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The night before classes start, Erica drags Derek to a house party and he finds himself making out with an extremely attractive guy called Stiles. Stiles of all the names in all the world. It could be a damn fugitive’s name, odd and vague and fitting for the man that leans against the kitchen counter as he talks to Derek, feet turned towards him and pink lips turned up in a smile as they wrap around a beer bottle. Stiles has big, earnest eyes and talks with his hands. He teases Derek about his awkward flirting, and his slightly too short haircut. Derek mocks Stiles’ own messy hair, even as he’s itching to run his fingers through it, and he could tell by the way Stiles’ gaze had dropped constantly to his mouth that he was thinking similar things to Derek. 

Dirty things. 

Things Derek shouldn’t be thinking about when he has class in nine hours. 

Derek’s out of his element as they stumble back to Stiles’ shared house, he’s never really had one night stands, taken his studies seriously, put books first, earned his place at college through hard work and a dusty social life. He’s remarkably okay with pretending to be someone who does this regularly if it means he gets one night of it with Stiles. Stiles rims him on the stairs and they fuck on Stiles’ too small bed. It’s wild and intense and Derek forgets his inhibitions, is loud and laughs when Stiles can’t get his shoes off, clutches the headboard as he rides Stiles, relishes the scrape and the burn and the fast, heady pleasure of it all. 

Derek wakes hungover, but pleasantly relaxed in the morning. He can’t stay— though he’d like to— Stiles makes a tempting picture spread out on the sheets, naked and half curled into Derek. But, he has class to get to and he hastily scribbles his number on a scrap of paper, suggests maybe they go for breakfast some time. Breakfast is casual, Derek can totally be casual. Stiles had been interesting, teasing and sharp with his words, eyes dark and serious as they’d bantered about god knows what. It hadn’t been long at all before Derek had found himself tripping over beer bottles as they fell against a wall kissing. It’s never been that easy for him before. He’s never done something so fun, so reckless, and god damn he feels well used and sated in ways he hasn’t in a long time. 

He leaves the quiet house quickly, showers and changes before arriving at his first lecture ten minutes early. 

The lecture theatre fills quickly, and Derek’s determined to concentrate, not let himself drift back to memories of the previous evening, Stiles’ hands running up his back, Stiles’ mouth brushing along his back, teeth digging into the back of his neck and leaving a bruise Derek can still feel. He doesn’t look up until someone sits down beside him, knee knocking against his. 

“Personal space,” he mutters to himself. 

“Sorry, dude, I kind of figured we’d have broken that rule last night,” a familiar voice says cheerfully. 

Derek snaps his head up, blinks stupidly at Stiles. 

“What are you—”

“Oh, don’t worry I’m not following you,” Stiles grins, winks at him, “Although, your ass is definitely worth diverting from original plans for.”

Derek opens and closes his mouth.

“Criminal Law, right?” Stiles tugs off a beanie hat, ruffles his hair, and Derek has flashbacks to running his hands though it. 

“Right,” he says blankly, shifting away as Stiles gets comfortable. 

Stiles arches an eyebrow, “You okay?”

“I didn’t—” Derek clenches his jaw, “I need to concentrate, here.”

There’s a beat, and then Stiles’ bright smile dims a little, eyes going downcast. 

“Oh, okay, I can sit somewhere else, I mean, I figured we knew each other and—”

“No, it’s fine,” Derek shrugs awkwardly, “You can sit here.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles drawls, “You know what? I think my vision’s still a little blurry from last night, got laid real good see, and uh, turns out I might need to sit closer to the front.”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, no,” Stiles stuffs his notebook back in his bag, stands abruptly, “Sweet in the sheets, dick on the streets, I get it.”

Derek watches him go incredulously. The girl on Derek’s left snickers, and Derek twists to glare at her. 

“What?” she hunches up a shoulder, “You got yourself into a domestic before classes even started, smooth.”

Derek scowls, turns back to the front as the lecturer sweeps in. 

