Stiles blinked at how bright his room was. Late October and the crisp, cloudy days were upon Beacon Hills. He had been hoping for a longer Indian summer. The overcast sky had his room bright, sun filtering through the curtains. His head throbbed as he remembered the dream he’d been having… blood everywhere, warm and slippery. He couldn’t quite recall where the blood had come from now that he was awake. His mind grasped at it, but faltered. Stiles had been having dreams like this for months upon months. He grabbed his phone, knowing if there were any missed texts or calls they would be from Scott. Nothing. Sighing and running a hand through his lengthening hair, Stiles made the decision to stay in bed just a little longer. He buried his head beneath the covers and listened to his own breathing. He could hear birds outside and a faint whistle of wind against the window. Stiles continued to wonder about his dream and remembered a flash of his hands being slick - the blood. Maybe it was mine this time.
He kept mulling over his dream, reaching into his subconscious to find the images. He was on the fringe of it, he could feel it. So close, a few more minutes and maybe he’d have it, maybe he could piece it together. His phone rang, startling him from his thoughts. Pulling the phone beneath the blankets, he answered.
“Did I wake you up?” Scott’s voice came through.
“You know I’m not a morning person.”
“Have anything planned today?”
“No,” Stiles yawned. He thought about staying in bed. Sleep, maybe some video games. Read a comic or two.
“Good. Can you meet me at the lacrosse field? I want to get some more practice in; maybe coach will finally let me play.”
“With your asthma not going anywhere, fat chance. See you there.”
Pulling himself out of bed, Stiles shuffled to the bathroom. He stopped when passing the calendar on his wall. He noted the 28th was two days away. On the calendar the date was bordered in red. Stiles shuddered and continued past it to get ready.
In three days it would be a year since his mother had passed.
“-nother robbery homicide committed by masked assailants that have been terrorizi-” Stiles shut off the radio alarm. He resented having to be awake for school.
Mondays never held much promise.
This particular Monday, Stiles had awoken bloody. His lip, bitten. It had happened before. He had been dreaming about blood and sex this time - a twisted vision of committing murder with a faceless stranger and fucking in the gore. He touched his lip and wiped his face, his fingers coming away red. His hard cock twitched. He contemplated whether to take a cold shower or jerk off in bed. He bit into his injured lip and his hips jerked involuntarily. His hands darted to his mouth. He bit into his lip again and gasped, unsure if it was from pain or pleasure. His hand slick and red, he used it to touch himself. Tasting the copper of his blood made his hips roll up. He obliged himself with quick strokes. A surprisingly long and whiny moan came from him as he slowly rode out the aftershocks. Teeth sinking deeper into the wound, he was hard again before he could soften. Eyes screwed shut, Stiles quickly got himself off a second time and felt a kinky shame at his loud orgasm.
He laid in bed covered in his own blood and semen, catching his breath. As pleasurable as getting himself off was, it wasn’t another human being. This was not the first time he had used blood to get himself off. I will never be lucky enough to find someone who is into this sick shit. He looked at the clock and was already late. He was supposed to give Scott a ride that day due to the predicted rain that was indeed falling fast and hard. He pulled himself out of bed, threw his sheets in his dirty clothes hamper, and jumped in the shower.
Scott looked frustrated as he exited his house right when the Jeep pulled up. Stiles knew he had reason to be, yet still felt irritated. Something told him that masturbating in bed that morning would be the absolute highlight of his day.
“You’re so late, man,” Scott scolded as he got in. The short walk from his doorstep to the jeep had him soaked.
“Thanks, genius. I had no idea,” disdain dripped from Stiles’ words.
“Don’t be mad at me because I’m calling you on your flaky bullshit, Stiles,” only Scott could say that and not sound like an asshole. They drove in silence and Stiles parked in the lot.
“You okay, man?” Scott asked as Stiles shut off the car. Scott was ever caring and couldn’t leave without knowing his friend wasn’t going postal. He could never end anything with someone potentially upset at him. It was one of Scott’s weaknesses, Stiles mused. The sentiment was appreciated, but only because it came from Scott. “You’re quiet this morning.”
“Do you expect me to be singing? You know what tomorrow is.”
“Which is why I’m asking.”
“I’m touched, really, but I don’t need you to check up on me.” Stiles got out of the car, ditching Scott and not finding himself caring. He knew he hadn’t been the same since a year ago, but losing a mother is never easy. It changed Stiles. He would never forget the way she died, how scared she had been. He had felt so helpless. Shaking her from his mind, Stiles entered homeroom just as the late bell rang and took his seat at the back.
