LEBANON, KA
STILES' P.O.V
Stiles churned in his sleep, a grin on his face as he rolled over onto his back. He moved one of his arms to drape over his stomach while the other moved to tuck itself under his head. The dream he was having took the expected route he knew it would, a wet one. It was normal for Stiles to have these kinds of dreams. Though they didn't happen very often, when they do, it was only after he talked to a certain werewolf does he have these dreams.
Derek Hale.
A tall, dark-haired man with brooding eyebrows and a facial expression that always made him seem like he was in a bad mood. Stiles never gave much thought to his sexuality. Sure, he's had fleeting crushes on guys before, but none like this before. It all started when he and Scott suspected Derek of being a murderer. It sounds bad, but it turned out that Derek was innocent. Ever since then, Stiles has found himself pining after the werewolf. He doesn't have the guts to tell him how he feels. He knows that Derek would never feel the same. And, his solution to that was having wet dreams about the sour wolf and pining from afar.
The dream continued to progress, becoming more steamy. Stiles began making soft sounds, letting out little moans. He wanted to stay in this dream forever. Unfortunately, he was stirred awake by the slight creak of his door being opened, followed by heavy footsteps creeping into his room. He was still half asleep, so he didn't pay any mind to it.
"Dean," A stern voice said.
"Dean, wake up!"
Stiles groaned, he was shaken awake by his shoulder. He smacked the hand away that woke him up, assuming it was his dad waking him up for school.
"Noo...five more minutes, dad," Stiles grumbled in protest. He slowly moved to have his back facing his dad and cuddled into his blankets, tucking his arms around his pillow as he brought it closer to him. There was no way he was ready to get up right now, not after the dream he was having.
"Damn it, Dean, wake up!" Came a warning before Stiles' pillow was yanked from right under him, and then hit in the head with it.
"All right! I'm up," Stiles yelled, kicking the covers off himself like a toddler would. He moved into a sitting position and ran a hand down his face. He yawned, stretching away any remaining sleep he may have as he blinked his eyes open. But instead of his dads usual beige uniform to greet him, it was a tall, flannel-wearing man with chestnut-brown, long wavy hair.
"Dude, what the hell were you dreaming about? I could hear you all the way from the library," The man implied, looking slightly disgusted.
Stiles couldn't bring himself to speak. Was he dreaming? He rubbed at his eyes with the palms of his hands. He even went as far as to pinch himself, but at last, he wasn't dreaming.
"Um,"
His words fell short. There was nothing Stiles could think of to say at the moment, nothing that would make sense, at least. So he just stared blankly at the man and took in his surroundings. He definitely wasn't at home or in his room anymore, that was for sure. The walls were concrete, no windows in sight, barely any decorations except for one dresser with just a few pictures in frames, a nightstand next to the bed with a lap and...was that a porn magazine? All in all, it looked a bit lonely in here.
