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31_days2013-12-13 10:45 pm
saraste-impi.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2013-12-13 10:45 pm
[December 13th] [Teen Wolf] This Isn't You
Title: This Isn't You
Day/Prompt: 13.Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren't.
Series: Teen Wolf
Rating: PG-13
The closer Derek gets to Stiles the more wrong the boy's scent becomes. It's still Stiles but mixed, sulfur clinging to the woodsy intoxicating boy-smell, making it cloying and not sweet as it should have been, as it had always been to Derek's nose. It was all mixed with the sickly sweet scent of Stiles' blood. It's also too easy to pick up even with the icy snow smell, the smell of an unnatural snowfall.
The snow itself doesn't hinder Derek, even when it's deep. It's actually less so in the forest, where the trees had prevented from the trails to be buried in it. And even if he didn't have the scent to track by, Stiles' deep foot steps in the snow would tell him all he needs to know.
Derek didn't find any blood as he tracked, even when the scent trailed in the air. There had just been those few droplets on the kitchen knife back at the Stilinski house.
“It was... but it wasn't him. It was not my son. It wasn't Stiles.”
The sheriff's pained words clank around inside Derek's head and he can't fathom them out. As he tracks, Derek phones Deaton. Tells him about the all black eyes and the way Stiles scent is mixed with sulfur. There is a long pause after that, during which Derek makes himself concentrate on the scent, shuddering as it leads him to the preserve, towards his lands. The Hale property. Then Deaton speaks, tells Derek that he'll have to check some books, make some phone calls. Tells Derek that he knows just the people to contact.
“But how can Stiles be okay when he's mortally wounded?”
Those are Derek's last words before the call ends. And Deaton has no answer. Derek stuffs the thought away the same he does his cell into his jacket pocket. He spares a thought to think if the sheriff is already at the hospital. Hopes that the sheriff will survive, because of Stiles.
Derek cannot think that Stiles won't make it through this. The boy always makes through everything. Absolutely everything. Then the scent of him is invading Derek senses and he comes to a halt, sees Stiles standing on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the city below. He's only wearing jeans and no jacket, just a plaid flannel. Derek's already shrugging out of his jacket at the sight, moving his cell to his pocket as he approaches.
“Stiles?” He asks. The noise makes the boy whip around and Derek's blood freezes. He can clearly see the stab wound, right over Stiles' heart, the crimson blood, not much but enough, staining the few layers of clothing over it. That alone is eerie. Stiles is only wearing a tee and a flannel shirt over it and isn't shivering at all and Derek's ears can't pick up an elevated heartbeat which would accompany being cold. But he can smell the smoky scent of death lingering over Stiles body. Mixed with Stiles' own scent, which is overpowered by the reek of sulfur.
His hands falter and the leather jacket drops to the snow, forgotten.
“You know...” Stiles says, well, Stiles body says and Derek has no idea how he knows that, he just does. He doesn't need to see the eyes being all black, not a hint of warm whiskey in them, just all black, not just the pupils. Maybe it's because Derek knows that Stiles is mortally wounded, being human, he shouldn't even be able to stand right now.
Stiles should be dead and yet there he is, walking and talking. Coming to Derek and crowding him in against a tree, mimicking what Derek usually does to the boy.
It is both wrong and right, wrong because Derek has no fucking idea what the hell is going on, right because this is something Derek might have wanted... if Stiles had been in his right mind and not... whatever hell he is. All Derek knows is that the body crowding into his, pressing against him, isn't in Stiles' control.
The sulfur is overbearing this close up and makes Derek want to sneeze, which he doesn't, of course. Even if he wants to. The death scent is making his hackles rise. Because how can Stiles still be standing with the scent of it so strong? But what the hell do the black eyes mean anyway.
“This isn't you.” He says, careful not to reach out and touch Stiles. Because the boy feels wrong. And yet, Stiles is still there, buried, shoved aside, somewhere deep. Derek has to believe it, has to think that it must be so otherwise all is lost. “What...”
Stiles leans against him, pressing his body very very close and leans against his neck. Derek can't find it in himself to move an inch. Because it's too much. Even if Stiles smells like death Derek can't make himself turn away.
“I'm just me.” Stiles voice states, the words spoken against the sensitive skin of Derek's neck, making him shiver involuntarily. Stiles' voice sounds wrong, even when it sort of doesn't. Nothing about Stiles feels right at the moment. “Derek...”
