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Stiles is certain his idea for his senior art thesis is genius. His advisor loves it, Scott thinks it’s cool, and he can’t think of anyone else in the history of the BHU Art Department ever having done this. Professor Morrell even told Stiles she was impressed with his work this past quarter, and if this particular project turns out well it might even make a publication on its own, outside of the senior class showcase.
The only problem is finding the models.
See, the stipulation for this year’s senior thesis projects is that you cannot collaborate with or feature any other student registered at BHU, and which means the pool of art students willing to do strange things in the name of art for free has dwindled down to nothing.
Stiles should probably work on his approach. Stopping strangers in the middle of the park with his camera and telling them about his senior thesis seems to work alright, up until he starts talking about the specifics, blurting out, “Would you be willing to pose for a nude portrait but not that kind of nude portrait--”
And they run away.
Stiles doesn’t blame them, but he wishes someone would just hear him out. He needs to photograph at least ten people.
The first person who stepped up was Scott, of course. His session went really well, with Stiles shooting a good few rolls of film of Scott crookedly grinning at him, laughing brightly and throwing his head back, looking carefree and amused in the natural afternoon light filtering through his house.
Stiles is also grateful that Allison graduated from BHU a quarter early, so technically she’s not a registered student anymore and can still participate in his project. Lydia he catches on a long weekend visiting Beacon Hills from her engineering program at MIT. They both agree to do the photoshoot, and their portraits turn out great-- Allison can’t stop giggling the entire time, and all her photos are really fun and lighthearted. Lydia, on the other hand, stared unabashedly ahead, clearly unaffected, posing glamorously. A long time ago Stiles might have felt really embarrassed by this, but he’s moved on from his awkward crush in high school and laughs with her as she doesn’t react at all to his, ahem, particular creative caveat of this assignment.
Scott hooked Stiles up with a few of his classmates from his vet school, and Stiles was on a roll for awhile, actually thinking he can finish this project. He’s got enough for a great portfolio so far, with a wide range of expressions from a girl drinking her coffee while averting her eyes and trying not to laugh (Stiles does not feel insecure about this in the slightest, the whole point of this project was to put himself out there), to an older guy making an uncomfortable and reluctant face. It’s hilarious and artistic and edgy once you know the context, and Stiles is so so almost done.
He just needs one more model.
Stiles sighs in frustration, pulling his wet laundry out of the washer at the 24-hour laundromat off of campus. He pets the artfully decorated washing machine, trying not to make a jealous noise over one of the most creative and amazing BHU Art & Design senior projects. Each washer here is overlaid with a colorful design, making the place cheerfully kitchy.
While the lively decoration was the reason Stiles was drawn to this laundromat, Mr. Thursday is the reason why Stiles continues to come back. See, there’s another place much closer to Stiles’ apartment, and also a quarter cheaper to wash, but one warm evening in March, Stiles had popped into the laundromat, amused by the arty washers, and then loaded up his clothes, humming to himself, only to look up and see this gorgeous stubbled guy, sitting on one of the provided wheeled baskets next to the dryers, wearing only a loose-fitting white tank top that dropped precariously low on his hairy chest, and very, very small and tight black boxer briefs. He had been reading a newspaper and glared at anyone who looked at him twice. Stiles had walked past him on his way to the dryers and had pointedly tried not to stare at the way the man’s muscled thighs were all on display. The guy gave Stiles an unreadable look when he passed by, and Stiles had been pleased that he hadn’t fallen on his feet or said anything stupid like “Please let me rub my face on your beard.”
Stiles had come back the next Thursday, and the Thursday after that.
One memorable Thursday, the guy had been wearing tight black jeans and a soft looking gray henley, and he’d spilled detergent on his shirt. He’d then shrugged out of the shirt, revealing a tanned, muscled chest with a smattering of chest hair, and toned abs with an enticing trail of hair leading south. Stiles had watched him toss the shirt casually into his laundry load and continue reading his book, ignoring everyone in the laundromat.
Stiles wouldn’t say he’s a shy person, not at all, it’s just that Mr. Thursday is all kinds of intimidating. He’s seen many a girl-- and two guys (Stiles isn’t counting, okay, he’s just observant) approach Mr. Thursday, trying to get their flirt on, and Thursday just shuts them down. Mr. Thursday always scowls, his eyebrows emoting ridiculous amounts of uncomfortableness everytime he is approached, body language tense, jaw tight, arms crossed. Stiles has only heard him give polite, terse responses, a quick “I’m not interested” or “No thank you.” It’s clear that Mr. Thursday does not like being hit on. At all.
