The Best Bad Things
Reads on AO3
Derek rolls his hips down again, buttons of his fly catching on the seam of Stiles’ zipper. Stiles tries to say something - “fuck,” probably - but all that comes out is the breathy first syllable. He grinds his erection up into Derek’s, chasing friction that’s achingly hard to get through two layers of Levis. One of his arms is thrown around Derek’s neck, trying to drag him in closer, and he can’t seem to decide where the other one should go - grabbing at Derek’s back, tangling in his hair, or clutching his bicep. Derek’s got both arms pinned under Stiles’ shoulder blades, bracing himself on his elbows.
“Fffuh-uh-ck,” Stiles finally chokes out, a half-sob of arousal and frustration blended too thoroughly to separate. Even though they’re both already gasping for breath, he twists to lock his lips on Derek’s for a wet, open-mouthed kiss.
Derek pulls his face away, sets his teeth at the junction of Stiles’ neck and shoulder instead. The summer heat’s thick in the metal rail car, and their skin’s beaded with sweat from the desperate push-pull exertion. Derek drags his mouth up, tasting salt, and lathes his tongue over Stiles’ pulse point, just under his jaw; the kid gives a shivery jerk of his hips in return, running both hands down the length of Derek’s back.
He pulls at the hem of Derek’s shirt, dragging his long fingers over the tight muscles of his lower back before slipping his hands to Derek fly. He fumbles at the buttons, not getting anywhere. “C’mon, c’mon,” he whines.
“Nope,” Derek says into his neck, pulling one hand free to flick Stiles’ away. He nips at Stiles earlobe in revenge.
“Fuck,” Stiles moans again, squirming desperately against Derek’s crotch. “You gotta - gotta give me something.” He does his best to slide a hand into the back of Derek’s underwear, and gets far enough that his middle finger brushes the base of his spine.
“I am,” Derek says, reaching back to grab Stiles by the wrist. He deftly pins both of the kid’s arms above his head and grins, all teeth.
Stiles goes quiet, then, chest heaving and eyes wide. This is what he’s here for, after all. To feel like he’s doing something dangerous.
Derek squeezes just enough to make it hurt, watching Stiles’ blown pupils go a hair wider. Their eyes are still locked when he draws close and sucks on Stiles’ lower lip - and then bites.
Stiles moans, his eyes fluttering closed. He’s still thrusting up into Derek, rolling their hips together, and he must be aching with how long Derek’s kept him on edge like this. Derek himself is close to losing it, and he’s not even the virgin in this situation.
“Please, just…” Stiles whimpers.
“Please?” Derek mocks, interrupting. “Please, what?” He gives in, then, lets the wolf out just enough to flash his eyes and sharpen his canines, to give a rumbling predator’s growl low in his throat.
“Fuck,” Stiles curses like a prayer, and comes in his pants.