A/N: TW for non-con and implied rape, as well as self-harm. Stay safe, my little gremlins. :(
—
Stiles sighed and glanced over at the clock on his bedside table.
It was two forty-seven AM. He hadn't gotten a decent amount of sleep in days, but he felt more awake than ever. After all, how could he sleep when his brain raced with the thoughts of everything that could go wrong tonight?
It was absurd to think that what he feared the most wasn't the monsters that lurked in the preserve, or the man who kidnapped and tortured him, Erica, and Boyd for hours on end (the man who was still out there, may he add) after he got dragged kicking and screaming off the lacrosse pitch, nor was it even dying.
No, it was the man — more vile than any monster he'd ever faced — who lay in the room just down the hall. The man he couldn't hear snoring, the one who probably drank too much again. He was the same asshole who abused him when he was eight years old. The man who took advantage of his father's kindness in both Stiles' and Noah's time of grief and mourning. It was right after his mother had died, for fuck's sake. He came into their lives, the disgusting snake he was and still is, and traumatized Stiles for life.
He knew he would never be the same again, and… and…
Fuck.
Stiles still remembers how it all started, the memory etched into his mind like a chisel on stone. His uncle came into his room one night, drunk off his ass, and woke him from a deep sleep. Stiles had startled awake, and the moment he opened his mouth, Szymon's giant hand covered it.
"I'm going to show you what real men do, Stiles. You want to be a grown-up and look after your dad, don't you?" He slurred. "I'll make you a man," He whispered.
It started with touching. It made him feel disgusting, and thinking about it brought the itch of imaginary insects crawling along his skin. Sometimes he would shower until the water ran cold, usually more than once a day. He'd stand under the cold spray scrubbing furiously at his body, his skin turning red and the washcloth turning bloody. Cardinal fluid would mix with the clear water and seep down the drain a rusty orange colour, leaving his body raw in places that hurt to touch.
He soon discovered that the pain grounded him, the physical discomfort helping to numb the emotions running riot through his system. His feelings would swirl down the drain along with the blood he was so fascinated by watching, and the numbness was a relief.
Chasing this high was precisely what led him to his new 'habit.'
Because, of course, a blade did much more damage than any piece of cloth ever could.
Thinking about that time, what felt like ages ago, made his fingers itch for his box cutter. He couldn't help but think of those first few weeks as the peace before the storm. Sure, it was awful; it was sick and dehumanizing, but it was better than what followed.
Szymon had been sneaking into Stiles' room for weeks by that point. Waking the small boy and forcing him to do things that no eight-year-old — that no person, period — should ever have to do. Like most things in Stiles' life, after ages of that torture, it finally escalated.
Stiles had been lying in his bed when his uncle crept into his room that night. The door creaked open and Szymon came in, whispering something the young boy couldn't bear paying attention to. Stiles was already prepared to give up his dignity for the second time that week, his body rigid with fear as his uncle undressed him and made a comment about how cute he looked when he cried, causing the boy to sob even harder.
"We're gonna do something different tonight, Stiles," His uncle said gruffly as he wiped a stray tear from Stiles' cheek. "Remember what I said about being a man? Tonight, I'm gonna show you what all men love. I know you're gonna love it, too. It'll make you feel real good." But instead of making Stiles feel good, it made him feel worse.
It made him feel dirty, weak, and used.
He knew after that night he'd never be the same.
And now it was happening all over again.
It was as if on cue that the creaky floorboard outside of Stiles' room groaned under the weight of someone just behind his bedroom door.
Stiles stilled in fear and anticipation, waiting for the man to come in. His father was at the station again tonight, so he knew what was bound to happen.
His door opened slowly, making Stiles flinch as his uncle's form came into view. He remembered the pack meeting earlier, remembered storming out in a false rage. All he could think at that moment was 'No one can know.'
Now he wished he'd just come up with an excuse and stayed, slept over at Derek's loft or Scott's place.
He'd give anything to be anywhere but here right now.
"Stiles?" The slurred voice came from his doorway. Szymon Gajos. His mother's brother. In Stiles' mind, the piece of shit wasn't related to a kind woman such as Claudia. No, to him, Szymon was nothing more than the monster who took everything from him. The day he called him 'family' was the day he would shoot himself in the fucking head.
"Your dad's at the station again tonight… aren't you lonely? I know I am," Szymon muttered drunkenly as he stepped farther into the room.
Stiles' stomach flipped violently as the meagre contents of his dinner roiled in his gut.
"Please," He whispered in desperation. He was not above begging any deity, god or higher being for help, even though he didn't believe in any of it.
He would pretend to be asleep, but that never stopped it, anyway.
"Aw, don't be like that…" Szymon cooed, shaking his head as he turned to close the door. Stiles' breath hitched at the sound of the lock clicking and his uncle muttering something incoherent about how he needed Stiles so badly tonight.
Szymon began taking his belt off, followed by his pants, and Stiles started to tremble violently at what he knew was about to happen.
Szymon finished taking his clothes off and climbed into the bed with Stiles. Stiles could smell the alcohol on his rotten breath as he leaned in close and started kissing him. Stiles froze in fear as his uncle undid the drawstring on his pyjama bottoms, wishing Derek or Scott or any of the pack were there to protect him.
"Please…" He said again when his uncle pulled away from his lips. Szymon gazed at him lovingly, and it made Stiles want to vomit. He desperately wiped the tears from his face as Szymon trailed a finger along his bare thighs.
Then Szymon ripped his boxers off and twisted him around violently.
Stiles still had his shirt on. It was a small victory; he guessed.
"Szymon, don't," Stiles managed to get out through his panicked breaths, pleading that today would be the day he'd finally listen.
"Shh, it's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you." But that was a lie. All Szymon Gajos knew how to do was hurt him. He was a disgusting, dirty, lying manipulator.
Stiles hated him with every fibre of his being. But more than that, he feared him.
God, what Stiles wouldn't give to make Szymon suffer a fraction of the hurt Stiles has had to endure by his hand. What Stiles wouldn't give to see him rot in a cell for the rest of his life, where he'd never touch him, or any other child, ever again.
What Stiles wouldn't give to be anywhere but here.
But that was a foolish thought to have. He knew this much as his uncle mounted him and the torture began.