Scott came in moments after, sitting in front of Stiles as per usual. He turned back in his seat and looked to his friend, but said nothing. A slight, brunette girl hovered in the doorway. She walked to the teacher with a nervous smile.
“Class, this is Allison Argent. She’ll be joining us for the rest of the year. Be nice, kids. Allison, have a seat anywhere you’d like.”
There were three open seats: one in the very front row where she could never sneak a text message, another in the middle in front of a twitchy kid, and lastly, next to Stiles in the back corner. Sure enough, she slithered to the back row and sat next to Stiles. She gave him a tight lipped smile as he looked to her critically, observing her. Scott had his head slightly turned back, pretending he wasn’t trying to see her, though his eyes were practically sparkling as he attempted not to stare. Stiles grabbed a pen from his bag and began doodling on binder paper as the announcements were read over the intercom. Last October was on his mind as his pen created a one-eyed monster with large lashes, dirty teeth, and a striped tongue. Next to it he began sketching a hand, broken and bloodied, a gore covered hammer next to it. His teeth found familiar bite marks on the pen and chewed as he reviewed his artwork thus far. He’d gotten quite decent at doodling. It was in some ways therapeutic, but mostly it just passed the time. He’d needed something to do during all the detention he was racking up.
He ran a hand through his hair. He felt watched and glanced over at Allison, who looked too busy not paying attention to him. Had she seen his drawing? He shut the binder. Unsure if he was being paranoid, Stiles anxiously tapped the pen on the desk. Stiles wasn’t by any means considered normal by his peers, but none knew how different he knew he was. It was getting harder to want to conceal it.
Stiles was surprised when Scott offered to show Allison around for her schedule after homeroom had ended. McCall had never had the balls to simply go for a girl. Stiles mused it was because Allison had no idea who Scott was yet - a complete nobody with an inhaler and foolish dreams of being a lacrosse player. He was even more shocked when she said yes. Scott deserved something good, even if it was potentially short-lived; Allison was pretty. She wouldn’t stay in Scott’s hands for long.
It had been three weeks since Allison showed up and miraculously she and Scott were still together. In fact, it left Stiles feeling oddly alone. Scott was always busy with Allison now. Stiles declined any invites, knowing he would end up being a third wheel. Being on his own was preferable to that. He found himself stuck in his room playing video games, doing homework, sometimes napping. Occasionally he did nothing but stare at the ceiling and think about blood, knives, world problems. Sometimes he jerked-off. One fine afternoon of settling on his bed completely naked, Stiles was thinking of his usual foreplay with a touch of violence. A brunette girl had her wrists bound, her face against the floor. She was crying and blood was running from her nose. He was intrigued when her head turned and Stiles saw Allison in his fantasy, her make up smeared from tears and a black eye forming. He imagined tangling a hand in her hair and putting his lips to her ear as she cried. He whispered, “Fight all you want, I’ll only fuck you harder.” The sense of utter control and her fear got him off more than any prospect of having her. She sobbed into the ground as his hands went under her skirt and he used his knife to cut her stockings off. He turned her over, pinning her bound wrists over her head and lifting her skirt to her waist. His sharp knife made quick work of her panties, leaving thin elegant red lines on her hips. Beads of blood sprung from them. He imagined cutting several deep lines on the inside of her thigh and covering them with his mouth, sucking, kissing, and biting through her cries, tasting her blood.
Stiles slipped his hand beneath his pillows to find an army survival knife, one he had taken from his father. With the knife unsheathed in his hand, he ran it up his sides and even scratched the dull edge along his erection teasingly. He pressed the blade into the jut of his hip and fucked his other hand. He pushed down with the knife as he bucked up harder, the edge sawing into his skin. He felt the blood slowly ooze down his groin. In his mind, he listened to Allison scream as he raped her with the knife and ejaculated at the thought of all that blood and what it would feel like to fuck her after she was raw and cut up on the inside.
Stiles knew his fantasies were getting darker and was strangely accepting of it.
After the plethora of sick sexual idealizations he’d had of Allison, it was making Stiles on edge to be around her. He couldn’t hear her speak without wanting it to be a scream. He was quite sure he didn’t want Allison sexually too much; he usually came at the thought of her blood, the control, and rarely penetrated her with his own genitalia in his fantasies. There were plenty of other things he wanted to do to her. It was thrilling to have all these disgusting thoughts about Allison and no one had any idea, least of all her. Projecting everything onto this girl he barely knew made the wants more real and seem tangible.
