The Tears We Cry

by ForTheLoveOfAngst

Stiles, fear-stricken and backed against the wall opposite his uncle, faced the man's tearful apology for the drunken "mistake" he'd made the night prior. Desperate apologies filled the room, but Stiles would never forgive the man for what he'd done, the trauma he'd caused. Ten years later, Stiles thought he was finally beginning to heal... that is until his uncle came back again.

4. Chapter 4

A/N: Trigger warning for graphic depictions of self-harm, somnophilia, suicidal thoughts/attempt, attempted murder of a main character, and rape/non-con. I have marked off the somnophilia/rape/non-con, self-harm, and suicide attempt scenes with asterisks at the beginning and end of each scene, along with with a brief message as to which scenes they are. Please be safe. If you feel as though this is something that will trigger you, please just skip it. I have tried to section off the scenes right where I think it will trigger people, so you won't miss much other than the actual act itself.

I have described the skippable scenes in the chapter's end notes, summarizing each one by removing any sensitive or triggering content.

All that being said, this is the chapter you've all been waiting for. The disgusting piece of shit finally gets what's coming to him. :)

And it's painful and full of suffering! :D

Also! This is the first chapter that I didn't write as a side-by-side copy of the original! This is nearly all new content. So enjoy that. :)

And a huge shout out to my long-distance IRL friend (who sadly doesn't have an AO3 account). She came up with some of the best lines in here! 3

On a side note, the best canon gay boi makes an appearance, and it's not what any of the pack was expecting! :o

Have fun reading, my gremlins. It's a good one. :)

Beta'd by Hayley757 over on AO3!

—

RESPONSES TO REVIEWS:

To Calinea: I love your insight on things! Your thoughts on the fic went way deeper than I originally wrote into the story. I enjoy writing comments/reviews with ideas like yours into my fics, but sadly I already have up to chapter six completed! :( I would have loved to add some of what you 'speculated' on into the story, like Stiles' uncle being a magic user (because yes, Stiles' magic does come from his mother's side), the ritual and all that… but it's too late to go back and change the entire story based on what you said, sadly. :(

Also, you may be disappointed with the turn things take in regards to Allison. I originally wasn't going to make her such a bitch, but then my readers on AO3 started really hating on her and I kinda just rolled with it. X_X But she won't be a completely oblivious fool the entire time, she'll come around eventually.

—

"Stiles!" The pack called, rushing to the boy's crumpled form. Even Allison looked stunned by the sight of Stiles' limp body.

"What's– What's wrong with him?" Isaac asked from beside Erica as the entire pack gathered around him. Scott got down on the ground, not caring about the water soaking through his jeans as he put Stiles' head in his lap. Students sped past them, not caring about the passed-out boy in Scott's arms as they rushed to get to their cars or buses. Obviously, they feared more lightning.

"Is…" Lydia began, "Is his heart beating…?" She asked.

Scott swallowed hard. "Yes, but it's irregular… and slow," He said with concern, listening to the sluggish beating of his friend's heart.

"Was he struck by the lightning?" Allison questioned nervously. She immediately regretted yelling at the boy.

"He doesn't smell burnt," Isaac muttered.

"Speak up," She commanded, and Erica turned a pair of golden, angry eyes to her.

"Oh, now you care? You were about to hurt him not two minutes ago. You screamed in his face and threatened him. You don't deserve to be worried," she seethed from the ground beside Scott and Stiles.

Allison paled considerably, looking towards Stiles with gloomy eyes. "I– I wasn't actually going to…" She tried, but couldn't disagree that she didn't deserve to be worried at that moment. Regardless of whether she was going to hurt him, she'd still yelled at him and said horrible things to him over something so petty. She knew he was going through a hard time, yet she'd still intentionally added to his plate. "I'm sorry, okay? But now really isn't the time to be fighting."

Erica let out a small growl at her words. "Neither was a few minutes ago." She stuck her nose up in the air, refusing to so much as look at Allison as she turned away and shut her eyes.

"Guys, seriously, can you stop? There are bigger issues at hand here," Isaac huffed, looking between the two disbelievingly. "Right," He said after a moment of silence. "He doesn't smell burnt, so it's unlikely he got struck," He said as he crouched down next to Scott and Erica.

"Should we call an ambulance?" Lydia asked nervously, but before anyone could answer, Stiles began groaning.

"Is he in pain?" Jackson asked. The pack looked down at Stiles, all wondering that very same thing.

"Let's find out," Scott said as he placed a hand against the back of Stiles' neck. Almost as soon as his fingers made contact, he recoiled as if burnt.

"What? What's wrong?" Allison asked, and Scott shook his head.

"He's, God, he's in a lot of pain," Scott mumbled, confused.

Did the lightning strike him after all?

Stiles groaned again, jerking his body in his unconscious state. Scott frowned and checked him over, looking for any visible sign that he'd been struck by the lightning. He even checked the bottom of his feet for scorch marks but found none.

"Stiles?" He said. He then lifted the boy's shirt a little to check for any damage. He gasped at the sight of the exposed flesh, as did most of the pack.

When Scott lifted Stiles' shirt, he revealed an ugly landscape of black and blue on his stomach. The severity of the damage became clear as the pack stared at Stiles' skin, bearing the marks of bruises and ruptured blood vessels. It created a truly disturbing display of injury.

"Holy shit," Scott said in horror.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Lydia said quickly, but just as she pulled out her phone, Stiles began to stir. He noticed the hands on his stomach and immediately pushed them away.

"Wha' happ'ned?" He muttered incoherently, opening his bleary eyes to glance around at the pack crowded around him.

"Stiles!" Lydia called, completely abandoning the phone call she was about to make. "Oh, thank God, you had us so worried there!" She cried, falling to the ground and ruining her white jeans to hug him tightly.

"You passed out," Boyd said calmly, ever the stoic boy.

"You scared the shit out of us," Erica cried, also engulfing Stiles in a hug.

"I pass'd out?" Stiles questioned in a slurred voice.

"I think he needs to go to the hospital. If not for fainting, then definitely for the bruises on his stomach," Scott said and Stiles' eyes widened.

"Wha? No, no hospital," He said. His brain was foggy, as if his head were stuffed with cotton.

"Stiles, you could have internal bleeding. Those bruises look bad," Lydia said seriously. Stiles only shook his head frantically.

"No," He muttered. "Jus' take me to Derek's loft." His head lolled to the side as he spoke. In the next second, it snapped forward as if he were struggling to keep himself awake.

"Stiles…" Scott spoke slowly, "You need to get checked out by a doctor, you could have seriously injured yourself."

"No!" Stiles cried. The pack all looked stunned for a moment, wondering where this was coming from. "I'm fine… I swear," He said more sheepishly this time.

If I go to the hospital, they might find out about my cuts. I can't go, He thought in desperation.

And if they find out about your cuts, they'll hate you for sure, The voice reasoned.

"No hospitals," He muttered, finally feeling as though some of his energy was returning to him.

Stiles went to stand, nearly falling over in the process. Scott caught him by the arm and helped him onto his unsteady feet.

"Stiles, this is serious. You–" Lydia began in a stern tone of voice, but abruptly shut her mouth at the look Stiles shot her. She could have sworn she saw them flash with some sort of red intensity, but she chalked it up to her imagination in the next moment, knowing it to be impossible.

Stiles is human, nothing more than human, She reminded herself, though even her rational mind had its doubts at that moment.

She also knew red lightning was a natural phenomenon, but could it have been…

No, that's foolish. It was nothing more than a coincidence.

"If you're not going to the hospital, at least let Mom look you over," Scott said as he helped Stiles to his Jeep. "And I don't care what you say, I'm definitely not letting you drive in your current state. Either you let me drive or you'll be sleeping in the school's parking lot tonight," He commanded.

Stiles huffed indignantly before letting out a resigned, "Fine." As he handed his keys to Scott. Each pack member went to the vehicle of their choice and they drove to Derek's.

Erica used Scott's phone on the way to the loft to call Melissa and inform her that she was needed.

—

"What the hell do you mean, 'Stiles passed out'?" Derek hissed as the pack walked in, watching as Scott helped Stiles over to the couch. The boy immediately laid back on the cushions and shut his eyes.

"It was weird, there was this red lightning, and it struck the ground a bunch of times, and then he just passed out," Allison informed him.

"You skipped out on the part where you screamed in Stiles' face and threatened him," Erica fumed and Derek turned away from watching Stiles to look at Allison in shock.

Allison gulped nervously, looking between Derek and Erica, who both looked pissed off.

"Let it go, Catwoman," Stiles said from the couch, his eyes still closed.

Before any more arguing could ensue, Lydia spoke up. "Melissa's coming over." She glared pointedly at Stiles for refusing to go to the hospital, but the boy didn't so much as crack an eye open at the sound of her voice.

"That's a good idea," Derek said with a sigh. "Why didn't he just go to the hospital to begin with?" He asked.

Lydia turned her glare to Derek, "That's a great question, Derek. Why don't you ask Stiles, as we're all currently in the dark about that as well," She muttered sullenly.

"I hate the hospital," Stiles said simply. It wasn't a lie, he'd hated hospitals ever since his mother's illness, but that wasn't the reason he didn't want to go.

