It Was All An Accident
Title: It Was All An Accident
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Word Count: 3600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He's sure that some complicated law of physics is in danger of being broken here. Something about two things being incapable of occupying the same space at the same time.
AN: For pyjamagurl who is the best! I wrote you a thing, in which there is bed-sharing, and a little huddling-together-for-warmth, and some other stuff.
It's roughly minus five hundred degrees in Derek's house.
Stiles manages an hour curled into a ball, on a dusty mattress, in a horrible, dusty, charred-out room, before he stands up, wraps the dusty blanket around himself and goes to find Derek. He doesn't have to go far. Derek's next door, on an equally dusty-looking mattress, sprawled out only half under his dusty blanket, like he just doesn't give a shit about the Arctic chill in here. Or, more likely, because of his huge, werewolf muscles. Derek's already awake, it's not like Stiles could go anywhere in this house without Derek hearing him. Or maybe the sound of Stiles slowly freezing to death had been keeping him awake.
Stiles stomps over to the bed, and Derek raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his fiercely determined look.
"Move over," Stiles says, because the ice working through his veins has made him brave.
Derek gives him a confused glare in the dark, eyebrows drawn low, skin pale and smooth, and nothing like Stiles's juddering goose-pimpled flesh.
"What?! No."
Stiles clenches his teeth, both in anger, and to stop them from chattering.
"It's the middle of Winter, your shitty house has holes in, and only ten percent of a roof," Stiles says. "I'm going to get hypothermia and die, if I have to sleep on the creepy mattress in the creepy room next door. My teeth are chattering. Which you must have heard, because you're a freakin' werewolf, with the super-senses, and the vague air of superiority and the higher body temperature, asshole."
Stiles is pretty sure Derek gets it then, because the pissy expression starts to look guilty at the edges. Stiles is going to jab at that guilt, he is. Normally he wouldn't, because Derek lives in a permanent cloud of guilt and misery. But he can also sometimes be a huge, oblivious dick, and this is one of those times.
"Yes, thank you, so either find me about ten extra blankets, or move over and let me in."
Derek sighs at him (because there clearly isn't even one extra blanket in this house,) then he grudgingly kicks part of his blanket open. Stiles wastes no time at all in dropping onto the mattress with him, and shuffling close enough to curl his freezing cold body against Derek's bare back. Because this is an emergency situation and he's too cold to feel embarrassed about all the nudity and touching, or fear for his safety. Derek can either eat him to death, or share his body heat, body heat which he's currently leaking like he's a freakin' dragon or something. He's probably not going to eat him to death, or he would have done it months ago.
"Oh my God." Stiles plasters his face against the middle of Derek's back, fingers unsure where to go, because Derek is huge and mostly naked too, and Stiles's experience with other people's bodies is mostly theoretical rather than practical. Is all theoretical, really. But this is an emergency, so he just finds a space for them somewhere around Derek's waist area. Which is all muscle, and heat, and smooth jumping skin, and if Stiles wasn't currently in danger of freezing solid he'd probably be following that thought to some sort of logical conclusion.
Derek tenses up, and then growls something Stiles doesn't catch, because he's too busy trying to burrow into the warm space Derek is occupying, and he's sure that some complicated law of physics is in danger of being broken here. Something about two things being incapable of occupying the same space at the same time.
"Stiles."
Stiles can actually feel the irritation building.
"I'm not going to apologise for trying to preserve my own life, this is necessary touching. I don't even care, threaten me, or kill me tomorrow, when I'm warm. I'm incapable of caring until I can feel all my extremities again." His extremities are very confused at the moment, but at least Stiles is distantly aware of them, that's an improvement.
"Do it without so much touching," Derek grates out. Back tensing in irritated little twitches under Stiles's cheek and chest.
If they weren't almost-friends, who'd teamed up to save Beacon Hills at least twice, Stiles might be offended by that. He glares into Derek's shoulder, which really isn't as effective as he wishes it was. But it's where his face happens to be at the moment.
"Oh, so I can hold you up in a swimming pool for hours, treading water and suffering from exhaustion and that's totally fine. But the minute I want to borrow a little body heat, you suddenly have a personal space crisis?"
There's a minute of huffy silence.
"Just go to sleep," Derek says at last, because if he ever admits that he might be wrong then the whole universe is in danger of collapsing in on itself.
"Fine, I will."
Derek sighs in the dark, like he's incapable of sleeping while Stiles is squashed against him, and possibly also that he blames Stiles for absolutely everything. Ever.
