Just a small Sterek piece I did based on the title Storm from a prompt given to me by sterekwriters.
Contains a few lines of Neruda poetry which definitely in no way belong to me.
Thunder and lightning aren’t meant to be a device of torture, but Stiles winces each time the decibels of rapidly heated air rumbles outside the window of the bedroom he shares with Derek. His hands slide beneath the rumpled pillow beneath him, cursing the object for not possessing strong bolstering skills. Soon, he wedges his head under the pillow and mutters a string of curse words at the invisible sky gods for inflicting such maltreatment upon an innocent.
Derek stirs when the bed shifts, his foot brushing against Stiles’ thigh as he peers at him through heavy lidded eyes. Sleeping heavily tends to be his forte, but it becomes a bit more challenging when Stiles feels the need to slide around the sheets as though getting comfortable is implausible. The weather doesn’t bother him, except the sensation of stifling the apartment holds from the humidity after the storm, but sleeping restfully proves an impossible task when hands slide around his waist and soft breath presses against his neck.
“Derek,” Stiles beseeches, his pillow now tossed carelessly aside, hands grip Derek like an anchor and he nuzzles his face into his boyfriend’s neck. His eyes are shut tight, hoping to drown out the distant noises taunting him from the nearby window. Sleeping now appears to be a distant option for both, Stiles too perturbed by the weather and Derek disturbed from his slumber.
“We just had sex before we went to bed. Let me sleep,” Derek grumbles, trying to pull the blanket over his head. His actions fail when Stiles yanks the covering back, tilting his head to be aligned with Derek’s face. Derek can feels Stiles’ eyes studying him, and he knows he will not be falling back asleep in the next few moments.
Stiles ghosts his fingers along Derek’s waist, tracing along the ridges of his abdomen, waiting for Derek to fully open his eyes. Pressing a kiss against the stubble along Derek’s jaw, he murmurs, “But I can’t sleep so maybe you can help me get a little more drowsy.” His voice cracks slightly at the end, his anxiety beginning to rear its ugly head.
Derek curves into Stiles’ touch, mesmerized by how his fingers still know all of the right places to travel when it has been more than five years since they first made everything official. He assumes most people would have grown tired of their partner after being together almost half a decade, but the opposite is true for him and Stiles. There may be times when Derek wants to punch him right in the face, but his inclination towards him yields frenzied neck kisses and intense fucking in the back of both of their vehicles.
The panic begins to manifest itself in his chest, slowly causing the air from his lungs to expel rapidly. His fingers dig into the Derek’s skin, leaving shallow marks he can already sense healing despite not letting go. He opens his eyes, trying to focus on the figure next to him. His eyes have adjusted to the darkness, able to clearly make out Derek watching him with visible concern. But Stiles isn’t able to speak. All of the words on the tip of his tongue are gone, replaced by small gasps escaping.
“Stiles,” Derek whispers, hoping the sound of his voice will quell the beginning stages of the panic attack. Since they have been living together, he has grown accustomed to the panic attacks Stiles will have during the night. There seems to be no explanation for them, and the only cure seems to be the reassuring timbre of Derek’s voice.
When they were first together, Stiles was having a panic attack and Derek was in the middle of studying so he just picked up his book of Pablo Neruda poems and started reading them to quell the panic attack. Seeing that it worked so well, Derek set off to memorize an entire book of Neruda’s poems so he could calm Stiles when he had a panic attack. The poems became their thing; little scraps of paper scattered around the house with lines of their favorite poems left in the pages of a book, stuck to the fridge or even in the sock drawer. But Neruda is sacred. He is only recited on their anniversary because of his significance.
Derek places a hand on Stiles’ cheek, softly cupping his face to place them eye to eye with one another. He says, “Focus on my voice, Stiles. I am here. I am not going anywhere.”
Stiles is drowning, fighting against the current which keeps pulling him under harder and faster. His chest aches and he can’t even speak, only small hiccups come from his mouth as he tries to reclaim the breath taken from him. He can hear the tone of Derek speaking to him, but he cannot quite make out the words. It sounds muffled or as if he is watching someone else speak, he can clearly discern the movement of Derek’s mouth but is unable to grasp what is being spoken. Everything seems to just be slipping away from him. Even though he can feel Derek’s touch against his face, it doesn’t quell the anxiety. His chest rises and falls rapidly, eyes wide and fearful as the first wave of thunder rolls.
Derek sees Stiles isn’t getting better, still breathing heavy and looking as though this panic attack isn’t going to end soon. He had forgotten about the weather, about how storms bring up memories of Stiles’ mother. He doesn’t pry too often about the subject, his own family also a sore topic to speak of. Through the years he has picked up bits and pieces of the story from Scott, often told in hushed whispers and forewarnings to prepare Derek for the times when Stiles loses himself in the fear.
Realizing he isn’t going to be able to just talk Stiles out of the panic attack, Derek places his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and places a gentle kiss against his forehead before taking a deep breath. He closes his eyes and conjures up a Neruda poem, hoping it will be able to bring Stiles back to him. He drowns out the rain banging against the window and the the rumbles of thunder and recites Ode to the Storm ,
hair of water
, eyes of cold fire-
last night she wanted
to sleep on earth.
She came all of a sudden
Stiles’ gaze meets his, suddenly. Hazel eyes meeting emerald. He seems to be responding to the poem, his breathing slowing down. His hands reaches out, runs his fingers along Derek’s stubble as the poem closes,
“I love you
reckon with me,
wake me up,
show me your path
so that the chosen voice,
the stormy voice of man
may join and sing your song with you…”
“Neruda is meant to be for our anniversary,” Stiles tells Derek, finally able to gain his composure and take a normal breath. He keeps tracing invisible lines along Derek’s jaw, trying to make sure all of this before him is real. “And it is kind of an asshole move to recite a poem about a storm when that is what caused my panic attack in the first place.” He smiles slightly, teasing Derek.
“It worked, didn’t it?” Derek retorts, shaking his head at how Stiles can still be such a sarcastic little shit after having such a panic attack. It is one of the many things Derek loves about him.
Stiles reaches out, placing his hand behind Derek’s head and connecting their lips as though he has never kissed anyone before. The intensity is alarming, momentarily taking away the breath from Derek’s lungs. “Well…” he remarks, licking his lips when the kiss ends.
Stiles looks at him, hazel eyes glinting with appreciation.
There’s a silence which falls over them for a moment as Stiles finishes calming himself down and Derek wonders if he notices the storm has ceased. But all his mind only conjures up a thousand images of the times they shared Neruda poetry, in times good and bad. He doesn’t know if they are going to talk anymore about the poem and its meaning, but he likes the way Stiles is looking at him as though Derek is his calm through the storm. Perhaps it is a cliche way to think such thoughts, but Derek blames the Neruda. Love poems just bring out that side of him.