“Good morning,” he slams a briefcase on the desk, glances around, “I’m Professor Finstock, and you’re in Criminal Law 101. This is not a fun class, this is not a class for fooling around, or for an easy grade. Much like the law, I do not care much for your excuses, only your results, your best work.” He looks up, straight at Derek for a moment, “If any of you feel you are not ready to dedicate your life to this class, the door is over there.” He points dramatically, waits a moment, and then dusts his hands together, “Good, who can tell me about Nick Goldloom and his recent trouble with the law.”

A sea of hands go up, and Derek shrinks back into his seat when the girl in front of him almost punches him in the face. 

Christ. 

*

“Stiles!” Derek pushes through the crowds of students at the end of class a week later, is ignored by Stiles who marches ahead. He’s barely made eye contact with Derek since, not texted or called, or even acknowledged him in class. It’s irked Derek more than it should considering he was the one that asked for space— and so damn rudely in hindsight. No wonder Stiles is angry, Derek would be, too.

But, still. He wishes Stiles would let him at least explain.

“Stiles, wait up.”

“Oh, hey, Derek, did you deem me worthy of speaking to now that we’re not in class?”

“Look, it wasn’t like that, okay? You just caught me off guard.”

Stiles tugs his books closer to his chest, frowns across at him, “So, we could have sex, monumentally fantastic sex, FYI.”

Derek feels his ears burn, pretends his stomach isn’t doing somersaults that Stiles thought it was pretty damn good, too. 

“But, we can’t be friends? Can’t speak in class? Are there other rules I should know about? We can only date when you don’t have an important paper due? Can’t acknowledge each other at all?”

“You decided that was how it needed to be, Stiles. You’re the one that’s been ignoring me!”

“Because you shot me the fuck down the very first time I tried talking to you without the influence of several JD and cokes!”

“This is important to me,” Derek hisses, steps into Stiles’ space and backs them against the wall, “I thought you would understand. You’re the one that went on the rant about how you wanted to make something of yourself.”

"Not at the cost of being a total asshole,” Stiles snaps back, “Whatever, never mind. Let’s just chalk it up to a great one night stand and never—”

“Don’t put words in my mouth,” Derek cuts in crossly, “I left you a note—”

“For breakfast,” Stiles says drily, “Yeah, I saw. Tell me, would that be on a day we don’t have class together, or, are we allowed if it means you’re gonna get laid in the near future?”

“For fuck’s sake, you’ve leaped to at least four incorrect conclusions there, would you cut me a break? I wasn’t expecting to see you, that was all. I want to do well in this class, and I don’t want to be distracted by a pretty—”

“Finish that sentence and I might cut your balls off,” Stiles growls, shoving Derek with his books until he steps away, lets him begin to walk down the corridor. 

“Stiles—”

“Just leave me alone, Derek. We can pretend none of this ever happened.”

“Fine!” Derek shouts after him, “I guess breakfast is off.”

“At least you got off first,” Stiles yells back. 

Several people turn to smirk, or stare openly at Derek, and he cringes. This wasn’t even in the ballpark of the impression he wanted to make on his peers. 

He resolves to keep his head down, and, even if it is at the cost of losing out on someone as intriguing as Stiles to his life, he has to work hard, do well. He can’t fuck this up. 

*

Except, two nights later Derek’s studying, and Boyd flies into the room and announces they’re having an impromptu party. 

Derek is moping about Stiles— who refused to even look his way in class the day before— and sits on the couch hoarding a bottle of JD. He ignores three different people that try and hit on him, glares morosely at the clock and wishes everyone would leave. 

Long, nimble fingers tug the bottle from his hands, and he looks up to glower, only to see Stiles standing above him, mouth in a thin line. 

"You think maybe you’ve had enough? That last girl that tried to make small talk with you is crying in the bathroom.”

“She was whining about her ex boyfriend,” Derek points out, “It wasn’t me!”

“So, it’s just me you’re mean to without provocation?”

“I wasn’t mean to you! I wish you’d let me start over,” Derek scowls at the floor, “I would have been nice to you if we’d gone for croissants.”

“Croissants,” Stiles repeats, mouth twitching in what almost looks like a smile when Derek chances a glance up at him. “Really?”