"Stiles, you passed out, you should be going to the hospital to get looked over," Derek said disbelievingly, as if he couldn't comprehend Stiles' idiocy. There could be something seriously wrong with him right now.

"Oh, and that's not all," Lydia spoke in an icy tone. Derek gave her a look to continue, so she did. "He's got bruises all over his torso. God knows what that's from, but he wouldn't tell us anything on the drive here. He could have internal bleeding, but I guess that just isn't an issue for him." She flipped her hair over her shoulder and sat on the couch opposite Stiles.

"And he's not being bullied, either, apparently," Isaac added. The wolves could all smell how sour Stiles' scent was becoming, but none of them made any moves to stop the conversation.

"Stiles, what the fuck is going on?" Derek growled. He walked around the couch to meet Stiles on the other side, who peered up at him through heavy-lidded eyes.

"How many times do I have to tell you guys? It's none, of, your, business." He snapped, turning around on the couch so he was facing the plush fabric and not the pack.

"Seriously? Why can't you just let us help you!" Jackson spluttered, unable to comprehend what could be such a big secret that Stiles was going to this length to keep the truth hidden from them. "What's your problem!" He shot at him.

Stiles winced. "It's not a problem with you, Jacks. It's not a problem with any of you. It's just my shitty situation to deal with, and I… I don't want any of you to think less of me if I told you," He confessed.

The pack paused for a moment. This was the most they'd managed to get out of him about the entire situation, and it hurt to hear he thought they'd think less of him for anything.

"I get that, but we would never think less of you for anything, Stiles. you're obviously struggling. We… we just want to help," said Derek in a broken voice.

The way his voice cracked made Stiles want to pour his heart out right then and there, but he knew he couldn't. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut about this.

He's lying. They'd hate you. They'd despise you.

And ain't that the truth?

"I'm sorry." He ran a hand down his face, "But it's my secret to keep," He muttered.

"Stiles–" Erica began, but just then the wolves heard a car pull up outside.

"Melissa is here," Peter said. Even he looked the slightest bit sombre because of the situation, and that was saying something.

The pack sat in subdued silence as they waited for Melissa to arrive at the loft's entrance. Some of them cast nervous glances in Stiles' direction, but the boy lay back on the couch and didn't pay attention to any of them.

When Melissa entered, she could practically feel the tension in the air emanating from each pack member. She took off her shoes and gave a wan smile to Derek.

"So, what exactly happened?" She asked, going to sit down by Stiles' feet on the couch. She laid a hand on his leg and he flinched.

When Stiles didn't answer, Scott spoke up for him. "He passed out, and he's got bruises all over his stomach." Scott sighed. Melissa frowned at the information, taking her medical bag off and rummaging around inside it for a moment.

"Stiles, do you mind if I take a look at you?" She asked. Stiles peeled his eyes open and looked at her, only giving a small nod in response to her question. "Okay." She took out a stethoscope first "I'm just going to put this to your chest, is that okay? I'll need to lift your shirt." She spoke softly, as if she were speaking to a scared child. Stiles wanted to snap at her, tell her to treat him like the near-adult he was, but he refrained. How could he? She was like a mother to him.

"Can they leave the room?" Stiles asked sheepishly, pointing his finger at the pack. Melissa smiled gently and nodded. She turned her attention to the pack members.

"Can you do as Stiles asked? I'm sure it would make things a lot easier on him," She said. Everyone nodded their heads, though some were more reluctant than others — Namely Derek.

The pack exited the room as Stiles stared at the ground sadly.

"It breaks my heart to see you like this, Stiles," Melissa said before reaching over and hugging him.

Stiles only shook his head and continued to stare at the ground, wincing from the hug Melissa was giving him. "Let's just get this over with," He muttered.

And so she released him, giving him the smallest of smiles before she began conducting some tests to see what could be wrong.

—

The pack listened to the short exchange from Derek's bedroom before Melissa began her wordless examination of Stiles.

"What do you think is wrong with him?" Scott asked nervously. He glanced at Derek, but he shook his head.

"I'm not too sure. You guys should have forced him to go to the hospital. There's only so much Melissa can do here," He muttered darkly. The pack looked sombre as they glanced around the room at one another.

"Are they saying anything?" Lydia asked as she turned to her boyfriend. Jackson shook his head and they too fell as silent as Melissa and Stiles were downstairs.

A few moments passed before Melissa asked Stiles how he got the bruises.

"She's asking about what happened to him," Isaac informed Allison and Lydia, who didn't have supernatural hearing. "He says he got into a fight with some bullies, but he's lying," He mumbled.

They sat in silence for another few minutes, but neither Stiles nor Melissa said very much.

"Have they said anything else?" Allison asked eventually. Derek shook his head 'no.'

Allison huffed and turned to Scott. "He'll be okay, right?" She asked cautiously.

Scott shook his head, "I don't know, Allison." He grumbled, not looking away from the exit door.

Allison looked stunned for a moment. "You seem unhappy… are you mad at me?" She questioned. Scott looked down at her, an expression on his face she'd never seen before.

"You've been treating my best friend like crap, of course I'm not happy," He said. Allison had to hide her shock at the words.

"I apologized, though," She spoke softly.

"Not to him. And even if you did, that wouldn't make it right," Erica growled.

Allison rolled her eyes at the girl. "Butt out, she-wolf." She huffed.

"I agree with her." Scott turned to Allison with sad eyes. "You've been acting nasty since the whole car incident last night. I know you're my girlfriend, but he's my best friend. I care about him too," he told her.

Allison gave him a hard stare. "So what? You wouldn't even care if he didn't pass out," She mumbled. Scott turned his gaze to the ground.

"I know," He said sombrely. "Which is why I was thinking on the way here that we should maybe… I dunno… take a break?" He shut his eyes as Allison gasped. The rest of the pack stared dumbfounded at the pair.

They all knew how madly in love with Allison Scott was, so why was he suggesting they break up?

"You can't be serious!" Allison hissed. She clenched her fists at her side and glared at Scott incredulously. "What? I yelled at him once so you're going to break up with me? Are you kidding?" She asked angrily.

Scott sighed and finally looked up from the ground, looking her in the eyes as he spoke. "I'm breaking up with you because I've been focusing all my attention on you, Ally. Stiles needs me right now, and I can't be there for him when you're in the picture, too." Scott took her hand in his, "But I still love you, and it's not because I'm mad at you. Stiles just needs me more," He said.

Allison shook her head at his words. "So what, I'm just in the way of your relationship with Stiles?" She seethed, ripping her hand free from Scott's grasp.

"No! No, that's not what I meant. It's because I love you so much that I think we need to take a break. I can't be there for Stiles if you're always on my mind," He told her, hoping she'd understand where he was coming from.

"If we break up now, Scott McCall, I swear we're never getting back together," She said angrily. "It's me or Stiles. Are you seriously going to pick him over me? Especially with the way he's been acting lately!" She hissed.

Scott's expression darkened at her words. "See? It's you saying shit like that, that makes me think we need to break up," He declared, exasperated.

Allison smacked his chest angrily. "Am I wrong!" She screamed, her face alight with anger. She turned her head to the ground, tears filling her eyes. "Fine, Scott. Don't come crawling back to me when Stiles is okay again, though." She turned towards the door, opening it and standing with her back turned to the group. "But thanks for embarrassing me in front of the whole pack," She said before walking out and slamming the door shut.

Stiles flinched at the sound and looked up at her as she rushed down the stairs. "What's wrong?" He asked as Melissa stopped taking the blood pressure cuff off of his arm to glance at her as well.

"Shut up. This is your fault," She hissed, grabbing her shoes and storming out the front door.

In Derek's room, the pack looked stunned. All but Scott, who was glaring at the ground with a sombre expression on his face. Down below they could hear Melissa arguing with Stiles about sitting down so they could finish the examination, but Stiles told her they were practically done anyway.

"What happened?" Stiles asked as he entered Derek's room.

"I broke up with Allison," Scott muttered. Stiles looked taken aback by his words, as did Melissa, standing behind him.

"What? Why?" Stiles asked, looking at Scott in confusion.

"Because of the way she treated you," Scott muttered. Stiles paled as his eyes widened.

"You can't be serious?" He asked in horror.

"Oh, he's serious." Erica scoffed. "And good riddance to her," She sneered.

"Scott, why would you do that!" Stiles exclaimed, incredulous.

"I believe the kids say 'bros before hoes' these days," Peter snickered. Stiles didn't pay him any mind, his wide-eyed stare still on Scott.

"Please tell me you didn't just break up with your girlfriend simply because she was rude to me?" Stiles asked, hoping against all odds this was some kind of sick joke while he tried to will the overwhelming sense of guilt away.

"It wasn't just that she was rude to you, Stiles," Scott said as he looked at him. "It's like you said, she steals me away from you. You're struggling right now, you need me more than she does, and I feel like I can't give you the attention you need with her in the picture." Immediately the guilt Stiles felt intensified tenfold.

Stiles spluttered something incoherent as he turned away from Scott. He felt the overwhelming need to slice his skin open.

