Derek hadn't really noticed at first, how somedays, Stiles would come
back home, limping a bit. Or that he smelled slightly off, nervous or
anxious. Derek had always passed it off as dilemma over the current
monstrosity making their lives hell. He'd mostly ignore the limps and
at times pained expressions, because all of the guys are first string
for lacrosse. God knows that game isn't damage-free.
It's the third week into a blissful peace, after the pack has fought
off an angry coven of faeries. Stiles should have recovered from
whatever injuries he had, and it's the summer holidays. Derek refuses
to believe that the lanky boy is dumb enough to play for practice with
the wolves. So what could it be?
After hating over it for half an hour, Stiles glances over from the TV
which he'd forced Derek to buy.
"Dude, you look like one of those faeries' claws is still up your ass.
What is it?" Derek scowls at the stone-faced boy. When did that
happen? When did emotionally hyper-active Stiles learn to school his
emotions? Worse yet, Derek thinks, maybe he doesn't feel much at all
anymore.
It had been known to pretty much all that Stiles used to have a crush
on Derek. They never really spoke about it. More importantly, the
crush had apparently worn off, because aside from normal teenage boy
levels of arousal, Stiles didn't smell like he was drowning in his own
pheromones. Derek hadn't really noticed at first that the arousal was
gone; but when he realized, a sudden, slamming, out of breath feeling
had rushed to greet him. Completely unexpected.
Not that Derek likes Stiles too. No way.
"What's with your hip?" Derek asks, shaking off the uncomfortable ants
crawling around his heart. Stiles' neck tenses, and suddenly Derek
knows he's trying to figure out how he can lie about his answer.
"Stiles. What happened to your shoulder?" Grinds out Derek. 'I swear
to God this kid, if the faeries left some shit on him-'
"It's nothing don't worry about it." Stiles grins shakily, nothing but
a shadow of his previous careless one. Somehow he's controlled his
heartbeat, and Derek is truly afraid now. Truly afraid of how exactly
happy, bubbly Stiles has come across this method. He takes a deep
breath, the bitter smell of human pain trickling faintly through his
nostrils.
Faster than the teenager can probably see, Derek has crossed the room.
He yanks Stiles' shirt, leaving it a torn mess on the floor. A strange
rumbling sound resonates -it takes a moment for Derek to understand
it's him- as he takes in the sight.
Stiles' criminally low pants don't even make an effort to hide the
horrible bruises down their owners' waist. Derek focuses on the hip,
hearing it click and whine against the weight change as Stiles shifts.
Derek glances up, noticing the teenager's shocked expression. Clearly
he wasn't expecting this kind of reaction. Derek ignores the recent,
angry pinch marks showing how Stiles is managing his heartbeat.
What he does see is deeply disturbing; several deep, botchy, clearly
self done, suture marks. The ugly scars gouge deep around the younger
man's right hipbone and up toward his navel. A breath rattles out of
Derek and he closes his eyes, "Stiles, what are those?" The werewolf
is surprised by the level of control he's managed this far.
"Look, you don't need to worry about it; it's from back when Peter was
focused on fucking our lives up. It's been there forever, before I
grew out my hair. It's not that big of a deal."
Instead of reassuring Derek though, Stiles has just managed to punch
him in the gut. How could he have missed this? Because, as he looks
up, scanning Stiles' form, it's clearly not the only scar left by
Derek's presence in his life.
Although the scar on his hip is the worst one, there are ones that
scare Derek more. Like the one slashing violently up from his stomach
and hooking into his ribs. His hands are out of his control, gripping
the much more scarred, much more battle weary boy than Derek ever will
be. Derek could've never suspected. "Stiles, why didn't you tell me?"
Stiles croaks out a laugh, voice rough, "I didn't tell anyone Derek,
no one knows except Lydia because I couldn't stitch up my back myself.
I'm not going to make you beat yourself even more over me. Derek I
know you don't scar, but trust me I know what the lighter you keep in
your pocket is for.
"Sometimes, I think you forget I'm human, that I'm breakable. I think
everyone does. Lydia has her weird, complicated, banshee powers and
everyone else is a werewolf. I don't want to be turned. I like being
human; sure, sometimes it's annoying as fuck. And frustrating. I've
found the only way to keep your heartbeat advantage away. I figured it
out a little after your lighter.
"It's sick but hey, it's not like it's anything new, being hurt kind
of comes with being the only human in a pack. I'm always the target,
and I always will be." Stiles' lip trembles and he starts to pull
away.
Derek doesn't think; he just goes. Their lips scramble against each
other, before smoothing out. Derek hates that he can feel Stiles'
tears stick to his skin as the alpha's hands slip up to cup his cheek.
They run through his hair and then dip back down to the small of his
back.
Stiles presses up against Derek, whimpering as the werewolf finds the
scar on his hip. His fingers trace the smooth, puckered skin before
dipping lower, snapping Stiles' underwear waistband. The teenager
gasps as it whips back against his skin, he separates their mouths.
"Asshole," he whispers punching Derek's chest.
Derek chuckles, vibrations shaking both of their frames as they both
start. "You knew what you were signing up for since day one, idiot,"
mutters Derek. Stiles starts to protest before giving up to lurch back
into Derek's mouth.
Somehow this is a better response than anything else Derek could've
dreamed up. The kiss is more gentle now, lots of feather light pecks
that Derek peppers onto Stiles' face. But, he can't resist the nigh on
pornographic sight of those pink lips for long.
Stiles doesn't seem to mind much, soon the light, careful kiss seems
to change. Derek runs his hands back up Stiles, tracing his
surprisingly toned sides. Stiles' breath catches as the alpha brushes
his top ribs.
Something seems to click then, because Stiles scrabbled at Derek's
hair, tugging frantically down. "Too many clothes Derek. Too many
clothes." He pulls at the other's shirt, and Derek willingly pulls it
right over his head.
But before Stiles can get more daring in his demands, Derek gasps out,
"Stiles, bedroom. Bed. Privacy." Because no way does he trust Boyd not
to walk in here, just to be a shit, and make both of them
uncomfortable.
Stiles pauses, gulping in breath, his eyes impossibly close to
Derek's. They're still knotted together, Stiles' leg between Derek's
thighs. He shoots a look down at both of their bodies, "Oh- uh yeah,"
he says, starting to pull away.
Yeah right. As if Derek's going to let that happen. In a hurry, Stiles
has his legs up around Derek's waist. "I've waited long enough, I'm
not going to deny myself this." He mutters into Stiles neck, between
bouts of love bite sucking.
A/N: Don't worry Derek is not irresponsible enough to ignore Stiles' problems, not everything is fixed by incredible Sterek sex. Super inspired by hushlittlewolf's 'Paper Skin and Glass Bones' (on AO3 go read it) which is haunting and made me remember that scars exist. Anyways this was Ema's birthday present.
come bother me on my tumblr notdeadallison c: