[fic] No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) 2/5 (teen wolf, Derek/Stiles/Jackson)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairings: established Derek/Stiles, eventual Derek/Stiles/Jackson
Rating: R (for kink and violence)
Summary: After getting the bite, Jackson had thought that things would finally start going his way. But as Derek gets involved with Stiles, Jackson learns the hard way that werewolves and jealousy don't mix well.
Previous chapters: chapter 1
Warnings for this chapter: substance abuse, angst and dark themes, chubby!kink, humiliation!kink
Notes: This is a sequel to We Fit So Tight You And I. Took me a while to update this fic, so I'm going to keep writing this as a post-S1 AU and ignore S2 developments.
No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) - Ch. 2
He sucked on the bottle, drinking fast and hard until the whiskey spilled over his lips and ran down the sides of his chin. The liquid burned Jackson's throat as he drank, but he welcomed the feeling; the pain was not as good as numbness, but it was a start. He let the bottle fall to his lap and wiped his face on his sleeve, staring at the remaining inch at the bottom.
Already he could feel the ache of the whiskey burn passing, the hurt in his throat vanishing as his body healed itself. McCall had warned him that there would be no getting drunk now that he was a werewolf, but Jackson had assumed that it was just a matter of quantity. After putting down almost two bottles of his dad's strongest stuff, Jackson was starting to realize that once again, McCall had been right.
There was a buzz in his body, like the cells that formed him were lighting up with energy as his body dealt with the alcohol, but there was no welcoming oblivion to accompany the physical high.
The spike of frustration that hit him was quick and hard. Jackson's hand lifted and he smashed the bottle down with a grimace. As if it was mocking him, the bottle bounced off the carpet and rolled in the middle of the floor, leaving a trail of whiskey behind it. Jackson pushed a hand through his hair, only realizing how badly it was shaking when he felt it trembling against his skin..
What the hell was he going to do?
Jackson felt utterly trapped. He had thought about leaving, but he knew there was no use in running off. Derek didn’t need to find him. As his Alpha, Derek could just call him and Jackson would have no choice in the matter.
His face distorted in anger and self-loathing. A few months ago, Jackson had been so close to getting his wishes fulfilled and now it felt like getting the bite might have been the biggest mistake of his life. His body had gone from being his most valuable asset to being a safety risk, something that he could no longer control. On top of that, he was stuck in the company of people who seemed to want nothing to do with him.
Jackson jumped up from the bed and started pacing. His hands clenched into tight fists as he stalked back and forth across his room, the moves of his body bordering on frantic. His frustrated growl echoed off the corners of his room as he tried to stop himself from losing it.
Derek had claimed him, but only as the head of the pack. The only thing he wanted from Jackson was the control over his wolf side - a faithful Beta to his Alpha - and nothing more. Where Jackson had thought the bite would mean something more, Derek appeared to think otherwise.
The dark wave of jealousy that pulsed through him made Jackson’s body twitch and tremble. He tried to hold back the change, but the effort to push away the red haze that was taking over his brain was almost too much. The more he pushed, the more insistent the wolf in him seemed to get. It yearned for revenge.
Panting, hyperventilating, his gaze swiveled back and forth, looking for something to release his aggression on to. He wanted to break everything, tear down the walls around him and claw at his skin until there was nothing left because the alternative was to break someone else.
His eyes happened on his reflection in the mirror. Jackson stopped, staring at his glowing eyes in the mirror.
Didn’t you already do that?
The thought struck straight through his mental guards. Jackson’s face twisted as he punched the mirror, shattering the reflection in front of him.
He shouldn’t have laid his hands on Stiles. It was bad enough that he had allowed himself to get so carried away during practice that he’d almost shifted in public. Jackson knew that he should have been more bothered by his loss of control, but that was the least on his list of worries now.
It was what had happened afterwards that turned his stomach when he thought about it. On instinct, Jackson knew that what had happened in the supply closet had been worse than all the physical injuries combined. It wasn’t the line between physical and emotional that had made it so, but the twisted intimacy that had been woven into it.
He could almost smell the tanginess of Stiles’ arousal still in his nose, like the scent of it had been imprinted on his memory permanently. The more Jackson tried not to think about it, the more persistently his mind kept circling back to the images that were tinged with red in his memory. His fingers sinking into the softness of Stiles’ plump stomach, the way the fat had jiggled and rippled when he squeezed it roughly, Stiles’ wide eyes staring at him in horror as he reached out to touch--
He groaned in disgust, folding on the floor until his knees hit the ground.
Jackson couldn’t deny that he had wondered about it. Ever since he had noticed the two of them together - the first time after he’d caught Stiles’ scent lingering on Derek’s skin - he had burned to know why Stiles had gotten Derek’s attention when Jackson had been right there for his taking.
Now that he knew, he wished he had never realized it. It just added insult to injury, spurring Jackson to realize that no matter how much work he put into himself, how perfect he molded himself, he would never be good enough for Derek. Even after Derek had claimed him for his pack, he would never be good enough for him. Because Derek didn’t want him.
Not that any of that mattered, now. The evidence of his reckless stupidity was written on Stiles’ skin. Derek was going to find out. It was just a matter of time until the Alpha called him to receive his punishment.
If the bell hadn’t rung... The thought of what he had been about to do made Jackson sick to his stomach.
As another wave of misery rolled through him, Jackson realized he was gritting his teeth. Caved in on himself like a wimp, his mind of the verge of breaking - this wasn’t how he wanted to spend his possibly last night alive. He started to crawl up on all fours, glancing around his room for something to distract him.
He saw the sloppy trail leading to the whiskey and made a grab for the bottle. Fuck it. Even if he had to drink the whole cabinet dry, he needed to get wasted. He needed to get out of his head. If only there was a magic pill--
Jackson stopped mid-reach and before he could even finish it the thought, he was already scrambling to get to the door. He ran across the house, for once thanking his workaholic parents for working long hours, and threw the door to the master bedroom wide open. Jackson rushed to the bedside and pulled open the drawer of the night stand, but-- no, it wasn’t there. He slammed the drawer shut and looked around frantically until his eyes fell on the bathroom door.
His hands were still trembling when he pulled open the mirror cabinet. The neat row of orange plastic was the first thing he spotted. Jackson rifled through the medicine until he found what he knew would be there - a testament to his mother’s weak nerves in the form of little blue pills.
Jackson screwed open the top and shook out a handful. He stared at the pills for a moment, then tipped them into his mouth and washed them down with water. As he leaned against the sink to let his breathing even out, he noticed there were still tiny shards of glass stuck to his knuckles. With the blood mixing into it, the drops of water falling from his hands looked bright, sparkling red.
Jackson shuddered. His heart was still pounding sickly in his chest, but the aggression inside him started to wane. The anger and agitation drained from him in swirls of relief. It wasn’t just the drug - it couldn’t have worked that fast - but the hope that it might work. Maybe there was a way to enjoy his final moments without the constant barrage of self-loathing and other torturous thoughts.
Only as Jackson was washing the blood from his already healed hand, it occurred to him that his theory on the drug effects on werewolves could be completely wrong. If the pills worked differently than alcohol, he might have just severely overdosed himself.
Not that Jackson cared either way. If that was the case, he might have just postponed the inevitable end. Derek was going to get his neck sooner or later.
Stiles dug deeper into the drawer, rifling nervously through the piles of clothes that were messily stacked inside it. There were already a couple of tried-on shirts at his feet. Each of them had fit more tightly than the one before and Stiles felt his sense of urgency building with each shirt he peeled off himself and dropped at his feet.
If there was one thing he’d learned while dating Derek was that wearing a shirt a size (or two) too small was a surefire way to get himself naked and quick. As much as he was usually all for that, now it was the exact opposite of what Stiles wanted. Today, he needed something to hide in, something loose and covering.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered to himself as he fumbled through the clothes. His eyes flickered over to the darkening bruises on his arm and he felt a wave of anxiety course through him. “Fricking great idea, Stiles,” he mumbled to himself, doing his best to distract himself from the panic that was starting to get to him. “That’s what you get for trying to reason with a crazy-ass werewolf.”
He pushed his hands through the mess of plaid and cotton until his fingers closed around a soft, worn-out cloth. Stiles felt his shoulders slump in relief. He had found what he was looking for.
Stiles pulled out the grey hoodie, shaking it out and turning it around. The printing on the back spelled out BCSD in the same shade that the sheriff’s office carried. It looked cracked and faded, but the worn out look was not just for effect. The fray on the sleeves made it clear that the shirt had been worn often throughout the years.
As Stiles pulled the hoodie over his head, he felt a sense of déjà-vu fall over him. He remembered pulling on the shirt countless of times, yearning for the warmth it provided. That need for comfort and safety was the connecting feature between all those moments, but it wasn’t the reason why he had been looking for the shirt today.
Still, Stiles couldn’t help wishing that wearing the hoodie had brought him the same sense of calm as it used to.
He shook off the nervous anxiety and pulled his hands through the sleeves of the shirt, flinching as his bruised ribs protested against the movement. His body felt like he had been run over by a freight train, his muscles sore from the abuse they’d gone through. The full-length game they’d played for practice alone would’ve been grueling enough for his stamina, but the real damage had been done by Jackson. The memory made Stiles grimace.
As he went to pull the hem of the hoodie down, Stiles was more conscious of how his body felt than usual. The way his old comfort shirt fit was somehow more telling of the changes in his physique than the clothes he wore every day. His dad’s old hoodie used to be like a tent on him, falling over his skinny little boy’s physique like a sack. Of course, that had been years and ages and growth spurts ago, but... Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about how tight the shirt had gotten since the last time he had worn it.
His hand was still resting on the bulge of his belly and Stiles’ frown grew a tad deeper as he felt how much more of a belly there was than before. Stiles rubbed the swell of his stomach lightly, wincing as he hit a sore spot on his side, but yeah, there was definitely more squish to his belly now than a month ago.
The way his clothes had started to feel a little shrunken lately hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, but Stiles hadn’t minded the change all that much. Why would he have? With a boyfriend who seemed to relish every inch of his body like he was the hunk of the year, there had been no reason to deny himself the occasional extra order of curly fries.
While he hadn’t minded the addition to his already soft frame then, there was now an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. Stiles yanked the hoodie down. His face felt hot, but it wasn’t because he had been thinking about Derek. Maybe I should cut back on the greasy stuff, at least for a while, Stiles thought uneasily as he pushed his hands inside the front pocket.
He glanced down, surveying himself. While the fit of the hoodie wasn’t as roomy as he remembered, it didn’t look too small on him. It didn’t exactly hide his gut, but that hadn’t been the point. The shirt had long sleeves and (hopefully) it lacked the appeal that some of Stiles’ more fitting shirt seemed to hold in Derek’s eyes.
Now that Stiles had the clothing situation handled, he needed to come up with a good enough excuse to keep it as such. He glanced at the clock on his desk. With nothing special lined up, Stiles expected Derek to sneak in any given moment now.
Stiles ran a hand over his short hair anxiously. Glancing at the clock again, he wondered if it was too late to call up and change their plans so that they could meet somewhere less near-his-bed and more public. He was already reaching for his phone when he remembered that being in public had not stopped Derek from getting his clothes off before. He felt a flush creeping up his neck. So much for that plan, then.
His eyes skimming over the clutter on his desk, Stiles racked his brain for something to distract Derek. Would Derek believe him if he said he had a cold? That would at least explain why Stiles was wearing a thick shirt with sleeves when the weather didn’t exactly call for it.
He was aware that he had started pacing the small space of clutter-free ground in the middle of his room and forced himself to stop. Derek would definitely know something was wrong if Stiles couldn’t keep himself still. He pushed his hands back into the hoodie’s pocket and walked to the window, peering out through the blinds.
He didn’t hear Derek as the man entered his room. He moved so effortlessly silent that the only warning Stiles got before Derek’s hands suddenly wrapped around his waist was the looming shadow that appeared behind his reflection.
Derek’s stubbled chin scratched against his neck. “You smell like you just stepped out of the shower,” the familiar voice murmured against his skin and Derek’s nose brushed up against the hair at the back of Stiles’ head. “Didn’t you have practice today?”
Derek’s question took him by surprise, making the chiding about his insufferable tendency for surprise entrances die on Stiles’ lips. He hadn’t even thought about making up an excuse for the shower he had just taken when he usually showered at the lockerroom.
“I-um, forgot my towel.”
Derek ran his nose up a few times, inhaling Stiles’ scent with a pleased hum at the back of his throat. “Mmm, I’m not complaining,” he muttered. His hands pushed inside the hoodie’s pocket to join Stiles’. Derek flatten his palms against his stomach and pulled him closer to himself.
“Ou-” Stiles couldn’t quite catch the yelp of pain that left his lips.
Derek immediately froze behind him, his face pulling away from Stiles’ neck. “Something wrong?” he asked. Stiles could hear the frown on his voice.
Stiles cursed himself inwardly. “It’s nothing, just, a little sore. I think I’m coming down with something,” he said, trying to make his voice sound appropriately raspy to go with his fake cold. “Probably the same bug that’s got Scott down, got to be a nasty virus to take down a werewolf, right?”
There was a brief moment of silence before Derek’s answer. “Colds don’t usually give you sore spots on your belly and besides, you know as well as I do that Scott’s not actually sick.”
Stiles cringed. Sometimes he forgot that now that they were in the same pack, Derek and Scott were actually communicating somewhat. Obviously Derek would know that Scott wasn’t playing sick just to get out of school; his plans to help out the vet with some “mysterious animal” business (that was likely to turn out to be supernatural in nature) had probably been discussed the last time the pack had met.
And Stiles had thought himself to be such a good liar.
Derek’s voice was filled with suspicion. “Stiles. What’s wrong?” Derek hadn’t retrieved his hands and Stiles could feel the tension in his touch, in the body that was pressed against him. Maybe it was time to work in a little truth.
He sighed. “I just got a little banged up during practice today, but it’s nothing serious.”
“Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie when it’s 80 degrees outside or is that also for the cold?”
Stiles could hear the dry sarcasm in Derek’s voice and cringed. Before he could start with another explanation, he suddenly felt Derek’s hands retreat. Instead of feeling relieved, Stiles immediately missed their feel against his.
There was a frown on Derek’s face when Stiles turned to face him. The look of worry made Stiles felt a twinge of guilt. “If you don’t want to, just say it, Stiles.” Derek’s voice was silent when he spoke, but his look in his eyes was serious. “You don’t have to make up excuses. I thought you knew that?”
The twinge of guilt turned into a gut-wrenching feeling of regret. Stiles was still just getting used to this whole being-together thing and here Derek was, being so sincere and honest while Stiles lied his face off. He felt the urge to confess, to spill everything about the events of the afternoon and let Derek deal with the aftermath. After all, it had been Jackson who had messed him up. It was Jackson who deserved to feel guilty about it.
So why was he so intent on keeping what had happened a secret from Derek?
Stiles felt a flush that had nothing to do with excitement. He wasn’t keeping secrets to protect Jackson, or even Derek. He was keeping them to protect himself.
As guilty as Jackson was for assaulting him, pushing him until he found Stiles’ weak spot, the raw truth was that some part of Stiles had wanted what had happened. There was some aspect to the scene that appealed to him, got under his skin and opened his mind to new ideas, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Stiles couldn’t let Derek know about it. Not before he’d had time to delve into it, analyze it to the smallest detail.
His inner conflict must have shown on his face because Stiles could see Derek’s frown grow even more serious. With considerable effort, Stiles pushed his haunting thoughts.
“It’s, it’s not that I don’t want to,” Stiles fumbled with his words. “It’s just...” he paused again, reaching for something that was true enough while still didn’t give out the actual truth... When he realized what the answer was, he almost scoffed at the obviousness of it.
“I guess I didn’t want you to freak out,” Stiles said, smiling a crooked smile at the irony hidden in his words, “what with my perfect skin being bruised and all, who knows what you’d do to the poor soul who got to me.” Stiles let his voice trail off, waiting for Derek’s reaction.
It took a moment for Derek to catch his to his lead. He looked dead serious; his eyes dropping down to survey Stiles’ body as if he could see the extent of his bruises through the thick fabric of the shirt. When Derek looked back up, there was a spark of grim determination his eyes, but it was gone so fast that Stiles thought he might have imagined it. “I’d break the hands that dared to mar your precious skin, of course,” Derek said. His voice was just on the side of joking, but it was the seriousness of his words that sent a chill down Stiles’ spine.
He was aware of his heart jumping to his throat, but he focused on keeping up the banter. “And wouldn’t that just be nice of you,” he retorted, surprised that his voice didn’t waver when he spoke, “but you know lacrosse. It’s a violent game, so bruises are a part of the package.”
Derek reached forward and caught Stiles’ chin between his thumb and forefinger, brushing his finger along his lower lip. The gesture was oddly sweet for Derek. It made Stiles shiver. Derek looked like he wanted to say something more, his lips parting as he scanned Stiles’ face, but then he just shook his head slightly and kissed Stiles.
