Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Bye, dad!”

Stiles slipped his jacket on while practically stumbling his way to the door, which he hastily flung open. Stepping outside, he was greeted with a warm, gentle summer night's breeze. Stiles checked for his fake-ID one last time before he set out for the closest pub. Considering his plans that night, taking the Jeep was too risky (what fun would it be if his dad – the sheriff - caught him drink-driving, especially when he lied about being at Scott's), so he decided to simply walk and – hopefully – avoid getting seen by people he knew.

After he had turned some corners, Stiles spotted a signboard with faintly illuminated letters, which simply said “Drinks”.

The brunette walked up to the door and realized, as soon as he had opened the door with a creak, that the place itself was even more unobtrusive. It was almost empty; Stiles counted 4 customers sitting on different tables.

Perfect .

Since nobody showed any sign of having noticed Stiles' presence – not even the barkeeper – he approached said man, who faced the opposite direction, and sat on one of the few barstools. Stiles cleared his throat loudly in an attempt to draw the bartender's attention – successfully. The tall and muscular man turned around, only to eye the boy with a frown. Stiles already had his hands in his trouser pocket to pull out the fake-ID, but the older man just shrugged and asked in a disinterested tone:

“What can I get ya, boy?”

“Double whiskey,” Stiles requested in a firm voice. It was the first drink that came into his mind; he didn't care if it tasted good or not - as long as it did its job of getting him utterly shit-faced. He knew he wouldn't get some peaceful sleep that night – actually, he didn't have a good night's sleep for what seemed like an eternity – because of these stupid, weird dreams yanking him out of his slumber as soon as having drifted off. Since sleep was beyond question, why not spend the time with something more productive?

The man was quick; Stiles barely had a chance to finish his thoughts as a glass filled with brown liquid was set before him.

The barkeeper observed Stiles cautiously as the latter grabbed the drink and downed it without hesitation. The liquid burned like fire in his throat, but soon a soothing warmness was spreading in his insides and he put the glass down with a thump.

“Another one,” Stiles blurted. With a surprised expression on his face, the man simply nodded and set to work.

After the 4 ^th glass his mind started to become blissfully blank and his surroundings became blurred; the presence of a new customer completely escaped his perception.

Well, that was until Stiles heard a thick accented voice – British, he concluded – coming from his right.

“Next one's on me.”

The gratitude he felt when he became aware that someone was about to pay him his next drink was soon replaced by sheer confusion. Why would anyone spend his money on him?

Was he hitting on him?

Don't be ridiculous, Stiles, he thought to himself, could be some wrinkly old perv wh-

That was when he realized he didn't even take a look at the generous stranger.

When he did look at him, Stiles was suddenly dangerously deprived of oxygen.

At his side stood a tall and lean guy about his age. The dark-blonde hair framed his face perfectly, the big, amber eyes contrasted his rather pale skin and the charming, warm smile sent Stiles' head spinning (well, it would have if his head hadn't already been spinning from all the booze). The boy was gorgeous.

There was one thing that bugged him though – a strong feeling of familiarity; it was like Stiles knew him, although he couldn't recall having met that guy. Shrugging it off – he simply blamed it on the alcohol in his system – he continued eyeing him.

That was when he caught himself staring.

Becoming painfully aware of the awkwardness, Stiles face reddened to – what he presumed - the shade of a tomato.

The blonde chuckled lightly as he queried:

“That is if he didn't have enough already.”

Stiles only managed to babble: “No I'm fine. Actually I'm more than fine. I'm great. Perfect. Splennnnnndid.”

The brunette could barely deter himself from facepalming in embarrassment.

“Amazing,” pretty boy snickered. He leaned gracefully on the counter and extended his right hand as he uttered:

“Name's Newt.”

Stiles' hand shot forward and he shook Newt's almost too eagerly. The latter gazed at him expectantly.

“Uh, yeah, um, uh, well”

The blonde grinned widely as he said sweetly: “Adorable.”

