I've noticed there's been a serious lack of well written stories centering on Stiles suffering from self-harm. I am here to remedy that. I have experience with self harm, so this can be very realistic and possibly triggering. Please do not read if you are at risk for harming yourself. You are so much more than that.

Stiles rushed into his room, slinging his bag down on the floor. He made a bee-line for his desk, stripping down to his boxers as he did so. He flung himself into a chair, his breath coming fast. Panic was settling in his mind, taking root and send shivers through his body. His fingers trembled and fumbled with the lid of the box that held his blades. The shaking stopped as soon as his digits closed over the cool metal. This did nothing to quell his anxiety attack, however. As his breath began to sear his lungs, bright spots sprung up in front of his eyes.

A quick stroke and a streak of blood appeared. Instantly, his vision cleared and his breath came to his lungs easier. Several more sweeps and Stiles's panic completely dissolved. He sat back in his chair, a sigh of relief issued from his lips. He twirled the blade in one hand and reached for a box of tissues with the other. He wiped the blood from his flesh gingerly, pressing down to stem the flow. When one tissue was no longer of use, he tossed it easily into the trash.

This had become routine: the blade, the blood, the careless nonchalance about it. It'd been this way for years. He had suffered from horrible panic attacks for two years after his mother's death, unable to cope with anything. His attacks had been daily, sometimes more. Stiles looked down at the marred flesh of his thighs. There were old scars meeting the new cuts Stiles had created. Over six years of abuse branded into his body.

The first time had been an accident; he had only been eleven years old. He didn't even know what self-harm was. He had simply been running about in a complete mess of anguish when he ran into a fire poker, gouging the iron stem deep into his shoulder. As if by their own accord, Stiles's fingers snuck under his collar and touched the puckered scar. He had run crying to his father, only thinking of the pain in his body. As his father patched him up, he sat serene and quiet. It had unnerved Stiles's father, but it had given Stiles an idea.

The next time he had a panic attack, he smashed his finger in a door. As he grew older, and the events became more frequent, he began to change his tactics. Stiles was smart and he realized his father would notice the increase in injuries. Stiles's method morphed and grew into blade use. His dependency had decreased ten-fold, attacks visiting only once a month, as opposed to the daily struggle of his childhood. But when he needed his blades, he wreaked havoc on his body. There was no minor damage; he needed nine or ten slices to shut down the bubbling of violent emotions.

The skin of Stiles's legs was stained by blood, the wounds red and raw. He sighed as he cleaned himself up with a disinfectant wipe. The alcohol in it stung and tingled through the open cuts, they burned and cooled in protest. Stiles pulled a pair of baggy sweatpants over his hips and sat back. No one knew about his habit. His father was rarely home, so there wasn't anyone to catch him in the act. When Scott asked about the bloody tissues, he would throw out a quip about nosebleeds. Not that Scott noticed much. Not that Scott came over to notice much anymore.

Stiles was very happy for his friend. Scott got the girl and they were happy and she accepted him, and it was great. No sarcasm. Okay, a little sarcasm. Stiles just wished Scott wouldn't blow him off all the time to hang with Allison. One time Stiles had hung out with the lovesick couple and severely regretted it. After what he saw, he swore he would gouge his eyes out with sporks. The two just couldn't keep their hands to themselves, and it was a little more than Stiles really needed to see. Honestly, it was like the two had never heard of personal space. They curled around each other like dogs in heat.

Struggling to get that image out of his mind, Stiles got to his feet and swung his book bag onto his bed. He searched through his folders and binders, looking for his Chemistry homework. He found it crumpled beneath an English Lit book and cursed at the creases in the paper. He smoothed it out as he walked back to his desk. He thumped down, hissing as his tender flesh protested his actions. He was lost in his work quickly, the Adderall coursing through his system allowing him to stay on task for longer than twenty minutes.

