A Requiem for Sorrow - a Stiles Stillinski One-Shot

A Requiem for Sorrow - Stiles Stillinski

A/N:
Greetings! Before you begin, I would like to thank you for choosing to read this simplistic one-shot. I wrote it for a contest awhile back, and after much speculation chose to post it. I would recommend listening to the song: Dream: by Imagine Dragons, which I believe suits the insert. And, for your information, my reader inserts/one-shots are non-gender specific. Please enjoy! (Also, if you are from the Shemverse and for some reason chose to read this, don't expect her level or writing! [please])
-Twirlyswirly

COVER HEAVILY INSPIRED BY:
-voidallison
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WARNING:
TEEN WOLF SEASON 3B SPOILERS.

          A darkened bulge of blankets formed atop the small bed. Shrouded of light, the dark of night seeping through the navy blue curtains, a bedroom was hardly identifiable. Sprawled beneath his glowing duvet, Stiles Stillinski focused intently on the minimal dance of the curtains. Cold sweat beaded down his pale skin, internal shivers of the memories given by the Nogistune haunting him.

Merely hours ago, he had been relieved of the fox's possession, and as he sat in the dead silence of the remaining night, horrific memories tortured his broken mind. Like a scratched record, they repeated like agonizing puzzle pieces in his brain. Dark thoughts of lives lost, innocent lives- and how he took delight in it. The Nogistune made the feeling pure, the fox forced Stiles to indulge himself in such a pleasure. A stolen voice that belonged to Stiles seethed into his mind.

          "Now, now, Stiles. Does it not feel nice?"

          It's just my imagination, Stiles remembered, implanting the thought into his mind.

          "I may be gone Stiles, but we are one."

The boy's hand broke through the comforters prison, forcing itself to be known. Warm, crimson liquid falsely drooled down Stiles lanky palms, dripping down on his pallid bedspread. The youngest Stillinski bursted through the sheets, pushing himself as far away from the limb and into the wall beside his bed, screaming.

His shrill shouts of horror echoed through the house, ricocheting off the walls and penetrating the entire home with his tragic cries.

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You too had a sleepless night.

The pain, the stress, the death. Scott's pack had taken a great loss the past few days. The murder of Allison Argent caused a great rift in the pack's tone. You worried for Scott, Mr. Argent, and Lydia, who not only lost a best friend, but a love as well; Aiden.

However, your primary concern was focused on Stiles. The Nogistune brought so much pain and suffering to both Stiles and the pack- one of which had a greater impact. Was he alright? A distant vibration shook you from your thoughts. The sheriff was calling.

Your blood drew cold.

Fumbling out of the sheets, your hand slammed on the phone. "Sheriff, is Stiles okay? What happened?! Oh my god-"

"(Y/N), something is wrong- He's screaming again. Stiles, he won't talk to me. Please, help." John cringed, whispering at a quickened pace. Stiles's cries could be heard in the distance.

"Yes-yes," your voice trembled, "I'll be right over." Hanging up, you rose from bed immediately, hunting for your keys. The glimmer of the silver's reflection caught your peripherals, and you crept out of the window into the dead of night.

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"He's in his bedroom. Stiles doesn't know your here. So just- be gentle." John's voice rang soft, pleading for help. You head motioned in understanding.

Shuffling up the oaken staircase, you meekly approached Stiles's bedroom door. The entrance was plastered with posters of bands and superheroes alike. It reminded you of a younger, more innocent Stiles. Leaning your ear on the door, you could faintly hear the sobs of a sad, lost boy. Breathing in, you cracked the door open.

"Stiles?" you hummed over the apparent sniffling.

Stiles sat slumped on his bed, staring fixedly at his hand. "What are you doing here, (Y/N)? It's late. Go home."

The room was incredulously dark. You could only see his outline hunched against the wall. Creeping over the displaced clothes scattered across the floor, you hurried over to the boy. Moving in closer, tears brimmed your eyes. "I-I just wanted to check up on you. How are you Stiles?"

"What do you think?" The younger Stillinski's voice was wavering, his lip quivering. Stiles's sobs were poorly concealed as he briskly wiped his eyes, blinking the tears away. Gliding your hand across your skin, goosebumps invaded like an army to a war field. In a moment of consolation, you joined him on the bed, your back resting against the grey wall adjacent to his mattress.

"I think that we should talk," you said, grazing your hand over his. "You may think that it's too soon, but you can't keep this bottled up forever, Stiles."

His earthen irises rose to meet yours. "I don't think I can."

"Stiles, please," you begged, "it will help, I swear."

His gaze tore away from you, returning to his hand, then to the window. The curtain swayed while the cold air crept into the room, moving as if it were waves rippling in rushing water. An eerie quiet shifted the aura. It remained constant for what seemed like an eternity.

"I liked it." His timid voice finally spoke, barely a whisper.

You sat up straighter, dumbfounded. "Wh-what?"

"I liked it, (Y/N)!" he admitted weakly, "That damn Nogistune made me like it! I can't stop seeing the death. The death I caused. All I see is the life draining out of all the people in the hospital, their blood seeping into my shoes."

He breathes heavily, and without his consent, salty tears burn from his eyes. "And the blood. Oh my god the blood, (Y/N). I see it everywhere, on my hands- trickling down my fingers, and on the walls, it just won't go away-"

"Stiles." your voice started, the speech unsteady, "You need to calm down."

"(Y/N) I can't!" he screeched, tearing through the aberrant silence, "I can't sleep, or think! I can hardly breathe, sometimes I swear, I- I just want to die-"

Before Stiles's morbid words could continue, without hesitating, you grabbed his hand and gave it a small squeeze, reminding him that he wasn't alone. When your hands met, you could feel his fingers twisting and tightening, Stiles's entire hand was shaking- his intense pulse surging through your nimble fingertips. Your eyes met, and without a moment of hesitance you leaned in, placing your lips to his.

Stiles was taken aback by the action, but sooner than later gave in. His hand ran through your hair, the other wrapped tightly around you. Your arms flew to his shoulders, curling them around his neck. Stiles's lips tasted like cinnamon, bitter and sweet all in one instant. Breaking away, Stiles grinned lightly. "(Y/N), thank you so much. I just-"

"Stiles, quit talking." you commanded, cutting him off, tone light but assertive.

Tilting his head to the side, he blinked rapidly. "But (Y/N), I thought you wanted me to talk-"

"No, I was wrong," you spoke softly, "Please, for the love of god Stiles, just try to go to sleep. We'll sort this out another time."

Stiles's dark eyes fluttered to yours. He watched, regarding you frozen in a moment, and eventually shifted his position. "Thank you, (Y/N)."

Grinning lightly, you nodded. His head lie nestled on your lap, and after a short while, you could hear his light breathing as his body slowly rose and sank in an imperfect rhythm. Smiling, you gingerly tossed his duvet over the both of you. Despite the chaos just before, you allowed sleep to overtake you.