Cloistered Hearts
Warning this is not a light and fluffy story, this story is deliberately dark, it's a tale of twisted love and devotion, manipulation and a bit of gaslighting, reader discretion is advised.
Warnings for:
Emotional Manipulation
Obsessive Behavior
Psychological Tension
Themes of Control
Power Imbalance
Darker Relationship Dynamics
Isolation
Some Injury and conflict
(Any heavier blood etc will be flagged in chapter if I end up using them)
My apologies if I make any canonical errors, it's been a while since I watched the show and I have not seen the final season but I think I have covered all my bases. It's also a bit of a slow burner so don't expect a huge amount of action all the time.
Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
Chapter One
It Starts in the Preserve
There was gunfire, smoke filling the preserve, because of course it starts in the preserve, for them everything always started in the preserve. It's where their supernatural journey had started and now it's where everything twists, where the threads of fate go awry.
Stiles wasn't a fighter.
He was a planner, a strategist, yet here he was fighting for his life.
The hunters had set upon them without warning, as he and Scott were just enjoying the night air.
Crossbow bolts were embedded in the trees, and the smoke it was everywhere, a haze that obscured the outlines of everything, the edges of things blurring.
Scott was fighting, hunters tumbling, Stiles could hear Scotts breath, loud and clear. He could hear his own heart thumping in his chest, the hunter's grunts of exertion.
This wasn't natural
Stiles had had a bat once, a handful of clever ideas, and the good sense to stand behind Scott. That was how it was supposed to work. That was the unspoken agreement, the rhythm of things: Scott takes the hits, Stiles gets them both out alive.
Yet now things were different, he had been been pulled into the fray.
Thenhis hands were on the gun, not something off the shelf, this was sleeker somehow deadlier. A cruel instrument, not some display piece, death incarnate. He pulled it back and forth with the hunter, neither willing to let it go.
Stiles knew if he let it go, let it slip away something terrible would happen. The ground was slick, their feet struggling to find purchase, the gun slick with moisture. Sweat? Blood? Stiles couldn't tell.
They pushed back and forth neither willing to let the other have control, knowing that whoever held it had the upper hand. They jostled, vying for control then Stile's eyes locked with Scott's through the haze.
Then he had it had the gun, but it was too sudden, the hunter forced back too quickly, and Stiles' hand slipped pulled the trigger.
Then there was the sound.
A single shot, loud, clear, echoing across the preserve.
He saw the flash, dark, black, smoke adding to the haze, as the thing that was not a bullet found its mark,
Then Scott gripping his arm, a dark stain blooming.
A shift
A change
Scott's eyes morphing from merely determined.
Into something else, something other.
Locked onto Stiles', seeing something there.
Then it was all claws and fangs.
Ripping
Tearing
The band of hunters did not stand a chance.
Not exposed in that clearing.
Not when everything had changed.
Not when Scott stopped holding back.
First there was noise, shouting, shots fired, the sound of bolts whistling.
Then nothing
Silence
Emptiness
Scott stood in the middle of it all, chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. His eyes, still red, locked onto Stiles.
Waiting.
The way Scott used to look at him for direction. A best friend, an anchor. A quiet, unspoken trust.
This wasn't that.
It was something else, something deeper.
Like the whole world had reversed its direction.
Scott took one step, then another, until he was there, kneeling next to Stiles.
A single word "Stiles?" His voice was soft. Not broken. Not forced.
Stiles' throat went dry.
"…What are you doing?"
No answer just a simple response
"You okay?"
Normal. Like nothing happened.
Stiles nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Scott stood up and moved closer. "We should go," he said, voice even, calm.
Yeah. Yeah, they should. Stiles exhaled, forced himself to move.
They ran.
—-
The next morning, Stiles found him in the kitchen.
Scott was making eggs.
It should've been normal. It looked normal.
The eggs didn't burn. The toast was golden, even.
Scott turned, slid a plate across the table. "Eat."
Stiles blinked at him. "Since when do you—"
Scott smiled. "You were tired."
The eggs were perfect. Stiles ate.
Not noticing the intensity of Scott's gaze.