However, after realizing that it was actually a Friday, he quickly digressed from homework and began a Google search starting with the nucleus and flowing into Wicca religion. He read intently, only interrupted by hunger, a text from his dad, and the need to pee. Sheriff Stilinski was coming home late. Again. So Stiles was on his own for dinner.

He walked down stairs, turning on some music and starting a pot of water. His plan was to make Spaghetti Aglio e Olio. He experimented with recipes and cooking when he was alone, only sharing with his dad once he decided they were really great. This was a dish he had tried and tested many times, many different ways. He was determined to get it completely right. He did another Google search, this time for a different recipe.

Right as he was about to sit down to eat, someone tapped on the kitchen window. Stiles jumped so violently, he nearly spilled his pasta down his pants. His head whipped around and he spotted Derek at the window. Stiles shuffled over and yanked the window up.

"You do know there's a door, right?" He huffed. "Use the fucking door."

"Whatever you made smells really good." Derek clambered in the window, ignoring Stiles's comment. "I could smell the garlic two blocks away."

"Great! I'm so glad you stopped by. I was worried that I'd have to spend my night without wolves and threats of dismemberment by teeth." Stiles responded sarcastically.

Again, Derek ignored him.

"So… why are you here?" Stiles was itching to eat his pasta, but the alpha was making him uncomfortable.

"I was out running an errand." He grunted.

"Is there any particular reason you decided to make a detour at my house?"

Derek rolled his eyes, but then settled into a serious expression. "I'm not really sure. I mean, I have some work for you, but I wasn't planning on stopping by today. I was planning on asking tomorrow."

"By asking did you mean demanding?" Stiles quipped.

Derek growled. Stiles through his hands into the air and walked over to the bowl of pasta. He sat down awkwardly before deciding it would feel weird to eat dinner while the creepy guy watched.

"Would you like some pasta…?" He offered, fading off weakly.

Derek glared for a moment, then nodded and sat down. Stiles got out a second plate and handed it to the alpha. Stiles spooned some onto his plate and allowed Derek to take as much as he wanted. He was not shy about eating. Although he ate politely, it seemed as if he was holding himself back. Stiles noticed that his skin seemed tighter along his cheekbones and his eyes were dark with lack of sleep.

He was wondering whether or not he should make a comment when Derek looked up and caught him staring. Stiles quickly averted his eyes, looking down at the pine nuts in his pasta. He knew his reddening face and quickened heart rate had given him away.

"What?" Derek asked defensively.

Stiles shrugged. "You look tired, that's all."

Derek frowned and gestured towards him with a fork. "If that's all, then why are you acting strange?"

"I'm acting weird? You're the one who came in here for relatively no reason." He said it calmly, but there was a defensive edge in his voice. When Derek did not drop his questioning look, Stiles sighed. "Fine. You look sleep-deprived and a little starved."

Derek's eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Now that Stiles was paying attention, he noticed that Derek's clothes seemed to have many holes and stains from paint or car oil.

"What's going on?" Stiles prodded.

"It's nothing. Really, it's none of your concern. I've just been working on the house."

"That's a shit answer and you know it." Stiles wasn't dropping the conversation that easily. "It's okay. Whatever it is. You can tell me."

Derek stalled for a long time. He glanced everywhere but at Stiles, trying to put it off. He sighed and looked at Stiles. "I have been working on getting the house. Erica and Boyd need a place to hide out and crash sometimes. Isaac needs a full-time place to live. It's been difficult to do most of this work."

"You don't have to do it alone. Why don't you hire someone?" Derek looked embarrassed and didn't answer. Then the answer clicked in Stiles's brain. "Oh." He murmured quietly; Derek must have lost his job. Suddenly he felt rude for asking.

"I can help, if you want." He threw out nonchalantly, hoping that to fix his mistake without embarrassing Derek further.

The alpha nodded. They finished eating, both rather glad to have moved off the topic. Once they were finished, Stiles cleaned up while Derek explained the nature of his latest project.

