Work Header

I Want You to Want Me

Work Text:

Stiles had known college was going to be different from high school, what with the living on campus and choosing his own classes and being able to buy bacon anytime he wanted. But he hadn't realized how different until he'd joined the lacrosse team.

This kind of thing had never happened to him in high school.

"Hey, Derek," he says, with an awkward little wave, and ugh, what is wrong with him?

"Stiles," Derek says, looking unimpressed, but if anything, that makes Stiles huff and stand up a little straighter, because if Derek weren't at least a little impressed, he wouldn't keep getting all up in Stiles' space.

"So, uh, we're alone,” he says, like he hadn’t taken an extra-extra-long shower, waiting for everyone to clear out of the locker room, and because he is the master of stating the obvious. “Imagine that.”

“Yes,” Derek says and that's it. Derek is the soul of brevity, the anti-Charles Dickens as it were, and while Stiles knows Dickens hadn’t actually been paid by the word, he sometimes wonders if Derek’s worried about being fined for every syllable that comes out of his mouth. Derek’s lucky he’s so pretty, otherwise, Stiles totally wouldn’t put up with it.

Who’s he kidding? Stiles is so whipped, it’s not even funny.

Derek walks up until he’s kind of looming over him, never mind that they’re basically the same height. Derek just looms really well. The first time Derek had done that, Stiles had backed up because Derek was big and like ninety percent muscle and Stiles may or may not have accidentally gotten him in the stomach with his crosse during practice. Now Stiles backs up because he knows what’s coming next.

Mainly him.

Man, the jokes. He’s got them.

Stiles stops when his back hits the row of lockers, and even though he was expecting it, he flinches slightly at how cold they are against his back. Winter’s been particularly stubborn this year, and the whole locker room is freezing. Or maybe Stiles is just unusually sensitive right now. Being helplessly turned on does that to a guy.

“Put your hands over your head,” Derek says, and Stiles obeys, just like he always does, placing his fingers over the top edge of the lockers. He knows exactly where this is going—this isn’t their first time together, or their third, or their tenth—but he always waits for Derek to tell him what to do, always shivers and closes his eyes at the sound of Derek’s voice when he issues that first command.

They pop back open in a hurry when Derek outlines Stiles’ nipple through his thin shirt, and he swallows heavily as he watches Derek’s finger circle round and round and round. It’s just his nipple. There’s no reason for this to feel as good as it does. But he can’t hold in the gasp when Derek starts pinching lightly, and Stiles groans outright when Derek tugs. He has to lock his knees to stay standing, his arms tensing as he struggles to maintain his grip. It’s just his damn nipple. Someone obviously hasn’t told his nipple that, though.

“Open your mouth,” Derek says, and Stiles glances up from Derek’s hand into his face. Derek’s expression clearly reveals that he expects to be obeyed. It’s arrogantly confident and stupidly hot, and Stiles tells himself that he shouldn’t be so turned on by this, but it’s way too late. It’d been too late the moment Derek had looked him up and down at team tryouts and asked him his name, and it’s just gotten worse since then.

Stiles parts his lips, just slightly at first, and then he rolls his eyes and opens wider when Derek continues to glare at him. He gets a pinch that makes him jerk for his trouble, but it’s what he’d been going for anyway, so he’s not really complaining.

“Suck,” Derek says right before he slides two fingers into Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles hasn’t had a problem with anything they’ve done so far, but this is definitely an order he can get behind. Sometimes he thinks the term “oral fixation” was created just for him.

He licks and sucks, keeps his eyes trained on Derek as he slides his tongue between his two fingers right down to the webbing and fucks his tongue against it.

“You and your mouth,” Derek says, shaking his head, but he doesn’t look away, and Stiles moans at the heat that rises in Derek’s eyes at the way Stiles takes his fingers down his throat, just like he’d take Derek’s cock if he’d let him.

