Goodbye, Friend of a Friend

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He has nightmares.

Consecutively. Every fucking night he's tearing away at his blanket. Falls onto his bedroom floor – clutching at his chest. It was just a dream. He says into the empty space of his darkened room it was just a dream.

It's become a habit, really. The first instinct has the boy running to his father's room. Creaking open the door to peer inside. Make sure the sheriff is there. Breathing and very much alive.
Then, it's his hands. Holding them out in front of him, he checks for blood and counts ten shaky fingers.

Little has the boy grown to know, the real nightmare is met when he opens his eyes and sees that this is his life.

Now, now sweetheart. Don't you worry your precious little mind, mother isn't going anywhere.

But mother did go, and she never came back.

'My darling boy. My brave little soldier' Her hand, ashen and brittle reached out to the young child and he held onto her like vice. Tried to preserve that very moment. To keep her landed just a little bit longer.' You stay strong and you keep on smiling. Smiles mend broken hearts, remember?'

He tries to find the means to smile, now; he's even practiced it in the mirror. Though, lately, looking at his reflection frightens him beyond compare. The eyes that stare back at him hold the secrets he's tried to bury. And when that reflection smiles, a menacing, destructible smile, he feels those memories unfurl beneath his skin like poisoned thorns that take root in his heart.

"Smiles mend broken hearts."

"Stiles?" The sheriff is slipping into his black overcoat. The starkness of the colour ages him; the world itself is mourning after all.

"If they can mend hearts, can they make them beat again?" Stiles tears his eyes away from the ghosts walking behind the curtains of his window, and looks up to his father with hazel eyes that are coated by a wall of tears. "Can it bring someone back?"

His father clenches his jaw and reaches his son in three long strides.

"Stiles, Allison's death is not – "

"No," Stiles interjects half heartedly. Speaking more to himself than to anyone else. "They wouldn't."

The teenager turns around again and starts searching for someone beyond the sheet of glass, "there's no point smiling then. Absolutely no point at all."

Scott stands at the very front, right beside Mr. Argent. Isaac takes his place to the left. It's a pathetic picture really. Two werewolves and a hunter, mourning over a life that barely lived.

Even the trees hang their necks forward, trying to peer over the shoulders of those who stand around a six foot deep hole. The scent of the fresh earth tickles the back of Lydia's throat.

But it's when the casket is lowered into the ground and everyone takes up the shovel, one by one, to sprinkle some soil over the mahogany wood, does she feel the urge to scream.
It's an entirely different reason, she knows. But it doesn't quell the banging in her chest and the fire in her stomach that rages on and on, like the storm brewing above them.

Some distant relatives, that Allison's never mentioned, step forward and make their peace before handing over the shovel. By the time it reaches Isaac, the rain falls in feather light sheets.

"She was a girl who could make even the loneliest feel whole." Isaac murmurs, sprinkles her with earth and then offers it to Stiles.

Lydia sees the boy, once filled with an insufferable ability to see good, fall into a state of almost-hysteria. He bites down, shakes his head and steps behind his father who only broadens his shoulders. Warding off the thought of anyone asking him again. So Lydia steps forward, offers a small smile to the sheriff and speaks to her deceased friend.

"Allison was a girl of incredible devotion and mind blowing stubbornness. She became so much more like my sister in our years of friendship. And now I hope to live in her image."

Scott takes it next, lets those same tears fall down to find the place inside the grave with Allison. The mere thought breaks Stiles' heart in two. I did this. He thinks solemnly. I killed my brothers' girl.

"She, I – found the very ground beneath my feet, the day Allison said she loved me. Because it was as simple as that, she loved me and I loved her. And there will never be a day I won't think of her."

Scott and Chris share a moment, before he takes a stand right by the headstone that has stolen his little girl's name. "She was a girl of barely seventeen. And yet, she amounted to so much. Became a beacon of strength, heroism and laughter." Chris Argent looks up and speaks to everyone the final words of truth.

"Here lies Allison Argent: a friend, a girlfriend, my daughter. Our hero."

Weeks stretch into months. Time lulls on, painfully slow. But it continues, just like mother said it would.

On a night when the moon hangs low and a painful howl splits through the trees of the forest, a human boy find his werewolf friend.

Stiles sits by him, not too close though. There's only so much either of them can take.

"Isaac says you've been MIA." Stiles murmurs, looking out over the expanse of their town sleeping below them.

Scott's voice is clipped, though, if you listen closely, there's that familiar dose of affection there. One he reserves for Stiles alone, "So have you."

Stiles bows his head and wrings his fingers together.

Finally, when the air is stale and thick, Stiles whispers, "I'm sorry, Scott. I am so sorry for Allison."

