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Habits of Heartbreak

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“Look at me.”

 

A fingertip slides under his chin. Pushes his head up. He stares, defiantly, studiously. The thin ropes of nylon binding his wrists to his ankles tighten the longer he holds Derek’s darkened gaze.

 

“Can you move?” Derek asks, roughly. Stiles knows better than to acquiesce the request by re-situating anything. He shakes his head in a short burst, shooting his gaze to the floor.

 

“Good. Color.”

 

“Green,” Stiles replies as fingers touch his cheek; trace up the side of his face, into his hair.

 

“You look so good like this,” Derek mutters as he slides the blindfold over Stiles’ eyes and knots it gently over the back slope of his skull. “So obedient. So ready.”

 

“Yes, Derek,” Stiles whispers, the familiar response blanketing him in relief as the world around him goes dark. A ringing slap sounds out, a sharp sting radiates in the warming flesh of his thigh. Fingers almost immediately brush over the reddened skin, soothing. Appreciating.

 

“I didn’t say you could speak.” The voice is whispered from the left, into the shell of his ear. Stiles lets out an involuntary shudder and the ropes tighten another fraction of an inch. Teasing.

 

“Don’t move,” Derek orders as he pulls Stiles’ earlobe between his teeth. “If you move, I stop. Okay?”

 

“Ye- yes, Derek,” Stiles says around a moan. The concrete of the loft floor digs into his knees, a sharp ache to keep him grounded as Derek walks a slow circle around him. Admiring. Taunting.

 

The footsteps stop behind him, and he reins back a twitch that threatens to end things as a touch ghosts over the edges of his bindings. “Color,” Derek asks, rumbles, voice taut with barely-concealed restraint.

 

“Green,” Stiles gasps out just as the slack lines of rope between his bindings disappear in one quick pull of the slipknot and large hands slide his knees open from behind.

 

“Good,” Derek says.

 

Asks.

 

Orders.

 

Stiles punches out a whimper- gets punished (rewarded) with the bite of a single claw, trailing its way through the coarse hair of his leg, up the sensitive skin of his hips… waist… ribs. Not drawing blood. Just marking, a raised pink path to be explored later with deft fingers and soft drags of soothing lips.

 

“Shhh…” Derek whispers into Stiles’ hair, plastering himself chest to back as he grinds his clothed erection against the naked groove of Stiles’ ass. “Look at you. Hard and throbbing and I’ve barely even touched you yet,” he wonders, murmuring. Sure hands slide to the insides of his thighs, massaging the flesh all the way up, up, millimeters from touching anything, everything where he needs to be touched. His cock gives a visible jerk when he feels the heat radiating from Derek’s skin, so close, closer.

 

“Stiles,” Derek groans against the skin of his neck, and wraps his fingers around Stiles’ dick to give it a full stroke. Stiles bites hard at his lip, fighting the urge to move, to roll his hips up into Derek’s grip, to chase his pleasure like an uncontrollable bitch in heat.

 

The hand stops, and Stiles wails. He didn’t move, he doesn’t know why- why-

 

Everything short circuits at the first press of a spit-soaked finger to his hole. Breath rushes from his lungs as the pleasuring warmth of friction burns through his nerves, rolling through his groin in overwhelming waves of tightening, loosening, tightening muscles, building, building, cresting-

 

Stopping, as Derek pulls his fingers loose and rises to his feet.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to move, Derek, please,” Stiles begs as Derek begins to circle him slowly. Stalking.

 

“Eyes up,” Derek demands as he steps into the space between Stiles’ legs. “Look. Up.”

 

Stiles shudders. Raises his head. Slowly, so slowly, a hand (the same hand, same fingers, still wet) cups his chin, gently slides the thin material of the blindfold up, over, off his head. The light is blinding; a golden aura wraps itself around everything he sees before fading, slowly, ethereally. He focuses forward at the gentle urging of the hand. Derek’s cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, and Stiles could cry, he wants to taste so bad. A single tap of a finger against his jaw is his reassurance as he surges forward, catching the metal tab of the zipper in his teeth and pulling down, exposing a red cockhead, thick shaft, and curly dark hairs as the zipper reaches its end.

 

He didn’t think it was possible to get any harder, but Derek’s going commando, and he doesn’t even have to maneuver to suck that beautiful dick inside his mouth and all the way down to its base.

