Derek gives Stiles an unhappy look, pulling his shirt off and letting himself take a moment to drink Stiles in. Pale skin. Little imperfections - beauty marks - that he wants to memorize. He laves at Stiles' collar bone, curling up off the bed to do so.

"You're perfect," he says, voice rough, then spends a beat leaving another hickie. He wants to mark every inch of him; where they'll be seen, and where they won't. Little, possessive tags on his skin.