Stiles hung by a corner as he watched Scott and Allison at her locker. They were smiling, her arms around his neck. They kissed and were talking, faces close. Stiles was having more and more trouble curbing his fantasies - they were bleeding into his daydreams and out of his bedroom. He pictured the hallway empty, approaching Allison. Kissing her deeply and biting her lip so repeatedly it became bloody and swollen. He would push her to the ground and grip her shoulders, bashing her head into the linoleum repeatedly until her screaming stopped. This sort of lust isn’t healthy, Stiles considered as he exhaled haughtily.
The bell for third period rang and he hurried to English class, thinking of the unattractive teacher to quiet the erection attempting to tent his pants. He tried to imagine the hunched over, saggy-necked old woman he would be seeing shortly, but all he could picture was Allison dead and battered in the hallway. Jacking off at school is unacceptable, even for me. He hurried into the classroom and kept his bag on his lap until he could gain control of his hormones. It didn’t take long for any arousal to disappear as Ms. Benchock began with her gravelly voice, “To prepare for your essays on the book, today we will be discussing the themes and characters of Lord of the Flies. I’ll start by bringing up the question of the novel, one of the themes: are humans born with morality, or is it something ingrained?”
Stiles spoke up. He was surprised to have become so passionate while reading this small book. He found himself amazed and enthralled by Jack and Roger, their brutality and lack of flinching while committing acts of power and violence - every young boy’s dream. He was also feeling particularly uppity after thinking about Allison and class discussion seemed an appropriate distraction. “Sense of right and wrong is definitely ingrained; animalistic tendency is human nature. Lord of the Flies shows stripped of society man is nothing more than an animal who, at the end of the day, enjoys torture, mayhem, and ostracizing the weak.”
“If that’s true,” Ms. Benchock retorted smugly, “what about Ralph? Why didn’t he submit to his instinct?”
“Ralph lacked the primal drive and if it weren’t for their rescue, Ralph would have died. On the island, Ralph was wrong and moral couldn’t save him, proving morality is tolerated for society’s sake and is truly learned in few individuals. Humans are savage. We’ve just been trained to suppress our carnal, natural urges.”
“That’s a farfetched theory, Mr. Stilinski.”
“No, it isn’t,” Stiles’ voice was stern and almost angry, “it makes perfect sense. Just because it wasn’t what you were looking for doesn’t mean you can dismiss it.” His voice was raising and he was sitting straight-backed in his chair, gripping the edge of the desk.
“I won’t have this sort of disruption in my class,” she warned.
“You mean you won’t have free speech and open discussion in your class? This is bullshit.” There was a hush over the classroom.
“That is enough,” she went to her desk and wrote on a pink slip, tearing it from the pad. “Come take this, Mr. Stilinski, and to the office with you.”
Stiles growled as he shoved his binder into his backpack. He stomped to the front of the room, snatched the pink slip, and exited. He debated leaving the campus. That could cause more of a stink than being sent to the office. Again. Better to go through the motions this time. He was wrought with irritation as he slouched in a plastic chair, waiting outside the counselor’s office. He felt a flush of dread, knowing his father might be called. He was hoping that wasn’t going to happen - his dad shouldn’t have to deal with this. Stiles was aware he made more visits to the office than the sheriff knew. His tongue ran along a dry scab on his lower lip and he worried it lightly with his teeth.
The office door squeaked as someone entered. He heard the student sit one seat over from himself. Stiles had seen him around - he wasn’t hard to miss, tall and muscular. His face is kind of beautiful up close, Stiles thought as he peered. His name was Derek Hale. Stiles recognized him from an unsolved arson case his father worked a little more than a year and a half before. He didn’t seem to have any friends; most were scared of him and with fair reason - it was no secret Derek had been sent to juvenile hall for attacking another student and hospitalizing him.
“What?” Derek asked harshly, looking right at him. Stiles started in surprise.
“I uh wuh,” Stiles struggled.
“Well?” he snarled. Stiles was struck by the color of his eyes despite how intimidated Derek was making him feel.
