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It’s like watching porn.
Stiles’ long fingers slide along the handle of his lacrosse stick as he listens to the coach explain a new tactic to him and his teammates. He caresses the shaft with fleeting touches, stopping at the rubbery end of the stick to press his nails there. And he’s completely unaware he’s doing it, unconsciously turning an innocent lacrosse practice into the most erotic experience in Derek’s life.
Yeah, Derek has been coming to every practice to sit on the bleachers ever since Stiles made the first string.
In his freshman year.
They’re both seniors now.
Not that Stiles knows about Derek’s existence. He might be vaguely aware of him - they do have Econ together, after all - but other than that Derek doesn’t really think he’s on Stiles’ radar.
People like them just don’t mesh, and not only because they both represent two opposing high school stereotypes to the T, with Derek on the nerdy side and Stiles being the jockiest jock to ever jock.
Their schedules don’t match, their social circles don’t overlap, and Derek is pretty sure that there’s not even a single thing they have in common when it comes to interests and how they spend their free time.
“Hey, can you help me make a decision?” There’s a sudden movement next to Derek’s right and the old bleachers squeak feebly in protest as Erica, one of Derek’s (few) friends flops down next to him.
“Sure, what is it?” he asks, not really paying any attention to her. Stiles’ eyebrows are scrunched up as he continues to listen to Finstock, one hand coming up to tug at his hair. Derek has learned to recognize that it means Stiles is frustrated. He knows he should sympathize with him - Finstock can be a real pain in the ass, most of the time - but he can’t help that the image of Stiles’ messy hair goes straight to his dick.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“I can’t decide whether your stalking tendencies are sweet or just plain creepy,” Erica says, interrupting his thoughts, and earns an elbow to her ribs for that. “You know what you should just do? Talk to him. Revolutionary idea, I know.”
At that, Derek gives her a very pointed look.
“Have you seen him? Him? Me?” He points in the general direction of the field and then at himself for emphasis.
“Yeah, so? What’s wrong with you?”
Derek huffs because he knows that whatever he says, she won’t really understand. It’s not that Derek is lacking in the looks department. He knows he doesn’t, his face is kind of decent. And he started working out last summer, surprised at how much he likes it. And if the obvious once-overs he got when he came back to school after the summer break, he’s not completely hideous either.
He’s just… not interested.
Not in anyone who isn’t Stiles, at least. So he hides behind his thick-framed, unflattering glasses and worn-out sweaters, hoping for the best. It seems to work, at least partially; everyone pretty much left him alone a while ago.
So he’s pretty much free to talk to Stiles, right?
But at the same time he balks at the sole idea of talking to him.
It’s just that Derek’s harboring the biggest, most embarrassing crush on Stiles and he’d rather save himself the humiliation when ultimately, Stiles rejects him like Derek saw him do with truly a mind-boggling number of girls (and a few boys). Given, he’s never been mean about it, but the humiliation of the experience is not something Derek is ready for, not for now. Probably not for the nearest decade.
Which is why he’s perfectly content to appreciate him from afar, from the safety of the bleachers.
Derek has managed to successfully avoid having any classes he could possibly have with Stiles up until his senior year. Once he even signed up for art, even though the best piece he’s ever made is still hanging in his grandma’s living room. It depicts what his seven year old self imagined to be a wolf and what Laura, his older sister, calls a dark blob of doom whenever they visit grandma’s house. Needless to say, art class was a torture and it cast a dark, C-shaped shadow on his otherwise flawless GPA.
“You’re hopeless,” Erica says when he doesn’t answer her. “Ugh, I’m going home. I can’t stand the sight of you blueballing yourself.”
“Don’t talk about my genitals, it’s disrespectful,” Derek tells her when she gets up to leave. She leans to pat him on his cheek.
“You’re adorable. Call me when you’re done with work, so we can grab some dinner with Isaac and Boyd, alright?”
“I refuse to be objectified, Erica!” he yells after her and checks the time. The practice will go for at least another hour, but he has to move soon if he doesn’t want to earn one of Mrs. Clayton’s disapproving glares.
He volunteers at the local library - he’s perfectly aware how much of a cliché it makes him and he doesn’t care. He happens to enjoy it.
He sends one last, forlorn look at where Stiles is doing sit-ups (Derek’s favorite part of the practice. Alright, maybe second best after the times when Stiles is all hot and sweaty after doing laps and dumps a whole bottle of water down his face and neck) and leaves the bleachers.