Stiles can totally understand; the man is just here to do his laundry.
Doesn’t mean Stiles can’t appreciate the view. Those arms look fantastic, especially when Thursday crosses his arms, biceps bulging in the tight sleeves of his shirt.
Today, Thursday and Stiles are the only ones in the laundromat. Thursday is apparently taking his time, slowly folding up a stack of clothes while waiting for one more load to dry.
Stiles carries his wet basket to the dryers, nodding once at Mr. Thursday who gives him a courteous nod in return. There’s a part of Stiles that’s a little disappointed in himself that he’s never progressed any further than slight eye contact and the occasional nod, but the man has really intimidating eyebrows, okay. Besides, Stiles is pretty sure if he ever tried to talk to the man it would come off as flirtatious somehow, and he doesn’t want to infringe on Mr. Thursday’s laundry time.
Stiles stuffs his clothes into the undecorated dryers (the student who did the art project had run out of funding halfway), sits on top of the machine and pulls out his phone to wait, sneaking surreptitious glances at Thursday’s back muscles rippling through his blue henley.
Going through his email is the same old stuff as usual, and Stiles flicks at his screen, deleting spam and scrolling through stuff for other classes he’ll look at later. He stops at a halt when he sees a response from Professor Morrell. Stiles had asked her if it was alright to have nine portrait sessions in his final project instead of ten, so hopefully this means good news and he doesn’t have to worry about his project anymore.
Stiles reads through the email quickly, stomach sinking heavily. “No,” he gasps in horror. “I can’t believe it, after all my hard work,” he whines.
Morrell is playing strict to the theme of “ten” this year, and all projects must incorporate or have ten of something, and nine is just simply unacceptable, according to her terse response. Apparently she suggested Stiles either find one more model for his current project or start an entirely new project of ten things. Stiles example that one of his photography classmates had only one model was met with the reply that Greenberg’s piece was emotionally evocative on a much deeper level than Stiles’ idea.
Fuck. Stiles has to be finished by Friday, he doesn’t have time to think of another idea, something more emotional than the really fun idea he has now.
Stiles flops listlessly atop of the dryers, groaning unhappily as the machines chug chug chug underneath him. The dryers vibrate underneath his cheek, and Stiles bangs his forehead repeatedly against the warm surface in frustration.
“Are you okay?”
Stiles looks up. Mr. Thursday is talking to him, a concerned expression flicking across his face. On any other day Stiles might be elated to finally make social contact, but right now he’s in a terrible mood.
“No, no I’m not,” Stiles says miserably. “I’m a senior at BHU and the stupid theme this year is ten and I had such a great idea but I only have nine models right now and I found them all through Scott who’s really good at convincing people that this is a cool thing while whenever I ask I come off as a pervert and now Scott is off at some veterinary training retreat for the next few days and I don’t know where to find--”
“What’s your project?” Thursday interrupts.
Stiles knows he has a tendency to ramble, but his laundry companion doesn’t look put off at all. Stiles takes a deep breath. “I’m a photographer. I’m doing a series of nude portraits,” he says slowly, waiting for Mr. Thursday to back away, but he doesn’t. “Portraits that aren’t traditionally nude. It’s a role reversal that I’m documenting, so I, the photographer, am naked while the subjects are clothed.”
Thursday looks him up and down for a second, and Stiles feels a little warm under his gaze.
“I can do it,” Thursday says, voice low and sincere.
“What?” Stiles sits up suddenly, nearly hitting himself on the pole sticking out from one the wheeled laundromat baskets. “Really?”
Thursday shrugs. “Doesn’t seem too difficult, and you seem nice. We’ve only been doing laundry together for three months.”
“This is the first time we’ve spoken,” Stiles says. “I’m Stiles, by the way.”
“Derek,” Thursday-- no, Derek-- says. “You seemed really upset; usually you’re all smiles and humming to yourself.”
“Yeah, I -- wait, you’ve noticed me humming,” Stiles says, surprised.
Derek’s lips quirk a little and then he pulls out his wallet and hands Stiles a business card. “Let me know when you want to do it,” he says.