“Nothing,” Stiles said quietly, looking into his lap and at the ceiling - anywhere that wasn’t the boy sitting next to him. Stiles could feel eyes upon him, studying him or judging him perhaps. Stiles glanced in Derek’s direction, but Derek wasn’t looking at him. Against his own better judgement, Stiles opened his mouth again, “I’ve heard of you, I think. You’re older than the rest of the sophomores, right?” Stiles immediately regretted asking when Derek growled at him. Your family was killed in a fire.
Derek’s glare softened the longer his eyes were on Stiles.
“You’re the Sheriff’s kid, aren’t you?” Derek said, recognition sure in his voice. Stiles knew what would come next - it was always the same when someone identified him. ‘I’m sorry about your mom,’ was what Stiles expected to hear from Derek’s mouth as he began to speak.
“Stiles,” Ms. Morrell stood in the doorway to her office.
Stiles swallowed before standing up. Erica Reyes slinked out behind Ms. Morrell and disappeared quietly into the hall. Morrell’s eyes flickered from Stiles to Derek. Stiles entered her office, gracelessly falling into a chair. She took one more look outside her office before swinging the door shut. She settled in behind her desk.
“Should I be worried about you, Stiles?” she looked at him with that thoughtful way that also said she would not take his bullshit. For all the times he’d been sitting across from her, he hadn’t told her much about what was making him ‘act out’ as she called it. “I’ve been seeing you in here far too often.” She held out her hand for the pink slip filled out by his third period teacher Mrs. Benchock.
She gave him a very pointed look. “‘Disruptive behavior and insolence.’ Also, a request you serve detention.”
“What can I say, Benchock hates me. She’s a bitch.”
“Is the offensive language necessary?”
“She sent me to the office because she didn’t like my ideas on the book we’re discussing.” He sneered at her. He was sick of dealing with adults that wouldn’t leave him alone. How could he possibly divulge to her the reasons his grades were falling, he was cursing at teachers, and having physical alterations with other students? How could he put into words the swirling pit of violent obsession that had made a home at the center of his brain? How could he explain these urges he was suppressing? It was all too unspeakable, more than a high school counselor needed to hear. They were his thoughts; he didn’t want to share them. Especially not with her.
“What was the discussion about?”
“My thoughts on Lord of the Flies. She dismissed my idea as asinine.” The bell rang, signaling the end of third period and the beginning of lunch. “I’m not really in a chatty mood today, so if you could just sign off on my detention and let me go?”
Morrell sucked her teeth. “We can save it for next time - though I do hope ‘next time’ is later rather than sooner.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Stiles avoided her face with his eyes.
“Be in the cafeteria, 3:30 for detention today. Send Derek Hale in, would you?”
“You’re up,” he said to Derek as he left, avoiding his hauntingly beautiful gaze and rushed past. The halls were dense with students. Stiles went straight to the bathroom and splashed water on his face. His eyes closed, he tongued the scab on his lip. He recalled the other morning, waking up with it bleeding. The dream had been so vivid, the emotional release so cathartic and the blood so warm on his hands as he had stabbed again and again...
Bracing himself on the grimy sink, Stiles looked at his face in the blurry boys’ room mirror. His eyes were sunken in his head more than he ever remembered, cheek bones sharp and complexion less than perfect. The scab on his lip was brown and obvious. He ran a hand over his freshly buzzed head, feeling the prickle as he swept his hand one way and a soft fuzz the other. Swallowing thickly, Stiles left the bathroom, flicking the hood to his red sweatshirt up. He went to the cafeteria where he found Scott sitting with Allison, both on the same side of the table, leaning close and smiling. Stiles grimaced at the sight and was about to turn around before Scott could see him, but he was too late. Scott called and waved him over. Sighing, Stiles sauntered to the table.
After his arousal and English class that morning, plus his impending detention, Stiles couldn’t help gritting his teeth together in displeasure; Allison was the last presence he needed. Scott’s brow creased as soon as he saw Stiles’ expression.
“What’s wrong?” Scott asked as Stiles slouched into the seat opposite the couple. Allison’s eyes lingered on Stiles, also listening for an answer. Stiles narrowed his eyes at her briefly. She was always there. It wasn’t that Stiles disliked Allison; more of what she represented. Scott had a life outside of his friendship with Stiles - all Stiles had was more fantasies projected onto Allison than he could count. Stiles didn’t even know how Scott with his lack of social status and persistent asthma had managed to attract someone as seemingly flawless as her.