"Don't make noises at me, you're the one who thought it was a good idea to be out of town for a few days, to see if the Sirens would just pass through, rather than declaring themselves and causing a whole lot of hassle. You're the one that effectively trapped me at your creepy house. I think the least you can do is make sure I don't die while I'm here."
"It's not that cold," Derek hisses.
"Says the werewolf who's never actually been human. I'm sorry I'm not absolutely packed with muscle to keep the cold out, or heated from within by my own terrible rage. I'm sorry I'm limited to my own clearly insufficient human body. But I can't exactly do anything about that."
There's another quiet, guilty silence, and Stiles doesn't feel bad about causing this one at all.
"Go to sleep," Derek says again, and then shifts like he's still trying to crawl his way free.
"Stop wriggling."
"Stop clinging - and don't put your face in my neck."
"It's warm," Stiles protests.
"Just don't do it," Derek says firmly.
...
Stiles wakes up warm, which doesn't really register as something surprising to start with.
He's not pressed against Derek's back any more - no, now he's sprawled mostly on top of him. Which doesn't even begin to describe the betrayal of his sleeping body. Their legs are tangled together, one of Stiles's hands is curled over Derek's shoulder the other is tucked under his back, fingers pressed low against his spine. Stiles has a sleepy moment to consider how they managed to even get here. At least without Derek protesting, and kicking him out of the bed with extreme prejudice. How the hell did Derek sleep through this? It's not Stiles's fault. Stiles has never slept with anyone before. This might just be something his body does, attempt to climb any other body within range.
His sleepy moment is rudely interrupted by an urgent news bulletin from the rest of his body. They're both hard. His own morning erection he's used to. But Derek's dick feels huge against his stomach, a solid line of foreign heat that makes his insides clench, and his chest go tight, and his own dick try to harden impossibly further.
Seriously, could anyone wake up on top of Derek and not have an erection? Stiles had pretty much assumed that everyone who's ever met Derek has a weird crush on him, because he's Derek.
But Derek is a huge ball of angry, wounded misery, and leather. Having a crush on him had felt pretty safe, because of the whole everyone was doing it, theme. Derek didn't reciprocate. Derek didn't reciprocate anything, with anyone, ever. Mostly there was pushing and anger, and Stiles had started thinking that maybe Derek just...didn't.
Only now there's - reciprocation, in the most basic of senses. Which is throwing Stiles's comfortable assumptions into something of a disarray.
There's absolutely no way that Derek isn't awake as well. Only he isn't saying anything either, or shoving Stiles off, or making any comment about how he doesn't deserve all the horrible things that happen to him, or about how Stiles is the worst.
Stiles thinks that the whole pretending to be asleep thing is going to get ridiculous in about two minutes. Because they are both so obviously awake, and aware of the fact that they're basically snuggling. Also Stiles probably smells entirely of arousal, and surprise, and desperation. So, y'know, nothing humiliating.
It's too late to mumble something awkward and get off him, that will really just draw attention to the fact that they're both hard enough to drill for diamonds. They've also been lying here aware of everything for so long that attempting to go back to sleep, and hope it all sorts itself out, is an equally stupid plan. Option three seems to be 'stay like this forever,' which is clearly not feasible. They have something of a problem. Stiles doesn't have the experience to deal with this, and Derek is an emotionally constipated social reject who could probably ignore an apocalypse.
Oh God, they probably are going to stay like this forever.
Stiles cautiously lifts his head, and Derek is staring at him from two inches away. His expression isn't helpful at all. It's a sort of frustrated, pissed, refusal to be embarrassed, it looks a lot like turned on. Which is a sexy punch in the gut.
Stiles's face is probably an awesome shade of red right now. But he thinks if he just pushes up and slides back, he can probably manage to - Stiles gets as far as pushing up, and there's a whole redistribution of weight thing, which ends in a spike of heat through his groin. Derek groans through his teeth, and Stiles has never been this close to a sex noise before, definitely not one that he caused. He gives a shocked little moan, and pushes down again without really meaning to. Fuck, that's good, that's good all the way through him. And, oh God, he can't believe he just did that.
Derek goes statue still for a second, and Stiles's heart jumps, tries to decide whether to plummet sickeningly or not - should he apologise for that - Derek's hand twitches against his thigh, fingers turning and pressing against the skin, then Derek gives the slightest nudge of his hips. Holy shit, Stiles's heartbeat is now racing. He pushes down into the movement, meets it and turns it into something mutual, and that's better, that's so much better.
