Hey hey my playmate

Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski. NC-17. ~3100 words. Established relationship. Enthusiastic consent. Bestiality (of the werewolf kind). Knotting. Inspiried by this incredibly NSFW pic by Jinxii. Show You What All The Howl Is For.
Stiles is definitely a special kind of brilliant to be running around out here half-naked in the dark with a werewolf hot on his tail.

Stiles pauses at the edge of the copse of trees he’s taken refuge in. The moon hangs low in the clouds, fat and full, lighting the stretch of scrubby forest floor before him like midday. His lungs ache from keeping his breaths tight and shallow and quiet. Sweat drips down the small of his back. The way looks clear.

Carefully, Stiles skims out of the musty old windbreaker he grabbed from the front closet, now absolutely drenched in his scent. He’s grinning as he hangs it on the tip of a thick branch. It won’t throw Derek off for long.

“I am a scared little bunny,” Stiles whispers to the wind, and bolts. Months of crashing around in the underbrush have taught him how to run quick and light through the leaves, where to let his steps land so they don’t go skidding out from under him. About a dozen feet from shelter, a sneaky, half-rotted branch surprises him, but the crack beneath his sneaker is more a crunch, dull and wet. He plunges into the trees and doesn’t stop until there’s one big enough to crouch behind, and he hunkers down, nestled snugly in a twisted, gnarly mess of exposed roots. Bark scrapes roughly at his scalp as he rubs his head against it, then he’s off again, avoiding low-slung branches, ducking under ferns instead of pushing them out of his way, twisting and darting and grinning so hard his cheeks ache.

He runs flat out for a full minute, ticking the seconds off in his head, before he crashes to a stop, his back plastered to another tree. “A terrified quivering little bunny,” he rasps, and struggles out of his shirt, dropping it. He shoves a hand down his jeans and gropes randomly around, biting at his lip and frantically thinking don’t get hard, don’t get hard at his dick. It doesn’t really pay much attention to him. After he pulls his hand free and rubs it all over some leaves, he limps away from the tree as quickly as he can. One day, maybe even some day soon, he’s gonna learn how to think his brilliant ideas through before barrelling headlong into them.

Probably wouldn’t be half as much fun, though.

His belt, he leaves strung jauntily between two more branches. One sock gets abandonded by an anaemic brook, and the other on a pile of rocks a quarter-mile away. Imagining Derek getting a snout-full of one of those fuses his grin to his face. He briefly regrets not bothering with underwear, proving his theory that forethought isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, because now he’s out of presents. There’s no way he’s running through these woods without jeans or sneakers. Gnawing on the ragged edge of a fingernail, he mumbles, “Guess I could just jerk off.”

A rumbling snarl echoes through the trees. Stiles jumps away from the boulder he’s crouched behind and takes off, going from zero to mach three and breathless to tramp down on the mad burble of giggles in his chest. Adrenaline does weird stuff to the brain. It’s not like he’s really scared. Just nervous.

Really nervous.

Derek’s a lot closer than he thought.

As he skirts the three-week-old remains of a campfire, he’s gotta wonder how many people are out in the reserve tonight. It’s off-limits after dark, but nobody cares. Or they’re just stupid. Stiles is definitely a special kind of brilliant to be running around out here half-naked in the dark with a werewolf hot on his tail.

A sharp howl goes up maybe fifty, sixty feet off to his left. He freezes, staring into the dark. “Jerk,” he mutters, shaking it off. “No, no– Asshole.” That kinda freeze-flight-fight response is ingrained. He’s not afraid of Derek. Not anymore.

This time, a short snuffling type noise echoes through the brush. Stiles waves his middle finger around and keeps going. The ground’s too rocky here, too rough. He’s gonna have enough scrapes and bruises in the morning already.

He’s about half a mile from the clearing they’ve been circling when the sharp, deliberate snap of a branch rattles through the forest. Hunkering down beside a tree, he glances quickly around. That was probably his cue. Maybe the clearing’s closer than he thought. His heartbeat is way too loud; he can’t hear anything. He’s not sure which direction to run.

