Stiles can't sleep, he's too wired, there's too much adrenaline in his system, too much quiet after the violence. The house smells like dust and old wood, and cold, empty space. It's not familiar enough for Stiles to feel comfortable here, for all that they keep getting dragged back into the broken shell of it. It was just the closest place tonight. Stiles hadn't wanted to drive any more, and his dad won't be home until tomorrow. There's no one waiting for him.
He pulls on his jeans and goes wandering. There's no one to stop him, there are barely any walls to stop him. But it's warm enough that there's only a draft crawling across his upper arms, the bare curve of his collarbone. He wanders all the way to Derek - to the only other living thing in the house.
Derek looks exhausted, but he's not sleeping either. He's staring at the ceiling, one arm flung over his head, sheet thrown carelessly over his body. Stiles probably shouldn't settle at the end of Derek's bed, hand curled round his ankle, feeling the warmth of him soak through the material. But Derek doesn't ask him to leave, barely tips his head down to acknowledge he's there. Derek just accepts his presence, like there's nothing strange at all about him drifting into his room before the sun's even up. Stiles isn't sure whether it's because Derek sees him as part of his pack, someone who's allowed through the spaces, or whether he's just realised that trying to get rid of Stiles once he's made up his mind to be somewhere is a waste of energy. But either way, it's only fair, Stiles figures, for all the times Derek has come to his room in the middle of the night.
Stiles isn't sure where he fits, since Derek crowded him against his bedroom door and touched his bruises, soft and angry. Since Derek looked at him like he was something he wanted to sink his teeth into and keep. Stiles, with all the awkward determination of youth, had tried to touch him back. Derek had said no, had backed off and told him he was too young for this. And, yeah, that had felt like a slap in the face. Stiles can't change that, no matter how much he tries, he can only wait for it, and he's never been good at waiting. He doesn't feel too young. He's old enough to kill a man, old enough to be kidnapped and beaten until he can't breathe without it burning. He's old enough to save Derek's life, to bleed for him, to protect his pack. The rest is just - meaningless.
One of them is probably going to die before Stiles reaches eighteen anyway. He's thought about telling Derek that. But he doesn't think it'll help. There's nothing he can do, and Derek is somehow softer and sharper at the same time. Easier to be around but harder to be close to. Stiles almost wishes he didn't know, that it was still a stupid, dangerous crush that happened around the violence, and the shouting, and his life quietly falling apart. Something he could indulge in at night inside his own head, that would never fucking happen. But now - knowing that Derek wants him back is a special sort of torture.
Stiles twists his hand in the sheet and pulls on it, watches it slide over Derek's chest, white curling away and leaving him bare from the waist up. He watches Derek's mouth go tight, watches his hand drop and catch in the material. The sheet goes taut when his fingers close, and Stiles knows he doesn't have a hope of pulling it free. But he twists it again anyway, watches it crease and stretch between them.
"Stiles, stop it."
The sheet's caught half-way down Derek's stomach. Stiles pulls in two handfuls of it, feels it crumple in his sweaty palms, watches it go tight across Derek's thighs and groin, telling him what he already knows about Derek's sleeping habits.
"I'm not going to do this," Derek says stiffly. He's still not looking at him.
"You said you weren't going to touch me, you're not touching me," Stiles says quietly, because he knows how to play games like that.
"There's a line for a reason, stop pushing it."
But that's the thing isn't it, Stiles pushes, it's what he does. He can feel as guilty about it as anyone else later, he just can't make himself stop. He knows how to want, and he knows what it feels like to never, ever have the things he wants. He's been going without for a long time. So, yeah, he's going to push.
"I just want to look at you, I don't even get to look at you. I can't wait more than a year without at least - fuck, Derek - come on, please." Stiles doesn't mean to sound so desperate, but something about it makes Derek's fingers loosen, just a little, just enough. And then Stiles is pulling the whole thing off.
Derek doesn't do anything, he just lets Stiles look, and no one should be able to make nudity look so easy - make it look exactly like it's supposed to. Stiles could never pull this off, could never just lie still and let someone see everything - not without freaking out a little, going all sorts of flushed, and blotchy, and unattractive. He was lying before, lying through his teeth, because Stiles wants to do so much more than look.
Derek's cock is half hard, already too big to fit in his mouth, and the thought makes his skin go tight and hot. Stiles can see the soft inside of Derek's thighs, and he bites his lip so he doesn't touch, doesn't just lay his hands there and push. Like he can open Derek up and see where he's strong and where he's fragile, find out what he tastes like, how hot his skin is, where he's soft under Stiles's fingers, and where he can feel the curves of muscle and bone. He just fits together beautifully, and it hurts a little to not be allowed to touch him.
"Do you think about it?" Stiles asks, words tripping off his tongue, scared of the honesty he's asking for. "About me?"
Derek rolls his head and narrows his eyes at him, like it's a stupid question.
"Say yes," Stiles says, soft and a little pleading. "Derek, you have to say something. Do you know how crazy I'm going?"
