A/N: I'm jumping fandoms on you guys again. ~shifty eyes~ I was actually going to post this on AO3, but apparently you need, like, an INVITE. From a person who already HAS an account. And I don't know those people (at least not well enough to ask!). SO HERE YOU GO.
This is my first foray into the Teen Wolf fandom, which has eaten my life. I've see a lot of fic where Derek and Stiles' first kiss is angry, violent, etc., and I just wanted to take that in a different direction and see if it worked. I like it, so I hope you do, too.
The first time they kiss it isn't really, in all technicality, a 'kiss'. Well, that is to say, it feels like a kiss to Stiles, but he knows that the general population would probably disagree. Not that he's exactly shouting it from the roof tops for their benefit, that's a little too PDA, really, for Stiles. He likes to think of himself as more of a refined kisser. A gentleman, one who does not 'kiss and tell', as it were. But what Stiles likes to think about himself and what he knows about himself are all too often a set of parallel lines, occasionally glancing over at each other but never actually taking the time to intersect.
Because the fact of the matter is, Stiles is most definitely not a refined kisser.
He knows this, because when Derek is done terrifying an ACTUAL REAL-LIFE wolf (what the fuck, California. What. The. Actual. Fuck.) into submission and running it off, he grabs Stiles by the wrist and tugs, practically dragging him back to the car. Stiles expects his fury; knows that he deserves it because how many times have how many people told him not to go into the woods alone? Seriously, this is entirely his fault, and yeah he's scraped up and bleeding and kind of terrified, but he does know that he deserves Derek being harsh with him. He deserves a good telling off, and so he braces himself against the door of the Jeep and shimmies down deeper into his hoodie, like the extra fabric will offer some protection from what's to come.
It's dark, and Stiles feels more than sees Derek looming over him, can feel the way his body is shaking from where he still has a tight grasp on Stiles' wrist. He hears Derek take a deep breath, and his body tenses automatically, steeling itself for the inevitable onslaught. Derek's grip softens and Stiles prepares himself for an enthusiastic introduction of his spine to his Jeep, a 'hi, nice to meet you' punctuated by a crunch, but instead of letting go to punch him full in the face for his idiocy (which, frankly, is what Stiles would do in Derek's position), Derek's fingers start to rub gently back and forth across his wrist. Stiles swallows hard and waits for the blow that never comes.
Instead Derek's fingers lightly slip under the sleeve of his hoodie, thumb making soothing circles as it goes, and the sensation is strange, a kind of gritty-thick-smooth through the blood and dirt. Stiles can still feel him shaking, can still hear him breathing heavily in and out, in and out, and the wild thought occurs to him that maybe Derek isn't working up to kill him, but rather attempting to calm himself down. It's a strange thought, entirely at odds with everything that Stiles knows about Derek, but in that moment he chooses to think that he's right.
And since Stiles is so good at compartmentalizing knowledge and thought as two separate but equal entities, he runs with it. He forces his body to unstiffen, shoulders relaxing down, knees adopting a slight bend, breath evening out. He can immediately feel a corresponding reaction in Derek's body, and that's how much tension he was giving off, Stiles could actually feel it in the air, in the sound of his breathing, in the quivering molecules that separate them.
Gently, gently, Stiles thinks, no sudden movements. Derek's hand is still clasped loosely around his wrist, so Stiles slowly turns his hand over and grasps Derek's wrist in return, replicating the small soothing motions of his fingers. Stiles congratulates himself on a job well done, way to not spook the werewolf, Stilinski, when suddenly Derek's hand is letting go, moving away, and Stiles thinks that, shit, he's overdone it, but Derek slides his hand up Stile's arm, and around his back, and his other arm is following suit and then all the molecules in between are rushing out, being forced out, like they never wanted to be there anyway, were never meant to be there in the first place, and Derek is pressing Stiles to him, pulling him in like he never wants to let go, arms wrapped protectively around his back and he lets out a huge, shuddering sigh and pulls Stiles closer, clinging to him, like he's reassuring himself. Like he needs this.
And Stiles reciprocates, maybe never realized how much he needs this too, needs to hold someone, to clutch them and make sure they're solid, real, not so much ephemeral dust and ashes spread over a mountain range, a lake, in an urn over the mantle. And maybe there's a tear, maybe there are a few tears, and Derek must smell them, smell the salt water and the bitterness, because Stiles doesn't make any noise; he learned a long time ago how to cry in silence.
The tears slide down, stinging against where stones and debris tore his skin, and Derek pulls back, just enough to slide in and press soft, dry lips to Stiles' cheek, to the crook of his jaw, to the very corner of his mouth where the tears have settled into the skin, and Stiles shudders, gasps, because suddenly this isn't about comfort, this isn't about grief, this is about an entirely new feeling and he's shaking all over, and Derek is shaking, too, and his mouth is still lingering at the edge of Stiles' own, not wanting to go but reticent to take it further.
And Stiles knows, just knows, at that moment, what kind of a kisser he will be, that he will not be refined, because he can feel himself coming apart in Derek's arms, can feel himself drowning and burning and it's not even a kiss, not really, but he can barely control himself and he presses back, presses into where Derek is and they're not kissing but they want to be, and the molecules in the way shudder.
But Stiles is bleeding, and crying, and so they let the air rush back between their bodies, get in the Jeep, and try not to feel the press of so much distance, so many particles of dust and air and want and grief, and Stiles rolls down the window so that the world will stop smelling of tears. And quite miraculously, as Derek reaches over, eyes still straight ahead, and rests his hand ever so lightly right above Stile's knee, it does.
A/N: I will in all likelihood be continuing this, because I love the slow burn. Also this ended up kinda angsty and we can't end on that note now, can we?