Derek howls. That’s right fucking behind him. Shit, shit, shit. “Fuck,” Stiles hisses, and makes a break for it. Another howl goes up to the right and he swerves away from it, ducking last-minute under a fallen tree. The next howl that shatters the night is right fucking in front of him. “Fuck, fuck,” he gasps, “where is it, where d’you– Shit!”

Three hundred pounds of solid werewolf hits him square in the back. The ground comes rushing up, rocky and vicious, ready to shred Stiles’s face to ribbons, and gets snatched away just as quickly as they roll, Derek’s body taking the full brunt of the fall. Stiles grabs up two fistfuls of ruff and hangs on, tucked as close to Derek as he can get. They roll a couple more times, Derek’s thick-furred arms around his chest protecting him from the ragged ground, until they come to a slow stop with Stiles on his back on a springy patch of damp grass. Derek drops from a crouch onto his knees, caging Stiles in.

“I’ll admit that was pretty cool,” Stiles says. This isn’t the first time he’s cuddled with Derek’s wolf. He actually really likes Derek like this, kinda prefers it to the weird wolfman thing that’s got Derek’s face and the wolf’s viciousness, but all twisted up like the ugliest parts of both. Derek’s a hot guy and he makes a pretty sexy wolf, more sleek than hulking, silky-soft belly fur and cute perky ears. And a muzzle full of razor-sharp teeth made for tearing and rending and killing; a muzzle that’s currently snuffling right in Stiles’s left ear.

“Gah,” says Stiles, scrunching up, trying to get close enough to Derek’s bulk so he can’t reach, “tickles, tickles, fuck, tickles!”

Derek growls. Wicked claws curl gently over Stiles’s shoulder to pull him away, skim down to splay out in the middle of his chest and push him flat. For the first time since that morning, he can see the devilish red glow of Derek’s eyes.

Stiles says, “Hey babe.”

Derek lets out a huffy little growl that says he’s not impressed. Stiles, on the other hand, is completely impressed. There are shiny-sharp teeth three inches from his face, Derek’s hot, snuffling breaths sear his collarbone, his ribs, his belly, and he’s absolutely into it. Not even Derek’s claws shredding his jeans at both hips does a thing to shake how so very much he’s into this. He’s not a scared little bunny at all.

“I’m totally sick,” Stiles tells Derek as white-white teeth clamp on the shreds of Stiles’s jeans and rip them away. He hurriedly kicks off his shoes before Derek shreds those too, even though he’s so making Derek carry him out of the woods after this. “I am a sick, sick little shit, oh my god.”

Tongue still out, pressed hot and so wet to Stiles’s naked cock, Derek raises his smug wolfy eyebrows like he agrees, then licks Stiles again, wide and sloppy, rough, and oh god. This is the most amazing thing ever. He wants werewolf blowjobs every night for the rest of his life. He’ll give up regular old boring blowjobs forever, he doesn’t even give a shit.

“Why the hell haven’t you pinned me down and licked me all over before?” he demands, struggling to get his knees up. Heat crawls up his chest, a familiar flush made hotter by the night air being exposed beneath the wide, cloudless sky above him. “I– I– Oh, I prepped for this, I didn’t think you’d be, y’know,” he makes a vague motion with the hand not digging desperately into Derek’s ruff, “with it enough to pause for ease of use, if you know what I mean, oh god, oh fuck, yes please, don’t stop.”

With a last long, lingering lick, Derek stops. Cool air rushes in, making Stiles shiver. “What the fuck!” he barks. “I said don’t stop! Negative on the stopping!”

Derek whuffs, unconcerned, and noses at the outside of Stiles’s thigh.

“No way, buddy,” Stiles says, and crosses his arms. “Minus ten points for not communicating effectively in the bedroom.”

Derek’s lips peel back from his teeth in a soft warning snarl. Stiles fully embraces the sneaky little thrill that shivers up his spine. And the really fucking huge one that follows when Derek grabs him and shoves him over onto his belly. Derek climbs on up, all soft, warm fur pressed close, then the sharp, shocking heat of him settling big and thick between the cheeks of Stiles’s ass. That’s not exactly new, but it’s not exactly the same either, especially with Derek’s cold nose prodding at the hinge of his jaw and those claws gouging up great big chunks of grass either side of Stiles’s outstretched arms.