A muscle works in Derek's jaw, and Stiles just breathes and waits.
"Yes," Derek says finally. "I think about it."
"About what?" Stiles pushes, because he wants to hear him say it.
Derek's teeth flash, cut together.
"About fucking you."
Stiles didn't realise how much he'd needed to hear that, to know he wasn't the only one that was finding this hard. He exhales raggedly, body hot with relief and arousal. Though he doesn't miss the stiff, guilty look that follows the words. Stiles hates how that makes him feel too.
"I think about it," Stiles says. "All the time - which probably isn't surprising since I'm a teenager. I'm kind of designed to think about it." Stiles stops and breathes because his voice still sounds too loud, even though there's no one for miles. "I think about all the ways I want you to touch me, all the things I want you to do to me. I feel like I'm going out of my mind because you won't touch me, and I think you broke me or something, because I don't want anyone else to touch me any more."
Derek's eyes go dark, and there's a gravelly, warning noise in the back of his throat. Stiles doesn't think Derek would let anyone else touch him. He should be pissed about it, because Derek shouldn't be allowed to be possessive when he hasn't even tried to keep Stiles for himself. While Stiles is still stupid with inexperience and lust.
Stiles shifts a little on the bed, eases between Derek's legs, where there isn't quite enough room, the sheets makes a soft, slick noise under his knees. He's careful not to touch.
"Pull your thigh up a little," Stiles says, it's an easy, quiet request. He only half expects Derek to do it. But Derek's knee rises, sliding on the sheet and - oh. Stiles has never seen anyone like this before, never seen anyone real, close enough to be warm, vulnerable in the way nudity always is, but that he'd never thought Derek could be. Stiles's hands fist on his thighs, eyes moving into every curve and bend of Derek's body. The way he just lies there, still and unashamed even though Stiles can see everything. He's almost jealous of that, of Derek being so comfortable in his own skin. He wonders if Derek would ever let him spread his thighs open, all heavy slope of muscle and bone. If he'd ever let Stiles press his fingers there, warm and slippery and clumsy with lust. If he'd let Stiles lean over him - push himself all slicked-up and greedy and desperate into Derek's body.
Stiles wonders what he'd look like if he did. If Derek would let him hold him there - or pretend to hold him there.
"Jesus." Stiles makes a little shaken noise, palms sliding on his thighs, he's so hard and so tight in his jeans. He has to stop and just breathe, just breathe for a second.
"What are you thinking?" Derek says roughly, something sharp and hungry in his voice.
"I'm not telling you," Stiles says on a groan. Because there's no way he can say that - no way he can say it without losing it completely. "God, do you have any idea what I'd let you do to me?" Stiles sounds sluggish and drunk, but Derek's nails are claws, and one of his thighs is twitching in little shocks that look painful. "Pretty sure - anything - Jesus, anything you wanted. Which I should probably be ashamed of but I don't even care. I haven't even done anything yet, but I just want, so much. You could ask me for anything and I wouldn't say no."
He knows Derek can see the burn of colour on his face. Embarrassment letting the words loose rather than choking them off, and it's always been like that. Stiles has never been able to hang on to any sort of sense, always pushing too far, always saying too much.
Derek's mouth goes soft, opens a little, nostrils flaring, and Stiles knows he can smell him.
"I want to put my mouth on you - " Stiles huffs out a breath. "Fuck, all over you."
"Stop talking," Derek says roughly. But it's all heat, there's no force behind it.
"You're always looking at me like you want me to shut up. You should - you should make me. I think - I think I'd like that." Stiles wants to touch himself, needs to push into the grip of his own hand - so badly. "Can I - yeah." He doesn't bother waiting for permission - can't wait - there's no way he can kneel here with his pulse roaring, and his insides clenched tight. He's pulling open his jeans with unsteady, impatient fingers, easing the waistband past his hips and shoving his boxers down out of the way.
All the air just falls out of Derek, like he doesn't know how to hold it in any more. His body tenses all over, skin going tight, muscles shifting in ways Stiles didn't even know they could.
Stiles can't stop the noise that climbs up his throat when he gets a hand round himself, the shock of it, shift and press of fingers making his thighs try and spread, knocking into Derek's. He's not even embarrassed any more, he's too far gone to be embarrassed. He can feel the heat coming off Derek's skin, and everything is so close, real in a way he forced himself not to think about. How is anyone supposed to deal with Derek stretched out like this?
"Tell me what you want." Stiles sounds more breathlessly frustrated than he was going for.
Derek's stomach jumps, he's fully hard now, and Stiles's eyes keep skidding away from his face to look at it.
"No, Jesus, Stiles you have to stop."
Stiles would pay more attention to the words if Derek moved away, physically pushed Stiles off the bed and out of his room. He isn't exactly shy when it comes to shoving Stiles around, even after he admitted why he was a little more forceful with him than everyone else. Stiles thinks Derek's a little bit afraid of him. Which is pretty messed up - and that's kind of them all round. But Derek doesn't move, he stays where he is, throat shifting in a swallow, claws dug deep into the mattress.
