Someone needs to add #NOPE on here. *nodnodnod*
I started running with some different people like a hacker and a thief.
aldfjae HIS HAIR. BRB WEEPING UNCONTROLLABLY
“If we are gonna perform Inception then we need imagination.”
… Am I the only one wondering if by “in here”, demon!Stiles means the room they’re in, or if he means Stiles’s body? O.O
I kind of thought the demon meant in Stiles’s head, actually. Because Stiles thinks about all sorts of dirty, naughty, guilty things that involve Derek; he tries not to, because he knows he can’t have him, knows Derek doesn’t—wouldn’t—want a damaged little fuck-up of a sixteen-year-old human like him, one who can’t shut up and can’t slow down because he feels like everything good in his life is breaking around him. He does know that.
It’s not even that he’s gorgeous, though he is, and Stiles would be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about the heave and flex of Derek’s arms when he pushed him against one of any number of walls, or what the rasp of stubble would feel like against his throat. When Derek gets the barest edge of a growl under his words, Stiles has to babble even more mindlessly than usual, and hope it distracts from the sweat beading between his collarbones and the spike of his heartbeat as it climbs into his throat and pounds like a trapped bird.
(Maybe he just has a thing for green eyes and an edge of mean, he doesn’t know.)
But Derek is so fucking strong under all the tragedy and the bad decisions and the betrayals that cling to him. He always gets up and keeps going, and Stiles—Stiles maybe admires that, a little. Even when he thinks that Derek is wrong. Even when he’s terrified and angry and lashing out. He just wants to lean into that strength sometimes, possibly even more than he wants to feel Derek’s weight on him in the dark, and he wants to give a little bit of his own back. Tell Derek that he’s not alone, that maybe he doesn’t have to carry the weight of the world by himself.
Teach him to smile again.
And he can’t have that, he can’t think that way, because Stiles is constantly on the verge of a panic attack and feels like everything he loves is a breath from dying, and he can’t afford to love anything else. He can’t.
Even if Derek wanted him, which he doesn’t. He never would.
And that hurts more than it should, rips at something deep down that Lydia’s casual rejections never quite touched, so Stiles tries not to think about it, tries to push it away until it’s the middle of the night and he’s sweaty and shivering and shaking in his own bed with thoughts he can’t deny anymore.
Maybe that’s how the demon got in. Stiles doesn’t know.
He just knows that he’s screaming, and no one can hear him.
“It’s not safe; being with me.”