And you deserve it more than anything. You make everyone miserable, your father, your pack, your best friend… You deserve so much worse than pain. You deserve to die. The voice spat. Stiles couldn't help but completely agree with it this time around.

"I need to go," Stiles muttered, turning from the pack and hobbling down the stairs.

"Stiles, where are you going?" Jackson asked, concerned, as the pack ran to catch up with the boy.

Stiles ignored them, digging his fingers into the cuts on his thighs.

I'm such a burden. I'm such a coward. I'm such a piece of shit. He thought as he put his shoes on by the door and grabbed his backpack.

"Stiles, I still need another sample of your blood," Melissa said as she placed a hand on his shoulder. Stiles wrenched his body free of her hold and turned to the door to leave.

"Work with what you have," He muttered, opening the door and walking out. Scott grabbed his arm and the door before he could shut it.

"Why are you so mad that I broke up with Allison?" Scott asked defensively.

"I'm not mad that you broke up with Allison," He confessed. "I'm mad at myself for making you think that was your only option." He ripped his arm free of Scott's hold, and Scott swore he could feel a jolt of electricity as Stiles' arm slid out of his grasp, but he wasn't thinking about that at the moment.

"Stiles, at least let me drive you home," Derek said. Stiles knew the pack wouldn't let him drive his Jeep in his current condition, so he reluctantly agreed.

His heart had never felt so heavy with conflicting emotions.

—

"Are you okay?" Derek asked after they pulled out of the parking lot.

"Fine," Stiles said curtly as he fixed his gaze on the passing scenery outside the window. He didn't want to talk. The only thing he could focus on was the fact that his blade was still sitting in his backpack, waiting to be used.

"Quit bullshitting," Derek said, but Stiles ignored him. "I can smell how sad you are," He murmured more softly. "You always seem to smell miserable these days," He added, concern evident in his tone.

Stiles said nothing as he continued to stare out the window. He absent-mindedly brought a hand to his cuts and pressed his fingers into the grooves on his thighs, feeling as though the pain served as a brief anchor amidst the thoughts and emotions raging through him.

Derek briefly glanced away from the road at the intensified smell of pain, noticing what Stiles was doing to himself. He pulled the boy's hand away from his thigh, only to be hit with the smell of blood a moment later.

"Stiles? Are you bleeding?" Derek asked, his heart rate skyrocketing.

"What?" Stiles asked, his heart rate also picking up.

What if Lydia and Isaac were right? Just not about it being on his arm? Derek thought, his mind racing as he paled.

He was about to pull over when Stiles said, "I was biting the inside of my mouth." Which wasn't a lie. He was just thankful he had an excuse for why he could smell like blood.

Please don't let it seep through my pants, He thought fearfully. But it would have to soak through the bandages first, which were layered and thick.

Derek let out a shaky sigh and continued driving, not missing the way Stiles seemed to relax as well.

"You'd tell me if you were…" Derek started, but even he knew the answer to his question.

Why would he tell you, of all people, if he were cutting himself? You're nothing to him, His mind spat viciously.

"If you weren't alright?" He amended. It was even more foolish than his first question had been, the whole pack knew Stiles wasn't alright, yet the most they'd gotten out of him was that he didn't want them to think less of him. Which was ridiculous, but what was even more ridiculous was the fact that Stiles thought he had to go through this alone.

Stiles hummed noncommittally as he wrestled with the weight of his internal struggles. He found he was unable to find the words nor the courage to express the depth of his pain and the conflict he felt within.

"I just wish you'd talk to someone," Derek sighed. Was it so much to ask that they got the old Stiles back?

"And I wish it were that easy," Stiles said in reply. "I can't even… I don't even know how to think about what's going on with me, let alone how to talk with someone about it," Stiles mumbled.

"You could try with me?" Derek suggested, looking hopeful.

Stiles turned to him. Derek glanced at him for a second, taking in the look of hesitance on his face, like he wanted to say it, but was struggling to put it into words.

"I– I can't." He stammered as he turned away, his voice laced with frustration and vulnerability. He felt as if he were trying to hold back an entire dam of emotions, afraid it would drown him in its intensity.

Derek sighed, feeling a sense of helplessness. "That's okay," He said softly. "But I'm here if you need me, alright?" He offered a comforting, understanding smile to Stiles, who only frowned in return. "You're not alone, Stiles," Derek continued, his voice gentle. "We're a pack, and we look out for each other. Your well-being matters to all of us. So, if you ever want to talk, or if there's anything I can do to help, just know I'm here, and that I care about you." Stiles was taken aback by the sincerity and warmth in Derek's tone, realizing that maybe he had underestimated the depth of their connection.

Since when is he so… caring? Stiles wondered, both surprised and touched by Derek's genuine concern. It was a side of Derek he hadn't expected to see. It made him reconsider their relationship and the walls he'd built around himself recently.

At that moment, he felt the briefest flicker of the feelings he'd once had for Derek. The emotions forgotten in the chaos of the past two weeks.

"Th– Thank you," He mumbled, glancing away from Derek to continue gazing out the window.

Maybe I can tell him… someday.

—-

Stiles walked up the steps to his house with slumped shoulders. He felt horrible, but he also felt hopeful. Seeing that side of Derek made him question whether he really needed to keep this a secret from the pack, or at the very least, Derek.

Maybe he could help me? Maybe he could drive Szymon out of town?

But then he hesitated, torn between the desire for assistance and the fear of burdening Derek with his petty problems.

When he made his way into the house he froze. The sound of his dad and Szymon laughing in the kitchen instantly soured his mood, and he remembered then why he'd left the loft in the first place.

He frowned and shut the door quietly behind him. He hadn't forgotten the 'talk' his father wanted to have with him, but to be frank he wasn't in the mood right now.

He went up to his room and shut the door behind him, slumping down onto the floor in a heap.

He was so sick of this, and how long would it continue? Would it go on for months like it had last time? He didn't know if he could handle that once more.

He opened his backpack and took out his first-aid kit. He knew if anyone from the pack asked him why he had it he could tell them it was for emergency situations, like if a supernatural ever attacked them out of the blue when they were unprepared. It was the reason he'd started carrying it around last year, after all.

The box cutter in the side pocket would be less easy to explain, but he could say it was in case he needed to protect himself, which again, wouldn't be a complete lie.

Not that he ever intended on anyone finding out about either.

He sighed and took the blade from the pocket of the kit, holding it in his hand and staring down at it for a moment. He felt a flurry of emotions in his chest. He thought about how close the pack had come to finding out about his 'habit' twice now, and really considered whether or not he should be doing this.

On the one hand, it brought him relief. Both in the case of numbing his raging emotions, as well as giving him some form of punishment for being such a little 'cum dumpster slut.' Bringing his free hand to his face he ran it down his cheek. He stood up, preparing a towel and pulling down his pants. He carefully undid the gauze wrapped around both thighs, skin and blood sticking to the fabric and making it hurt to peel off, but the sensation of his wounds was nothing compared to the actual deed of making them.

TW: Self-harm scene.

He sat back down on the floor, placing the towel underneath his now bare legs. He brought the blade to his left thigh and slashed it into his skin. He could see the little bumps of his dermis before the gash pooled with blood and covered the edges of his cut in a swirl of crimson.

I'm so pathetic. Seriously, what's wrong with me? He wondered as tears filled his eyes.

The list is too long for your dumbass to comprehend, you disgusting piece of trash. That same awful voice fired back.

He watched the blood for a moment or two as it leaked down his legs, matching the tears falling down his cheeks.

You made your best friend unhappy, and you're making everyone worry over your stupid ass when they should at least know the reality of your situation. That this is your own damn fault.

You haveno right to act like such a petulant child over your situation. It's all your fault. Everything is your fault. All you do is make people miserable. The voice hurled at him. Just die already. It will only bring about the happiness the people in your life deserve.

And at those words, anger overtook his entire body. The voice was right, and he was so angry at himself. At Scott, at Szymon.

One second he was sitting there crying quietly, the next he was slicing at his legs in an angry fit, carving gash after gash into his wounded legs, not even sensing more pain when he sliced across a scar or existing cut.

He was just so, so angry.

He was breathing heavily by the time he realized what he'd done. He stared down at his torn-up thighs in horror.

Most of the cuts were the size of what he'd normally make, but some were sickeningly large and gaping. The gushing blood was too much for him to look at, so he turned away, feeling woozy from both the sight and loss of blood.

End self-harm scene.

He decided he'd done enough and grabbed the towel, placing it against his thighs. He felt the towel in his hands soaked through with blood. The crimson fluid was all over his floor, all over his hands.

Panicking, he went to his first aid kit, cursing the fact that he didn't buy one with a needle and thread. He hurriedly put gauze around his thighs, wrapping it in layers upon layers of white fabric, but even then, it soaked through within a few minutes.

He was starting to feel weaker and weaker, and he wondered if his actions would be the unintentional cause of his death.

He placed a hand against his wall to anchor himself and stood up, feeling blood leaking down his legs from the soaked fabric of the gauze.

Immediately after he stood, his shaky legs gave out and he fell back to the ground.

"I'll just… rest my eyes for a moment. Then I'll clean this up," he muttered to himself. He blinked lazily a few times, staring across his room at his desk before his eyes shut completely and he passed out.

