sometimes it's rough, like bone to bone, pick your insides clean, a teen wolf fanfic

|| Teen Wolf ||sometimes it's rough, like bone to bone, pick your insides clean kind of love ||Teen Wolf ||

Title: sometimes it's rough, like bone to bone, pick your insides clean kind of love – sometimes it's candlewax on torsos and moonbeams on eyelashes and sometimes, there's no skin involved at all.

Summary: It's a little like realising you're in love with this wonderful man with enough baggage to fill a plane and who'd never love you back to realising, you'll never be enough.

Warnings:

Main Characters: 'Stiles' Stilinski. Derek Hale. Lydia Martin.

Side Characters: Erica Reyes. Isaac Lahey. Scott McCall. Vernon Boyd.

Pairings: Unrequited Derek Hale/'Stiles' Stilinski

Side Pairings: Lydia Martin/'Stiles' Stilinski (unrequited/one-sided/past) Erica Reyes/Vernon Boyd Derek Hale/Unknown

|| Percy Jackson and the Olympians || sometimes it's rough, like bone to bone, pick your insides clean kind of love || Percy Jackson and the Olympians ||

sometimes it's rough, like bone to bone, pick your insides clean kind of love,

sometimes its candle wax on torsos and moonbeams on eyelashes and sometimes,

there's no skin involved at all.

You watch him.

You watch him from the corner of your eyes, and wonder what he would do if you stood next to him and smiled. You watch him as if he was a God, come down from the graces of his throne to conquer the last square of a stubbornly turbulent mind. You watch as he interacts with the pack, all swift muscles and kind words hidden beneath a façade of such indifference that his eyes shine with it, dark and haunted but you can see the hope, so fragile and so nearly unkindled, so bright in his eyes.

You wonder what he would look like if it was a flame, burst forth from his mouth in a rush of three syllables that you long to hear. You wonder what it would be like if you stared at him, straight in the eyes, and they burned like flames for you, passionate and determined as hope falls from his lips into your mouth, curling like smoke past your throat and into your lungs.

There is smoke in your lungs and his name buried in your tongue, etched with care and violence and lies and blood and you wonder if you will ever purge him from your being, wonder if your blood will ever be untainted by his dark hair and haunted eyes and sharp jaw. You wonder if you even care.

You don't.

You figured this out when you first realised that you couldn't breathe around him, that the scent of him is filtered into your nostrils, that whilst you had no filter on your mouth or the cigarette you tried so hard to hide, he was full of them, he would censor himself but then his lips would quirk, like sharing a secret you would never be privy too and it makes your eyes sting because this beautiful man will never be yours and you will never be the beautiful mans and it hurts like hell, hurts like nothing has ever hurt before but then, you think perhaps-

But then you catch him, a week later, with a little pretty brunette, a slip of a thing with long hair and a lovely face. You realise that they look lovely together, all sharp cheekbones and hard muscles, eyes a sharp red that you once used to imagine flashing down at you as he pinned you, playfully growling at you.

You wonder at the growling in your stomach, like an engine that can never be quietened and the you realise that they are silent, still as statutes and that his face is turned to you, lips pulled back into something resembling a snarling smile and your heart drops from below your chest cavity as you realise something.

It was never meant to be.

He is this god, with his perfect jaw and his bright, hopeful eyes and his sharp words and his hard heart of hearts and though he's too quick to anger, too quick to jump to conclusions and far too pessimistic, you realise it's a part of him. It's something so inherently him that you can't help but wonder what he would do if you tried to hug him, tried to wrap up the little fragile pieces of him, wanting to hide him away from this cruel, blood-thirsty world because this wonderful man has already seen enough, you can tell in the set of his shoulders and though you know his skin is flawless, unmarred with time and imperfections, you know it has left him mark beneath his skin. The scars have settled in his muscles, in his ligaments and in his psyche.

You wonder what this Alpha would look like undamaged.

But like before, you realise that perhaps you wouldn't have fallen in love with an undamaged version of him, you wouldn't have had to forge this deep connection with him, or Erica, or Allison, or Boyd, or Isaac, or any of them. You realise that though he is damaged, you love him anyway.

Perhaps it's because he's damaged you are in love with him. You don't love him despite him being more wrecked than the titanic, but because he is so damaged. If the Hale Manor hadn't burned, if his family had died, burned and charred to nothingness, and that your once best friend had turned to a werewolf, you would not have had the chance to speak to him.

You would not have had the chance to fall in love with him.

So you turn your head when he turns his too you. You know he can hear your heart, faster than a starting pistol and you know he can scent the pheromones from you, potent and intoxicating and though you once harboured the thought of simply going up and taking what you wanted, you realise that this man, this wonderful, lonely man, has already has enough problems and choices took away from him. You could never do that.

You turn to talk to Lydia, whose strawberry blonde hair and lip-gloss sticky lips and curvaceous hips and wonderful legs have no effect, and you wonder why her eyes are full of pity and her pretty mouth is down turned into an angle you don't want to see because Lydia shouldn't be like this.

You realise she knows, she knows she knows, and your mouth goes dry.

Your eyes grow wet and her face grows stricken because she knows you know she knows and you realise that Lydia was always the too smart one, whilst you were the researcher, she was always the best at body language and you try not to resent it for her but in this moment, your weakness is her advantage.

She smiles at you, lips sticky with gloss and you wonder what would happen if you lent in and kissed her. You harbour no feelings for her, but you wonder if he will growl, become possessive and push you against the wall and take your lips in his, replacing her scent with his as his name is branded into the back of your throat, as the charred blood from his blackened veins seeps into yours and melts it like the flames of hope in his too-bright eyes melts your hearts.

She pities you.

She pulls you into a hug, and though you stay stiff, silent, she murmurs her apologies into your throat, like a dagger stick deeper and deeper only to be twisted. You feel a little like the brothers, Cain and Abel and you wonder if she will be the one to stick the knife in your back, will be the one to spill your secrets to your heart.

You wonder if you will hate her for doing so, or praise the ground she walks upon.

You pull away from her and your heart is silent though your blood rushes though your ears like the beating of a war drum as you realise he had no so much as turned to your direction. You wonder at the emptiness you feel, the way your shoulders tense beneath Lydia's delicate hands as you realise what you should have realised a little while ago.

You clench your fists, nails digging deep into your palm, as you realise, it's a little like realising you're in love with this wonderful man with enough baggage to feel a plane but who'd never love you back. It's a little like realising that this man, with his hard heart and his sharp tongue will never want something like you, with your half-hearted mouth and your silver lips and your malformed face.

It's a little like realising you'll never be enough.