Stiles pushes through the door into Derek's kitchen, dumps his empty beer bottle on the counter and grabs another. "Some party, dude," he says. "You couldn't invite any cute girls with low standards? Not fair I should be the only one not getting groped."

Derek lifts his own beer, takes a long drink. When he lowers it, a drop of sparkling amber hangs on his lower lip. He licks it away. "I'm not getting groped either, but I'm not stupid enough to sit in a room full of hormones gone insane."

"You can sense that, huh?" It was bad enough having to watch the rest of the pack, his friends. They're all coupled up with the lips and the hands and the grinding. It must be a hundred times worse for werewolves. "That's gotta suck if you're not getting any."

Derek glances up at the kitchen door, then back down at Stiles. "They're not bothering me. They're getting what they need." He takes a step toward Stiles, slow and predatory. "They're not bombarding me with unresolved want so thick I can feel it on my skin."

Stiles backs up. "Err, Derek? Personal space?"

"I can taste it," Derek whispers. He reaches out, takes hold of Stiles' hip and holds him still while he crowds in.

"Holy crap," Stiles says. "What are you doing? Are you going to grope me?"

Derek closes his eyes and inhales. "Your frustration feels close. Like it's mine." His hand shifts, sliding over the front of Stiles' jeans. Derek's eyes snap open. "Maybe you should go."

Stiles is rapidly going from half-hard to straining painfully against the fly of his jeans. He waves his beer bottle weakly. "Drunk," he whispers. "Can't drive. Also, your hand is on my dick, and I don't actually want that to stop."

"Yeah," Derek breathes. He grabs Stiles by the other hip, pushes him against the kitchen cupboards, and the hand that was on his dick moves to the back of his neck as Derek pushes against him.

Oh no, no personal space here.

"Uh, I uh, liked it better when your hand was on my dick," Stiles says.

Derek rolls his hips, dragging the hard muscle of his upper thigh against Stiles' cock.

"Oh. Fuck. That's nice too," Stiles whimpers.

Derek kisses him, his tongue prying Stiles' lips apart. Stiles gives in, opening his mouth, savoring the hot slide of tongue against tongue while the edge of the counter digs into the small of his back, a cupboard handle into the back of his thigh as Derek shoves against him with slow rocking movements. The solid length of Derek's cock digs into his thigh over and over again, and as far as Stiles is aware, he's never made anyone hard like that before.

Stiles attempts to put his beer down on the counter behind him. He thinks he has it, lets go, but the bottle falls, hits the floor with wet splashes and the ringing crash of breaking glass.

Derek keeps moving against Stiles, long, rolling thrusts that drag thigh against cock and make Stiles' head spin.

"Dropped my beer," Stiles groans when he turns his head away.

Derek moves his kisses to the sensitive place behind Stiles' ear, trailing a line down his throat.

"Okay. We don't care about that," Stiles says, his breath coming in quick pants. "Just... You know. Watch where you step."

Derek grunts and lifts his head, slides his leg between Stiles' thighs, lifts his other hand so his fingers interlock around the back of Stiles' neck, his wrists resting on Stiles' shoulders. He keeps thrusting, except now Stiles is practically riding Derek's leg and it feels so incredibly good that Stiles almost hopes it never, ever, ends.

And Derek stares, eyes wide, pupils so large his eyes are mostly black, each breath a soft grunt. "I could fuck you," he growls.

"Guh," Stiles says. It feels like he's been punched in the stomach, but in the best way. His balls ache and he can't breathe.

"You'd be so hot inside," Derek says, "so fucking tight." He grunts and thrusts, hard, long. "Fuck. Stiles..."

"Uhuh," Stiles whimpers. He's just holding on for the ride now, so close to coming in his jeans and he doesn't care. His balls are tight and throbbing and he'll be mortified later, but right now he needs to come.

"Wanna fuck you 'til you scream my name, pump you full of my come."

"Derek, fuck." Stiles jerks backward as his insides twist with pleasure exploding outward in hot sparks. There'll be bruises on his back tomorrow, but he barely feels it as his balls empty, cock straining in pulses against the fly of his jeans.

Derek groans and drops his head forward onto Stiles' shoulder. He shudders, shoulders and arms tightening, relaxing, tightening again.

He goes still, panting into Stiles' shirt.

"Oh, my god," Stiles says. His crotch is hot and sticky, and wet warmth soaks into the thigh of his jeans.

"God," Derek echoes, taking long deep breaths. Then he lifts his head and his eyes search over Stiles' face. "Are you okay?"

Stiles nods. "Uh, yeah. Like, very, very okay. Good, in fact. Holy crap, dude." He gapes for a moment, like a fish, trying to find the right words. "You've got a filthy mouth."

Derek lifts an eyebrow and frowns.

Stiles grins. "And it's... Oh my god. Fantastic. You've got no idea."

Derek's lips twitch, slowly spreading into a smile as he pulls back, then grimacing as he peels himself away from Stiles' equally messy jeans.

"Err," Stiles says, too late.

Derek's boot crunches on broken glass.

"Watch where you step?"

fin