How every motion was tracked, followed. Everything observed.
That Scott's gaze never left him.
—-
Three days later, Scott drove him home after a late night at the station.
"You don't have to," Stiles mumbled, half-asleep against the window.
Scott's hands stayed steady on the wheel. "I want to."
Didn't sound weird. Shouldn't have been weird.
Stiles shut his eyes.
Didn't see Scott smile.A strange smile not quite natural.
Did not see the intense glance stolen from the road.
Didn't hear him whisper, "Whatever you need."
—-
It always comes back to the Preserve.
A place too big for its own silence, where the trees don't move unless you're watching, where the dirt holds footprints longer than it should.
This is where it started. The first body. The first night that changed everything.
Where a week before they'd been fighting for their lives. Where a haze had obscured everything, where the slickness of moisture on metal had caused a trigger to be pulled.
It's where they go when they need space. When they need to be alone.
Scotts arm was bandaged under his clothes, no bullet had been found, the wound was empty, stained a bit purple, a few traces of silver, but beyond the normal wound that a projectile would leave there had been nothing found.
Scott stands in the clearing now, watching the treetops shift. His hands in his pockets, his posture loose, easy.
Stiles exhales. "Okay. Say it."
Scott looks at him, head tilting. "Say what?"
"I don't know." Stiles gestures vaguely. "Whatever you've been thinking about since that fight."
Scott's quiet for a second. Then—
"I feel good."
The words settle. Heavy.
Stiles frowns. "Yeah, of course, because we won. Nothing unusual there."
"No." Scott shakes his head. "Not just that." A pause. "I feel… right. Like everything that had been dark had had a light shone on it.
Something cold presses into Stiles' ribs.
Scott shouldn't say things like that. Shouldn't feel like that.
"That's—" Stiles huffs out a laugh. "Dude, you murdered those guys."
Scott doesn't flinch. Just watches him.
This wasn't Scott. The Scott who refused to kill, the one who always found another way out.
Stiles crosses his arms, shifts his weight. "You're not even…like, I don't know…freaked out?"
Scott's smile is slow, small, not something Stile's had seen on his face before. "Should I be?"
The wind moves through the trees. The quiet stretches.
Stiles swallows. His throat clicks. "Yeah, man."
Scott watches him a little longer. Then he nods.
"Okay."
It's too easy. Too simple.
Scott turns, starts walking.
Stiles follows, trying not to stare. Trying to quiet that little force in his head, screaming at him that something wasn't right, that something fundamental had shifted.
Behind them, their footprints sink too deep into the dirt.
—-
A week passes. Maybe more.
They don't talk about the fight.
They don't talk about the weapon.
Scott doesn't bring it up, so neither does Stiles.
But things start to shift, in ways Stiles almost doesn't notice.
Almost.
It's in the way Scott waits.
Subtle things, small things. Stiles asks if he wants to grab food, and Scott says, "If you want to."
Stiles reaches for something, and Scott's already handing it to him before he realizes he needs it.
Stiles forgets to set his alarm, and Scott knocks on his window at 7 a.m. sharp.
Little things.
Easy to ignore.
Except—
"Dude, you don't have to do that."
Scott looks up. They're at the Preserve again, because of course they are. The dirt is damp, the air thick with the scent of pine and something older underneath. The signs of the confrontation now vanishing, being reclaimed by the preserve, as everything always is. Stiles shifts, crosses his arms.
Scott tilts his head. "Do what?"
"That." Stiles waves a vague hand. "The, like… anticipating my every move thing."
Scott smiles. The kind that doesn't quite reach his eyes, subtly wrong, an expression that does not quite seem to fit his face. "I like helping you."
Stiles snorts. "Yeah, okay, Mother Teresa."
But Scott doesn't joke back.
Just watches him.
And something about that makes Stiles' stomach twist.
—-
A few nights later Stiles decides to go for a walk, trying to clear his head of the confusion that had filled it since the incident. Trying to salve himself wit hthe crisp night air.
When he arrives at the preserve Scott is already there.
Stiles frowns. He didn't text, didn't call. But Scott is waiting.
Like he knew he would come.