She saw his furtive glare and furrowed her brow. Stiles looked at the table then. Was she suspecting his thoughts? Maybe he had been eying her strangely for too much lately. Maybe she had seen his lust.
“Detention,” he muttered, crossing his arms on the table and resting his chin on them.
Stiles’ glared at his best friend, something he couldn't remember doing when so unprovoked. Scott said nothing. Allison grabbed Scott’s arm and brought her lips to his ear.
Before fifth period, Stiles was trailing behind Scott and Allison, books and a notebook stuffed with loose papers in his hands. He stared at the back of her head with contempt and resisted the urge to wrap her braid around his fist and tug it like a rope, taut on her scalp to control her. He flexed his hands and thought of Scott, how he could never do such a thing because of Scott. Stiles wondered what might happen should thinking of his best friend not stay his desires.
Stiles swallowed thickly. He felt tense, on edge. What a shit day this has been. He wanted to skip the rest of the afternoon, but then he remembered he had detention. If his father got a call from the school, Stiles knew he wouldn’t have an answer.
Getting stuck in his mind and fixating on what he wanted to do to Allison, Stiles was interrupted by someone walking by and deliberately knocking his things from his arms. His papers scattered and slid all over the hall, his books thudding on the floor. Stiles heard a few giggle. Eric, a stupid friend of Jackson Whittemore’s, grinned over his shoulder as he continued down the hall. Stiles made a lunge in the guy’s direction, but Scott grabbed him by the backpack.
“Not worth it,” Scott said, “Pick your battles,” he advised and leaned in with a concerned look on his face while Allison made herself useful and collected some of Stiles’ fallen papers. “Are you okay, man? You’ve been really on edge lately. Is everything all right?”
Stiles averted his eyes from Scott and spied Derek Hale watching from down the hall. He froze and stared back a moment, realizing what Allison was doing. He had several drawings shoved into that notebook. Incriminating drawings of women who looked like Allison with stab wounds and bleeding mouths and scars. He dropped to his knees and ripped the handful of papers from her. He scrunched up the rest on the floor and grabbed his fallen text books. By the dawning way she was looking at him, Stiles assumed she had seen something. His heart sank and he was irrationally angry with her.
“I have to get to my locker,” he muttered to Scott. He glanced at where he had seen Derek, but the older student was gone. Stiles slunk to his locker, horror reeling through his brain. Allison saw something. She saw something. I know she did; her eyes said that much. She knows what I am. I am in such shit.
He knew something had to be done.
Allison dug into her bag for her iPod as her fifth period World History class came to an end. She had a free study period for sixth and was headed to the library. She stuck a little white earbud in each ear as she walked, music dulling the white noise of students buzzing around her en masse as everyone pushed their way down the hall. She had to go to her locker first, she remembered, for her notes. Turning around, she headed away from the library.
She hadn’t been able to focus well in History. She knew Stiles was an artist of sorts, she had seen him doodling in homeroom a lot and Scott attested to the fact that he was really talented when he felt like applying himself. She had seen just how talented he was when she was picking up his scattered papers - ballpoint pen drawings of Allison gagged and bleeding, bloody wrists bound in handcuffs, broken teeth cutting up a pretty mouth. Gore-covered knives and open wounds were doodled in margins. It was more than she ever considered about Stiles. She looked to him and her breath had been gone when his amber eyes were focused on her in turn and knew the lifelessness she had seen was sociopathy. She was sure he had seen the unsettled look in her eye.
She took her time, no need to hurry to another class. She was trying to act normal and not think of the gruesome images her boyfriend’s best friend had put to paper. The hall cleared steadily until the bell rang and she was left alone with stragglers or the others without a sixth period. The hall was deserted as she opened her locker and took out her French notes. She jumped and gasped, dropping the book when someone grabbed her shoulder.
Pulling an earbud out, she turned around.
“Jesus, Stiles, you scared me,” she smiled nervously. Her heartbeat sped up. She had only been in Beacon Hills a short while, but Allison had suspected something was not quite right about Stiles even before she saw his art collection. She knew it without a doubt now and it scared her. She had never been faced with such ordinary evil. Allison found it hard to believe when Scott told her Stiles wasn’t always like this - so melancholy, getting into trouble more often than was good for him. Although Allison knew what happened to his mother, she wasn’t sure it was excuse enough to rationalize what seemed to be going through Stiles’ head. She recalled the way he had looked at her in the hall, like he had wanted nothing more than to get rid of her.