“They’re flaky and delicious.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles leans forward until their knees are pressed together, “You would have taken me for croissants? Shit, dude, that’s so cute.”

Derek squints up at him, “You’re giving me very mixed signals here.”

“I know,” Stiles sighs, bites his lip as he looks down at him, “Did you know that when you’re concentrating in class you frown in exactly the same way you do when you’re about to come? It’s very distracting.”

“You— watch me?”

“Unlike some people, I do actually look up from my notes from time to time in class.”

“At me,” he says insistently, “You look at me?”

“Duh,” Stiles presses in between his legs, drops the bottle on the couch to run his hands through Derek’s hair, pulls his head back, “You’re flaky and delicious, too.”

“Jesus, that was bad. I’m drunk, and I still know that was bad.”

“I know, but shit, Derek, you’re just so—”

Derek gets his hands on Stiles’ ass, tugs him into his lap and kisses him hard. Stiles moans against his lips, grinding down into him immediately. 

“Just— this— once—” Stiles gasps out, and Derek nods feverishly, tries to stand up with him still in his arms and trips. 

Stiles laughs, hands steadying Derek as they slip beneath his shirt, start pulling him towards the stairs, “You got a room?”

“Where else would I sleep?” Derek huffs, impatiently trying to get his mouth back on Stiles’. 

“I dunno, you monk types might sleep on the floor,” Stiles mumbles, letting Derek push him up against the wall, shove one of his thighs between Stiles’ legs and grind up. 

“Monk types?” Derek smirks, ducks to graze his teeth along Stiles’ jaw, “Do I seem like a monk to you?”

“You acted like I’d pissed in your cheerios when you saw me, man, I could only assume you’d been doing things you shouldn’t have with me.”

Derek shakes his head, kicks his door open and yanks Stiles in with him, “I just want to do well at school.”

“You can do both, you know.”

“Can’t—” Derek pushes him down onto the bed, climbs up over him, brushes their mouths together, “You’re a distraction.”

Stiles pulls his head back, looks at him in the gloom, “Is that all I am?”

Derek sighs, drops his head to Stiles’ shoulder, “No, but if— if you were— I can’t fall for someone, right now.”

“So, don’t fall for me,” Stiles rolls his eyes, shuffles under Derek to start tugging at his belt buckle, “Take your pants off instead.”

Derek laughs, loses his breath as Stiles blows him. Derek jerks Stiles off, watching his gorgeous face scrunch up as he comes.

It’s not a surprise that he wakes up alone, but he is disappointed, stupidly so. He’s so screwed. 

*

“Here,” Stiles tosses a paper bag at Derek in class six hours later. 

Derek unwraps it suspiciously, sees a warm croissant inside and looks up at Stiles in surprise. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Stiles scoffs, “It’s just a thank you for letting me crash at your monastery last night.”

“A thank you,” Derek echoes, eyes falling to a sizeable hickey on Stiles’ neck. 

“Mhm,” Stiles smirks at him, backs away down the steps of the theatre as Finstock marches in. 

The girl next to Derek— Allison, he’s learnt— hums to herself loudly, and Derek elbows her, shares the end of his croissant with her. 

Only so it’s finished by the time Finstock looks up, obviously. 

*

There’s a bonfire in November, and Erica wraps Derek and Boyd up in scarves, insists they all go and celebrate school spirit. 

Derek feels exhausted from his work load, tired from trying not to laugh at Stiles’ smart ass comments in class, and from listlessly going through notes and finding himself losing track of time thinking of Stiles’ hands, or his smile, or the way he touched Derek. 

He sips a hot chocolate, watches people run around with cups of beer and toes at the branch in front of him. 

When he sees Stiles across the bonfire, it makes something catch in his chest. He’s laughing, arm around a girl with lovely red hair and a cup in his other hand. Derek goes to move, shrink back into the shadows, but Stiles must have some sort of damn sensor, eyes snapping up and meeting Derek’s before he can disappear. He says something to the girl, who glances over at Derek and pulls a face, tugs on Stiles’ scarf as she shakes her head. 

