Shhhh! I'm Listening To Reason
Stiles wakes up, and that's his first surprise.
Because he very distinctly remembers chasing Scott through the woods, remembers chasing him through snow and ice, remembers the ice giving way – remembers falling into the lake, into violent cold and pressure – and he remembers thinking, 'I'm going to die.' Actually, he also remembers climbing out of the stretch of ice, remembers staggering through the forest wet and cold and numb and remembers finding something – a shack, a ranger station maybe? - and that's when things get very fuzzy very fast.
But he's awake. He's not dead – can't possibly be dead when his chest feels like it's being gripped by a vice, when there's a cold in his lungs that he can't shake, when he feels so heavy and strange; he can't possibly be dead when everything hurts, so much. Everything is cold, stupidly cold, cold in a way he can't even accurately describe. There's a strange numbness in him that is just on the edge of being too cold to allow him to shiver, everything in his mind slow and heavy, and he only very briefly thinks about how strange it is that his front is so incredibly colder than his back.
Actually, his back is blissfully warm. Obscenely, amazingly warm.
There's only the inside of the tiny ranger station in his line of sight. A wood burning stove that he hadn't been able to light, hadn't been able to find any dry wood for. There's his clothes strewn about the floor haphazardly, from where he'd peeled them off in a hurry, only vaguely remembering his survival skills from his boy scout days. The clothes aren't dry yet, are still sitting in little puddles of melted ice, and there are several pieces of clothing he doesn't remember wearing at all.
Which, okay, some of those clothes are not his.
He recoils back a little purely on instinct and very immediately feels that the warmness all along his backside is actually alive – is a living, breathing someone. A someone who is coiled around his body in a way that is very close to being extremely intimate, bare flesh all along the length of his back, but Stiles can't remember anyone else being in the station.
At first he thinks it's Scott, because surely Scott would come to his senses and find him and not let him die a horrible, cold death. Especially not when it's kind of Scott's fault for going crazy and running half-werewolved into the forest in the middle of the night to freeze to death. Surely.
Except that he has a feeling it isn't Scott. Because he and Scott are a lot of things and they do a lot of things for each other, but the man – and it is a man, oh god – pressed along his backside is very warm and very, very nude and there's just no situation – life or death – that would drive Scott to cuddle him naked, hypothermia and frostbite be damned.
The heat radiating from his savior is intense, like a flame, and it feels a little too much to be normal, a little too much to be strictly human – a little too unreal – and if it's not Scott then that drastically cuts down the list of 'not quite humans' who it could be.
Stiles turns his head slowly, because everything aches and moving makes him colder, and sees a sharp jawline and a mouth set in a firm frown and something in his chest – not his heart, because he's not a girl, but maybe like... his ribs, or something manly – lurches painfully and he tries not to freak out. Actually, freaking out requires some obscene amount of energy, and it requires moving, and those are both things Stiles just does not think he's capable of at the moment.
"Derek?" he asks, in disbelief, and he tries to be quiet, like a whisper, but it comes out almost as a squeak, and maybe that's the hypothermia talking.
There's a breath of hot hair against his neck, like someone exhaling forcefully in annoyance. "No, it's Lydia."
And, yeah, he's not going to think about Lydia naked and pressed up against him. Not with Derek naked and- oh, Jesus Christ. His brain doesn't quite short circuit, but it's a very close thing. A close thing that ends up with him freaking out just the tiniest bit, because he's naked in bed with Derek Hale and he's not really sure what that means, but it's definitely incredibly fucked up, and his life is fucked up, and probably ending soon, and really there just needs to be space between them.
His muscles have only twitched, just a hint of movement, and a large, strong hand settles in the center of his chest, arm against his waist, and Derek growls, "Do not get up," and Stiles is pretty sure he's going to die of embarrassment and shame within the next thirty seconds.
Stiles breathes in slow, short breathes, ignoring the warmth spreading from the hand on his chest that seeps slowly into his lungs, and tries not to have a full blown panic attack.
