Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles, NC-17 Part Two of Three
Title: Practice Makes Perfect
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: In his sophomore year, Stiles gets dragged to lacrosse try-outs by Scott and ends up practising alongside the senior captain, Derek Hale. Stiles just wants to live long enough to become a junior.
Warnings: Stiles is 16, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 6,374 / 21,090
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the absolutely lovely (and patient) tech_ftw who generously bid on and won my auctioned fic at fandomaid. She asked for a human high school AU and my brain went a bit mad because how could it not with such an awesome prompt? I hope it's at least partially what you were looking for, m'dear! Massive thank you to el_gilliath for being an excellent and superfast beta! Any other mistakes are my own and please feel free to offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with the Teen Wolf or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
*
“I think we might actually be dating,” Scott whispers so loudly that the librarian, Mr Peters, shoots them a glare from where he’s sitting at the reference desk. Scott hunches further over the table. “I didn’t actually ask her out. Do I need to make it official?”
“If you’ve been eating her face for the past couple of days she probably already suspects something.”
“So should I do it?”
Stiles levels him with a stare.
“I doubt she’ll complain if you do. Go for it.”
A dopey grin slowly spreads across Scott’s face and it’s a little infectious.
“I can’t believe she actually likes me back.”
“Me neither.” Scott throws an eraser at Stiles, who just catches it and laughs, earning another scowl from Mr Peters. “No, this is good, right? It means we can actually quit lacrosse.”
Scott frowns and shakes his head.
“We can’t quit now. Maybe it’s the start of something better and it’s only going to go up from here.”
Stiles rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.
“Doubtful,” he replies, letting out a sigh. “I have nothing but bad luck, you know that.”
“You’ll have your moment too, one day.”
Stiles mumbles under his breath and then reaches into his backpack with his free hand.
“Here, give this to Allison,” he says, passing across the paper with Derek’s answers on.
“You spoke to Derek? When?”
“He was out on the field yesterday when you ditched me. Since I didn’t have anything better to do, I stopped and asked the questions. Also, you’ll never believe it, but I scored a goal against him.”
He perks up again at the memory and grins. Scott’s smile falters.
“You played lacrosse with him?”
“It was just practice. He needed another player and I was there. Just one favour in exchange for another.”
Scott stares at him as though Stiles has gone insane.
“You played lacrosse with Derek Hale?”
“Yes, Scott,” he snaps. “Were you not listening?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around it. Was he nice to you?”
“We’re talking about Derek Hale here. He doesn’t know the word nice. We were just two team members playing together.”
“Why would he talk to you?” Scott asks and he’s lucky that the bell rings, signalling the start of their afternoon classes, because Stiles is two seconds away from ripping him a new one.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he mumbles instead and Scott actually has the decency to look guilty.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he’s not out of your league after all.”
Stiles stuffs his books back into his bag and stands.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that either. Don’t give a man false hope. It’s not fair.”
Scott knocks him with his shoulder and laughs.
“Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll ask you to prom.”
“You’re an asshole,” Stiles tells him, heading down the opposite hallway away from Scott before he can reply. “Allison deserves better.”
Scott just waves and grins.
*
Stiles is generally a lover, not a fighter. It’s mostly because his dad has warned him that he won’t be the one to bail Stiles out of jail if it ever happens, though Stiles is pretty sure it’s just a scare tactic and not the actual truth. It does, however, keep him out of trouble most days. Today is obviously not one of those days, though he will maintain until his death that he never actually started anything.
It actually begins when Stiles is innocently grabbing his history textbook from his locker. He’s minding his own business until loud voices start behind him.
“You thought you could get away with it, you fucking pussy?”
Stiles’ eyes widen in shock, but he resolutely doesn’t turn around.
“It’s not my fault your girlfriend wants an actual man in her life.”
Oh the joys of teenage romance. Stiles slides his book into his backpack and quietly shuts his locker. When he turns around, there are two guys standing a foot apart, glaring and clearly on the verge of a fight. It’s really none of Stiles’ business, but he’s not bad at mediating and these two definitely need some help in that department.
“I think the bell is about to ring,” Stiles says quietly, trying to disperse the tension, but neither of them move.
“Stay out of it,” the guy on the right spits and Stiles should know better than to ignore a warning, but that’s precisely what he does.”
“One in five relationships end because of an unfaithful partner.”
It’s not a true fact, but Stiles is relying on it distracting the two guys, not in winning him an award.
“Did you not hear me, asshole? Get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m trying to save you from an inevitable detention,” Stiles points out, attempting to step into the space between them. He places a hand on each of their shoulders to gently push them back a pace, but the teen on the left apparently has other plans.
“Get your hand off me,” the kid yells, pushing Stiles back again the row of lockers. It jars Stiles’ head against the metal and it jumbles his thoughts and his sight enough that he doesn’t see the fist until it slams into his face. His mouth feels as though it’s on fire and then his cheek blossoms with the same pain a few seconds later. He knows there’s probably a third punch coming, but instead the guy disappears and when Stiles looks down, he finds him sprawled on the floor with Derek looming over him.
The guy looks as though he’s two seconds away from peeing himself and it makes Stiles feel a lot better. Stiles presses his hand against his already swollen mouth and can’t hear what Derek is murmuring to the kid, but when he straightens up, the guy scrambles backwards until he gets his feet under himself and then speed-walks down the hallway away from them. The other guy vanishes soon after, apparently not wanting to face Derek’s wrath.
“Ow,” Stiles mumbles when Derek turns to look at him and tugs his hand away from his face. When he looks at his palm, there’s a smudge of blood, but nothing serious. His cheek throbs in time to his heartbeat and he wishes he had a bag of frozen peas handy.
“You should go see the nurse,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ chin and tilting his face into the light. “That’s going to bruise if you don’t get ice on it.”
“If I go to the nurse, they’re obligated to call my dad and tell him what happened and he really doesn’t need this in his life.”
“He’s the sheriff; it’s his job to deal with it.”
“Exactly, so he doesn’t need that sort of stuff at home too.”
Derek shoots him a look, but Stiles refuses to back down and eventually Derek sighs and grabs him by the upper arm instead. He doesn’t say anything as he leads Stiles down the hallways, but they end up in the cafeteria, more specifically by the vending machine. There’s a sound of jingling loose change as Derek rummages in his pocket, but he slides three quarters into the machine and hits the button for a can of coke. It drops with a dull thud and Derek finally lets him go in order to pick it up.
For a second Stiles just thinks he’s thirsty and can’t wait, but then Derek presses it again Stiles’ cheek and holds it there.
“Ah, that’s cold!” Stiles says, trying to back away, but Derek grabs the collar of his shirt and holds him in place.
“You only have yourself to blame.”
“Did I or did I not just break up that fight?” Stiles points out, no longer trying to escape, but mostly because he knows it’s futile.
“You ended up getting punched twice. It’s not exactly a win.”
“No one got sent to the principal’s office.”
Derek frowns.
“The kid that punched you should be there right now.”
“I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the cops and let them battle it out.”
Derek pulls the can away from Stiles’ face and holds it out for him to take.
“You’re really not funny,” he says and Stiles grabs the Coke and knows it’s a huge lie. He’s hilarious.
He presses the can against his mouth which aches to the rhythm of his heartbeat and doesn’t say anything to stop it from jostling. They stand in silence for a few long minutes before the bell finally rings and Stiles still has to make it all the way over to the other side of the building.
“Do you want your Coke?” Stiles asks, hoping that he’ll say no because it’s still ice cold and perfect against his heated skin.
“You owe me one,” Derek replies, probably because acting too nicely towards someone is a personal sin for him or something.
Stiles just nods and begins to turn away, but Derek pauses him with a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to face him once more.
“You’re okay?” he asks and Stiles is pretty sure his lip splits again when he grins because Derek actually seems to care.