By the time Derek finally pulls his fingers free, Stiles is gasping for breath, and he’s so hard that it actually hurts, his cock trapped against the front of his jeans. Derek makes him want so much. It feels like he’s on a hair-trigger, that all Derek would have to do would be to stare at Stiles’ dick long enough and Stiles would come from the pressure of his gaze alone.

Sadly, he’s not kidding.

“Bite down,” Derek says, right before he yanks up the edge of Stiles’ shirt and stuffs it into his mouth, which is rude, man, plain rude. It’s also fucking cold, the metal now against his bare back, and he ends up doing this weird shiver/shimmy thing that makes Derek’s canines flash as he smiles. Stiles glares to show his displeasure, because he doesn’t take that shit lying down.

He does take it standing up, however, with his hands above his head and his shirt firmly in his mouth.

Whatever, dude, orgasms. From Derek. So worth it.

Derek rests his hands on Stiles’ hips, and Stiles can't stop the whine when Derek leans forward to take Stiles’ nipple delicately in between his teeth. He bites softly at first and then harder and harder, until Stiles is whimpering into his makeshift gag, Derek’s hold the only thing keeping him against the locker instead of rutting against Derek’s thigh.

Derek stops just long enough to stare up at Stiles’ face as he rubs his stubble against Stiles’ nipple, and Stiles bites down so hard that he worries he’s going to tear holes into his shirt. It burns in the best of ways, little jolts shooting straight down to his cock, and the way Derek looks at him—so obviously turned on and like he’s wondering how much more Stiles can take—has Stiles straining to get closer, his cock trying to bore its way through the denim.

Derek moves to Stiles’ other nipple and gives it the same treatment, nibbling and sucking and biting, and the shirt does almost nothing to muffle the sounds Stiles makes. His nipples are throbbing, aching from Derek’s touch, his teeth, and if Stiles could talk clearly, he’d beg for more, for harder, for Derek to abuse them until he makes Stiles cry. Fuck, that is a weird thing to want—is that weird? Shit, he doesn’t even know at this point, his pleasure and pain centers so confused, everything jumbled together.

All Stiles knows for certain is that he’s never been so conscious of his nipples in his entire life, and it’s because of Derek, with his perfect lips and sharp, white teeth and his dark, knowing eyes that like to watch as he reduces Stiles to sheer desperation.

The sensations are ratcheting higher and higher, Derek’s fingers digging into his skin, holding him down, holding him together, and he’s so close, so fucking close. He wants to come. He needs to come. If Derek would just touch his cock—hell, or just let Stiles ride his thigh, he’s not picky—Stiles could do it. He could come. Just. Like. That.

The thought has Stiles almost sobbing, his body coiled tight, his cock and balls so full that they hurt. While he somehow manages to keep his hands where they are—the last thing he wants is for Derek to stop—he can’t help fighting against Derek’s grip in an effort to get closer. He actually gets his hips off the locker for a second, and then Derek slams them back down.

That does terrible things to Stiles’ stomach, terribly good, good things, and he groans low in his throat, the sound echoing embarrassingly loud in the small room.

“That’s right,” Derek says, and Stiles whines. That is so unfair. Derek should not be allowed to have such a fantastic sex-voice on top of everything else. “You’re so close, aren’t you? You want to come. So do it,” he says—demands really—reaching up to twist both of Stiles’ nipples simultaneously. He’s not gentle. Not at all. “Do it.”

And Stiles does, shaking so hard that it rattles the locker underneath him, coming apart under Derek’s fingers and the weight of his gaze like this is exactly what he’s meant to do, like there’s never been anything else.

He wheezes for breath afterward, throat dry, his shirt still between his teeth, soaked with his saliva. He’s slumped against the cold locker, skin pebbled with goose bumps, and he doesn’t even care, just kind of floats and tries to recover from the intensity of his orgasm.

