Derek shouldn't be so close to people's houses as he runs under the full moon, but that night he is. He can't say what makes him leave the cover of the wood and venture being seen, but the thin silver narrow of the streets and the smooth black length of the roads are tempting underfoot.
Fresh air whips around him and fills his lungs, and his body feels prime, filled up with moonlight, loving the stretch of the run.
Sounds are fresh and new and open to him to his ears with the moon, and Derek lets himself listen as he lopes through backyards, around pools, up and over garden sheds.
Here, the latest reality show flickering in a living room. There, a debate about politics in someone's kitchen. Around the corner, someone else tuning in to the top 40 on the radio, giving him songs to run by and here, with the wet grass around his ankles --
He hears his name on the rush of the wind, skids to a stop and hears it again, cocking his head to make sure he isn't overtaken by the moon and hallucinating. But no, he's in a dark, neatly kept front yard, and inside the house he can hear a shower on, the water going pitter-patter, and louder over that, his name with undeniable pleasure attached: “Derek.” There is only one light on in the house, in the bathroom.
Derek looks around, seeing where he is. He shakes his head.
The full moon is high and aching overhead, clouding his better judgment, urging him further into the unknown. It's been trying to lead him here long enough. He can't ignore the direct plea. So he climbs up the back of the house and is waiting in the shadows of Stiles' room.
He doesn't mean to shock him like he does, like the way Stiles makes a terrified sound and drops his towel, then scrambles after it, then stops scrambling when Derek hauls him up by the scruff of the neck and hauls him into the nearest wall.
Stiles says, “You're not -- you aren't real. You can't be real, I just --” he flushes, struggling, which makes Derek tighten his hold, his mouth moving to ghost Stiles' jawline, his nose flush to Stiles' cheek.
“Are you so used to interacting with unreal things?” Derek asks, a little surprised by the reaction. He smells at Stiles' neck, scents the arousal there Stiles won't let himself show. “I heard you call out,” he says. “I thought I would investigate.”
“Look,” says Stiles, “wolfy eavesdropping or no, you can't just -- we haven't even --”
“Can't I?” Derek hears his own voice and thinks he's never sounded so bold. “Do you deny that you said my name?” He has Stiles shoved up against the wall, and there's no denying that Stiles is aroused by the proceedings, whether he's happy about the bodily display of interest or no.
Stiles says, “I don't,” and he says it again. His name. “Derek. But you're freaking me out here. Your eyes are all glow-y, and you're sweating like you have a fever, and yeah, you're hot, but frankly, dude, I think you need a shower before thinking about getting up on thi--”
Derek hears himself growl, feels himself collide hard with Stiles' long, lanky body. “After,” he tells Stiles. “You'll smell more like me now.” He licks a stripe over Stiles' full lips, over them without pause, and Stiles shivers. “I want you to.”
He lets Stiles contemplate that while tugging them towards the bed. Manhandled, Stiles goes down in a tangle of limbs, Derek brought with him.
Stiles blinks brightly from underneath him, laid out like a sacrifice to the spirits of sex and nature. “It's the full moon,” he says, biting his lower lip, while Derek belts his hips and pulls his own t-shirt off.
He feels Stiles admiring the cut lines of his abs and broad shoulders, but still Stiles casts his gaze resolutely sideways and doesn't touch, not even when Derek drops back down over him, bends to taste at the pulse of his throat.
Stiles is staying, “This is moon-lust, I've read about it, you're only here because of it, Derek, you need to--”
But Derek breaks in and says, “That's true enough, but not the only reason. Stiles.” He meets the brilliant eyes that make him wild. Doesn't let him look away. “You know it isn't.”
All at once Stiles seems to soften underneath him. Loses tension visibly, a thing that can be lost. His shoulders unbend. He stares at Derek, incredulous, uncertain. He opens his ready mouth, and says it before he can clamp it shut: “You feel it too?”
He looks so scared to have spoken thereafter, a strange expression on Stiles, that Derek takes pity. There's no way he's leaving the bed without this settled between them. They have denied it too long already.
“Yeah,” says Derek, his teeth against the curve of Stiles' shoulder. “I've felt it.”
They don't need to say it aloud. The undeniable tug when they were around each other. The surge of lust and need and rightness. The chemistry that spiked and smoked. It had started showing up whether they were alone together or in a room full of other people. They were always hyper-aware of the other, a conduit of energy set up between them.
