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His Tummie-less Mate

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He knew life was hard. He knew it from the time his mother died, but he didn't know it would be like this.
As Stiles walked home his head throbbed, still aching from when Jackson tackled him in lacrosse. It was a painful tackle and his eye sight was slightly blurry. Probably a concussion. Scott had ignored him after practice. His dad was taking the grave yard shift tonight, and he was all alone. Again.
Stiles knew there was a pack meeting tonight, but he also knew he hadn't been invited.
He sank into the water of the tub, cranking the music from his phone, his eyes itching from lack of sleep. No sleep for nearly four day took its toll on the human body.
The water was a little pink from the dried blood on his thighs and his...well everywhere. He was a bit bloody from practice but the rest was from tiny little scratches and cuts in various places.
The cutting hadn't started as a cry for help or anything, or even wanting the pain. He was curious about it. Why would people do it? What was so great?
He hadn't seen what was so great about it until two days after the first time when he wanted it again.
Cutting wasn't easy for Stiles. Not at all. His dad didn't have razor blades around, they just didn't need them. He still found a way. His way was to find any sharp corner or edge and just nicking himself on it. Then he got more creative. Cutitng himself with kitchen knives when he was making dinner. Eventually it drew too much attention to himself. He found a new way. His dad had a broken beer bottle on the floor once and he slipped it into his pocket and brought it up to his room.
The glass was thick and crude and made wider cuts than knives but wide was better than deep.
For some reason all he needed was one or two and he'd be fine. That was on good days.

Stiles drained the tub and ran the shower, the hot water scalding him and his tiny cuts and nicks that joined his moles in decorating his skin.
He tugged on his hair harshly, the longer strands breaking with stress. He picked the glass up from the edge of the tub where he'd put it there forty minutes earlier. He touched it to his skin. He wouldn't pretend it didn't hurt or that he enjoyed the pain, but what he enjoyed was the distraction.
The glass made a dark line leak onto his skin and he watched in fascination. He was so different from a werewolf.
He pressed the glass against his skin five more times before getting bored with it. He shut off the warm water, wrapped a towel around himself and collected the thin gauze and gauze pads from under his sink, kept in his old hair gel bottle.
Stiles took care of the cuts and the bruises he earned from practice and smiled too himself. He did good. He made it through the day.

At school he sat in the class, doodling on the notebook in front of him in pen. Drawing band logos and wolves. He didn't listen to class, his ADHD distracting him and besides, he always did fine in class anyways. He repeated words from a song he'd been into in his head.
Harris of course was not okay with this. He ripped away Stiles' notebook and sneered. "If you don't like my class you can leave."
Stiles thought about it, but the school would call his dad to report his truancy and his dad didn't need that.
''Sorry sir," He muttered, wishing he could leave.

Jackson came behind him after class at his locker. He was never physical if he didn't have an excuse to hide behind so Stiles knew he was relatively safe for the time being. "I heard you were kicked out of the pack? That true? I mean, it's not that...impossible, is it?" He was sly.
Stiles knew he wasn't pack. He was a human, he had no place there, not in the pack and certainly not with Derek, which just broke his heart.
"Yeah," He confirmed. Nobody had really kicked him out of the pack but he knew deep down that he was. Out, he means.

He hid in the library, holed up between the aisles of books, reading the Percy Jackson series to himself, wishing he could escape there. Away from there. He wondered why. Why wasn't he enough for Scott, for Derek, for the Hale Pack? What was he doing wrong. He couldn't blame them. He couldn't even look in the mirror now, how could they look him in the eyes? He didn't expect for them too.
He thought about Derek. He'd been the perfect man. Always had been. He was kind and soft sometimes but fierce and capable. The opposite of him.
Stiles missed the feeling of being a part of something. He didn't even feel like that at lacrosse. Besides, he didn't have the energy anymore for the sport. He decided he best drop out. He hadn't even found much joy in it lately. He was bored with things he used to like, his drawing suffering, as was his research. No one had come to him with anything for months so there was really no purpose for it. All he liked now was reading and his music.
He still had at least one hundred files on supernatural being on his desk. He should give those to Lydia.