Scott glances up from where he's leaning against a tree. "Hey."
Stiles hesitates, unsure, surprised but… not quite. "Hey."
Scott straightens. "What's wrong?"
"What? Nothing."
Scott studies him. "You look tense."
"I…" Stiles exhales. "I don't know, man. You've been kinda… weird lately."
Scott blinks, head tilting, as if this is totally unexpected. "Weird how?"
"Just…" Stiles shifts. "You keep waiting for me."
Scott doesn't answer right away. Then—
"I always wait for you."
It's said so simply, so easy, like it's always been true.
And maybe it has.
Maybe that's what scares Stiles the most.
—-
That night, Stiles can't sleep.
He stares at his ceiling, heart ticking too fast in his chest.
His phone buzzes. A text.
Scott: You okay?
Stiles exhales, rubs a hand down his face.
He doesn't answer.
Scott doesn't text again.
But Stiles knows, as he lays there in the dark, somehow he knows,
Scott is awake too.
—-
The next time they meet it's in the parking lot, a place they had met so many times before.
The one behind the school, half-lit by a flickering streetlamp. The one where they used to meet after practice, after games. The one where Stiles waited for Scott before he had a car, before things got complicated.
Tonight, it's empty except for them.
Stiles leans against the Jeep, arms crossed, watching Scott watch him.
"You followed me here."
A simple unadorned statement. The sort that needs no explanation.
Scott blinks, like he doesn't understand the words.
"I was already here," he says, slow, careful.
Stiles lets out a dry laugh, kicks at the pavement. "Yeah? Just happened to be hanging out in an empty parking lot at eleven at night?"
Scott shrugs. "You always come here when you need to think, and right now it's obvious that you need to think."
That shouldn't be comforting.
It shouldn't feel like the truth.
Stiles drags a hand through his hair, exhaling. "Scott—"
"You haven't been sleeping," Scott says.
Stiles freezes as Scott continues.
"I can see it in your eyes, the tension in your shoulders."
Stiles swallows. His mouth is dry. "That's—" He forces out a laugh. "That's not normal, dude."
Scott just blinks. "I worry about you."
Something in Stiles' ribs pulls tight.
"I'm fine."
Scott shakes his head. "You're not."
He says it so gently, like it's a fact. Like it's obvious. Like it's something that needs to be fixed.
And Stiles should push back, should argue. But the weight of Scott's stare is too much, pressing into his skin, curling around his lungs.
He exhales. "You're acting weird."
Scott doesn't move. "I just want to make sure you're okay."
"Yeah?" Stiles crosses his arms tighter. "Since when?"
Scott tilts his head. Smiles.
"Since always."
Stiles knows that's true isn't it?
Scott has always watched him, always kept him safe, always stepped in when some crazy plan was about to go awry.
But had it always been like this? Had there always been that intensity, that tracking of every little movement? Had Scott's eyes always been on him?
Stiles doesn't leave right away.
He should. He knows he should. That little voice was screaming at him again, telling him something was wrong.
Instead, he stays, leans against the Jeep, stares up at the sky.
Scott stands beside him. Close.
He doesn't say anything.
Doesn't have to.
Stiles can feel him, warm and solid, steady in the cold night air.
It should feel normal.
It doesn't.
—-
Stile's life operated out of their apartment. A nice secure place for him and Scott to live and hang out.
Except it shouldn't.
Because it didn't exist yesterday.
Because Stiles never looked for one, never signed a lease, never even talked about moving out except in the vague, grumbling way you do when your dad leaves his paperwork on the kitchen table and you trip over another box of unsolved cases.
And yet…here it is.
A second-floor walk-up, brick building, corner unit. The kind of place that smells like fresh paint and pine-scented floor cleaner. The kind of place that should have taken months to find, but somehow—
Scott has the key.
Scott opens the door.
Scott smiles.
"I thought you'd like it."
Stiles doesn't step inside.
He should. He should be excited, he should be grateful, he should be something, but instead, his pulse is a dull, steady hammer in his skull, and his throat is tight with words that won't come out.
Scott watches him. Waits.
Like he's already worked out exactly how this is going to go.