—
Unsurprisingly, Stiles got no sleep the night prior. At six AM he relished the sound of his father entering the house, knowing Szymon wouldn't dare lay a finger on him with his father around. He let out a heavy sigh and got out of bed, grabbing a fresh set of clothes and a towel from the closet in the hall. He made his way to the bathroom downstairs, ready to wash the filth from his body.
He walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, going to stand in front of the mirror. He stared into the reflective surface for a long moment, poking and prodding at the bags under his sunken, hollow eyes. Groaning, he thought about how he'd probably need to start buying concealer.
…Yeah, just what you need. Even more of a reason for people to make fun of you, His mind spat. Makeup… What are you thinking? Stiles sighed at the voice and grasped the fabric of his clothes, tugging the articles off.
When he was eight, he began to hate the thought of being naked. Hated the thought that his uncle — or anyone, really — could come in at any moment and take advantage of him. He endured, of course, telling himself that nothing terrible would happen simply because he was naked, but it didn't eliminate the feeling of disgust and vulnerability he felt when his clothes were off.
Stiles could just barely stand changing in the locker rooms at school. He always made sure there were plenty of people around, plenty of witnesses. Not that it mattered anymore, though. Ever since he'd started cutting himself, he would change in the bathroom stalls, anyway.
No one needed to see the bloody bandages wound around his sliced-up thighs.
Sighing again, Stiles turned the water on as hot as it would go and stepped under the blistering spray. He let out a sharp gasp when the hot water burned along his back, but he didn't make a move to turn the valve.
He took a moment to allow his body to adjust to the boiling temperature, and before he could think too much of it, the first thing he did was clean… down there. His stomach churned as he watched the collection of blood and semen drip down his legs and swirl down the drain. It was enough to make salty tears leak from his eyes and mix with the water already running down Stiles' face from his hair.
After taking a few moments to thoroughly clean himself, making sure all evidence of last night's affairs would remain a secret from the wolves' prying noses, he grabbed the washcloth he'd laid on the side of the tub. He gripped the cloth tightly in his hand and began to scrub viciously at his skin.
He didn't know how long he stood there, scrubbing furiously at his arm — All he knew was that he needed to clean this sinful filth from his flesh.
Soon his skin began peeling away as it turned red, yet still, he continued to cleanse himself of the dirtiness that coated his body.
Dirty, dirty, dirty. I'm so fucking dirty. And he'd felt dirty for a long time now. He couldn't help but think of the way his uncle whispered in his ear from on top of him, the way he touched him, or the way he smirked and leaned in close to his face before kissing him.
Stiles finally snapped out of his trance when he noticed the dull orange colour that mingled with the clear water. He looked down at his arm, only now noticing the damage he had caused.
His arm fell limply to his side as he watched the blood continue to merge with the water below him and disappear down the drain.
He didn't know why he was so fascinated by the sight, but he was.
After another few seconds of staring downwards with a blank expression on his face, he brought the washcloth to his other arm, repeating the process before moving on to his mangled right thigh. The cuts were… unsightly, to say the least. They were long and thick; the skin dipping where he'd carved the angry red lines into his flesh. Some of the fresher ones — the ones he'd made after coming home last night — showed slight bumps, which, after doing some research, he'd come to realize was a deep layer of tissue called the dermis.
And isn't that just a whole other level of fucked up?
Stiles felt nothing more than a slight twinge at the thought of what he was doing to himself. After all, he knew that the pros outweighed the cons.
He placed the washcloth against his left thigh, and without much hesitation, he began forcefully scrubbing at the cuts there. The fresh scabs easily came off, blood weeping from the barely healed wounds as he forced back the tears that sprung to his eyes at the blinding pain. The numbness he felt inside was a welcome relief from the tumultuous emotions that were raging blindly throughout him, so he continued, regardless of the pain it caused him.
A few minutes later, he moved onto his other thigh. He was nearly at the point of sobbing from the agony he was putting himself through, tears, snot, and water running down his face as he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from making any sound.
He barely registered the knocking on the bathroom door until there was another, louder set of knocks. "Y- Yeah?" He asked, his voice breaking ever so slightly. He cursed himself for his lack of composure, hoping the other person — most likely his father — didn't notice. The door clicked as it opened slowly, and Stiles' heart sped up, his body stilling in fear. Surely — fucking surely — his uncle wouldn't try anything with his father in the house?
Then again, the man was so fucked up that Stiles wouldn't put anything past him
Just as he was about to have a full-blown panic attack in the shower, his father's voice cut through the steam-filled air.
"I'm making breakfast. Do you want anything?" Stiles immediately relaxed at the realization that Szymon wasn't going to cross that boundary just yet. And thank God for that, He thought in relief.
"No thanks," Stiles croaked, his legs still wobbly from the fear he'd felt just seconds ago. "I'm not that hungry."
He was lying, of course — something he'd been doing a lot of with his father over the past week and a half — in all reality, he was starving. His stomach was hollow and the hunger pangs were nearly constant, as if his stomach was begging for food.
Every time he so much as thought about eating, though, his stomach rolled uncomfortably.
"Okay, kiddo. Just tell me if you want anything, alright?" He said, and Stiles swore he heard a hint of concern lacing his father's voice.
He felt awful for making his dad worry, but unless he wanted to spew his breakfast everywhere, either here or at school, it was the only conceivable option.
"You got it, Dad," Stiles replied. He looked down at the rusty orange blood spiralling down the drain, and this time, he let out a sob. It was quiet and sullen, and he crouched down into a sitting position as he let the water rain down over his head and aching back.
The water was so hot he had begun to itch all over, but he didn't care.
Stiles sat there for what felt like hours — but in reality was only ten minutes — as he sobbed into his elbow over what his life had come to. He wasn't able to eat or sleep; he was cutting his thighs to keep his emotions under control, and he was being… hurt like that by his uncle.
He threw his head back, small strangled sounds escaping his throat as he silently wallowed in his self-pity
Stiles cried and cried and cried.
He couldn't help the overwhelming emotions that clenched themselves around his heart and squeezed viciously in an iron hold.
The strain he felt was almost unbearable.
When is this going to end? He questioned despondently.
He was still crying when he finally stood up. He pressed the heels of his palms into his closed eyes as colourful spots danced across his vision.
