Where we will well roam

Stiles sits at the mess table, leaning back against it so casually as he often would when he was still alive. His hair, saturated with water, is still bleached blonde at the tips from years of hard labour in the fields of the hot West Indies. His fingers tap on the grained wood, long, bony, and tanned brown, knuckles pronounced and tips calloused. Oh how Derek loved to feel those fingers wrapped around his arms, stroking down his neck, running across his lips. Stiles smiles at Derek and a trail of blood runs down his cheek. His smile is so beautiful, so captivating, Derek almost doesn’t notice the hole in his head.Or the one where Derek is a pirate captain, but he wasn't always.