Everyone always talked about Stiles’ moles. He’d spent years listening to his dad, or Derek, or hell, even Scott, joke about the odd constellations of darkened spots that traced the corner of his jaw, or the side of his neck. They were his distinguishing features. Like, according to Lydia, his naturally interrogatory expression, or his proclivity for all things flannel and layered. Or, if you were to ask his dad, his inability to keep his mouth from speaking any of his thoughts.
Although, whenever Derek mentioned his moles, which, granted, wasn’t often, he usually went beet-red because he knew they didn’t just stop at Stiles’ collar like the human told people they did. His lips had been, at one point or another, pressed over each one, tongue tracing lines between them and the odd patterns they created all the way down his back. He’d sunk his teeth over the swirls of them that dotted his ass, and nuzzled at the ones that step-stoned across the front of his hips toward other things that Derek also thoroughly enjoyed.
Stiles enjoyed it too, because, well, who wouldn’t love their own personal werewolf boyfriend with an oral fixation, a god-like body, and a delusional belief that the person underneath him was the most perfect thing in the whole goddamn world, moles and all?