For once, Stiles is too stunned to even consider making an innuendo joke.
Stiles looks at the address on the business card and then checks the building in front of him just to make sure he’s at the right place. He wasn’t expecting this at all. Derek lives in the nicest apartment buildings in the area around BHU. It’s a ten story, gorgeous brushed-steel finished building within walking distance of the college. Stiles had actually applied to be a tenant here when he was a sophomore but there’s a waiting list and the units usually get passed down from friend-to-friends when individual leases are up. There’s a gym and free coffee and donuts in the mornings, a swimming pool and a study lounge, and is far away from the loud party avenues of the frat rows of BHU.
As it is Stiles is stuck paying way too much money to share a ratty two-bedroom with four people, two of them also art students, and let’s just say it can get pretty messy (Stiles accidentally drank Krissy’s paint water one time.)
Stiles lets out a low whistle. There’s even a doorman standing just inside, who looks up curiously when Stiles walks in.
“ID,” he says.
Stiles hands over his student ID, looking at the sleek modern industrial layout of the lobby. His camera is heavy on his hip, and his heart is starting to pound with nerves.
“Mr. Hale is expecting you,” the doorman says, gesturing to the elevator. “Penthouse floor.”
Stiles strides into the elevator, suddenly nervous, pressing the “P” at the top of the elevator buttons, glaringly obvious with how special it is with the keyhole right next to the button. Stiles watches the numbers tick past, listening to the whirr of the car going up the building. Fancy fancy. He pulls his wallet back out, looking at the business card carefully.
Derek S. Hale. Bookbinding, Repair, and Custom Works.
Huh, that’s interesting. He must do pretty well for himself, if he can afford the penthouse here. Why does he do his laundry in a crappy 24-hour laundromat if he’s rich, then? Stiles is pretty sure this building has a nice laundry room, he remembers seeing it on the tour.
The elevator doors ping open, right into the entryway of the apartment. Fancy.
Stiles walks into the open loft; it’s nicely lit, the afternoon sun streaming in through the wall of windows. It’s kind of like a studio apartment with no walls, except instead of the cramped my-bed-is-in-my-living-room feel of every studio apartment Stiles has ever been in, this place is just a welcoming, gorgeous space.
“Hello? Hi, it’s Stiles? Your laundromat friend? Uh, you agreed to help me with my photography assignment?” Stiles calls out to the empty-seeming apartment.
Stiles can see an area that looks like office in one corner, with floor to ceiling bookshelves, and a desk with a laptop and other books and paperwork. There’s another desk covered in scraps of leather and parchment and small, intricate tools that Stiles has no name for. He walks past a beautiful stainless steel kitchen, and a couch and TV area. On a raised dais in the back of the area is a huge, comfortable looking king sized bed, more books piled haphazardly around it.
“Hey, sorry, you got here earlier than I expected,” Derek says from behind him.
Stiles whirls around and freezes. Stepping out of a billowing steam cloud from an alcove that must contain a bathroom, Derek smiles sheepishly at him. He’s toweling his wet hair idly with a fluffy blue towel, another one wrapped around his hips. Drops of water are sliding down his throat to his bare chest, and Stiles can barely look away.
“I, ah-- I’m supposed to be the naked one,” Stiles says, completely flustered. He manages to tear his gaze away from Derek’s torso, looking up, and somehow that’s worse. Derek’s green-gray eyes are looking back at him, curious and amused. He’s got a beautiful face. Stiles’s fingers itch to capture it on camera, all of it, not just for this project. He wants to put Derek in gorgeous lighting and take hours, days, weeks photographing him. All of him.
“I know, I was um, just getting ready,” Derek says. “I wasn’t sure what you want me to wear-- what sort of thing do you need for your project?”
Nothing. Don’t wear anything. Let me just photograph you, Stiles wants to say, throat dry. But he’s not here for that. “Just wear whatever you’re comfortable in,” Stiles says.
Derek nods, opening a chest of drawers, and Stiles looks away hurriedly, walking away from the “bedroom” area to give Derek some privacy. He busies himself by getting his film ready, loading it into his camera insert and advancing his camera.
“This okay?” Derek asks after a moment. He’s wearing a soft looking v-necked shirt and blue jeans.
