Derek knows pain.
Derek has been tortured.
But now, Derek has dreams. Completely different kind of torture, if you ask him. And he can’t do anything about it.
His nights became something he’s afraid of, but simultaneously he can’t live without. He awaits and welcomes every dream with anticipation he had never experienced before.
Those quiet moans coming from lips that drive him mad with lust. Touches light like a breeze, never enough to last. Burning like a red-hot iron deep, but not deep enough to be felt, when he awakes. Whiskey golden eyes hidden behind half-closed lids, wanting, never sated. Luring him. Bewitching him.
He’s waking up with a shout or a moan or twisted in unbearable but empty pleasure. Sheets clinging to his body like they can feel his desperation for contact. To hold someone so desperately, it makes him sob with unhappiness during those first few seconds he’s awake.
His frustration growing with each day, making it harder and harder to control himself, when he’s near that siren of his. Angry and desperate, his touches are harder than they should be. Crowding that lithe body against a wall or a door or just clutching his shoulders like it could save his burned out soul. Amber eyes wide and open and not knowing. Derek wants to scream. He’s so close, yet so far. He can feel the damp breath on his face. Heat radiating from the young body. Musky smell clouding his mind.
He can’t help himself. He has to touch, even if there is lack of the real intimacy in it. He needs the illusion. It’s better then the emptiness surrounding him for so many years, growing inside of him like a living abyss.
Those eyes, and lips, and warm smell fills that emptiness and heals the open wounds.
Derek needs. He needs so badly it makes him half insane. And then he hides. Alone in the dark, cursing, breathing, praying for dreams to come soon enough and free him from his loneliness.
There is a touch, light but not too light, on his chest. It doesn’t feel like a dream, but it surely is. It has to be.
His eyes are opening so slowly. Why does it take so long? But finally, he can see eyes like honey watching him from under the furrowed eyebrows. Long lashes damp with sleep.
“Stiles.” Is this real? How is it real? Derek carefully takes soft cheeks in his palms. It feels real.
“You’ve been dreaming, again.”
“What?” Voice raspy from sleep. Mind still clouded. Deep scarring sorrow close enough to reach, in case this all is just a lie.
“You’ve been dreaming,” Stiles repeats and then small smile tugs at his lips. “You’re awake now. With me. I’m here.”
“You are here.” His awe cannot be measured. And that smile grows.
“Yes. I’m here. I’ll always be here. With you.”
“Stiles.” He fills that name with meaning. With everything that person it belongs to means to him.
The kiss is heavenly. And too short. But it makes him remember.
It’s been years since he was alone. Years since he had to hide from what he felt. His siren is really his, now. He’s been for a long time.
Derek remembers now. He is happy. There is no more torture.