That finally makes Derek react. He reaches out and catches Stiles by the arms, forces him farther away and looks into his face, hoping to see Stiles looking back at him from the boys face, hoping for the black eyes to have gone away.
“I was at your house... Stiles.” Derek says. “I called an ambulance for your father because he was bleeding on your kitchen floor.”
And there is nothing. No flood of emotion on the boys face, no uptick of his heart, no drawn in breath to show that the words affect Stiles in any possible way. No words come to respond his. That in itself is worrying. Because Stiles is never quiet, Derek thinks that it's against his genetic makeup to not talk as much, sometimes even more, as humanly possible.
The boy in Derek's grip – whom he refuses to call Stiles in his head because even when it's Stiles body, Stiles isn't the one in control, and Derek had thought that they were over and done with people being controlled by others – looks at Derek for a long time, shakes his head and the black eyes shift back to Stiles normal whiskey-cinnamon shade.
“I didn't mean for that to happen,” the words come out, without inflection, sounding meaningless, there is no real emotion behind them, “or maybe I did, can't say.”
“What are you?” Derek asks, horrified, scared for Stiles because this isn't the boy he kissed yesterday, the boy he dragged up from a snowdrift. What ran off from Beacon Hills hospital wasn't Stiles, but something making his body move without his control. Derek just needs to figure out what it is so he can help Stiles. Maybe the cocky bastard will slip if Derek asks straight, he thinks.
“I'm Stiles,” comes the answer from Stiles' mouth, in his voice and for a moment Derek falters. Until he's drenched in the death smell again. And that is wrong. It makes Derek want to shift, grab Stiles and drag him to Deaton's and lock him up until they find a solution to help him.
“No you're really not. Don't smell right at all.”
Then the other body is pressed against him again even as he struggles. But Derek doesn't put all his strength into it because he's afraid of hurting Stiles if he's too rough. The pale skin bruises all too easy. It is still Stiles' body, even when all of it is wrong.
“Why don't you make me smell like you?” The words purr against his skin. “Or maybe if I'll make you?” Just as easily as the words come the boy pushes and shoves Derek down and settles over his body. “Because I can, you know. And I know you like it...”
Day/Prompt: 13.Sometimes they are, and sometimes they aren't.
Series: Teen Wolf
Rating: PG-13
The closer Derek gets to Stiles the more wrong the boy's scent becomes. It's still Stiles but mixed, sulfur clinging to the woodsy intoxicating boy-smell, making it cloying and not sweet as it should have been, as it had always been to Derek's nose. It was all mixed with the sickly sweet scent of Stiles' blood. It's also too easy to pick up even with the icy snow smell, the smell of an unnatural snowfall.
The snow itself doesn't hinder Derek, even when it's deep. It's actually less so in the forest, where the trees had prevented from the trails to be buried in it. And even if he didn't have the scent to track by, Stiles' deep foot steps in the snow would tell him all he needs to know.
Derek didn't find any blood as he tracked, even when the scent trailed in the air. There had just been those few droplets on the kitchen knife back at the Stilinski house.
“It was... but it wasn't him. It was not my son. It wasn't Stiles.”
The sheriff's pained words clank around inside Derek's head and he can't fathom them out. As he tracks, Derek phones Deaton. Tells him about the all black eyes and the way Stiles scent is mixed with sulfur. There is a long pause after that, during which Derek makes himself concentrate on the scent, shuddering as it leads him to the preserve, towards his lands. The Hale property. Then Deaton speaks, tells Derek that he'll have to check some books, make some phone calls. Tells Derek that he knows just the people to contact.
“But how can Stiles be okay when he's mortally wounded?”
Those are Derek's last words before the call ends. And Deaton has no answer. Derek stuffs the thought away the same he does his cell into his jacket pocket. He spares a thought to think if the sheriff is already at the hospital. Hopes that the sheriff will survive, because of Stiles.
Derek cannot think that Stiles won't make it through this. The boy always makes through everything. Absolutely everything. Then the scent of him is invading Derek senses and he comes to a halt, sees Stiles standing on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the city below. He's only wearing jeans and no jacket, just a plaid flannel. Derek's already shrugging out of his jacket at the sight, moving his cell to his pocket as he approaches.
