Jackson
You don't know when you became this kind of person.
You suppose it must have happened gradually— having made dozens of little compromises to your own sense of principles, small slips and exceptions that didn't seem like much at the time, until, somehow you ended up here. It's so beyond anything you would have ever thought yourself capable of doing. Sure, you always talked a big game, acted the shit, made anyone who wanted close work for it. But being here— in bed with a man that is most certainly not your live-in boyfriend of the past year and a half? It all feels like it came on in a rush, like the day you saw him, a switch flipped, and you became… this.
It never feels wrong in the moment, his teeth dragging across your throat, his hands clamped tightly across your wrists, his want and need so crystal clear it makes you dizzy with pleasure. It makes you feel so… present, so in touch with yourself and your place in the world. You don't even really like him…. you're pretty sure he actively hates you, but the way you make each other feel. It's enough, and it's so much more than you can remember having for so long.
He… he gives you something to be excited for, to work towards, to accomplish. Every time you find yourself between Derek's thighs, it's rapturous, and when you feel like you're fading most days, that's something you'll give anything for. Coming home to Stiles afterwards, seeing his eyes pick up on the clearly rumpled clothes, the prominent bruises, the heavy scent of it, makes you sick. But lately, it's been more with anger than with anything else.
He confronted you the first time, when it was all just speculation on his part, when you hadn't been trying to get caught, when you were just fucking club boys to try and feel. He'd cried, you'd screamed, and even then you'd wanted him to hit you, to prove that you were worth fighting for. Crazy? Maybe. But it's what you'd needed, and in the end, it's what he couldn't deliver. Two weeks later he'd given you the keys to a new apartment, and it felt like a knife between your ribs.
You've been slowly bleeding out ever since.
You deserve more. He deserves more. But you're too afraid to let go. You know Stiles, and he knows you—probably more than anyone else in this world. He understands you and accepts you for what you are— even loved you for it once upon a time. What if you never trust anyone like that again? What if this is you just throwing away the best thing you ever had? What if this breaks him?
You could never forgive yourself.
"You need to tell him." Your heart skips a beat when you remember where you are, and turning your head to the side, you see Derek sauntering towards the stairs, where the last of both your clothes are strewn along the handrail. He pulls on a pair of pale pink briefs before leaning against the wall and turning to face you, arms crossed. "You're always a million miles away, why even bother coming here at all?"
Suddenly self-conscious, you want nothing more than to pull the sheets over yourself, ask him to leave, wash all this away, and sleep until the sick taste of guilt leaves your mouth…. You move to the corner of the bed, sit with your legs spread wide, arms behind your back to prop you up. "He's not any of your business, and last time I checked you came so hard you cried… So stick a cork in it." The small thrill you get when he looks away, fidgets his shoulders, and declines to answer, only lasts a moment. Being alienated here, in his place, has you on edge and bristling.
"You think I give a fuck if you're married or not—"
"He's just a boyfriend."
Derek stares back at you, eyes cold as steel, brows drawn. "—I don't. If you're okay with it, I'm okay with it. I just get the feeling he isn't…. and no one deserves that." He looks down and away again, and after a moment, starts heading down the stairs. "You need to tell him."