He got out of the shower with a small huff and cleaned the bloody, wounded skin on his arms, along with the gashes on his thighs with peroxide. The sting calmed him down ever so slightly as he put gauze around the cuts and open skin. He dried and dressed himself before walking out of the bathroom with a tired expression marring his face.
Practically staggering into the living room, he noticed his father, who was sitting on the couch with a beer glass in his hand.
"Hey, Son," His father said, then looked up and held back a wince. By the puffy redness around Stiles' eyes, it was now obvious to Noah that his son had been crying. He didn't know what was going on with Stiles lately — if it had to do with him and those hooligan kids he'd heard Stiles was hanging around now — but whatever it was, Noah didn't like that it was putting Stiles through so much pain.
It was like they'd gone back in time. This was the same way Stiles had acted after losing Claudia, his mother. Noah was concerned.
"You okay, kiddo?" Noah asked cautiously as Stiles slumped down beside him.
"If you're asking why my eyes look like this, and I assume that's what you're referring to, I'm guessing it's because I got soap in them," Stiles assured, not wasting any time in trying to make sure his father was as unconcerned as possible.
Noah wanted to point out that he'd stayed by the door after hearing how shaky Stiles' voice had sounded when he asked if he wanted breakfast, that he'd heard his son's suppressed, distressed-sounding sobs, but he refrained.
"Yeah…" Noah said, trying to feign ignorance, lest he embarrassed his son. "But you know, I've noticed how down you've been lately. I wanted you to know that you can talk to me whenever about whatever, alright?" Noah smiled kindly at Stiles, who averted his gaze and instead stared at the carpeted floor below.
First Derek, now his father.
You're so pathetic, His mind spat viciously.
What would people think of him if they knew? Surely, if Stiles told anyone, his secret would spread around the entire town like wildfire. Beacon Hills was a small place, after all. He'd be treated like a dirty, used thing. People would point and laugh, talk in hushed whispers as he walked past. His friends, and most importantly, Derek, would kick him out of the pack; They'd think less of him. The pack — his pack — would believe that if he couldn't even fight off some human (however large and monstrous he was), how could he fend for himself against the supernatural? They'd think he was more useless than they already did, and that he wasn't deserving of having anything to do with them.
Just keep your mouth shut, whore, that same voice snapped. He'd been hearing it more and more often lately. He was starting to think he was going insane, bu t at the same time, he knew it was his own thoughts, his own voice.
And is that better or worse?
"I know, Dad. Thank you, but I've just been a little stressed out with school lately," Stiles said, giving his father the best smile he could muster.
Judging by the look on his father's face, though, it must have been pretty pitiful.
"Okay, Son," the man sighed.
Stiles continued sitting on the couch beside him, wishing he could tell him what was wrong. What Szymon — the man his father wholeheartedly trusted — was doing to him. What he did to him when he was fucking eight years old.
But he couldn't. He couldn't tell anyone. And why the fuck would he? If they thought about him even half as bad as he felt about himself, surely it was a lost cause.
What would his father think? The fact of the matter was that he could have told him last week when Szymon first came into his room and put his filthy hands all over him. Hell, he could have told his father years ago what had happened to him.
But you're too fucking chicken-shit. And you know as well as anyone that he'd blame you for it. You could have stopped this ages ago, Stiles. Yet you just sat there and took it like the little bitch you are, the voice said roughly.
Stiles wanted to scream. He wanted to thrash, cry, and bang his fists against the walls in his fury. But he just sat on the couch, quiet in his anger, and stared at the television he wasn't paying attention to.
Stiles thought silently for another hour as his father mindlessly watched the television, unaware of the silent battle Stiles was waging in his head. Noah eventually got up, tossing his empty beer bottle in the trash.
"Alright, Son, I'm heading to bed." Stiles nodded his head, not paying much attention to his father's words before he too sat up. "You should try to eat something," His father called as he got to the top of the stairs. Stiles ignored his advice, choosing instead to suffer through the school day on an empty stomach. Which was his usual lately, since he could barely stand the thought of eating.
Stiles put his shoes on and slung his backpack over his shoulder. He was just heading out the door when his cell phone rang. Stiles pulled the phone from his pocket and checked to see who was calling before picking up, noticing Scott's name in bold. After picking up the call, he placed the phone to his ear.
"Hello?" He spoke into the receiver.
"Hey, man!" Scott's loud, chipper voice came from the other line, causing Stiles to pull the phone slightly away from his ear.
"What's up, Scotty?" Stiles questioned, fiddling with his Jeep keys before sliding them into the door and unlocking it. As he opened the door, he found he was less tense, as if just the sound of Scott's voice soothed him. It was a welcome change from the constant strain he'd been under lately.
"Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if you could pick me up," Scott asked as Stiles slid into the driver's side of his Jeep.
"Sure, sure." Stiles sighed tiredly. Why Scott couldn't call his perfect girlfriend and ask her to take him to school was a mystery to him.
"Okay, bro. See you in a few?"
"Yeah, see you in a few," Stiles said before hanging up. He backed out of the driveway and made his way to Scott's place. He let the sound of whatever was playing on the radio fill the static in his head, and before he knew it, he was already at Scott's.
It was strange to him how he seemed to live every day on autopilot now.
Not living, just existing.
When he pulled into Scott's driveway, the boy was already sitting on the porch steps. He beamed as Stiles parked the Jeep and waved frantically.
"Wassup?" Scott asked as he opened the passenger side door, hopping into the seat and nudging Stiles' shoulder playfully. Stiles held back a flinch and grinned genuinely at Scott.
"Oh, you know. Same old, same old. Dad just got home from the station a couple of hours ago. We watched a bit of TV before I decided I'd better get my ass in gear and get to school. Then you called," Stiles said, throwing his Jeep in reverse and heading toward BHHS.
"Cool, cool," Scott said, his voice cheerful.
"What's up with you?" Stiles asked.
"Ah, not a whole lot. I woke up twenty minutes ago," Scott chuckled.
"You're always cutting it super close, man," Stiles replied, shaking his head.
"Yeah, I know."
The drive was silent for a while after that, neither of the pair knowing what to talk about.
"So…" Stiles said, trying to think of something to say that would make Scott stop scrutinizing him, which he could see out of the corner of his eye. Did Scott not know about peripheral vision? Or did he just not care?
"So?" Scott echoed, turning away from Stiles to glance out the window, obviously sensing Stiles' discomfort.
"Did you guys figure out what to do about the pixie problem?" Stiles asked nonchalantly, hoping Scott wasn't thinking about his little freak-out last night. Stiles had texted Scott a short apology when he'd gotten home and had some 'alone time' with his blade. It was something along the lines of, 'I'm sorry I called you a furry bastard, and though you are furry, the only bastard here is me.'
He knows, real heartfelt.
"Yeah, Lydia thinks she can talk some sense into them, which is honestly ridiculous if you ask me." Scott pulled a face and Stiles nodded his head in slight agreement.
"She's not gonna go alone or anything though, right?" Stiles asked, chancing a glance at Scott before focusing his attention back on the road.
"No…? And weren't you there when Lydia said all this?" Scott questioned, raising an eyebrow at him.
Stiles tensed. In all honesty, he probably had been there when Lydia said that, he just wasn't paying attention. He was too busy thinking about his fuck-up of an uncle.
"Uh, my memory is pretty shot, you know that," Stiles muttered, hoping Scott hadn't heard the uptick of his heartbeat.
"Yeah…" Scott mumbled.
Okay, so he did notice, Stiles thought, doing a mental facepalm.
Scott cleared his throat. "Anyway, Derek texted everyone. We're going today after school."
"What?" Stiles questioned. "I never got a text. When did he send it out?" Stiles asked. He was about to get pissy and start complaining about Derek not telling him when Scott picked up his phone from the dash, swiping up and inputting Stiles' passcode. Immediately, he rolled his eyes.
"Dude, right here," Scott said, waving the phone around until Stiles glanced at it briefly.
"Okay, okay. Read it to me. What does it say?" Stiles questioned as they pulled into the school's parking lot.
'Hey, Stiles," Scott said in a deep, mocking tone of voice, "Just so you're aware, we will be confronting the pixies as per Lydia's plan at exactly five PM on the dot tomorrow, or today depending on when you read this. I'm asking that everyone bring their A-game. I expect no less from you. Be there or be square."
Stiles snorted at the last part. "He did not say, 'be there or be square,'" Stiles laughed, punching Scott's arm lightly.
"I know. I just wanted to see what kind of face you'd make when I said it," Scott chortled as they both exited the Jeep and grabbed their backpacks from the back seat.
"Good one," Stiles chuckled, his face contorted in a slightly deranged-looking smile from the lack of sleep.
And God, everything was just ten times funnier when your brain was functioning on no sleep.
"Dude!" Scott looked over his dark eye bags, hollow eyes, and slightly gaunt features.
Which, hey, had Stiles lost weight?
Stiles glanced at him in bemusement. "What?" He asked, watching the way Scott's face morphed into a falsely serious expression.
"Don't smile like that, or you're sure to freak out the freshmen," He said, then burst into laughter as they began walking towards the entrance of the school.
Stiles just frowned. "What do you mean? Is there something wrong with the way I smile?" He inquired, curious as to what Scott meant.
Scott tensed and cleared his throat nervously. "Well, you just look a bit… well, creepy these days…" Scott chuckled weakly.
Had Stiles not been in a state of sleepy drunkenness, he may have been offended. Instead, he just snorted. He'd kind of been thinking the same thing lately, anyway. He hadn't gotten a proper night's rest in about two weeks now. His uncle had come into his room the first chance he got, his father being at work on a night shift.
No, he hadn't… done the worst thing imaginable to him, only made Stiles rub… their 'things' together, and Stiles still cursed his body for betraying him at his uncle's filthy touch. It was the first time he'd ever gotten 'aroused' from an interaction with his uncle. He rarely so much as jerked off, and every time he tried, all he could think about was his uncle's hands. He can't even pleasure himself. His uncle ruined that for him, along with his childhood. He fucking ruined everything.
And he doesn't care.
No one cares.
He just wished he could have some sort of pleasant experience with that kind of thing, but Szymon tainted that for him. He tainted his entire fucking life.
He'd tried things to get himself off before, namely porn. Straight, lesbian, gay, but nothing ever worked. All it seemed to do was throw him into a panic attack, making him think about him and his uncle in those positions, doing that nasty stuff.
He was by no means a virgin, but he worried he'd die with his only sexual experience being with his uncle. The sick fuck.
"Stiles?" Scott waved a hand in front of his face. When had they made it to the entrance of the school?
"Yeah," Stiles said, his voice shaking with nervousness. "The bags under my eyes aren't helping my usually stunning appearance, huh?" He chuckled hollowly, trying to get his heart rate to slow down after thinking about what he just had.
"Stiles, if something was going on… You- you'd tell someone, wouldn't you?" Scott asked and Stiles' heart sped right back up.
"Uh- what- why- w-why are you asking?" Stiles practically choked.
Smooth.
"I'll take that as a 'no.'" Scott said sadly, his puppy-dog eyes lowering to the ground.
"Scott… if it was something I wanted help with, you'd be the first to know." The corners of Stiles' mouth turned up slightly in the sympathetic shadow of a smile.
"Yeah, something you 'wanted' help with… who cares if you need it though, right?" Scott said bitterly as he hitched his backpack higher on his shoulders and scuffed his shoes against the pavement.
"Scott…" Stiles tried, feeling dejected. He hated seeing his friend — his best friend — so down. Especially because of him.
You're such an idiot.
Shut up, Stiles hissed back.
"It's fine. The rest of the pack and I are going to help you anyway, Stiles," Scott announced with a determined look on his face.
Stiles didn't have time to ponder Scott's statement before the boy grabbed onto Stiles' sleeve and pulled him into the school.
After practically sprinting through the hallways, Stiles said, "Scott, slow down!" As he tried to keep his breathing under control. The lack of food had begun to affect his body these last few days, as he was dizzy and out of breath at the end of every gym class and lacrosse practice.
"I'm not even going that fast!" Scott shot back as he pulled him up the stairs. "Can't keep up?" Scott laughed and Stiles frowned, huffing on his breath now. They finally made it to Mr. Harris' classroom and took their seats beside one another, beginning to chat.
