Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/477028.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Teen_Wolf_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Derek_Hale/Lydia_Martin
  Character:
      Lydia_Martin, Derek_Hale, Jackson_Whittemore
  Additional Tags:
      PWP, Lots_of_Sex, so_much_sex, Pre-Series
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-04 Words: 2138
****** the moon expanded and my blood thinned ******
by winterbones
Summary
     abandoning her drunk boyfriend to go home, Lydia stumbles across
     Derek during the full moon. pre-series. pwp.
Notes
     taken as an AU or pre-series (about a week before the pilot episode)
     when Derek first comes back to Beacon Hills to track down Laura. No
     excuse for it except porn.
He was a predator, corded muscles and tight sinew and brilliantly sharp blue
eyes, and somehow Lydia had become his willing prey. She didn’t know how it had
happened (oh, wait, yes she did; somehow she had gotten sick of watching
Jackson and his friends get drunk on cheap, high-calorie beer and arguing over
who had superior boobs Scarlett Johansson or Jessica Alba go figure and had
left his drunk ass in Danny’s capable hands to trudge back to his Porsche and
drive herself home) except that common sense had taken a backseat to hormones.
Run, he’d even told her that, one hand gripping the nearest tree, looking at
her like he wanted to swallow her in one gulp, get the hell out of here. And
there had been something in his eyes, something dangerous and terrifying and
thrilling, and even as the right side of her brain was ordering her legs to
obey, the left side was keeping her anchored where she was.
So instead, she had just stood still, perfectly still, as he stalked closer,
each footfall resonating in her pounding chest. Lydia had never felt so
hyperaware before—of the moon hung low and full in the sky, the smell of damp
earth and the way sticky September sweat collected at the backs of her knees.
Then his hands had closed over her shoulders and she had been aware of just
him—wild, woods and pines and the smell of leather. When he pushed her to the
ground, she really should have run but her stomach muscles had clenched with
want and she had wanted him so bad, this dark stranger in darker leather. She
felt caught up in his gravitational pull, unable to escape.
She’d worn a skirt, and he’d hiked it up around her waist in a bunched ball of
denim and lace. Her shirt—well who the hell knew where that had went but
wherever it was it was missing several buttons—and her bra hung from one arm.
Her panties were braceleted around his left wrist and why that should send all
her gears into overdrive Lydia had no idea but damn it was sexy.
“I’m not—” she tried to say, but her voice came out squeaky. I’m not that
girl—who hops into bed—though, to be fair, this isn’t exactly a bed—with the
first devastatingly handsome guy who tweaks his nose at her like she smells
like a particularly good all you can eat buffet, I have a bit more class than
that. It didn’t matter that he was vaguely familiar—he wasn’t from high school,
obviously, but she couldn’t shake the sensation that she had seen him
before—she definitely didn’t do this sort of thing. And she definitely had a
boyfriend, but all those good reasons fell away as easily as her clothes.
He lifted one leg, still strapped in its delicate sandal wedge, and eased it
over one broad shoulder, turning his head. His scruff rubbed up against the
smooth inside of her thigh, starting up a whole riot of trembling, and then his
kissed her. And not a gentle kiss, she felt his teeth press down, the blunt
fronts leaving small indentations.
“Whoa,” she said, leveling herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing?”
He turned his head, so his cheek rested against the paleness of her skin. “Got
a problem?” His voice didn’t sound all the way human, rumbling out from
somewhere deep in his chest.
Hell yes, she had a problem. She had a strict no hickies policy because she
found them rather cheap looking on the whole and Lydia Martin never looked
cheap. But she also had a real strict no sex in the woods policy because she
didn’t find dirt and bugs a turn on, and she was having a bit of a problem
sticking to that.
Lydia took a breath. “Only if you stop,” she said.
His smile was a white as the moon. “You’re the one distracting me,” he pointed
out, his voice lacking the growling thing and making him fell much more
accessible, attainable. Which was good, Lydia admitted, because she was about
to let him go down on her. Oh my God, what the hell is wrong with me, I need to
not—but then he turned his head again, nose pressing into her skin, and inhaled
deep. “You smell so good.” The growl was back in his voice, low and hoarse and
nearly feral.
Well, her noble intentions fell to the wayside again and stayed there.
He tongued his way up the inside of her thighs, fingers following the wet, hot
trail. He paused just before the shadowy junction at her center to suck on her
skin, and two fingers tentatively tested her slit. She really should be
embarrassed at how quickly she was getting wet; Lydia was really a foreplay
sort of girl, but her arousal was already slicking hot and thick down his palm.
He opened his mouth wide against her skin and mumbled an approval, letting the
sound reverberating against her aching skin.
There was another flash of his white smile as he lifted his face, angling his
mouth so his tongue could make the first pass through her slit, lapping up her
wetness. Lydia pressed a fisted hand into her mouth. It wasn’t likely anyone
was going to stumble upon them, but she didn’t want the next town over to hear
her scream. Two fingers gently spread her and the heel of her wedge dug not
gently into his back, though he either didn’t feel it or didn’t care, and he
eased his tongue inside her. Her scream was loud even muffled by her fist as
she arched up into him.
Jackson had only done this a handful of times for her and it had never felt
this good, like she was being devoured. And he wanted it too. She could feel
his pleasure at hers, the way his fingers pressed tightly into her thighs,
holding her place as tongued her. Her other leg fell over his shoulder as well,
leaving her completely vulnerable, and her free hand dug into the shorn, dark
hair on his scalp, the only thing keeping from her burst apart.
