He isn’t sure how this happened. At first he’d been hurrying to class, the only one in the long corridor, running late because he couldn’t find his text book anywhere in his room –damn roommates from hell- when someone snagged his elbow and hauled him into the chapel.
Stiles lost his breath when he was slammed up against the wall. His vision had cleared long enough to see Derek Hale, the senior with the worst reputation in the Catholic school who wasn’t even Catholic or religious in the slightest, looming over him.
His protest died on his lips when the rugged senior launched forward and smashed their lips together with finesse only someone with experience could possess. Stiles had scrambled for purchase on Derek’s broad shoulders and bowed against him as he greedily opened his mouth so the senior could explore the moist cavern with his tongue. He felt dizzy and too hot and completely forgot the world around him existed.
For a first kiss he swore he could see fireworks behind his eyelids. Though considering Derek had been expelled from every single other school he’d ever attended for some degree of arson, the precious little pyromaniac he was, it wouldn’t surprise Stiles in the least if he really did see fireworks.
Stiles vaguely realizes that now Derek is literally looming over him, a thick muscular thigh wedged between his legs, with the barely cushioned pew beneath his back.
He stares up at Derek who is breathing hard, lips full and bright red from abuse, his lower lip still wet and glistening. The sight makes Stiles throb between his legs and squirm against the delicious friction Derek’s thigh is providing.
“Why’d you stop?” Stiles whispers when the senior doesn’t immediately start kissing him again, three seconds away from pouting. But Derek makes no move to continue, just shakes his head slightly, his head tilted away like he’s listening.
They both tense when they hear the chapel door begin to creak. Adrenaline spikes through Stiles as they lurch up from the pew and wildly look around for a means of escape.
Stiles eyes land on the confessional first and he frantically points to it. Derek’s fingers curl around Stiles uniform tie like a leash and tugs harshly on it. They scramble to the confessional, tripping and stumbling the at most five short feet to it.
Derek drops himself onto the small plush bench reserved for Father Markel; his eyes still a little wild and chest heaving from the adrenaline rush. With the little room I the confessional Stiles is forced to choose between sitting on Derek’s lap or sit on the floor. Stiles chooses and sinks to his knees onto the floor, inadvertently putting himself right between Derek’s legs.
They realize this at the same time. Derek sucks in a breath and Stiles face blushes darkly. Derek grins darkly down at him and scoots his hips forward to Stiles and grins as Stiles eyes widen comically.
“What?” The senior whispers to the freshmen when he makes a show of reaching into the front pocket of his uniform slacks and produces a silver Zippo lighter and flicks it open, the metal clink of it sounding too loud in the confined space.
Stiles go from widening to narrowing when Derek flicks the lighter and a soft orange flame appears, lighting up the space and casting flickering shadows over Derek’s face. The sight catches Stiles off-guard but he shakes his thoughts and leans up on his knees to blow the light out, his hand braced on Derek’s thigh.
“You’re going to get us caught,” Stiles hisses but stills when Derek tenses. For three seconds he is blissfully oblivious, until Derek’s dick twitches warmly under his palm and Stiles suddenly feels like his face is on fire.
Nervously Stiles licks his lips, Derek’s eyes follow the movement before flicking up to meet his gaze. They’re locked in a stalemate, the charged tension growing between them.
It all snaps when Stiles boldly makes the first move and leans in to mouth Derek’s straining erection through his slacks.
He hisses, jaw clenched tightly and his head thumps back against the confessional wall audibly, the lighter in his hand forgotten falls with a dull noise as it hits the carpeted floor.
Derek’s hand eventually pushes Stiles back against away from him. The younger boy reluctantly moves away to pout only to whimper quietly when he sees Derek yank harshly at his belt and pop the button of his pants and roughly shove a hand into them to tug his length out into the already humid air.
Stiles swallows as he stares at Derek’s cock. It’s the first one he’s seen other than his own. It’s not much different. Not too much longer thank his, but it’s certainly a lot thicker, hands down it is way thicker. It makes Stiles mouth water and curiously he leans forward and let’s his tongue flick against the weeping head, catching the moisture with the speared point of his tongue.
Derek chokes on a curse and squeezes the base of his dick to the point even Stiles knows the action has to be painful. But he leans in again and wraps his mouth around the tip of him, careful of his teeth and suckles, wanting more of the thick salty taste of Derek in his mouth. The musky taste of him alone is almost enough to have Stiles creaming his pants.
The sound of a door squeaking open as Stiles yanking his mouth off of Derek, his teeth accidentally scrapping against the sensitive skin, making Derek bite his lower lip hard to keep from cursing though his eyes look murderous.
It takes a moment but both of them realize that someone is in the opposite confessional, waiting for Father Markel.
“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” A soft meek voice says from the other side of the screen.
Derek carefully leans back and stuffs himself back into his pants and raises a finger to his lips. Stiles nods as he casts a nervous glance to the screen that barely hides them from view.
A tug to his tie has him jumping but its Derek’s lips on his, soft and gentle this time, that has his eyes widening.
“We’re going to run for it,” He whispers, face so close to Stiles he can barely think straight. “Next time I want you to finish what you start.”
And then he’s shoving Stiles up and out of the confessional. They’re both running from the chapel and bursting through the doors, Stiles goes left and Derek goes right. Disappointment blooms in his chest but stamps the feeling down as he’s running that he remembers what Derek had said.
He wants this, whatever it is between them, to happen again. He wants to see Stiles of all the boys in the school again.
Stiles grins like an idiot as he dashes up the hall.
Not even the biting ruler of Sister Kate against the palms of his hands or the thorough embarrassing lecture she gives him for being late could dampen his mood.
The knowing stare his fellow freshman, Isaac Lahey, gives him at lunch makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. But then his eyes catch sight of Derek staring at him a few tables back and he’s on top of the world again.
He can’t wait until he can go to confession again.