*
Because the entire world is against him, Derek gets paired up with Stiles the very next morning during their Econ together.
For a project. A few-weeks-long project.
Derek’s life is over.
He can almost hear Erica telling him to quit being dramatic and Boyd actually does roll his eyes at him when their eyes meet.
“Well, this is gonna be fun!” Stiles announces happily as he dumps his textbooks and pencils on Derek’s desk, sitting next to him.
Yeah, it’s going to be so much fun Derek’s going to die.
Their task is to create a fake family unit together and maintain the household for the duration of the semester, paying the bills with their fake incomes and making sure everything adds up.
Apparently, the project is going to be sixty percent of their final grade. Fantastic.
“Okay, so the thing is I suck at Econ, like, a lot,” Stiles begins and winces slightly when Finstock appears in front of them, noting down their names.
“I do hope it’s the only sucking you’re doing, Stilinski,” he says, points his pen at him and moves on to terrorize other students.
Derek sits stock still.
“Right,” Stiles says flatly. “What I was trying to say is, can I have your number? I mean, we’re gonna work on the project together anyway.”
It might as well be some kind of alternative reality, because Stiles sounds… nervous? Why would Stiles be nervous?
“I don’t want your grade to suffer because of me,” Stiles says quietly and when Derek looks up at him from where he’s been aggressively staring at his own hands, he’s smiling. “So I will need your help, right?”
Derek won’t admit it, but it makes him feel warm all over. That Stiles cares enough to ask for that.
By the end of the class, he’s got Stiles’ number programmed into his phone and a study date for the following weekend.
Maybe his life isn’t over just yet.
*
Stiles Stilinski, Beacon Hills’ favorite athlete star and major jock, is secretly a geek with a vast knowledge about things Derek would never suspect him of.
Derek doesn’t know what to do with that.
He also doesn’t know what to do with himself, because he’s in Stiles’ house, in Stiles’ room, trying to focus on their project while Stiles is four feet away from him, sprawled obscenely on his bed.
“And this is why Star Wars is the best trilogy in the history of the cinema and nothing will ever convince me otherwise. The Matrix had potential, but they ruined it. Ruined it, man. I actually cried the first time I saw the sequel, you know? Way to shoot yourself in the foot.”
He’s spent the last fifteen minutes proving his point. Derek didn’t even ask for it. But if he doesn’t do or say something quick, he will end up engaging in the conversation, and Stiles will throw him out of the house on the grounds that Derek’s nerdiness is contagious.
“Can we go back to our project?” he asks and winces inwardly. Thankfully, Stiles either doesn’t notice or willfully ignores Derek’s awkwardness.
“But this is sooooooooooo boring. We should do something fun instead,” he says, sliding off the bed and onto the floor, head first. It’s ridiculous and Derek can’t stop watching, particularly when Stiles’ ass is in the direct line with his eyes.
Derek is still in a daze when Stiles gets up and looks at the notes Derek has methodically stacked all over his desk.
“We should get married,” he says absent-mindedly, picking up one of the print-outs.
Derek chokes on air.
*
“We got married,” Derek says, his head in his hands. In his peripheral vision, he can see Isaac stealing his fries.
“Anyone in favor of not listening to Derek’s love drama raise your hand.” Isaac shoots two hands up in the air and Boyd, who is sitting across the table, raises his own.
“I’ve got the worst friends,” Derek complains to his burger. Burger, as expected, doesn’t offer any words of consolation. Derek feels somewhat betrayed.
“Stop moping and tell us how’s the sex.” Erica snaps her fingers in front of Derek’s face.
“We got fake married. For the project. He just noticed it’s better to get married, because our household will benefit from that. And then he made me watch bad sci-fi with him.”
“How quaint,” Erica says, her voice drier than the sand on the desert. “You should bang him.”
“Erica,” he hisses.
“What? It’s a good advice.” She shrugs, pops the last fry into her mouth and checks her phone. “And I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I gotta dash. Responsibilities don’t wait.”
Derek narrows his eyes and exchanges frowns with both Boyd and Isaac, because what kind of responsibilities does Erica have?
*
At first Stiles and Derek’s meetings are strictly business, project-related - as much as they can be with Stiles, anyway, who insists on doing something else the second he gets bored, which is usually ten minutes after Derek arrives at his house.
It means they don’t get much work done (usually scrambling for deadlines Finstock gives them by exchanging late night emails), but Derek doesn’t really complain.