And while the kiss tasted like reconciliation, Stiles accepted it. He let himself give in to Derek, leaning against him slightly as Derek’s hand slid along his jawline and to hold the back of his head. Derek’s other hand wound around Stiles, but he was careful not to exert much pressure. His light caressing touch was quick to soothe Stiles’ mind, driving away the thoughts that had plagued him.
As the moment passed, Stiles felt himself relax. When Derek pulled away from the kiss and leaned his forehead against Stiles’, he felt oddly peaceful. “Is it really that bad?” Derek murmured, his nose brushing against Stiles’.
Stiles swallowed, willing himself to continue. “It’s... yeah, there’s some damage,” he said brusquely.
He was surprised to hear Derek laugh. Stiles opened his eyes to look straight into Derek’s hazel eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen worse.” The trust-me seemed to go unsaid. As Stiles still hesitated, Derek brushed his lips against Stiles’ mouth, as if coaxing him to open up, give in.
That warm and safe feeling he had been looking for, Stiles could feel it now. It was Derek’s warmth that gave him comfort and made his anxiousness drain away. It was ridiculous to think that he hadn’t realized it sooner, but there hadn’t been a Derek in his life before.
“Just don’t poke my ribs and I think we can manage something,” Stiles mumbled against the corner of Derek’s mouth. He could feel the smile on Derek’s lips.
Derek’s fingers caught the hem of Stiles’ shirt and snuck it upward, his knuckles brushing against the bare flesh that was revealed. Stiles could read Derek’s pleased surprise in the low sound that left him as he realized Stiles wasn’t wearing anything underneath the thick shirt. Derek’s fingers trailed lightly over Stiles’ soft sides, the touch of his fingertips so gentle it was hardly there at all. Stiles almost wished he hadn’t made a point of them taking it easy.
That was until Derek’s hands trailed up his back and came across the swelling bruise just under his shoulder blade. Stiles flinched from the touch, but thankfully, Derek’s fingers didn’t dwell on the sore spot. He had already pushed Stiles’ hoodie up to his armpits and now he broke up the kiss to let Stiles pull it over his head.
With only a fraction of hesitation, Stiles obliged. He pulled the shirt off, choking back the groan of pain as he did so, but he knew that it hadn’t escaped Derek’s attention. Stiles’ cheeks felt warm, but the rest of his bare skin got goosebumps from the cool air. He kept his arms inside the sleeves, the thick fabric bunched up in front of his belly.
“Turn around,” Derek said, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders leading him around.
A tiny breath of relief escaped Stiles; he didn’t resist. He could feel Derek’s touch glide along his spine, sending shivers across his back, but he knew that Derek wasn’t doing it to excite him. He had taken a peek at the state of his back after showering, so he knew that despite all the protective gear they wore even during practice games, the evidence of Jackson’s violence was still visible on his body.
“They tackled you pretty roughly, huh,” Derek said silently. The tips of his fingers skirted around the bruised areas softly as he surveyed the scrapes and bruises that covered Stiles’ back.
“Coach likes it rough,” Stiles said, “and by ‘it’, I mean practice.” He managed a chuckle, but his voice sounded too tight and nervous to carry the joke. He stared down at the shirt in front of him, his heart racing for a variety of reasons.
Derek’s fingers trailed down Stiles’ sides, following the curve of his love handles. He didn’t quite manage the move without a little squeeze. “Hey!” Stiles yelped, turning to give Derek a glance over his shoulder.
Derek’s face was not exactly apologizing when he met Stiles’ gaze. “Sorry,” he said hint of roughness in his voice. There was a slight tinge of color on his cheeks and his eyes quickly fell back to Stiles’ backside. He grasped Stiles’ soft waist once more time, then started to move back up. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Werewolves and their lack of impulse control,” Stiles sighed with mock disapproval. “That’s a bad combination...” he let his voice trail off, a trickle of unease tainting his good mood as his brain caught up to his words.
Derek’s hands found his shoulders again and Stiles was back to facing Derek before he could hide the look of unease from his features. Derek frowned, but didn’t push the issue. His palms slid down Stiles’ arms until they caught the fabric of the hoodie that was still covering Stiles’ front. As if sensing that the answer to Stiles’ weird behavior was linked to the shirt, Derek stalled. He weaved the fabric between his fingers as his eyes searched Stiles’ face for clues.
When Stiles made no move to drop the shirt, Derek gave it a gentle tug. “Take it off,” he said, his voice soft but encouraging.
He had come this far, and now it was time for the leap of faith. Stiles let Derek pull the sleeves away from his hands and reveal the dark bruising on his arm. He felt Derek’s whole demeanor change as he took in the injury. There was no mistaking it - the bruise was clearly in the shape of someone’s hand.
Stiles waited, watching as Derek’s brows pulled into a scowl. He hoped he was imagining the two tips of fangs pressing against Derek’s lower lip as Derek caught his hand and guided it up closer to his face.
Derek’s jaw was tight when he finally spoke. “You don’t get injuries like this from lacrosse.” His eyes lifted up to Stiles’ and they were burning, burning with the need to know who had hurt him.
Stiles could only stare as Derek lifted his arm up to his nose and inhaled, scenting the skin over his bruises. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t showered so thoroughly in week, washing his skin over and over and feeling strangely like he was doing it to wash away evidence and of course that was because it was the truth, but despite all that, werewolves had an amazing sense of smell and Derek could still--
He knew the exact moment when Derek caught the scent. He knew because he could feel the twitch and roll of Derek’s muscles as the spasms that anticipated the change went through him. When he looked up, his eyes were gleaming red and bordering on madness. There was only one word on his lips:
“Jackson.”
