Here is a thing

March 10, 2013

I was like JUST DO THE RIGHT THING AND CHANNEL YOUR LUSTFUL THOUGHTS INTO A STORY BUT IT’S NOT WORKING, IT’S NOT WORKING, I am one thousand percent obsessed with how Deucalion is the brutal wry fucking badass older dirty sexy werewolf who will do nasty fucking things to Stiles just for fun, basically exactly what Derek used to be before Stiles actually started talking to him, started working with him, saw him eating a breakfast burrito or trying not to cry or looking helpless or folding laundry, and Stiles is in love with Derek, because Derek trusts him, listens to him, lets Stiles crash down on the couch next to him and write all over his dumb plans with a sharpie, the way Derek let Stiles touch the back of his neck when they found out about Erica, the way they can yell at each other or just—talk a little, goof around, Derek’s pretty funny when you get to know him, when he’s not on the defensive, the way he stops touching Stiles suddenly, ever, how apologetic he is—how he tries to make it up to him, suggests they watch a movie or something, doesn’t sit next to him.

Deucalion doesn’t apologize for anything—except the one time when fucks into him too hard and Stiles yelps and he snickers and calls Stiles a princess and tells him to toughen up, but doesn’t do it again, goes a little slower, pressing Stiles down into the bed and holding him down by the hair, the way he rolls off him afterwards, grinning, the way he doesn’t care about Stiles so it doesn’t matter that Stiles sits in bed after the first time watching Deucalion drag on his jeans, feels tears standing in his eyes, can’t help it.

“What’d Hale say?” Deucalion says, fastening his belt.

“I’m too young,” Stiles says. Getting the words out makes his throat hurt, worse than it felt when Deucalion was pulling him back on his dick, fingers bruising his hips.

Deucalion nods, matter-of-fact. “Yeah,” he says.

What it feels like to know that Deucalion doesn’t know him, doesn’t feel sorry for him, doesn’t even like him much, to know that every time Deucalion laughs and drags him up into a rough kiss and slides his hand into Stiles’ pants and squeezes his ass, he’s doing it because he wants to, because he’s horny and Stiles is there, and Deucalion thinks he’s good enough to fuck until he gets bored of him, and Stiles knows Deucalion is a prick and a user and would sell him out without a second thought if it was of the slightest benefit, knows Deucalion doesn’t bother to think about him when he’s not around, that there’s nothing that Deucalion could ever say or do to him that would make his heart crack open. That there’s no way that Deucalion could give him a pinched, resolute smile, make him a grilled cheese sandwich, say, ‘I read that stuff you gave me, you wanna—go over it?’ and make him choke with guilt and regret and longing.

Alone, in a shitty apartment, phone in the pocket of his jeans, crumpled on the floor, pressed face down in dirty sheets, holding himself open, with a werewolf’s teeth at his neck, Stiles feels safer than he has in months.

10:53am | URL: https://tmblr.co/ZJG2byfxl3pr

(Notes: 126)