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Birthday rimming for Jo

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“Shit, Derek, oh god, fuck, shit, fuck, ohgodohgodohgodohgod,” Stiles babbled into his pillow.


He'd have been embarrassed at himself if he'd had the brain cells to spare, but fuck it, he just didn't. They'd all flown out of his head something like half an hour previous, when Derek had tackled him to the bed. Stiles had made a token complaint, of course, because while it was painfully obvious that Derek made Stiles go stupid with lust most of the time it wouldn't do to give the fur face a big head or anything. Stiles had stuff to do, okay? Important stuff! Like writing papers and doing research and making heart-healthy dinners for his dad and... anyway, Derek got quite enough of a confidence boost from how easily he turned Stiles into silly putty. There was no need to make it worse.


Not that Derek's confidence wasn't well earned.


Stiles very nearly sobbed as Derek scraped his teeth across the puckered ring of Stiles' hole, pulling back to blow a cool breath across it, just to see it clench, because he was a filthy pervert. God, Stiles loved him. Spit was dripping steadily onto the bed, everything was slick and hot, and Stiles felt he could die happy just from the sheer, dirty pleasure of it. Derek's whole face was a mess of drool and sweat, since he most definitely didn't hold back, shoving his face against Stiles so hard there was probably gonna be beard burn in some very, very intimate places in the morning. And Stiles couldn't care less.


“Derek, jesus,” Stiles hissed, cross-eyed from how every stab of Derek's tongue into the center of him made him want to scream or come or cry. Possibly all three. Probably all three, considering how he already felt a tear smear into his pillow as he sobbed and begged. All pride had officially been thrown out of the window the first time Derek had done this to him, several months back. Stiles had been wary of it, appreciating it in theory, but in reality not liking the idea all that much, too preoccupied with the hygiene issues and the ingrained shame of a mouth in contact with something so fundamentally tainted.


He hadn't given a single thought to how it might feel.


Derek could make him come from this alone. They knew this from experience, a fact which Derek still smirked about every time it was brought up, that smug son of a bitch. But he had no room to talk after that one time Stiles went fanfiction on him, and discovered a couple of truly interesting kinks that they never ever talked about, if Derek had his way, but which nevertheless got him off in two minutes flat. Derek wasn't the only one entitled to a bout of smugness every now and then.


“Please,” Stiles begged. “Please, Derek, please!” But Derek obviously wasn't in the mood to listen, because he slapped Stiles' hand away as it snaked down towards his cock for the fourth time. “Goddammit, you bastard, I need to come, please lemme come!”


His voice was wrecked already, and he didn't even want to think about what he would look like after this, flushed, tear-streaked and used. The fact that Derek got off hugely on seeing Stiles like that should probably concern him more than it did.


“No,” Derek rumbled against him, his words vibrating Stiles' most intimate places. “Just this. Just me.”


Derek sounded wrecked too, and that more than anything made Stiles nod against his soggy pillow and push back against Derek's lips and tongue, working with fresh determination. “Fu-huuck,” Stiles whimpered, over-sensitive and on edge, but just not close enough. “Derek, please, fuck, more!”


More of what he wasn't even sure of at that point. He just knew he wanted to come, and what Derek was doing wasn't enough. They weren't gonna get him there this time, not from this alone, Stiles was becoming more and more sure of it.


“It's not gonna... Derek, I can't...”


“You can. I know you can,” Derek insisted, and Stiles was bracing himself to call things to a halt because he was getting sore, and it was clearly not working... when something suddenly felt very different. The hands spreading him wide felt suddenly coarser, the fingertips adding tiny pinpricks of pain where they dug in, and Derek's tongue abruptly seemed both stronger and firmer, dragging against Stiles' rim with substantially more force, making him cry out from it. He cast one startled look over his shoulder, caught sight of the glowing red eyes of Derek's beta form as he tongue-fucked Stiles, letting out little pleased growls against him, mindful of the fangs, but otherwise looking like he was literally trying to eat Stiles, and that was it. Game over. So long and thanks for all the fish.


Stiles wailed pitifully and jerked so hard he almost cracked his skull on the headboard as he came and came and came. Derek kept tonguing him through it, and it felt like it would never end. When Stiles finally felt one last spurt wrench itself from him he let out a heartfelt groan, and collapsed onto all the wet spots of drool, tears and spunk soaking his bed, honestly not giving a shit. Derek obviously got what he wanted as well, because Stiles could barely have counted to ten before hot splatters of yet more come streaked up his back, as if he wasn't filthy enough already.


But at least Derek seemed happy to share the filth, because he just collapsed right on top of Stiles, smearing the various fluids between them, his hands gentle and claw-free as he pawed at all the parts of Stiles he could reach, tender and – of fucking course – smug.


“Oh my god, you are such a perv,” Stiles rasped into the pillow, and Derek hummed as if he was perfectly happy being labeled as such. Which he probably was, the great big weirdo.


“Pot and kettle, honey.” God, even Derek's voice was smug now.


“I'm sorry, remind me again who got off on the idea of knocking me up?”


“I'll remind you who got off on it too, if your memory is really that bad,” Derek chuckled.


“Fuck,” Stiles groaned. “You're not fighting fair, my brain is goo right now, I can't win this.”


“You started it.”


“You took the bait,” Stiles whined. “Because you're an asshole.”


Derek actually laughed at that. “You can't expect a predator to pass up wounded prey, can you?”


“Oh, shut up.” Stiles shifted against his pillow and winced. “Aw, ew, this is so gross.”


“Mm hmm,” Derek rumbled and licked a broad path up Stiles' sweaty, spunk-streaked back.


“I take it back. You're gross.”


There was a pause before Derek spoke again, apparently too busy licking Stiles clean to bother with conversation. “Mmm. You love it.”


“No,” Stiles protested, “I love you, and therefore tolerate the filth.”


This at least made Derek shut up, because while Stiles had made it obvious on several occasions just how much actual mushy, gushy love he harbored for this cranky-ass werewolf, Derek was still shocked quiet by it every time, still struggling to believe it. Which in turn made Stiles get that swoopy feeling in his gut all over again, because it was still so surreal that anyone would be shocked silent with awe over being loved by someone like Stiles.


“Lucky me,” Derek said, trying for levity but utterly failing, his voice going all raspy and tight.


Stiles decided to save Derek from the big, bad emotions by rolling over and grinning at him. “Oh, you have no idea, wolfy, because as soon as my legs start working again, you and me are gonna change these sheets, and then I'm gonna drag you to the shower. And if you're a good boy and scrub all your jizz off my back, there's totally gonna be round two in it for you.”


The crooked smile was all Stiles needed to see to know he'd succeeded. “Round two, huh?”


“Oh yeah.”


And if it escalated to include round three, nobody complained.