"You need to warm up," Derek tells him, and Stiles focuses on not noticing how warm his breath is against his skin.
"We're naked," Stiles says, because some part of him thinks maybe Derek isn't aware that his clothes have magically appeared on the floor.
"You're lucky to be alive," Derek replies, flatly, and Stiles' mouth snaps shut.
And, honestly, he gets it. Sharing body heat is survival 101, but it doesn't make it any less weird.
He is alive though. He's alive, thanks to Derek Hale, and maybe that stings a little bit too, because how do you repay someone for saving your life over and over- there probably aren't fruit baskets made for this sort of thing, and especially not ones that say 'thanks for the manly, life-saving cuddle.'
It doesn't have to be embarrassing, he tells himself. They're in a ranger station in the middle of the forest, snow falling around them, and no one has to know. What happens in the ranger station stays in the ranger station, and all that.
A shiver pulls through his body, unexpected and almost violent, and his body twitches out of his control as he responds to it. His teeth start to chatter and he tries to curl in on himself, tries to find more warmth.
He feels, more than sees, Derek move with him. A leg wraps around his own somewhere beneath the covers and two hands splay across his chest, arms pinning Stiles' own to his sides, and a very warm chin settles on his shoulder. Derek's cheek is incredibly warm against his skin, stubble strange and not entirely unpleasant, and Stiles stiffens to keep his body from curling into that warmth.
"It will come in waves," Derek tells him, voice close to his ear, and if the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck rise up then that probably has to do with the cold. "Go to sleep."
Stiles doesn't try to fight it. He shivers uncontrollably for a long minute, kept awake a little longer by the strangeness of the arms holding him, and then, slowly, he closes his eyes.
The second time Stiles wakes up, it's to the sound of steady, warm breathing against his neck.
The pain in his chest is gone, his toes and fingers warm, his lungs fine. There is soreness in some of his muscles and joints, bruises that will heal, but yesterday feels almost like a dream.
There's movement from behind him, a slight shift, and Stiles doesn't quite jump, but it's a close thing. There's a gentle breath on his shoulder and warm skin still pressing all along his back. It's cold enough in the station – Stiles is still cold enough – that the warmth is still impossibly good. It might even be better now that he has feeling back in his limbs; it feels a little like being in bed on a snow day, warm and comfortable and safe, and knowing you don't have to go to school or take a test or do anything.
Which is not true. He's in the middle of the forest in a tiny shack and he needs to go home and shower and let his dad know he's fine, but it's still obscenely nice.
The addition of feeling in his limbs, of blood flowing again, also means that, when Derek shifts again, Stiles is suddenly very aware that they're still naked and spooning. Actually, all sorts of parts of him are waking up and taking notice. Being sixteen will never not be awkward – never.
He chokes a little, not quite horrified but getting there, and tries to think of shoveling snow or his homeroom teacher or shampoo or something that isn't the extremely attractive man naked in bed with him.
"How do you feel?"
He does jump this time, caught off guard by the hands that sweep across his ribs as they recoil, and he sits up quickly, and scoots a little away, just in case those hands accidentally go lower and discover things that are also entirely accidental.
Derek sits up with him, blankets falling around his waist, and Stiles tries incredibly hard not to stare at the definition of his chest, or his naked torso, and ends up staring very intently at the far wall instead. He can almost see the unamused glare Derek is sending his way – although he sort of thinks that's Derek's blank expression, that it doesn't really mean anything – and, actually, he's kind of regretting getting out of the blankets because it's cold-
It's probably a draft, through the walls of the cabin, but the chill that sweeps over him feels like the same one as when he fell through the ice. It's almost violently cold, spreading quickly through his body, and he chokes on his own breath, lungs pained, and it takes the small bit of dignity he'd accumulated over the last couple of minutes and squanders it without remorse. He lurches forward, further into the bed, and manages to grab hold of Derek's arms before he buries his face in the man's neck. It's almost worse than yesterday because he isn't expecting it – had felt fine and now feels very not fine-
And maybe he hasn't thought through how much he owes Derek, because there is no pause. One minute he is fumbling for warmth, hands grabbing hold of Derek, and the next Derek is holding himand his entire world spins. He ends up pressed back into the bed, shivering violently, and then Derek's body moves back down onto his, half next to him and half draped over him, and the thin blanket is back over him in an instant.
