imstilesandimbreakingitdow-blog1

[imstilesandimbreakingitdow-blog1]

"Screw you," Stiles snaps. "I don't need to be carried." Actually, he does, and he proves it by grabbing onto Peter's shoulder, trying to lever himself up, and then dropping down in the least graceful way possible onto his ass when the pain proves to be too much.

Then he knows: it's more than his ribs. It's a lot more than his ribs.

He pants, then wheezes. Pant, wheeze, pant, wheeze, trying to slow the racing of his heart. For a second, he's this weird dichotomy of grateful that Peter's there and hateful that Peter is the one seeing him like this. If it was Scot--well, Scott's seen him in thousands of embarrassing situations, and Stiles has seen him in more. It wouldn't be so bad, but Peter...

Will Peter use this against him?

"Okay," he says, reaching out for Peter's shoulder again. "Just... Just get me up. Like, on my feet, and I can do the rest, and if you drop me, Peter, I swear I'll die on purpose and haunt you forever."

Stiles…

Yeah, okay.

He screams.

The pressure lifts, his chest expands, and his ribs shift, the bones grinding. He bites down on the yelp and digs his elbows into the mix of sand and soil under him, dragging himself as far back as he could while his body fights him. It's a shame, because he had a whip-smart retort all made up for Peter, but it hurts too much for him to get it out his mouth.

"Come on," he snarls when he slips in the mud and loses his grip. He plants his elbows again and shoves, propelling himself backward. “Come on, Stiles. This is bullshit, you can do this." He's survived for an hour pinned under his Jeep. There is no way in hell he's going to kick it now. He is going to suck it up.

"There," he says at last, dropping down flat and pulling his knees up to get his legs out of the way. He gasps in a breath that sucks the wind right back out of him with hurt. “There, I’m out. I’m out, Peter! Fuck." He curls sideways, onto his good side, and claps his right arm to his side, over the broken rib(s?).

[imstilesandimbreakingitdow-blog1]

Stiles...

Yeah, okay.

He screamed.

The pressure lifted, his chest expanded, and his ribs shifted, the bones grinding. He bit down on the yelp and dug his elbows into the mix of sand and soil under him, dragging himself as far back as he could while his body fought him. It was a shame, because he'd had a whip-smart retort all made up for Peter, but it hurt too much for him to get it out his mouth.

"Come on," he snarled when he slipped in the mud and lost his grip. He planted his elbows again and shoved, propelling himself backward. "Come on, Stiles. This is bullshit, you can do this." He'd survived for an hour pinned under his Jeep. There was no way in hell he was going to kick it now. He was going to suck it up.

"There," he said at last, dropping down flat and pulling his knees up to get his legs out of the way. He gasped in a breath that sucked the wind right back out of him with hurt. "There, I'm out. I'm out, Peter! Fuck." He curled sideways, onto his good side, and clapped his right arm to his side, over the broken rib(s?).