—-

Szymon awoke at around two in the morning. He glanced at the time on his phone and huffed, glancing around the still-lit-up living room. The TV was playing some stupid late-night adult cartoon, what looked to be some young kids swearing at each other and a particularly large one calling some kid in a green hat a 'dirty Jew.' Szymon rolled his eyes, wondering just what the hell Noah had been watching before falling asleep.

He glanced to the chair Noah had been sitting in previously, taking in the man's slightly crumpled appearance.

Didn't Noah have to work tomorrow — or today, as the case may be? Szymon snickered to himself, imagining a very hung-over sheriff walking into work the next morning.

He huffed a small laugh and stood from the couch, waltzing up the stairs, still feeling a bit drunk from the night prior. He went to the bathroom on the first floor and then crept up the stairs to Stiles' room.

That kid looks way too cute when he's asleep. He thought drunkenly. Most nights when the sheriff was home he liked to jerk off to Stiles' sleeping form, but he'd never do anything with that cockblock at home. Stiles may be a pussy ass bitch, but Szymon wouldn't put it past him to try and get his dad to come save him.

Rolling his eyes at the thought, Szymon reached the top of the stairs, only to notice the light in Stiles' room to still be on.

He huffed, wondering if the kid was doing school work, but when he put an ear to the door he didn't hear anything. Not the sound of papers or the clacking of a keyboard.

Wondering what the whore was up to, he slowly opened the door. At first, he thought he'd walked in on the scene of a crime. The boy was slumped over and there was blood everywhere, on the floor, a bloody handprint on the kid's wall, and blood all over the kid himself.

Then a smile spread across his face when he realized that the red swaths around the kid's thighs weren't wounds, but gauze completely soaked in blood.

He went over to Stiles' limp form and put a hand to his throat, checking for a pulse before he laughed a bit. Had the kid seriously cut himself so badly that he made himself pass out? He'd left such a mess, too.

Stiles was lucky Szymon was a good uncle and would clean this up for him…

But not before I have a little fun first.

After all, who would pass up on an opportunity like this?

He picked Stiles up by the hips, bending down a bit with the boy in his arms to take a whiff of his hair.

He uses such a nice-smelling shampoo… Szymon thought as he placed him on the bed.

He took off the boy's shirt and admired the bruises he'd put all over his body. He took a few pictures of his naked form, happy to get some extra material for the old collection he had in the hidden file he had on his phone.

TW: rape/non-con scene.

He took a moment to stare at the boy a little longer before removing his own clothes and flipping the boy over onto his stomach. He lifted his hips into the air and placed his legs underneath him so he'd stay in a position comfortable for Szymon.

He didn't even need to make himself aroused, the sight of Stiles' bloody and beat-up body was enough to have his cock hard and throbbing with want.

Lining his cock up with Stiles' hole, he slipped inside the boy, moaning at the feeling. Szymon began thrusting into the boy's limp form, groaning in satisfaction.

"God, Stiles. You feel so good," He moaned.

End rape/non-con scene

—

Noah had just finished breakfast when he realized Stiles was still in bed. He'd have to leave for the station soon, so he decided he'd go wake his kid up before going to work.

He stood, trying to ignore the pounding in his head as he walked to the sink and cleaned his dirty dishes.

God, remind me to never drink that much again before going to work the next day, He thought, placing a hand against his forehead and groaning as intense nausea hit him. Scratch that, remind me to never drink that much again period.

"Shit," He grumbled to himself as he walked from the kitchen to the stairs. He made it to the second floor and went to Stiles' room, knocking lightly on the door in case the boy was up and getting changed or something. When he got no response he opened the door and walked inside, looking over Stiles' sleeping form under his covers.

"Stiles," He said gently, shaking his son by the shoulder tenderly. Stiles only groaned and turned to the side facing Noah.

The man took in his son's haggard appearance, noticing the bags under his eyes were slightly less dark than the day before.

Obviously, he was getting the rest he hadn't been able to get in a long time. Noah realized then that he and Stiles were supposed to have talked the night prior.

But instead, Noah had gotten drunk off of his ass.

I'm a horrible father, Noah thought harshly, scolding himself for his lack of concern last night.

They'd definitely be talking when Noah got home tonight though, that much he was sure of. He wouldn't fuck up like that again.

Feeling bad, he decided he'd call the school and tell them Stiles needed the day off. He just hoped Stiles could finally feel rested enough to feel okay again.

Noah kept thinking about Claudia, about her insomnia, her change in personality… but he didn't want to think Stiles could be going through what the love of his life had. The world wasn't so cruel that it would take both the people he loved the most away from him.

"Alright son, you rest." Noah ran a hand over his son's forehead before exiting the room.

The world was cruel and unfair, but not so much so that it would leave him completely alone…

…Right?

—

Stiles woke up slowly. The first thing he noticed was the throbbing pain in his thighs and the stabbing sensation in his ass.

What the fuck happened last night? He wondered. It took him a moment to realize he was completely naked, and terror hit his body like a freight train.

Had Szymon seriously done that to him while his dad was home?

The events of last night and what he'd done to himself came trickling back into his mind like a slow, painful tide. The images of ragged wounds and oozing blood flashed across his mind's eye and he swallowed hard.

Peering over his bed and to the floor, he took in the sight of clean wood, not a spot of blood anywhere.

Realizing that his uncle must have done that, tears welled up in his eyes.

He really did not care at all. After walking in on Stiles covered in blood and soaking bandages, he decided it would be a good time to just… just…

Suddenly feeling nauseous, Stiles bent over his bed and began dry heaving. He'd felt sick over what his uncle did to him before, but never like this.

He gagged over and over again, each time bringing up nothing with the meagre amount he'd been eating lately. Eventually, a small amount of bile came up and splattered against his floor, leaving a bitter and disgusting taste in his mouth.

He realized that he wasn't safe anymore, not even when his father was home. In that moment, Stiles knew in the very depths of his soul that he'd never escape. Be it his uncle or this overwhelming sense of uselessness.

He was sinking. He was drowning in quicksand made of his own hopelessness. He was only a worthless burden dragging down the ones he cared about, taking with him their joy in the process.

He would forever be trapped in this fucking inescapable cage that his uncle had created. He was destined to remain caught in the darkness of despair with no light at the end of the tunnel.

His uncle and the world hated him, mocking him with this cruel, disgusting situation.

And you'll never escape… No matter how hard you try to get rid of these feelings, they will always cling to you as a reminder of your horrible repulsiveness. You're foul, you're abhorrent. You disgust everyone around you, you worthless piece of shit.

More tears filled his eyes at the words, and he realized what the voice had said was right. It had been right every time its venom echoed in his brain, he just never chose to see reason because he was a fool.

I'll never escape… He echoed the thought back.

Even if his uncle left, he'd be stuck with these feelings for the rest of his life. He hadn't escaped them even from the first time this happened, all those years ago. He'd simply gotten good at masking how he felt with a thick layer of sarcasm and pretense. But the truth was, he'd never recovered. For him to tell himself he had was a bigger fucking joke than the universe was playing on him right now.

And the fear of never breaking free from this cycle was killing him, leaving him with only self-doubt and his suffocating thoughts.

He'd never felt such an overwhelming urge to kill himself before, to free himself and everyone around him of the burdens he carried.

He just couldn't do this anymore. He was so, so sick of everything. He was sick of suffering, but he was especially sick of making those around him suffer with him.

He was rotting, and his acrid scent was infecting those he cared about.

A horrible feeling that he couldn't describe hit him as he thought about how he was only a burden weighing down not only his father but also his friends. Each breath he took carried with it the feeling of inadequacy, and along with it the pain he caused others.

He stood from his bed on unsteady legs and made his way over to his desk, ripping out a piece of paper and grabbing a pencil. He also grabbed the box cutter Szymon had put back in his first aid kit, which was lying on the floor, before heading down the stairs.

He couldn't do this anymore… and he wouldn't. He refused to be a slave to Szymon's urges any longer, a slave to his own feelings, the thoughts constantly telling him he wasn't enough, that he was useless, burdensome, and disgusting for what he let his uncle do to him.

He was done. God, he was so done.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs he made his way into the living room and put the piece of paper on the coffee table. Slowly, he began to write, feeling as though he owed his father and friends something, some form of explanation, as to why he was finally doing this.

After a few moments, a few erased words, and a few regrets, he was done. He picked up the piece of paper and read it over once, then twice, then three times before he placed it back on the coffee table.

Dad, I deeply regret having to make this decision. It's incredibly difficult to bid farewell to someone I'm not ready to part with, but that's the path I've chosen, even though I wish I could tell you face to face. My life has been a struggle for quite some time now. I know I got better after the first instance, but I just can't endure it any longer this time. I barely eat, rarely sleep, and hardly experience happiness. I wanted you to understand how much I love you, and how much I always will.

I've been contemplating this for a while now, but to actually follow through? It's agonizing. I realize this will disappoint you, but hold onto the memories we shared before everything fell apart. I understand it's painful not knowing the specifics as to why I'm doing this, but please know that this isn't your fault; it's entirely on me. You were an amazing father. This isn't by your doing, it's mine. I know it might sound cliché, but it's the truth.

