for the @sterekdrabbles 30/09/24 challenge. the prompt words were VORACIOUS, LOUD, and MILK. also tagging @sterekdrabblesgonelong as this ended up going long (884 words) xp
also found HERE on ao3 (where you can check the tags)
rating: EXPLICIT
Derek finally caves, thank fucking fuck, and succumbs to Stiles's feral wiles, allowing him to drag that disgustingly hot wolfy-ass beneath Stiles's not exactly fresh and not exactly sexy bed sheets for what is the B-movie prelude to (god willing!) the night's main event, the one that is hopefully going to see Stiles Stilinski get royally railed to within an inch of his Gay Virgin life.
Stiles—who is albeit inexperienced in this particular department but absolutely making up for that with a voracious sort of enthusiasm, thank you very much—is in the middle of sucking Derek off sloppy-style, the werewolf's not-actually-knotted cock (boo!) mercilessly bumping the back of Stiles's throat. Honestly, Stiles is absolutely loving the fact he's never had a gag reflex, and by all accounts so is Derek, only just as Stiles's watery eyes slip shut again there's a sudden and confusing thwap of something hot and sticky landing on his face that turns out to be a mix of precome and spit that's flicked up into Stiles's bangs and eyelids and fucking eyelashes. Stiles is about to try and do something about it when Derek is abruptly manhandling him to skillfully flip their positions, the werewolf now suddenly the one with a mouth stuffed chock-full of steel-hard cock (Stiles's. It's Stiles's cock, ohmyfuckinggod is it ever!).
Stiles is instantly shrieking Derek's name like a lunatic at having that brand-hot mouth clamped around his hard-on, so loud Derek has to shove all four fingers of his left hand into Stiles's mouth to essentially gag him—which will hopefully desist the neighbours from calling the Sheriff to tell Stiles's old man his only son could be getting his throat ripped out by a wild animal of unknown description.
It embarrassingly takes no time at all of Derek swallowing Stiles down like a champ (and giving his balls a glorious beard rash for him to jerk off over tomorrow) for Stiles to be dangerously close to shooting his load—directly into what feels likely to be Derek's fucking stomach at this point, because jesus fucking christ he's gonna come hard.
After another couple of dizzying seconds of unadulterated ecstasy, Stiles has to start slapping haphazardly and manically at the ball of Derek's shoulder with the palm of his hand, as if they're in a wrestling ring and he's desperately trying to tap-out of a full nelson.
“Nonononono!” he pleads. “Stopstopstop, Der, please, god, you gotta—or I'm gonna, y'know, and I'll—and it'll happen, and—oh shiiiiiiit, oh, man, oh, fuck, you cannot keep doing that with your tongue, big guy, seriously, or it's gonna be game over before it's even properly begu—oh my god!” he splutters like a fool, even more insistent in his rambling than usual with the insane levels of pleasure now shooting throughout every fibre of his body, like a trillion miniscule lightning strikes, all hitting him at once.
Derek completely ignores him, because of course he does, just keeps dangerously swirling his gorgeously warm wet tongue around what is definitely the most intense boner of Stiles's eighteen years on this planet. It's like his dick is not actually a dick at all but Derek's favourite flavour of popsicle. Amazingly, Stiles now knows that The D (or at least Derek Hale's fantastic D) does not in fact taste a bit like any sort of popsicle, least not one that Stiles has consumed; it's maybe more like salt-water taffy, only with less sugar and a lot more salt and holy mother of god, Stiles loves, loves, loves it. But even if he's trying his dumb best to distract himself from what he knows is the inevitable, to make this not-so-little slice of pure heaven last just a teensy bit longer, Stiles knows thinking about the taste of cock while getting blown by the hottest creature he's ever had the good fortune to look upon is definitely not helping his situation, not one single iota.
So Stiles thanks fuck that Derek chooses this moment to relinquish the divine vacuum he's got going on between Stiles's inner thighs via what are probably now obscenely swollen-red lips, releasing Stiles's epic erection with an incredibly filthy-sounding pop.
Literally suffering vertigo from the change in pressure around his junk, Stiles forces his head up to eye Derek (whose lips really are an obscenely swollen-red, which is even more outrageously hot than Stiles had imagined) from under hooded lids, just as Derek says, “I'm about to suck your deranged brain out through your pretty cock, Stiles, then I'm gonna milk you dry until you're begging me to stop so you better hang on to something and be careful not to bite off your tongue when I stab mine into your slit and use it to fuck your dick till you're crying, okay?” as if he's talking into the McDonald's drive through speaker to order himself a Big Mac meal with large fries and a shake and not unknowingly acting out a spank-bank worthy scene from one of Stiles's best wet dreams.
Hell, Stiles all but comes there and fucking then, because who the fuck says shit like that?!
His face is doing what must be a very strange mix of a smile and a frown as he just about manages to pathetically whine the words, “But Der, I really, really need you to fuck me!”
Yeah, he is practically crying with it.
Oh, fuck you.
Derek grins, then, and Stiles doesn't think he's ever been more his wild wolf-self as he licks at his canines and growls out, “What makes you think I won't be taking advantage of what I know to be your excellent refractory period to make you orgasm like a fucking freight train, at least twice, before I rail your tight little ass until dawn and give you several more, hmm?”
And honestly? Stiles has never shut the fuck up faster in all his life.
How come u don't expect me to get mad when I'm angry?
How come u don't respect me? Expecting fantasies to be my reality
Why don't you just sit down and…