“What is this?” Stiles demands. “Did you do something to me? Is this like scratching Jackson?”
But Derek just tilts his head, and Stiles closes his mouth. Stiles knows nothing has been done to him, even if he has to challenge it vocally.
“I think you know,” says Derek.
Outside Stiles' window the moon is at its peak through the glass. Derek lifts his hips to shimmy free from his pants, then settles between Stiles' thighs, which are spread almost like an afterthought, like he's unaware he's made himself a mold for Derek's bigger body to be cast against.
Stiles closes his eyes. He names the symptoms one by one. “Inexplicable emotional involvement. Survival co-preservation instinct at all cost. Sex--” he stutters, stops, starts up again. Derek takes his straining cock into his hand. “--sexual attraction,” he finishes, twisting up from the bed.
Derek nods. He doesn't look up from the place where he marks Stiles' collarbone with his tongue. He puts his eyebrows up instead. “And that means...?”
Stiles watches as Derek's hand works him. He's watching it happen like it's the most incredible thing he's ever seen. “The research would say--”
“The research is right,” Derek says.
Stiles blinks steadily. Looks at a spot on Derek's jaw while he speaks. Says it after a few false starts.
“That we're mates,” he concludes. Once said he says it again. “That we're mates somehow although I'm not a werewolf. Oh my god, Derek, tell me I haven't gone completely insane.”
“You are an excellent researcher,” says Derek. “Your sources are correct. What more do they say?”
Stiles swallows with a bob of his Adam's apple. It takes him some time to put the words together. “That you'll -- that you'll want to mount me. B-breed me, regardless of sex. That once you mark me as yours there's no getting off this party bus.” He blinks again, taking in Derek's impressive showing doubtfully. “Some sites, they say you might have a --”
Derek huffs a laugh. “I don't at that, but again, I praise your thoroughness in seeking out the facts.” He shakes his head. “The internet is a filthy thing. But some of the first part is true enough.” He props himself up over Stiles on his huge forearms, their bodies sparking where they touch. It takes all the restraint he knows not to rip Stiles apart under his hands, which settle hungrily on exposed, shower-fresh skin. Stiles pushes up against him, for all that he's shaking a little about it.
“I've thought we might be mated for a while,” Derek admits. “At first I just thought you made me mad; then I realized you were driving me mad.” If the moon weren't up and running hot in his blood he wouldn't be so talkative, but it is, and he is, and Stiles is all huge eyes and naked skin and is moving tentatively in his arms, Stiles deserves the words. Derek pulls a face. “I had better plans to tell you than this.”
Stiles touches him back. Stiles has big hands, has a lithe, well-made body, stronger than his loose t-shirts suggest. Stiles has twitchy, questing hands that don't stop touching Derek once they start. They start on his chest, his pecs, scrape scarlet marks into hard muscle. One hand strokes his abs while the other grips into is arm. Stiles shifts his hips, shoves up, so that their cocks drag together and then align, and Derek bares his teeth.
“You asshole,” Stiles swears. “I've been thinking about this since forever, and you knew--”
Derek takes both of their cocks into his hand, gripping tight. They're both too hard, too close even like this. He urges friction into his hand and against Stiles' cock and watches his big eyes get bigger and his mouth fall open in a soundless oh. Soon after Stiles thrusts up, too, driving them further, and Derek doesn't hold in his own grunt of approval. He strokes them with his fist while his body rocks up against Stiles, and Stiles wraps his legs around his back to fix him into place.
The smell of their arousal is thick and with the moon in him Derek needs nothing more than to be in Stiles. Maybe once or twice or a thousand times he'd thought of doing this slowly, of getting to open his mate up under him with care, getting to explore Stiles thoroughly and have him begging by the time Derek took him. But there isn't time, Derek didn't plan for this, for Stiles already knowing and wanting him, and his mind is fighting off the wolf.
Instead he leans over Stiles once they've gotten overheated, reaching for bedside drawer. “You have something?”
Stiles' eyelashes make a fine fluttery line along his cheek. “I'm a teenage boy of the bisexual persuasion. What do you think?” Derek's fingers find the tube then, untouched. “For -- special occasions,” Stiles adds. “Of the future.”
“I have to--” Derek seals his lips. God, what he has to do. “What you said before.”