Derek agrees with her, turns on his heel and heads to where he left Boyd and Erica making out earlier. Anything is better than watching Stiles talk to a pretty girl, and see what he could have had maybe, if he’d let himself try. 

“Hey, Derek!”

He keeps walking, hopes Stiles assumes he doesn’t hear him calling, his voice lost in the crowd. 

There’s a hand on his arm, and he jumps in shock, “Christ, you’re fast,” he breathes out. 

“The only time being quick is of importance,” Stiles smiles slightly, “Running after someone you want to talk to.”

“Or, when you’re late to something,” Derek argues, “Which, I am—”

“What are you late for at midnight on a Saturday?”

Derek bites his tongue, looks around desperately, “Studying?”

Stiles scoffs, “Even you’re allowed time off, man.”

“I’m not,” Derek frowns, “I wasn’t even going to come tonight.”

“You got your panties in a twist about school because you’re the first person from your family to go to college, or is there a scary father back home, or—”

“No, it’s just for me,” Derek snaps out, “I just need— you wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Stiles darts after him when he tries to move away, catches his arm again. His breath clouds in front of him, and Derek wants to lean through it, kiss him with the bonfire crackling in the background, melt into the crowd with him and pretend he can do normal. 

“Come on,” Stiles chews at his bottom lip, and it shouldn’t be endearing, but it is. It makes his lips red and wet and enticing looking. “Tell me.”

Derek snaps his gaze away, sighs, “I don’t do boyfriends. I’m not good at this.”

“I never asked you to be good at it,” Stiles says softly, “I didn’t even ask you to be my boyfriend!”

“So,” Derek kicks at the leaves in front of them, tries not to feel too crushed, “You don’t want me, anymore?”

“Well,” Stiles wets his lips, steps into his space, “I never said that.”

Derek is so tired. He’s tired of not letting himself want this, and when Stiles leans forward, he lurches in, presses their lips together. 

Stiles taste like beer and smoke and his hands are cold when they cup Derek’s face. Derek slides his arms inside Stiles’ jacket and pulls him close. 

They stumble back to Derek’s empty house, and Derek puts the electric fire on, drapes himself over Stiles’ body on the couch. Stiles’ skin is warm under his clothes, and he hisses, laughs when Derek gets his own cold hands on him. Derek tells him to turn over in a voice so filled with lust and want it’s unrecognisable to himself, and Stiles’ smile vanishes, eyes serious as he swallows, complies with Derek’s order. 

Derek presses wet kisses down his back, thumbs gently prying Stiles’ cheeks apart to lick against his hole, makes it as wet and hot and messy as possible until Stiles is making needy noises into the couch cushions, pressing back against Derek’s face. 

They fuck on the couch, their hands entwined where they’re resting on the arm, Derek so close to Stiles it feels like they’re one body, moving in tandem, slow and warm and perfect. They lie mashed together after until Derek remembers Erica and Boyd will be home soon, drags a sleepy, grumbling Stiles up the stairs. 

“You better buy me breakfast, now,” Stiles murmurs as Derek pulls the sheet over them. 

“Maybe you should buy me breakfast,” Derek argues. 

"Maybe I will.”

“Okay then.”

Stiles grins and throws an arm over Derek’s chest. 

Derek doesn’t wake up alone. He and Stiles sit cross legged on the couch— Derek can’t totally look at it without feeling hot under the collar, he can tell Erica knows just with the smirk she gives him from the kitchen— and they trade pop tarts and kisses with cartoon network on in the background. 

Erica calls them gross, and Stiles flips her off, tells her that’s no way to treat a guest. 

“If you’re gonna be Derek’s boyfriend, I call you whatever I like,” she retorts. 

“Who says I’m gonna be Derek’s boyfriend?”

Erica tilts her head to one side, taps her chin as she pretends to think, “You’re right, holding hands and kissing at a bonfire totally adds up to secret shameful booty call.”

“Nobody said nothing about it being shameful,” Stiles huffs, plays with the collar of the shirt he’s borrowed from Derek. 

Derek thinks about exams and his work load piling up, panic flaring in his stomach as Stiles flops down to rest his head on Derek’s thigh. This is an entire weekend of studying Derek will never get back. 