“Don’t worry. Lacrosse gives me lots of practice with this pain business.”
Derek looks as though he’s holding back from rolling his eyes and eventually just walks away. Stiles laughs quietly to himself and sets off in the other direction.
*
Stiles doesn’t really expect to find Derek out on the field later in the week when he’s walking home, but he has a can of Coke tucked away in his backpack, just in case. Scott is quote-unquote studying in the library with Allison, which means he’s stuck heading across campus on his own, but there’s a familiar shape on the lacrosse pitch and Stiles grins to himself and heads over.
When he tosses the can towards Derek, he expects him to drop it, but instead he snatches it out of mid-air with his left hand and frowns.
“Settling my debt,” Stiles tells him and Derek stares down at his hand as though it’s the last thing he anticipated.
When he starts walking away, Derek doesn’t call him back, but he feels Derek’s heavy gaze on in all the way into the woods. It sends a shiver of excitement down his spine because he’s pretty sure Derek’s intrigued by him now, which means he’s doing something right.
*
Derek actually finds him at his locker after school on a random Tuesday. Stiles almost jumps when he turns to find two hundred pounds of muscle standing behind him and Derek seems to be holding back a grin. He’s holding two crosses, one of which he tosses to Stiles who fumbles it but pins it against his thigh before it can drop to the floor completely.
“What’s this?” he asks before he realises he’s provoking a fit of sarcasm that he really doesn’t want to deal with. “I mean, why are you giving me this?”
“We’re going to practice,” he says and Stiles shakes his head.
“No we’re not. I’m not over yesterday’s suicides, which were your idea. Also, my uniform is at home getting washed.”
“You can play in that. It’ll be like last time. I just need you to pass the ball.”
Stiles sighs and wonders how likely it is that Derek will believe a lie about him having to be home early for his dad. He figures it’s less than ten percent, so he sighs again and pokes Derek in the chest with the end of the crosse.
“Why can’t you find someone else to practice with? Isn’t there someone who’s actually the same level as you?”
“I’m not asking for the moon, Stiles. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll make sure Coach doesn’t give you suicides for the rest of the week.”
“Done,” Stiles says before Derek’s even finished speaking, though he figures he probably should have bartered for two weeks suicide-free because Derek’s grinning as though he expected more of a fight. “I sold myself short, didn’t I?”
“Without a doubt. C’mon.”
He turns and starts walking away, which leaves Stiles to throw his hands up and follow grudgingly.
“Isn’t there a poor unsuspecting freshman you can terrorise?”
“But I’ve got you,” is all Derek says and it definitely doesn’t make Stiles’ stomach do a strange sort of flip. Not at all.
He trails behind Derek as he stops by the locker room, grabbing a pair of gloves off the bench and Stiles slips his backpack off and holds it up.
“Want to put this in your locker for me?”
He could leave it on the edge of the pitch, sure, but he knows the grass is still damp from the rain that came through the day before, so he’d rather he didn’t ruin all of his notes. Derek grumbles, but slips the padlock off and holds the door open for Stiles to jam the bag into the small space. Stiles just hopes that when he gets it back it won’t smell like old socks like most of the other lockers in the room do.
As he follows Derek out to the field, his eyes track the movement of Derek’s back under his thermal and it’s just as his gaze slides lower to the perfect roundness of Derek’s ass in track pants that Derek turns to face him, catching him in the act. He tries to play it off by scratching the back of his head and looking towards the trees, but his face heats up and gives him entirely away.
“You done?” Derek asks in a way that makes Stiles wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
“Yep,” he replies and he never realised how fascinating his crosse is because it beats meeting Derek’s gaze. He can feel the smugness radiating from him; he doesn’t need to see it.
Derek slips a ball into his net and backs up a few paces, finally letting Stiles breathe again.
“Good. I need you to make sure this ball always gets to me, okay?”
Stiles doesn’t really know what he means by that, until he starts moving around, calling for Stiles to toss it towards him from various places. It all seems rather basic to Stiles, who lets Derek know. Derek frowns, but never stops throwing the ball back to Stiles.
“You need a strong foundation to be a good lacrosse player. You can’t just forget what you learned during your very first practice. It all fits together in the end.”
Derek starts moving further away, making it harder for Stiles to throw and it’s only a minute or so in that Stiles’ arms begin to ache. When he finally fumbles a catch, Derek raises an eyebrow and steps forward.
“What’s wrong?”
Stiles takes the time to rub at the burning muscles in his upper arm.
“Are you kidding? This is killing me.”
Derek moves closer and Stiles wonders briefly if he’s about to be beaten to death by a lacrosse stick. Yet Derek, just motions for him to raise his crosse again.
“You’re not bending your wrists correctly,” Derek tells him, forcing him to adjust his grip with his own warm hands. “You’re putting all the energy into your elbows which is why your arms hurt. Use your wrists and the movement will be fluid so you can throw further with less force.”
Stiles never in a million years thought Derek would be teaching him wrist techniques. If he’s honest, that sort of stuff only happens in his dreams. The wet ones.
“You use your wrists a lot, huh?” he can’t help but ask and Derek gets halfway through his answer before he seems to catch onto Stiles’ meaning. He stares at him for a long second before letting go of his arms.
“Try again,” is all he says, stepping away and raising his crosse.
Stiles scoops the ball back up and tests the motion of his wrists, it’s not much, but when he throws it towards Derek, it does actually take a lot of pressure off of his upper arms.
“Oh my god,” he says, catching the ball as Derek returns it. “What other neat tricks do you know?”
“Shutting up actually improves skill,” Derek tells him, which is a lie, but it makes Stiles laugh and the corner of Derek’s mouth curls up as though he might be laughing too, just on the inside.
*
When Stiles begins to feel gross and sweaty, he pleads with Derek to end his torment and they head back to the locker room side by side in silence. He expects Derek to just open up his locker and give Stiles’ bag back, but instead Derek strips his shirt off the moment they’re inside and tosses it towards a bench. Stiles averts his eyes when he shucks his pants, but it definitely doesn’t slip his notice that there’s no underwear on Derek’s pile of clothes, which means he’s been swinging free for the past forty-five minutes.
Stiles’ face heats up at the thought, so he sits down and focuses on the far wall.
“All I need is my backpack,” he says, but then shower starts up and all he can picture is Derek with water sluicing off his abs and, oh god, Stiles definitely shouldn’t be at half-mast in the guy’s locker room. It’s just unsanitary.
He doesn’t even have his phone, which means he can’t distract himself with a game of Tetris, just has to sit and listen to Derek showering ten feet away from him. It’s like some sort of Chinese water torture designed specifically for sixteen year old sophomores going through a sexual crisis. It’s not fair at all.
When the shower finally shuts off, Stiles keeps his head turned away and his hands in his lap to cover up any evidence. There’s a flesh-coloured blob in his periphery, but he refuses to glance over until he hears the padlock pop open and Derek pulls a towel from the locker. With it slung tightly around his hips, he grabs Stiles’ bag and holds it out for him to take.
Stiles snatches it up and slings it carelessly over one shoulder, eying up the door as though it’s his final salvation.
“I’ve got to get home,” he lies and Derek lets out a noncommittal grunt. “I’ll see you around.”
He leaves the crosse leaning against the lockers and doesn’t look back.
*
If he happens to spend an hour in the shower when he finally gets home, one hand twisted in the patterned curtain and the other wrapped tightly around his cock, that’s his own business.
*
Stiles doesn’t see Derek for the rest of the week, excepting during lacrosse practice, but they don’t speak to each other. Coach compliments him on the improvement of his throw, however, and he grins and looks towards Derek, who isn’t paying attention, but it doesn’t matter because he’s actually getting better at something he hates a little bit less than when he started.
