Stiles is ticklish, so ticklish, and he tells Derek every time he does this because Derek gets so frustrated with him shifting around on the counter and almost jerking his head out of Derek’s hands. “I can’t help it. I’m sorry. My skin is crawling.”
Derek always huffs or sometimes growls if it’s gone on too long, face twisted in irritation. “Why do you ask me to do it then?”
Stiles tugs at Derek’s tank top. “I cut myself whenever I try to do it. Scott’s not around hardly ever anymore. You are.”
They do the same song and dance every time, Stiles wriggling and laughing and turning pink with the effort of holding still long enough for Derek to make a single pass against his skin. He gets a break between each one, Derek standing patiently — or at least as patiently as Derek is capable of — almost in the vee of Stiles’ legs, so close.
When the last chunk of hair is gone, Derek presses his fingertips to Stiles’ scalp, tilts his head at all angles so he can make sure it’s even, that there aren’t any patches at the nape of his neck. When he’s satisfied, he closes his hands on Stiles’ scalp and rubs. It’s the part Stiles waits for, would beg for if he had to. Derek’s fingers working over the fuzz, into Stiles’ scalp, deep and diligent and gentle, massaging until Stiles’ feels liquid, hot and red all over, hands fisting in Derek’s shirt, stretching it, pulling him closer until Stiles can press his face against Derek’s sternum, breathe him in.
He can hear Derek’s heart and the rush of air in his lungs and he’s overwhelmed by the smell of him, warm and musky and familiar, Derek’s fingers still pressing at Stiles’ scalp, gentling at the back of his neck, down his back to the hem of his shirt where he settles his fingers against Stiles’ bare skin.
Stiles’ heart races, every time, like it’s brand new even though there’s nothing that feels more right to him, more familiar. Derek tips Stiles’ chin up, two fingers against his jaw, effortless and soft and warm.
Stiles grins. Derek’s eyes are dark, pupils blown, mouth pink and open, waiting. “Thanks.”
Derek just palms Stiles’ neck and jaw and leans in to kiss him, devouring his mouth, fast and wet and hungry. Stiles’ hands slide to Derek’s waist, fingers grazing below the waistband of his jeans to find hot skin.
Derek never says, “You’re welcome,” but Stiles thinks manners are overrated anyway.
Friendly reminder that every single angel knows how much Dean means to Castiel.
And every single monster in purgatory knows how much Cas means to Dean.
I know you think this world is too dark to even dream in color,
but I’ve seen flowers bloom at midnight.
I’ve seen kites fly in gray skies
and they were real close to looking like the sunrise,
and sometime it takes the most wounded wings
the most broken things
to notice how strong the breeze is,
how precious the flight.
— “The Moon is a Kite”, Andrea Gibson
We’re just a bunch of teenagers. We can’t handle this.
The one where Derek only lets Stiles touch him without causing physical harm.