“Listen, can I talk to you?” he leaned towards her barely half an inch, but Allison was very aware of it.
“Um, sure, yes,” she pulled the other earbud out and shoved her iPod in her locker. Leaving the notebook on the floor, Allison asked, “What about?” She felt weak as her voice heightened in fear.
“You didn’t happen to see anything when you were picking up those papers, did you?” he wasn’t fucking around. She usually had a good instincts and they were telling her something wasn’t right here.
Allison noticed he had recently shaved his head. The lack of fuzz he had been accumulating made his gaunt features look even more so. He appeared militant, harsh. His eyes bore into hers.
“I. . . Uh, see anything? Like what?” she tried to smile, but looked desperate instead. Allison began breathing deeply. She didn’t want to let herself be afraid of him. She wasn’t even sure what she was afraid of; drawings were drawings and he had never hurt someone who hadn’t hurt him first. He was a little troubled - and with reason - but that didn’t mean he was going to do something to her. Scott had known him years and years before she had, so she assumed she could trust him about Stiles, but wondered if he was blinded by his affections. Allison could feel that instinct coiling around her reassurances.
He shifted a little closer. Allison leaned backwards, hitting the cold of her locker. He shut his eyes and took in a deep breath as if he was smelling her, his features creasing and moving before settling, as if he was going over the words he was about to say. “I’d appreciate, first of all, if this conversation could stay between us?”
“Great, because, you see, Allison, I know you saw my drawings. I saw you looking,” he stuttered a bitter laugh through his manic tone. “Which ones did you see?” Violently he grabbed her shoulders and put his face close to hers. “Tell me,” he shook her. She whimpered involuntarily and wanted someone to come down the hall. He grabbed her chin, his grip tight and pinching, so she would look at him. He repeated quietly, “Tell. Me.”
“Me,” she barely was audible, fear adding hoarseness to her voice. “It was me.” Tears welled in her eyes; she was mad at herself for looking so weak.
Face still close, he assured, “It’s nothing personal.” Sickly, he removed his hand from her chin and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. She noticed his breath coming faster. “Mention it to anyone and the things in those drawings will be happening to you.” He pushed her back hard into the locker and gently splayed his hand on her collar bone, pressing up into her throat. “Understand?” Stiles asked, his face less than an inch from hers. She felt each exhale as it left his nose. His breath smelled like tropical gum when he spoke. She could count every pore and mole on his face.
“Do we have an understanding?” he growled, slamming her back into the lockers again, harder than before. The rattle echoed down the empty hall. Her eyes were wide and incredibly focused on him. She nodded again more emphatically and managed a weak, “Mhm.”
“Yes,” she breathed, tears rolling down her face.
His eyes closed, a serene look washed over him. The corner of his mouth twitched up in a quick half smile that made Allison’s skin crawl. It was only on his face for mere seconds, but Allison could see he was enjoying this power over her far too much. He was relishing her fear. She knew instantly that he was dangerous in a way that went past his drawings. She wondered if Scott would even believe her if she told him.
His tongue sweeping over his bottom lip, Stiles looked Allison in the eye and stepped away from her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for class.” He turned, flipped up his hood, and went down the hall, fucking whistling. His hand skimmed the padlocks noisily and he hit several of the doors. Allison released a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Unnerved, she picked up the notebook she dropped (had that really only been minutes before?). Allison fished her phone from her bag and stared at it. She couldn’t decide if telling Scott was a bad idea.
Stiles was surprised to feel so alive. Threatening Allison had been more thrilling than anything he’d experienced as of late. Yet, it wasn't enough. He wanted to see blood drop from those perfect, lush lips of hers, teeth smashed and broken by his own hands. He regretted being unable to follow through with some form of the brilliances he envisioned. He fidgeted in his chair all of sixth period, high on what he had done and wanting to do more. She had been so meek and compliant. He had never had such power; after the day he had been having, control meant everything.
Detention was the last place Stiles wanted to go after class, but knew he had to or risk further trouble. He was frustrated when, as the hour went on, his newfound emotion drained. Eventually the last bell of the day cried out and Stiles felt just as numb as ever, irritated that Feeling seemed to be a thing short-lived and eternally out of his reach.
Grimacing, Stiles sauntered towards the cafeteria for detention. He felt strange excitement jump into his chest when he glanced Allison hunched over a notebook through the door to the library as he passed it.