*
“Have you been hanging out with Derek again?” Scott accuses, sitting down beside him at lunch and Stiles blinks at him in surprise.
“What?”
“Danny said he saw you on the field playing lacrosse with him.”
“He just needed someone to practice with again. It’s nothing.”
“Which is why you won’t look me in the eyes, right?” Stiles hates that Scott knows him so well. “I thought you said he was out of your league.”
Stiles slumps forward onto one forearm.
“He is; he’s so out of my league it hurts. Obviously nothing will come of this, but a boy can dream, can’t he?”
Scott laughs because he’s a horrible friend, but he does pat Stiles’ shoulder comfortingly.
“You never know, maybe he digs sophomores.”
“You’re mocking me,” Stiles groans.
“No I’m - oh my god, he’s coming over here.”
Stiles sits up immediately and glances over his shoulder in panic, but there’s nothing. Scott laughs and Stiles slugs him in the arm for being an asshole.
“That was not funny,” he complains. “I have no idea what Allison sees in you.”
Scott is wearing a shit-eating grin that makes Stiles want to punch him, except it disappears when Scott looks over his shoulder again.
“Oh my god,” he says and Stiles glares at him.
“I’m not falling for that again, moron. The day Derek Hale comes to talk to us voluntarily is the day I eat my - ”
“Are you free after school?” comes another voice and Stiles swears it sounds like Derek.
“That’s not funny, Scott. You sound nothing like him,” he lies and when he finally looks up properly, Derek is standing across the other side of the table with a small smirk on his face. “Oh.”
“Are you free after school or not?”
Stiles looks at Scott because he’s pretty much forgotten how to speak.
“He’s free,” Scott says, throwing him to the wolves, even though they definitely had plans to sit around and game at Stiles’ house in the afternoon.
“Meet me on the field. I want to go over offensive techniques.”
Stiles just nods dumbly and eventually Derek turns and walks away leaving Stiles to gape at Scott.
“Did that actually just happen?” he asks and Scott laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a date.”
“We’re no longer friends,” Stiles informs him and goes back to sprawling over the table because it makes the humiliation hurt less.
*
Sitting in sixth period, Stiles eyes the clouds outside, watching them spread across the sky and billow up into a storm that threatens to start at any moment. He’s surprised when it still isn’t raining when the bell rings, but when he gets to the field, it begins to drizzle steadily.
“I’m not playing in the rain,” Stiles tells Derek, who just tosses a crosse towards him.
“You won’t melt,” he mumbles, but blinks up at the sky as though he doesn’t trust it.
They have a few warm-up catches back and forth, but as the rain falls harder, it gets more difficult to see and in the end, Stiles snags the ball and throws his arms up.
“We can’t practice in this. I’m drenched. You’re not any better.”
It’s a detail Stiles is very aware of because Derek’s shirt is clinging like a second skin and Stiles would very much like to peel it off him. Preferably with his teeth.
Derek frowns and thins his lips, but eventually gives in with a sigh.
“Fine,” he grunts and Stiles moves to grab his soaked backpack and sprint off towards the woods, but Derek grabs his elbow and tugs him towards the locker room instead. “I’ll give you a ride.”
He’s lucky that Derek doesn’t let go of his arm because otherwise he’d stay standing in the rain out of shock. It’s drier in the locker room, but not much warmer and Stiles’ sweatshirt is dripping and he’s shivering so much he’s afraid his teeth will crack.
“Get that off,” Derek orders and Stiles’ brain is slow from the cold, but he gets the point when Derek plucks at the front of his sweatshirt and turns back to his open locker. He pulls out a towel and actually watches as Stiles tugs the material up over his head. His shirt gets knotted together with the hoodie, but it’s just as wet and only keeping him cold, so he doesn’t care.
Derek shoves the towel towards him and Stiles takes it, rubbing it across his face to get the rain out of his eyelashes. The scent of Derek is overpowering and Stiles just wants to hold the material up to nose forever, but he can still feel Derek’s gaze on him, which means he needs to act less like a creeper and more like a normal human being. He wipes down his shoulder and arms then his chest and holds it out for Derek to take back because he’s still wet with goosebumps up his arms.
“Here,” he says, just in case Derek’s confused because he doesn’t move, just continues staring at Stiles. In the end, Stiles checks over his shoulder, just to make sure no one is standing there because there’s no reason for Derek to be so fascinated by him drying off. Well, none that make any sense outside of Stiles’ own fantasies. Stiles sets the towel down on the bench, wondering if maybe Derek just doesn’t like being handed things, and then goes about trying to wring his shirt out.
It’s when he’s straightening the material and preparing to slip back into it that a hand falls on his shoulder, one that’s warm and calloused and spank bank material for the rest of Stiles’ miserable life. Derek half-turns him so they’re facing each other and then unfortunately lets go. He reaches into his locker and pulls out a long sleeved shirt, bundling it up, and holding it out towards Stiles.
Stiles blinks at it for a long second, realises Derek’s offering to let him borrow one of his shirts, and then kicks himself into gear, because, yes, he would very much like to wear something that smells of Derek. He takes it and pulls it on, appreciating the warmth, though he hopes Derek actually has something to change into now. He brings the sleeve up to his face under the pretence of wiping more water droplets off his cheek, but really, he just wants to see if it smells exactly like the towel. It does and Stiles’ face heats up when he wonders how much of his soul he’ll lose if he goes home, locks himself in his room, and spends the night with his face mashed against the material and his right hand in his boxer-briefs.
He shakes his head to clear the thought and finds that Derek’s actually drying himself off now. He rubs the towel over his hair, sticking it up in all directions, before tugging off his shirt. Stiles has definitely missed the sight of his taut stomach and defined muscles. He covers his wistful sigh with a cough, but when he finally glances up again, Derek’s back to staring at him. Stiles really wishes Derek didn’t look so sexed up because he’s seriously like an actual walking, talking wet dream straight from Stiles’ mind.
“So, are you thinking about doing lacrosse professionally?” Stiles asks, just to break the silence. “I mean, it seems like you’re really into this stuff.”
Derek blinks and then turns away to reach back into his locker, pulling out a second dry shirt. If he’s completely honest, Stiles is a little disappointed when he slips it on.
“I got a scholarship from it, but I have bigger plans than lacrosse for my future.”
Stiles never actually figured Derek would answer, but now he has a tiny slice of Derek’s life that he’ll hold close, just because he can.
“I’ll have to start taking my SATs next year. It’s so weird. Feels like I’m growing up too fast, which is something my dad might say. That definitely makes me old.”
Derek shoves the towel back into his locker and Stiles opens up the front of his backpack to check that his phone isn’t waterlogged. It isn’t, thankfully.
“I appreciate you giving me a ride home,” Stiles says, zipping his bag back up and grabbing his soggy clothes, ready to head out to the parking lot. “I know you don’t like me, but I’m glad you can put aside our differences in the name of bad Northern California weather.”
Derek padlocks his locker back up and throws his duffle bag over one shoulder.
“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t ask you to practice with me.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow.
“I was under the impression that these practices were mandatory if I valued my life.”
Derek pauses, eyes darting over Stiles’ face as he frowns.
“If you don’t want the help, I won’t force you to show up. I thought you wanted to get better at lacrosse.”
“But these sessions are for you to get better. I’m just the ball boy.”
Derek looks at him as though he’s a complete idiot and Stiles’ mouth falls open, because what? Why didn’t he get the memo? Derek has helped under the pretence of needing practice and Stiles has been under the impression that Derek hates him enough to force more lacrosse onto him. He’s got it all so thoroughly wrong.
“I was just convenient, though,” Stiles murmurs weakly flinching when Derek steps forward because he’s probably going to retract his offer to drive him home as Stiles has just shoved all his hard work back in his face.
“If I wanted convenient, Jackson would be in your place right now because he’s stepping up as captain after I graduate. Convenient and skilled.”