“Good boy,” Derek says, tugging lightly on Stiles’ shirt until Stiles remembers how to let go. He leans into Derek’s warmth, grateful for the praise, for the hands that pull his arms down and massage them, the tenderness such a stark contrast to everything that’s happened so far and all the more welcome because of it.

“Show me,” Derek whispers at last, pulling away.

Stiles shivers and sways on his feet, unzipping his jeans and shoving them down his thighs so Derek can have an unhindered view of the mess Stiles has made of his boxers, of the mess Derek has made of Stiles. The fabric clings to his cock, wet and sticky, a testament to how little control he has over himself around Derek. Stiles can’t exactly walk out of the locker room like this, but that’s okay. He’s started bringing a change of clothes for his change of clothes, and seriously, what is his life?

He waits a few seconds until he thinks Derek’s had his fill, and then Stiles pushes the boxers down so he’s completely bare, his cock still half-hard with his come dripping down all over it. He pulls up his shirt and reveals nipples that are red and puffy from Derek’s attentions, faint bruises already starting to darken the surrounding skin, and Stiles knows he’s a filthy sight—filthy, dirty and completely debauched.

He can’t help feeling a trifle smug about it all in all.

“Turn around,” Derek says, almost growls, his voice low and gravelly, and Stiles somehow finds the dregs of his energy to flop over, his face pressed against the cool metal.

He knows what Derek wants. It’d been so humiliating the first time Stiles had done it, although not entirely in a bad way; he'd been trembling for almost twenty minutes afterward, had felt flushed and unsteady for even longer than that. The embarrassment and shame are still there now, but Stiles has come to realize they just make it better somehow, make his stomach clench and the last slivers of pleasure that much sharper. He wants to do it for Derek, wants to do whatever Derek wants him to do and even more besides.

Stiles pushes his ass out, spreading his legs as far as he can with his jeans in the way, and he reaches behind him to pull his cheeks apart, exposing everything to Derek. “Please,” he says and lets his eyes flutter shut in anticipation.

It’s not long before Derek’s groaning and the first jet of hot come is splashing onto Stiles, and he shudders, arching his ass up even more. He knows better than to beg. Derek refuses to fuck him until he scores his first goal in a game. It’s some sort of fucked-up reward/punishment system that he bets Derek regrets initiating now, even though he refuses to take it back, because Stiles is trying, okay, he has never been this motivated before, but it still hasn’t happened. Trust Derek to cut off his nose to spite his face, or in this case, withhold his dick to spite Stiles’ ass, and what? He gets really horny, okay?

So Stiles takes what he can get and fingers himself all the time in order to soothe the emptiness until he can get Derek’s cock inside of him. He’s not proud of himself, but sometimes a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do.

Derek rubs his come all over Stiles’ ass, over the cheeks and in between, strokes up and around his hole until Stiles’ head is swimming and he’s making little pleading noises that he can’t contain. And only then does Derek sigh and with one last caress tell Stiles to get cleaned up. Again.

It's not a problem though. Not when Derek slips into the shower with him and holds him up, softly and carefully, as the evidence of their activities gets washed down the drain. Stiles enjoys the sex—he enjoys it a lot—but he admits to himself at least that he's starting to appreciate these moments even more.

“You ready for this weekend’s game?” Derek asks as they’re heading out the locker room door.

“Yeah, I’ve got this,” Stiles says, determined, because no matter how spectacular the sex has been, Derek’s cock needed to be in his ass as of like a month ago.

“Yeah?” Derek asks, flashing him a quick, almost hopeful smile, and fuck, Stiles’ heart is not going to survive college intact, he can tell already.

“Yeah,” he says and hesitates for a moment before reaching out to give Derek’s hand a quick squeeze.

But instead of letting him go, Derek shoots him a surprised look before smiling even wider and twining their fingers together, shoulders kind of loosening, and oh yeah, Stiles is in so much trouble.

He doesn’t mind though. Not one little bit.