He likes hanging out with Stiles. Because it turns out they do have a lot of common, besides Stiles’ geeky knowledge that is on par with (or, embarrassing to admit, even better than) Derek’s.
For example, Stiles has an annoying habit of texting Derek in the most inappropriate times, a series of rapid-fire texts he has no time to reply to. Usually when he’s working at the library.
Derek not only doesn’t expect to get used to it (which he does, pretty quickly, because he’s flexible like that), but he discovers he’s looking forward to the interruptions. Even if sometimes they only share a few words and a whole lot of stupid emoticons. Derek dedicates an entire afternoon once to make up an entire story out of emoticons, telling Stiles to guess what it is.
His phone vibrates in his pocket not even three minutes later.
“Did you just text me the entire Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy in emoticons?” Stiles asks as soon as Derek answers.
“What took you so long?” Derek teases back, ignoring the stink eye he gets from the head librarian.
“Dude, it was twelve texts.”
“I wanted to make it thirty five, one for each chapter.”
“Oh my god. I’m hanging up.”
Half an hour later, Derek finds three texts from Stiles with emoji-upgraded lyrics of What does the fox say.
*
One day Derek finds himself in the diner Stiles claims to be serving the best milkshakes in Beacon Hills and surrounding areas. Which Derek wouldn’t know because he a) has never been to this diner and b) doesn’t really like milkshakes.
“What, really?” Stiles asks incredulously when Derek tells him that. He sips loudly at his blueberry-banana-cherry monstrosity with double whipped cream through a straw.
Derek just shrugs and drops his gaze to his own drink (a simple avocado shake), because Stiles is mutilating that straw with his mouth.
“That’s okay, it just means you haven’t tried the right ones,” Stiles says, slurps obnoxiously and nudges his glass towards Derek. “Try it.”
“No,” Derek replies, eyeing the concoction warily.
“Come on, let me blow your mind just this once,” Stiles pleads and Derek is happy he’s not drinking his milkshake right now, because he’d surely spill it all over himself.
He doesn’t say you blow my mind on regular basis or your existence blows my mind or even just how about you blow me, and takes a tentative sip instead.
And Stiles is right, it’s like an explosion of flavors on his tongue and if Derek moans a little and closes his eyes when he swallows, well, he can’t be blamed. He’s just had a life-changing milkshake experience.
When he opens his eyes, Stiles is staring at him, pupils blown wide and mouth agape.
“What?”
“No, it’s just- you have a little-” Stiles makes an aborted gesture with his hand, like he isn’t quite sure what to do, but then his features set decisively and he reaches over the table, leaning forward.
Derek panics, but Stiles just wipes whipped cream from the corner of his mouth.
“So,” Stiles says after he licks his thumb and oh my god, Derek needs the floor to swallow him up right about now, before he has a situation on his hands.
Or, you know, his dick.
“I showed you mine, now you show me yours. This is how it works, right?” Stiles asks and all Derek can say is huh, because he’s still thinking about dicks.
He can’t help it, he’s a teenager and Stiles is apparently his dick-magnet.
“Your secret magical place, dude. I took you here, and I don’t do this for just anybody. So how it’s going to be?”
“I- okay, let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Now. Why? You have anywhere else to be?” Derek asks, even though Stiles literally scrambles to his feet, trying to finish his drink at the same time.
“Actually, I do,” he says and Derek tries his best not to look too disappointed. He must, though, because Stiles clasps a reassuring hand on Derek’s shoulder. “But I kinda want to see your batcave more.”
“My batcave.”
“Your villain hideout. Your strategic headquarters. Your evil mansion.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you don’t. Lead the way, my dear Bruce!”
“How come you are the jock and I’m the nerd?” Derek groans, but ends up leading the way, of course.
*
Stiles is perfectly capable of keeping up with Derek - since Derek spent countless hours watching him run suicides and he knows he’s only slightly out of breath after half an hour or so - but it doesn’t stop him from complaining as he trails behind.
“Is this some kind of a payback? Because if it is, I want it to be noted that I didn’t make you pick that godawful avocado milkshake. Who even orders avocado milkshakes if it can be avoided?”
Derek ignores him, busy looking for the path between the underbrush. It’s been a while since he last came here and everything looks slightly different, more overgrown. It takes him a few minutes to find the right way.