Derek’s probably admitting something huge that Stiles can’t wrap his mind around yet, but Stiles is distracted by the amount of looming Derek is doing, though it doesn’t work as well as it should since Stiles is only a few inches shorter than him. Stiles steps away, backing himself against the lockers, which probably isn’t the best plan he’s ever had, but Derek places a palm beside Stiles’ head, blocking him in almost entirely, and takes a final step forward.
Stiles doesn’t feel frightened, but his heart thunders in his chest nevertheless. Whatever Derek decides to throw at him won’t be any worse than anything he’s done to Stiles during practice.
But then Derek leans forward and kisses him and maybe Stiles was wrong because it feels like he’s been struck by a freight train. He wobbles, catches himself with a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and lets out a muffled noise of surprise.
Derek pulls away almost immediately as though coming to his senses and that’s not what Stiles wants, so he loops his arm around Derek’s neck and drags him back in. Derek’s mouth is warm against his own and softer than he expects. He slides his fingers into Derek’s hair, just because he thinks he can get away with it and Derek parts his lips and it’s wet and not entirely from the rainwater. When Stiles drags his tongue along Derek’s bottom lip, he knows he could get used to it; pictures himself sitting beside Derek in the cafeteria and not paying the slightest bit of attention to his lunch, too busy tangling his fingers in the front of Derek’s shirt and kissing him breathless.
It’s perfect until there’s a bang on the other side of the locker room and Derek jars away again, taking a step back and letting his arms drop to his sides. His breathing’s uneven, which Stiles takes a little pride in, and his eyes drop to Stiles’ mouth like he can’t quite help it.
“Is someone in here?” a voice comes from the doorway and neither of them move.
“We’re just leaving,” Derek replies, sounding far more put together than Stiles feels.
He moves away, leaving Stiles to lean against the lockers unsteadily, and disappears from sight. Knowing Derek is his only way home if he wants to get back before dark, he stumbles along behind, realising belatedly that it’s the janitor that disturbed them and he’s giving Stiles the stink eye as though he knows what they’ve been up to. Stiles holds his head high and jogs to catch Derek up.
Derek’s completely silent, even when Stiles slides into the passenger seat of his Camaro and whistles appreciatively while running his palm over the dash. He doesn’t say a word when Stiles murmurs directions to his house and his lips are still sealed when he pulls into the empty driveway and Stiles fidgets in his seat.
“Thanks again for the ride. I’ll, um, wash this and give it back soon,” Stiles says, plucking at the front of the borrowed shirt and Derek barely turns his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll see you at school.”
He can’t flee the car quickly enough and he fumbles his keys when he gets to the front door because Derek’s just sitting behind the wheel staring at him, as though making sure he gets inside okay. It’s the nicest, yet creepiest thing anyone’s ever done for him.
*
When Stiles walks through the front door and someone’s already standing there waiting for him, he almost punches them in the face out of fear.
“Whoa!” Scott yelps, backing up a few paces and the panic inside him makes everything blurt right out of his mouth.
“Derek kissed me,” he says and Scott frowns.
“I was spying on you through the window and that’s definitely not what happened.”
“In the locker room.”
Scott’s eyes widen and slowly a grin breaks out across his face. He holds out a fist and Stiles bumps his own against it numbly after a long minute.
“You’re totally in his league.” Scott drags him into the living room and pushes him down onto the couch, falling beside him and continuing to smile. “Was he rough and grumpy? He looks like he totally would be.”
Stiles finds himself shaking his head slowly.
“He trapped me up against the lockers, but he was definitely gentle.” He lets his head thud back against the cushions and sighs heavily. “It was totally awkward on the way home, though. I think he regretted it.”
“Maybe he was just unsure about your reaction? Did you at least feel him up a little?”
“I barely had time to react, but I went back for seconds, so I think my intentions were clear. I think he would have continued if the janitor hadn’t busted us.”
Scott winces.
“Ouch, that sucks.”
Stiles grabs a throw pillow and holds it over his face to muffle his groan of frustration.
“Why does this happen to me?” he asks Scott through the material. “Why can’t I have nice things?”
“He might ask you to help him with his lacrosse practice again. You never know.”
Stiles slumps further down in the chair and groans again, tossing the pillow onto the floor.
“That’s the worst part of it all. I wasn’t helping him, he was helping me.”
“This really isn’t your year. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll offer to continue practices anyway? Our first real game is coming up soon; use that as an excuse.”
“I doubt it’ll work,” Stiles grumbles, but Scott squeezes his arm and smiles.
“There’s only one thing for it,” he says, reaching towards the coffee table and throwing an Xbox controller into Stiles’ lap. “Death match!”
This is why Stiles keeps Scott around.
*
Stiles sees brief glimpses of Derek from afar during the school week, but Stiles has taken to ducking out of sight whenever it happens because the last thing he wants is an awkward confrontation. He supposes it’s inevitable since they’re on the same lacrosse team, but stalling it for as long as possible seems like a good idea.
It all comes crashing down around his ears when he’s laughing with Scott as they walk home, Scott cycling through leftover puddles and sending sprays of water everywhere. Stiles darts to the side, narrowly missing being splashed by mud and as he turns, he spots Derek ahead, waiting by the edge of the trees.
“Scott!” he hisses, though apparently he doesn’t hear because he turns a quick circle and manages to splatter dirt up the front of Stiles’ hoodie. “Are you kidding me?”
Scott finally senses his distress because he slams his breaks on and stares at him.
“You okay? Did you get hit by a rock?”
“Derek!” he whispers, trying to gesture for Scott to look over his shoulder and see without being too obvious. Scott cranes his neck slowly around and then quickly stares back at Stiles, completely giving them away.
“What’s he doing there? Should we just ignore him? He never said anything during yesterday’s practice, right?”
Stiles doesn’t remember much of that practice, just knows that Coach had made him do suicides because he’d been too busy concentrating on avoiding Derek than to pay attention to any of the directions given. It had sucked major balls.
“Maybe I should just get it over with? He can tell me how much he doesn’t want to make out with me again and I can go back to being a nobody, right?”
Scott scratches the back of his neck and glances over at Derek again. He’s definitely going to know that they’re talking about him.
“Do you want me to wait on the other side of the woods?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll text you later. If I don’t, he’s probably murdered me and buried my body among the trees.”
Scott holds his fist out for a bump and Stiles steels his nerves. He can do it.
When Scott cycles past, Derek doesn’t even acknowledge him, just stares towards Stiles as though he’s the wolf to Stiles’ lamb. He swallows and forces himself to move forwards, getting closer to Derek until there’s only a puddle separating them. Derek briefly glances down at the mud up Stiles’ chest, but never stops frowning.
“Your performance was lacking yesterday,” he starts and Stiles snorts.
“Sorry, Coach. As the bench-warmer, I didn’t know my role was so vital.”
“No one is forcing you to be on the team, Stiles.”
That gets Stiles’ attention because it definitely sounds like Derek would rather he quit. It stings, if he’s honest.
“If you don’t want me around, just say so,” Stiles snaps and Derek’s expression actually softens.
“That’s not what I said. If you hate the sport, don’t do it. If you want to take part, let’s keep practicing.”
He folds his arms and Stiles blinks. Derek still wants to practice with him; maybe he actually likes him. It sends a flutter of excitement through him, but he waits just a little longer before answering so that he doesn’t sound too desperate.
“Okay,” he says, nodding and Derek takes a step back.
“Great,” he says, his voice neutral, but Stiles likes to think he cares. “Meet me after school tomorrow. Bring some spare clothes.”
« PART ONE | PART THREE »
Pairing: Derek/Stiles
Summary: In his sophomore year, Stiles gets dragged to lacrosse try-outs by Scott and ends up practising alongside the senior captain, Derek Hale. Stiles just wants to live long enough to become a junior.