“I have to—” he stands suddenly, and Stiles’ head almost hits the floor. “Sorry,” he hurries to help Stiles right himself, “I just need to—”

“Right,” Stiles says flatly, letting go of his arm with a grim expression. “You need me to go.”

“No! I just—” Derek flounders, scratches the back of his head, “I just need to study and—”

“I get it,” Stiles mutters, disappears up the stairs. 

Erica arches an eyebrow at Derek over her cereal bowl, “Fix that, shit head, or he won’t be back. Third time’s the last time.”

“Shut up,” he snaps, but he takes the stairs two at a time after Stiles. “Don’t!” he cries as soon as he’s in the bedroom.

Stiles pauses from where he’s yanking on his sweater, one shoe on, one still under the bed. 

“What, don’t get dressed? Don’t expect anything from you? Don’t get whiplash from your entire existence?”

“Don’t leave,” he insists, crossing the room and grabbing Stiles’ hand, “Just… stay and study with me?”

Stiles gives him a dubious look, and Derek squeezes his hand, tries to let him know he’s trying. 

"Okay,” Stiles nods, turns towards Derek’s desk. “Where do you want me?”

Derek doesn’t know how to begin to answer that. 

*

“Do you wanna go on a date?”

Derek looks up, pen in his mouth, and Stiles laughs, tugs it out, kisses his slack lips before looking expectantly at him. 

They’re in the library, and it’s starting to snow outside. Erica had run around the house at seven in the morning, screeching about her favorite winter boots being missing, and how she knew Derek’s new lover boy had stolen them. 

Stiles had sleepily shoved Derek out of bed to go and tell her he preferred her red stilettos. 

Boyd had found the boots in the bathroom, under a towel, but she’d still been glaring daggers at Derek as she’d left the house. Derek hadn’t minded much, gone back upstairs with a stupid smile on his face and clambered back into bed where it was warm and toasty and full of Stiles. 

“Hmm?”

“Dinner, Derek, that meal between Morrell’s defence class and Finstock’s early morning hell lecture?”

Derek gives him a faint smile, drums his fingers nervously on the table, “Uh, okay?”

“Wow, don’t sound too enthusiastic about it.”

"I thought we weren’t— that this was just—”

Stiles looks pointedly down at the mass of books and notes between them, “This isn’t enough work for you? We can’t have one dinner?”

“No, I—” Derek ducks his head shyly, “I just thought you said you didn’t want to be my boyfriend.”

Stiles smirks, “I’m asking you to dinner, not to go steady with me.”

“Oh, so—”

“Look just say yes and lemme buy you a damn burger and feel you up in the diner car park after.”

“Well, when you put it like that.”

"Pasta and a cab home?”

Derek bites his lip, “Yeah, that sounds… better.”

“Good, alright then,” Stiles sits back in his chair, pops Derek’s pen in his mouth, “If we’re goin’ all out I might even get candles for after.”

“Assuming I put out on the first date.”

Stiles grins around the pen, “I’m a real charmer, I promise.”

Derek shivers at the looks Stiles is giving him— that mentally undressing Derek in his head look— glances back down at his notes, “You’re something,” he mutters finally. 

Stiles’ toes press against his under the table. 

*

“Go away,” Derek grinds out when Erica’s knocked for the fourth time. 

“I would, but your boyfriend’s downstairs, and he’s insistent on seeing you.”

Derek feels torn between excitement at seeing Stiles— it’s been two days— and exasperation that it’s only been two days.

“You’re not studying for Finstock’s exam?” he asks as he pads down the stairs, pushing his arm through the sleeve of his cardigan.

“Done and done,” Stiles crows, leans against the front door frame, “You wanna go get ice cream?”

“It’s November,”

“So? You’re wearing a nice, warm old man cardigan—”

“I resent that.”

“You’re old, it’s the truth, how can you resent the truth—" 

Derek punches him, and Stiles laughs, swings into him and kisses him, stays close, “You’re still very attractive, even in your old age.”

"Remind me why I should be going anywhere with you when you’re so damn charming about my age?”

