(that last one is a sorta but i'm tagging anyway in case)
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"What?" comes the whisper, dragged out of him, dripping with every exhilarating, stifling, annoying, soft, safe, rescue, hope moment that they have ever spent together.
"He loves you," it says, splaying one palm over the other atop his heart, face mimicking sincere, "to a ludicrous extent, really. Do you know how many picturesque images of you and he together I had to shove out of the way just to get to where I am now? It was pitiful." It presses forward, slow, and Derek inhales sharply, acutely aware that if he hurts this thing, he'll hurt Stiles.
He doesn't even need to question that claim, that this is possession instead of shape-shifting, magic, or illusions. It's residing within a body, surrounded by a scent, that Derek has mapped extensively, memorized, traced and retraced over and over again, secretly, devotedly, he knows Stiles better, he's sure, than he knows himself. And he's never even touched him.
"He doesn't love me," he mourns, assured, his back foot shifting from toes to flat as he pulls away, crouch-crawl, wary eyes latched, desperate.
"I could show you," Not-Stiles purrs, "don't you want to see? Don't you want to know?"