Warnings: Stiles is 16, explicit sexual content.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 6,374 / 21,090
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Written for the absolutely lovely (and patient) tech_ftw who generously bid on and won my auctioned fic at fandomaid. She asked for a human high school AU and my brain went a bit mad because how could it not with such an awesome prompt? I hope it's at least partially what you were looking for, m'dear! Massive thank you to el_gilliath for being an excellent and superfast beta! Any other mistakes are my own and please feel free to offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with the Teen Wolf or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
*
“I think we might actually be dating,” Scott whispers so loudly that the librarian, Mr Peters, shoots them a glare from where he’s sitting at the reference desk. Scott hunches further over the table. “I didn’t actually ask her out. Do I need to make it official?”
“If you’ve been eating her face for the past couple of days she probably already suspects something.”
“So should I do it?”
Stiles levels him with a stare.
“I doubt she’ll complain if you do. Go for it.”
A dopey grin slowly spreads across Scott’s face and it’s a little infectious.
“I can’t believe she actually likes me back.”
“Me neither.” Scott throws an eraser at Stiles, who just catches it and laughs, earning another scowl from Mr Peters. “No, this is good, right? It means we can actually quit lacrosse.”
Scott frowns and shakes his head.
“We can’t quit now. Maybe it’s the start of something better and it’s only going to go up from here.”
Stiles rests his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm.
“Doubtful,” he replies, letting out a sigh. “I have nothing but bad luck, you know that.”
“You’ll have your moment too, one day.”
Stiles mumbles under his breath and then reaches into his backpack with his free hand.
“Here, give this to Allison,” he says, passing across the paper with Derek’s answers on.
“You spoke to Derek? When?”
“He was out on the field yesterday when you ditched me. Since I didn’t have anything better to do, I stopped and asked the questions. Also, you’ll never believe it, but I scored a goal against him.”
He perks up again at the memory and grins. Scott’s smile falters.
“You played lacrosse with him?”
“It was just practice. He needed another player and I was there. Just one favour in exchange for another.”
Scott stares at him as though Stiles has gone insane.
“You played lacrosse with Derek Hale?”
“Yes, Scott,” he snaps. “Were you not listening?”
“I’m just trying to wrap my mind around it. Was he nice to you?”
“We’re talking about Derek Hale here. He doesn’t know the word nice. We were just two team members playing together.”
“Why would he talk to you?” Scott asks and he’s lucky that the bell rings, signalling the start of their afternoon classes, because Stiles is two seconds away from ripping him a new one.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that,” he mumbles instead and Scott actually has the decency to look guilty.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that. Maybe he’s not out of your league after all.”
Stiles stuffs his books back into his bag and stands.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that either. Don’t give a man false hope. It’s not fair.”
Scott knocks him with his shoulder and laughs.
“Maybe if you’re lucky he’ll ask you to prom.”
“You’re an asshole,” Stiles tells him, heading down the opposite hallway away from Scott before he can reply. “Allison deserves better.”
Scott just waves and grins.
*
Stiles is generally a lover, not a fighter. It’s mostly because his dad has warned him that he won’t be the one to bail Stiles out of jail if it ever happens, though Stiles is pretty sure it’s just a scare tactic and not the actual truth. It does, however, keep him out of trouble most days. Today is obviously not one of those days, though he will maintain until his death that he never actually started anything.
It actually begins when Stiles is innocently grabbing his history textbook from his locker. He’s minding his own business until loud voices start behind him.
“You thought you could get away with it, you fucking pussy?”
Stiles’ eyes widen in shock, but he resolutely doesn’t turn around.
“It’s not my fault your girlfriend wants an actual man in her life.”
Oh the joys of teenage romance. Stiles slides his book into his backpack and quietly shuts his locker. When he turns around, there are two guys standing a foot apart, glaring and clearly on the verge of a fight. It’s really none of Stiles’ business, but he’s not bad at mediating and these two definitely need some help in that department.
“I think the bell is about to ring,” Stiles says quietly, trying to disperse the tension, but neither of them move.
“Stay out of it,” the guy on the right spits and Stiles should know better than to ignore a warning, but that’s precisely what he does.”
“One in five relationships end because of an unfaithful partner.”
It’s not a true fact, but Stiles is relying on it distracting the two guys, not in winning him an award.
“Did you not hear me, asshole? Get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m trying to save you from an inevitable detention,” Stiles points out, attempting to step into the space between them. He places a hand on each of their shoulders to gently push them back a pace, but the teen on the left apparently has other plans.
“Get your hand off me,” the kid yells, pushing Stiles back again the row of lockers. It jars Stiles’ head against the metal and it jumbles his thoughts and his sight enough that he doesn’t see the fist until it slams into his face. His mouth feels as though it’s on fire and then his cheek blossoms with the same pain a few seconds later. He knows there’s probably a third punch coming, but instead the guy disappears and when Stiles looks down, he finds him sprawled on the floor with Derek looming over him.
The guy looks as though he’s two seconds away from peeing himself and it makes Stiles feel a lot better. Stiles presses his hand against his already swollen mouth and can’t hear what Derek is murmuring to the kid, but when he straightens up, the guy scrambles backwards until he gets his feet under himself and then speed-walks down the hallway away from them. The other guy vanishes soon after, apparently not wanting to face Derek’s wrath.
“Ow,” Stiles mumbles when Derek turns to look at him and tugs his hand away from his face. When he looks at his palm, there’s a smudge of blood, but nothing serious. His cheek throbs in time to his heartbeat and he wishes he had a bag of frozen peas handy.
“You should go see the nurse,” Derek says, gripping Stiles’ chin and tilting his face into the light. “That’s going to bruise if you don’t get ice on it.”
“If I go to the nurse, they’re obligated to call my dad and tell him what happened and he really doesn’t need this in his life.”
“He’s the sheriff; it’s his job to deal with it.”
“Exactly, so he doesn’t need that sort of stuff at home too.”
Derek shoots him a look, but Stiles refuses to back down and eventually Derek sighs and grabs him by the upper arm instead. He doesn’t say anything as he leads Stiles down the hallways, but they end up in the cafeteria, more specifically by the vending machine. There’s a sound of jingling loose change as Derek rummages in his pocket, but he slides three quarters into the machine and hits the button for a can of coke. It drops with a dull thud and Derek finally lets him go in order to pick it up.
For a second Stiles just thinks he’s thirsty and can’t wait, but then Derek presses it again Stiles’ cheek and holds it there.
“Ah, that’s cold!” Stiles says, trying to back away, but Derek grabs the collar of his shirt and holds him in place.
“You only have yourself to blame.”
“Did I or did I not just break up that fight?” Stiles points out, no longer trying to escape, but mostly because he knows it’s futile.
“You ended up getting punched twice. It’s not exactly a win.”
“No one got sent to the principal’s office.”
Derek frowns.
“The kid that punched you should be there right now.”
“I’ll call in an anonymous tip to the cops and let them battle it out.”
Derek pulls the can away from Stiles’ face and holds it out for him to take.
“You’re really not funny,” he says and Stiles grabs the Coke and knows it’s a huge lie. He’s hilarious.
He presses the can against his mouth which aches to the rhythm of his heartbeat and doesn’t say anything to stop it from jostling. They stand in silence for a few long minutes before the bell finally rings and Stiles still has to make it all the way over to the other side of the building.
“Do you want your Coke?” Stiles asks, hoping that he’ll say no because it’s still ice cold and perfect against his heated skin.
“You owe me one,” Derek replies, probably because acting too nicely towards someone is a personal sin for him or something.
Stiles just nods and begins to turn away, but Derek pauses him with a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to face him once more.
“You’re okay?” he asks and Stiles is pretty sure his lip splits again when he grins because Derek actually seems to care.
