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They've been staring at each other for ten minutes and thirty three seconds when Derek finally sighs, raising his hands only to drop them back to splay against the bed sheets with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

Stiles is torn between hitting him -- because this is serious business -- or just backing out of this whole conversation all together. He already went through The Talk with his father three years ago, and round two came about only three months prior when Stiles underwent the Big Gay Epiphany.

Well, it was more or less the Big Derek Epiphany, but. Semantics.

The last thing he wants to be doing right now is having The Talk with the guy he's actually going to be sleeping with, but Derek insisted and, at the time, it had seemed like a fair idea. Because comfort zone. He has one.

Derek's cringing like someone's dangling a dead puppy in his face, and that's really not comforting in the slightest.

"So," he begins, breaching the topic the only way he knows how, "sex." With complete and totally finesse, obviously.

Derek chokes, hunching in on himself like the very word physically pains him. Which, again, not comforting. The guy looks like he's actually repulsed by the idea, and Stiles debates being offended. Until, of course, he's reminded of She Who Must Not Be Named and all of the emotional manipulation Derek had suffered the last time he indulged in heavy petting. So, Stiles saves the witty remarks for later and focuses on how fucking precious Derek looks at the end of his bed, sitting Indian style with his head hung low and his face pinched up pitifully. He looks more like a child being scolded than a twenty-four year old talking about bumping and grinding with his sort of boyfriend.

'Sort of' because the actual word had yet to be said. And dates? They'd gone on a total of none, thus far.

In fact, the only reason this conversation is even taking place, is because Stiles had accidentally popped a woody in the middle of a pack baseball game (Derek was wearing actual baseball pants and he was wiggling his ass when it was his turn to bat and Stiles couldn't help it), Derek had smelled his arousal and cornered him during their makeshift seventh inning stretch -- which, really, was just a water break and an excuse for Scott to drag Allison off to shove his tongue down her throat -- and Stiles had given up. Thrown caution to the wind because yes, Derek, you're a fine piece of ass and I want you, okay?

Derek had spent approximately two and a half minutes doing strange things with his overly expressive eyebrows before nodding and stalking off, only to send him a text after the game. We should talk about sex. And Stiles choked on his hamburger, meaty bits flying across his dining room table, because he hadn't even been aware that sex was even in the cards for him.

Like ever.

Which, naturally, brought them here. With Derek's pained face and Stiles' nonchalance (read: nerves).

"Am I wrong in --" he breathes, fists clenching at his sides as he looks around Stiles' room, pointedly focusing on the snowboard mounted above Stiles' bed "-- in assuming that you would want that. With -- with me?"

"No," Stiles scoffs, laughing despite himself. Derek's eyes close, and the eighteen year old sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Look, I don't know how to do this either, so."

He shrugs. Derek can't see the movement, so he feels kind of stupid for moving at all, but then Derek's eyes are fluttering open -- still not focusing on him, though -- and Stiles kind of forgets everything but the slightly hopeful look in his eyes.

"You're a virgin." It's not so much a question as a speculation, and Stiles nods, chewing into his lower lip. Derek very much isn't a virgin, and while he hadn't touched anyone intimately since his time with Kate, in the three months the two of them had been 'together', there had been quite a bit of sex. Enough to know his likes and dislikes, and how to make someone keen beneath his touch. "But you watch porn."

Another speculation. Though, the reaction to this one seems to get Derek to actually look at him, seeming thoroughly satisfied at the way he's managed to embarrass him. Stiles' cheeks turn pink, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows, and Derek watches intently as the flush makes it's way over his jawline and down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. "Yeah," he breathes. He has an idea of what Derek must be thinking now, knows that his blush covers his torso and dips beneath the waistband of his jeans, knows Derek probably wants to trace it with his tongue and see the full effect he has on him.

It's all kinds of unnerving, and simultaneously arousing.