Please convey my love to my friends, and let them know I cared deeply for them and will always care deeply for them, regardless of what I've chosen to do. Support them, be their pillar when they need it — Just do all the things that matter.

Once again, I lack the words to truly tell you how sorry I am. Please take care of yourself once I'm no longer here. I'll be in the preserve; that way, hopefully, only those meant to find me will.

I love you, goodbye, Dad.

He wasn't crying as he grabbed his Adderall from the bathroom cabinet and his Jeep keys, if anything, he felt numb. He exited the house, forgetting to so much as close the door in his haste to get to the preserve and end his suffering.

He drove down the roads in complete silence, not even turning on the radio as he contemplated what he was doing.

Am I really going to go through with this? He wondered vaguely, but the thought didn't hold much weight.

Don't back out now, you've made your decision. It'll all be okay soon, The voice soothed him.

It'll all be okay… finally… He thought.

He parked in the lot beside the preserve and hopped out of his Jeep unsteadily. He prayed that when the wolves found out about what he'd done they wouldn't be able to smell him. He hoped for rain, wind, anything to wash his scent away so none of them would be the ones to find him. He knew it was foolish, as the sky was blue and the wind gentle, but he couldn't help but pray for that small mercy.

He walked for a bit on the sun-lit path where the pixies couldn't get him, though he could hear the flutter of small wings and had the assumption that he was being followed by them anyway.

Maybe he could just let the pixies have him.

Can pixies kill people? He wondered. He dismissed the thought almost immediately after it crossed his mind, though. He didn't want anyone to stumble upon his mangled corpse, opting for one with clean wounds and perhaps a trace of vomit from pill ingestion.

After what felt like an eternity of walking and thinking about how he was about to die, he came across the place that would be his final resting ground.

Standing before him was the husk of a burnt-out building, the old Hale house. He sighed and walked towards it, only stepping into an unlit area for a mere few seconds before he was in the clearing of the house's property. He made it to the front steps and ran a hand along the burnt wood of the porch.

He gave a resigned sigh and sat down on the steps before pulling out his bottle of Adderall and the box cutter.

TW: Suicide attempt Scene

He brought the pills to his lips, thinking about what he was doing one last time. His hands shook violently from an unknown emotion swirling around in his stomach, one he didn't know how to describe. It overtook the feeling of numbness he'd previously been cloaked in, the odd mix of fear, desperation and anguish that it was.

He wanted to die, he'd wanted to die for years now, but he was afraid.

Why am I afraid? He wondered, staring at the fistful of pills in his hands.

He supposed that fearing death was only natural. It's ingrained in our evolution; from the fear of heights to the fear of large predators, even those that are tamed. Since humans gained enough intelligence to comprehend what death entails and that we're all destined to face it, this fear has been an innate part of us.

And it is until the day your time comes.

And that time has come for you, Stiles. Take the pills, slit your wrists, and you'll never feel fear again.

Stiles gulped, the feeling in his gut intensifying as he brought the pills to his lips. He tilted his head back and dropped the pills into his mouth, choking as he swallowed. He gagged at the taste of the powder that clung in his mouth from struggling to swallow the pills.

He winced as he brought another handful to his mouth, wondering if he should just cut himself and get this over with.

Deciding he wanted the least possibility of surviving, he repeated the process of swallowing his pills until there was nothing left in the bottle.

He'd honestly hoped that by taking them he might be drugged up enough to not feel as much pain when he slit his wrists, but he realized he hadn't given himself enough time to really feel the effects of the Adderall when he began slicing vertically up his arm.

He cried out and scrunched his eyes shut for a moment after he finished the long cut down his left arm. For good measure, he brought the blade back down to the cut and sliced it over and over again until there was a gaping, oozing wound on his arm.

He bit the inside of his cheek, turning away from the torn flesh and did his other arm. He couldn't repeat the process the same way as he had on his left arm.

"Fuck," He whined, refusing to look at the substantial wound on his left arm nor the slightly smaller and more jagged one on his right.

He was feeling slightly woozy as he laid back on the porch, laying his arms on his stomach and feeling warm blood starting to seep through his clothes.

This is it… He thought, starting to feel numb again from the drugs in his system.

End suicide attempt scene.

He lay there for a while, thinking back on his life as he bled out. The last thought he had was the face his father would make when he found out, then Derek's, then Scott's.

The entire pack made an appearance in his mind, and a single tear slipped down the side of his face at the thought of them.

"I'm sorry," He muttered, but he couldn't tell if he was talking to his father and the pack or to himself.

Then his eyes slipped closed, and with the weight of the world leaving his shoulders, he took one last breath in, then out.

Never having to breathe again.

—

Derek was sitting on the couch reading I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb when a sudden sharp pain shot through his left arm.

"Shit!" Derek cried, sitting fully up on the cushions.

At the sound of Derek's distress, Peter popped out of the kitchen to check on his nephew. "What's wrong?" He asked quizzically.

"Stiles," He muttered as he clutched at his arm, which was burning fiercely.

"Stiles? What about him?" Peter questioned. Derek cried out again as the pain intensified.

"I think someone is breaking his arm or something. Shit." Derek got up from the couch and stormed towards the door, only stopping for a brief moment as the pain intensified. "Fuck," He mumbled, looking ready to kill someone. Peter looked taken aback, wondering what the hell was going on.

"Derek, what are you on about?" He asked. Derek glanced at him before grabbing his car keys and storming out. Peter grabbed his shoes and chased after him.

"Derek, seriously, what the fuck is going on?" He inquired as he grabbed Derek by the arm. Derek only growled and ripped himself free of Peter's hold, completely ignoring the man. He opened the car door and got in quickly. Peter was already rushing to the other side of the car and barely got in before Derek sped off in the direction of Beacon Hills High School.

"I'll kill whoever is doing this," He growled, speeding down the roads and running red lights in the process.

"Derek, my dear nephew, there are speed limits for a reason," Peter spoke with wide eyes as he clutched the car door, fearing for his life.

"I don't give a shit," Derek said in exasperation.

Peter gulped nervously and looked to Derek, still not having the slightest clue as to how Derek knew Stiles was in pain.

And then it hit him.

"Stiles… he's your…?" He muttered, shocked.

"Yes, he's my mate," Derek announced with an eye roll. Peter gazed at him for a moment in complete and utter shock before another realization hit him.

"Derek, you know– you know the only way you're able to feel your mate's pain, correct?" He asked, looking slightly sick at the thought.

Derek shook his head, "No, but I would assume it's when they're in extreme pain. Which right now, he is," Derek rumbled.

"Derek…" Peter began, not knowing how to tell him what needed to be said. Derek inhaled the scent of nervous apprehension and growled.

"Spit it out," He barked.

Peter gulped. "The only way you can feel your mate's pain is– is if they're dying," Peter said and Derek stepped harder on the gas pedal.

Peter could do nothing more than clutch onto the door and his seat for dear life, praying they didn't get in an accident.

—-

"St– Stiles Stilinski to the–... the principal's office." A nervous voice came over the PA system. The pack members in each class glanced at each other confusedly. Stiles wasn't in school today, why were they calling him to the office?

Most of them brushed it off as a mistake, but a few of them such as Lydia, Erica, and Jackson were suspicious of the nervous shakiness of the receptionist's words.

No one thought too much of it though, until a few minutes later a gruff-sounding voice spoke into the speaker, broadcasting for the entire school to hear.

"Listen here you little shit, bring Stiles Stilinski to the office now, or I'll rip your fucking throat out with my bare hands," The disembodied voice said, and the entire pack got to their feet.

"That was definitely Derek, no?" Jackson asked as he grabbed his stuff and shoved it into his bag.

"For sure," Lydia said as she packed away her stuff as well.

The teachers could be heard calling to the students leaving their classrooms, leaving people to wonder what the hell was going on as multiple students ran from each class.

The pack met up at the office after a few moments, Allison showed up last. "What the fuck is going on?" Scott asked as he opened the office door.

"It's Stiles," Peter said nervously, glancing at Derek who was fuming and clutching his left arm with vigour.

"Stiles? What about him?" Jackson asked, taking in the scent of genuine fear emitting from both Derek and even Peter.

And if Peter smelt like fear, it had to be bad.

"He's in pain," Derek said. "A lot of it," He grunted.

"How do you know?" Jackson asked as he ignored the pleading look the receptionist was shooting him. She'd obviously thought they were here to help her, but her hopes of being rescued from this psychopath were diminishing more and more as the horde of what could only be his equally psychotic friends showed up.

"That's not important, where is he? I couldn't smell anything besides his locker, so I came here."

The pack gulped, looking at the receptionist who probably thought Derek was a madman.

"He isn't in school today," Isaac pointed out and Derek growled.

Had he seriously wasted time by coming here?

"Fuck!" He shouted, storming out of the office and towards the entrance to the school. The pack looked taken aback for all of ten seconds before they rushed after him.

"Derek, what the fuck is going on?" Erica hissed as the pack chased after his sprinting form.

"Stiles is dying!" Derek shot back, not stopping as a few members of the pack faltered in their steps.

"What?" Scott ran to Derek, wanting to know just what the actual hell was going on here, and how he knew Stiles was 'dying.'