“Don’t worry. Lacrosse gives me lots of practice with this pain business.”
Derek looks as though he’s holding back from rolling his eyes and eventually just walks away. Stiles laughs quietly to himself and sets off in the other direction.
*
Stiles doesn’t really expect to find Derek out on the field later in the week when he’s walking home, but he has a can of Coke tucked away in his backpack, just in case. Scott is quote-unquote studying in the library with Allison, which means he’s stuck heading across campus on his own, but there’s a familiar shape on the lacrosse pitch and Stiles grins to himself and heads over.
When he tosses the can towards Derek, he expects him to drop it, but instead he snatches it out of mid-air with his left hand and frowns.
“Settling my debt,” Stiles tells him and Derek stares down at his hand as though it’s the last thing he anticipated.
When he starts walking away, Derek doesn’t call him back, but he feels Derek’s heavy gaze on in all the way into the woods. It sends a shiver of excitement down his spine because he’s pretty sure Derek’s intrigued by him now, which means he’s doing something right.
*
Derek actually finds him at his locker after school on a random Tuesday. Stiles almost jumps when he turns to find two hundred pounds of muscle standing behind him and Derek seems to be holding back a grin. He’s holding two crosses, one of which he tosses to Stiles who fumbles it but pins it against his thigh before it can drop to the floor completely.
“What’s this?” he asks before he realises he’s provoking a fit of sarcasm that he really doesn’t want to deal with. “I mean, why are you giving me this?”
“We’re going to practice,” he says and Stiles shakes his head.
“No we’re not. I’m not over yesterday’s suicides, which were your idea. Also, my uniform is at home getting washed.”
“You can play in that. It’ll be like last time. I just need you to pass the ball.”
Stiles sighs and wonders how likely it is that Derek will believe a lie about him having to be home early for his dad. He figures it’s less than ten percent, so he sighs again and pokes Derek in the chest with the end of the crosse.
“Why can’t you find someone else to practice with? Isn’t there someone who’s actually the same level as you?”
“I’m not asking for the moon, Stiles. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll make sure Coach doesn’t give you suicides for the rest of the week.”
“Done,” Stiles says before Derek’s even finished speaking, though he figures he probably should have bartered for two weeks suicide-free because Derek’s grinning as though he expected more of a fight. “I sold myself short, didn’t I?”
“Without a doubt. C’mon.”
He turns and starts walking away, which leaves Stiles to throw his hands up and follow grudgingly.
“Isn’t there a poor unsuspecting freshman you can terrorise?”
“But I’ve got you,” is all Derek says and it definitely doesn’t make Stiles’ stomach do a strange sort of flip. Not at all.
He trails behind Derek as he stops by the locker room, grabbing a pair of gloves off the bench and Stiles slips his backpack off and holds it up.
“Want to put this in your locker for me?”
He could leave it on the edge of the pitch, sure, but he knows the grass is still damp from the rain that came through the day before, so he’d rather he didn’t ruin all of his notes. Derek grumbles, but slips the padlock off and holds the door open for Stiles to jam the bag into the small space. Stiles just hopes that when he gets it back it won’t smell like old socks like most of the other lockers in the room do.
As he follows Derek out to the field, his eyes track the movement of Derek’s back under his thermal and it’s just as his gaze slides lower to the perfect roundness of Derek’s ass in track pants that Derek turns to face him, catching him in the act. He tries to play it off by scratching the back of his head and looking towards the trees, but his face heats up and gives him entirely away.
“You done?” Derek asks in a way that makes Stiles wish the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
“Yep,” he replies and he never realised how fascinating his crosse is because it beats meeting Derek’s gaze. He can feel the smugness radiating from him; he doesn’t need to see it.
Derek slips a ball into his net and backs up a few paces, finally letting Stiles breathe again.
“Good. I need you to make sure this ball always gets to me, okay?”
Stiles doesn’t really know what he means by that, until he starts moving around, calling for Stiles to toss it towards him from various places. It all seems rather basic to Stiles, who lets Derek know. Derek frowns, but never stops throwing the ball back to Stiles.
“You need a strong foundation to be a good lacrosse player. You can’t just forget what you learned during your very first practice. It all fits together in the end.”
Derek starts moving further away, making it harder for Stiles to throw and it’s only a minute or so in that Stiles’ arms begin to ache. When he finally fumbles a catch, Derek raises an eyebrow and steps forward.
“What’s wrong?”
Stiles takes the time to rub at the burning muscles in his upper arm.
“Are you kidding? This is killing me.”
Derek moves closer and Stiles wonders briefly if he’s about to be beaten to death by a lacrosse stick. Yet Derek, just motions for him to raise his crosse again.
“You’re not bending your wrists correctly,” Derek tells him, forcing him to adjust his grip with his own warm hands. “You’re putting all the energy into your elbows which is why your arms hurt. Use your wrists and the movement will be fluid so you can throw further with less force.”
Stiles never in a million years thought Derek would be teaching him wrist techniques. If he’s honest, that sort of stuff only happens in his dreams. The wet ones.
“You use your wrists a lot, huh?” he can’t help but ask and Derek gets halfway through his answer before he seems to catch onto Stiles’ meaning. He stares at him for a long second before letting go of his arms.
“Try again,” is all he says, stepping away and raising his crosse.
Stiles scoops the ball back up and tests the motion of his wrists, it’s not much, but when he throws it towards Derek, it does actually take a lot of pressure off of his upper arms.
“Oh my god,” he says, catching the ball as Derek returns it. “What other neat tricks do you know?”
“Shutting up actually improves skill,” Derek tells him, which is a lie, but it makes Stiles laugh and the corner of Derek’s mouth curls up as though he might be laughing too, just on the inside.
*
When Stiles begins to feel gross and sweaty, he pleads with Derek to end his torment and they head back to the locker room side by side in silence. He expects Derek to just open up his locker and give Stiles’ bag back, but instead Derek strips his shirt off the moment they’re inside and tosses it towards a bench. Stiles averts his eyes when he shucks his pants, but it definitely doesn’t slip his notice that there’s no underwear on Derek’s pile of clothes, which means he’s been swinging free for the past forty-five minutes.
Stiles’ face heats up at the thought, so he sits down and focuses on the far wall.
“All I need is my backpack,” he says, but then shower starts up and all he can picture is Derek with water sluicing off his abs and, oh god, Stiles definitely shouldn’t be at half-mast in the guy’s locker room. It’s just unsanitary.
He doesn’t even have his phone, which means he can’t distract himself with a game of Tetris, just has to sit and listen to Derek showering ten feet away from him. It’s like some sort of Chinese water torture designed specifically for sixteen year old sophomores going through a sexual crisis. It’s not fair at all.
When the shower finally shuts off, Stiles keeps his head turned away and his hands in his lap to cover up any evidence. There’s a flesh-coloured blob in his periphery, but he refuses to glance over until he hears the padlock pop open and Derek pulls a towel from the locker. With it slung tightly around his hips, he grabs Stiles’ bag and holds it out for him to take.
Stiles snatches it up and slings it carelessly over one shoulder, eying up the door as though it’s his final salvation.
“I’ve got to get home,” he lies and Derek lets out a noncommittal grunt. “I’ll see you around.”
He leaves the crosse leaning against the lockers and doesn’t look back.
*
If he happens to spend an hour in the shower when he finally gets home, one hand twisted in the patterned curtain and the other wrapped tightly around his cock, that’s his own business.
*
Stiles doesn’t see Derek for the rest of the week, excepting during lacrosse practice, but they don’t speak to each other. Coach compliments him on the improvement of his throw, however, and he grins and looks towards Derek, who isn’t paying attention, but it doesn’t matter because he’s actually getting better at something he hates a little bit less than when he started.