As he neared the cafeteria for his detention, he heard, “Hey, Stilinski.” Behind him and in the shadows was Derek Hale. When Stiles looked directly at him, Derek motioned with his hand for Stiles to come to him. Stiles looked from the cafeteria door to Derek. He hadn’t wanted to go to detention anyway, he decided. Though he hadn’t a clue what Derek Hale could possibly want from him.
“I have detention so. . .” Stiles said, feeling lame, boring.
“So do I. Do you really want to serve detention? Come with me.” Derek’s voice was borderline erotic when he wasn’t snarling or glaring. For reasons unknown, Derek was giving him the time of day. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. Stiles was suspicious this was a set up, that it wouldn’t end well. He grabbed his backpack strap nervously.
“You have a car, right?” Derek said and Stiles nodded, leading them to his Jeep. “Let’s go.”
After they were out of the parking lot in the car, Stiles asked, “Where to?”
“You know where I live, don’t you?”
“We’re going to your. . . house?”
“Is that a problem?”
“No, of course, no,” Stiles waved away the notion and kept driving. After a few moments, Derek spoke again.
“Who was that girl you were with, in the hall?”
Stiles tightened his grip on the wheel. “What?”
“The girl you were alone with in the hall, you had her backed into a locker.”
Stiles felt his mouth go dry. But why lie? “My best friend’s girlfriend,” Stiles said.
“Do you want to fuck her?” Derek asked bluntly.
“No, not even hardly,” Stiles bit the inside of his lip and avoided Derek’s vibrant eyes. The idea that Derek thought Stiles might want to have sex with Allison made him squirm inexplicably.
“Why were you so close to her, then?”
“You certainly ask a lot of questions. Are you stalking me? I saw you in the hall today and you saw me with Allison too.”
Stiles swiveled his head to Derek and the road repeatedly. He contemplated revealing anything. He knew the words that were about to come out of his mouth would make him look insane, but really what did he fucking care what Derek Hale thought of him? There was something in Derek’s tone that made Stiles want to do anything he asked. He surrendered.
“I was intimidating her. I want to make her bleed.” Stiles’ heart was pounding, wondering what Derek’s reaction would be. He looked and made sure their eyes met before he set them back to the road, but he couldn't decipher Derek's careful watch.
“So what’s stopping you?” Derek’s tone was calm and casual, as if asking about grocery shopping or the weather.
“You would say that.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“I know that you went to juvie for assault- that screams ‘troubled with violent tendencies’.”
Derek glared at Stiles a moment before looking out the passenger window. “Seems you’re not far off then, thinking of the Argent girl like that.”
“We’re here,” Stiles said. The last time he had seen this house was two years ago, as an estate burned and ruined in photographs on his dining room table. Derek’s uncle Peter had done wonders to restore it. From the outside it did not feel homey to Stiles. All he could think of were the other photographs of charred bodies, crispy and dehydrated flesh.
“So, come on,” Derek got out of the car. “I want to show you something.”
Both got out of the Jeep and Stiles followed Derek around the back of the house to a locked shed. Wind blew through the skeletal trees, leaves crunching beneath their feet. The air smelled damp and earthy. Derek pulled a key from his jacket and unlocked the shed, pulling the string of a lightbulb as he entered. The room alight, Stiles saw several guns and hunting knives displayed on racks hanging from the wall. Beneath them there was a set of drawers. He stared in awe at Derek's small armory.
“Have you ever gone hunting before, Stiles?”
“No, but I’ve used a gun.”
Stiles skimmed his fingers over a long, black number. He used to shoot guns with his father, but not since his mother died. He’d had a very accurate aim. Stiles shuddered as his fingers wrapped around it and pulled it from the wall. He had never touched one that looked like this. His heart pounded as he rested the butt of it on his shoulder and set the target on Derek. “What’s this one?”
“That,” Derek stepped toward him and gently plucked the gun from Stiles’ hands, “is an M4A1 bb gun.”
“Can you even kill anything with these?”
Derek opened a drawer and grabbed a handful of bb bullets, sticking them in Stiles’ palms. He scrambled to make sure none fell through his fingers and put the rounds in his hoodie's pockets. Stiles followed Derek into the woods, the large house becoming lost behind them in the trees. Derek stopped after a while. There was a squirrel eating a nut on a branch.
“Are you a good shot?” Derek asked, settling the bb gun in the crook of his shoulder. He aimed and fired. The squirrel dropped to the foliage. Stiles felt something new and exciting was going to happen. He looked to Derek and walked over to where the animal was lying. The bb bullet had gone through its head.
