The feeling slips over him three, sometimes four times a day now. Lying in bed, usually well after he’s gone to sleep, he’ll find himself being dragged back toward consciousness by slow, sliding touches across his skin. It’s not that bad at night. It’s… fuck, it’s a wet dream. Of course it’s not bad. The pressure of another body pressing against him, warm lips dancing across his neck and chest.
This isn’t a new thing, for him. Fantasies have been doted on Derek since he was old enough to understand what they were - stray sparks of them shooting through him in grocery stores, on the street, even in classes back in high school. He’d only known that Paige was interested him in the first place because the Fantasy he’d started experiencing after meeting her had carried the distinctive rosin-and-brass scent of the practice room.
Derek knows perfectly what he looks like, and he’s gotten used to being an Object. At this point it’s more of a hassle, honestly, than anything. But in the past few years they had always been quick, passing things, fleeting flashes of heat, here and gone just as quickly in the bustling, distracted way of big city life. Since moving back to Beacon Hills, though, things have intensified. Derek has no idea whose interest he’s caught, but clearly small towns make for big imaginations.
The midnight Fantasies are almost always slow, deliberate things, hot and heavy kissing that goes on for minutes at a time, hands that trace teasingly over the lines and angles of his body, leaving him writhing for friction he won’t find.
The flashes don’t just happen at night, though. Sometimes in the morning - in the shower, Derek thinks, if the wet slide of the phantom body against him is anything to go by. In the mornings it tends to be quicker, rougher, and Derek has started scheduling his morning runs for an hour later than he used to, ever since the time he’d found himself sinking down against a tree in the middle of the preserve, trembling at the sensation of a hot mouth sliding over his cock. A passing dog walker had looked scandalized, then sympathetic, tutting about a lack of consideration.
The thing is, Derek should be scandalized too. There aren’t exactly laws against the policing of Fantasies - there had been riots about 30 years back when the subject had first been raised, talk of Big Brother and mind police and other things that had gotten the subject dropped before it had even been seriously considered - but it’s a common courtesy in most circles to cut off your Fantasies before they get too intense. Only the very young, the people who haven’t had much experience with being an Object firsthand, allow themselves to fall into drawn out daydreams like the ones Derek is experiencing.
He should probably be annoyed. It’s inconsiderate, is what it is.
He finds himself looking forward to them, instead.
Of course, there are times that they’re incredibly inconvenient. The ones he can’t anticipate, can’t plan ahead for. The ones that take place in the middle of the day when he’s out grocery shopping or training with the pack or, god forbid, near Peter. Whoever has fixated on him clearly has an easily wandering mind.
And the Fantasies during the day tend to be the most intense.
A body pressed flush against him, his own hands gripping wrists that twist and writhe without any true intent to escape. Biting kisses, his own lips bruising with the pressure as they rake across a long plain of exposed flesh. Naked cocks grind slickly together, setting the body against him shuddering. He frees one hand just to have it grasp at his hair, tug sharply. There are sounds vibrating out of that throat, but Derek can’t hear them. He wants to. Wants to hear what he’s doing. He wants that voice screaming his name…
Stiles drops the pen he’d been fiddling with and the clatter knocks Derek straight out of the Fantasy. He pushes himself too hard from his place against the wall, and Scott stops to stare at him. He’d been explaining the territory lines he’d recently drawn out with another pack from Beacon County when the Fantasy hit. Stiles looks up from the map he’s been staring at intently, Erica and Boyd glancing up from their place on the couch. The entire group is suddenly staring at Derek. He feels himself flush, hand going reflexively to his mouth as though to wipe away evidence of a kiss that never happened.
Erica catches on first, leering, and Derek’s best warning glare doesn’t do a thing to stop her from grinning wide and announcing “ooh, look who’s lost himself in a Fantasy. Most of us know how to shrug those off, Derek. Unless you were enjoying it?”
Most everyone just rolls their eyes. Stiles, possibly the least experienced at all of them in this area - he constantly complains about how unfair it is that he has to know just how little interest he generates - flushes and looks away.
Derek just scowls at the lot of them, turns on his heel, and stalks into the kitchen.
As soon as he’s out of sight, he can’t help pressing his forehead against the refrigerator and reliving the last few seconds of the Fantasy. The taste of that neck against his tongue, long fingers gripping in his hair, urging him on as their sweat-slicked bodies ground together.
In the living room, Stiles flushes, dropping the pen again.