My name, oh my god I'm so stupid , the brunette thought to himself.

“Uh, Stiles.”

“Stiles. I like that,” Newt remarked, “so, what is someone like you doing in such a shabby place like this?”

Stiles told him basically everything there was to know about him (of course missing out the supernatural part) and Newt seemed so interested in what he had to say, like everything that came out of his mouth was pure gold.

He missed that. Scott always zoned out if they had a conversation that didn't involve anything werewolf-y, although Stiles didn't blame him – he already had enough on his mind. His dad was very busy with, well, being the sheriff and besides, he didn't want to burden him with his trivialities.

While talking to Newt, Stiles realized the blonde was definitely flirting with him. Especially comments like You play Lacrosse? Bet that ass looks mighty fine in a Lacrosse uniform – that smug bastard - made it obvious.

It turned out that Newt just recently moved to this town with his family and is about to start at Beacon Hills High coming school year.

Chatting with the charming blonde was so refreshing that he completely lost track of time. He peeked at his phone display:

2:30 AM

Shit . He promised his dad to be back at 1 am. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Uh, Newt. I kinda need to go, I'm sorry I-”

Stiles stopped talking when the blonde snatched the phone out of his hands and typed something in it. He returned it after mere seconds and urged: ”Text me.”

With a wink, Newt turned on his heels and left the pub.

Chapter Text

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief when he found his house devoid of light as he walked through the doorway. As soon as he had noiselessly pushed the door shut, he searched for the light-switch and turned it on. He braced himself for the scolding of an enraged man, but instead he was greeted with soothing silence. He's probably asleep, Stiles thought to himself, so he tiptoed his way up the stairs in an attempt to maintain the stillness – failing miserably. He tripped over his own feet and landed on the unmercifully hard steps. Stiles groaned in pain, and if that wasn't loud enough his keys slipped from his hands, only to fall down the stairs in such a slow way, as if they were mocking him.

The boy cursed inwardly before getting on his feet, swooping the keys and ascending the last step. Stiles expected his dad to storm out of his bedroom, but as nothing happened he dared to open the door to said room, only to find it vacated. Worry overcame him.

He retrieved his phone from the pocket of his jeans – one missed call and one message. The latter said the following:

Dad 23:41 PM

 

Got called in for a night shift, don't wait up for me.

First the hot guy flirting unrestrainedly with him, then escaping a tedious lecture about the dangers of Beacon Hills at night. That day was indeed a lucky one.

Or was it really?

As Stiles had brushed his teeth, he got into his sweatpants and slipped under the covers. He welcomed the warmness and a sudden fatigue overwhelmed him, though he dreaded the mere thought of sleeping. Soon tiredness got a hold of him and he fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Light crept in through the blinds - sun rays falling softly on Stiles' cheek, waking him gently up. He half-opened his eyes and started to slowly stretch his long limbs. This had been the first night since weeks that he slept through – without jolting out of his sleep, screaming and sweating – and it surely did its wonders; he felt like a new person.

The brunette reached for the phone he had placed on the bedside table the night prior. He had one unread message.

Scott 11:39 AM

 

Don't forget the party tonight at Derek's, be there at 8

Of course the fucking party had slipped his mind. Naturally, since he was being all preoccupied with not losing his mind over those unnerving, vivid dreams.

All of a sudden and with no warning, his mind drifted off to a certain fair-haired boy. As he recalled yesterday night's events, he felt a small smile tugging at his lips.

The blonde had startled Stiles with his straightforwardness. No one had ever flirted with him so openly, and the way he did it – all confident and playful – made him think of only one thing: Newt was fucking hot.

The encounter with the stranger left him mesmerized and he longed for meeting him again.

But wait, he had his number, didn't he?

As Stiles scrolled through his contacts on his phone and indeed found his name with a small kiss smiley at the end – that bastard – he came up with an idea.

He sent a text asking Newt if he wanted to come to the black light party that night.

After mere seconds, a response came.