"I need you to do some research for me. I'm hoping that Jackson won't have any negative effects because of the whole Kanima thing. But I don't want to take any chances. I was hoping we could make sure he's going to be a normal wolf from now on."

"Jackson normal? Good luck." Stiles scoffed as they walked up to his room to get his laptop and do some research. "He's always going to be a self-centered pretentious douche bag."

"Don't sugar coat it, Stiles. Tell us how you really feel." Derek laughed. However, the look fell off his face when he walked into Stiles's room. His pupils widened and he inhaled deeply. His voice was strained when he spoke. "Why does your room smell like blood?"

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks. He had nearly forgotten about earlier. Stupid, of course he can smell your blood. Stiles played it off. "Nosebleed. I've been getting—"

"Don't lie to me, Stiles. When you get nosebleeds, it leaves a blood stain." Stiles stared a bit. He shrugged. "I got nosebleeds for years. I won't ask you again."

Stiles worried his lip and averted his eyes. He really didn't need anyone to know about his habit, especially one brooding, sour-faced wolf who enjoyed shoving him into walls. This was the only secret Stiles had really kept; it was so serious he hadn't even told his dad or Scott. So naturally, when Derek began sniffing around his room (literally), Stiles panicked.

"What are you doing? You can't just stick your wolfy nose into my business. Fuck off!" Stiles walked toward him and shoved a hand toward his chest. "Get out!" He pointed at the window.

But Derek had stopped in front of him, nostrils flaring. There was a fear and in his eyes and a strangled noise escaped his lips. In one swift movement, Derek knelt in front of Stiles and reached for his sweatpants.

"What are you— Stop! Leave— Get out!" But it was too late. Derek had pulled his pants out of the way to reveal the new cuts and the scars Stiles had been hiding for years.

Derek's hands fell to his sides as he stared, appalled at what he was seeing. Stiles couldn't move; he was so horrified at what was happening. Not even paying attention to the fact that he was in boxers in front of Derek, he was coming to terms with his worst nightmare. Someone had discovered the pain he used as a tool. He could no longer use this as an outlet.

He began to hyperventilate; his mouth went dry and a ringing sounded in his ears. His nerves sang as if they were on fire and his heart galloped without direction. He began to sway and he backed away from Derek, who looked unnerved by his reaction. Stiles stumbled over to his desk, pulling his box with blades over to him. He didn't even care that Derek was there, he needed to regain control. His hands were shaking and his vision went bright. Then Derek's hands closed over his own.

"Stiles, no!" Derek rumbled deep in his chest. He gripped Stiles's arms and kept them by his sides. Stiles's head and body lolled to the side and he began to convulse. Derek supported him so he wouldn't fall forward. Stiles's arms flailed as he tried to get the alpha off of him. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Stiles! Listen to me, please. Just try!" Derek was panicking himself now. He could hear Stiles's heart racing and working on overload. Knowing that his disquiet would only fuel Stiles's, Derek calmed himself.

"Stiles," he said firmly. Stiles looked at him through crazed, rapidly blinking eyes. The excess movement caused his eyes to water. Derek cleared his throat and pulled Stiles up and into his arms, hoping to move him over to his bed where there would be less danger of falling to the floor. However, once Derek stood up with him, Stiles held on so tightly, Derek was afraid to let go. He could have pried his fingers off, but Derek sensed Stiles needed comfort.

Derek was unsure how to go about comforting someone. He hadn't ever done much of it, so he wasn't sure how to start. He sat down on Stiles's bed and held the boy close. He swayed a little, feeling clumsy and uncoordinated in this mothering position. Stiles was curled into a tight ball of heavy breathing and twitchy movements. His fingers clutched Derek's jacket hard enough for the man to feel them digging into his skin.

Derek pulled one hand up with difficulty, brushing it over Stiles's hair and face, mimicking the way his own mother used to put him to sleep when he was young. One arm secured under Stiles's back while the other traced letters and numbers over his cheeks and sides. Derek could still see his mother's dark hair bent over him as he slowly fell asleep. He unconsciously began to hum the lullaby she sang to him, the rumbling almost purr-like in its depth.

