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The roof isn't low, and the bed isn't high, but Stiles can reach his finger tips to the ceiling if he stretches slightly, bury his head into the crook of his shoulder and try to hide the red of his cheeks. He can see dark red and oranges behind his closed eyes from where the light shines through the window, and if he squeezes them shut hard enough he can see black and white dots and feel sparks of bright pain right through to his ears.
His thigh muscles are aching and quivering and there's a sharp pain in his left hip and lower back right down to a dull ache where he's stretched open, where he's resting on Derek's hips filled and warm.
This is their first time, first proper time together, where it's not quick and messy handjobs or slick, wet, warm blowjobs while the pack are out, or the sheriff isn't home, not rushed or slow kisses and sleepy smiles.
It's not Stiles' first time, and it's certainly not Derek's, but there's something about this, something about being in the abandoned train station, on a several years old mattress with sheets that smell of the both of them, and pack, and home; how it's with Derek, Derek who Stiles can feel staring at him, drinking in his wiry muscles and mole dotted skin; that makes it so different, better, intense.
They're not really moving, not yet, but Stiles can feel it thrumming in the air, the need to move and come, feel the tension deep into his chest every time he makes a small roll of his hips, in the way Derek's hips raise and stutter ever now-and-again, like he's got no control over it, like his body has taken over and he can't stop it, doesn't even want to, and it's a kind of rush of power to Stiles that he can make Derek lose control like this, even though he's not wolfing out, and his fingers are still claw-less, but his breathing isheavy and his hands full on the thin skin of his sides, thumbs curling and digging into his hip bones. That Stiles is on top and the wolf, the alpha, in Derek isn't writhing to get up, to roll them over and take control.
(and Derek should feel surprised that instinct isn't taking over, but it's Stiles, and it feels right like this, like it's how it's meant to be,)
It's not until their eyes meet, and Derek's aren't red, but instead almost completely black, full of hunger and something else, something warmer that coils into Stiles' belly, and his lips are parted and dry, that he starts to move,
Stiles sees the pulse in Derek's throat jump, and sees how he looks like he could stare at Stiles forever, that having Stiles on top of him, and being inside of him, is the best thing there is, like warm spring days and sweet on tongues; like sea water between warm toes and the first day of snow fall.
Stiles is quiet, because the air is thick and it's good like this, he doesn't feel the need to fill the silence with anything but wet noises and the slap and glide of skin on skin, the broken gruff sounds that slip past Derek's lips like they're ripped from him raw.
The pace is messy, and Stiles' hands are awkwardly laying on Derek's chest, he can feel his cock heavy between his legs and the tight, warm drag of Derek sliding in and out of him, feel the hips under him thrusting and the sharp bright spark of pleasure.
Stiles can feel sweat tickling down his neck and onto his spine, the burn of his cheeks were he is sure they're a bright red and he's making little whimpering noises and slipping and feels all kinds of silly but it's perfect and Derek says,
“God. God, you're perfect,” so quietly, that Stiles thinks he's not meant to hear it,
but he does anyway, and one of the hands on his hips moves to his thigh and squeezes while the other moves to his arm, and up up, until it's curling into his neck and dragging him down so their foreheads touch and their breath can ghost between them,
(Derek wishes they could stay like this for hours, days even. Wishes he could watch the red flush run from Stiles' cheeks, right down to his chest, darker where there's little bites from Derek's teeth, watch how the skin of his nipples is pulled tight and pink; the way his stomach and thighs quiver with every movement and breath. Wants to be able to lick and bite into Stiles' mouth when he flicks his tongue across it, makes it wet and slick and how his pupils are blown and there's only a sliver of bright amber around the rim, almost gold. Could listen to all the little noises he makes, categorize them in his head and play them over and over, though they'll never compare to the real thing.)
It's faster and messier, and the position is awkward, Stiles hands curled around Derek's arms and neck, biting into the skin and leaving little nail crescent shapes that heal just as quickly as they're made and they're leaving not quite kisses sloppily onto, into, each others mouths and it's close and tight, Stiles can feel the clenching of muscles and Derek's talking,
“God,” Derek says again, and he sounds so wrecked. “Only me, like this, only for me.” and quieter, “Only for you.” Like he's scared of the answer, that Stiles will deny it or laugh but,
instead Stiles nods frantically, makes a small affirmative noise low in his throat, and their lips brush, and Derek tastes like spearmint ice and forest air and dark chocolate, is warm and real, safe,
(and Derek isn't a poet and he can't write love letters, but he thinks that Stiles tastes of warmth and spring and he feels like home and he's falling apart so beautifully in his arms, there's wet heat on his stomach and he's following, following)