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The sheets under Scott are wet, and his thighs slide against each other when he moves, sloppy with slick. His hair is plastered to his head, his whole body covered in sweat, and he can feel himself shaking. The more awake he is, the more aware he is of the way his body’s clenching around something that isn’t there, his hole not even stretched wide enough for anything to fit. He needs it, though, feels dizzier with need the closer he turns towards the heady, spicy scent of Stiles.
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