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Let it be known that Stiles does not and never will take the blame for this, not that he’s pointing fingers, or that he’s angry. Okay, maybe he’s a little creeped out at first. Mostly though, he’s just aroused, which is what gets them in this mess in the first place.
Really though, its Derek’s fault. Derek pushing him into walls and getting up in his space and breathing on him and the corners of his mouth curling into a smirk that is in no way attractive, except it really really is.
Stiles can’t be blamed for getting ridiculously aroused when he thinks back on those moments. Even if he does think back on those moments while in bed, when his dad is gone and he’s only in his underwear. It’s not his fault his mind decides that Lydia is not the most unattainable person in his life anymore and decides that Derek is, and by default he’s the one starring in his fantasies.
And if his hand trails down his chest and his eyes slip closed and he imagines Derek’s stupid eyes looking at his lips, looking at Stiles like he wants to eat him in the best way possible? It’s still not Stiles’ fault. He’s a teenager, with raging hormones and - oh god what if Derek had kissed him? What if Derek had pushed himself even closer to Stiles, his knee brushing against the bulge in his pants?
Stiles worries his lip between his teeth before slipping his hand into his boxers, his hand brushing against his dick. A breathy gasp escapes his lips and he knows that’s the sound he would make if Derek ever kissed him, buried his nose into Stiles’ neck, or marked him. Derek’s teeth scraping across his neck, his hands squeezing into Stiles’s hips almost hard enough to bruise. Just the thought of it makes him arch his back a bit, his heels trying to find purchase on the bed as he squeezes his dick, because not yet.
He sucks in a lungful of air, his eyes fluttering open, and that’s when he freezes, all thoughts of pleasure flying out of the window and possibly hitting Derek fucking Hale on the way out, because he’s crouching on the window still like a stalker, still eschewing the use of a fucking door. Stiles lets out a croak that’s a mixture between embarrassment and arousal and leans his head back and moans because Derek hasn’t moved to run away, is just staring at him with his stupid eyes, his nostrils flaring.
“Derek,” Stiles hisses, and his voice doesn’t catch half way through.
Stiles opening his mouth and speaking physically jolts Derek and Stiles awkwardly moves to sit, and take his hand out of his boxers but Derek takes a step forward and growls, literally growls.
Stiles can’t help it, he lets out another moan and falls back against the bed because this is a dream, he can go along with that, it’s totally a dream.
“Who were you thinking of?”
It’s no use lying, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut in embarrassment.
“Who. Were. You. Thinking. Of?” Derek enunciates each word and Stiles’ breath catches in the back of his throat.
“You.”
“Good,” Derek growls and Stiles opens his eyes in surprise just in time to see Derek swooping down and claiming his mouth while he climbs onto the bed.
After that, it’s less of Stiles imagining what it’s like as Derek’s teeth scrape across the sensitive skin of his neck and actually feeling it around the same time as Derek’s knee presses up against his underwear and Stiles arches his back again and babbles Derek’s name over and over again because he’s coming - until his babbling is covered with Derek’s lips.
“I don’t think this is a dream,” Stiles volunteers later, when he’s not as likely to pass out, but Derek still has a self-satisfied look on his face, more like a cat than a wolf really.
“You dream about me often then?” Derek asks, sprawled out across Stiles bed, his nose pressing into the crook of Stiles’ neck.
“Maybe.”
“Mmm.”
Stiles would like to talk, but this is the most content he’s ever seen Derek ever, and it’s not even like he’s the one that got an orgasm out of this. Instead he falls silent, and slips into sleep with Derek at his side.