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Derek’s world is black and white and red all over. Blood drips from his fight-wounds, paint box colors, scarlet, vermillion, crimson, and Stiles , unnerved, anxious, watches the holes close up like magic (no, it is magic, duh) leaving the red behind (one day the spell won’t work and Derek won’t stop bleeding).

The scuffs and grazes sex leaves on his skin darken as the blood wells up waiting for Derek’s tongue to taste and lick, wet and warm, disturbing, gross (hot).

But the tears Stiles cries, sometimes, just sometimes, when it’s all too fucking much run clear, salt-clean.

For now.