Chapter Text
Stiles Stilinski has many secrets. Most, of which, are normal. Like his sexual identity crises, his super-secret stash of wolfs-bane laced candy – undetectable to all of the supernatural community and a certain elderly authoritative figure – and how he keeps tapping into the police scanner without being detected by anyone at the Sheriff’s Department.
He also has some interesting. secrets. Like the invisible tattoos that cover his body from head to toe, or that the reason Deaton acts shifty around him is not. because he was once possessed, but rather that Stiles simply holds more power than the evasive druid turned veterinarian.
He also has secrets, which he keeps secret, for the benefit of his own safety. Like the fact that he speaks more languages than Lydia – no point in telling her and making her upset though – or the fact of his secret near-turning experience with Peter. Derek would probably have an aneurysm. if he knew. So, honestly, some of those secrets were set in place to protect others if you really thought about it that way which, Stiles did.
But, there’s a problem with secrets; they usually go hand in hand with lies. And, unfortunately, Stiles’ lies generally have a way of catching up with him. The thing is; he was kinda hoping this one would wait to be revealed – if it had to be – until after he’d left for college. But no., Stiles’ life was never that easy. Especially, not when werewolves were involved.
There had been a witch attacking Beacon Hills. Well, to be specific, Medea. Yeah, that one. The granddaughter of a sun god who’d killed her two children. Yay. And surprise, surprise! Stiles had needed to come to the rescue because the Pack couldn’t get their shit together, as per usual. Then Stiles had gotten caught in the crossfire – also, as per usual – and everything had ended with a bang. You know, as in literally.. There had even been explosions of light to add to all the fun.
The pack members came out of it a little worse for wear with him and Boyd catching the worst of it. Boyd had burns all up his left leg and arm, but they weren’t too serious and due to his werewolf healing, the burns would most likely be gone by the end of the week. Stiles, however, had four large gashes on each arm from where Medea had drained his blood in attempt at some sort of sacrifice. She’d been spouting a bunch of crap about children and revenge.
Truth be told, Stiles couldn’t remember much. Now that he thought about it, he also couldn’t see much because of all the weird black dot thingy’s. Oh, right, blood loss.. He blames the blood loss entirely for his stupidity. Derek had turned around all concerned and shit, and said in his perfect voice. ‘Stiles, please come back to the loft with the pack, so that we can make sure you are tended to.’
Now, usually, Stiles would go to his own home and let his magic control his healing. Let if fix him up enough so that he could move without pain, but still manage to look like the human version of a bruised peach. You know, so no one would get suspicious. Yeah, that’s what he’d normally do, but what did he do instead? He’d said, ‘Yeah okay.’
Fucking blood loss. .
Stiles can vaguely remember the car ride. He’d been in the backseat of the Camaro squished between Erica and Jackson with Erica doing her best to siphon away his pain. When Stiles realized Jackson was doing the same thing, he let out a wet, lung-rattling chuckle.
“Wow, Jackson y-you really do care,” he’d gasped, grimacing at the bitter tasting blood which seeped out of the corner of his mouth.
“Shut it, Stilinski,” Jackson growled in response, but it was lacking the usual heat.
Oh no, that wasn’t good. It didn’t bode well for anyone when Jackson sounded worried; especially about him. So, if Jackson was concerned... Well shit., Stiles was probably dying.
Stiles began to drift off while multiple growls pleaded with him to stay awake. He recalls trying to say that it was okay. His magic would fix it, but not being able to get out the words. He also remembers a split second of panic because, well fuck, his magic was going to fix his injuries, and then they would all know. Crap.
This all leads him to where he is now; waking up in Derek’s bed. The Pack, Deaton, Melissa and his dad were all there, surrounding him, but something seemed...off. They looked worried sick. Great. .
Slowly Stiles looked down to his arms and yep, there they were; his invisible tattoos that were no longer invisible. Thick bands of red, brown, and green wrapped around his fingers. His right arm was covered in vines and branches filled with leaves that changed with the seasons. Occasionally those vines and branches would twist into Celtic knots and runes of protection and magical amplification, but not at this moment. A snake was emerging from the depths of the foliage, twining itself around his neck while slowly blinking itself awake. His name was Seth, and he moved all over Stiles’ body.
On his left arm, starting from the bands on his fingers, an ancient form of script in Chinese, Russian, and Latin ran all the way up to his elbow. Extending from that up to the bottom of his skull; a mix of scarlet bergamot, purple carnations as well as vibrant orange lilies and bright yellow tansy were in full bloom. Beautiful flowers that had all appeared when his mother died, and which tended to open and close in tandem with the day and the night; just like real flowers.
Of all Stiles’ tattoos, those are the only ones he can see at the moment, but it takes him only a split second to realize that he’s not the only one noticing the movement on his skin. Every pair of eyes in the room is on them, except for his father’s. He’s too busy grabbing Stile’s a glass of water from the bedside table.
“Stiles. What. The. Fuck.” .
Yeah, this was going to be a long day.