And Derek’s big. He’s kinda big anyway–and Stiles is no slouch, so it’s not like he had skewed expectations the first time he got it out of Derek’s pants–but as a wolf he’s fucking huge all over. The butterflies living in Stile’s gut give a sharp, eager twist.

Derek growls like he felt it, or he can smell the sudden rush of blood, the thick, heavy pulse in Stiles’s dick. Stiles shifts minutely, not sure if Derek’s gonna let him get away with it, but all Derek does is growl again and lift up enough for Stiles to get his legs under him. He’s shaking, and he’s man enough to admit it ain’t all anticipation. It’s a little like fear. The safe, exciting kind of fear that comes from scary movies on the couch in the dark, not the playing with fire kind that comes from tearing through the forest at midnight to end up pinned beneath a werewolf’s claws.

Claws that dance too close to his face and he doesn’t shy away. He twists to follow, and he licks them. They taste like dirt and green growing things, like the wild, and Stiles’s soft, vulnerable human mouth around them makes Derek snarl and shake and rut against him.

“Come on,” Stiles hisses. He digs his fingers into the grass and arches his back, bites his lip and tries not to groan too loudly as Derek’s cock drags over his asshole. It feels good, it feels really, really good, and he knows Derek’s happy to mark him like this. “You already admitted that you want to. Just being out here is admission, oh my god, Derek, come on, please.”

Derek growls. Stiles pauses mid-breath, stilling the deluge of dirty talk he spent the fifteen minute drive up to the reserve compiling. He knows that growl. Human or wolf, that growl never changes.

That growl means he’s gonna get his way, if he’d just fucking shut up long enough for Derek to kiss him first.

He tilts his head up without thinking. Offers his mouth, because Derek loves kissing, loves the close, quiet intimacy of it, loves that Stiles will let him do it until Stiles’s mouth is sore and his cock is a heavy ache trapped beneath Derek’s hand. Derek might not have actually told him much of this, but he knows. Derek’s kinda more bite than bark, a real hands-on guy.

Stiles remembers paws are all Derek has right now when teeth graze his shoulder. He jerks back, nowhere to go with Derek surrounding him, caging him in, and swallows hard. He says, “No, it’s okay, I, uh, yeah, just–” as Derek’s maw closes over his throat and most of the bottom half of his face. He holds really, really still, breathing Derek’s breath, surprised all over again that there’s sometimes a hint of toothpaste on it. It’s a strange reminder that no matter what the outside looks like, it’s still Derek in there.

When Derek releases him, he lets his head drop, baring the back of his neck. He bites his lip, the inside of his cheek, his actual literal tongue trying to keep quiet as Derek moves around up there. He’s not expecting Derek’s claws to curl around his thigh to hold him steady, so a tiny little gasp gets away from him, and then another sharper, louder one as Derek begins to push. Stiles forces tense muscles to relax, forces his lungs to take in air. Derek gives a harder push, more like a thrust, and Stiles groans deep and long in his throat as his body grudgingly lets Derek in.

“Oh my god, wow,” he says, fingers digging harder into the dirt. “Wow, I–” His throat clicks as he swallows. Derek’s still going, edging deeper, and Stiles is already so full, really fucking full. He’s not going to be able to take it all, no way. “Wow, are you gonna, I mean. I read up, you know? I get how this goes.” He’s okay with it. He’s so okay with it, he had to jerk off twice after the idea slapped him in the face. “But can you, before, you know, just a little– Yeah.”