Scott chose to ignore Stiles' heavy breathing, chalking it up to him simply being human and not being able to keep up with his enhanced physical capabilities.
"Heyyyyy!" A voice called from in front of them a few minutes after they'd sat down. Stiles jumped a few centimetres into the air at the sound, while Scott ignored the voice to keep talking to Stiles about his favourite show's latest episode.
"Hey, Lyds," Stiles said as Scott huffed at the loss of attention.
"Have you guys seen Allison?" She questioned, looking around the room as if to emphasize her point.
"She's got a doctor's appointment, so she'll be here later," Scott told her.
Stiles rolled his eyes. So that's why Scott got a ride with me, He thought bitterly. Because, of course, Scott would only want to hang out with him if his precious girlfriend wasn't around.
"Oh," Lydia said, glaring down her nose at Scott. "So, Stiles. Did Scott catch a ride with you this morning?" She asked innocently, turning her gaze to Stiles.
"Yeah," Stiles muttered. Guess that's what happens when your number one isn't around. Went unsaid.
Yeah, he'll admit it. He's a bit bitter about it. Because everything seemed to be about Allison these days.
He sighed. No, he shouldn't think like that. He should be happy Scott's finally in a relationship. With someone as amazing as Allison Argent, no less.
That's what mattered, after all.
Scott glared up at Lydia, who only smiled sweetly. "Good," she said, making her way to the desk beside Jackson. He was sitting at the back of the class, watching them intently.
There was a time when Jackson would have laughed at the thought of Stiles being abused by someone at the school, but that was in the past. Now, it angered him that someone would pick on Stiles. He was too kind for his own good. Jackson knew he'd never come to any of them for help, which is why they needed to do it unprompted.
He'd already threatened a few of Stiles' other bullies, but now there were more. God, the nerd couldn't catch a break.
He'd bust up the faces of the kids bullying Stiles now.
"Have you seen or heard anyone sneaking around Stiles yet?" Lydia asked, keeping her voice low as she cautiously glanced ahead to where Stiles and Scott sat. She looked at Stiles carefully before turning back to Jackson.
"Lydia, he's been here all of ten minutes. Chill," Jackson laughed, shaking his head at her.
"I'm glad you find this so funny," She spat back.
Jackson furrowed his eyebrows at her. "No, what's funny is seeing you give a crap about the guy you completely ignored for the better part of your entire school life," Jackson retorted nonchalantly.
"How can I not care?" Lydia glared before her features softened. "I mean, have you seen the guy? He looks awful. Obviously, whoever is doing this is really getting to him. He looks so worn down. Like he barely sleeps. And by the gauntness of his cheeks and how his shirts seem the slightest bit bigger now, I'd say he also barely eats." She placed her head in her hands dramatically as the rest of the class filed in.
Jackson was a bit taken aback by her level of concern. Only a bit. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that he looked, he realized Lydia was right in saying Stiles' shirts were slightly looser than before.
Just what is going on with you, Stilinski? He wondered, hoping that the bullying theory was true and that they could help him.
Boyd and Isaac were the last to arrive before class began. Mr. Harris stood and began teaching while Stiles' friends kept sneaking glances at him. The wolves listened to his heartbeat even out as he began to doze off.
—
Stiles was lying in his bed, the sheets draped around his body comfortingly as he closed his eyes.
"Stiles," A harsh, whispering rasp called out ominously, startling him where he lay. He tried to open his eyes, but he was so tired that they would only open for a few seconds before fluttering closed again.
"Hello?" He slurred.
What the fuck is going on? Have I been drugged?
"Oh, Stiles. You thought you could get away, did you?" The voice cooed. Suddenly, a set of hands were all over his body, touching him and groping him as a body draped itself over him.
"Please… don't…" He groaned, trying to get away. His mind was foggy. He could hardly do anything aside from begging not to be touched.
He'd had of this moment, he thinks.
But… It's never happened, has it?
Suddenly he was being forced on his stomach, and big, meaty fingers pushed into him.
"Stop…!" He cried with all he could manage, but it was pathetic.
You're pathetic.
"Oh, Stiles, you drive me nuts, you know that? You're such a fucking tease. Pretending you don't like it… but come on, you're a filthy little cum-dumpster slut. I know you fucking love it." He faintly registered whose slimy voice that was.
Szymon.
Why did his uncle continue to do this to him?
Why…?
Why, Why, Why?
…Why?
He could feel tears beginning to form in his eyes, his face smushed into his pillow. Something big and hard slammed into him from behind and he screamed bloody murder. He flailed violently and fell out of the… chair(?) and onto the floor.
"Stilinski! What the hell is wrong with you?" Mr. Harris asked angrily, standing practically overtop of Stiles
Stiles gathered his bearings and glanced around at his surroundings, his cheeks turning pink when he realized where he was. "What… what happened?" He asked dumbly, taking in the looks of concern from his friends and a few people he barely knew, along with the looks of amusement from some others.
"You were sleeping, for one," Mr. Harris began. "Then you started whining like a dog, and finally, to wrap things up with a pretty little bow, Mr. Stilinski, you screamed at the top of your lungs." Mr. Harris shook his head in exasperation.
"S- Sorry," was all he could manage to get out.
Every night he managed to get any sleep, he had these nightmares. The dreams were so vivid, so real. Sometimes he could swear that the same thing he'd dreamed about would actually happen, too.
But that was impossible… Right?
Regardless, it left him confused. Had it already happened? Was he just crazy?
He'd probably questioned his sanity more in the last two weeks than he had in his entire life.
"Detention, Mr. Stilinski. This afternoon," Mr. Harris said in a bitter tone of voice. "Now, get in your chair and try not to fall asleep again." He shook his head once more and watched Stiles expectantly.
Stiles righted his chair before standing to sit in it, only to fall again. He was still shaky from the dream; he guessed.
A few students dared to laugh but stopped abruptly when feral growling cut them all off.
"Right then," Mr. Harris sighed and went back to his lesson.
Scott gave Stiles a concerned look, but Stiles refused to meet his gaze. He could feel the rest of the pack members burning a hole in his head with their stares, but he refused to look back at any of them, either.
God, he couldn't fucking wait for lunch. He was going to put the box cutter — which he had stashed away in his first-aid kit — to good use.