“Sure,” Stiles says, trying to ignore the building butterflies in his stomach. He sets his camera down on a pile of books behind him. “So, wherever you’re comfortable and want to be. Like the windows are great, I love the lighting in your place, and the way the shadows of the windowpanes fall on your bed, it’s gonna be gorgeous.” Like you, he doesn’t say.
“The bed is fine with me,” Derek says, sitting down. “Bathroom’s over there if you wanna...change.” He stumbles over the last word, and Stiles is beginning to wonder what Derek really thinks about this. He had agreed pretty readily, and sounded like he really just wanted to help him out. But there’s something there, something Stiles can’t identify just yet.
“You’re gonna see me anyways, it’s kind of the point of the thing,” Stiles says, shrugging out of his jacket. “So, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone in the book repair business before. What’s that about?”
Stiles listens to Derek talk about his business. It’s interesting stuff, and clearly Derek loves what he does, taking painstaking detail to create and repair handbound books in leather. Stiles focuses on his words, nodding quietly and asking a few questions here and there as he gets undressed.
He’d figured the conversation would distract from the fact that he’s basically stripping-- it had worked for all his other portraits, but somehow Stiles is hyper aware every time he removes a layer. Derek is talking, but his eyes never leave Stiles.
Stiles grabs the hem of his t-shirt and yanks it off, feeling strangely exposed as the air hits his skin. It’s not chilly in the apartment, but Stiles can feel the subtle brush of air from an open window in the corner, making his nipples stand at attention.
Stiles’ face starting to turn red, and oh God, he hopes that stupid full-body blush thing he has doesn’t start right now. This isn’t embarrassing, that’s not what this is, okay. Stiles has no shame, he doesn’t really get embarrassed at all, he openly talked about his masturbation habits in high school, had no problem streaking down the hallway when he lived in the freshman dorms. And this particular project is all about Stiles being comfortable in his own skin and seeing how people react to him, not the other way around.
Derek watches him unabashedly, still talking about book-binding methods, but it’s clear that the focus isn’t on what he’s talking about. Stiles fumbles as he unbuttons his jeans. He thinks about what that look could mean as he unzips himself, pushing down the denim. He steps out of the jeans, looking back up at Derek, who is watching him with this focused, intense gaze.
Or maybe Stiles is imagining it, and Derek is just… he’s super into talking about his books, that’s what it is.
Stiles can feel his cock twitch in his boxers. Boxers that he’s about to take off, for the sake of art.
“I mean, it’s a type of art that’s rather underappreciated,” Derek says.
“Yeah, definitely,” Stiles says, pulling down his boxers and kicking them off. There. He’s naked now, no point in dragging it out any longer.
Derek opens his mouth like he was going to say something, then closes it. He glances down for a second, and Stiles knows without looking down at himself that he’s probably been at least half hard since he’s seen Derek in that towel.
He turns around to pick up his camera, and hears a sharp intake of breath behind him.
“Ready?”
“How do you want me?” Derek asks. The words hang in the air, and the tension is palpable. There isn’t any going back from it now-- Derek can very visibly see that Stiles is hard, see all of Stiles, basically.
“Ah, the point of this is I’m not going to give you any direction. I’m just going to be naked, and you can just react. I’ll just keep shooting until I’m done, okay?”
Derek nods, and Stiles holds up the lens to capture him.
Derek’s doesn’t as much react as just watch Stiles the entire time-- he looks at Stiles hungrily, blatant desire open on his face. No matter how much Stiles wants to set down the camera and reach out to touch, he keeps going, driven by some inspiration and the need to continue to take pictures of Derek. He steps closer, getting quite a few macro shots of Derek’s eyelashes, his lips, the edge of his jawline, his throat. The heady look in Derek’s eyes, the way his lips part when Stiles gets close.
Stiles feels almost drunk on the tangible feel of almost in the air, the way Derek doesn’t even move when Stiles inches closer, steps between his legs to get a close profile shot. Stiles stumbles a little when he leans backward to get a better angle, and Derek reaches out to steady him, right before Stiles rights himself.
Derek’s hand comes within an inch of his ass before he puts his arm down, and Stiles can still feel the heat that radiated from it, the sweet anticipation of touch.
Stiles’ cock slap against his belly as he moves, but it’s easy to disregard now when Stiles has so much to work with here. He needs to get the light flickering over Derek’s face, the way Derek’s eyes follow him as Stiles walks around the bed, and then back up to the other end of the loft to get a full body shot of Derek.
