So this story began as a result of my rewatching the second season of Teen Wolf and parts of the third season. I really like the idea of Stiles getting possessed but I felt like doing my own thing with it. (This chapter also sort of serves and an intro for the way I write Stiles.) It's a story that is very much focused on him and will get very dark in the near future. It's about possession and dark desires. Where the villain's motives aren't entirely clear. And it will have Stiles/Lydia, Scott/Allison, and references to past Lydia/Jackson. Anyway, without further adieu, I hope you enjoy it!


Stiles Stilinski

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His body is sore in more places than he knew even existed in the human body. After treading water for a solid two and a half hours, Stiles is certain that he is set on not swimming for the rest of his life. His legs feel like jelly when he stands. On trembling legs, he wobbles toward Scott, who's got his laptop set up on his mom's car. His friend is scrolling through a computerized monster encyclopedia to find out what the hell had nearly killed them all ten minutes ago. And when Stiles actually looks at one of the pages, the text looks like a bunch of indiscernible scribbles.

"Is that even a real language?" He whines, slumping onto the car next to Scott, who shakes his head and shrugs. Then Tall-Dark-and-Creepy steps up, with Erica looking severely irritated behind him, and reveals the name of the damn thing. The two of them look as if they've just been tossed around in a mosh pit or something.

"You knew the whole time?" Scott says it, but Stiles is right there with him, scoffing in equal exasperation. Derek remains impassive (as he always does), and Erica (who doesn't appear bothered either) glances at her perfectly manicured nails. How had they remained intact?

"I wasn't sure about it until it got confused by its own reflection." Derek says stone faced. Stiles is honestly sort of torn between wanting to cry and wanting to punch Derek in the face for being an evasive asshole. There's an entire series of statements that form some kind of explanation after this cryptic clue, but Stiles has reached his capacity for dealing with crazy supernatural shit for the evening. His muscles are stiff, his skin is numb, and the track suit he's wearing is sticking to him in all the most uncomfortable places (especially in the armpit and crotch areas). And the world around him is getting more and more blurry by the minute.

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The next thing he knows, he's hitting his head on the window of Scott's mom's car, and being jolted awake. Some odd, surprised noise comes out of him when it happens.

Scott glances at him as if to check on his sanity—general well-being, and says something like, "You okay?"

Stiles nods, or at least he thinks he does. He must have because Scott is moving on with the conversation, something about Allison's family being crazy hunters and werewolf stress. Stiles has definitely reached his capacity for dealing with the Allison-and-her-crazy-ass-family shit too. (And besides, all the Allison trouble blends together after a while). At some point he falls asleep in the car again, and wakes up feeling cold and damp with chattering teeth. Scott is making this hilariously scrunched face—like he smells something awful—but Stiles recognizes this expression as Scott's concerned face.

He manages one laugh before he stutters out, "K-keep mak-king that fac-ce and you won't n-need a Halloween mask-k th-this year."

It does the trick, Scott rolls his eyes and stops looking worried for a moment, "Go get warmed up."

"W-will do." Stiles gives his friend a shaky two fingered salute as he slips out of the passenger side.

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His father isn't home when he slouches through the front door. So the house is cast in total darkness, and it's a miracle Stiles doesn't trip over anything or kick stray objects. He waits until he hears Scott drive away (because you know, werewolf hearing.) Exhausted, he falls back against the door, waits a beat, slides down to the ground, and lets out a deep sob that's rooted in the pit of his stomach and makes his whole body begin to tremble again.

Stiles feels raw, like an exposed nerve. Everything hurts: calves, thighs, stomach, arms, fingers, neck. In fact, there is a string of tension pulling from his neck through his shoulder blades to the base of his spine. He makes himself take a few deep, cleansing breaths, feeling the chlorine from his lungs seep out from his mouth on the wisps of his breath. Scott had taught him long ago the importance of taking deep, cleansing breaths in times of stress. He closes his eyes and counts to ten, and then counts again to three, and then makes himself stand up on tired legs.

He trudges to his room, where he crawls into the shower, turns the dial almost completely to the left, and waits for his body to thaw out. It doesn't take long for the water to start burning his skin, he should have eased himself into the heat, but as always, Stiles does not know how to pace himself. He leaps into things without thinking and regrets it, and always ends up getting hurt for Scott's benefit. It's been this way as long as he can remember. He's always taken the metaphorical bullet for his best friend. And recently, as things have been getting more and more insane, Stiles finds himself wondering if that metaphorical bullet will become literal in the near future. He thinks about all this as he sits in the shower, under the too hot water, as he waits for something to start making sense.