Newt :-* 12:07 PM

 

As long as I get to paint your body, I'm in ;) x

Stiles' heart fluttered at the message, he then sent Newt details about the party.

He couldn't await the night and what it might hold.

The day passed painfully slow – it always did when anticipation was involved – and Stiles lazily spent it on his laptop; he only left the comfort of his bed to pee or get something to eat.

As the clock showed 7, Stiles grunted while abandoning his sanctuary in order to take a quick shower. He got dressed – simple blue jeans and a shirt with stripes varying in size and colour – and tried to fix his hair – only to give up after a minute. Hopeless, he thought to himself as he stared at his reflection in the mirror, good thing it's a black light party then.

The all too familiar drive to Derek's loft was surprisingly brief and he parked Roscoe next to another car.

As he entered the building, the place was crowded to overflowing. The mass of people were mostly moving in synch with the beat, while others just awkwardly stood around. He looked out for Scott and soon spotted the dark-haired, who was leaning against a wall and sipping at his drink. Approaching his best friend, he couldn't help but smile.

“Hey, Scott!”, Stiles exclaimed cheerfully.

Scott only greeted him half-heartedly.

“Dude, you will never guess what happened to me yesterday! I met this guy and -”

“Yeah, Stiles, I'm sorry but I need to talk to Kira. See you around,” Scott interrupted before hastening away. His heart dropped - Scott leaving him high and dry was very unlike him, especially for a girl he just met.

There was no time to dwell on the disappointment though, as his stomach was being entwined by strong arms, a hot breath tingling his neck. Stiles didn't need to face the person behind him to reveal his identity – he already knew who it was, which was the reason why he stayed in this position.

“Hey cupcake,” Newt whispered into Stiles' ear.

Cupcake? Really?

He searched for a sarcastic remark, but the warmness of the blonde's body pressed against his back turned the usually eloquent boy's brain into mush.

Newt chuckled at - what Stiles presumed – his loss at words and asked him, still in a low voice:

“Can I claim now what I came here for?”

Stiles was confused at first, but then he recalled the condition. The brunette tensed up and felt suddenly very self-conscious; Stiles never, never removed his shirt in public, only if there was no way around it – the mere thought of baring his non-existent six-pack filled him with dread.

Newt seemed to notice his stiffness as he said:

“You know what, forget it. I have a much better idea.”

The pace of Stiles' heartbeat accelerated and he could only think this accent will be the death of me.

Suddenly the warmness of Newt's body was taken away and Stiles immediately craved the blonde's touch again. He felt hands intertwine with his and before he could react, he was being lead through the agitating mass of people.

Stiles was surprised as Newt led him into a small room – a storage room – and even more as he was pushed with his back against a wall. The blonde's eyes were burning into his own and as he felt hands on his neck, Stiles thought his feet would give in.

Holy shit, is this really happening oh my god if this is a dream, please don't wake me up, Stiles thought to himself.

Their faces were mere inches apart – so fucking close – and Stiles couldn't help himself as his gaze flickered to Newt's oh so kissable lips. Newt's face was coming closer,

and closer

and closer

…

When suddenly Newt's hands left Stiles' neck, only to wrap themselves around his throat. He felt them squeezing the life out of him and Stiles couldn't wrap his mind around what was happening.

The pressure on his throat became unbearable and he was gasping for air.

“Newt.....you're.....hurting....me.....,” Stiles managed to cough up.

Through blurred vision, the brunette perceived Newt's mouth forming a malicious smirk as he uttered:

“Good.”

Chapter Text

Stiles didn't move. The excruciating pain paralysed him and the grip on his throat was so strong that there was no point in trying to push Newt away. The air deprivation had its effects: Soon black dots started dancing around in Stiles' vision. He struggled for retaining his consciousness but he felt it slowly slipping from his grasp like sand.

