Stiles’ skin bears many marks. Sometimes it feels like the history of what he’s become, of the years he - the pack - has gone through it’s written all over his body in pale, intricate lines.
Sometimes, Derek spends hours tracing them with his fingertips, lightly skidding over the line of Stiles’ left hipbone, where once a witch’s dagger has ripped skin and drawn blood to the surface, and then following the faint trail of dark hair that lead to Stiles’ chest, to where his heart is still beating despite everything they’ve gone through.
There is also a scar that resembles a rose, it decorates Stiles’ shoulder and Derek always presses his lips against it, tries to cover it in its entirety, suck away the lasting pain even if it’s healed by years, and another one, longer, thinner, running along Stiles’ left forearm, the only visible trace that a hunter managed to leave behind himself before Derek sliced his throat open.
The thing is that Stiles’ treasures his own scars, loves them because of what they represent, what they say to the world when words wouldn’t be enough, wouldn’t count. But there is only one that Stiles loves, only one mark that he’s taken willingly, has begged for- “Touch yourself,” Derek growls in his ear, his hand guiding Stiles’ to his own cock.
A long, guttural moan, pure electricity runs up Stiles’ spine as he closes his fingers around himself, follows Derek’s will without even have to think about it. He has wanted this, has worked hard to get Derek for himself, get to have, to own, his body and his mind, to sprawl himself all over every aspect of Derek’s life in a permanent way- “You fucker,” he laughs when Derek’s hands circle his waist, his thrusts growing faster and deeper, taking them quickly to the apex along with the wet, shameless sounds of their bodies colliding.
“Shut up and take it like a man,” Derek moans back, slides his right hand up to Stiles’ shoulder, to the gentle curve where it melts into Stiles’ neck, settling it there like the warmest of the promises.
It’s always been Derek’s fingers, it’s always been Derek. The last, strongest link of the chain, the one keeping Stiles right where he needs to be. That’s what Stiles’ tattoo means, that’s why there is a clawed footprint on his skin, the black ink rocking along with Stiles’ body with every push of Derek’s hips.
It isn’t much longer until Stiles is soaking the sheets with come, his cock twitching as his knees give in at last, and Derek’s voice is right inside his ear, whispers things like Glorious and Let me keep you in an endless litany of tangled breaths.
There is no need for Stiles to reply, they both know that he already does, that they both share the same wild, uncontrollable fire and nothing could change that. Instead- “You’ve destroyed me,” he complains lamely when Derek lands beside him, beads of sweat shining on his skin like dew over honey-dark marble. “I hate you.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Derek chuckles breathlessly, patting Stiles’ thigh affectionately before resting his palm there, just skin against skin.
There are marks that go way deeper than the skin.