Scott takes a deep breath, the muscles in his jaw twitching feverishly at the brokenness of his friend's voice. Stiles swallows salty tears as he is rendered speechless by the apologies collecting in his throat.

"I know," comes Scotts reply and this time his voice is softer. Careful.

"I know you blame yourself Stiles." Scott speaks into the night before looking straight into his friend's eyes for the first time in months. What Stiles sees makes his heart falter. "You shouldn't. It wasn't your fault, dude."

Stiles wants to explain, tell his brother, that all of this suffering is because of him.

"And I know I haven't exactly made you feel that way." The werewolf's voice cracks and it takes everything in Stiles' (human) power to refrain from pulling Scott into an overdue hug.
"But, I'm going to need some time before I can… look or speak to you. I hate that it hurts you. And I am sorry… Stiles,"

This time Stiles hand reaches out and silences his friend with a mere touch to the shoulder. Though Scott's words tear him to shreds, it's not about him. So he shoves the pieces of his solitude deep into his pockets. Leaves them there to rot.

"I know." Stiles says simply, squeezing Scotts shoulder for some measure of sincerity. "Take all the time you need."

Scott manages to smile, and wordlessly, both look out to the moon once more and silently brush the exterior to their old habits.

Neither of them breaks the silence with the words that hang by a noose around them.

Stiles supposes that there isn't much to say anyway.

Not anymore.

Malia is a girl of untamable beauty and veracious power. She smiles in places where Stiles cannot bring himself to mimic the expression. But she waits for him, patiently.
There are days she will see him slipping away inside himself. Being dragged into the cruelty fanned by fire in his own mind. So, she'll slip her fingers into his hands; become a tether that will reel him back. But, even she knows, the talisman that holds the properties to his salvation sits in the abyss of Lydia Martins heart. But for now, she stays with him.

"Shhh" Malia whispers, head tilting back as she rolls herself against him. Bracing her arms against Stiles chest as his hips buck upward to meet each of her thrusts.
He almost laughs, running his hands up her legs to find a place on her hips, guiding her movements.

"I think it's you - " he grunts, trailing fingers up against her waist to graze the underside of her breasts. Biting back a moan when she flutters around him, "who needs to stay quiet."
She chuckles and the sound alone makes his heart plummet into a sprint.

He's missed the sound of laughter.

Her nails bite into the skin stretched over his ribs with playful vigor, "Is that so," she murmurs, purposefully clenching around him. Flipping her hair so it falls to one side. Daring him on.

She's stunning, he thinks, sitting naked on top of him. Pearl skin glistening with sweat.

Beautiful creature, yes. And she's wasting her time on a man like you. The thought fogs his mind like a blackening mist, it converges on him. Presses down on his lungs, for a second the boy thinks he's choking.

"Stiles?" Malia gently calls his name, dragging him out from the gloom, gazing down at him with soft eyes. He forces a small smile to quell the look of worry from the crease in her brow.
"It's nothing," he mumbles. Snatching up her hands and sitting up between her limber, transformative legs. "It's alright." He breathes against her flesh, though, his voice seems harsher. Brimmed with an edge of roguish malice.

The coyote misses it completely when Stiles lips close over her pulse point and sucks on the flesh until he tattoos her there with a small token of affection. Both of them grinning graciously each time the bed squeaks with their movements, laughing into the coolness of the night. Her thighs press against his torso, her little cries collecting in the crook of his neck as her arms wrap across his shoulders, cradling his head against her chest. Nipping the lobe of his ear when the corn like silk of his hair brushes over her. Shivering with every hot breath he fans down her breasts.

He licks a long languid line up her neck before grazing his teeth over her chin, shuddering when Goosebumps erupt over her cinnamon flesh."Oh god" she bites out, squeezing her knees tighter around him at the feel of Stiles pulsating deep within her.

'God?' a dark part of him chuckles ominously. 'Such a foolish foolish prospect' Stiles frightens from its unbidden thought that ghost over the entirety of his body. He feels strange, like something with a mind unreservedly its own, has sought to take residency in his. It slithers through his veins – constricts around his heart and bleeds him dry.

The boy squeezes his eyes shut This isn't happening. Not again. Notagainnotagainnotagain! He bites down on his lip till the metallic taste of blood warms his tongue. It doesn't alleviate the pending fear that wraps around his wrists and neck like rusted shackles.

Stiles becomes stagnant, but still caught in the euphoria and missing the rhythmic slide of his fiery heat, Malia doesn't open her eyes when she asks, "you ok?"
"Poor little shifter girl," the words crawl out on their own accord. His voice darker, daunting. The words rumble through his system, seeping into the girls pores like tendrils of smoke.
Malia pulls away, only slightly, to look into his eyes. "What?" She breathes. Breathless. Then, with eyes glinting wildly, he suddenly pulls his body up onto his knees, and seamlessly switches their positions, throwing the girl down onto her back. Trapping her supple frame beneath the rigid contours of his body. Plunging back into her a little too harshly it makes the girl cry out.