The afternoon creeps by, time slipping slowly as Stiles forgets himself in the moment.
They don’t touch. There isn’t any sound but the click of Stiles’ camera, and the occasional turn the film when he finishes a new roll.
He loads a new roll of film, advances it, and walks back towards Derek. The air feels warm, ripe with possibility.
“Stiles,” Derek says, almost a whisper. The word is a plea and a question all at once, and Stiles wants to hear him say his name like that again, awed and reverent, wants to tease it out of him, touching him slowly, but he doesn’t want to lose this moment, the building anticipation.
“Almost,” Stiles says, heart beating rapidly. “Just let me… I need to…”
Somehow Derek knows what he means, just nods and says, “Take what you need.” Derek shifts his hips, and Stiles realizes that Derek is hard too, straining against his jeans.
There’s so much want written in Derek’s body right now, the desire radiating from him is almost palpable in the air, and it’s all directed at Stiles. It feels intoxicating, and Stiles doesn’t want it to end.
It does.
He finishes his last roll of film, and the sun sets.
“Thank you,” Stiles says.
It feels like coming down from a dream. The romantic golden lighting is gone now, and Derek’s turned on his lights-- harsh and jarring.
Stiles gets dressed in a strange hurry-- he doesn’t remember trying to put his jeans on backwards, but apparently it happens, and then Derek is handing him a glass of water.
Stiles gulps it down gratefully.
“That was--” Derek starts.
“Yeah,” Stiles agrees.
They stare at each other, and Stiles is struck by the urge to kiss him, to coil his fingers into that dark hair, wrap his body around his and never let go.
“Do you want to-- would you like to-- “ Derek steps closer to him, and even though Stiles is clothed right now he feels much more naked than he did before. Derek reaches out to touch his cheek, and the slight touch rushes through Stiles’ body like lightning. “Stay,” Derek finishes softly.
Stiles steps back. “I--I can’t, I’m sorry,” he says. “Thank you for everything, that was amazing.”
He stumbles towards the elevator in a haze.
The rest of the evening is a mad, desperate rush to develop all the photos. Stiles spends hours late in the lab on campus, in the infrared light of the darkroom, working on all of Derek’s photographs. He forgets to eat, grabbing a power bar and a bottle of water from the vending machine when his body starts to lag.
Stiles prints all the photos by hand, mesmerized by each and every one.
His project is due in a few hours, but Derek’s photos aren’t going to work with the portfolio he’s collected so far, the tone, the tone is going to clash wildly. It’s not the same feel, not the same idea.
Stiles takes a deep breath and gets to work.
The senior showcase is incredibly exhausting, and Stiles has done his share of proudly talking to everyone who has been impressed by his project. Professor Morrell is pleased, and she’s willing to help Stiles publish his piece and maybe have it featured in a professional gallery outside of the school showcase.
Stiles takes his time, wandering around the gallery, looking at all the other senior’s final projects. Between completing his own work and getting it turned in on time, and then final exams for his other classes, Stiles has practically forgotten to do the thing and invite his friends and family to see the showcase.
Stiles grins when he sees Scott and Allison wander into the room and greets them with a hug. “How did you know? I totally zoned out during the last week--”
“I know, you get this one-track-mind mode when you’re trying to finish a project, it’s cool,” Scott says. “You told me when the thing was like a month ago, remember? I figured you forgot.”
Stiles leads them around the exhibit, right up until Morrell wants to introduce Stiles to her gallery owner friend. “My project is in the north wing,” Stiles says, waving them off.
He shakes hands with a lot of people, listens to them talk about his photographs, and feels ridiculously happy. He’s gonna ace this class, he’s gonna have his photographs shown in an art gallery, everything’s going really well.
Except, well. Stiles feels like an idiot, running away from Derek like that. He had gotten totally caught up in his work, and he really needed to finish the project, he wouldn’t have been able to stay, anyways. Not that Stiles didn’t want to, oh God, did he want to. It was just.
Ugh.
Stiles had meant to call Derek and apologize too, but realized he must have dropped Derek’s business card with his number in the building or somewhere, because it was definitely gone from his wallet. Technically Stiles knew where Derek lived, but he didn’t want to just turn up at his place, that would be weird. And then he had gotten caught up in final exams and stuff and just had no time for any social activity at all.
Stiles finally manages to steal away from the gallery owner and some of the other patrons, and finds his way over to the north wing where his project is located.
