#it used to be 99.99% stiles and yet lately it's been all derek all the time

[wellhalesbells]

wip wednesday

Ohhhh man, I practically missed it but I haven't fallen asleep yet so - in my head - that means technically it's still Wednesday. Also, yes, I am sorry for getting distracted. Again.

He should’ve clocked it the moment it happened but he was so busy pretending it didn’t mean what he wanted it to that he had no chance of figuring out what it actually did. At least not until his fingers graze the tackiness of his jeans. He wasn’t injured, for once his acrobatics paying off in zero injury but he tries to remember if he’d gotten blood or guts on himself, to inspect it without jostling Stiles too much with his examination.  His head is heavy and warm against Derek’s shoulder, his breaths slow, his heartbeat— Derek freezes, presses his palm into his pants and holds it up in the dark cab of the car.  A passing street light illuminates the very wet, very red shine coating his palm and Derek manhandles Stiles up, who gives a weak groan—weak, so weak—and Derek sees the growing, gummy stain on his side. “Drive faster,” he snarls at Scott, ripping out of his jacket and cursing himself for having such an impractical one.  He yanks off his shirt with so much force he nearly tears it in two, pushes Stiles down as flat as he can, and jams the fabric into his wound. Stiles’ scream is half-strangled and trails off in a whine.  Derek’s stopped seeing him though, stuck on how the hell he could’ve thought Stiles would ever choose to touch him so comfortably. That wasn’t something they did and he’d known that, damn it.  He’d want it to mean something and it did, it meant Stiles was barely fucking conscious and about to bleed out.

Once again tagging anyone who wants to flaunt their progress on the *coughs* one thing they're working on.