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! Get in the fucking car. We're going to Stiles' house to track his scent."

Scott asked no questions as he got in Derek's car followed by Erica and Boyd. Jackson was about to ask how he knew once more, but before he could so much as open his mouth Derek was slamming his door and speeding off.

"What the fuck?" Isaac asked, looking just as bewildered as the rest of them.

"I don't know, but come on, let's just go." He muttered.

Just as they started walking a voice could be heard calling Jackson's name.

The members of the pack that had been left behind turned to see Danny Mahealani running up to them.

"What the fuck just happened?"

Ah, the question of the day, Isaac thought with a snort.

"Listen, Danny, I'll fill you in later, but right now we really don't have time for this," Jackson said as he turned with the rest of the pack to get to his car.

"Wait! Does it have anything to do with Stilinski?" Danny looked around at the pack members who tensed, knowing he'd hit the nail on the head.

"Yes," Jackson said, turning to him. "But it's none of your concern. We've got it handled." Jackson turned away once more before Danny reached him again.

"Jackson, I know what you all are," Danny said nervously, and the pack all quickly pivoted around to face him, looking tense at his confession. "Does it have anything to do with this– this werewolf business?" He asked.

Jackson narrowed his eyes at his best friend. "How the hell do you know about that?" He asked.

"Well, it's not as if you guys are exactly discreet about it. I mean, at first, I thought you guys were using code words, or you had some unconventional interests or something — you know, like furry shit and all that jazz." He must have realized what he'd said was a bit inappropriate because he chuckled nervously at his own words before continuing. "But then I saw the signs: how Scott miraculously got over his asthma and became good at lacrosse, how Isaac suddenly became a lot less timid and a lot more assertive, and how Erica did a complete turnaround in looks, popularity, and attitude. Hell, how you seemingly died on the lacrosse pitch then miraculously came back completely unscathed the next time I saw you. I guess I slowly started connecting the dots more and more, and eventually just started believing it to be the truth," he said. "And based on your reactions, I'd say it's definitely the truth," Danny muttered.

"Well that's a shock," Isaac muttered.

Jackson was at a loss for words as he stared at his best friend.

"How long have you known?" Lydia asked. She would have smiled if they weren't in such a tense situation with Stiles and Derek, but she still looked slightly smug. It was if she'd known Danny knew the whole time and was simply waiting for him to tell them.

Danny also wasn't as discreet as he thought.

"A few months, I guess. A few weeks after the big lacrosse game was when I really started to believe," He said. "You guys aren't gonna like… kill me now that I know your secret, right? Or because I'm a human who knows too much?" He asked.

Allison smacked her hand to her forehead. "No, idiot. I'm a human too,"

Danny smiled weakly at her, "Thank God," He muttered.

"Okay, what are we doing about Stiles? Shouldn't we get going?" Isaac asked and Jackson nodded.

"Yeah, yes. Let's go." He said as he turned. "We'll talk about this later, Danny. We really need to get going right now."

But the moment they began running to Jackson's car, Danny rushed after them. "I'm coming with you," Danny said.

Jackson huffed. They'd already wasted enough time talking to Danny beforehand, he wasn't about to waste more by arguing as to why he shouldn't come.

"Fine," Jackson said. "But if you die, don't blame me."

—

Derek slammed on the break outside of the Stilinski home and parked haphazardly on the side of the road. He vaulted from the car quickly and rushed up to the house with Erica, Peter, Scott, and Boyd hot on his heels.

"His Jeep isn't here," Scott said worriedly as they sniffed around the house.

"Hey, the front door is open," Erica said as she pushed it open and walked in.

"Shit, Erica. Don't just go barging into–" Scott began, but shut up as Derek shoved past him to enter the house as well. The first thing that hit their noses was the scent of blood, but it smelled old. There was also the smell of cum, both from Stiles and another man, the same one whose scent lingered throughout the house along with his mate's and Noah's.

"Ugh, gross," Erica said as she covered her nose.

"All men do it," Boyd said nonchalantly as Erica looked up at him, horrified.

"Some girls, too," Scott added.

"You guys are fucking disgusting," Erica groaned, still covering her nose in repulsion.

Derek wasn't listening to their typical teenage banter, though. He was too focused on the smells surrounding him. There was something off about the scents, both Stiles' and the man's, but Derek couldn't put his finger on what. Stiles' scent was sour, as if he were constantly under stress and anxiety, which made his wolf howl with anguish. And the man's… well, there was just something Derek didn't like about it.

"Was Stiles kidnapped? I smell an unknown man in here," Derek muttered darkly. That's probably why he didn't like the scent, they were someone who wanted to hurt his mate.

"No, considering there's only the scent of three people here, I'd assume it was his uncle. Plus, his Jeep is gone," Boyd said calmly.

Derek clutched at his arm once more as pain coursed through him, and then all of a sudden, it stopped.

Everyone picked up on the immediate scent of fear that filled the house and the speeding of Derek's heart.

"What? What's wrong?" Scott asked, looking as panicked as Derek did.

"It stopped," Derek muttered darkly.

"The pain?" Peter said, looking genuinely fearful.

"Yes… and– and I feel a hollowness in my chest," He mumbled, grabbing at the space near his heart.

Peter paled at his words, looking heartbroken as he said, "Derek, I'm sorry."

Derek glanced up at him, anger and fear clouding his mind as he marched up to Peter, who was standing near the couch. He grabbed his shirt in his fists and spoke with desperation. "What does that mean, Peter?" Derek quivered. "Tell me– tell me he's not… not…" He whispered, unable to say the word. Peter looked to the side, and his eyes landed on the coffee table and the note sat atop it.

He paled even more at what that could mean.

"Derek, I'm sorry. It's possible he's alive... and not much is known about soul mates because they're so rare… but…" He trailed off, looking crestfallen. "But it's likely he's no longer alive."

Derek released him then, the smell of everyone's grief filling the room at Peter's words. Derek shook his head, not willing to believe it.

"But there's still a chance he's alive, right?" Derek asked, his eyes lit with determination.

Peter brushed the imaginary dirt off of his chest where Derek had grabbed him and sighed.

"It's possible, yes… but–"

"Shut up, no fucking 'but's. He's alive and we'll find him," He declared.

Peter sighed and gave a slight nod, turning his attention to the note. He walked around the couch and picked it up, skimming over the contents quickly.

"What's that?" Scott asked, walking towards Peter, who looked visibly disturbed.

Peter cleared his throat and looked directly at Derek.

"It's Stiles' suicide note."

—

Jackson drove up to Stiles' house, taking in the sight of Derek's recklessly parked Camaro on the side of the road as he more carefully parked his own car.

The group rushed to get out of the car just as the rest of the pack burst from the front door.

"Did you find anything?" Lydia asked, taking in their distressed appearance.

"He's in the preserve," Scott said, looking as pale as a ghost.

"And most likely already dead," Peter added, and the entire pack, even Danny, who barely knew Stiles, went pale as well.

"Don't fucking say that," Erica growled. In the distance, the wolves could hear sirens blaring from a police car.

"We don't know that for certain." But even though there was no uptick in Derek's heartbeat, the entire pack could tell that even he wasn't too convinced of what he'd said.

"We need to get to the preserve, now," Scott whined. He was struggling to keep his breathing under control, and he could tell Derek was having the same problem.

"I can track his phone if we get my laptop," Danny said. Derek looked at him and then did a double-take.

"Who the fuck is this?" He asked, then, "You know what? I don't even care right now. If you can track his phone, track his phone. Lydia, I want you to take Jackson's car and make sure Danny gets that laptop." Derek commanded. "In the meantime, I'll take four of our fastest runners to the preserve along with myself." He said. Just as he was about to start listing who would go with him, the police car they'd been hearing turned onto Stiles' street.

"Shit, that's probably the sheriff," Scott said anxiously. The pack all looked around at one another nervously, not knowing if they should stay put or run to the cars. Before they could make any kind of decision, though, the cruiser was speeding towards them and screeching to a halt. The sheriff came barreling out looking pissed as hell. He pulled out his gun and pointed it at Derek angrily while Derek stood there, still trying to get his breathing under control.

"What the hell did you do to my son?" Noah asked angrily.

"Sheriff Stilinski, sir, I understand your concern, but Stiles is in danger," Derek said as he walked towards the man. Noah clicked off the safety on his gun and aimed it at Derek's left leg.

"Take another step and I shoot," He growled.

"Noah! Please! Stiles is in trouble!" Scott said desperately, hoping he could talk some sense into the man.

Noah looked over at Scott, his glare softening at the site of him. "Scott? What do you mean 'Stiles is in trouble'?" Noah asked, now looking more panicked than angered.

"This," Scott said, taking the note from Derek's hand and walking up to the man he'd seen as a father figure for all these years.

Noah scanned over the contents of the letter briefly, his face paling as he read the note.

"Oh, son…" Noah murmured in horror.

"That's why we're all here, and why Derek had to go to the school and presumably threaten the receptionist into letting him use the PA system," Jackson said.

Everyone who rode with him had seen the police car pull up to the school. It was no wonder the sheriff had been so pissed. He probably thought Derek was there to threaten Stiles and not the person Derek thought had threatened Stiles.

