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Hump and Grind (or The One Where Stiles Makes Derek Come in his Pants)

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“You’re the worst boyfriend ever.” Stiles grumbles as he arches futilely against Derek’s solid weight that’s currently pressing him into the couch. “Just a hand job, what would be so wrong with a hand job?”

“On your dad’s couch, Stiles. When your dad happens to be the Sheriff? Is that not a good enough reason?”

“I’m not underage anymore.” Stiles’ fingertips sneak under Derek’s waistband at his lower back, seeking out the dimples at the base of Derek’s spine.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s going to make your father any happier about this.”

“But he’s not here, and he won’t be back for hours.” Derek can feel the hardness of Stiles’ dick rubbing against his thigh as Stiles groans in frustration and pulls on Derek’s hips, demanding more.

He’s so greedy when they’re together, always pushing for more kissing, more touching, less clothes between them. But Derek isn’t ready to be naked with Stiles. Everything is too new, too fragile and Derek’s overwhelmed by him. He can’t get used to the fact that he’s allowed to touch Stiles now, to pin him down and taste his skin. He’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll lose control and not be able to stop. He’s afraid of hurting Stiles, of taking too much. But most of all, right at this particular moment, Derek’s afraid of coming in his pants and humiliating himself.

“Stiles,” Derek hisses, trying to pull away and slow things down. But Stiles’ fingers twist in his hair and he forces Derek’s head down, crushing their lips together and stifling Derek’s protests. The sting of teeth on Derek’s lower lip is a warning. Derek’s cock is aching, sticky and leaking already after only five minutes of kissing. Stiles smells of sex and desperation and it’s too much. Derek needs a timeout. He draws back again, placing one hand firmly on Stiles’ chest.

“No!” Stiles whines.

In a show of wiry strength that takes Derek by surprise, Stiles uses Derek’s movement against him and flips them both off the sofa and onto the living room rug. Derek growls instinctively and feels his eyes flare and his teeth elongate as the breath gets knocked out of him. But Stiles just laughs and settles over Derek with a look of intent in his eyes.

“Sorry about that.” Stiles grins. He doesn’t look sorry, he doesn’t sound sorry, he doesn’t smell sorry. He smells like teenage boy sweat and arousal and the harbinger of doom for Derek’s good intentions. “Now put those fangs away before you hurt someone.”

Derek takes a deep breath and tries to think calming thoughts, pushing the wolf-part of him down. Stiles uses the moment of stillness to press his advantage, getting his knees either side of Derek’s thighs and rocking his hips so that their erections drag against each other, hard and needy.

“Seriously, Derek, stop pushing me away. You’re my boyfriend now, I’m allowed--you’re allowed. It’s not like I’m asking you to fuck me yet. Just let me do this, okay?”

Stiles’ breath is warm on Derek’s face, the golden brown of his irises almost eclipsed by black. When Derek’s fangs have retracted and his mouth feels less like a lethal weapon, he finally gives up and lets Stiles kiss him. His weight presses Derek into the carpet and Derek just gives himself up to it, letting the scent and taste and feel of Stiles take him over. The movement of Stiles’ hips is sinful. He keeps up a sinuous rocking and grinding movement and the pressure on Derek’s dick is at that exquisite point of intensity--pleasure with a hint of pain.

Stiles gets his hands up Derek’s shirt and pinches his nipples, rolling them between finger and thumb. He’s moved away from Derek’s mouth now, his soft lips grazing over stubble and down to lick and--oh dear god--bite at the flesh of Derek’s neck where his head is thrown back in submission. “Stiles... fuck.”

“Yeah.” Stiles has got a knee between Derek’s legs now and is humping his thigh like a dog on the furniture. His hip rubs up against Derek’s dick with every thrust. “So fucking good, Derek. Fuck.” Stiles is so completely unashamed in his need for Derek, so honest. And somehow that makes him seem all the more raw and vulnerable. Derek’s chest tightens and he wraps his arms around Stiles, pulling him closer and rocking up against him into that perfect friction, wanting to do this for him, to give Stiles what he needs.

But it’s too much; Derek feels the coiling tension in his balls, the tingle in his cock. He’s losing control and there is nothing he can do to stop himself. Stiles’ teeth snagging on his tight nipple is what finally tips him over the edge and he comes with a strangled moan as his body jerks and shakes with it, hot come flooding his underwear as the white-hot pleasure rips through him and leaves him gasping and shaking.

When Derek opens his eyes again he sees Stiles looking down at him in wonder. “Jesus Christ, Derek. Did you just?--”

A flush sweeps hot over Derek’s face and neck and he turns his face sideways, away from Stiles’ stare. But Stiles grabs his jaw and pulls him back, licking into his mouth and moaning like a porn star. “That’s so fucking hot,” he gasps out between deep, wet kisses. Then he tears himself away and sits up, shoving his hand into the front of his pants. His eyes are wild, patches of hectic pink painting his cheeks. The cords of muscle in his forearm flex as he rubs furiously at his cock in the confined space.

“Show me,” Derek growls. “I want to see you come for me.”

“Too late.” Stiles is laughing as he comes, in breathless gasps as he hunches around his cock. “Maybe next time.” The scent of his come pours over Derek’s senses and makes his spent cock twitch helplessly in its sticky prison.

When Stiles pulls his hand out and grimaces, Derek grasps his wrist and brings it to his lips.

“Mine.” He grins.

Stiles watches as Derek licks it clean, catching every drop and sticky strand with his tongue. “That’s kinda gross.”

“Not for me.” Derek shrugs, letting Stiles have his hand back.

“You’re an animal.” Stiles’ smirk tells Derek that the joke is intentional. Then his grin turns gleeful. “I can’t believe I made you come in your pants.”

Derek mock-growls, showing a little tooth on purpose, ignoring the heat of the blush that warms his cheeks. “What the fuck did you think was going to happen with you grinding on me like that? I don’t jerk off three times a day like some people I could mention. And don’t try and deny it because I can always tell.”

Stiles has the decency to look slightly embarrassed by this, but he rallies. “Whatever, I’m still a teenager, and a virgin. I’m allowed to be desperate. You, on the other hand, have no such excuses.” He smirks. “I’m obviously just irresistible.”

Derek isn’t going to attempt to deny that. So he twists his fingers in the front of Stiles’ shirt, pulls him down and shuts him up with a kiss instead.