Derek’s growl this time is definitely smug. Stiles doesn’t care. Derek’s in him, Derek’s fucking him, tiny sharp thrusts that almost drive him down into the grass, and he knows there’s more to take. He can hear it in the rough, eager noises Derek’s making, feel it in Derek’s heartbeat thudding against his back. He ignores the ache in his hips as he spreads his knees wider, arching his ass higher. Asking for it, begging for it, demanding it, whatever, he still doesn’t care. All he cares about is that Derek gives it to him, and maybe a bit that he doesn’t have a hand free to reach down to get off. He’s so hard he’s leaking everywhere. When he glances down, there’s a long, thin string trembling at his slit, the insides of his thighs are already shiny-slick. Even the fur on the back of Derek’s paw is wet and matted. If he could just fucking touch himself, he’d come so hard.

“Derek,” he groans, and sucks in a quick breath as Derek shoves up over him, claws pressing into the middle of his back. Stiles locks his elbows before he eats grass. It doesn’t keep him up long, but at least he manages a more controlled fall, resting his forehead on his arm as a cushion for the steady rhythm of Derek driving deeper into him, working him even looser. Making sure he’s ready for it. Knowing this is part of what he asked for doesn’t make the wait easier. It sort of actually makes it worse.

“Anytime, buddy,” Stiles says, getting a kick out of how the words come out all chopped up, breathy little grunts. “If you pull out first, I’m gonna be so pissed, you don’t even know. I’m gonna– Swift and terrible retribution, I promise. I– Fuck, come on, I gotta, I gotta come, Derek, I really, really have to, and not like last time I said I had to when I just wanted to ’cause I was tired waiting for my turn, I mean I have to come or I will die. Derek!”

The ground is snatched out from under Stiles again, except this time around he hangs out in midair for a couple seconds before he figures out he’s still on his knees. Derek’s still at his back, arm under one of Stiles’s, tight across his chest and hooked over the other shoulder, pinning him solidly to Derek’s underbelly. He wriggles a bit, enjoying the soft brush of fur on bare skin, then a bit more, because it made Derek growl. And then one more wriggle, a slow, careful one, because fuck, he can feel where Derek’s locked inside him, heavy and thick.

“Wow,” Stiles croaks. He clenches up experimentally, and wow. “Push it a bit.”

Derek snarls, his hold tightening.

“Don’t give me that,” Stiles says. “Either you push it, or I’m gonna reach back there and do it for you, and pal, trust me, you’re not gonna like it.” He pauses. “Or you’re gonna like it a whole lot, not sure.”

Teeth snap on the air inches from Stiles’s face, but Derek gives an itty-bitty little push. He whines right after, because Stiles’s body clamped down on him so fast even Stiles didn’t see it coming. Apparently it wasn’t all bad, though, because he does it again. Then he snarls and slides his claws down Stiles’s belly with definite purpose.

“Oh shit,” Stiles squeaks, “no, no, no, not the claws, not the claws. You like my junk! I like my junk! We both want my junk in one piece, no, no– Oh fuck, okay.” Stiles lets his head fall back, everything going loose and liquid all at once as Derek carefully pins Stiles’s dick to his belly, claws stretched way, way out of the danger zone, and starts rubbing. He growls when Stiles humps into it but doesn’t try to stop it, and the tug of his knot at Stiles’s rim feels really actually kinda fucking amazing. Like getting fucked really, really shallowly, or played with, and Stiles is a big fan. A huge fan. He is in the stands cheering his fucking head off, that’s how big a fan he is.

Or maybe he’s under them getting done by the MVP because he’s coming his fucking brains out. He grabs onto whatever part of Derek he can reach and struggles to lift his head, needing to see Derek’s claws on him, to watch his come smear all over them, make them glisten in the moonlight and turn Derek’s fur a dark, matted mess. It’s so filthy. It’s so good. He’s a dirty, dirty bunny.

“Also a genius,” he mumbles, twitching as Derek’s claws curl closer to his cock. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but all Derek does is hold him for a couple seconds, and then he’s being pushed down onto his belly again. Not exactly gently, but not exactly bad. He goes as easily as he can with Derek still inside him, his body hyper-sensitive and sore. That’s not exactly bad, either. Especially when Derek settles over him like a warm, heavy blanket. “You should always listen to me.”

Derek snuffles at the crook of his neck, ignoring him. He says, “S’alright, rest up. You’re playing fetch later. That was my favourite hoodie.”

End

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