—
Three periods later, his wish came true… almost.
"Stiles, where are you going, buddy?" Scott asked, running up to his friend. "You just stalked off!" He laughed nervously, fiddling with the straps of his backpack as he looked at Stiles intently.
Is he trying to get beat up? Why would he wander off alone when he's got us to protect him? Scott wondered, eyeing his friend in confusion.
"I've been texting you dorks this whole time. Why didn't you answer me?" Lydia asked as she wandered up to the small group, Jackson on one side and Allison on the other.
"Because I didn't feel like it," Stiles shrugged casually, picking up his pace and trying, in vain, to get away from them.
Lydia was taken aback by the admission, glancing at Jackson, who merely shrugged.
How could Stiles not feel like texting the girl he'd had a massive crush on for eight years?
"Listen, I really need to use the washroom, so…" Stiles confessed. It wasn't a lie, he really needed to go to the bathroom, he really needed to cut.
God, just get me out of this awkward social situation so I can relieve this fucking pressure, He thought somewhat sharply.
"Oh, good!" Isaac said cheerily, "I need to go real bad, too." Stiles didn't miss the way he nudged Boyd, who nodded his head in agreement.
Just what the fuck is going on here?
Ignoring the strangeness of the situation, Stiles began to feel antsy with his 'urge.' "Well, I don't know if you'd want to be in there while I do my 'business.'" Stiles grit out. Again, not a lie.
He was itching to tear his skin open. He didn't need the pack following him around like lost puppy dogs. It was starting to grate on his nerves. He hadn't been alone once all day.
They're up to something.
"It's fine, dude. We all do it." Isaac smiled at him earnestly, and Stiles wanted to wipe the grin off his face.
"Well, I can't do 'it' in front of anyone," Stiles muttered. Why wouldn't they just leave him alone already? They had no problem any other time. What made today so special?
Maybe they know about your little 'habit', The voice said, and Stiles froze.
There's no way, Stiles retorted. No, they would have told him, wouldn't they? They would have been disgusted. They would have thrown him from the pack like the garbage he was for being so weak and pathetic. There's no way, He repeated.
Who was he trying to convince, anyway?
The voice in his head?
I'm seriously going crazy here.
He knew there was no way for them to be aware of what was going on. There would be a bigger reaction. But why the hell were they so insistent on following him around then?
"Stiles, there's no way we're leaving you alone right now. Not knowing what we know," Scott said firmly, and Lydia shot him a glare. Stiles was startled from his thoughts at the sound of Scott's voice, and the fear he'd just felt came back in full force, his rational thoughts flying out the window.
"What he meant to say, is that we're concerned about you, Stiles." Lydia scowled. The wolves' noses twitched at the scent of fear that hung heavy in the air, emanating from Stiles' tense form.
"No, hold on," Stiles gulped, "'What we know'?" He questioned, fists clenching nervously by his side.
They don't know; they don't know; they don't know, His mind fired in rapid succession.
"Uh! What happened earlier," Scott repaired a little too quickly for the other pack members' liking.
Stiles, who was barely functioning on what little sleep he'd been getting, relaxed instantly. It made sense. Why would he worry about them knowing about his cutting? They'd probably hate him.
No, they'd definitely hate you, His mind supplied
Ignoring the intrusive thought, Stiles sighed in relief.
Meanwhile, Scott was sweating profusely. Did he seriously buy that? He thought, but the scent of calm that was flowing from his best friend told Scott that Stiles did, in fact, buy it.
Jackson simply watched the exchange with an unamused expression. Just how sleep-deprived is he? Jackson thought with a snort. If Scott's horrible lying could so easily fool the second-best student in their class, there was definitely something wrong.
"What the fuck happened in the first period?" Erica asked loudly as she made her way up to the group, effectively cutting the conversation short.
Amen to that. Scott wiped at his brow, glancing at Stiles as he tried to keep the nervousness off his face.
"It was nothing," Stiles dismissed, "Who told you, anyway? Did someone from the pack text you?" Stiles asked. The irritation he'd been feeling earlier came back as he stared at her expectantly.
"No, Eddy McCormick told me," Erica said, sounding the slightest bit anxious as she glanced around the pack.
"He wasn't even in that class!" Stiles flailed his limbs, throwing his arms into the air. "How the hell did he know?"
The pack shot each other tense glances, not going unnoticed by Stiles. "Oh, God. Just tell me how he knew," He muttered darkly. Was it already all over the entire school?
"Well, most of the school… kinda knows…" Erica said lamely. Stiles felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment.
Of course, because what else do these pathetic assholes have to talk about? He thought bitterly.
"How?" Stiles growled. Just how many students knew about his nightmare earlier?
Just be glad you didn't have a panic attack to top it all off. That would have been so much worse.
"Who told everyone?" He asked nastily before turning his attention to Jackson accusingly.
"Don't look at me! I would never do that to you!" Jackson tried to explain.
"You mean you wouldn't now," Stiles huffed angrily. The urge to cut only grew.
Just a few cuts. Hell, one cut. Just give me a fucking break already.
He froze, then lowered his head at the thought. What had his life come to? Cutting open his thighs so he can feel good about himself? What the actual fuck was wrong with him?
"Stiles?" Isaac asked nervously as Stiles stopped walking. He had his head tilted to the floor in an attempt to hide his face. Students walked around the group, some snickering and pointing. which, of course, Stiles took notice of immediately. When the wolves smelled the sodium that made up tears, they all froze.
"Stiles, come on…" Scott tried to soothe in a gentle voice, but it only made the tears fall quicker.
It was all Szymon's fault. Stiles was finally getting better. He had a crush on Derek Hale — and unlike the one he'd pretended to have on Lydia so people wouldn't question him, this one was veritable. He was about to come out to his father and friends as bi. He was going to finally be okay. Stiles was going to get his life back on track.
God, he just wanted to be normal. He wanted to be normal so fucking badly, and he was so close.
Then his uncle came back and ripped it all away from him.
"Fuck!" Stiles screamed angrily, and the people in the hall either turned or froze in place, the snickering having stopped. He stomped off fiercely, the pack rushing after him.