It doesn't stop, it doesn't stop. Derek gives slow, steady pushes up and Stiles braces himself with a knee and pushes down and they're still staring at each other. Only now they're breathing a little faster, and Stiles is making tiny noises in his throat that he can't stop. He can feel Derek's knee slide against the outside of his thigh, he can feel the roll of his hips, he can feel the way Derek's skin tightens when he pulls them together. He can feel everything.
Oh my God.
It hits Stiles all at once that they're having sex.
He's having sex with Derek.
He gives a shuddery little moan, and Derek inhales and stretches up that last inch. Then they're not breathing against each other any more, they're kissing, wet, clumsy kisses, cut through with gasps, and panted noises of arousal. It's the hottest thing Stiles has ever experienced in his entire life.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Derek says, voice gravel-rough against Stiles's mouth
"Shut up, shut up," Stiles says fiercely and grinds down, sharp enough to hurt, and it's good, it's good, almost good enough. He's pushing fabric out of the way with shaking hands, and Derek just shoves both hands past the waistband of Stiles's boxers, all warm fingers and hot palms against his ass, and pulls him in. Then it's all naked skin, soft and hard at the same time, a little painful and too dry. But Stiles can't stop, doesn't want to stop.
Derek has his head tipped down, watching Stiles's body push, watching the slow roll of his hips, and the way his stomach trembles. Derek's eyes are flinty and dark, mouth half-open. Stiles would normally feel self-conscious about how intently he's watching, but the way Derek keeps murmuring 'fuck,' under his breath, teeth a little too long - it makes Stiles push up onto his hands. Until he can look down between them, see the length of Derek's dick shoved up against his own, sticky-wet at the head, and he's really not prepared for the sight of that. He has to groan a little, has to rock, and push, spine flexing when Derek hisses and digs his fingers into Stiles's ass.
"Fuck, Stiles." Derek's voice is getting lower and lower, all edges and cracked little moans.
"Are you going to come?" Stiles's voice is high and surprised, shaky with the realisation.
"It's been a while," Derek snaps through his teeth, like maybe he thought Stiles was complaining or something. Which is exactly the opposite of what he'd meant. Because that is the hottest thing he can think of right now.
"Oh my God," Stiles says breathlessly. "Oh fuck, I want to see it."
Derek grits his teeth, and even his pissed face is stupidly hot right now. Stiles levers himself up, pushes a little faster, a little harder. Derek grunts, and Stiles is going to have hand shaped bruises on his ass. But he doesn't care because everything is good, all of it, and Derek is going to come underneath him. He doesn't even get to finish the moan that thought drags out of him, before Derek pulls him to a broken stop. Stiles manages a choked breath - and then he can't breathe at all, because Derek's whole body tenses, and Stiles is watching him come, over his stomach, and his chest and Stiles's dick. Which is a thousand times hotter in real life than it is in porn.
Oh my God, Derek's face is so fucking open like that. Stiles has to stretch up and kiss him, smother his breathless noises under his mouth, fingers sliding and digging into the side of his chest, as Stiles grunts out his name.
Stiles is frantic after that, hands sliding on Derek's waist, bracing himself to push against his skin, through the wet lines of Derek's come. Stiles is watching it, the slip-slide of it an extra stab of sensation, and it's less than a minute before he's digging his nails into the skin, and coming all over Derek in jerky, messy thrusts. Until Derek's stomach and half his chest is striped wet, and it's impossible and dirty and so good, so fucking good. He wants to do this all the time.
Derek's swearing low in his throat, sandpaper rough.
"Oh my God," Stiles slurs, elbows shaking. He stops trying to hold himself up, digs his hands in Derek's hair and kisses him again, messy and open-mouthed - and he'll care about being good at that later, but Derek's mouth is awesome, and he just wants to touch it right now - Derek sighs into his mouth and kisses back, until Stiles is mostly just breathing wetly against his cheek, and murmuring nonsense about how he's the hottest thing to ever walk the planet, and Stiles is sorry for all the shitty things he's ever said about him, really he is. There may also be some stuff in there about how they should do this again, because Stiles is feeling pretty brave right now.
They're pressed so tightly together that they're both going to need a shower, and there's no hot water in this house. But Stiles is too high on endorphins to care. Mostly he's sprawled all over Derek, one tacky hand sliding up and down on his skin. He hasn't even come close to being over the touching Derek in a sex way, stage yet.
"Ok, so that was officially the best thing ever," Stiles murmurs, and presses his mouth against Derek's skin, somewhere on his chest, he's pretty sure there's going to be come on his cheek when he lifts his head - either his or Derek's - and he doesn't even care.