Stiles licks his lips. "You…" He stops. Starts again. "How did you…"
Scott tilts his head in that manner that had become so familiar to Stiles those last few weeks. "You said you hated living at home."
"That doesn't mean—" Stiles exhales, dragging a hand through his hair. "Dude, you rented an apartment?"
Scott shrugs, like it's the simplest thing in the world.
"It was easy."
Easy.
The word sticks, lodges somewhere deep.
"Scott," Stiles says carefully, unsure quite how to proceed. "This isn't normal."
Scott doesn't blink, certain in his convictions, i what he understands to be true. "It's what you wanted."
No hesitation. No uncertainty.
Like this… all of this… is just part of the natural order of things.
Like Scott knows better than he does.
And Stiles should fight this, should argue, should push back.
But instead, he looks past Scott, into the apartment—
The walls are bare, the furniture new. A couch, a coffee table, two chairs. Not much.
But the second bedroom—
It's not a bedroom.
It's an office.
With Stiles' desk. His books. His stuff already there.
Scott's voice is quiet.
"I just want you to be happy."
That night, Stiles sleeps there.
He doesn't mean to.
But he doesn't go home, either.
And Scott?
Scott just smiles.
—-
It happened in an alley.
Beacon Hills doesn't have many, but the ones it does? They all feel the same. Dark, damp, claustrophobic. The kind of place that swallows sound, swallows light. The kind of place where bad things happen.
Tonight, Stiles is the one that the bad thing is about to happen to.
The guy steps out too fast, too sudden. A shadow, a blur. One second, Stiles is texting, walking, thinking about literally anything else, and the next…
A hand on his collar. A shove into the brick.
"Wallet."
It takes Stiles a second to process.
"Oh, come on," he groans, hands already going up. "Really?"
The mugger doesn't laugh. Just presses something hard and cold against his ribs. A knife.
Not silver. Not poisoned. Just a knife.
For some reason, that makes it worse.
Stiles exhales, slow. "Okay. Look, man, I don't…"
Then something moves behind them.
Fast.
A shape, a shadow, and then…
The mugger is gone.
Just… gone.
Stiles stumbles, heart slamming against his ribs, eyes struggling to track…
Scott.
Standing there.
The mugger on the ground, coughing, gasping, clawing at something unseen.
Scott is crouched over him, face calm, hands steady.
Stiles swallows, his voice tense, wound like a cord in his throat. "Scott…"
The mugger makes a noise…. low, broken. A whimper.
Scott's fingers are pressed against his throat. Not cutting. Not crushing. Just holding.
Too tight.
Too long.
Scott tilts his head. Looks down at the man like he's nothing, like he's already forgotten him.
Stiles' breath stutters.
"Scott."
No answer.
Just Scott turning his head way from the mugger to look at Stiles
Just that steady, unreadable stare. An alien expression to Scott. Calm, expectant, waiting.
Until he turns back to the mugger, locking eyes with him, watching the man struggle in vain against the supernatural strength that was slowly choking the life out of him.
The mugger's face is turning red.
"Scott, stop."
Scott looks at him.
And just like that…
He lets go.
The mugger collapses back onto the ground, gasping, scrambling back on his hands and knees before running, disappearing into the dark.
Scott watches him go. Then he straightens.
Turns to Stiles.
"Are you okay?"
Stiles exhales, sharp. "Jesus, Scott…"
Scott steps forward. "You're shaking."
Stiles hadn't noticed.
Scott had.
Scott always does.
And the worst part?
It's not anger on Scott's face. Not regret.
It's something else.
Something softer.
"Don't walk home alone," Scott says.
And then—so quiet, so gentle, like a promise:
"I won't let anything happen to you."
—-
Stiles doesn't tell anyone.
He does not know what he could say.
It's like the whole world had spun around without him even realising it
Not Lydia. Not his dad.
And Scott?
Scott just keeps smiling.
That same smile, the one that does not fit his face.
And Stiles just doesn't know what to do.
—-
A/N well there we go my first fan fic in years, hope y'all enjoy it. I have tried to proofread it and hope nothing has slipped through.
As I said at the start constructive criticism is always welcome