“Mount up. Right.” Stiles swallows thickly. “Yeah. Wow. Okay. So I guess I'll just -- that you need me like this.” He starts to turn over, and Derek shifts back to let him. At once Stiles is on his hands and knees, his back curved concave, head down and ass up. He swings a look back at Derek and says, “Like this, Derek?” and that's when Derek is all in for the rest of his life.
He crowds back into Stiles' space, his hands testing the shape of Stiles's hips. “Yeah. That's good. You look so good.” He can't help himself; he ducks down to bite at one perfect round of Stiles' asscheek, letting his teeth sink a sharp impression. Then he's coating up his fingers and making himself tease Stiles with pressure against his hole, lets him feel it build before he presses the first finger in.
The moon beneath Derek's skin keeps whispering that it's enough, just that, to seize Stiles and ravage him, but that would be such a shorter pleasure. He wants to have Stiles for a very long time. He works his finger in to the knuckle with Stiles moaning and looking back at him now kind of slack-jawed. Stiles doesn't say anything other than sounds, but after a while he nods, a little, and Derek pushes a second finger in with the first.
Stiles tenses and loosens slowly as Derek starts to aim smart, deep. His free hand soothes Stiles' hip. He massages Stiles' prostate, but that's a mistake. Stiles keens, and Derek responds by gripping his hip, pulling him in, and rutting hard while his fingers keep going.
“Derek,” says Stiles, “Please,” and even though he'd intended to use three fingers and take a lot longer Derek frees his hand and covers his cock with lube instead. Stiles lets all of the air out of his lungs and seems to arch beneath him; stretches out his long neck and shows Derek his throat; even inexperienced, virginal, he knows how to mate a werewolf.
Derek moves over him, tastes his offered skin with tongue and teeth while he guides Stiles into position and guides in the head of his cock. He keeps himself together enough not to thrust all-out, but Stiles is much too tight, criminally tight, and Derek's too hard, there's too much of him, so he keeps going even when Stiles starts to squirm and toss his head.
Derek doesn't stop until he's halfway in, and Stiles is still too tight and has his face stuffed in to the pillow.
He stops, somehow. “I'm hurting you.”
Stiles shakes his head. Then, more slowly, he nods. His voice is muffled in bedding. “It's fine,” he says, muffled. “I want you to.”
Derek's body demands action, and Stiles is trying to push himself back on Derek's cock with shaky limbs, so Derek keeps going, slides more of his considerable length into Stiles. It seems impossible that Stiles should be able to take him, but they keep at it until he bottoms out with a groan. He's never felt anything like this and his cock isn't used to it either, getting harder as he rocks in with shallow thrusts. Stiles is breathing deep breaths and keeps clutching at different things on the bed -- pillow, sheet, comforter, making some sounds that are painful to hear and others far more encouraging.
Finally he unclenches his jaw. “Son of a bitch,” Stiles swears. “Your dick had to match your fucking shoulders.” He tosses his buzz-cut head again, wriggles all over, trying to get more comfortable. He hisses sometimes, and lets out little moans that Derek wants to swallow. He bears down all at once, tightening his muscles around Derek's cock, and Derek grabs at his hips.
“Stiles--” It's wrenched out of him.
“Enjoying the view?” Stiles asks, sounding impatient. “If you don't move soon I'm going to die--”
“Oh,” Derek says, feeling chagrined. He eases out immediately, almost all the way out, thrusts with in with controlled momentum, too quick and not quick enough. Stiles retakes him, can take him now, was made to take him.
When he pushes all the way back in Derek finds that he fits. By his fifth stroke Stiles starts to move with him, rising to meet the rhythm Derek sets, rocking forward and back on his hands and knees as Derek goes harder.
Stiles is still too tight, but Derek feels his cock stretching him out, and Stiles seems to be getting used to the stretch and burn. Seems like he likes it, even, since Derek can smell the way the scent of pain is receding and desire is mixed into the run of sweat across his skin.
After a while Derek takes his hands from Stiles' hips and palms them down his arms, putting a good amount of his weight on Stiles' back. Stiles' arms are muscled, strong; not like Derek's, but he has a whipcord build that holds them up. Derek cuffs his fingers around Stiles' wrists, and he starts to rut the way a wolf would, Stiles caught beneath him.
The angle is deeper now. Derek is ramming into him, riding him, has forgotten how recently they began this, how new Stiles is. Somehow Stiles is taking all of him, voicing inarticulate words that sound made-up, or else Derek is too far gone now to understand speech.