Stiles beams, sweeps an arm over his shoulders, “Cos I make you feel young.”

“An hour,” Derek compromises, drawing Stiles closer still and breathing in his scent, minty and fresh and damn delightful. 

“Cool,” Stiles pushes Derek’s glasses up for him, slaps his ass as Derek turns around, lets him into the house, “I got a killing to make on Candy Crush, anyway.”

Derek remembers he was supposed to be studying when his sweats are halfway down his legs, and Stiles has his mouth around his cock. 

“You’re a terrible influence,” he complains, voice hitching when Stiles swirls his tongue.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles says in a hoarse voice when he pulls off, “‘S’not my fault you like my mouth so much.“

Derek hauls him up to kiss him, shoves his hand down Stiles’ sweats and wraps it around Stiles’ dick and his own, jerks them off together, “I like your everything so much,” he snarks. 

Stiles smiles and then his eyes flutter shut as he comes. 

Derek reads his notes as they rest on Stiles’ naked back and convinces himself this is working. They’re not dating, they’re really not, and he’s getting all his work done, he’s concentrating!

God, he didn’t know Stiles had a mole there…

*

It doesn’t work, though. Derek can feel himself being distracted in class. He loses himself watching Stiles’ hands, or tracking Stiles in the library, kissing him frantically and falling into bed with him instead of concentrating on finishing drafts, copying up notes. 

There’s a week until Christmas break, all of his deadlines are in less than forty eight hours, and he’s ignored Stiles’ calls for three days. 

Stiles had been pissed at him in class earlier, scratched the back of his head with his middle finger when he obviously knew Derek was looking. 

Allison had clucked her tongue, murmured about someone being in trouble, and Derek had hissed at her to shut up. She’d given him half her twix in apology an hour later, but it hadn’t cured the ache in Derek’s stomach. 

He’s always worked hard, always known the answers, always put his books first. He never wanted to fall in love with someone in his damn Criminal Law class, and Stiles told him not to. 

Derek had thought he knew better. He thought he had it under control, and then he went and met Stiles and discovered a whole other side to himself, a better side, a softer side, a side that didn’t care about rules and work and god damn essays as long as he was holding Stiles close, arguing with him over menu choices, or whether or not ice cream in winter is a good idea.

He doesn’t even look up when someone sits across from him at the library table he’s taken over. It’s close to two in the morning, and Derek’s so close to finishing his last essay, so close. He’s so tired, though, and he’s so—he just wants to crawl into bed with Stiles. But, he’s not allowed. Maybe not ever again. He sighs and drops his head onto the table briefly.

“Giving up, already?”

Derek snaps his head up, blinks owlishly at Stiles and pushes his glasses up, clears his throat, “I, uh, I’m tired,” he admits finally. “I’m so tired.”

“You look like shit,” Stiles says sharply, and then his face softens, “You should sleep.”

“I can’t,” Derek looks back to his laptop, the words on the screen blurring together, “I shouldn’t have left this so late.”

“You didn’t,” Stiles points out idly, “You finished it last week.”

“I  had to re-write some of it—it was just gibberish! God, what was I thinking writing this?”

He begins to delete a paragraph, and Stiles’ hand steals out to grab his wrist, “Leave it in, man, don’t start editing now.”

“You don’t know what’s best for me,” Derek snaps, “Just leave me alone!”

“God, you’re such a dick,” Stiles growls, “I don’t know why I like you at all.”

“Neither do I,” he replies blithely, stands as he runs his finger down a list of references, “Maybe you should just go.”

Stiles scrapes back his chair, follows him as Derek stumbles through the archive shelves.

“Why are you actually doing this?”

“Doing what? Looking for a book? Because I need it for a reference.”

“No,” Stiles slams in front of him, puts his arm out across the shelves, blocking Derek’s path. “Did I make you kiss me, the first time?”

“What? No.”

“The second time? Or, at the bonfire, or after, did I make you then?”

No, Stiles, get out of my way.”

“Did I make you go to dinner, or force you to spend time with me, at all?”