When Stiles pushes himself up again, Derek's staring at him, and he looks guilty as fuck. Stiles gets an awful, awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which gets worse when Derek opens his mouth.
"That shouldn't have happened."
"Don't you dare, don't you even dare," Stiles says, voice still crackly and hoarse - but also kind of angry-gutted. "There is no way the first time I have sex is going to get the 'let's pretend this never happened,' treatment. You cannot do that to me."
Stiles hadn't thought it was possible for Derek to look even more guilty. No one's face should be able to do that.
"Stiles -"
Stiles pokes him in the chest.
"Dude, you break it, you bought it."
"I didn't break anything," Derek protests angrily.
"I'm pretty sure you just broke my virginity, or at the very least voided the warranty."
Derek scowls at his choice in phrasing, though really he has no right, because Stiles is still mostly straddling him, boxer shorts shoved halfway down his thighs, there is literally no wriggling out of this one. Stiles will prove it if necessary, shifting up Derek's body in a sticky slide of thighs.
"It was good enough for you five minutes ago." He means it to come out firm, like the first logical starting position of an argument towards why this wasn't a bad thing. But instead it's quiet, questioning, nothing like what he wants. He doesn't think that will help, because he sounds young and inexperienced. He sounds exactly like someone you drop for the sexy, experienced, older date. So, yeah, maybe Derek does have sex, just not with him.
Stiles is already bracing himself for the explanation, for either the 'letting him down gently,' or the 'tough love' version. He's pretty sure they're both going to suck either way. That they'll both be awkward and horrible conversations to have while they're still kind of - tangled up, and reeking of come. He eases sideways, awkwardly, hitching his shorts back up, and Derek pulls a face and wipes himself off with the blanket - which is gross, and yet still weirdly hot. Stiles suspects that everything Derek does is going to look weirdly hot now Stiles knows what he looks like when he comes.
Stiles thinks Derek expects him to move away, but he doesn't, he just finds the clean blanket he brought with him and throws it round his shoulders, because the sweat on his skin is starting to dry cold.
"Would you just get it over with," Stiles says, mouth squashed into the least offensive expression he can make right now.
"You're too young," Derek says quietly. Which sounds a lot like the first excuse he could come up.
"Yeah, maybe a year ago you could have gotten away with that excuse." Stiles doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want his first time to end on the 'lets never speak of this again,' conversation. But he can feel it coming, he'd thought maybe bracing himself would help. But it isn't going to help at all.
Derek pulls himself to a sit, drapes his arms over his knees in a way that looks defeated.
"You deserve better," he says, and that sounds a lot more honest.
But - no, that's something different entirely.
"Oh my God," Stiles says faintly, one side of the blanket slipping down, because this isn't what he thought it was at all. He's had this completely wrong. "I thought this was the 'you're just a stupid kid who doesn't know what they're doing, and I could do so much better, therefore I regret everything,' argument. But it's not, it's the 'I actually like you but I'm too constipated to admit it, and my life is horrible, so I don't get to have nice things,' argument." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. Because, holy shit, Derek may actually like him. Enough to want to - enough to pretend not to.
Derek is glaring at him again now.
"Is everything just that easy for you?" he growls out.
Stiles shakes his head, because Derek's an idiot.
"Dude, have you ever thought that maybe it's you who makes things hard?" Stiles asks. Because Derek wouldn't even have to try very hard. He'd just have to try.
"I don't make things anything," Derek snaps.
"Because you don't even try," Stiles points out. "I like you too," he admits, uncertain and embarrassed, even though he's been about as naked as it gets already. But also...kind of hopeful. "I actually like you, even if you are the grumpiest werewolf who ever lived, and it is that easy. If you like me just admit it. God, take a stupid chance. Like everyone else on the planet."
Stiles's heart is beating dizzyingly fast, but that must have been the right thing to say, because Derek's angry look sort of wavers, and then collapses in on itself. Stiles feels brave enough to shuffle closer, and wrap tacky fingers round Derek's wrist. The rounded curve of Derek's shoulder is warm against his chest, and it turns a little when he leans on it, so he doesn't fall.
"Ok, yes," Derek says simply, and even that sounds painful, sounds dragged out of him. But it's something.
Stiles leans against him, makes a little breathless noise of surprised relief.
"So, can we date now? Because I would really like that. Or do you need to angst about it some more?"
Derek exhales, loudly, and Stiles thinks that's a noise of surrender.
"This is going to end badly," Derek says quietly, as if he needs one last go at convincing Stiles. "You already know what I - you know I'm not good with people."