Being in Stiles feels better than running through the woods, and wilder. He claims Stiles, fucks him bathed in sweat and moonlight, makes Stiles his and tells him in his ear that he is. Stiles bites off a cry, tries to stifle it, and Derek moves a hand from pinning him down to Stiles' cock, hard again and all too ready.
Stiles comes on Derek's upstroke, with Derek thrust deep. Derek shifts his hand to feel the hot streams as they shoot out, then puts slippery fingers back around Stiles' pulsing cock to urge the last. Stiles comes loud and shuddering with the enthusiasm of youth, rearing back to pull Derek's cock into him. He slips down onto his elbows, panting and trying to catch his breath, failing, flailing. He comes like Stiles, like Derek had thought about when he let himself imagine this.
“Holy fuck,” Stiles says. But Derek isn't done fucking him. He waits for Stiles to piece himself back together before attempting to push deeper again. Stiles sucks in a breath. “Derek, god. That was...incredible, but I don't know if I can keep up much longer--”
He's too close. “I only need a moment,” Derek murmurs. He runs a hand along the ridge of Stiles' spine, digs fingers into the tensed muscles of his back, rubs the globes of his ass. “I have to come in you. I have to.”
He rides him hard and fast and quick, with Stiles watching over his shoulder with his best bright-eyed stare. It doesn't take more than that. Derek buries himself deep and keeps himself in, flattening over Stiles as he comes, teeth at the nape of Stiles' neck and Stiles back with him, gasping underneath him, urging him on.
Derek comes and comes and comes some more, wondering if Stiles' research had told him this about werewolf physiology, but either way Stiles curves into him and takes it, takes all of it, takes Derek. Derek says his name at the peak of it, says “Stiles,” while he locks in like a key would.
Derek stays half-hard and holds himself steady in Stiles. He could fuck him again if he wanted and some nights, he suspects, the ability will come in handy. Tonight Stiles can't help squirming slightly against him after Derek stays anchored over him and he keeps pressing down.
At the two-minute mark, Stiles says, “Werewolf thing?”
“Werewolf thing,” says Derek. Then he says, “Incredible, huh?”
“You tell me.” He doesn't need to see Stiles' face to know that he's biting his lip. “You're not exactly Mr. Verbosity, you know.”
“I may be understated,” Derek says, only a touch defensive about it. “But incredible is an understatement.”
Stiles shoots a look at him, his eyebrows rising, a smile tugging at his mouth, and Derek lets his himself slip free at last. Both of them are wet and leaking, but Stiles is a mess. Derek gets up and snags Stiles' forgotten towel, paces back and turns him over, makes his hands be gentle now as he cleans them both off.
There's no concealing that Derek is hard again, that the sight of Stiles sprawled across the bed, pale freckled skin and ungainly limbs, is enough to make his heart beat hard and his head ache to posses. How he had stayed away before feels like a nightmare universe far, far away.
The moon is creeping over the windowsill, washing up over the bed. He could do it all again in a heartbeat. But he scrubs them clean instead, and drops his bigger body down over Stiles. Stiles is still breathing with a hitch, looking at himself, his cock resting, spent, the way his hands move. He looks more than a little shell-shocked, so Derek covers him with himself. Tucks in around Stiles. He's wedged hard into his thigh but he ignores it.
“You're good?” Derek has to ask. He can taste their mutual sexual satisfaction, but he needs to hear that Stiles had been with him the way he thought he had.
“Fantastic.” Stiles spreads his hands. “Save for sitting down maybe being an issue, never better.”
“I'm going to fuck you again within the hour,” says Derek, conversationally. “I'll help with the pain.”
Stiles squirms. “Save for sitting down definitely being an issue,” he says. “Oh my god, Derek, why haven't we been doing this for weeks?”
“Months,” Derek corrects, not proud. He rubs his stubbled jaw across Stiles' neck, scratches against his smoother cheek. “We'll have a lot of time if we stay alive,” he offers then. Knows he sounds hesitant.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. He stretches, full-bodied. “This party bus? So not getting off.”
The moon laps close but with Stiles against him Derek doesn't have to run. When Stiles pushes up to kiss him, his fingers threading Derek's hair, Derek exhales and reels him in. They kiss with their bodies already intimate, their tongues meeting, their lips pressed, sharp teeth to teeth.
Derek has smelled and tasted his mate before, but nothing is like this. Stiles' mouth parts under his and his tongue licks out, and he welcomes Derek into a new world.