gazes are thrown. more alcohol is hoarded.

forehead kiss

their moments are woven of what he used to mock.rain burning at night, burning bright and calm, burning. quiet, naked moments.contentment. it’s all too good not to get used to;       when he plays the crib and has their kneecaps bumping in cacophony as toes tip in need to tease. when her nape rolls sideways to end up just below the crook of his jaw. when they simply lie and keep lying, not once with their mouths. when they’re honest and weak.

at first, those around would scold. criticise, remember when allison argent had harmed derek hale and vice versa, all the times they’d marched on thin ice, never more than acquaintances peppered with hate and straining to tear, somehow, though, united when the pack’d require just that. according to boyd they were to be something tidal and soon-to-regret, supported by scott’s fickleness of eye contact, or isaac’s lack of input. only lydia’s mouth wouldn’t open more than a smirk necessitated.

they’ve evened out the way teeth do before clashing.

he glances around the bedroom designed in square emptiness that isn’t the loft and that fills up each passing day with their presence, and he’s pleased to find nothing out of order. he relaxes some more, with allison stretched on him like a cat, languid.it had taken a while to settle within their insomniac nights, but aligning her cries for victoria and his coughs of unreal smoke came easy with practice.   she’s not sleeping; breaths too shallow to ladle enough air, so he prompts, “what are you thinking about?” a scoff to his mutter. a pang of decisiveness, too, and she climbs up, scrambling not to tumble off him as she does so, thumbs reeling at derek’s shoulders as if seeking her daggers. “i’m thinking about testing your stamina,” she singsongs, inking his chin with open-mouthed kisses, and she’s starving, he knows, he sees, but stops her advance to his mouth with a tenderness of his own.      his touch follows the underside of her thigh, then not; chattering its melody against allison’s spine and her eventual relaxation. she’s still hungry, but grows satisfied as her forehead slides against a kiss.

for my muse’s reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.

for my muse’s reaction to yours tracing one of their scars.