"You can tell me you know. Just so I know, so I can think about it." Stiles gives a dry little laugh, the most his throat can manage, end of it choking off on a groan. "Been doing nothing but thinking about it, but I don't know what you want. I don't know what you want to do to me. Still - fuck - still a virgin and you have to tell me these things. I just want to know. Want to know how to touch myself -" The last word chokes off. Stiles's mouth is too dry, face hot and he can't believe he's still talking. But Derek's face is just a wreck of expressions. In a way Stiles has never seen it before. "You are so - how do you expect me not to think about it. You can't just tell me you want me and then expect me to ignore it until you decide I'm old enough."
"I'm not going to do this with you - I can't do this with you." The last part of that is hoarse, breaking in two, like Derek wants him to understand.
"But you want to."
Derek bares his teeth at him, and Stiles is so far gone because he can't breathe for a second, has to stop touching himself completely, dig his nails into his own skin.
"You want me on my hands and knees?" Stiles asks breathlessly. Because he's been thinking about it, can't stop thinking about it.
Derek's mouth is open now, teeth sharp, red eyes fixed on him and nothing else.
"Yes." The word sounds torn out of him.
"Or on my back," Stiles says shakily. "You wanna look at me while you fuck me?"
Derek's eyes shut, and he hisses something Stiles doesn't catch. It sounds raw, a tangle of syllables and teeth.
"I could - I could ride you, I don't really know - always looks good in porn. You'll have to show me how to do that."
Stiles swallows, head dropping back a little, neck stretching out in a way that makes a low, animal noise tear its way out of Derek's throat. Arousal stabs all the way through him and Stiles picks something he doesn't mean to, something that's a little closer to honesty than he wants.
"You wanna fuck me while you're all wolfed up? Because you could, you could do that." His voice cracks, goes low, and there's no way to pretend he doesn't want that.
The noise Derek makes is equal parts hot and fucking terrifying, and his hands are digging into the bunched material of Stiles's jeans, claws just tight enough to prick warningly at his thighs. He hauls Stiles up to his knees, until he's straddling one of Derek's thighs, leaning forward over him. Derek pulls at his wrist, and Stiles resists because he doesn't want to stop, God he doesn't want to stop. But Derek just pulls his hand down to his face. His tongue is a slide of heat and slick wetness across Stiles's palm and fingers and - Oh my God.
"Do it," Derek snarls and Stiles couldn't disobey if he wanted to - pulling his hand back and curving it round himself, and it's slippery-good. He can't do anything but fall into it, teeth dug into his lip, hand working quick and tight, greedy and desperate and not pretty at all. Stiles doesn't try and hold it, just reaches mindlessly, desperately, for Derek's skin. He barely feels the shock-warmth of it under his fingers, before it's all over. There aren't even fractured words, just hot little sounds, gutted and blissed-out, and he comes, wet and messy all over Derek's stomach and his thighs, and the long, hard length of his cock, and it leaves him shaking, free hand clamped round Derek's waist, groaning his way through the end of it.
Stiles ends up braced low over Derek's body, close enough to smell him, to smell his own come. His mouth is open against Derek's before he even realises it, and Derek doesn't try and refuse the kiss, even though it's uncoordinated and wet and clumsy as hell. Stiles is panting his way through it, and Derek just takes it all. Stiles thinks it's because they can do this, they're allowed this. Though there's a low growl that won't stop, that makes Stiles shiver when he kisses around it, still loose and shaky with aftershocks.
"Derek." His voice sounds broken.
"You should go." Derek's voice is made of edges and violence, stretched all the way to breaking point.
It would be so easy to push his heavy thighs open and sink down, press his open mouth against Derek's cock, which looks painful and desperate, burning hot to the touch. Derek wouldn't say no, he wouldn't be able to say no. Stiles could crawl up his body and beg Derek to finger him open and push all the way inside. Too out of control to be careful, and Stiles doesn't want it careful, he wants hard, he wants whatever Derek is afraid of doing. He wants Derek to ruin him for anyone else. But Stiles knows that Derek would blame himself for it. He'd punish himself for it. Because Stiles is sixteen and he knows he shouldn't. Derek is carrying enough crap that he thinks is his fault already and Stiles doesn't want to be something that's wrong, something that Derek feels ashamed of. Even the thought of it makes something inside him go hollow and heavy.
"Stiles, fuck, will you please just - get out." Derek's voice is soft this time, and Stiles knows he wants to give in. He knows that Derek would give in if Stiles asked right now, and the thought of it leaves him dizzy because he shouldn't be able to do things like that. He shouldn't be able to make Derek do anything. But he can.
Stiles slides back off the bed, stands on wobbly legs and tucks his half-hard cock back into his jeans with a hiss.
He doesn't turn around.
He shuts the door behind him.