From unnamed WIP: Stiles x Derek, hurt/comfort, rape recovery, Stiles-centric/PoV, aged up, 80-120k, publishing by Sept (hopefully)
Nightmare
He woke to a weight on his shoulder and someone calling his name. Derek. Derek, calling his name. He gasped, real air really filling his lungs as his heart pounded erratically. His hand found its way out of his rucked up sheets to grip onto Derek’s wrist like it was an anchor that could save him from a whirling sea of unreality.Â
“Derek?” he asked brokenly.
“It was just a dream Stiles, a nightmare,” he said. Derek's face was intent, and his eyes were wide with panic. He swallowed. “You were calling my name,” he said, his voice strained.Â
Stiles pushed Derek’s hand off his shoulder but didn’t let go of his wrist. He sat up, heaving in a breath as he kicked his twisted sheets away. “I– sorry. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mumbled, staring at the floor. The room was dim with only the light from the waning moon outside to light it. “Sorry,” repeated Stiles as he finally released Derek.
“It’s okay,” said Derek, standing up from where he had crouched over Stiles’ bed. “Are you alright?”
“Yeah, I'm fine,” scoffed Stiles, trying to sound light and unaffected. “Just a bad dream. Look, go back to bed,” he said, rearranging the blankets over his legs with trembling fingers as he sucked in a deep breath.
Derek was still. After a long moment, he reached out to cover the top of Stiles’ head with his hand.
“Stiles…”
Stiles shut his eyes against the tears that suddenly welled behind his eyelids. He leaned away from the warm weight of Derek’s palm, sniffing in a breath to cover for the shakiness he knew his voice would reveal.Â
“Go back to bed, Derek,” he finally gritted out, managing to sound only slightly unsteady.
He could feel the pressure of Derek’s stare locked on his bowed head for a long moment before he left the room and walked down the creaking stairs.
Stiles fell backward into bed with a soft thump. His chest slowly felt like it belonged to him, rather than to some unhinged terror, as his lungs filled and emptied to a count in his head. As his heart settled, he turned to check the time. It was hours before daybreak, he realized with a wince, and peaceful sleep felt very far away. He scrolled on his phone for a few minutes before his bed started to feel like a prison. He sighed, got up, and slid into the comfort of a soft, worn flannel as he made his way down the hall.
If this is something you'd like to beta read, let me know and we'll discuss! ♡
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From unnamed WIP: Stiles x Derek, hurt/comfort, rape recovery, Stiles-centric/PoV, aged up, 80-120k, publishing by Sept (hopefully)
Run
Stiles felt like his heart was out of sync with the rest of him as it beat raggedly in his chest. He glanced at his watch and suppressed a groan as he saw how long he’d been jogging. It had not been nearly long enough to warrant the kind of throat-burning, heavy-legged exhaustion he felt. He came around the turn of the long path he was following and saw Derek ambling peacefully on the rough-mown track of hay stubble that crunched underfoot. He quickly pulled his shirt up to wipe his sweaty face with the hem of his t-shirt, not wanting to flash Derek his pale belly as he lapped him. Stiles gulped back his panting breath, aiming for effortless nonchalance as he jogged by Derek.Â
“Couple more laps for me,” he tried not to gasp out.Â
“Sure,” said Derek, serenely.
Two and a half more laps later, Stiles’ vanity had collapsed like a sandcastle when the tide came in. He panted as he walked, swiping sweat from his face with the back of his arm. When he reached the back of the house, he sat on the patio in the sun, feeling the warm, rough concrete beneath him with relief as he collapsed onto his back, closed his eyes, and felt his pounding heart. He heard footsteps over the sound of his breath, and a shadow cooled his face.
“Good run?” asked Derek, sounding like he was restraining himself from teasing Stiles.
“Ugh,” muttered Stiles, throwing a hand over his eyes as Derek and his refreshing shade shifted. “Leave me here to die,” he announced dramatically.
Derek huffed a chuckle. “Never,” he said, offering his hand.Â
“It’s not even hot out yet and I’m all sticky,” complained Stiles as he gripped Derek’s hand and dragged himself up.Â
“Sticky, bad. Noted,” Derek replied, absolutely deadpan as he leaned in to pluck a piece of hay where it was barely caught in Stiles’ short hair.
Stiles paused to interpret his comment before rumpling his face in disgust, amusement, and exasperation. “Whatever. I need a shower,” he grumbled, walking stiffly back inside as his legs protested each step.
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My writing time includes tv on in the background. I don't know why, but I can't seem to write without a pretty significant distraction. I often pause the show for a moment so I can focus on some writing thing (this is the same as writing in silence, why do I need TV On). My tv times out after maybe 5 minutes, so I feel an internal timer to hit play so it doesn't go to screensaver, and maybe it feels like a pomodoro or something and the adhd likes it?
Anyway, I started writing this Sterek story halfway through a rewatch of Sons of Anarchy (surprisingly excellent for writing to), and then I watched all of Burn Notice (quite bad for writing to), and now we've reached the exciting moment of a new show. I've chosen nip/tuck, we'll see how it goes.
I think Derek's gonna drive a vintage Bronco in my fic. I've left all mentions of his car pretty vague, waiting for inspiration to strike. A Camaro doesn't really fit, Derek's a grown up now and that just seems like "angry young man, the car". The FJ Cruiser or whatever he drives in later seasons on the show fits better.
But what if he missed the vintage American off-road vibes after he and Stiles were long gone from Beacon Hills? Not enough to go buy an old Jeep of his own, but maybe subconsciously he bought something about as similar as you can find...
