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Derek steps through the walls, drawn by a force he can’t explain or deny. He watches the witch boy sleep and he wants to reach out and touch. This boy is in his territory. This boy is his territory—
No. The wolf growls, flexes his claws. The same claws that had dug into the boy’s chest.
Not enough, not enough.
Stiles, he remembers. Stiles. His.
He’s hit with the force of it: the need to touch, to claim in whatever way his wolf still can. He reaches out and he’s pulled into a dream (not that Derek dreams, not that he can).
He feels happy… Playful, even. Like he’s exactly where he should be.
Stiles’s hands are warm and Derek can smell sweat and skin and cinnamon and the sizzle of magic. He rubs his nose against the boy’s throat and his fangs itch. He rests his teeth against the fine pale skin, dotted here and there with moles.
Laughing, Stiles’s long fingers slip into Derek’s hair, hold him close, tell him to take.
Derek bites down and the laugh becomes a groan, Derek’s hands run over Stiles’s body.
Over his— His.
The dream ends, leaving Derek to stagger, disappear.