“You didn’t tell me you finally started dating your laundry guy,” Scott says, grinning at Stiles when he walks into the room.
“What?”
“I’m so happy for you,” Allison says.
“We’re not dating,” Stiles grumbles. “I just--”
“You changed your whole project!” Scott says, shaking his head. “I mean, its totally cool, and I think it works a lot better than like ten people laughing at your junk--”
“Allison was the only one who laughed,” Stiles says, giving her a mock-offended look.
Allison punches Stiles in the shoulder playfully. “Hey! It was the situation, okay, it was pretty hilarious.”
“Don’t worry,” Scott says, looking at the series of ten photos laid out across the wall. “I’m sure this guy didn’t think it was hilarious. In fact to him it looks the opposite of hilarious…” Scott trails off when he realizes Stiles is staring wistfully at the photographs.
Want: A Study In Ten Photographs by Stiles Stilinski is what reads on the placard, with a short and poignant description underneath it.
“You’re really not dating?” Allison asks sadly. “I mean, the way he looks at you…”
Stiles shrugs, looking sadly at his feet. “Ah, I promised my roommate Krissy I’d go see her project, I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”
They say goodbye, and Stiles grabs his jacket from the coatroom, intending to go home. He’s already seen everyone’s project, and now he’s going to go get pizza and celebrate the end of the quarter by eating his sorrows away.
There’s a slight commotion in the front room, someone arguing with one of the student volunteers tasked with guiding people to exhibits and answering questions.
“Are you sure you don’t know what the project is called?”
“I don’t know, it’s photography, a series of nude portraits--”
“I already told you, the only nude portrait series is in the east wing, painted by--”
“No, photography,” and Stiles turns the corner and sees a familiar scowl, eyebrows knitted together in frustration.
“Derek,” Stiles says, astonished.
Derek looks up at him, and his mouth falls open. He strides forward and reaches out, like he wants to give Stiles a hug, and then he withdraws his hand, unsure. “Hi,” he says. “I, um, I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to be here, but I wanted to see you again, and you didn’t show up on Thursday to do laundry.” He looks down at his feet. “This is probably weird, I mean if you wanted to call me you would have called me, obviously you’re not interested--”
“Derek,” Stiles says again. Derek stops talking and looks at him, eyes widening as Stiles steps closer, taking Derek’s hand. Stiles takes a deep breath, running his fingers over Derek’s warm skin slowly, and the touch seems to jolt Derek out of his rambling. “Come with me,” Stiles says, leading him through the halls.
The showcase gallery is at its busiest, filled with students and family and friends, and also various other interested art patrons. The room with Stiles’ photographs is filled with admirers at the moment, but Stiles pushes through until he and Derek are facing the wall.
Derek stares at the photos, and then back at Stiles.
“They’re all of me,” Derek says, awed.
In each of the sensuous photographs Derek gazes at the camera at different angles, face soft and beautiful in the natural light, eyes blazing with passion. The photos seem to stir with life, as if any moment Derek is going to leap out of the frame to claim the viewer in a passionate kiss.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call,” Stiles says quietly, squeezing Derek’s hand. “That afternoon we did the photoshoot, and it was all due the next day, I had to go develop all the film and print the photos and everything.”
Derek takes his other hand, holding on tight, looking back at Stiles’ face. “I really did want to stay,” Stiles says sincerely. “I mean, that was the most amazing foreplay I’ve ever had in my entire life, and--”
Derek leans forward and captures his mouth in a kiss. Stiles gasps at the sensation, kissing Derek back eagerly. It’s hot and claiming, with Derek letting go of his hands to wrap his arms around Stiles’ waist, pulling their bodies flush together. Stiles groans when one of Derek’s hands grabs his ass, and it feels so satisfying, to finally touch Derek like this, to have his tongue in his mouth, to--
The bright sound of applause startles Stiles out of the best kiss of his life, and he reluctantly pulls away from Derek’s lips to see what’s happening.
“You didn’t tell me you added a performance piece,” Morrell says from the corner, raising an eyebrow.
Stiles narrows his eyes. “It’s not a performance,” he says. “Not a public one, anyways. Come on, Derek.” He tugs on Derek’s hand, heat running through his veins, and they’re only halfway down an empty hallway when Derek presses him to a wall, kissing him deeply.
They barely make it to a supply closet.