He kisses away her pain, guilt piercing him with acidic daggers. "I'm sorry," he whispers when sense comes crashing back into him. He continues with trembling urgency, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
When the stinging pain subsides Malia leans up to snatch his lips with her own, desperate to silence his apologies with the slide of her tongue and the touch of their teeth.

Sighing wistfully when Stiles tucks an arm underneath the arch of her back, enjoying the friction of his hair tickling her taught flesh as he pulls her impossibly closer.
Both of them gradually falling back into the harmless habit of fucking.

He sheaths himself inside of her, groaning when he reaches the hilt, pressing her into the mattress with the heat of his weight as he rocks himself gently inside of her. Coaxing her towards completion.
It's intoxicating. To be cloaked in the warm wetness of her. Coated in her safety that could make Stiles ease into a peaceful lieu, but today, she's entertaining a beast wearing her boyfriends face.
And neither of them knows it.

Stiles kisses up her neck again, just like the night of their arrest. Barred inside the walls of insanity where the nigitsune could prey on the weak.
His breathing becomes more erratic when his vision becomes warped. Head spinning from induced vertigo. Malia's moans fill the space between them, though they're distant, morphing into a muted silence. His body feels like lead. Heavy and immobile. The familiarity of this dwindling sensation scars his throat by a scream that is dragged back down.

His pockets are full of stones and he's being pulled under and this time, he can't breach the surface...

"Malia." The voice is his. Yet not at all.
A hand (Stiles' hand) reaches down and forces itself between their bodies to the point where they are joined. Presses down against her clit; swallowing her squeal of surprise with an aggressive kiss that's all power and control.

"So beautiful." The man, now monster, speaks softly. Like a forbidden lover. "So, changeable - incredible. Powerful." As he speaks, he relinquishes his exquisite torture and raises his hand to map out the lines of her body. Lazily swirling a finger around her nipple that makes her shiver.
He doesn't stop there though, what he does next, has Stiles thrashing against his restraints.
His hands creep around the base of her throat, rubbing it with alluring fragility to which the girls leans into willingly. Slowly, discreetly, his fingers curl deeper. The angled protrusion of his hip bones bruises her. The suffocating heat of him proving to be more worrisome than the hand wrapped around her neck. Almost.

"Stiles," Malia's fingers wrap around his wrist, "Stiles you're hurting me."
He doesn't respond, barely even looks at her and squeezes harder. Relishing in the strangled yelp he plucks from her lips.
"Stiles," she says a little more urgently.
"Poor little, Coyote." His voice spirals in the small space between them, settling over her flesh like blisters. "Wandered too far from home, have we? Trying to borrow yourself away from your dirty little past" his fingers squeeze, cutting off her circulation with a cruel downturn of his lips. Tsking, like he were ashamed of her efforts.
"Stiles?" Her nails puncture his skin, desperately trying to pry away his lethal lock. Her other hand digging into the corded muscles at his shoulder.

STOP! A helpless cry echoes in the recesses of Stiles mind.

Now now Stiles, comes a hollow response. Don't deny it. You crave it. You want this.

No, please! Just let her go.

He loosens his grip, just enough to let her breathe.

"Shhh" he hushes her panic (and the boys), bunching his hips forward, peppering butterfly kisses over her face with false tenderness.

She cringes away from his touch and futilely uses both hands to push him away: enough for her to twist from beneath him. But a hand to her navel repudiates the simple act and he pushes her back into the bed. Malia, in a surge of defiance, reaches her hands out in an attempt to claw away the smug downward grin he's wearing. The man occupying Stiles body only turns his head away, dodging her strikes before his own hand snaps out and wraps around her wrists, pinning them down above her head effortlessly.

She tries to speak again and pulls against him, but non-Stiles uses his other hand to find a place around her throat once more. Surely gifting her a necklace fashioned by his viciousness.
"Stiles!" Malia grits this time, her eyes drowning in fear. And oh, how he savours it on his tongue when he nips her lower lip and drags away painfully slow.

She snaps her teeth, now sharpened for the kill, "get off of me!" She growls and this makes the merciless beast howl with gruesome laughter.
The girl doesn't abide by its hilarity; instead, with strained effort, she brings her knees up between them, and drives it straight into his groin.
Monster or no, he is a man after all. He grunts and barely loosens his grip, though it's enough for the girl to propel him away from her with all the force she can muster. Now, free from the confinement of his muscular strength, Malia rolls off the bed instantly. Runs for the door, hands fumbling for the handle and just as she manages to swing it open, Stiles arm slams it shut from behind her. His breathing, now completely controlled and calculated (just like his acts of manipulation) fans down the expanse of her back.
She's petrified; cowardly she presses her front into the wood, tries to hide away her nakedness. The Nigitsune gingerly reaches around her, decisively presses his chest against her while the pad of his calloused fingers trace the purpling flesh of her throat.