Stiles stays with his face buried in Derek's shoulder, with his hands clutching at the very warm skin of his arms, and he listens to the man's pulse while he tries to make his body stop being so stupid.
His teeth are chattering, body shivering, twitching out of his control, and he maintains his hold on Derek while he rides out the after effects of whatever is happening to him.
It's all incredibly short. It goes almost as fast as it came, the shivering over and gone, the chills subsided again, and he breathes out a sigh of relief. He lays very still, luxuriating in the warmth radiating all around him, and listens to his own heart beat slow back to normal.
It's probably some sort of post traumatic stress disorder thing, or some really bad side effect of almost dying, but when Derek pulls away and stares down at him, something unreadable in his expression, Stiles says, "Why are you doing this?"
There's a very quick moment where something flashes through Derek's eyes that Stiles can't pin down, can't read, and then his body tenses slightly, expression guarded, and he replies, "So you don't die."
And what Stiles means to ask is, 'Is that all?', but instead he leans up and kisses Derek.
It's hard to get leverage when he can't move his hands, and it's not like he has a ton of experience kissing anyone, but there's no resistance. There's nothing – no resistance, nothing. Derek doesn't pull away, his mouth slightly open and his breath against Stiles' mouth, but there's no response and, when Stiles pulls away, panting slightly, he feels his face hot with embarrassment.
"I, uh," he tries to find words, tries to find something, and he wishes Derek would stop staring at him so strangely. "I don't know what that was. A moment of insanity. I'm really, really sorry. Please don't kill me."
Then Derek's hand is in his hair, pressing his head back, and he pulls himself to his lips in a single, smooth motion. The feeling of stubble against his skin is back, the slow burn of it good in a really unreal way, chapped lips rough and experienced against his own, and surprisingly gentle hands that are holding him tightly but aren't hurting him. Derek smells like himself, but also a little like him, like he's been wrapped around him all night, like he's had nothing but Stiles' skin spread out under him for the past few hours. His mouth is warm in a way that should probably not feel as incredible as it does.
Stiles moans into that warmth and grips onto Derek's biceps, tries to pull him closer, and Derek complies, sliding the rest of his body over on top of Stiles' own. He has a quick moment to remember he had been trying to hide his arousal, and then Derek's erection is pressing hard against his groin and he forgets how to hide anything at all, breath stuttering against Derek's mouth, fingers clenching tightly around his arms. The weight of Derek above him is heavy and firm, a strange contrast to whatever fantasies he's ever had, and it's good – it presses him into the mattress and holds him there and it's fucking fantastic.
One of Derek's hands is still pressed against the side of his face, tilting it back enough to bare his throat – to make it easier when Derek's mouth moves there, nips carefully at the sensitive skin, and Stiles' hips move out of his own control, rolling up against Derek's, and, oh, that's really even better. Derek's free hand slides down his now-warm side, fingers curling against his hip and thumb pressing persistently into his hipbone, and then his own hips snap forward, just pressure and friction, and Stiles' body moves reflexively with nowhere to go.
Then Derek's body shifts slightly, just enough so that he can slide right in between Stiles' thighs, hot and hard, and Stiles is pretty sure that's the moment his brain really does short circuit and abandon him entirely.
"Holy shit," he hisses, fingers digging into Derek's arms. "Okay, wait. Wait, wait, wait."
And Derek does. He sighs and his hand slides from Stiles' head to his neck, just a brush of fingers against a red mark he's left there. "What?"
"I, can't, uh," Stiles is pretty sure his entire face is flushed, and he makes some sort of strange gesture with one of his hands that is, by the look on his face, completely incomprehensible to Derek. Then he exhales, slowly and loudly, and says, syllables all running together, "I've never had sex. With a guy. Or with anyone. No one. Just me. Well, not sex, really, but, you know."