“No, god, Stiles—”

“Then what the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem is that I told you I don’t know how to do boyfriends,” Derek snaps, “I don’t do this. I don’t know what you want from me.”

Nothing! I told you that. I said I didn’t need you to be good at anything, that all I wanted was for you to try, and every time you do, every time you give me an inch, you run a fucking mile, bury yourself in essays you finished days ago. And, I know you finished this one because I read it myself!”

“It’s not perfect!”

“Nothing is!”

Derek reaches up to grab the book he needs, and Stiles snatches it first, holds it behind his back.

“Give me that.”

“No!”

Derek lunges forward, and Stiles steps backwards, moves further into the shelves. “Look, I get that you’re scared, Derek, I get that maybe you’ve never done this before because you’re such a freaking amazing nerd that you’ve not had—this—“ he gestures between them, “Before. But, that’s okay! I don’t care that you’re not perfect at it, and I don’t need you to be. I just need you to admit that you’re scared and we can do it together. Just, give me a chance.”

“Give me the book!”

Stiles clenches his jaw, lets out a frustrated noise, “Fucking make me, pal.”

Derek growls, crowds him up against the shelf until they’re chest to chest and Stiles’ eyes light up, one hand coming up to bunch in Derek’s sweater.

“This is your plan of action? Maul me for the book?”

“No, I don’t know,” Derek ducks his head for a second, presses into him harder, “You are so damn aggravating. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles snaps back, “You just—“ he looks across at Derek beseechingly, “I don’t want to leave you alone, but I will, Derek. If you really don’t want—”

“I do, I want you, that’s the problem,” Derek groans.

“I don’t want to be a problem.”

“You’re not, you’re not, I just don’t—” Derek clutches his face, stops talking as he breathes against Stiles’ mouth. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits quietly.

Stiles sighs into it, hands coming up to fist in his hair, “But, you want to?”

“Yes,” he whispers, and that’s all it takes for Stiles to seal their mouths together, kissing him fiercely.

Derek lets out a stupid, broken noise, clumsy with his hands in how desperate he is, how much he wishes he was good at this, how grateful he is maybe Stiles will give him a chance.

Stiles lets go of his hair, drags his hands down Derek’s back and under his shirt. They’re like hot brands against Derek’s skin, and he hisses, snaps his hips forward.

“Can you—” Stiles breaks away, tips his head back and Derek scrabbles to get rid of the scarf he’s wearing, tosses it to the side and mouths at his neck. “Yeah, shit, Derek.”

Derek nods wordlessly, hands falling to push Stiles’ shirt up, hurrying to get them on skin. Stiles is pushing at Derek’s sweats, slipping his fingers into his underwear and brushing them along Derek’s cock. It makes him groan, bury his face in Stiles’ neck to cover up the noise.

“Come on,” Stiles murmurs, “We could—”

“We’re in the library.”

“So? It’s three in the morning, who’s even in here?”

“There’s a bunch of people down stairs, I saw them.”

“They’re busy,” Stiles grins, wiggles his eyebrows as his hands drop to his jeans, start pushing them down so Derek can see nothing but skin, the trail of hair that leads to his dick. “We could be too.”

“Christ, you’re a terrible influence.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I’ve never meant it more.”

Stiles laughs against his mouth, takes Derek’s hand and slides it down his stomach, “So, are you saying you don’t want to? Don’t want me here, in the library where anyone could walk past and see us? See us doing this,” he curls Derek’s fingers round his cock, pumps them slowly, “They might not even be able to tell. It’s dark down here, no one’s looking for people having sex in the aisles.”

“Because no one else is this stupid,” Derek manages hoarsely, rocking into him regardless.

“Or, they’re smart like us, and picked a quiet aisle.”

“We really have to—” Derek forgets what he was going to say when Stiles spreads his legs just wide enough for Derek to fit his hand further back, press against his hole.

“You don’t want to?” he looks up at Derek coyly. “You wanna go back to your seat?”

Derek shudders, ducks forward and kisses him sharply, scrapes his teeth against Stiles’ lower lip as he circles the tip of his finger around Stiles’ entrance. Stiles squeezes his legs together, makes Derek’s breath hitch. He shoves his own sweats down, not even checking around them for any possible audience, and gets both their cocks in hand.