//end of chapter 2 - continue to chapter 3
Pairings: established Derek/Stiles, eventual Derek/Stiles/Jackson
Rating: R (for kink and violence)
Summary: After getting the bite, Jackson had thought that things would finally start going his way. But as Derek gets involved with Stiles, Jackson learns the hard way that werewolves and jealousy don't mix well.
Previous chapters: chapter 1
Warnings for this chapter: substance abuse, angst and dark themes, chubby!kink, humiliation!kink
Notes: This is a sequel to We Fit So Tight You And I. Took me a while to update this fic, so I'm going to keep writing this as a post-S1 AU and ignore S2 developments.
No One Loves Me (And Neither Do I) - Ch. 2
He sucked on the bottle, drinking fast and hard until the whiskey spilled over his lips and ran down the sides of his chin. The liquid burned Jackson's throat as he drank, but he welcomed the feeling; the pain was not as good as numbness, but it was a start. He let the bottle fall to his lap and wiped his face on his sleeve, staring at the remaining inch at the bottom.
Already he could feel the ache of the whiskey burn passing, the hurt in his throat vanishing as his body healed itself. McCall had warned him that there would be no getting drunk now that he was a werewolf, but Jackson had assumed that it was just a matter of quantity. After putting down almost two bottles of his dad's strongest stuff, Jackson was starting to realize that once again, McCall had been right.
There was a buzz in his body, like the cells that formed him were lighting up with energy as his body dealt with the alcohol, but there was no welcoming oblivion to accompany the physical high.
The spike of frustration that hit him was quick and hard. Jackson's hand lifted and he smashed the bottle down with a grimace. As if it was mocking him, the bottle bounced off the carpet and rolled in the middle of the floor, leaving a trail of whiskey behind it. Jackson pushed a hand through his hair, only realizing how badly it was shaking when he felt it trembling against his skin..
What the hell was he going to do?
Jackson felt utterly trapped. He had thought about leaving, but he knew there was no use in running off. Derek didn’t need to find him. As his Alpha, Derek could just call him and Jackson would have no choice in the matter.
His face distorted in anger and self-loathing. A few months ago, Jackson had been so close to getting his wishes fulfilled and now it felt like getting the bite might have been the biggest mistake of his life. His body had gone from being his most valuable asset to being a safety risk, something that he could no longer control. On top of that, he was stuck in the company of people who seemed to want nothing to do with him.
Jackson jumped up from the bed and started pacing. His hands clenched into tight fists as he stalked back and forth across his room, the moves of his body bordering on frantic. His frustrated growl echoed off the corners of his room as he tried to stop himself from losing it.
Derek had claimed him, but only as the head of the pack. The only thing he wanted from Jackson was the control over his wolf side - a faithful Beta to his Alpha - and nothing more. Where Jackson had thought the bite would mean something more, Derek appeared to think otherwise.
The dark wave of jealousy that pulsed through him made Jackson’s body twitch and tremble. He tried to hold back the change, but the effort to push away the red haze that was taking over his brain was almost too much. The more he pushed, the more insistent the wolf in him seemed to get. It yearned for revenge.
Panting, hyperventilating, his gaze swiveled back and forth, looking for something to release his aggression on to. He wanted to break everything, tear down the walls around him and claw at his skin until there was nothing left because the alternative was to break someone else.
His eyes happened on his reflection in the mirror. Jackson stopped, staring at his glowing eyes in the mirror.
Didn’t you already do that?
The thought struck straight through his mental guards. Jackson’s face twisted as he punched the mirror, shattering the reflection in front of him.
He shouldn’t have laid his hands on Stiles. It was bad enough that he had allowed himself to get so carried away during practice that he’d almost shifted in public. Jackson knew that he should have been more bothered by his loss of control, but that was the least on his list of worries now.
It was what had happened afterwards that turned his stomach when he thought about it. On instinct, Jackson knew that what had happened in the supply closet had been worse than all the physical injuries combined. It wasn’t the line between physical and emotional that had made it so, but the twisted intimacy that had been woven into it.
He could almost smell the tanginess of Stiles’ arousal still in his nose, like the scent of it had been imprinted on his memory permanently. The more Jackson tried not to think about it, the more persistently his mind kept circling back to the images that were tinged with red in his memory. His fingers sinking into the softness of Stiles’ plump stomach, the way the fat had jiggled and rippled when he squeezed it roughly, Stiles’ wide eyes staring at him in horror as he reached out to touch--
He groaned in disgust, folding on the floor until his knees hit the ground.
Jackson couldn’t deny that he had wondered about it. Ever since he had noticed the two of them together - the first time after he’d caught Stiles’ scent lingering on Derek’s skin - he had burned to know why Stiles had gotten Derek’s attention when Jackson had been right there for his taking.
Now that he knew, he wished he had never realized it. It just added insult to injury, spurring Jackson to realize that no matter how much work he put into himself, how perfect he molded himself, he would never be good enough for Derek. Even after Derek had claimed him for his pack, he would never be good enough for him. Because Derek didn’t want him.
Not that any of that mattered, now. The evidence of his reckless stupidity was written on Stiles’ skin. Derek was going to find out. It was just a matter of time until the Alpha called him to receive his punishment.
If the bell hadn’t rung... The thought of what he had been about to do made Jackson sick to his stomach.
As another wave of misery rolled through him, Jackson realized he was gritting his teeth. Caved in on himself like a wimp, his mind of the verge of breaking - this wasn’t how he wanted to spend his possibly last night alive. He started to crawl up on all fours, glancing around his room for something to distract him.
He saw the sloppy trail leading to the whiskey and made a grab for the bottle. Fuck it. Even if he had to drink the whole cabinet dry, he needed to get wasted. He needed to get out of his head. If only there was a magic pill--
Jackson stopped mid-reach and before he could even finish it the thought, he was already scrambling to get to the door. He ran across the house, for once thanking his workaholic parents for working long hours, and threw the door to the master bedroom wide open. Jackson rushed to the bedside and pulled open the drawer of the night stand, but-- no, it wasn’t there. He slammed the drawer shut and looked around frantically until his eyes fell on the bathroom door.