So, it's a yes to both dating and angsting then. Stiles can work with that.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Rating: R
Word Count: 3600
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: He's sure that some complicated law of physics is in danger of being broken here. Something about two things being incapable of occupying the same space at the same time.
AN: For pyjamagurl who is the best! I wrote you a thing, in which there is bed-sharing, and a little huddling-together-for-warmth, and some other stuff.
It's roughly minus five hundred degrees in Derek's house.
Stiles manages an hour curled into a ball, on a dusty mattress, in a horrible, dusty, charred-out room, before he stands up, wraps the dusty blanket around himself and goes to find Derek. He doesn't have to go far. Derek's next door, on an equally dusty-looking mattress, sprawled out only half under his dusty blanket, like he just doesn't give a shit about the Arctic chill in here. Or, more likely, because of his huge, werewolf muscles. Derek's already awake, it's not like Stiles could go anywhere in this house without Derek hearing him. Or maybe the sound of Stiles slowly freezing to death had been keeping him awake.
Stiles stomps over to the bed, and Derek raises an inquisitive eyebrow at his fiercely determined look.
"Move over," Stiles says, because the ice working through his veins has made him brave.
Derek gives him a confused glare in the dark, eyebrows drawn low, skin pale and smooth, and nothing like Stiles's juddering goose-pimpled flesh.
"What?! No."
Stiles clenches his teeth, both in anger, and to stop them from chattering.
"It's the middle of Winter, your shitty house has holes in, and only ten percent of a roof," Stiles says. "I'm going to get hypothermia and die, if I have to sleep on the creepy mattress in the creepy room next door. My teeth are chattering. Which you must have heard, because you're a freakin' werewolf, with the super-senses, and the vague air of superiority and the higher body temperature, asshole."
Stiles is pretty sure Derek gets it then, because the pissy expression starts to look guilty at the edges. Stiles is going to jab at that guilt, he is. Normally he wouldn't, because Derek lives in a permanent cloud of guilt and misery. But he can also sometimes be a huge, oblivious dick, and this is one of those times.
"Yes, thank you, so either find me about ten extra blankets, or move over and let me in."
Derek sighs at him (because there clearly isn't even one extra blanket in this house,) then he grudgingly kicks part of his blanket open. Stiles wastes no time at all in dropping onto the mattress with him, and shuffling close enough to curl his freezing cold body against Derek's bare back. Because this is an emergency situation and he's too cold to feel embarrassed about all the nudity and touching, or fear for his safety. Derek can either eat him to death, or share his body heat, body heat which he's currently leaking like he's a freakin' dragon or something. He's probably not going to eat him to death, or he would have done it months ago.
"Oh my God." Stiles plasters his face against the middle of Derek's back, fingers unsure where to go, because Derek is huge and mostly naked too, and Stiles's experience with other people's bodies is mostly theoretical rather than practical. Is all theoretical, really. But this is an emergency, so he just finds a space for them somewhere around Derek's waist area. Which is all muscle, and heat, and smooth jumping skin, and if Stiles wasn't currently in danger of freezing solid he'd probably be following that thought to some sort of logical conclusion.
Derek tenses up, and then growls something Stiles doesn't catch, because he's too busy trying to burrow into the warm space Derek is occupying, and he's sure that some complicated law of physics is in danger of being broken here. Something about two things being incapable of occupying the same space at the same time.
"Stiles."
Stiles can actually feel the irritation building.
"I'm not going to apologise for trying to preserve my own life, this is necessary touching. I don't even care, threaten me, or kill me tomorrow, when I'm warm. I'm incapable of caring until I can feel all my extremities again." His extremities are very confused at the moment, but at least Stiles is distantly aware of them, that's an improvement.
"Do it without so much touching," Derek grates out. Back tensing in irritated little twitches under Stiles's cheek and chest.
If they weren't almost-friends, who'd teamed up to save Beacon Hills at least twice, Stiles might be offended by that. He glares into Derek's shoulder, which really isn't as effective as he wishes it was. But it's where his face happens to be at the moment.
"Oh, so I can hold you up in a swimming pool for hours, treading water and suffering from exhaustion and that's totally fine. But the minute I want to borrow a little body heat, you suddenly have a personal space crisis?"
There's a minute of huffy silence.
"Just go to sleep," Derek says at last, because if he ever admits that he might be wrong then the whole universe is in danger of collapsing in on itself.
"Fine, I will."
Derek sighs in the dark, like he's incapable of sleeping while Stiles is squashed against him, and possibly also that he blames Stiles for absolutely everything. Ever.