"Okay," Derek replies, like it's just that easy.
Stiles exhales again, more of a huff than anything. "No, it's not- I-"
"I'm not going to fuck you," Derek says, and he's surprisingly calm, surprisingly patient, and Stiles doesn't really know what to do with it – except for a brief moment of insanity wherein he thinks he might be more turned on by Derek saying 'fuck.' "Just relax."
Stiles colors again, cursing his body's lack of control, and breathes for a minute. "I'm totally relaxed."
Then Derek's mouth is on his again, the hand on his hip regaining control, and he rolls his hips against Stiles' and – okay, yes – it's good, really good. Derek's skin feels like it's on fire, feels smooth and warm and amazing, and he slides further into the warmth of Stiles' thighs until his own thigh brushes against the boy's erection. It's almost too much at first, is almost too warm and too tight, and then it's not. Then it's an easy slide, again and again, and there's a mix of wetness spreading across Stiles' thighs that is too good, makes everything too smooth.
Stiles sucks in a breath through his teeth and tries to calm down.
"If you keep doing that," he says, and blindly feels the curve of Derek's lips – an honest to god smile – against his neck, "I'm not going to be able to hold out or anything."
Derek's grip tightens ever so slightly and he bucks his hips again, licking a line along Stiles' open mouth when he gasps. "I don't want you to 'hold out.'"
Oh, Stiles thinks, and arches against Derek as sharp fingernails trail briefly down his spine.
There is no waiting for him to get his bearings. Derek is all calculated movements, the friction between the slow and hard, and it leaves Stiles breathing harsh against the mouth half covering his own. Then there's a hand sliding down his stomach, sliding down and around him carefully, and Stiles forgets that he's trying to maintain some sort of dignity. The hand is warm and strong, large and extremely skilled, and feels about ten thousand times better than his own hand. It curls around his length, warm and tight, and Stiles doesn't think anything has ever felt like this.
It takes him a long moment to realize he's moving his hips in sync with Derek's, that he's grinding against the other man, into his hand, and once he realizes it he can't not realize it. He can't even so much as look away – gets caught up looking in between their bodies, at the slick mess they're making, coating Derek's hand, and it coils something tight and hot inside his body, makes him feel tense and on edge and unbelievable-
Derek's breath hitches in his throat, a sound Stiles thinks he could never get tired of hearing, and he presses the thumb of his other hand into Stiles' neck, braces his hand against his jaw, and growls against his ear, "Come."
And it's not a request, it's a command, and Stiles shudders and his body twitches, tenses, hands curling tight around Derek's biceps, and, for once, he does what he's told.
It's warm, and the light from underneath the door is obscenely bright from where the sun is shining against the snow, and Stiles pulls his almost-dry shirt on and watches Derek pull his jeans on and his mouth feels a little dry.
"So," he starts, because this is definitely the longest Derek has been nice to him and he doesn't want to ruin the 'magic', but he wouldn't be himself if he didn't ruin comfortable silences, "This kinda makes it seem like you like me. Just saying. It's the impression I'm getting. It's going to ruin your whole 'rip your throat out' facade. Not that I was threatened by that, by the way."
Derek glances back at him, zipping up his jeans with one hand, and Stiles stares him down for what feels like a thousand, million years and then discovers the floor is really sort of vastly interesting. Then there's the sound of footsteps, then bare feet in his line of vision, and he looks up.
And Derek probably shouldn't look as good as he does, hair disheveled, shirt in one hand, in only jeans and bare feet. Stiles probably shouldn't know what he looks like naked, what he looks like when there's no one around, when there's no one else to see the fondness in his eyes, but he does.
"You're ridiculous," Derek tells him, kisses him briefly, and then turns to pull his shirt over his head.
Stiles watches him finish dressing, some strange – very manly – feeling bouncing around in his stomach, and thinks that he agrees.