“Stiles?” He asks. The noise makes the boy whip around and Derek's blood freezes. He can clearly see the stab wound, right over Stiles' heart, the crimson blood, not much but enough, staining the few layers of clothing over it. That alone is eerie. Stiles is only wearing a tee and a flannel shirt over it and isn't shivering at all and Derek's ears can't pick up an elevated heartbeat which would accompany being cold. But he can smell the smoky scent of death lingering over Stiles body. Mixed with Stiles' own scent, which is overpowered by the reek of sulfur.
His hands falter and the leather jacket drops to the snow, forgotten.
“You know...” Stiles says, well, Stiles body says and Derek has no idea how he knows that, he just does. He doesn't need to see the eyes being all black, not a hint of warm whiskey in them, just all black, not just the pupils. Maybe it's because Derek knows that Stiles is mortally wounded, being human, he shouldn't even be able to stand right now.
Stiles should be dead and yet there he is, walking and talking. Coming to Derek and crowding him in against a tree, mimicking what Derek usually does to the boy.
It is both wrong and right, wrong because Derek has no fucking idea what the hell is going on, right because this is something Derek might have wanted... if Stiles had been in his right mind and not... whatever hell he is. All Derek knows is that the body crowding into his, pressing against him, isn't in Stiles' control.
The sulfur is overbearing this close up and makes Derek want to sneeze, which he doesn't, of course. Even if he wants to. The death scent is making his hackles rise. Because how can Stiles still be standing with the scent of it so strong? But what the hell do the black eyes mean anyway.
“This isn't you.” He says, careful not to reach out and touch Stiles. Because the boy feels wrong. And yet, Stiles is still there, buried, shoved aside, somewhere deep. Derek has to believe it, has to think that it must be so otherwise all is lost. “What...”
Stiles leans against him, pressing his body very very close and leans against his neck. Derek can't find it in himself to move an inch. Because it's too much. Even if Stiles smells like death Derek can't make himself turn away.
“I'm just me.” Stiles voice states, the words spoken against the sensitive skin of Derek's neck, making him shiver involuntarily. Stiles' voice sounds wrong, even when it sort of doesn't. Nothing about Stiles feels right at the moment. “Derek...”
That finally makes Derek react. He reaches out and catches Stiles by the arms, forces him farther away and looks into his face, hoping to see Stiles looking back at him from the boys face, hoping for the black eyes to have gone away.
“I was at your house... Stiles.” Derek says. “I called an ambulance for your father because he was bleeding on your kitchen floor.”
And there is nothing. No flood of emotion on the boys face, no uptick of his heart, no drawn in breath to show that the words affect Stiles in any possible way. No words come to respond his. That in itself is worrying. Because Stiles is never quiet, Derek thinks that it's against his genetic makeup to not talk as much, sometimes even more, as humanly possible.
The boy in Derek's grip – whom he refuses to call Stiles in his head because even when it's Stiles body, Stiles isn't the one in control, and Derek had thought that they were over and done with people being controlled by others – looks at Derek for a long time, shakes his head and the black eyes shift back to Stiles normal whiskey-cinnamon shade.
“I didn't mean for that to happen,” the words come out, without inflection, sounding meaningless, there is no real emotion behind them, “or maybe I did, can't say.”
“What are you?” Derek asks, horrified, scared for Stiles because this isn't the boy he kissed yesterday, the boy he dragged up from a snowdrift. What ran off from Beacon Hills hospital wasn't Stiles, but something making his body move without his control. Derek just needs to figure out what it is so he can help Stiles. Maybe the cocky bastard will slip if Derek asks straight, he thinks.
“I'm Stiles,” comes the answer from Stiles' mouth, in his voice and for a moment Derek falters. Until he's drenched in the death smell again. And that is wrong. It makes Derek want to shift, grab Stiles and drag him to Deaton's and lock him up until they find a solution to help him.
“No you're really not. Don't smell right at all.”
Then the other body is pressed against him again even as he struggles. But Derek doesn't put all his strength into it because he's afraid of hurting Stiles if he's too rough. The pale skin bruises all too easy. It is still Stiles' body, even when all of it is wrong.
“Why don't you make me smell like you?” The words purr against his skin. “Or maybe if I'll make you?” Just as easily as the words come the boy pushes and shoves Derek down and settles over his body. “Because I can, you know. And I know you like it...”