"Scott, you have my number, right?" Noah asked as he hopped into his car.

"Yes," Scott replied hurriedly.

"How about we three-way call as we drive to the preserve? Then we can all meet up there," Noah suggested.

"Good idea," Scott said

"Danny is going to get his laptop and track Stiles' phone," Isaac said as Noah shook his head and headed towards his car. "I can easily track my own Son's phone," He said. The pack could smell his panic, but the man only showed it in the trembling of his hands.

"Great, problem solved. Let's get going already!" Erica huffed impatiently as she hopped into the back seat of Derek's Camaro, the pack dispersing to separate cars. Scott called Noah from Jackson's car while Erica called Scott from Derek's.

Peter was driving Derek's car, as the man was unable to so much as breathe properly after learning his mate could be… well, dead.

And the smell of his grief weighed heavy in the air.

"Ow!" Derek cried out a few moments into their drive, interrupting the conversation Scott and Noah had been having. The pain in his arms surged once more, accompanied by a comforting warmth in his chest. It was like a spark, something he'd never known was there but immediately recognized once it had left and was now returned. He'd missed its embrace, the feeling of an unconditional connection, the essence of belonging with his mate. He could feel it now that he knew what it was like to go without it, and he never wanted to lose the bond again.

Derek clutched his arms to his chest as tears of relief filled his eyes. "Thank God… he's alive, he's definitely alive," Derek muttered hopefully.

The pack plus Noah and Danny looked confused as Noah asked, "What's he on about?" while looking slightly concerned for Derek's mental well-being.

"I'm going to fill you in quickly, as there are more important matters at hand here, and we're nearly at the preserve thanks to you and your ability to bypass traffic, Sheriff," Peter said, speaking concisely. "Long story short, we're all werewolves minus Allison and your son, who are human, and Lydia, who is a banshee. We don't know what's wrong with your son, but we know he's been pretty upset these past two weeks. You can't call this in because there are pixies in the preserve who will attack your men and possibly expose the supernatural if the pixies are feeling particularly nasty today," Peter listed off rapidly as Noah briefly glanced at the phone in his lap in bewilderment. He was now worrying about Peter's mental health as well. "Oh, and Derek can tell your son is alive because they're mates, soul mates, true mates. Whatever term you prefer." He finished and the Sheriff choked on air.

"Excuse me? What was that last part?" He asked, starting to look less panicked and more angered. "This isn't some kind of weird cult, is it?" He asked.

"Sir, with all due respect," Scott said, having looked ready to burst for the past few minutes as everyone went pale at the mention of Derek and Stiles being mates. "This is very real and very dangerous. I can vouch for them. You need to trust us."

Noah didn't know how to respond, but quickly threw all thoughts out the window as he spotted Stiles' Jeep and veered to the side of the road to park.

The rest of the cars followed suit and Erica, Noah and Scott ended the call as everyone rushed to exit the different vehicles. As soon as the wolves' feet hit the ground and they were out of the cars, they paused while scenting the air, looking confused.

"Guys, I can't smell him, can you?" Isaac asked, looking bemused.

"No, I can't smell him either," Erica said as she went up to Stiles' Jeep and sniffed around it. "I can smell his scent here if I get really close to the Jeep, but it's like his scent just… disappears." She walked around the car and tested different lengths, hoping to see if she could at least tell which direction he'd gone, but she had no such luck.

"This again?" Noah sighed. He glanced around, unimpressed before Derek slammed his fist into a nearby tree, splintering the wood and leaving a sizable crater in the bark. Noah looked frightened for a moment, as did Danny.

"Fuck!" Derek screamed. He was hoping they'd be able to track Stiles' scent once they got here, but that was obviously no longer an option.

"Derek, calm down. We'll find him," Boyd said, sensing his Alpha's emotions through their bond.

"We're talking about this later, right now our main priority should be to find Stiles," Noah said, looking like he'd just seen a werewolf put a giant hole in a tree.

…which he had.

"I almost forgot in all the panic," Noah said, clearing his throat as they headed into the preserve. "Szymon told me he was going to take a walk in the preserve, sometime today. Maybe he's already here and can help. I'll call him and fill him in."

—

Stiles peeled his eyes open slowly. Nausea roiled in his gut as he turned to the side and vomited up a pile of bile and half-digested pills. He grimaced at the sour taste of the vomit as he glanced around. Why was he alive?

You can't even kill yourself right, The voice said. For once, it sounded resigned instead of bitter and full of acid.

He sat up slowly and glanced down at the healed scars on his arm in puzzlement.

What the fuck? He thought as he stared at the jagged, raised pink lines on his forearms. He turned his arms from side to side, checking to see if they were really completely healed.

His first thought was that he was dead, that ghosts were real and he had become one. He stood up and checked around the area for his body, touching things to make sure he didn't just phase through objects like he'd seen on TV and in movies. But lo and behold, there was no corpse, and his body was solid.

Of course, his second thought was, once again, What the fuck?

How the fuck was he alive? Was this the afterlife and it just looked like Earth? Was he actually a ghost and they'd already moved his body?

But the blood stain was still on the porch, and there was no police tape to be seen around the property.

He honestly thought that he had succumbed to death and that he had transformed into a ghost. He stood up and scanned his surroundings for his body while cautiously touching objects to ensure he didn't phase through them like he had seen in movies and TV shows. However, to his surprise, there was no lifeless body to be found and his form was tangible.

Of course, his subsequent thought was once again, What the fuck?

Because how the fuck was he still alive? How could he have healed within the span of passing out to waking up?

He thought that this was perhaps the afterlife, appearing deceptively like Earth. Or maybe he truly was a ghost, and they had simply already moved his body.

But the blood still stained the porch, and no police tape cordoned off the property.

So of course, Stiles thought one last time, and with much more indignance than he had previously, What the fuck!

He picked up the box cutter once more, deciding he might as well try again. 'Because if at first you don't succeed, try, try, try again.' He thought bitterly.

He placed the box cutter against his throat this time, just barely slicing into the skin on his neck when a voice called out to him.

"Stiles!" the voice echoed and Stiles froze at the sound, fear creeping down his spine. There was only one person who could scare him simply by the sound of their voice.

Szymon.

With that one word, Stiles' name said in that slimy tone of voice, the memories of cold nights and dirty sheets came rushing to his mind — nights of disgusting words whispered in his ear as unrelenting hands groped and stroked him.

Szymon, the tormentor from his past and now his present, too. The ghost he never wanted to meet again but was forced to regardless of his wants.

The chill swallowed his body in its icy grip, the fear he felt at even the mere sound of his name coming from those tainted lips enough to make him want to just drive the blade he was holding so deep into his throat that it came out the other side.

His physical wounds might have healed and may continue to heal, but the scars his uncle left would forever be etched deep in his mind, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The urge to dig the box cutter farther into his flesh and simply slash it across his throat with all his might was overwhelming, but he shakily turned to face Szymon regardless of his wants.

He never got what he wanted when Szymon was around.

"What do you want?" Stiles asked, trying to sound stronger than he felt.

"You're a real fucking pain in the ass, you know that, boy?" Szymon said as he approached Stiles. "Why did you stop? Don't quit on my account," He chuckled.

Stiles stared at him dumbfounded. Of course, the person who tormented him relentlessly would be the one to encourage him to kill himself.

Szymon looked down at Stiles' arms, grabbing his left arm by the wrist and bringing his arm to his face to look at the fresh scars. He wondered how he'd never noticed them before, but shook the thought off.

"Looks like you've already tried before, why not give it another go, huh? Your precious daddy is worried sick about you, yet here you are about to slice open your neck like a farm animal about to be drained of blood." Szymon let go of Stiles' wrist. "I'd be sad to see my fucktoy go, but I can find another." He grinned at Stiles, showing off slightly yellowing teeth.

A sudden anger flared up in Stiles' chest at the thought of Szymon finding some other young boy or girl to abuse. The very idea ignited a raging inferno within him, fuelled by memories of his own torment. His blood boiled, and he seethed with fury and a desperate need to protect potential victims from suffering the same fate. The rage consumed him, the flames of his indignation reaching higher and higher.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that? You're one sick fuck," Stiles spat, his face twisted in a mixture of disgust and anger. "You're a fucking pig, and I'm repulsed by the fact that you think inflicting that kind of pain onto others is something to just casually talk about. You're fucking Sick in the head going after kids the way you do. Kids, who are fucking innocent and vulnerable. I can't even comprehend how someone — even someone like you — could stoop so low, become a predator, and prey on children. The very thought of you sickens me to my core, you disgusting fucking pig. You're the goddamn farm animal." Stiles shook with an intensity he'd never felt before, his hands trembled and his heart beat wildly in his chest. He knew he had to do something to stop this fucking monster, he just didn't know what.

"I'm telling my dad what you did to me," Stiles said angrily. "I'm done with you, I'll be damned if I let you touch somebody else the way you touched me," Stiles growled. Szymon looked taken aback and panicked by Stiles' words, after all, he'd only ever seen the boy act submissive around him after that first night.