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The next morning Stiles wakes with a sore body and no memory of climbing into bed. He moves to rub his eyes but finds that overnight his fingers had clenched into pseudo claws, which is how he ends up accidentally stabbing himself in the eye. Now fully awake, he tries rolling out of bed but encounters another setback; he had tucked his sheets under the mattress too tightly, effectively creating an Egyptian cotton prison. He thrashes about to no avail, groans, and then counts to ten.

Eventually, he detangles himself from the Egyptian cotton confinement and attempts to stand but is startled when his knees buckle. The ground races towards his face. Stiles panics—reflexively throwing out his arms to stop himself, but like his knees before, they fail him too. And his face promptly meets the carpet.

After a few moments, he finds it in himself to push up off the ground and onto unsteady legs. He contemplates whether or not he has the will to drag himself down the stairs for breakfast and then back up the stairs to get dressed and brush his teeth…and ultimately decides that no, he doesn't have to will for all that.

Instead, he heads towards the bathroom. Where upon entry, he discovers that his hands are still in their claw-like shape but attempts to pick up his toothbrush anyway. He manages to scoop the brush up with his index and middle fingers and immediately frowns. How the hell am I gonna do this? No matter how hard he tries, he can't seem to get the toothpaste on the toothbrush. Fuck it. I'll just chew gum. What's one day without dental hygiene?

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He drags his feet to the bureau where he claws open a drawer and scoops out the first shirt he can get his hands on, which happens to be a plain white shirt with the words "¡Que fuerte!" in vibrant green, looping letters. He sets it on top of the bureau and moves to cross his arms in front of him to pull his night shirt off, but his arms are too heavy from fatigue to complete the action. He makes an unmanly squeaking noise at the pain that bolts up the length of his arm into his shoulder, but tries one more time (for the sake of his manly pride) and is met with the same resistance. Next he tries reaching over his head, but his arm doesn't even pass his ear. Finally, he tries gripping the edge of his left sleeve to pull his arm through, backing up as if the steps will help him get undressed faster. Unfortunately, he is so focused on freeing his arm that he doesn't notice the door looming behind him and accidentally collides with the sturdy wood of his bedroom door.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." He grumbles.

There's a concerned knock at the door, and his dad says, "Stiles, you okay?"

Stiles takes a deep, cleansing breath before he answers, "Yeah, I'm fine," a bit harsher than he intends.

"Okay…" He hears his dad walk away.

Alone again, he continues battling against the stubborn article of clothing until finally he wrenches it from his frame. He takes a moment to internally celebrate his small victory. Then trudges back to the bureau to begin another struggle. As it turns out, putting a shirt on with sore arms is a lot easier than taking one off.

Once he has the shirt on, he realizes the irony of the words "que fuerte," (which is Spanish for "how strong.") and glowers down at the letters as if they had a personal vendetta against him and debates whether or not he had the patience or the strength to take the shirt off again. Eh, too much trouble. Then he looks forlornly down at his pajama pants, decorated with dancing bananas.

After a string of curse words and a series of falls, Stiles decides to sit on the floor to wiggle into a pair of trusty jeans. It takes forever for him to tug the jeans all the way up his tower long legs, but after a long (and quite frankly tiring) process, he's mostly clothed. Shoes are less of a struggle than the rest of his outfit, but he does not have it in him to wrestle on a pair of socks, so he goes sockless. His hands are still stuck in the claw like position they had started in, and his fingers weren't up to the task of tying laces, so Stiles crams his feet into the first pair of laceless shoes he finds.

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By the time Stiles gets to the Jeep, he is seriously worried that he won't be able to drive himself to school. He gets the door to the car open on the third try (before that it takes him two tries to even lift his arm). Now he's really skeptical and regrets the way he had scoffed at the option of driving an automatic when he had been choosing a car. Buyer's remorse had never been so physically painful.

Eyeing the driver's seat wearily, Stiles heaves his entire body into the car with what little energy he can muster, and ends up half way into the passenger seat. Soon it's time to start the car, and hold in the clutch, and remember to shift gears as he drives. As his Jeep rumbles to life, he has to actively will his body to cooperate with him. Today is going to suck. He thinks, as the Jeep jerks out of the driveway, he feels as if he's learning to drive a stick all over again.

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It feels like an eternity before he makes it to the school parking lot, but on a happier note, he scares the shit out of the kid parked right next to him when he tumbles out of the driver's seat (because he's too weak to land correctly).

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Please let me know what you think! It's my first time writing a Teen Wolf fic so I'm curious about how the character portrayals turned out. Anyway leave a comment letting me know what you thought and whether you'd like to see more of the story posted.