Stiles and Derek as teens at the community pool after dark
Derek is already naked by the time he realizes that Stiles isn’t. He’s standing shyly with his fly unbuttoned, unzipped, long fingers clutching tights at the waistband of his jeans where he’s started— but not yet finished—pulling them off of his skinny hips. “I thought— boxers,” he says, shrugging, a blush coloring the fair skin of his cheeks, his chest.
“Oh,” Derek says, now shy, too, willing himself not to look at his own dick or at Stiles’, to follow Stiles’ gaze to see if he’s looking at Derek’s dick or his own. Derek grew up in an enormous tight-knit family of shapeshifters; he forgets, sometimes, about other people, about their bodies and their shame. “I can put mine back on.”
“No,” Stiles says, forcing a laugh, squaring his chest. “No, that’s fine, I can,” and he strips off with a single movement, boxers and jeans a puddle of cotton around his feet. Derek really can’t look at him, now, can’t look anywhere but at the pavement, at his own feet, because Jesus, Jesus, Stiles is beautiful. He’s just back from six weeks of lacrosse camp, so his narrow frame is more than usually well-defined, the beginnings of pecs and abs and biceps swelling out gently, but what fascinates Derek are his tan lines, the white vulnerable skin of his thighs, and the tangle of dark curly hair below his navel, leading down to the soft weight of his dick, where Derek is definitely, definitely not allowed to be looking.
He throws himself into the pool without even really thinking about it. The water is cool and lovely all around him, the chemical scent of chlorine sharp enough to clear his head. Get it together, Hale, he tells himself, and he thinks he has until he surfaces to find Stiles treading water next to him, drops of water caught in the long fringe of his eyelashes, his dark hair matted down to his forehead. He looks almost like he did when they were kids, except that his mouth can’t possibly have been quite so generous, then, wide and inviting, lips always just parting in the worst possible kind of tease.
“Race you to the shallow end,” Derek says, begging his body to do anything, anything but continue with this line of thought.
“You’re a werewolf,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, dude, I don’t take losing bets.”
“I thought you said you got—and I quote!—totally jacked out in lax-land.”
“Totally jacked is nothing on superstrength, okay, I have learned this lesson the hard way.” Derek shakes his head and swims towards the shallow end anyway, unaccountably pleased when Stiles follows at a measured pace.
“You haven’t told me,” he says when they’re both standing waist deep in the water. “How it was.”
“Fine,” Stiles says, with this thousand yard stare he’s been getting lately, like he’s looking straight past Derek and into the dark parts of the universe. “You know. A little lonely.”
“Lonely? Among a hand-picked selection of the greatest laxbros in the Pacific Northwestern region?” Stiles flicks pool water at Derek, grinning.
“They’re not really my people,” he says.
“You know.” Stiles flushes again, gestures at the space between them. “Like, you, and Scott, and um, yeah. People. I don’t know. They just wanted to talk about girls a lot. And their sticks. Which, man, you’d think fifty guys talking sticks and balls and stuff there would have been one gay guy but no,” he says mournfully, looking down at his hands as they trail across the surface of the water. “Not a single, solitary one.”
“Except you,” Derek ventures, because he isn’t sure how Stiles is defining himself, these days.
“In that crowd, anyway,” Stiles mutters. “Not like there were any girls around anyway, ugh, it was just kind of a waste. Would rather have been here with you.”
Derek feels himself brighten up and tries to keep from smiling too widely. “You would have been bored to tears here, too,” he says, biting back a comment about his willingly gay self. “Dad just had me doing dumb wolf drills in the woods all summer. It was lame.”
“You look good, though,” Stiles says, reaching out to punch Derek in the arm. “Is that like, an actual six pack?”
“Uhm,” Derek says, because Stiles’ eyes on him are almost enough, in the hot still air, the late, private hours of the night.
“Are those even real,” Stiles goes on, brushing his fingers over Derek’s stomach, so close, so sudden that Derek doesn’t even have time to tense up. “Oh,” he says, blinking stupidly. “Yeah, I guess they are. Very. Um. Real.”
His hands have stopped moving, so that his long pale fingers are splayed over Derek’s stomach, both of them staring down, breathing heavily, avoiding each others’ gaze.
“You,” Derek says, and can’t even begin to finish the sentence.
“I,” Stiles agrees, shifting forward, water rocking up around Derek’s now-dry torso, cold and surprising. “I’m gonna kiss you in a minute, I think,” he says. “Unless you stop me.”
“Not gonna stop you,” Derek says, already reaching out, pulling Stiles’ slick body towards his own, a tangle of new muscles and soft skin, the sharp places of the sliding together perfect, perfect. Stiles’ mouth falls further open. Derek tilts his head up and finds his way inside.
[okay whatever, I wrote more of this.]
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