*
“Have you been hanging out with Derek again?” Scott accuses, sitting down beside him at lunch and Stiles blinks at him in surprise.
“What?”
“Danny said he saw you on the field playing lacrosse with him.”
“He just needed someone to practice with again. It’s nothing.”
“Which is why you won’t look me in the eyes, right?” Stiles hates that Scott knows him so well. “I thought you said he was out of your league.”
Stiles slumps forward onto one forearm.
“He is; he’s so out of my league it hurts. Obviously nothing will come of this, but a boy can dream, can’t he?”
Scott laughs because he’s a horrible friend, but he does pat Stiles’ shoulder comfortingly.
“You never know, maybe he digs sophomores.”
“You’re mocking me,” Stiles groans.
“No I’m - oh my god, he’s coming over here.”
Stiles sits up immediately and glances over his shoulder in panic, but there’s nothing. Scott laughs and Stiles slugs him in the arm for being an asshole.
“That was not funny,” he complains. “I have no idea what Allison sees in you.”
Scott is wearing a shit-eating grin that makes Stiles want to punch him, except it disappears when Scott looks over his shoulder again.
“Oh my god,” he says and Stiles glares at him.
“I’m not falling for that again, moron. The day Derek Hale comes to talk to us voluntarily is the day I eat my - ”
“Are you free after school?” comes another voice and Stiles swears it sounds like Derek.
“That’s not funny, Scott. You sound nothing like him,” he lies and when he finally looks up properly, Derek is standing across the other side of the table with a small smirk on his face. “Oh.”
“Are you free after school or not?”
Stiles looks at Scott because he’s pretty much forgotten how to speak.
“He’s free,” Scott says, throwing him to the wolves, even though they definitely had plans to sit around and game at Stiles’ house in the afternoon.
“Meet me on the field. I want to go over offensive techniques.”
Stiles just nods dumbly and eventually Derek turns and walks away leaving Stiles to gape at Scott.
“Did that actually just happen?” he asks and Scott laughs and claps him on the shoulder.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a date.”
“We’re no longer friends,” Stiles informs him and goes back to sprawling over the table because it makes the humiliation hurt less.
*
Sitting in sixth period, Stiles eyes the clouds outside, watching them spread across the sky and billow up into a storm that threatens to start at any moment. He’s surprised when it still isn’t raining when the bell rings, but when he gets to the field, it begins to drizzle steadily.
“I’m not playing in the rain,” Stiles tells Derek, who just tosses a crosse towards him.
“You won’t melt,” he mumbles, but blinks up at the sky as though he doesn’t trust it.
They have a few warm-up catches back and forth, but as the rain falls harder, it gets more difficult to see and in the end, Stiles snags the ball and throws his arms up.
“We can’t practice in this. I’m drenched. You’re not any better.”
It’s a detail Stiles is very aware of because Derek’s shirt is clinging like a second skin and Stiles would very much like to peel it off him. Preferably with his teeth.
Derek frowns and thins his lips, but eventually gives in with a sigh.
“Fine,” he grunts and Stiles moves to grab his soaked backpack and sprint off towards the woods, but Derek grabs his elbow and tugs him towards the locker room instead. “I’ll give you a ride.”
He’s lucky that Derek doesn’t let go of his arm because otherwise he’d stay standing in the rain out of shock. It’s drier in the locker room, but not much warmer and Stiles’ sweatshirt is dripping and he’s shivering so much he’s afraid his teeth will crack.
“Get that off,” Derek orders and Stiles’ brain is slow from the cold, but he gets the point when Derek plucks at the front of his sweatshirt and turns back to his open locker. He pulls out a towel and actually watches as Stiles tugs the material up over his head. His shirt gets knotted together with the hoodie, but it’s just as wet and only keeping him cold, so he doesn’t care.
Derek shoves the towel towards him and Stiles takes it, rubbing it across his face to get the rain out of his eyelashes. The scent of Derek is overpowering and Stiles just wants to hold the material up to nose forever, but he can still feel Derek’s gaze on him, which means he needs to act less like a creeper and more like a normal human being. He wipes down his shoulder and arms then his chest and holds it out for Derek to take back because he’s still wet with goosebumps up his arms.
“Here,” he says, just in case Derek’s confused because he doesn’t move, just continues staring at Stiles. In the end, Stiles checks over his shoulder, just to make sure no one is standing there because there’s no reason for Derek to be so fascinated by him drying off. Well, none that make any sense outside of Stiles’ own fantasies. Stiles sets the towel down on the bench, wondering if maybe Derek just doesn’t like being handed things, and then goes about trying to wring his shirt out.
It’s when he’s straightening the material and preparing to slip back into it that a hand falls on his shoulder, one that’s warm and calloused and spank bank material for the rest of Stiles’ miserable life. Derek half-turns him so they’re facing each other and then unfortunately lets go. He reaches into his locker and pulls out a long sleeved shirt, bundling it up, and holding it out towards Stiles.
Stiles blinks at it for a long second, realises Derek’s offering to let him borrow one of his shirts, and then kicks himself into gear, because, yes, he would very much like to wear something that smells of Derek. He takes it and pulls it on, appreciating the warmth, though he hopes Derek actually has something to change into now. He brings the sleeve up to his face under the pretence of wiping more water droplets off his cheek, but really, he just wants to see if it smells exactly like the towel. It does and Stiles’ face heats up when he wonders how much of his soul he’ll lose if he goes home, locks himself in his room, and spends the night with his face mashed against the material and his right hand in his boxer-briefs.
He shakes his head to clear the thought and finds that Derek’s actually drying himself off now. He rubs the towel over his hair, sticking it up in all directions, before tugging off his shirt. Stiles has definitely missed the sight of his taut stomach and defined muscles. He covers his wistful sigh with a cough, but when he finally glances up again, Derek’s back to staring at him. Stiles really wishes Derek didn’t look so sexed up because he’s seriously like an actual walking, talking wet dream straight from Stiles’ mind.
“So, are you thinking about doing lacrosse professionally?” Stiles asks, just to break the silence. “I mean, it seems like you’re really into this stuff.”
Derek blinks and then turns away to reach back into his locker, pulling out a second dry shirt. If he’s completely honest, Stiles is a little disappointed when he slips it on.
“I got a scholarship from it, but I have bigger plans than lacrosse for my future.”
Stiles never actually figured Derek would answer, but now he has a tiny slice of Derek’s life that he’ll hold close, just because he can.
“I’ll have to start taking my SATs next year. It’s so weird. Feels like I’m growing up too fast, which is something my dad might say. That definitely makes me old.”
Derek shoves the towel back into his locker and Stiles opens up the front of his backpack to check that his phone isn’t waterlogged. It isn’t, thankfully.
“I appreciate you giving me a ride home,” Stiles says, zipping his bag back up and grabbing his soggy clothes, ready to head out to the parking lot. “I know you don’t like me, but I’m glad you can put aside our differences in the name of bad Northern California weather.”
Derek padlocks his locker back up and throws his duffle bag over one shoulder.
“If I didn’t like you, I wouldn’t ask you to practice with me.”
Stiles raises an eyebrow.
“I was under the impression that these practices were mandatory if I valued my life.”
Derek pauses, eyes darting over Stiles’ face as he frowns.
“If you don’t want the help, I won’t force you to show up. I thought you wanted to get better at lacrosse.”
“But these sessions are for you to get better. I’m just the ball boy.”
Derek looks at him as though he’s a complete idiot and Stiles’ mouth falls open, because what? Why didn’t he get the memo? Derek has helped under the pretence of needing practice and Stiles has been under the impression that Derek hates him enough to force more lacrosse onto him. He’s got it all so thoroughly wrong.
“I was just convenient, though,” Stiles murmurs weakly flinching when Derek steps forward because he’s probably going to retract his offer to drive him home as Stiles has just shoved all his hard work back in his face.