 

"Fuck,” Derek gasped as Stiles pulled off with an obscene pop, licking his lips before plunging back down around his full length and swallowing. “FUCK.”

 

Stiles groans around Derek’s length, arms straining at their bindings, needing to touch, to feel. To feel something other than the tears dripping from his eyes, the heat pushing down his throat, the rasping in his lungs. It’s incredibly heady and intense and overwhelming, and Stiles feels the brink of something getting ready to crash through him, destroy him, fix him. Change him.

 

And then hands, thumbs, brushing his cheeks and the salty tears streaming down them. Grounding him, finally, unshakably. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, closes his eyes, and whimpers in the back of his throat. He doesn’t realize it becomes a sob until Derek’s pulling out, kneeling in front of him, pulling him close and wrapping his arms around him.

 

“Stiles, Stiles,” he chokes out, and suddenly Stiles isn’t the only one crying. “Stiles, please.”

 

“Please, don’t stop, don’t stop, Derek, green, please, I’m okay, really,” Stiles begs, but Derek only holds him tighter, and Stiles stops trying to fight it. He lets himself be held, and tries to forget about anything outside of the scene. Tries not to remember how much he hates himself for letting this happen again.

 

“This isn’t okay, I can’t, I can’t do this- I can’t lose this again,” Derek asserts, pulling back just enough to see Stiles’ face, to affirm his stance with the desperate truth settled in his eyes. “I can’t, I can’t,” is all he gets out before he’s stopping, inhaling and surging forward, taking Stiles’ lips in a bruising, determined kiss as he reaches around behind him and pulls the knots of his bindings free.

 

“Derek, I need you, I need- need your hands,” Stiles stutters as Derek wraps his arms around his waist and underneath his legs, lifting him from the hard floor and carrying him the short distance to the bed. He paws at Derek’s shoulders, gripping the material of his shirt in shaky fingers and pulling until it’s off, tossed to the floor with the ropes and the familiar black silk blindfold.

 

They fall to the bed, a tangle of roaming limbs as Stiles uses his feet to push at the constricting denim of Derek’s pants, working them halfway down his thighs before he gives up and wraps his legs up, behind Derek’s back. They move together, pushing, grinding, chasing the same releases they’ve chased a hundred times before. But nothing about this is the same.

 

Nothing is familiar in the way Derek clutches at Stiles, the despondency clouding his movements as his groans pang to the core of Stiles’ heart. He doesn’t recognize his own desperation as he grabs at Derek’s face, making the most difficult eye contact of his life as he ruts their dicks together, through the slick of sweat and precome gathering between their bodies.

 

He isn’t familiar with hating the feeling of his own release ripping through him, the drop of his heart as Derek loudly reaches his own soon after.

 

Of shaking out of fear, not aftershocks.

 

“Stiles,” Derek whispers, face pressed into thick hair, inhaling the heady scent.

 

“I hate you,” Stiles replies, hostile and venomous.

 

“No, you don’t.” And he sounds so sure. So sure, that it breaks something inside of Stiles.

 

“I do.” He doesn’t. He really doesn’t. His voice cracks over the lie.

 

A pause.

 

“I can’t... I can’t do it again, Derek.”

 

“You can’t or you won’t,” Derek asks, angrily, whole body tensed underneath of Stiles.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“You act like I can’t fucking hear when you lie,” Derek growls, kicking his pants off his ankles and rolling Stiles off of him. He gets up, makes it one step before Stiles panics and grabs his arm. Derek stops, debates, deflates, and sits down on the edge of the bed.

 

“I don’t know how to fix us,” he mutters, dejectedly. He drops his head into his hands and rolls his shoulders, once. It’s defeat, plain and simple.

 

Stiles sits back, props his body against the headboard as he stares at the slope of Derek’s back, the curves of his tattoo. Areas he’s licked, kissed, bitten. Admired.

 

Loved.

 

“I don’t know either.” Derek drops his hands to his knees, straightens up, looks back. Sorrow shines in his eyes, and something in Stiles’ chest burns.

 

“I don’t know either,” Stiles repeats, slowly. “But we’ll never figure it out if we give up now.”

 

Derek’s eyes widen slightly before he crawls back up the bed, and for the first time in weeks Stiles thinks that he can finally breathe.