Slowly, the shaking began to subside. As Stiles regained control of his limbs, they began to loosen. Fractionally, his framed relaxed. He looked up at Derek with surprise as his vision cleared. The ringing in his ears quieted and he could hear a purring hum coming from Derek's chest. He began to notice things about his surroundings, although he could do nothing about them. His room was dark, illuminated by a single orangey light by his desk. He was rocking slowly back and forth, they had moved to a different part of the room. Stiles was laying rather haphazardly in Derek's lap.

Derek was holding him and humming to him.

His fingers relaxed and fell away from Derek's sleeve, but Derek did not release him. He could feel fingers tracing patterns on his side, and he tried to figure out what they were. His eyes fluttered, trying to dispel the wetness so he could see properly. When it subsided, Stiles was able to see the dark haired man clearly. His back began to drop from its curved position, and Stiles took note of Derek's green eyes, dusted with concern and sadness. His mouth was set in a line, but Stiles could see the slight quiver.

He felt his fingertips flushed with his pulse, his body thrumming to its beat. His arms and legs were limp, completely weak after being coiled like springs for over five minutes. Embarrassed heat filled his body as he went limp in Derek's arms, burning his nerves. The feelings of dread left him feeling as cold as day-old ash. But Derek had not left in disgust, nor had he berated Stiles for his choices. He had stayed. He had brought Stiles out of a panic attack. No one had been able to do that but himself, and it had not been in a healthy way.

Stiles began to regain strength in his limbs as he listened to the steady beat of Derek's heart. It was loud enough for Stiles to hear through his leather jacket. His eyes did not leave Derek's and Derek had not ceased his humming or his movements. Stiles slowly lifted a weak hand and brought it to Derek's face. It felt like jelly, and his movements were stunted and wobbly. His shivering fingers traced Derek's eyebrows and eyelids, his straight nose and his too-prominent cheekbones. Derek leaned into his touch, closing his eyes and resting his head in Stiles's palm. When Stiles could no longer hold his arm up, it fell to his lap like a stretched-out rubber band. Derek leaned forward, as if to make up for the lack of proximity. He readjusted Stiles, lifting him into a more seated position. Stiles should have felt embarrassed, but in that moment he could not bring himself to. Derek's face descended and their lips were pressed together.

Oh. That was new.

That wasn't what Stiles had been expecting, and a little zing went through him. His foggy brain began to whirl around, but then it stopped itself. Stiles simply focused on the soft pressure against his lips, the slight scratch to his cheek, the warmth that emanated directly from Derek's core. There was nothing more than a sweet and lingering kiss before Derek pulled back.

"How long?" His question was an almost-whisper in the near darkness. Stiles tried to get his soft and pliant tongue to form the words. He grappled with the muscles of his mouth before he gave up. He pressed down four fingers, leaving the other six to fight their curled posture.

Derek choked. "Six—six years? Oh, Stiles, how did this happen?" Stiles tried to answer, but he was so tired, he could hardly move his lips.

Derek understood and slowly moved Stiles off of his lap and onto his own bed. The dark-haired man adjusted him, making sure he was comfortable before going to retrieve his sweatpants. Stiles appreciated the gesture. Derek must have understood the anguish it would cause the Sheriff if he found these marks upon his son. As Derek eased the pants around his ankles and up his thighs, he gently kissed the damaged and broken skin.

His lips were infinitely tender against the raw flesh. The sweatpants were secure around Stiles's hips and Derek crawled up beside the teenager, laying an arm on his stomach and stroking it gently. As Stiles's eyelids drooped, he could hear Derek whisper to him.

"I'll help you through this."

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed. This is not going to continue, I wouldn't know what to do with it if it did. However, feel free in asking me to do things.

Ever at your service,

~any-otp-will-do