His hands were still trembling when he pulled open the mirror cabinet. The neat row of orange plastic was the first thing he spotted. Jackson rifled through the medicine until he found what he knew would be there - a testament to his mother’s weak nerves in the form of little blue pills.
Jackson screwed open the top and shook out a handful. He stared at the pills for a moment, then tipped them into his mouth and washed them down with water. As he leaned against the sink to let his breathing even out, he noticed there were still tiny shards of glass stuck to his knuckles. With the blood mixing into it, the drops of water falling from his hands looked bright, sparkling red.
Jackson shuddered. His heart was still pounding sickly in his chest, but the aggression inside him started to wane. The anger and agitation drained from him in swirls of relief. It wasn’t just the drug - it couldn’t have worked that fast - but the hope that it might work. Maybe there was a way to enjoy his final moments without the constant barrage of self-loathing and other torturous thoughts.
Only as Jackson was washing the blood from his already healed hand, it occurred to him that his theory on the drug effects on werewolves could be completely wrong. If the pills worked differently than alcohol, he might have just severely overdosed himself.
Not that Jackson cared either way. If that was the case, he might have just postponed the inevitable end. Derek was going to get his neck sooner or later.
Stiles dug deeper into the drawer, rifling nervously through the piles of clothes that were messily stacked inside it. There were already a couple of tried-on shirts at his feet. Each of them had fit more tightly than the one before and Stiles felt his sense of urgency building with each shirt he peeled off himself and dropped at his feet.
If there was one thing he’d learned while dating Derek was that wearing a shirt a size (or two) too small was a surefire way to get himself naked and quick. As much as he was usually all for that, now it was the exact opposite of what Stiles wanted. Today, he needed something to hide in, something loose and covering.
“C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered to himself as he fumbled through the clothes. His eyes flickered over to the darkening bruises on his arm and he felt a wave of anxiety course through him. “Fricking great idea, Stiles,” he mumbled to himself, doing his best to distract himself from the panic that was starting to get to him. “That’s what you get for trying to reason with a crazy-ass werewolf.”
He pushed his hands through the mess of plaid and cotton until his fingers closed around a soft, worn-out cloth. Stiles felt his shoulders slump in relief. He had found what he was looking for.
Stiles pulled out the grey hoodie, shaking it out and turning it around. The printing on the back spelled out BCSD in the same shade that the sheriff’s office carried. It looked cracked and faded, but the worn out look was not just for effect. The fray on the sleeves made it clear that the shirt had been worn often throughout the years.
As Stiles pulled the hoodie over his head, he felt a sense of déjà-vu fall over him. He remembered pulling on the shirt countless of times, yearning for the warmth it provided. That need for comfort and safety was the connecting feature between all those moments, but it wasn’t the reason why he had been looking for the shirt today.
Still, Stiles couldn’t help wishing that wearing the hoodie had brought him the same sense of calm as it used to.
He shook off the nervous anxiety and pulled his hands through the sleeves of the shirt, flinching as his bruised ribs protested against the movement. His body felt like he had been run over by a freight train, his muscles sore from the abuse they’d gone through. The full-length game they’d played for practice alone would’ve been grueling enough for his stamina, but the real damage had been done by Jackson. The memory made Stiles grimace.
As he went to pull the hem of the hoodie down, Stiles was more conscious of how his body felt than usual. The way his old comfort shirt fit was somehow more telling of the changes in his physique than the clothes he wore every day. His dad’s old hoodie used to be like a tent on him, falling over his skinny little boy’s physique like a sack. Of course, that had been years and ages and growth spurts ago, but... Stiles wasn’t sure how he felt about how tight the shirt had gotten since the last time he had worn it.
His hand was still resting on the bulge of his belly and Stiles’ frown grew a tad deeper as he felt how much more of a belly there was than before. Stiles rubbed the swell of his stomach lightly, wincing as he hit a sore spot on his side, but yeah, there was definitely more squish to his belly now than a month ago.
The way his clothes had started to feel a little shrunken lately hadn’t gone unnoticed by him, but Stiles hadn’t minded the change all that much. Why would he have? With a boyfriend who seemed to relish every inch of his body like he was the hunk of the year, there had been no reason to deny himself the occasional extra order of curly fries.
While he hadn’t minded the addition to his already soft frame then, there was now an uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. Stiles yanked the hoodie down. His face felt hot, but it wasn’t because he had been thinking about Derek. Maybe I should cut back on the greasy stuff, at least for a while, Stiles thought uneasily as he pushed his hands inside the front pocket.
He glanced down, surveying himself. While the fit of the hoodie wasn’t as roomy as he remembered, it didn’t look too small on him. It didn’t exactly hide his gut, but that hadn’t been the point. The shirt had long sleeves and (hopefully) it lacked the appeal that some of Stiles’ more fitting shirt seemed to hold in Derek’s eyes.
Now that Stiles had the clothing situation handled, he needed to come up with a good enough excuse to keep it as such. He glanced at the clock on his desk. With nothing special lined up, Stiles expected Derek to sneak in any given moment now.
Stiles ran a hand over his short hair anxiously. Glancing at the clock again, he wondered if it was too late to call up and change their plans so that they could meet somewhere less near-his-bed and more public. He was already reaching for his phone when he remembered that being in public had not stopped Derek from getting his clothes off before. He felt a flush creeping up his neck. So much for that plan, then.
His eyes skimming over the clutter on his desk, Stiles racked his brain for something to distract Derek. Would Derek believe him if he said he had a cold? That would at least explain why Stiles was wearing a thick shirt with sleeves when the weather didn’t exactly call for it.