“I come here for the view, mostly,” Derek tells Stiles over his shoulder as he climbs up the narrow trail. He can hear Stiles mumble well, I can’t complain about that behind him, but doesn’t dwell on it.
When they finally reach the clearing they’re both panting and Derek can feel a solitary bead of sweat trickling down his neck.
“Well, that’s it. Here we are,” he says and spreads his arms wide to indicate the place, feeling kind of silly.
“Derek,” Stiles breathes out and steps forward, toward the spot where the clearing stops abruptly, giving space to a rocky cliff. It’s almost quarter a mile down, and the entire view of Beacon Hills is outstretched in front of them. “Holy shit, this is- this is amazing.”
Derek releases a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding and smiles, suddenly warm all over. He’s pretty sure it has nothing to do with the short climb.
Later, they’re sitting at the edge of the cliff, their feet dangling.
It’s awesome.
“Can we be any more of a high school cliché?” Stiles asks as he stretches on the patch of grass. His voice is soft and warm and his face open when he turns to face Derek and point between them.
“I don’t think we are,” Derek says, bumping his foot against Stiles’. “Or at least, you aren’t. You’re smart and funny and yeah, you’re kind of an asshole,” the corners of his lips tug upward at Stiles’ indignant hey, “but after you get used to it, it’s almost nice to hang out with you.”
“You say the sweetest things.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “To be fair, you’re not the pompous prick everyone says you are.”
“Thanks,” Derek says, furrowing his brows. “I think.”
“And thanks for taking me here.”
“You’re welcome.”
A pleasant silence stretches between them, but it doesn’t last long as Stiles’ eyes start to glint in a way Derek has learned to associate with I just had an idea that you’re not gonna like but I’m gonna share anyway.
“Sooo, have you ever written a poem up here?”
Derek gapes. “Is this really a question I’m supposed to dignify with an answer?”
“Humor me.”
“No.”
“No, you won’t humor me and tell me about your love poems or no, you haven’t written a poem here?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
“That’s unfortunate because this place is making me feel very inspired.”
And as he says that, he gets up, dusts his pants off (there are grassy green stains on his butt, but Derek decides not to tell him just yet) and unfolds an imaginary piece of paper, holds it in front of him.
He clears his throat.
“Roses are red,
Violets aren’t blue, they’re fucking purple,
This place is neat,
Let me buy you a Slurpee.”
Stiles finishes and looks pointedly at Derek. “They don’t make avocado Slurpees.”
“I’m filing for fake divorce,” Derek decides.
*
Stiles approaches Derek before their last Econ class, looking determined.
“The game next Friday, you’re gonna be there, right?”
Of course he’s going to be there. It’s not like Derek missed a single game Stiles has played ever since he made the first string. But how did Stiles…?
“Oh, come on,” he rolls his eyes and squeezes Derek’s shoulder lightly. “You thought I haven’t noticed you during practices? Please.”
Derek doesn’t know if he should apologize or simply ask Stiles to shoot him.
He does neither, which Stiles correctly guesses as a promise that he will be there.
“Cheer on me properly this time, though,” he says with a wink as they both enter the classroom. “No creeping in the last rows.”
*
Derek is happy.
The look on Finstock’s face when he has to give them both an A+ for their work is enough to make Derek feel as if Christmas came earlier this year.
And then, during lunch break, Derek gets to sit at the cool kids’ table.
He heads to his usual table with a selection of unidentifiable cafeteria food when someone grabs him from behind and starts dragging him in the opposite way. He only narrowly avoids spilling the mysterious mush from the tray on himself when he tries to turn around.
“You’re eating lunch with me today, I have a mighty need to boast about our awesome grade, man,” Stiles says, because that’s him and that’s his hand on the small of Derek’s back.
He knows Erica notices Derek’s sudden change in social status, because as soon as he sits down at the same table as the most popular students of Beacon High, his phone starts going off. She’s probably texting him to congratulate him or call him a traitor, possibly both.
“Guess who’s got an A+ in Econ, losers?” Stiles looks around the table, face smug. Derek follows his gaze, a little dazed. He knows all of these people. Who doesn’t, really? Scott McCall, co-captain of the lacrosse team, Allison Argent, badass extraordinaire, Danny Mahealani, whose dimples have their own official fanclub and Lydia Martin, who could probably kill Derek with the power of her brain only.
“That’s only because you got paired up with the smartest guy in your class,” Scott says, rolling his eyes. “I got Greenberg.”
There’s a murmur of sympathetic noises all around the table.