"Don't make noises at me, you're the one who thought it was a good idea to be out of town for a few days, to see if the Sirens would just pass through, rather than declaring themselves and causing a whole lot of hassle. You're the one that effectively trapped me at your creepy house. I think the least you can do is make sure I don't die while I'm here."
"It's not that cold," Derek hisses.
"Says the werewolf who's never actually been human. I'm sorry I'm not absolutely packed with muscle to keep the cold out, or heated from within by my own terrible rage. I'm sorry I'm limited to my own clearly insufficient human body. But I can't exactly do anything about that."
There's another quiet, guilty silence, and Stiles doesn't feel bad about causing this one at all.
"Go to sleep," Derek says again, and then shifts like he's still trying to crawl his way free.
"Stop wriggling."
"Stop clinging - and don't put your face in my neck."
"It's warm," Stiles protests.
"Just don't do it," Derek says firmly.
...
Stiles wakes up warm, which doesn't really register as something surprising to start with.
He's not pressed against Derek's back any more - no, now he's sprawled mostly on top of him. Which doesn't even begin to describe the betrayal of his sleeping body. Their legs are tangled together, one of Stiles's hands is curled over Derek's shoulder the other is tucked under his back, fingers pressed low against his spine. Stiles has a sleepy moment to consider how they managed to even get here. At least without Derek protesting, and kicking him out of the bed with extreme prejudice. How the hell did Derek sleep through this? It's not Stiles's fault. Stiles has never slept with anyone before. This might just be something his body does, attempt to climb any other body within range.
His sleepy moment is rudely interrupted by an urgent news bulletin from the rest of his body. They're both hard. His own morning erection he's used to. But Derek's dick feels huge against his stomach, a solid line of foreign heat that makes his insides clench, and his chest go tight, and his own dick try to harden impossibly further.
Seriously, could anyone wake up on top of Derek and not have an erection? Stiles had pretty much assumed that everyone who's ever met Derek has a weird crush on him, because he's Derek.
But Derek is a huge ball of angry, wounded misery, and leather. Having a crush on him had felt pretty safe, because of the whole everyone was doing it, theme. Derek didn't reciprocate. Derek didn't reciprocate anything, with anyone, ever. Mostly there was pushing and anger, and Stiles had started thinking that maybe Derek just...didn't.
Only now there's - reciprocation, in the most basic of senses. Which is throwing Stiles's comfortable assumptions into something of a disarray.
There's absolutely no way that Derek isn't awake as well. Only he isn't saying anything either, or shoving Stiles off, or making any comment about how he doesn't deserve all the horrible things that happen to him, or about how Stiles is the worst.
Stiles thinks that the whole pretending to be asleep thing is going to get ridiculous in about two minutes. Because they are both so obviously awake, and aware of the fact that they're basically snuggling. Also Stiles probably smells entirely of arousal, and surprise, and desperation. So, y'know, nothing humiliating.
It's too late to mumble something awkward and get off him, that will really just draw attention to the fact that they're both hard enough to drill for diamonds. They've also been lying here aware of everything for so long that attempting to go back to sleep, and hope it all sorts itself out, is an equally stupid plan. Option three seems to be 'stay like this forever,' which is clearly not feasible. They have something of a problem. Stiles doesn't have the experience to deal with this, and Derek is an emotionally constipated social reject who could probably ignore an apocalypse.
Oh God, they probably are going to stay like this forever.
Stiles cautiously lifts his head, and Derek is staring at him from two inches away. His expression isn't helpful at all. It's a sort of frustrated, pissed, refusal to be embarrassed, it looks a lot like turned on. Which is a sexy punch in the gut.
Stiles's face is probably an awesome shade of red right now. But he thinks if he just pushes up and slides back, he can probably manage to - Stiles gets as far as pushing up, and there's a whole redistribution of weight thing, which ends in a spike of heat through his groin. Derek groans through his teeth, and Stiles has never been this close to a sex noise before, definitely not one that he caused. He gives a shocked little moan, and pushes down again without really meaning to. Fuck, that's good, that's good all the way through him. And, oh God, he can't believe he just did that.
Derek goes statue still for a second, and Stiles's heart jumps, tries to decide whether to plummet sickeningly or not - should he apologise for that - Derek's hand twitches against his thigh, fingers turning and pressing against the skin, then Derek gives the slightest nudge of his hips. Holy shit, Stiles's heartbeat is now racing. He pushes down into the movement, meets it and turns it into something mutual, and that's better, that's so much better.
