for shits and giggles

Well, it's not Stiles per se, but let's just call him that for convenience: Stiles runs through a forest in bare feet. The bare feet are actually a very clever forethought – it defies getting a cold. You'll see.

He comes to a river. This river is the goal of his trip. This is what he was running towards; it holds a treasure. Now, a river can be quite a big thing, and finding something specific in said river would be hard if it wasn't because he could smell it. From far away, really; miles away. Something so sweet and human. Blood. It colours the water, too – a pretty red pink blended tint which can be made with only this: fresh water and fresh blood. He can't quite keep a delighted squeal back, it sort of weaves through the lungs he stole, escapes him, scares a bird in a tree and makes it fly away. This is where his bare feet come in handy. He walks into the river, knee deep. It's a stupid thing with those feet, actually. It's pure indulgence on his side. Countless times has a mother said to her child, don't walk around in wet shoes, you'll catch a cold! Stiles' feet has been more hurt with scratches and bruises on his way here than a few minutes in cold water could, but it's the principle of the thing.

And maybe it's also some wicked desire to rub in Stiles' face that his mother never got to lecture him about wet shoes. Yes, the bare feet are one of those nice little details that just seem to fit perfectly in a plan. Stiles' face smiles. This is perhaps a good time to explain what is Stiles and what is not.

Stiles' mind is gone. His remaining body is occupied by other intentions at the moment. Stiles is possessed by a demon, and no one has – in fact – seen Stiles with Stiles for the past six days.

This lack of Real Stiles has led to some quite brutal events recently. Let's just say three good students have died, Scott is crying pathetically in a basement right now, and our dear sheriff has been staring at his gun more intently with each passing day. It has also led to what "Stiles" is about to gleefully witness.

A drowned Derek.

Stiles would have been more amused by the comical alliteration if he wasn't too focused on following a moving trail of red running downstream towards him. He is moving up a mild slope, ice cold water and blood soaking his thighs; it's getting thicker, he's moving closer – the air substantial with the smell of it makes chills run down the demon's own insubstantial spine. He reaches the top and is met by a stunningly beautiful view of a shallow lake fitted so perfectly and still between old trees. It almost takes his pretended breath away; greens and browns so vibrant in the steep sunbeams running through the leaves and the calm surface of the lake mirroring it all, doubling the efforts of nature; a resonating orchestra of sparrows' singing, insects humming and smaller animals making way through the forest floor – a borderline salacious sound only humans could call "the silence of the forest."

However, nothing is as beautiful as The Finishing Touch, to use a cliché idiom. In its own grand pool of blood fading into the water, a werewolf submerged, a corpse so wonderfully placed. Stiles is too impatient to revere the artistry of it all. He sprints across the lake, water spraying everywhere; forget shoes and socks, he's soaked head to toe in excitement. He laughs at the prospect of a demon walking on water, the irony is too good.

Stiles kneels at the werewolf's head, takes it between his hands and whispers into its face, oh, the things I'll do to you, love.

An airborne vortex seems to distort the demon's head; Stiles' features become blurred, misplaced grotesquely for only a fleeting moment. Then, eyes the colour of blackberries painted black with coal at night; indistinct line of vision, like when it's hard to tell whether a crow is looking at you because the pupils are so large, only worse. The world feels stale for a while, even the forest becomes completely quiet as if trying to give way to the demons enormous and unnatural powers. Until the water ripples from the corpse's fingertips. A silent movement in the lake, but movement nonetheless, created by something dead revived. The werewolf's head in Stiles' lap jerks and opens his eyes and they quickly fill with the blood smeared over his face; it blinds him and sticks in his eyelashes, and Stiles wipes it away with his wet fingers. Another sign of life: self-preservation; Derek is blinking like mad, trying to regain his sight while still being too bloodless to move his legs and arms. Stiles just keeps humming, washing away the grime from his cheeks, his forehead, his hair. Derek's heart rate is slow – either relaxed or weakened – and he can finally see. He is staring directly into bottomless eyes above him. The face of a boy he knows so well. He can't connect the dots, he's feeling off. He whispers - no, croaks: "Stiles?" but those eyes do not belong to Stiles. There is a funny sensation of vacuum, as if his insides have been emptied out.

"Welcome back, sweet cheeks. You left too early. We still have a game to play."

A big black hole inside waiting to be filled with bad things.