“Anyway.” Now it’s Allison’s turn to talk and she looks straight at Derek. “Hi Derek, I’m Allison! Nice to finally meet you.”
Turns out they all know his name and introduce themselves to him. And it also turns out that they’re pretty down to earth and easy to talk to, once Derek gets over his initial shock of sitting with the people he’s never thought he’d be sitting with, his leg pressed against Stiles’, who gestures wildly while reenacting Finstock’s reaction to his friends.
“Wanna trade my mystery meat for yours?” Stiles asks him when he’s done with his story, the group moving onto another topic.
“They’re the same.” Derek shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Lydia, who hasn’t said a word since he appeared, is giving him the most calculating look he’s ever been subjected to in his life. He feels naked and wow, that’s the one thought he definitely doesn’t want to be thinking right now.
“Nuh-uh, yours actually looks like it might have seen a cow once,” Stiles counters cheerfully, completely unaware of Derek’s discomfort, and spears Derek’s food with his fork. Derek lets him.
“Hey, I have a brilliant idea,” Stiles says with his mouth full, some of the mystery food he’s chewing landing on the table besides Danny, who sighs a quiet real classy, Stilinski. Stiles continues, unfazed. “Scotty, man, you’re going bowling with Allison later today, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We should celebrate our A+, right. Derek, what do you think? Scott, Allison, you, me, double date? I will even put out a little for you, I promise.”
The table shakes with sudden laughter while Derek feels as if the ground is slipping away from under him.
He looks around, but everyone’s still laughing, someone’s patting Stiles back, Stiles snorting in reply.
“What,” he says, and that gets Stiles’ attention, who turns to him with a wide smile.
“Uh, did you forget to wash your ears this morning or something? I said let’s go on a double date with Scott and Allison.”
“On a date. Together.”
“Yeah. Why? You don’t want to?” Stiles narrows his eyes at him, looking a little suspicious, but mostly just confused.
Derek’s heart is hammering in his chest too fast to notice. Because suddenly he understands; suddenly everything makes sense, all those weeks with Stiles being nice to him, talking to him just so he could boast about it to his friends later, make it into some kind of elaborate joke that Derek was never supposed to be let in on.
“Very funny,” he says, his words slow and deliberate. Suddenly the whole table is quiet, everyone’s eyes at him. “I get it, okay. You’ve had your fun, you got a good grade out of it, too. Congratulations, everything is right in the world again! But guess what? I’m not going to be the butt of the joke anymore.”
He’s making a scene, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that everyone’s staring, mouths open and brows furrowed.
All he sees is Stiles and the hurt so obvious on his face that he can’t take it anymore.
But he can’t take his words back either.
He flees the cafeteria.
*
Derek doesn’t really think it’s Stiles who sends his friends after him.
It doesn’t make him feel any better about it, though.
After two castration threats (one vague and terrifying, the other explicit and more gore in description than any horror movie he’s ever seen) from Allison and Lydia, he’s resigned to basically get his ass kicked by Scott McCall, who approaches him last during lunch break.
Scott takes one look at him, though, and invites him for ice cream in a nearby ice cream parlor. Which is a rather unexpected turn of events.
“I can’t speak for my best friend when it comes to his feelings and stuff,” Scott says when they sit down, ice creams in hand. Scott’s tone is serious, but not unkind. “But he would never do anything to hurt you, man.”
Since that disastrous lunch three days ago Derek has spent a lot of time wondering about that. And the more he thought about it, the more he understood that Stiles wasn’t the cruel one, Derek was.
But now that he realizes, no, that he knows that it might be too late to fix it, he’s terrified.
“It’s just- all this time I’ve been wondering if it’s just one big prank life is playing on me,” Derek tells Scott honestly. “There’s literally not a reason for us to hang out and a thousand reasons against. I’m lame. He’s popular. So I thought, I thought maybe it’s some kind of a stupid jo-”
“Derek,” Scott interrupts him. “Did any of those times you spent together with Stiles feel fake?”
Derek shakes his head.
“Exactly. I doubt they were. Besides, Stiles is kind of lame, too. It’s not his fault people fail to notice that.”
But Derek did. Derek did notice that, didn’t he?
“I fucked up,” he says, realization dawning on him.
“You kinda did,” Scott agrees, nodding his head. Derek buries his face in his hands in despair.
“What do I do now?”
*
“If you do this, you’re gonna be like, the king of lame,” Isaac informs Derek and hands him the roll of paper with no small amount of disdain, as if it personally offended him.