He was aware that he had started pacing the small space of clutter-free ground in the middle of his room and forced himself to stop. Derek would definitely know something was wrong if Stiles couldn’t keep himself still. He pushed his hands back into the hoodie’s pocket and walked to the window, peering out through the blinds.
He didn’t hear Derek as the man entered his room. He moved so effortlessly silent that the only warning Stiles got before Derek’s hands suddenly wrapped around his waist was the looming shadow that appeared behind his reflection.
Derek’s stubbled chin scratched against his neck. “You smell like you just stepped out of the shower,” the familiar voice murmured against his skin and Derek’s nose brushed up against the hair at the back of Stiles’ head. “Didn’t you have practice today?”
Derek’s question took him by surprise, making the chiding about his insufferable tendency for surprise entrances die on Stiles’ lips. He hadn’t even thought about making up an excuse for the shower he had just taken when he usually showered at the lockerroom.
“I-um, forgot my towel.”
Derek ran his nose up a few times, inhaling Stiles’ scent with a pleased hum at the back of his throat. “Mmm, I’m not complaining,” he muttered. His hands pushed inside the hoodie’s pocket to join Stiles’. Derek flatten his palms against his stomach and pulled him closer to himself.
“Ou-” Stiles couldn’t quite catch the yelp of pain that left his lips.
Derek immediately froze behind him, his face pulling away from Stiles’ neck. “Something wrong?” he asked. Stiles could hear the frown on his voice.
Stiles cursed himself inwardly. “It’s nothing, just, a little sore. I think I’m coming down with something,” he said, trying to make his voice sound appropriately raspy to go with his fake cold. “Probably the same bug that’s got Scott down, got to be a nasty virus to take down a werewolf, right?”
There was a brief moment of silence before Derek’s answer. “Colds don’t usually give you sore spots on your belly and besides, you know as well as I do that Scott’s not actually sick.”
Stiles cringed. Sometimes he forgot that now that they were in the same pack, Derek and Scott were actually communicating somewhat. Obviously Derek would know that Scott wasn’t playing sick just to get out of school; his plans to help out the vet with some “mysterious animal” business (that was likely to turn out to be supernatural in nature) had probably been discussed the last time the pack had met.
And Stiles had thought himself to be such a good liar.
Derek’s voice was filled with suspicion. “Stiles. What’s wrong?” Derek hadn’t retrieved his hands and Stiles could feel the tension in his touch, in the body that was pressed against him. Maybe it was time to work in a little truth.
He sighed. “I just got a little banged up during practice today, but it’s nothing serious.”
“Is that why you’re wearing a hoodie when it’s 80 degrees outside or is that also for the cold?”
Stiles could hear the dry sarcasm in Derek’s voice and cringed. Before he could start with another explanation, he suddenly felt Derek’s hands retreat. Instead of feeling relieved, Stiles immediately missed their feel against his.
There was a frown on Derek’s face when Stiles turned to face him. The look of worry made Stiles felt a twinge of guilt. “If you don’t want to, just say it, Stiles.” Derek’s voice was silent when he spoke, but his look in his eyes was serious. “You don’t have to make up excuses. I thought you knew that?”
The twinge of guilt turned into a gut-wrenching feeling of regret. Stiles was still just getting used to this whole being-together thing and here Derek was, being so sincere and honest while Stiles lied his face off. He felt the urge to confess, to spill everything about the events of the afternoon and let Derek deal with the aftermath. After all, it had been Jackson who had messed him up. It was Jackson who deserved to feel guilty about it.
So why was he so intent on keeping what had happened a secret from Derek?
Stiles felt a flush that had nothing to do with excitement. He wasn’t keeping secrets to protect Jackson, or even Derek. He was keeping them to protect himself.
As guilty as Jackson was for assaulting him, pushing him until he found Stiles’ weak spot, the raw truth was that some part of Stiles had wanted what had happened. There was some aspect to the scene that appealed to him, got under his skin and opened his mind to new ideas, whether he wanted to admit it or not. Stiles couldn’t let Derek know about it. Not before he’d had time to delve into it, analyze it to the smallest detail.
His inner conflict must have shown on his face because Stiles could see Derek’s frown grow even more serious. With considerable effort, Stiles pushed his haunting thoughts.
“It’s, it’s not that I don’t want to,” Stiles fumbled with his words. “It’s just...” he paused again, reaching for something that was true enough while still didn’t give out the actual truth... When he realized what the answer was, he almost scoffed at the obviousness of it.
“I guess I didn’t want you to freak out,” Stiles said, smiling a crooked smile at the irony hidden in his words, “what with my perfect skin being bruised and all, who knows what you’d do to the poor soul who got to me.” Stiles let his voice trail off, waiting for Derek’s reaction.
It took a moment for Derek to catch his to his lead. He looked dead serious; his eyes dropping down to survey Stiles’ body as if he could see the extent of his bruises through the thick fabric of the shirt. When Derek looked back up, there was a spark of grim determination his eyes, but it was gone so fast that Stiles thought he might have imagined it. “I’d break the hands that dared to mar your precious skin, of course,” Derek said. His voice was just on the side of joking, but it was the seriousness of his words that sent a chill down Stiles’ spine.
He was aware of his heart jumping to his throat, but he focused on keeping up the banter. “And wouldn’t that just be nice of you,” he retorted, surprised that his voice didn’t waver when he spoke, “but you know lacrosse. It’s a violent game, so bruises are a part of the package.”
Derek reached forward and caught Stiles’ chin between his thumb and forefinger, brushing his finger along his lower lip. The gesture was oddly sweet for Derek. It made Stiles shiver. Derek looked like he wanted to say something more, his lips parting as he scanned Stiles’ face, but then he just shook his head slightly and kissed Stiles.
