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When Stiles wakes up the next morning, safe and sound in his narrow, slightly wobbly single bed in his dorm, one singular, unshakable thought flits through his foggy, sleep-addled brain before he groans, drags the covers back over his head, and officially declares war on himself.
He is an absolute fucking idiot.
Alpacas in Peru actually sound a whole lot better than facing up to the fact that he just gave Derek a blowjob in the back of his stupid Camaro.
Or: “I think I just gave poor Rudolph a facial, oh my God.”
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los amo tanto lpm
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“How do you want me?” he asks, and Stiles has to swallow down at least ten wildly inappropriate responses that flash through his mind; has to force himself not to answer, I want you in every way you'll let me.
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