His thumb pressed down onto the oversensitive bundle of nerves at the top of
her sex, and she bowed so far back she could feel her muscles creak a protest.
Her hand left his hair, and moved to play with her peddled nipples, rolling
them between her thumb and forefingers. He snarled, and it jolted up inside
her, ruminating in the pit of her stomach.
Lydia’s predator made a slow, languid crawl up her body, and she felt the brush
of his cock against her lower stomach. She wound an arm around his neck as he
kissed her, still not gentle. She tasted the strange spice of her own arousal
on his tongue as he thrust into the dark cave of her mouth, and she sucked on
it. One big hand closed around her waist, fingers tight, and Lydia felt a heady
satisfaction that he seemed to be just as out of his mind as she was.
Snarling, he wretched his head away. “Jesus,” he said, and the feeling was
mutual, “what the hell are you doing to me?”
“I could—” He kissed her again, momentarily stealing breath and words. “—ask
you the same thing.”
One of his knees scooted upward, until the hard length of tensed muscles were
flush against her aching center. He flattened one palm on the ground and
flipped them, the dark, silvery world spinning so fast she was left gasping
with vertigo.
His cock jutted between them, thick and full, and he closed a fist around it.
“Do it,” he ordered. “Put it in.” His free hand ran down the length of her
ribcage, but there was no tension in the clasp. She could crawl off him and
leave, if she wanted to.
Lydia didn’t want to.
Her hand closed around his length, just below his. Balancing with one hand on
his chest, she lifted herself over him and worked his turgid length inside her,
while his sharp, intense blue eyes watched her hungrily—no, wait, were they
green; the light of the moon must be playing tricks on her eyes and then the
thought fizzled out like soda left in the sun. She panted, like her body was
running a marathon, and the man beneath her grimaced, as if the sensation of
being inside her transcended the bounds of pleasure and become something akin
to pain. Lydia felt drunk. Drunk on pleasure, drunk on the night, on the low
song of the cicadas in the trees, drunk on him.
She tossed her hair out of her face and rode him. Somewhere in the middle of it
their fingers ended up tangled together and pressed against her waist as they
moved in sync, while his thumbs moved in rhythmic circles over her hipbones,
creating an oddly tender counterpoint.
He reared up, but she was ready for him, their fingers untangling so he could
cuff both arms around her waist and hers could wind around his neck. His mouth
found hers again, her hair falling like a curtain around their faces, as he
hungrily swallowed her scream, her back snapping back and folding over his arms
from the force of her orgasm. His mouth sucked at the skin between her breasts
as he thrust into her, her spent body having no choice but to accept the heavy,
unrelenting plunges. Lydia felt like a wrung out towel and could only hang
limply in his arms, stroking a weak hand down his heaving chest.
Finally, he released a low, hoarse howl and collapsed backwards into the dirt,
taking Lydia with him. She lay flat on his chest, too exhausted to even
consider moving. With her release ebbing, she could feel the less than charming
things—the sticky humidity, the ends of her hair stuck to the sweat at the
small of her back, the wet dirt from where her knee half-rested on the ground.
Oh gross.
“So,” she managed, her voice husky, “this might be a bit belated—but I never
did catch your name.” There was some kind of joke here, but she was too
exhausted to struggle with it.
He didn’t answer her, but there was a subtle increase in pressure where his
hand rested against her hip. She tilted her cheek just enough so she could peek
up at his face, and blinked. His eyes—where they blue? They looked blue but she
could have sworn they were—her thoughts tapered off. Just ejoy the post-coital
bliss before the shit hits the fan, Lydia. The sensation of his fingers tracing
a path of intricate winding, twisting lines eventually became enough to lure
her to sleep.
Of course when she woke up, with the moon still suspended low in the sky, he
was gone and Lydia gave herself exactly five minutes to stare up at the canopy
of pine and curse the moon, the night, and men in general.
At least, though, he hadn’t left her naked in the mud. She wasn’t exactly sure
where the leather jacket had materialized from, but she wasn’t going to look a
gift horse in the mouth and when she turned her head into the sleeve, she
inhaled the faint, lingering scent of him.
“Chivalry isn’t dead,” she muttered, sitting up and working her skirt back down
her waist. “But it sure is asking for it.”
The way she saw it she could now sit here and have a mild panic attack about
her life choices, or she could drag her ass to Jackson’s car (Jackson oh crap
Jackson—don’t think about it don’t think about) and deal with it in the
morning.
Definitely option b.
Lydia picked herself up and brushed herself off, ignoring the prickling sense
that she was being watched. That was what had gotten her in trouble in the
first place. She was still wearing her wedges, but her legs were a bit too
rubbery to confidently walk in them and in the end decided on merely carrying
them by their straps in one hand. She found her shirt, stained and mostly
ruined, a few feet away and shrugged into it. It was missing three buttons, and
she glared at the tiny holes like they were the root of all of her woes.
When she managed to get herself at least into the driver’s seat of Jackson’s
car, she felt denim rubbing against the inside of her thighs—where she was
still ultrasensitive and achy. Cursing, she banged her head on the steering
well.
Somewhere out there a man was walking around with her panties tied around his
wrist—the jerk.
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