Stiles was tired. He was tired of everything. He needed Scottie, his mom, his dad, Derek, hell Erica would be enough right now but he didn't have enough.
He didn't bother to eat, not feeling in the mood. He was skinny but he didn't care. He didn't have anyone to impress anyways.
He missed him. The old him. The happy, important one. He missed the person he was before all this and he wished he had someone to be with him through all this shit but no, he was alone as usual, drowning himself in sorrow, blood, music, and misery.


Jackson had been weird through the whole pack meeting. Derek noticed. He was almost happy, but a little disturbed.
"What the hell is going on with you Jackson?" He asked, angry that Stiles was once again skipping out on a meeting. Everyone in the pack was supposed to be there.
"When did you kick Stiles out of the pack?" Jackson answered with a question and the cogs in Derek's mind halted.
"I didn't. What the fuck are you talking about?"
"He said he was kicked out. That's why he's not been here. I didn't know you actually did. I was just teasing him."

Derek didn't even answer Jackson's questions, just rushing out of the loft. Why the hell would make Stiles think he was out of the pack? The little shit could drag up trouble anywhere and jeez Derek needed Stiles around. What would he do without Stiles?
He made it to the Stilinski house, seeing the Sheriff's crusier in the drive and Stiles' light on, he hopped to the window, opening it and sneaking in. Derek saw Stiles, who was on his bed, reading, some crap cranked up in the backgroud. He was on his stomach and his ass was up in the air. MMh.
Derek had stop himself from running his hands along the boy, instead growling out the boy's name.
"Jeepers Derek! You scared the living shit out of me!" He cried, flopping onto his back and looking into the man's eyes.
"You're not in the pack? What the hell Stiles!" He growled out, grabbing onto Stiles.
"What? What's wrong? Is the pack okay?" Stiles asked, concerned.
Derek could smell in. The potent rejection, depression, and blood. So, so much blood.
Why was the so much blood? Suddenly Derek realized.
He growled so loud and harsh that Stiles jerked away, scrambling to the wall. "Woah dude, what the hell?" Before Stiles knew what was happening Derek was on him, rolling up his long sleeves, relieved not to see scars but there was still so much blood.
He finally stripped off the shirt, seeing the tops of pink lines littering the boy's body. The boy's thin body. So thin.
Derek grapped Stiles' basketball shorts by the waist and tore.
Stiles was in a pair of balck briefs and when he finally realized what was happening he yelped. "Shit dude! Take me to dinner first!" He scrambled to rip the blanket off the bed and over him but Derek stopped him.
Derek whimpered loudly and painfully, his chest contracting his heart strangled. His wolf cried. "Mate," He whispered, the agony twisting and turning, his words hushed and punished. "No," He cried, holding onto Stiles. He saw the pink, red and white scars spread over the tops of his thighs. His bone thin thighs.
"Derek, it's nothing," Stiles whispered, holding back sobs at the pain he caused Derek. He didn't ever want to hurt his Sourworlf.
"No, no, no," Derek ranted, his hands covering the cuts, wishing he could rub them away. "Mate," He nuzzled Stiles, covering the wounds and the boy's tummy. Or ribs, it couldn't be considered a tummy. He wanted his little mate to have a tummy. He wanted him to be healthy and well-fed, clear of cuts.
"I'm fine Der,"
Derek nuzzled into Stiles crying a little. He couldn't lose this human too. He was too precious. He wanted Stiles at all of the pack meetings. Derek wanted Stiles to be the pack mom to his pack dad.
"No, you're not!" He growled, palming the flesh of Stile's concaved stomach, wishing he could feel a barrier between bone and skin.
Stiles nodded. He wasn't okay. He started laughing suddenly and Derek pulled away looking at him like he was crazy. "The song playing is called 'I'm not okay'."
Derek decided. He'd fix this boy, this amazing little human, his perfect mate. No, actually, his imperfect mate. He would help him.