It doesn't stop, it doesn't stop. Derek gives slow, steady pushes up and Stiles braces himself with a knee and pushes down and they're still staring at each other. Only now they're breathing a little faster, and Stiles is making tiny noises in his throat that he can't stop. He can feel Derek's knee slide against the outside of his thigh, he can feel the roll of his hips, he can feel the way Derek's skin tightens when he pulls them together. He can feel everything.
Oh my God.
It hits Stiles all at once that they're having sex.
He's having sex with Derek.
He gives a shuddery little moan, and Derek inhales and stretches up that last inch. Then they're not breathing against each other any more, they're kissing, wet, clumsy kisses, cut through with gasps, and panted noises of arousal. It's the hottest thing Stiles has ever experienced in his entire life.
"We shouldn't be doing this," Derek says, voice gravel-rough against Stiles's mouth
"Shut up, shut up," Stiles says fiercely and grinds down, sharp enough to hurt, and it's good, it's good, almost good enough. He's pushing fabric out of the way with shaking hands, and Derek just shoves both hands past the waistband of Stiles's boxers, all warm fingers and hot palms against his ass, and pulls him in. Then it's all naked skin, soft and hard at the same time, a little painful and too dry. But Stiles can't stop, doesn't want to stop.
Derek has his head tipped down, watching Stiles's body push, watching the slow roll of his hips, and the way his stomach trembles. Derek's eyes are flinty and dark, mouth half-open. Stiles would normally feel self-conscious about how intently he's watching, but the way Derek keeps murmuring 'fuck,' under his breath, teeth a little too long - it makes Stiles push up onto his hands. Until he can look down between them, see the length of Derek's dick shoved up against his own, sticky-wet at the head, and he's really not prepared for the sight of that. He has to groan a little, has to rock, and push, spine flexing when Derek hisses and digs his fingers into Stiles's ass.
"Fuck, Stiles." Derek's voice is getting lower and lower, all edges and cracked little moans.
"Are you going to come?" Stiles's voice is high and surprised, shaky with the realisation.
"It's been a while," Derek snaps through his teeth, like maybe he thought Stiles was complaining or something. Which is exactly the opposite of what he'd meant. Because that is the hottest thing he can think of right now.
"Oh my God," Stiles says breathlessly. "Oh fuck, I want to see it."
Derek grits his teeth, and even his pissed face is stupidly hot right now. Stiles levers himself up, pushes a little faster, a little harder. Derek grunts, and Stiles is going to have hand shaped bruises on his ass. But he doesn't care because everything is good, all of it, and Derek is going to come underneath him. He doesn't even get to finish the moan that thought drags out of him, before Derek pulls him to a broken stop. Stiles manages a choked breath - and then he can't breathe at all, because Derek's whole body tenses, and Stiles is watching him come, over his stomach, and his chest and Stiles's dick. Which is a thousand times hotter in real life than it is in porn.
Oh my God, Derek's face is so fucking open like that. Stiles has to stretch up and kiss him, smother his breathless noises under his mouth, fingers sliding and digging into the side of his chest, as Stiles grunts out his name.
Stiles is frantic after that, hands sliding on Derek's waist, bracing himself to push against his skin, through the wet lines of Derek's come. Stiles is watching it, the slip-slide of it an extra stab of sensation, and it's less than a minute before he's digging his nails into the skin, and coming all over Derek in jerky, messy thrusts. Until Derek's stomach and half his chest is striped wet, and it's impossible and dirty and so good, so fucking good. He wants to do this all the time.
Derek's swearing low in his throat, sandpaper rough.
"Oh my God," Stiles slurs, elbows shaking. He stops trying to hold himself up, digs his hands in Derek's hair and kisses him again, messy and open-mouthed - and he'll care about being good at that later, but Derek's mouth is awesome, and he just wants to touch it right now - Derek sighs into his mouth and kisses back, until Stiles is mostly just breathing wetly against his cheek, and murmuring nonsense about how he's the hottest thing to ever walk the planet, and Stiles is sorry for all the shitty things he's ever said about him, really he is. There may also be some stuff in there about how they should do this again, because Stiles is feeling pretty brave right now.
They're pressed so tightly together that they're both going to need a shower, and there's no hot water in this house. But Stiles is too high on endorphins to care. Mostly he's sprawled all over Derek, one tacky hand sliding up and down on his skin. He hasn't even come close to being over the touching Derek in a sex way, stage yet.
"Ok, so that was officially the best thing ever," Stiles murmurs, and presses his mouth against Derek's skin, somewhere on his chest, he's pretty sure there's going to be come on his cheek when he lifts his head - either his or Derek's - and he doesn't even care.