His knuckles curl under her chin, tormenting in its delicacy. He's giving an illusion of choice, but there's no choice. Not tonight. So, obediently, she faces him. Channels everything wild and feral about her and settles her eyes on him. Heavy with disgust and misplaced trust.

"Get the fuck out of Stiles!"

The nigitsune raises inquisitive eyebrows, "so the little coyote has herself a sharp little tongue." He reaches out and tucks a strand of matted hair behind her ear. The girl bars her teeth and slashes his forearm with readied claws fit for slaughter. He hisses, snatching his hand back to inspect the bleeding wound.

Just leave her alone! Stiles cries from his prison. Just leave her the fuck alone!

Eyes powdered with a touch of blue and red, the fox looks at her and laughs a cold thunderous laugh that matches the madness in his eyes.
"I see why he likes you." He speaks, low, gravelly. He raises the injured arm and leans it against the door frame, right beside her head. A line of red trickling down his arm and down over his pale chest. He's cast in moonlight, eyes draped in shadows. He's a horror story tucked inside a teenage boy and his taunting ways only cripple the possibilities of hope. "But we both know," he husks, "you're not who he wants. Who he needs." He leans in, eyes donned in a patronizing gleam of sadness.

"No. Not you." He repeats. Touching her lips.

"He's waiting for the banshee girl. So for now, these lips will suffice. For now, he will seek refuge in the delicious little place cradled between your thighs." He skims hand lower for affect and it works perfectly. All the emotions, the fear, sadness, worthlessness. All of them amalgamate around her and he ravishes it. Becomes drunk on her imbalance.
But he wants more. Craves the annihilation of everything. So, he terrorizes her further. And feeds off everything the child whimpering inside him feels.

Don't. Comes Stiles vanishing voice. Don't you dare touch her.
Too late for that, the monster muses. He cranes his neck to catch the girls eyes again, "but. You realize. All you are is an obstacle. And Stiles wants you gone as soon as possible so he can pursue his true heart's desire."

Don't listen to him. Stiles screams, to no avail. The words bounce off empty walls and all he can do is watch the beast pull the girl apart at the seams. Till there's nothing left but a desolating numbness.
"So I suppose" his guttural voice continues, " the only thing left to do is help him get to the finish line quicker. Which – such an unfortunate waste for you – requires the ending of your story."

When Stiles understands what this fox means, he buckles. Tries to will the arm moving towards his desk still. Heedless of his resistance, the Nigitsune's fingers close around a pair of scissors and when Malia catches the silver moonlight glinting off the skin of the blades, she tries to run with her heart in her mouth. He only catches her around the waist and slams her back into the wall. Locks her down with the lean frame he is commandeering.
"Wait. No. Stiles if you can hear me. Please don't - don't do this. Please Stiles. Don't let him do this to me!'
Stiles shrieks. Pounds against the walls he cannot see. Begs, pleads, bargains with the fox stealing yet another life. But the thousand year old creature is malevolent, sadistic. Hungry. And with a morbid smile, he plunges the paper cutters into Malia's side. And Stiles swears, when her blood pours, he can feel the weight of it on his hands. Smells her death and tastes it on his tongue like burning sulfur.

When Malia's lifeless body falls to the ground with a resounding thump, Stiles jolts. Throat scathed from screaming, he finds himself tangled in his own wet sheets. Crashing to the floor, adjusting his eyes in the darkness, to see he's in his room. A sleeping Malia resting quietly on the edge of his bed by the wall.

Tenaciously, he reaches over and holds his hand under her nose, sighs in relief when her steady breaths kiss his palm. And once he's counted ten trembling fingers, he grabs his jacket and keys and disappears into the night.

TBC

Hello everybody, been a while since I've been on here. This is hopefully going to be a three part story. Just know, it won't be a very happy one and will contain heavy 'void!stiles scenes.
It's very much a means of mourning the loss of Allison that I feel they've brushed over in the series... but not much we can do about it I suppose.

Are you guys liking the latest season of Teen Wolf? I'm kinda sitting on the fence and that kinda saddens me... ANYWAY, leave a review/critique, it's always appreciated.

on another note, my 'The stars never stay and neither do you.' fic hasn't been forgotten, I'm just searching for the inspiration to finish the next chapter... which I won't lie, is posing to be a little bit of a threat.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS! (if you're on holidays, if not, I feel bad for ya son.)