“And if he goes for this, you can be the rulers of the Lamelandia together,” Boyd adds.
“Thanks for the support, guys,” Derek says, voice dripping with sarcasm, as they all sit down on the bleachers. In the front row.
The game starts and it’s not long before Stiles scores the first goal. The crowd erupts in loud cheers, but Derek waits until Stiles’ eyes sweep the bleachers, waits until their eyes inevitably meet.
And then he stands up and shows him the banner, getting glitter all over himself in the process.
He can’t gauge Stiles’ reaction from such distance, but he can see him mouthing the words.
ROSES ARE RED
I REALLY DON’T CARE ABOUT VIOLETS
YOU MIGHT’VE BEEN MISLED
PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME STILES?
*
The text he gets from Erica sounds urgent and tells him to come to the locker rooms ASAP. He’s long since accepted that there’s no point in arguing with her, just roll with the punches. He shoulders his bag, throws away the banner into the first trashcan he sees and texts her back that he’s on his way.
He’s too scared to face Stiles now, anyway.
“Erica?” he yells, stepping into the locker room.
Before he realizes what’s happening, the door closes and locks behind him, and he can hear Erica’s voice from behind it.
“I’m really sorry Derek, but this is for your own good. It’s high time you get your head out of your own ass. Go get him, tiger!”
He doesn’t even have time to ask get who, because of course it’s Stiles.
Standing in front of him in only a towel on his hips, his skin glistening with water droplets.
“I’m sorry, I- uh, my friend locked me here? She thinks she’s hilarious, but she’s not,” Derek honest-to-god stutters because he’s an idiot and he’s never seen so much of Stiles’ skin. And it’s just right there.
“Hi, stranger,” Stiles says and Derek doesn’t miss the way he flushes, almost all the way to his solar plexus. He rubs a hand over his ribs self-consciously and Derek forces himself to look at his face. “I saw you during the game.”
“I kinda hoped you did.” Derek says quickly. “I mean, I’m no T. S. Eliot, but-”
“Did you mean it?” Stiles asks sharply.
“Yeah. Yeah I did. I’m sorry for being such a jerk.”
“You should be.”
“I am.”
“Good.”
“I just didn’t know you were serious when you asked me,” Derek admits and Stiles sputters.
“What? Of course I was serious, why would you even think that I wasn’t?”
“You had so many opportunities when he were hanging out together, but you asked me in front of your friends that I barely met? I didn’t know what to think so I freaked out. But-” Derek says and trails off.
“But?” Stiles prompts him.
“But then I realized what an gigantic moron I was. So I wrote you a poem.”
“You were right, it was no T.S. Eliot,” Stiles says, and that’s probably it.
Derek braces himself for what he knew was coming, braces himself for the rejection he had long time coming. It’s time, after all.
But nothing like that happens.
Instead, there’s a soft smile playing on Stiles’ lips.
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Derek repeats, confused.
“Yes, I will go out with you,” Stiles says and beams at him. “Even though you are a gigantic moron.”
Derek grins back.
And then they both kind of lean for a kiss, and end up bumping their noses together.
“Can we be any more of a high school cliché?” Derek asks flatly, trying to check stealthily if he’s bleeding. Judging by the unimpressed look Stiles gives him, he doesn’t success in the stealth department.
“Oh, shut up,” Stiles says and leans in again, and now they’re kissing.
It’s very innocent, because Derek is too nervous to do anything more than press his own lips to Stiles’, but it’s still more than he ever imagined he’d do with Stiles.
It’s kind of perfect.
“Hey, you got into Stanford, didn’t you?” Stiles breaks their kiss and Derek makes a displeased noise at the back of his throat, trying to chase Stiles’ lips with his own.
“Yeah, why?”
“Nothing, I just thought that’s a great coincidence, because I did too. Got a scholarship and everything.” That makes Derek stop trying to kiss him for a second.
“What? Athletic scholarship?”
“Nope, academic.”
“Oh,” Derek says softly after a few seconds of silence.
“Oh? Oh what?”
“Oh, I think I’ve never been more turned on in my entire life,” Derek admits, painfully aware just how tight are his pants and blushes furiously. “I can’t believe you got an academic scholarship to Stanford.”
“Full ride, baby,” Stiles says, grinning. “Speaking of riding-”
“But you suck at Econ!” Derek blurts out, because if he lets Stiles finish that innuendo he was surely intending to make, he might do something embarrassing. Like come in his pants.