“If I wanted convenient, Jackson would be in your place right now because he’s stepping up as captain after I graduate. Convenient and skilled.”
Derek’s probably admitting something huge that Stiles can’t wrap his mind around yet, but Stiles is distracted by the amount of looming Derek is doing, though it doesn’t work as well as it should since Stiles is only a few inches shorter than him. Stiles steps away, backing himself against the lockers, which probably isn’t the best plan he’s ever had, but Derek places a palm beside Stiles’ head, blocking him in almost entirely, and takes a final step forward.
Stiles doesn’t feel frightened, but his heart thunders in his chest nevertheless. Whatever Derek decides to throw at him won’t be any worse than anything he’s done to Stiles during practice.
But then Derek leans forward and kisses him and maybe Stiles was wrong because it feels like he’s been struck by a freight train. He wobbles, catches himself with a hand on Derek’s shoulder, and lets out a muffled noise of surprise.
Derek pulls away almost immediately as though coming to his senses and that’s not what Stiles wants, so he loops his arm around Derek’s neck and drags him back in. Derek’s mouth is warm against his own and softer than he expects. He slides his fingers into Derek’s hair, just because he thinks he can get away with it and Derek parts his lips and it’s wet and not entirely from the rainwater. When Stiles drags his tongue along Derek’s bottom lip, he knows he could get used to it; pictures himself sitting beside Derek in the cafeteria and not paying the slightest bit of attention to his lunch, too busy tangling his fingers in the front of Derek’s shirt and kissing him breathless.
It’s perfect until there’s a bang on the other side of the locker room and Derek jars away again, taking a step back and letting his arms drop to his sides. His breathing’s uneven, which Stiles takes a little pride in, and his eyes drop to Stiles’ mouth like he can’t quite help it.
“Is someone in here?” a voice comes from the doorway and neither of them move.
“We’re just leaving,” Derek replies, sounding far more put together than Stiles feels.
He moves away, leaving Stiles to lean against the lockers unsteadily, and disappears from sight. Knowing Derek is his only way home if he wants to get back before dark, he stumbles along behind, realising belatedly that it’s the janitor that disturbed them and he’s giving Stiles the stink eye as though he knows what they’ve been up to. Stiles holds his head high and jogs to catch Derek up.
Derek’s completely silent, even when Stiles slides into the passenger seat of his Camaro and whistles appreciatively while running his palm over the dash. He doesn’t say a word when Stiles murmurs directions to his house and his lips are still sealed when he pulls into the empty driveway and Stiles fidgets in his seat.
“Thanks again for the ride. I’ll, um, wash this and give it back soon,” Stiles says, plucking at the front of the borrowed shirt and Derek barely turns his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll see you at school.”
He can’t flee the car quickly enough and he fumbles his keys when he gets to the front door because Derek’s just sitting behind the wheel staring at him, as though making sure he gets inside okay. It’s the nicest, yet creepiest thing anyone’s ever done for him.
*
When Stiles walks through the front door and someone’s already standing there waiting for him, he almost punches them in the face out of fear.
“Whoa!” Scott yelps, backing up a few paces and the panic inside him makes everything blurt right out of his mouth.
“Derek kissed me,” he says and Scott frowns.
“I was spying on you through the window and that’s definitely not what happened.”
“In the locker room.”
Scott’s eyes widen and slowly a grin breaks out across his face. He holds out a fist and Stiles bumps his own against it numbly after a long minute.
“You’re totally in his league.” Scott drags him into the living room and pushes him down onto the couch, falling beside him and continuing to smile. “Was he rough and grumpy? He looks like he totally would be.”
Stiles finds himself shaking his head slowly.
“He trapped me up against the lockers, but he was definitely gentle.” He lets his head thud back against the cushions and sighs heavily. “It was totally awkward on the way home, though. I think he regretted it.”
“Maybe he was just unsure about your reaction? Did you at least feel him up a little?”
“I barely had time to react, but I went back for seconds, so I think my intentions were clear. I think he would have continued if the janitor hadn’t busted us.”
Scott winces.
“Ouch, that sucks.”
Stiles grabs a throw pillow and holds it over his face to muffle his groan of frustration.
“Why does this happen to me?” he asks Scott through the material. “Why can’t I have nice things?”
“He might ask you to help him with his lacrosse practice again. You never know.”
Stiles slumps further down in the chair and groans again, tossing the pillow onto the floor.
“That’s the worst part of it all. I wasn’t helping him, he was helping me.”
“This really isn’t your year. Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll offer to continue practices anyway? Our first real game is coming up soon; use that as an excuse.”
“I doubt it’ll work,” Stiles grumbles, but Scott squeezes his arm and smiles.
“There’s only one thing for it,” he says, reaching towards the coffee table and throwing an Xbox controller into Stiles’ lap. “Death match!”
This is why Stiles keeps Scott around.
*
Stiles sees brief glimpses of Derek from afar during the school week, but Stiles has taken to ducking out of sight whenever it happens because the last thing he wants is an awkward confrontation. He supposes it’s inevitable since they’re on the same lacrosse team, but stalling it for as long as possible seems like a good idea.
It all comes crashing down around his ears when he’s laughing with Scott as they walk home, Scott cycling through leftover puddles and sending sprays of water everywhere. Stiles darts to the side, narrowly missing being splashed by mud and as he turns, he spots Derek ahead, waiting by the edge of the trees.
“Scott!” he hisses, though apparently he doesn’t hear because he turns a quick circle and manages to splatter dirt up the front of Stiles’ hoodie. “Are you kidding me?”
Scott finally senses his distress because he slams his breaks on and stares at him.
“You okay? Did you get hit by a rock?”
“Derek!” he whispers, trying to gesture for Scott to look over his shoulder and see without being too obvious. Scott cranes his neck slowly around and then quickly stares back at Stiles, completely giving them away.
“What’s he doing there? Should we just ignore him? He never said anything during yesterday’s practice, right?”
Stiles doesn’t remember much of that practice, just knows that Coach had made him do suicides because he’d been too busy concentrating on avoiding Derek than to pay attention to any of the directions given. It had sucked major balls.
“Maybe I should just get it over with? He can tell me how much he doesn’t want to make out with me again and I can go back to being a nobody, right?”
Scott scratches the back of his neck and glances over at Derek again. He’s definitely going to know that they’re talking about him.
“Do you want me to wait on the other side of the woods?”
“No, go ahead. I’ll text you later. If I don’t, he’s probably murdered me and buried my body among the trees.”
Scott holds his fist out for a bump and Stiles steels his nerves. He can do it.
When Scott cycles past, Derek doesn’t even acknowledge him, just stares towards Stiles as though he’s the wolf to Stiles’ lamb. He swallows and forces himself to move forwards, getting closer to Derek until there’s only a puddle separating them. Derek briefly glances down at the mud up Stiles’ chest, but never stops frowning.
“Your performance was lacking yesterday,” he starts and Stiles snorts.
“Sorry, Coach. As the bench-warmer, I didn’t know my role was so vital.”
“No one is forcing you to be on the team, Stiles.”
That gets Stiles’ attention because it definitely sounds like Derek would rather he quit. It stings, if he’s honest.
“If you don’t want me around, just say so,” Stiles snaps and Derek’s expression actually softens.
“That’s not what I said. If you hate the sport, don’t do it. If you want to take part, let’s keep practicing.”
He folds his arms and Stiles blinks. Derek still wants to practice with him; maybe he actually likes him. It sends a flutter of excitement through him, but he waits just a little longer before answering so that he doesn’t sound too desperate.
“Okay,” he says, nodding and Derek takes a step back.
“Great,” he says, his voice neutral, but Stiles likes to think he cares. “Meet me after school tomorrow. Bring some spare clothes.”
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