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It's a week and a half later before either of them is emotionally removed enough from the memory of the sheriff of Beacon Hills walking in on them during foreplay to even consider trying to have sex again, and by that time Stiles has already made contingency plans, to ensure their privacy. Derek is amazed; whenever he and Kate fucked, it was because Kate booty-called him. Stiles, to contrast, warns Derek four days in advance, resulting in Derek unable to concentrate in any of his classes that Friday, because all he can think about is his impending gay deflowering, which—jesus fucking christ.
"Next time you want to hook up after school," Derek grumbles to Stiles as they ride in Stiles' clunky, ancient Jeep to some kind of secluded picnic location in the woods just off Derek's family's property, "don't tell me until after school."
"It will never be my fault you don't have ADHD and can't concentrate on eight things at once," Stiles quips back. Throws the Jeep in park.
Derek removes his seatbelt. "No, but seeing as you're the one distracting me…"
"Blah, blah, whine," Stiles says lightly. Gets out of the Jeep. Derek rolls his eyes and follows.
"Holy sh—Stiles," Derek says when Stiles fucking tackles him into the back of his Jeep.
There aren't any seats back here—just Stiles' lacrosse bag, a folded lawn chair, and an empty, dusty picnic basket—but Derek isn't stupid. He knows Stiles didn't put him back here to show him all the luxurious, plush velvet. Still, Derek's ears are burning red, and he jolts back upright and looks around, like the Hetero Police are gonna roll in any second and bust this shit up.
With a pointed look at him, eyebrow raised, Stiles pulls the back hatch shut, enclosing them both in the darkness of the Jeep. "Better?" he asks.
Derek nods, hums appreciatively. Focuses on relaxing. Relax. He's prepared. He's fingered himself, now, and it felt significantly better than he'd thought it would. He even watched porn for this, porn he'd never thought about watching before. Porn he was by no means expecting to stay up until 2am watching and jerking off to. Of course, none of the guys in the porn he watched were Stiles. None of them had his glasses, or his oral fixation, or his habit of hunching his shoulders and sort of folding up into himself. Or his sense of humour, or his hands, his fucking fingers. Or—
"Wow, you're quiet," Stiles says.
Derek feels his face heat up, and fights the urge to pout about it. He shrugs. His hands are clammy. He wipes the sweat on his jeans.
"Okay, only two things get you subverbal like this: stress and sex. This time it's both of those things at once, so I'm never going to hear you talk again, am I?" Stiles grins encouragingly, and Derek hopes he manages to look a little less desperate for him. "You nervous?" asks Stiles.
Derek glowers at him, but the bravado fades quickly—probably because Stiles thinks it's cute when Derek acts all manly, unconcerned like that. It shows; Stiles' face melts into this amused, besotted expression that Derek wants equal parts to hit and kiss. "Uh, yeah, I guess," Derek finally mumbles. He glares again, and Stiles visibly tries to reign his own face back in, look a little less smitten. "You, um. You ever done this before?"
"Honestly?" Stiles smirks. "Nope. I'm a virgin. But!" He holds up a finger when Derek's eyebrows shoot up. "I jerk it to a staggering amount of porn. So, there's that."
"Staggering," Derek repeats, unamused. "Define staggering."
"Well, I guess it isn't any more than anyone else," Stiles amends, "but I like to think I enjoy it a lot more than Scott does."
"Scott's been laid," Derek says.
"Oh!" Stiles crawls on top of Derek, pushes him against the back of the passenger's seat with a dull thump. "Judge-o's back! Return of judge-o!"
Derek grins. "Still not judging."
"Uh huh."
"Really." He puts his hands on Stiles' hips. "Not judging."
"You like it, don't you?" Stiles pulls the zipper on Derek's jacket down. "Knowing you'll be the first?" Derek nods, so Stiles extrapolates. "To get this?"
"Yes," Derek says, like it's a chore, which—obviously Stiles just pushed it to irritate him.
He giggles, pushing the leather jacket off Derek's shoulders, dips down so his forehead's right near Derek's. Waits until Derek's eyes flick up at him. "Kiss me, then," Stiles says. Tenderly, and Derek isn't really sure how he could have ever thought he wouldn't fall for him.
Which is how it comes to be that Stiles screws Derek in the back of the Jeep deep in the Beacon Hills preserve on a full moon.
The whole thing is very passionate.
Animalistic, uh. Hm.
The thing about Stiles is he's skinny and smart. He doesn't talk in class, he reads comic books. He daydreams, staring out the window and looking like some kind of tower-ridden damsel. He ducks his head and slinks past rowdy people in the hallways. He wears glasses. Sometimes a tie.
But the other thing about Stiles is he fucks Derek like he knows exactly what he's doing. Very prepared, two kinds of lube—"One's water-based and one's oil-based," Stiles tells him matter-of-factly, even though just watching Stiles hold lube in his hands, those goddamn hands, is making Derek hot behind his ears—and condoms, and even water bottles—"I'm planning on getting you pretty dehydrated," Stiles tells him matter-of-factly, and seriously, Stiles, what the fuck? Stiles, once he gets done driving Derek insane, is perfect. All angles and half-controlled strength, brows drawn together like he's concentrating deeply and seriously on fucking Derek just right, snapping into him—Derek comes embarrassingly early, and Stiles gives a breathless, short sort of laugh. Tightens his grip on Derek's wrists and falls off the edge with him.
They lay on the scratchy felt blanket on the floor of the Jeep together, sort of just panting at each other until Derek feels self-conscious enough to pull his boxers back up. Stiles just lays there, naked and shameless. "You said you'd, uh—" Stiles clears his throat. "—fingered yourself before—"
"I had," Derek says firmly. Whatever scarlet heat faded from his flesh as he came down from the orgasm rushes back immediately like a tide. "I mean, I have. Since, since you." Since Stiles told him he should, god. Derek had thought the moment four days ago when Stiles met his eyes and said plainly, "I really want to fuck you" was going to be the pinnacle of redness in his face, but clearly he had not been anticipating this.
"Okay," Stiles says. Puts a hand on Derek's wrist, soothing. Then, after a moment, he shifts his fingers so he's feeling Derek's rabbit-fast pulse. He smirks, pleased. "Just, you looked a little shocked, I wasn't."
"I'd just never seen you naked before," Derek explains meekly. "You, you're a lot more muscular than you let on at school. With the sweaters."
"I'm a sweater kinda guy, what can I say," Stiles says, shrugging. His smirk melts into a genuine smile, and he reaches his other hand over, presses his palm flush against Derek's belly. Rising and falling with his breaths. "You were pretty fantastic, though," he tells him. Derek renews his subscription to blushing, and Stiles uses Derek to pull himself up on his side to look at him. "No, I mean it," he says quickly. "Absolutely amazing. I don't care how embarrassed you are, I'm telling you that you—"
"Don't say it." Their eyes meet, narrowing.
"Took my breath away," Stiles quips, practically singsong, and Derek groans.
"I shouldn't have shown you Top Gun," he says, but there's obviously no real bite in it. How could there be, when Derek is virtually euphoric right now? When he's about ready to do it again? Even though he'd probably be even more sore tomorrow, he'd ready to take Stiles again, just to be close like that once more—
"Wanna go again?" Stiles asks, and "Fuck yes," Derek says, and he shoves Stiles onto his back and climbs onto him.