“Uh, not really? I did it partially because I just like pissing Finstock off, but mostly because I wanted you to spend more time with me.”
“You- you intentionally let your grades drop because you wanted me to-”
“Yep,” Stiles says, popping the “p”. It should be annoying, but it makes Derek zero-in on Stiles’ mouth instead. They should be kissing right now. Yeah, kissing is such a good idea. Why aren’t they kissing?
Stiles chuckles and slides his hand under Derek’s sweater, raking his fingers over Derek’s skin.
“What’s wrong?” Derek asks after a second, because Stiles falls silent, his eyes widening comically.
“You- you didn’t tell me you’re ripped!”
“Uh, I’m sorry?”
“Nah, you don’t have to be sorry,” Stiles assures him, his hand still wandering across Derek’s stomach, small, fleeting touches that drive Derek nuts. “I happen to like it.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” Stiles hums noncommittally. “Do you mind if I jerk you off?”
“I-,” Derek blames the fact that his brain literally short-circuits at that question, but he grabs Stiles’ hand before it wanders lower. “Stiles, we-- I mean, why me?”
“Why the hell not?”
“I help dusting off old books in my free time. You win state championships in yours. There’s no reason for you to like me.”
Stiles’ eyebrow shoots up at that.
“Is there a law?”
“No?”
“Then shut up. I like you because I like you. You don’t have to make us into some kind of star-crossed lovers.”
“Okay.”
“We good?”
“Yeah.”
“Perfect,” Stiles says with a sharp nod and literally attacks Derek’s mouth. It’s a battle Derek doesn’t want to win.
He lets Stiles walk him back until his spine connects painfully with the nearest locker. They never stop kissing. Derek tentatively opens his mouth a bit and that’s Stiles’ tongue.
Touching Derek’s tongue.
There’s also Stiles’ hand.
On his crotch.
Derek is not about to tell him that he’s never had his dick touched by another person, even through his jeans. Hell, he’s never had another human being in the near vicinity, except for that one time Erica kneed him in the balls by accident.
Well, he’s not about to say anything, to be honest.
Not when Stiles’ mouth is on his neck and he’s trying to simultaneously open Derek’s zipper and pull his pants down. It’s more than a little uncoordinated and Derek ends up rutting against him just a little before Stiles finally pulls his dick free with a quiet gasp.
And then they both stare at Derek’s flushed, but definitely soft dick.
“Oh god,” Derek chokes out because it’s the single most mortifying moment of his life.
“It’s all cool,” Stiles says, dropping his forehead to Derek’s shoulder. “I came too.”
“You- you did?”
“Mhm. I think we need to work on the sex stuff. Maybe later, though. Like, no need to rush into things, right?” Stiles mumbles, his head still down.
Derek stares at him until he looks up and says, “Hi.”
“Hi. I really like you.”
“I really like you too.”
Stiles tucks him back into his pants just as Derek’s dick makes a valiant effort at getting hard again. It makes Stiles smile.
“Rest, soldier,” he says. “We have plenty of time for that later.”
“Stop talking to my dick.” Derek tries to sound stern, but it comes out fond. Stiles looks up at him, still smiling.
“I’m really happy Erica decided to meddle. Just this once,” he pauses. “I’m also very happy you finally got your head out of your ass. I have plans regarding your ass.”
“You’re friends with Erica,” Derek more states than asks. He’s not really surprised, but he also doesn’t care, not when all his come-damaged brain supplies are the images of them, together. It’s a feeling he could get used to. Handjobs (albeit not really successful ones; they need to work on that) and Stiles talking about his ass are a nice bonus too.
“Sure. I’m friends with everyone. Except for you, apparently,” Stiles replies easily, slotting their bodies together. He’s still a bit wet, leaving damp patches on Derek’s clothes.
“Do you-- do you want to be friends with me?” Derek asks, only realizing how fucking stupid he sounds after the words leave his mouth.
“Among other things,” Stiles says and captures Derek’s mouth with his own.
They make out until Stiles declares that he feels gross under his towel and that a second shower is long overdue.
*
They go on a first official date (Derek completely ignoring Stiles, who insists they have been dating for weeks now) not long after that.
It’s disastrous.
But that’s okay, Derek tells Stiles who looks absolutely crushed that their relationship is apparently doomed.
It’s okay.
They still have many more to come.