And while the kiss tasted like reconciliation, Stiles accepted it. He let himself give in to Derek, leaning against him slightly as Derek’s hand slid along his jawline and to hold the back of his head. Derek’s other hand wound around Stiles, but he was careful not to exert much pressure. His light caressing touch was quick to soothe Stiles’ mind, driving away the thoughts that had plagued him.
As the moment passed, Stiles felt himself relax. When Derek pulled away from the kiss and leaned his forehead against Stiles’, he felt oddly peaceful. “Is it really that bad?” Derek murmured, his nose brushing against Stiles’.
Stiles swallowed, willing himself to continue. “It’s... yeah, there’s some damage,” he said brusquely.
He was surprised to hear Derek laugh. Stiles opened his eyes to look straight into Derek’s hazel eyes. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen worse.” The trust-me seemed to go unsaid. As Stiles still hesitated, Derek brushed his lips against Stiles’ mouth, as if coaxing him to open up, give in.
That warm and safe feeling he had been looking for, Stiles could feel it now. It was Derek’s warmth that gave him comfort and made his anxiousness drain away. It was ridiculous to think that he hadn’t realized it sooner, but there hadn’t been a Derek in his life before.
“Just don’t poke my ribs and I think we can manage something,” Stiles mumbled against the corner of Derek’s mouth. He could feel the smile on Derek’s lips.
Derek’s fingers caught the hem of Stiles’ shirt and snuck it upward, his knuckles brushing against the bare flesh that was revealed. Stiles could read Derek’s pleased surprise in the low sound that left him as he realized Stiles wasn’t wearing anything underneath the thick shirt. Derek’s fingers trailed lightly over Stiles’ soft sides, the touch of his fingertips so gentle it was hardly there at all. Stiles almost wished he hadn’t made a point of them taking it easy.
That was until Derek’s hands trailed up his back and came across the swelling bruise just under his shoulder blade. Stiles flinched from the touch, but thankfully, Derek’s fingers didn’t dwell on the sore spot. He had already pushed Stiles’ hoodie up to his armpits and now he broke up the kiss to let Stiles pull it over his head.
With only a fraction of hesitation, Stiles obliged. He pulled the shirt off, choking back the groan of pain as he did so, but he knew that it hadn’t escaped Derek’s attention. Stiles’ cheeks felt warm, but the rest of his bare skin got goosebumps from the cool air. He kept his arms inside the sleeves, the thick fabric bunched up in front of his belly.
“Turn around,” Derek said, his hands on Stiles’ shoulders leading him around.
A tiny breath of relief escaped Stiles; he didn’t resist. He could feel Derek’s touch glide along his spine, sending shivers across his back, but he knew that Derek wasn’t doing it to excite him. He had taken a peek at the state of his back after showering, so he knew that despite all the protective gear they wore even during practice games, the evidence of Jackson’s violence was still visible on his body.
“They tackled you pretty roughly, huh,” Derek said silently. The tips of his fingers skirted around the bruised areas softly as he surveyed the scrapes and bruises that covered Stiles’ back.
“Coach likes it rough,” Stiles said, “and by ‘it’, I mean practice.” He managed a chuckle, but his voice sounded too tight and nervous to carry the joke. He stared down at the shirt in front of him, his heart racing for a variety of reasons.
Derek’s fingers trailed down Stiles’ sides, following the curve of his love handles. He didn’t quite manage the move without a little squeeze. “Hey!” Stiles yelped, turning to give Derek a glance over his shoulder.
Derek’s face was not exactly apologizing when he met Stiles’ gaze. “Sorry,” he said hint of roughness in his voice. There was a slight tinge of color on his cheeks and his eyes quickly fell back to Stiles’ backside. He grasped Stiles’ soft waist once more time, then started to move back up. “Couldn’t resist.”
“Werewolves and their lack of impulse control,” Stiles sighed with mock disapproval. “That’s a bad combination...” he let his voice trail off, a trickle of unease tainting his good mood as his brain caught up to his words.
Derek’s hands found his shoulders again and Stiles was back to facing Derek before he could hide the look of unease from his features. Derek frowned, but didn’t push the issue. His palms slid down Stiles’ arms until they caught the fabric of the hoodie that was still covering Stiles’ front. As if sensing that the answer to Stiles’ weird behavior was linked to the shirt, Derek stalled. He weaved the fabric between his fingers as his eyes searched Stiles’ face for clues.
When Stiles made no move to drop the shirt, Derek gave it a gentle tug. “Take it off,” he said, his voice soft but encouraging.
He had come this far, and now it was time for the leap of faith. Stiles let Derek pull the sleeves away from his hands and reveal the dark bruising on his arm. He felt Derek’s whole demeanor change as he took in the injury. There was no mistaking it - the bruise was clearly in the shape of someone’s hand.
Stiles waited, watching as Derek’s brows pulled into a scowl. He hoped he was imagining the two tips of fangs pressing against Derek’s lower lip as Derek caught his hand and guided it up closer to his face.
Derek’s jaw was tight when he finally spoke. “You don’t get injuries like this from lacrosse.” His eyes lifted up to Stiles’ and they were burning, burning with the need to know who had hurt him.
Stiles could only stare as Derek lifted his arm up to his nose and inhaled, scenting the skin over his bruises. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t showered so thoroughly in week, washing his skin over and over and feeling strangely like he was doing it to wash away evidence and of course that was because it was the truth, but despite all that, werewolves had an amazing sense of smell and Derek could still--
He knew the exact moment when Derek caught the scent. He knew because he could feel the twitch and roll of Derek’s muscles as the spasms that anticipated the change went through him. When he looked up, his eyes were gleaming red and bordering on madness. There was only one word on his lips:
“Jackson.”
//end of chapter 2 - continue to chapter 3