When Stiles pushes himself up again, Derek's staring at him, and he looks guilty as fuck. Stiles gets an awful, awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Which gets worse when Derek opens his mouth.
"That shouldn't have happened."
"Don't you dare, don't you even dare," Stiles says, voice still crackly and hoarse - but also kind of angry-gutted. "There is no way the first time I have sex is going to get the 'let's pretend this never happened,' treatment. You cannot do that to me."
Stiles hadn't thought it was possible for Derek to look even more guilty. No one's face should be able to do that.
"Stiles -"
Stiles pokes him in the chest.
"Dude, you break it, you bought it."
"I didn't break anything," Derek protests angrily.
"I'm pretty sure you just broke my virginity, or at the very least voided the warranty."
Derek scowls at his choice in phrasing, though really he has no right, because Stiles is still mostly straddling him, boxer shorts shoved halfway down his thighs, there is literally no wriggling out of this one. Stiles will prove it if necessary, shifting up Derek's body in a sticky slide of thighs.
"It was good enough for you five minutes ago." He means it to come out firm, like the first logical starting position of an argument towards why this wasn't a bad thing. But instead it's quiet, questioning, nothing like what he wants. He doesn't think that will help, because he sounds young and inexperienced. He sounds exactly like someone you drop for the sexy, experienced, older date. So, yeah, maybe Derek does have sex, just not with him.
Stiles is already bracing himself for the explanation, for either the 'letting him down gently,' or the 'tough love' version. He's pretty sure they're both going to suck either way. That they'll both be awkward and horrible conversations to have while they're still kind of - tangled up, and reeking of come. He eases sideways, awkwardly, hitching his shorts back up, and Derek pulls a face and wipes himself off with the blanket - which is gross, and yet still weirdly hot. Stiles suspects that everything Derek does is going to look weirdly hot now Stiles knows what he looks like when he comes.
Stiles thinks Derek expects him to move away, but he doesn't, he just finds the clean blanket he brought with him and throws it round his shoulders, because the sweat on his skin is starting to dry cold.
"Would you just get it over with," Stiles says, mouth squashed into the least offensive expression he can make right now.
"You're too young," Derek says quietly. Which sounds a lot like the first excuse he could come up.
"Yeah, maybe a year ago you could have gotten away with that excuse." Stiles doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want his first time to end on the 'lets never speak of this again,' conversation. But he can feel it coming, he'd thought maybe bracing himself would help. But it isn't going to help at all.
Derek pulls himself to a sit, drapes his arms over his knees in a way that looks defeated.
"You deserve better," he says, and that sounds a lot more honest.
But - no, that's something different entirely.
"Oh my God," Stiles says faintly, one side of the blanket slipping down, because this isn't what he thought it was at all. He's had this completely wrong. "I thought this was the 'you're just a stupid kid who doesn't know what they're doing, and I could do so much better, therefore I regret everything,' argument. But it's not, it's the 'I actually like you but I'm too constipated to admit it, and my life is horrible, so I don't get to have nice things,' argument." Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. Because, holy shit, Derek may actually like him. Enough to want to - enough to pretend not to.
Derek is glaring at him again now.
"Is everything just that easy for you?" he growls out.
Stiles shakes his head, because Derek's an idiot.
"Dude, have you ever thought that maybe it's you who makes things hard?" Stiles asks. Because Derek wouldn't even have to try very hard. He'd just have to try.
"I don't make things anything," Derek snaps.
"Because you don't even try," Stiles points out. "I like you too," he admits, uncertain and embarrassed, even though he's been about as naked as it gets already. But also...kind of hopeful. "I actually like you, even if you are the grumpiest werewolf who ever lived, and it is that easy. If you like me just admit it. God, take a stupid chance. Like everyone else on the planet."
Stiles's heart is beating dizzyingly fast, but that must have been the right thing to say, because Derek's angry look sort of wavers, and then collapses in on itself. Stiles feels brave enough to shuffle closer, and wrap tacky fingers round Derek's wrist. The rounded curve of Derek's shoulder is warm against his chest, and it turns a little when he leans on it, so he doesn't fall.
"Ok, yes," Derek says simply, and even that sounds painful, sounds dragged out of him. But it's something.
Stiles leans against him, makes a little breathless noise of surprised relief.
"So, can we date now? Because I would really like that. Or do you need to angst about it some more?"
Derek exhales, loudly, and Stiles thinks that's a noise of surrender.
"This is going to end badly," Derek says quietly, as if he needs one last go at convincing Stiles. "You already know what I - you know I'm not good with people."
So, it's a yes to both dating and angsting then. Stiles can work with that.