A bark of laughter bubbled up Stiles’ throat, “Okay, that was awesome. You can definitely kill animals with it; what about a human?”
“Sure, if you aim right.” Derek met him at the kill and put the bb gun in his arms. Stiles felt a new sense of power simply holding the weapon loaded. He placed his hands where Derek had on the piece, feeling the warmth Derek’s palms left behind. They walked a little more into the woods before Stiles nestled down in the brush. He set the gun’s long barrel on a log and slowly swept from left to right. He stopped to aim at a buxom robin. His tongue poked over his lower lip in concentration and his teeth worried at it. Stiles pulled the trigger. The bird fell of the branch, but it was definitely not a kill shot.
“Why did you take me out here? Why did you trust me with your beautiful guns? You got me out of detention and we’ve never even met before today,” Stiles asked as they walked towards his hit to see if the bird was alive.
“We’re the same. In ways. You can’t lose family like we have and not be changed by it. We’re more similar than I assumed, in fact. I saw that moron giving you a hard time. I can relate to that.”
“You were picked on? Your bullies must have been insane to try that; you’ve got to be made of steel.”
Derek smiled, genuinely amused. Stiles felt his heart flutter. “Not always that way. I bulked up when I was in juvenile hall. Not much else to do in that hole.”
“Where were you at?”
“Didn’t you say you knew me in the office?” Derek countered. Stiles arrived at the robin: it was twitching and still alive. He aimed the gun at the bird’s chest and shot three times. Feathers and blood popped into the air.
Stiles blinked, “I want to hear it from you. A lot gets distorted through the grapevine.”
“Maybe some other time.”
Stiles was amazed that Derek would even allude to another meeting between them. He smiled to himself and pointed the bb gun at Derek, jokingly saying, “Hands up.” Stiles was mostly kidding, but Derek locked eyes with him and did as he was told. A moment passed between them, a tension that was sexual if Stiles didn’t know any better. After holding the gun aimed at Derek a few moments, he lowered it and smiled.
After not serving detention together, Stiles was surprised that was all it took for him and Derek to become friends. The very next day he made the decision not to eat with Scott and Allison at lunch. He was thoroughly intrigued by Derek and tired of being ignored while Scott and Allison became lost in each other.
Stiles was sure people were talking about them, considering Derek Hale had no friends since he was sent to juvenile hall. He didn’t like the feeling of being watched, but forced himself to ignore it. Let them talk. Something better to gossip about would come along.
Three days after they met in Morrell’s office, there was little doubt in Stiles’ mind that they had established some level of camaraderie and not just because they acknowledged each other in the halls.
Stiles had been walking from first period AP Biology to second period Geometry, making a pit stop at his locker. His back to the throng of students, he twirled the combination and swung open the door. That same asshole, Eric, came up to him from behind. He slammed Stiles’ head into the door.
Disoriented, the next Stiles knew was his own head being shoved into his own locker by this prick. Stiles was pinned in place with one of Eric’s hands tight on the back of his neck, the other pushing at the center of his shoulder blades. He struggled to get out of the hold, but Stiles knew he wasn’t strong enough. He felt a damp warmth above his eyebrow where his head hit the locker door and knew he was bleeding.
He heard Eric laughing as Stiles cursed and struggled. Immediately the pressure was lifted from his neck and back. He turned around and saw Derek pinning Eric to the ground. A crowd was gathered and watching. Derek had a knee on the center of Eric’s back and a hand pushing his face into the dusty floor. Stiles heard Derek snarl, “You don’t touch him. Ever. Understand?”
Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the head trauma or Derek’s protectiveness, but he felt lightheaded. He was hypnotized by the scene before him: Derek losing control. Knowing Derek went to juvenile hall for attacking another student, Stiles didn’t want to let this escalate. He leaned down and gently pulled at Derek’s shoulder. Derek swerved around, as if prepared to hit anyone who dare disrupt him. His hardened expression softened when he saw it was Stiles.
“That’s enough, I think he’s learned his lesson,” Stiles suggested. Derek seemed to agree, getting off Eric. He spat on him before Stiles grabbed his wrist. He pushed past the crowd and tugged Derek along faster when he heard a teacher telling the crowd to disperse. He began jogging once they rounded a corner, only letting go of Derek’s wrist when they reached the parking lot.