Okay, so: magic Stiles, right. Stiles training to become Scott’s emissary. The crux here is that Scott got bitten but Derek never showed up in Beacon Hills— I’m not exactly sure about the details, WHATEVER, the point is, Deaton is currently teaching Stiles about diversion spells. Y’know, projecting visual illusions, altering someone’s perception of reality, that sort of thing. It’s all pretty bad-ass in theory but there’s a lot of sketchy powder involved and the main component is belief, something Stiles still rolls his eyes at because he personally prefers things to be a little more sciencey, but whatever. He practiced all afternoon and Deaton seemed pleased, told him he seems to really have a knack for these types of spells.
When Stiles gets home he’s still covered in sketchy powder and there’s pressure building behind his eyes, so he figures he’s earned himself a nice long shower and a good jerk-off session. His head’s still aching so instead of putting on porn he conjures up his favorite jerk-off fantasy. He comes hard enough to make his toes curl and sleeps like a log afterward.
The next day is a Saturday, so he goes to the clinic for his morning Herbology class with Deaton and walks straight into a fucking wall because—
“Stiles,” Deaton says. “This is Derek.”
His jerk-off fantasy is standing in the room.
It’s him. It’s definitely him. It’s 100% for sure definitely him, down to the dark hair and the bright eyes and the leather jacket and the perfect stubble and the muscled arms that could hold you up for hours as he pounded into you, rock hard, grunting, sweat pouring down his chiseled body—
Stiles’ jerk-off fantasy is standing in the room.