"You will do no such thing," Szymon said, trying to sound assertive, but his tone was laced with nervousness. "Nobody will believe you," He said, trying to change Stiles' mind.

"I have proof," Stiles said as he went to walk past Szymon. The much bigger man grabbed Stiles by the waist and threw him to the ground roughly. Stiles gasped as he hit the ground but made no move to stand.

"Like hell you do," Szymon grunted, grabbing the Box cutter from the ground where it had fallen from Stiles' hand in desperation.

"Let me help you with your pathetic little plan," Szymon said as he climbed on top of Stiles. Stiles' eyes widened as Szymon brought the blade to Stiles' throat.

"Wait! Please," Stiles said before his uncle did anything. He didn't want to die like this, he didn't want anyone to suffer the same fate he had. He needed to make sure his uncle didn't hurt anyone the way he had Stiles.

"It's too late, boy. You're a loose cannon, and now that I know your plan, I can't let you go," Szymon said.

But Stiles wanted to live. He realized the mistake he'd made, the people he would hurt in dying. He wanted to live, wanted to protect the kids Szymon would go after, the ones who couldn't protect themselves.

"Sz- Szymi… please," Stiles tried, vaguely remembering the name his mother had called Szymon, the one the man himself had told him he wanted to be called.

"I'm sorry," Szymon said, genuinely looking sad as he sliced the blade into Stiles' flesh. Pain burned at the nerve endings in his throat as hot blood began seeping into his lungs from the wound.

He tried to speak, but the cardinal fluid clogged his airways and he could only make a faint gurgling sound from his throat.

Szymon brought the blade across his skin once more for good measure then placed the blade in Stiles' hand.

"Like I said, I'm sorry."

Burn in hell, Stiles thought bitterly as he watched him go. Stiles simply thought about whatever had happened the first time, thinking maybe it would happen again. But maybe it's for the best if it doesn't, He thought.

Closing his eyes and still gurgling on his blood, he thought about how this was what he wanted in the first place. He should be happy… why wasn't he happy?

He was finally going to be free of the cycle that had brought him so much anguish, so much torture. So why couldn't he just be happy for once in his goddamn life?

Because of Szymon. He hadn't been happy since that first night, all those years ago. And now Szymon had not only figuratively ripped his life away from him, he'd literally taken his life.

Burn in hell, burn in hell, burn in hell. Burn in fucking hell, you piece of shit, coward pig!

"Bu…rn…" He choked out, but he couldn't even finish what he wanted to say.

You're pathetic even in death.

Stiles was ripped from his vicious thoughts by the sound of Szymon screaming, sounding as if he were in horrible pain. Stiles opened his eyes slowly and stared across the yard at the man, seeing small bright red flames erupting all over Szymon's body.

Szymon was slapping furiously at the spots, ripping off his jacket and hitting them frantically. Panic and fear danced in his eyes, his face contorted in agony as the flames rapidly consumed him. Stiles watched in a sort of morbid fascination, a twisted sense of satisfaction flickering within him.

As the fire spread, it engulfed Szymon's body and he stumbled and fell, writhing on the ground in torment. The once cruel and malicious tormentor was now a pitiful figure, a desperate man engulfed by the flames of Stiles' spite, Stiles' hatred, and Stiles' pain.

The fire grew more vicious, its fiery tongues licking at Szymon's skin, turning his screams into guttural, haunting cries. Stiles felt a strange mix of emotions surging within him — a dark satisfaction, a vindication for all the torment he had endured at his uncle's hands.

His uncle's screams turned more raw and desperate as he ran into the forest towards the tall grass and rolled around on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames that wouldn't go out.

Stiles' guess about the pixies watching him earlier turned out to be true when hundreds of tiny bodies came rushing from beyond the trees, converging towards his uncle as he burned alive. The pixies swarmed his uncle's body as he flailed around, the pixies carefully going in one after the other to bite off non-flaming bits of Szymon's flesh.

Blood gushed from his uncle's body and smoke billowed from his writhing form. He twisted around and around, rolling and flailing this way and that, trying to both extinguish the flames and get the pixies to stop piercing his flesh with their sharp claws and jagged teeth.

After what felt like a lifetime, Szymon's unrecognizable form slowed and eventually came to a stop altogether. Stiles' breath hitched, and he felt a strange mixture of emotions — a vengeful triumph tinged with a haunting sorrow. He had witnessed the end of the monster that had taken so much from him, yet couldn't escape the haunting reality that — whether it be by his hands or the hands of someone watching close by — he had claimed a life.

Something he had told himself he'd never do just days ago.

The flames continued to burn even after Szymon was long gone, roaring louder and consuming what was left of his uncle's corpse. Stiles knew — if he miraculously survived again — that this moment would forever be etched into his mind. Whether it be out of the sheer horror of what he'd just witnessed or the relief he felt knowing that piece of garbage was finally eradicated, he didn't know.

And quite frankly, he didn't care.

The only thing that mattered was that he was gone. And with that, he could rest in peace.

His gaze was unfocused as he stared at his uncle's still burning corpse, the pixies munching away at the small amount of flesh that wasn't on fire.

He took a gurgling breath in through his blood-filled lungs and let it out.

Staring at the bright red flames dancing across the yard, he died once more that day.

Though he'd never felt more alive.

—

When Stiles awoke next his uncle's body was a pile of ashes on the ground. Pixies sat around in groups chatting with one another, and they squealed when he awoke. He sat up carefully, noticing the open wound on his throat was gone… and that what happened with Szymon hadn't been a dream.

The pixies all began speaking at once, chattering over one another as they tried to communicate with him. They were speaking a language Stiles didn't understand though, so talking with one another would be near impossible.

They all began beckoning him closer, but after the display he'd witnessed earlier, he wasn't sure he was willing to listen. They continued to beckon him, and he felt a sudden warmth in his chest as if something inside of him were telling him that this was okay.

He decided to listen to the feeling and hesitantly stepped into the forest. The pixies immediately swarmed towards him, but not threateningly. They each grabbed articles of his clothing and tugged him through the unlit part of the woods.

Eventually, they came across a large clearing with a massive tree stump in the middle. The pixies stopped and let go of him, waving sweetly to him before leaving. Stiles looked at them confusedly before turning back to the clearing, wondering why they'd led him here.

He looked over the spacious expanse of dirt, leaves and twigs, gulping nervously. He hesitantly walked towards the stump. He looked around, wondering what he was doing here. Obviously, the pixies were just playing some sort of trick on him, or perhaps they were trying to lure him away from the main path, as he'd seen in his research.

He turned around to head back to the preserve, hoping to get home before he worried his dad too much, but he froze in his tracks.

Standing before him was a ginormous black wolf, easily seven feet tall. How he hadn't noticed its presence before was a mystery to him. At Stiles' fear, its lip curled back, putting its sharp, monstrous teeth on full display.

"G– Good boy…?" Stiles squeaked.

—

A/N: And then Stiles gets mauled to death by the giant black wolf and stays dead this time! The end! :D (lol, jk)

On a serious note, I'm so sorry for the late update! I've been playing video games and slacking off. T^T But I hope Szymon's death was painful enough for you! Imagine being burnt alive while your flesh is being torn off at the same time! :D What a way to go.

And please don't be too mad at Allison guys, she'll see the error of her ways, I promise.

I wrote thirty pages in one night. I've been writing non-stop for thirteen hours. I ate once. I'm literally dying here. X_X

*Collapses*

P.S.

This single chapter is forty-one pages in my docs! :0 *Fucking dies*

Stay safe, my gremlins. Until next time~ 3

SCENES:

Self-harm scene:

X

I'm so pathetic. Seriously, what's wrong with me? He wondered as tears filled his eyes.

The list is too long for your dumbass to comprehend, you disgusting piece of trash. That same awful voice fired back.

You made your best friend unhappy, and you're making everyone worry over your stupid ass when they should at least know the reality of your situation. That this is your own damn fault.

You haveno right to act like such a petulant child over your situation. It's all your fault. Everything is your fault. All you do is make people miserable. The voice hurled at him. Just die already. It will only bring about the happiness the people in your life deserve.

And at those words, anger overtook his entire body. The voice was right, and he was so angry at himself. At Scott, at Szymon.

*Stiles gets very angry with himself and then injures himself severely, not realizing what he was doing until it was too late. He notices that he's feeling woozy.*

*Scene continues*

—

Suicide-attempt scene:

*Stiles contemplates what he's doing.*

X His hands shook violently from an unknown emotion swirling around in his stomach, one he didn't know how to describe. It overtook the feeling of numbness he'd previously been cloaked in, the odd mix of fear, desperation and anguish that it was.

*Stiles thinks about how he's felt for years*

Why am I afraid? He wondered X

He supposed that fearing death was only natural. It's ingrained in our evolution; from the fear of heights to the fear of large predators, even those that are tamed. Since humans gained enough intelligence to comprehend what death entails and that we're all destined to face it, this fear has been an innate part of us.

And it is until the day your time comes.

And that time has come for you, Stiles. X

*Stiles takes his pills and then cuts both of his arms*

*Stiles is in pain and continues to harm himself to ensure the deed gets done.*

X

This is it… He thought, starting to feel numb again from the drugs in his system.

*Scene continues.*