pucker up, sucker
by extantecstasy

Summary: "Can I kiss you?" Derek asks forcefully. Stiles has been shoving Funyuns into his mouth and he can't imagine any combination of wolfy olfactory cells and artificial onion taste that would be appealing.

Notes: The potential for truly awkward first kisses has not yet been realized to my satisfaction. Also, always ask for permission, yo. Consent is the best.

"Can I kiss you?" Derek asks forcefully. While he isn't exactly frowning, his face still manages to convey unhappiness, his hands curled tightly where they rest against his side. Everything about his posture, from the breadth of his shoulders to the way he stands on the balls of his feet (all the better to flee with) scream "uncomfortable!" rather than "seductive!" Stiles has never been propositioned before, but he's sure that he will always be able to call this moment the angriest come-on ever.

Also, he's been shoving Funyuns in his mouth while he reads the last chapter of his book, up until Derek's sudden arrival, and he can't imagine any combination of wolfy olfactory cells and artificial onion taste that would be appealing.

"Uh," he says around the flavored snack, mouth hanging open. He swallows quickly. "Are you supposed to ask? I thought, I dunno, you were just supposed to go for it?"

Derek shifts uncomfortably, the motion highlighting the breadth of his shoulders. "I have been informed," he says, slow, staccato, each word formed with painful precision, "that I need to stop being so creepy and respect the boundaries set by others-"

"What." Stiles gapes.

"-up to and including asking permission for intimacy." When Derek finishes, an embarrassed flush tints the bridge of his nose. The words sound so much like Lydia that Stiles resists the urge to snicker into the sleeve of his sweater.

"So can I kiss you?" Derek asks, a mocking edge cutting into his tone.

"Just for using your words, yes, you can kiss me," Stiles says with false bravado. It's purely for his own benefit since they are both well aware that Derek knows all of Stiles' reactions, knows the nervous upward tick of his heart and the cold sweat on his palms. He wonders, wildly, if he could dash to the bathroom and brush his teeth and if one or both of them would chicken out in the time it took to scrub the onion from his breath.

He wipes his hands against the seam of his jeans, skin catching with a rasp. Derek starts to stride toward him, eyes focused on Stiles' face in a way that makes him feel vaguely like a meal. His boot crunches against an empty Tostitos bag – Stiles likes snacks when he has marathon study sessions, okay? – until they are eye to eye, well past the borders of Stiles' personal bubble, a place that isn't as unfamiliar as it should be. Derek doesn't say anything else, but his tongue skims his upper lip, wetting it slightly, as his eyes slide closed and he starts to lean in.

Stiles' eyes are wide open, locked onto Derek's incoming lips with both detached fascination and barely concealed panic because first kiss and Derek and also how do you kiss, what are lips, how is this happening right now. He squeezes his eyes shut because just looking at Derek is intimidating.

With a light bump, their noses meet but Derek turns it into a little nuzzle before tilting out of the way, which is actually kind of a smooth move and makes the tip of Stiles' nose tingle. He has just the barest warning, a little exhale against his skin, before their lips are touching. Their mouths are meeting. They are mano a mano, except with faces.

That seems to be all that's happening.

Stiles isn't an expert at kissing, seeing as his experience is limited to one sloppy, wet smooch when he was eight and playing house with his next door neighbor. He was the housewife and when he greeted his 'husband' at the door, she planted a big one on his lips and part of his nose and cheek.

Derek's lips are warm and dry and they feel nice, they do, it's just that Stiles thinks kissing is a bit more than pressing lips together and trying not to breathe too hard against Derek's cheek, so he tentatively moves, emulating the sort of mouthing that happens in movies. It feels clunky, unnatural, especially with Derek so still, but Stiles has made a commitment and-

Derek pulls away, eyes flying open. "Don't move your lips so much."

"Oh," he breathes. "Um, noted. Filed away for future reference-"

Derek doesn't wait to hear the end of his ramble because he slots their mouths together again.

Their bodies are too far apart. Stiles feels stupid with his hands hanging by his sides and a couple inches between them, but it's what Derek is doing and he doesn't want to embarrass himself further by being the first to touch or something. Even though he would very much like to run his hands through Derek's hair.

Stiles sighs, tilting his head back. "This isn't working."

Hurt flashes across Derek's face, the lines around his eyes and mouth deepening, and he backs up. It's only his preternatural balance that keeps him from stumbling.

"I'll leave," he says stiffly.

Stiles waves his arms in some approximation of 'stop' which distracts Derek from his backward retreat. "No, you are not allowed to moonwalk into the shadows. That isn't what I meant."

Derek doesn't say anything, but he doesn't leave either, so Stiles takes that as permission to stalk forward. The light slanting from his window is a warm golden, the sun just beginning to set, cutting sharp lines across the planes of Derek's cheekbones. His lips are parted, his chest moving with each inhale. Stiles gets distracted by sensuality of it.

"What did you mean?" Derek prompts softly.

Stiles realizes his mouth is open. He pulls it closed, licks his lips, notices the way Derek follows the motion with his eyes, then rasps, "I meant that the kiss wasn't working, not that you weren't."

"Oh."

"Maybe if you got a little closer? And there's that thing? Where the lips are like, stacked?" His words are making Derek's eyes wider so he tries to demonstrate what he means with his fingers. It doesn't help, as the furrow between Derek's brows deepens.

"Just," Stiles blows a frustrated huff of air out of his nose. "Let me show you."

He slides one hand to curve around Derek's shoulder, sweaty fingers catching against the leather jacket, and he cups his other hand at the nape of his neck. Stiles moves further forward, pushing into Derek's space deliberately, first their chests, then their hips, until the heat of their bodies flares between them.

The first press of mouths is too hard and Stiles jerks back for a moment before moving in again, softer this time. He pulls Derek's bottom lip between his and feels Derek soften at the pressure, yielding then surging deeper. Stiles instinctively matches Derek's rhythm, pulling away slightly and meeting him again, tilting into the kiss. Derek's strong palms slide from his lower back and their place tangled and bunched around the hem of Stiles' sweater, and into back pockets of his jeans, pulling them flush together. Stiles nips Derek's bottom lip appreciatively.

Derek groans, a little breathless noise into Stiles' mouth that makes Stiles giddy, until Derek goes completely rigid against him.

Stiles is pushed bodily off of Derek, a moment of confusion until he regains his equilibrium, all his senses oriented towards Derek. He catalogues the wideness of Derek's eyes, the swollen pink of his lips, the horrified set of his jaw, the almost palpable embarrassment radiating from him, before Derek skitters out the window. If Stiles' life were a cartoon, which sometimes it honestly feels like, all that would be left is a little puff of smoke where Derek was standing.

"So we'll try again later?" Stiles yells smugly after him.