"Stiles!" Lydia hollered, though Stiles refused to lessen his pace or stop. He kept trekking his way through the school until he reached the doors. Finally, once they were outside, Isaac grabbed Stiles by the arm, spinning him around to face him.
Stiles hissed in pain, the sound and scent of it hitting the wolves' noses as they all froze.
Isaac was not about to pull Stiles' sleeves up in front of the entire school, but they'd definitely be taking a look at that later. "What the hell is wrong, man? Surely you're not this upset about people finding out something that's completely out of your control," Isaac said.
Stiles only laughed bitterly. "You wouldn't understand," he said cynically, yanking his body free of Isaac's hold.
"Then help us understand ," Allison said, and finally the dams broke. Stiles began full-on sobbing.
"You just wouldn't fucking get it!" Stiles cried, and it was Scott who grabbed him this time, though it was only to steady him as opposed to stopping him from leaving.
"Stiles, whatever's going on-" He began before Stiles cut him off,
"It's none of your fucking business, Scott. Why do you even care all of a sudden, anyway? You never gave a shit when Allison was in the picture, so why start now?" He mumbled. Then, with a despondent look taking over his face, he whispered, "No one gives a shit…" and the pack were all taken aback.
"Stiles…" Allison muttered in horror as Stiles shied away from the sound of her voice, hot tears still streaming down his face. There weren't too many people around, but the ones who were stared at the group with varying levels of interest. Some were even recording, though Stiles didn't seem to care.
"I- I need to go," Stiles said, ripping out of Scott's hold.
Stiles was nearly at the point of gasping for air, just on the cusp of a panic attack. He needed to get the fuck out of there, and fast. He turned away from the group and sprinted towards his Jeep.
Scott tried to go after him, but Boyd grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving.
When Scott turned to glare at whoever was gripping his upper arm, Boyd simply shook his head.
"He needs time alone," He told Scott.
"I'll be surprised if he doesn't do something stupid. I'm going after him," Scott snarled, baring his teeth at the other boy, who refused to let go. People were either staring after Stiles or at the pack as an uncomfortable and tense silence hung heavy in the air. Scott growled and tried to rip his arm free of Boyd's grasp, but Boyd wouldn't budge until Stiles' Jeep was long gone from the school's parking lot.
—
Stiles pulled over on the side of the road and pushed the Jeep door open harshly. He immediately fell into a heap on the sidewalk, his knees thumping loudly as they connected with the concrete. He clutched at his shirt, taking in small, gasping breaths as he attempted to calm himself down.
"Can't…" He panted, "Can't… breathe… f- fuck!" He wheezed, fruitlessly trying to suck in more air than his body was currently allowing.
He pictured his father and his soothing voice saying, 'In, three, two, one. Out, three, two, one.' Repeatedly, something he remembered well from the first time Szymon had stayed with them.
He sat on the side of the road gasping for breath for what must have been a good ten minutes, and after what felt like hours, he finally got his breathing under control. He was still slightly light-headed and panting by the time it was over.
He was briefly aware that in the time he had the attack, multiple people had driven by, though none had even so much as tried to help.
Assholes, Stiles thought as he picked himself up off the rough sidewalk. Whether he was talking about the people who had driven by him or his pack, he didn't know. All he knew was that he was mad at both.
"Get it together, Stiles," he muttered aloud as he clambered back into his Jeep. He decided he'd go to his favourite diner. He couldn't go back home. Not yet, anyway. Stiles knew his uncle had never done anything with his father in the house, but with the man passed out in the room upstairs, Stiles didn't doubt he would start.
No, he'd just go to the diner, grab something to eat and then go back to school, no problem.
I wish that pig would just die already, Stiles thought to himself. The image of him standing over his uncle's prone form while he stabbed a knife into his chest repeatedly flashed through his mind. He pictured blood flying from the knife with each stab to the man's wide frame.
Frozen in shock, he didn't even notice the Jeep slow down and roll to a stop until someone honked their horn loudly from behind him. The sound made him flinch, and he quickly glanced down at his hands to ensure they weren't covered in the same blood he saw in his vision.
What the fuck am I thinking?
"J- Jesus fucking Christ…" He spluttered. He'd never, not once in his life, thought about killing a human. Supernatural, sure, but never… never a person such as himself. "I'm definitely losing it," He whispered in shock.
The honking behind him grew more aggressive as cars passed by him. Some people even rolled their windows down to scream profanities at him as they passed. He shook his head to clear his thoughts and began driving once more, trying not to tremble too violently.
It was so vivid… but how could he even think about that?
Is… that really the only option I have left? Do I have to kill my uncle to escape from him?
He came to a stop at a red light, pressing his foot against the brake just a tad too forcefully.
Fuck that. I don't care how bad it gets, I wouldn't ever kill anyone just to get out of an unpleasant situation, He thought angrily.
…Then why not just kill yourself? The voice in his head snickered. Stiles brought a hand to his face and scrubbed them down his cheeks.
He had an urge to bury his fingers in his cuts but suppressed the urge for fear that he wouldn't have enough time to clean his thighs of blood before going back to class. And if he didn't have enough time to clean them, the wolves would smell it on him.
They already know what a freak you are, whore, His mind shot at him and he shook his head, trying to rid it of the thoughts.
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel nervously, glad when he saw the diner just a little up the road.
He pulled into the parking lot with a sigh and hopped out of his Jeep before staggering his way inside.
"Hey-a, Stiles!" Called Jenna — a friendly waitress Stiles had known for years — as she approached him.
"Hey, Jenna. How are you?" Stiles gave a genuine smile at the sight of his favourite waitress.
"I'm good, hon." The blonde, middle-aged lady flashed him a toothy smile in return to his own. "I'm just getting table six their meal, but if you're staying, I'd love to take your order!" She said excitedly.
"That's sweet, but I'm still in school at the moment. I don't have a lot of time since I want to go to the library after this, so I'm just gonna order and take it to go." Stiles fiddled with the hem of his shirt, feeling bad for not staying and chatting with Jenna.
"That's alright," she said, "...Not to be a bother or anything, hon, but are you okay?" She asked gently, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Am I okay…? What a foolish fucking question. Of course he wasn't okay. His uncle, the monster he was, was living in his home. He abused him so much that his mental health was going into a steep decline; he hadn't slept more than forty hours in the past week and a half, let alone at all last night, and he couldn't even remember the last time he'd sat down and had anything decent to eat. And God forbid he tries to eat anything at all, lest he feel nauseous and disgusting.
