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tamingthemuseTitle: Fear the Darkness [ficlet]
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 374 – before the war
Warnings: General spoilers for all aired episodes. Post-season 3. Slight violence/gore.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~560
Summary: Stiles knew there would be consequences. This isn't what he imagined.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: This is somewhat of a beginning to a story I've been mentally outlining since the S3A finale. I'm still working out the kinks there and am in the process of getting it down on paper.
-- = --
Stiles opens his eyes to nothing – a darkness so absolute that he's dizzy with it. It's claustrophobic until he takes countless deep breaths, lungs filling with damp, earth-scented air, and his vision slowly adjusts. It's still dark, but no longer an abyss, and he can see the pale outline of his hands in front of him, the toes of his shoes on the ground. Beyond the musty dirt smell, Stiles picks up a hint of lavender and it makes him think of his mother. The thought is made real between one breath and the next as he blinks, and his mother is standing in front of him, less than ten feet away, whole and healthy and smiling at him. “Hi, kiddo,” she says, just like she did every day he visited her in the hospital. “It's time.”
“Time?” Stiles asks, confused. “Time for what?”
His mother doesn't say anything else, just smiles serenely and nods her head, once, slowly.
Stiles looks down at his hands which are suddenly, startlingly, no longer empty. He's holding a knife – dagger, his racing mind corrects – with a long, bright blade, hilt covered in unidentifiable runes, sharp point aimed at his belly. Stiles can't tear his eyes away. “Mom?” he asks, feeling his panic rising because he doesn't know what's happening. Against his will, his elbows jerk back and the blade sinks into his stomach halfway between his navel and sternum, blood immediately gushing from the wound, tracing the finely etched runes and dripping from the handle to spatter quietly on the scuffed toes of his Adidas. He squeezes his eyes closed tight against the burning pain, tries to breathe through it but he can't get any air in his lungs. He can't--
When Stiles surfaces from the nightmare, it's with a harsh, painful gasp, and he takes a moment to breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun's light that burns hazy blue through his curtains.
Every night for the past two weeks, he's had the same, terrible dream and he doesn't think he can take it much longer. Stiles briefly considers telling someone – definitely not his dad because he just can't burden him with his horrifying subconscious – but all of his friends are... surprisingly unaffected by the whole Deucalian-alpha pack-Darach mess. He sees them at school every day with their easy smiles and carefree conversations and it makes that cold thing wrapped around his heart pulse and burn and squeeze a little tighter because he doesn't understand how cavalier they are, acting normal, like nothing happened, like life's returned to the way it used to be before the war. But it hasn't, at least not – especially not – for Stiles.
They lost nearly every battle and suffered just as many, if not more, casualties than the alpha pack, but his friends are laughing and smiling and breathing, carrying on like none of it mattered. But it did. It does. He can't be the only one that feels it like a crushing weight on his chest and he doesn't know how long he can keep on pretending that everything is okay.
It isn't. It's not and he can feel it, like a chill deep in his bones. Something's coming. Something else. And it's-- it's gonna be bad.
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Prompt: 374 – before the war
Warnings: General spoilers for all aired episodes. Post-season 3. Slight violence/gore.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~560
Summary: Stiles knew there would be consequences. This isn't what he imagined.
Disclaimer: It's all lies and I own nothing.
A/N: This is somewhat of a beginning to a story I've been mentally outlining since the S3A finale. I'm still working out the kinks there and am in the process of getting it down on paper.
Stiles opens his eyes to nothing – a darkness so absolute that he's dizzy with it. It's claustrophobic until he takes countless deep breaths, lungs filling with damp, earth-scented air, and his vision slowly adjusts. It's still dark, but no longer an abyss, and he can see the pale outline of his hands in front of him, the toes of his shoes on the ground. Beyond the musty dirt smell, Stiles picks up a hint of lavender and it makes him think of his mother. The thought is made real between one breath and the next as he blinks, and his mother is standing in front of him, less than ten feet away, whole and healthy and smiling at him. “Hi, kiddo,” she says, just like she did every day he visited her in the hospital. “It's time.”
“Time?” Stiles asks, confused. “Time for what?”
His mother doesn't say anything else, just smiles serenely and nods her head, once, slowly.
Stiles looks down at his hands which are suddenly, startlingly, no longer empty. He's holding a knife – dagger, his racing mind corrects – with a long, bright blade, hilt covered in unidentifiable runes, sharp point aimed at his belly. Stiles can't tear his eyes away. “Mom?” he asks, feeling his panic rising because he doesn't know what's happening. Against his will, his elbows jerk back and the blade sinks into his stomach halfway between his navel and sternum, blood immediately gushing from the wound, tracing the finely etched runes and dripping from the handle to spatter quietly on the scuffed toes of his Adidas. He squeezes his eyes closed tight against the burning pain, tries to breathe through it but he can't get any air in his lungs. He can't--
When Stiles surfaces from the nightmare, it's with a harsh, painful gasp, and he takes a moment to breathe. In through his nose, out through his mouth, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun's light that burns hazy blue through his curtains.
Every night for the past two weeks, he's had the same, terrible dream and he doesn't think he can take it much longer. Stiles briefly considers telling someone – definitely not his dad because he just can't burden him with his horrifying subconscious – but all of his friends are... surprisingly unaffected by the whole Deucalian-alpha pack-Darach mess. He sees them at school every day with their easy smiles and carefree conversations and it makes that cold thing wrapped around his heart pulse and burn and squeeze a little tighter because he doesn't understand how cavalier they are, acting normal, like nothing happened, like life's returned to the way it used to be before the war. But it hasn't, at least not – especially not – for Stiles.
They lost nearly every battle and suffered just as many, if not more, casualties than the alpha pack, but his friends are laughing and smiling and breathing, carrying on like none of it mattered. But it did. It does. He can't be the only one that feels it like a crushing weight on his chest and he doesn't know how long he can keep on pretending that everything is okay.
It isn't. It's not and he can feel it, like a chill deep in his bones. Something's coming. Something else. And it's-- it's gonna be bad.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-06 06:54 am (UTC)damn it I really hate that and there really should be at least one person that does understand what has happened and doesn't brush it off like nothing!
so thank you for writing this no matter how psychotic it sounded at one point because jeez it did ;D
no subject
Date: 2013-10-13 04:59 am (UTC)I'm planning on expanding this ficlet into something bigger so I'm glad you enjoyed this little look into that!