"So you know what you want, then." Derek finally looks at him, gaze half-lidded and heated in ways Stiles has never seen it, and it's like he was suddenly hit with the confidence stick solely because Stiles blushed.

"I -- kind of? I mean, I know what turns me on and what doesn't."

Derek nods, and Stiles watches as any remnants of his previous tension disappear before his eyes. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his eyes trail over Stiles' body, pausing to openly stare at the way Stiles' fingers are curling around his knees. "What turns you on?"

"Uh," he begins intelligently, blinking through the haze of lust suddenly swirling through his bloodstream. "Blowjobs."

The Alpha in front of him scoffs, and Stiles can see how hard it must be for him not to roll his eyes because, yeah. Everyone likes blowjobs.

"And, uh. Rimming, I guess? I mean, I don't know if I'd want to do it to someone else, but I like the idea of someone doing it to me." He's pretty sure his blush is fifty times more red than it had been before, and it's not like he's never talked about sex, Jesus Christ. But he's only ever talked about the things he actually wants with Scott, after too much weed when they're lazy and carefree and can't be bothered to feel embarrassed about embracing their sexuality. It's been a while since they've last talked about it -- despite the fact that Stiles is subject to listening about Allison's bedroom eyes on the regular -- and Scott was always a comfort zone. A safe haven to spill his fantasies to, because he knew Scott would never judge him or laugh at him for wanting certain things. His embarrassment stems from the fact that this is Derek, and they're not offhandedly talking about things they want in general, too high to give a shit.

"Rimming," Derek sighs, nodding his head. "I can do that."

Stiles is pretty sure he whines, and if the way Derek's lips curl upwards is any indication, he probably did. Derek is still looking him up and down, stopping to focus on certain parts of his body for several long seconds before continuing on, as if it's normal to be checking someone out so thoroughly while discussing kinks and fetishes.

A few moments pass before Derek clears his throat, mumbling out a soft, "Biting." Stiles' eyes widen, throat constricting painfully as he watches, enthralled, as Derek bares his teeth in a cocky smirk. "I wanna cover you in hickeys, kiss every one of your moles and bite at your collarbone until you're sore and bruised, suck on your nipples until you're begging me to touch you."

And Stiles -- fuck, Stiles is really turned on now. He hadn't even been aware that this was going to result in dirty talk and maybe he should have because clearly they want to do the horizontal tango with one another, so obviously talking about sex was going to affect them this way. But Stiles can't really help the way he drops his knees from where they were pressed against his chest, legs opening of their own accord and the stupidly needy gasp that escapes him when Derek's eyes lock onto the tent in his jeans. "You can't just say things like that," he laughs, but it's breathless and helpless and raw.

Derek's still smirking, loving the way Stiles unravels in front of him just from words. "Sorry," he's not -- not at all, "your turn."

Stiles is blinking again, still trying to fight through the haze that's only intensified, throat dry with want and lips tingling with desperation. God, they haven't even kissed yet, and Stiles is already on board with dropping his pants and begging to be fucked. "Dirty talk," he manages to choke out after an indefinite amount of time. Derek's blinking now, too. Like he didn't quite expect Stiles to say that. "I really, really like dirty talk." Like Derek couldn't have known that already, what with his reaction to the whole biting mini-monologue.

There's a hint of crimson burning around the edge of Derek's irises as he leans forwards, hands fisting the bedspread like he's anchoring himself to it. Through the silence, Stiles can hear how heavy his breathing has become, can hear the way it stutters as he fights for actual words rather than the lustful growl Stiles knows is building within him. Eventually, he whines, high-pitched and desperate as he pitches forwards, hands grabbing at Stiles' wrists and pinning them above his head. His knuckles knock against his headboard and he shudders through a groan as Derek's body covers him, brackets him against the mattress despite the fact that the only place they're actually touching is where Derek's grabbed his wrists. "Bottoming," he growls, noses along Stiles' jawline. "I'd really like to bottom sometimes."