He was in constant pain, not only from the pangs in his stomach and the ache… down there, but also from the cuts he was inflicting on himself.
'Are you okay?' Seemed like such a ridiculous question to his mind that it was almost laughable.
He was not. That much he was certain of. He wasn't sure he'd be 'okay' ever again.
A beat of silence , "I'm fine. Why?" Giving a weak chuckle, he feigned ignorance.
"Your eyes are a bit puffy is all," she whispered. "I thought maybe you'd been… well, crying." She finished and Stiles flushed.
"Y- Yeah, I got soap in my eyes when I showered this morning. The swelling still hasn't gone down, apparently…" He replied lamely.
"Oh… I hate when that happens." She smiled with a sad look in her eyes, looking him up and down. "You've also lost weight since the last time I saw you."
How the hell has he lost enough weight in a week and a half for it to be noticeable?
"Uh, yeah. It's been a rough few weeks," Stiles told her honestly. It's not like she'd figure anything out from that admission alone. He planned on taking this secret to the grave if possible.
"I'm sorry to hear that, hon." She removed her hand from his shoulder and rubbed his upper arm affectionately. "I'm not one to nose about, so I won't ask what's bothering you, but I just want you to know I'm here if you ever need to talk, okay?" She smiled at him again, but it was a sad thing, concern marring her usually happy features.
"Thank you," Stiles mumbled, though he had no intention of talking to anyone about what was wrong.
"It's no problem, dear. And do try to get some more sleep. The bags under your eyes look like makeup." Stiles nodded his head dumbly at her. She gave him another sad smile and removed her hand from his arm, giving him a small hug. "Alright, I should really get going, but it was nice talking to you, sweetheart," she said.
"You too," Stiles replied. Jenna gave him a nod and stalked off to the kitchen, presumably to get table six their meal.
He sighed and made his way to the counter, ordering a small curly fry. When he got his food, he made his way back out to the Jeep and began the short drive back to the school.
Another five minutes went by without him remembering any of it, and he was back in BHHS's parking lot. He choked down the few fries he could manage and soon began to feel nauseous, so he placed the box in one of the cup holders.
He opened the Jeep door after staring at the barely touched fries for a moment, heading to the library as he said he would.
He cursed the pack for not having enough time to cut.
—
"Shit," Stiles muttered as he ran down the hallways and skidded to a stop at Mrs. Wilkinson's classroom. He entered the room, only slightly short of breath.
"How nice of you to join us, Mr. Stilinski." Mrs. Wilkinson gave him a pointed look as he grinned sheepishly at her. He looked around and noticed the faces of a few of his pack members looking at him with concern.
"Sorry," was all he said before making his way to the empty desk in front of the classroom.
"Because you're only a minute or so late, I'll let it slide. Try not to be tardy in the future, Mr. Stilinski," she said sternly, continuing on with attendance a moment later.
The next few hours trickled by slowly, and Stiles couldn't help but absent-mindedly press on his cuts through his pant legs while his teachers droned on. It wasn't enough to re-open the wounds, but just enough to hurt.
Scott and a few other pack members had made a few attempts at talking to him between classes, all of which were ignored.
Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, the bell rang, signalling the end of the tedious school day.
Stiles packed up his things slowly. He desperately hoped to avoid the pack and their sympathetic looks and questions, but just as his luck would have it, a few members had gathered outside the classroom doors and waited for Stiles to finish putting his books away before they ambushed him.
As soon as Stiles exited the room, he groaned, giving the ceiling a look before turning his attention to the few pack members — namely Erica, Isaac, Scott and Allison — who had gathered in the hall.
"Hey…" Scott began, hating the unimpressed look on Stiles' face.
"I don't want to hear it," Stiles snapped, a small flame of anger flaring up inside of him, licking at his insides. He couldn't help but think of the phones directed his way as he stalked away from the pack during lunch hour.
Had they just left him alone, none of that would have happened.
"Stiles-" Erica started, but before she could say whatever it was she had to say, Stiles cut her off.
"Didn't you hear me? I said-"
"Stiles, you're acting like a spoiled child," Allison said, uncharismatic, as she flipped her hair over her shoulder coldly.
If someone was going to get through to him, it wouldn't be by sugar-coating things and treating him like the brat he was being.
"I don't care! I just- God, I know what you guys are going to ask, and I don't think I'm comfortable answering those kinds of questions," He mumbled, his voice low. He knew the wolves could hear him, and if Allison not asking him to repeat himself told him anything, it was that she had heard him too.
"Stiles…" Scott whimpered. "That's fine, but we're here to help you regardless," Scott said and Stiles huffed.
"I know. I just don't feel like talking about it, okay?" He sai d, "But I understand what you guys are trying to do, so thanks, I guess." He wasn't exactly happy about it, but as he'd said, he understood where they were coming from.
"You're welcome." Scott gave a weary smile. "We'll be here for you no matter what, bro."
Stiles gave a small nod at that. "You guys are really good friends. I'm sorry I've been so shitty lately," He mumbled.
"It's all good, man." Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. "You coming to Derek's loft before we go see the pixies?" He asked and Stiles shook his head.
"Can't. Detention, remember?" Stiles said as the group sighed.
"Well, you're only in detention till four, right?" Isaac asked, and Stiles nodded slowly. "Then we'll see you at four." He smiled gently, and before Stiles could argue, the pack was already running down the hallway, sensing the oncoming lack of agreement.
"Idiots." Stiles shook his head fondly and made his way to the library for detention.
—
A/N: Leave a comment and let me know your thoughts! I'd love to hear what you think of it so far! Criticism of the constructive kind is welcome. :)
—
After working a bit on the outline, this story will diverge from the original work I made in 2021 starting around chapter five. (I've merged chapters three and four, so expect another long chappy next time!)
—
I asked this question before, but I did not address it in the original work. Any theories as to why Stiles is losing weight rapidly? I actually forgot the reason before re-reading this chapter, so there is a hint in here. That's all I'm gonna tell you, though! :P
Until next time, my little gremlins!