“You’re a fucking menace,” he groans.

Stiles smiles, kicks his jeans down and hitches himself up onto the shelf behind, tugs Derek inbetween his legs. “Yeah, so?”

“So, nothing, I love you,” Derek breathes out, snaps their hips together. It’s too dry and too hot, but so good. So fucking sordid with Stiles’ hands on his bare ass in the fucking library and he’s never done anything this filthy in his entire life.

“Yeah?” Stiles moans as Derek twists his hand, “I—oh—fuck—love you, too.”

Derek kisses him again, tries to swallow up the noises he’s making. Stiles pulls back again, frees up his hands to take Derek’s glasses off and places them carefully on the shelf beside them. Derek swallows hard, eyes searching his face for a moment, and Stiles runs his fingers along Derek’s cheekbone, smiles sweetly.

“You’re such a dumb,” he murmurs, “Smartest, best dumb, ever.”

“Thanks,” Derek huffs, “You’re such a—”

“Shush,” Stiles interrupts him, wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and yanks him closer. “We’re in the library, Derek.”

Christ,” Derek keens, dick brushing Stiles’ hole before Stiles spits in his hand, grips them both tightly.

“Shush!”

“You shush,” he gripes, and Stiles laughs, kisses him again. “You fucking—oh—shush!”

Stiles speeds up his hand, still grinding into him, their rhythm rocking the shelving unit and Jesus, Derek is going to get arrested. He doesn’t care, though, everything narrowed down to Stiles’ hand on him, Stiles kissing him, grinning against his lips and shoulders warm where Derek’s clutching at them desperately.

He comes, and muffles his shout in Stiles’ neck. Stiles hums, letting Derek go after a moment and Derek drops to his knees, barely gets his mouth on Stiles before he’s coming with a strangled groan.

Derek wipes his face with the bottom of his shirt, tugs his sweats up as Stiles watches lazily from where he’s leaning against the shelves.

“C’mon, it reeks of sex here, now.”

“Let’s bask in it for a second, sign our names somewhere so people know we dared to do it and lived to tell the tale!”

Derek smiles, wide and stupid as he leans into Stiles’ space, and Stiles’ fingers play idly in his hair.

“Or,” he pulls back to look at Stiles, “We could get out of here, and I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Stiles glances at his watch, “’S’five in the morning.”

“Early breakfast.”

“You still have to perfect your essay.”

Derek pauses, looks up at him, “I could just hand it in as it is.”

“I can wait, dude.”

“No, I think…” Derek shrugs, “I’ve done all I can and I think—I want to go home with you.”

Stiles narrows his eyes, “You’re not gonna freak out on me in twelve hours, are you? Ditch me for three days straight again?”

“That was shit of me.”

“Yeah, it was, but I forgive you,” Stiles jumps off the shelves, pulls his jeans up, scrunching his nose at the drying come on his stomach. “I love you, remember?”

Derek looks at him in all his newly ruffled, tired, earnest everything, smiles again, “Yeah, that’s— I don’t know what to do with that.”

“Neither do I,” Stiles smiles dopily back at him, holds his hand out to Derek, “But, I guess we can figure it out together, if you’re game.”

“I’m game,” Derek takes his hand, follows him through the shelves, back towards the table.

“To clarify,” Stiles turns around as he walks, “You are going to be my boyfriend, now, right? Cos I don’t just have sex in the library with anyone.”

A girl looks up from the table next to Derek’s, eyes half amused, half shocked, and Derek feels his face heat up before he rolls his shoulders back, tugs Stiles back towards him, “Yes, you embarrassing, annoying—”

“Flaky delicious croissant?”

“I hate you.”

“You’d fail Criminal Law with a lie like that.”

Derek rolls his eyes, “I don’t care, right now.”

“You will, but,” Stiles sighs dramatically, puts an arm around Derek’s shoulders, “I’ll be there if the worst should happen.”

“I know, I can’t seem to get rid of you.”

“Lucky you.”

Lucky Derek indeed.