And that -- well that should be illegal. Stiles gasps, baring his neck as Derek breathes wetly against the hollow of his throat, thrusting upwards into empty air. "God, what are you even --" he chokes, rolls upwards in search of friction because he's hard enough to cut diamonds and Derek still isn't touching him. "Your car," he manages finally, turning his head to the side as Derek blows on the shell of his ear. Once the words leave his mouth, though, Derek freezes. "Bent over the hood, in the back seat, road head, Jesus just --"

A beat, and then -- "Yeah, God, yeah." And Derek finally -- dear sweet Lord, finally -- touches him.

It's not much; his teeth sink into the jut of Stiles' collarbone and Stiles rears up into it, reveling in the way Derek rumbles a growl into his skin and sucks. Hard. Hard enough to leave a mark for other people to see and it's a claim, a blatant statement of ownership and a promise of so much more to come, and the endless possibilities it brings has Stiles seeing stars. He comes, bites into the fabric of Derek's shirt to bury his whimper of the Alpha's name, hips still thrusting wildly into dead air.

When he gets his bearings and slumps back into the pillows, drags his gaze back over to where Derek's now sprawled out beside him, observing Stiles with a lazy grin, he has enough gall to be (slightly) mortified. There's a retort on the tip of his tongue about how much of a virgin he clearly is, but it dies fairly quickly upon realizing that Derek looks as blissed out as Stiles feels, and a glance downwards proves that he's not the only awkward soul in the universe.

There's a wet patch over the fly of Derek's jeans and Stiles can't contain the wild laughter bubbling up within him, grappling at Derek's shirt for purchase as he buries his face in the hollow of the man's neck. "You're such a teenager," he snorts, and Derek huffs a laugh in response. And it's so weird, because they've both just come in their pants without even being touched, all because they were talking about sex. So, maybe it's a testament to how much mainpain Derek's been putting himself through if just the very thought alone of fucking Stiles over the hood of his Camaro is enough to make him come undone, but Stiles can't help but feel anything short of thrilled that he was able to make Big Bad and Broody lose control that way.

Derek hums softly, hand curling around the back of Stiles' neck, and the thumb gently pushing on his pressure point has Stiles tilting his head backwards, meeting the kiss with a lazy sort of fervor. "Dad's home," he mumbles into the kiss, nipping at Stiles' lips as he slowly pulls away.

Stiles does not cling, but he does pout pitifully as Derek rolls off the bed entirely, rids himself of any evidence of being with Stiles at all -- sans for the wet spot on his jeans like he's a prepubescent boy -- fingers carding through his sex-mussed hair and hands smoothing out the crinkles in his shirt. He's watching Stiles, still sprawled on the bed, basking in the afterglow, with a tender sort of fondness that makes Stiles squirm in a weird mixture of delight and discomfort. "You should come over tomorrow," he says, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "I'll make dinner."

He's the picture of nonchalance, standing (looming) over Stiles' bed with a stupid grin on his stupid face, like he's not asking his sort of boyfriend on a sort of date; like they didn't just sort of cream their pants like twelve year old kids who've never touched themselves. It's easy and relaxed, and Stiles allows his mouth to fall open in a wide grin, shifting slightly because he's starting to chafe, dammit. "Sure," he nods, hoping he sounds casual and calm, too.

But Derek's quirking a brow at him and his gaze hovers on Stiles' crotch a bit too long as he backs towards the window, opens in and swings a leg over the sill. It's such a different picture now than it was back in high school, considering Derek looks thoroughly sated and had his tongue down Stiles' throat as opposed to his hands around his neck, but it has a wave of nostalgia crashing over Stiles in waves. Because Derek. "You might want to change," he grins. "You look a little uncomfortable," is the last thing he says before dropping out of the window.

Stiles laughs, loud and bright, flinging a pillow at the wall beside his still open window. "Ass."