Just as his vision started blackening altogether, the strong grip on his throat was released and Newt's hands wandered down to his chest. His first instinct was to gasp for air, which caused the pain to subside marginally. As his vision cleared, Stiles gazed at the person who nearly killed him; he was confronted with brown eyes, darkened with lunacy and viciousness. Opening his mouth in an attempt to say something, the brunette was racked with pain coming from his sore throat.

Stiles felt his assaulter's index finger on his lips, the other hand still pressed steadily against his chest, holding him in place.

“Shhhhh, we don't want you to hurt yourself, don't we?”

We?

“Oh Stiles, you don't have the faintest idea, have you?”

Newt must have noticed his irritation as he continued:

“Don't I look familiar to you?”

Stiles had already noticed the familiarity when he first met the fair-haired boy, and now that he had the opportunity to take a closer look, the feeling overwhelmed him. He remembered gazing into those expressive eyes, running his finger through the dirty blonde hair – hell, he even recalled the taste of those plump, pink lips; he didn't recognize him though – it was like a discarded memory, nagging at his consciousness and begging for attention.

Who was that guy, and why did he know him?

Not being physically able to ask questions and shed light on the matter almost drove him insane.

“Oh, how easy your life must be without the guilt of what you have done. How peaceful to live it in utter ignorance.”

Newt eyed him warily – he reminded him of a predator prior to lunging at its prey. Those eyes bore no sign of mercy, no sign of compassion – only malice and hunger for something Stiles couldn't discern.

“Don't you worry, Stiles, I will make you remember everything. Your pain will be so delicious,” Newt declared wickedly, “but first things first.”

The finger on Stiles' mouth left its place, and he perceived the blonde retrieving a small dagger from his jacket. Was he going to kill him?

Stiles tried to free himself from Newt's grip – to no avail. He struggled desperately, but the arm pressed against his chest wouldn't even budge an inch – the blonde's strength was almost supernatural.

He was petrified with horror as he felt the sharp end of the lethal weapon dig into his skin, just below the collarbones. He tried to scream, but only a choked noise escaped his lips. The stinging and burning pain started to subside when the dagger was removed from his flesh. Stiles wanted to look at the damage done, but couldn't move his head due to the injury on his throat. Newt took a step back and tilted his head, as if admiring his work. He then dropped the blade and Stiles caught a glimpse of something else – a jar , he concluded – which contained a small and moving object. It almost looked like ... a fly? What the hell?

“You know, it can be so dull being the only one of my kind,” Newt stated in a sing-song voice, “it would be so much more fun to have ... ah, how do you call it?”

“Ah yes. A mate.”

His kind? A mate? What was he referring to?

Newt continued, his face getting nearer Stiles':

“See, although we foxes might not be very ... sociable, we do have one thing in common with wolves”

“We both despise solitude. Even more than we despise each other.”

Newt's hot breath tingled Stiles' skin as he leaned into him and whispered into the brunette's ear almost seductively:

“This is why I need you. Like you need me, Stiles.”

All of a sudden Stiles felt something tearing at the fresh wound, crawling under his skin. Although it didn't hurt, he was horrified when he realized it was the bug which crept inside him. What the fucking hell was happening?

“Now,” Newt started again, his hands grabbing the sides of Stiles' head forcefully, “I'm going to make you remember.”

The blonde pressed his hands against Stiles' temples with such a strength, the latter thought his head was going to explode. He shut his eyes almost automatically as the immense pain increased to an unbearable level.

Abruptly, the agony ceased and instead, his brain was being overfed with information. It was like a film playing in his mind's eye, his inner eyelids being the screen.

He remembered WICKED, their deceit and lies.

He remembered the trials so vividly he thought he was reliving them.

He remembered being Thomas, his thoughts, his feelings – everything.

He remembered his friends, the Gladers, and the faith he had in them.

But most of all, he remembered Newt.

Due to the mental overdrive he was soon being consumed by a blissful darkness, but before that he was able to form one clear thought:

The person before him might have had the same appearance as him, but this wasn't Newt.

Because Newt was dead.

Because he himself had shot him.

Chapter Text

A strongly sterile scent and a continuous beep indicated that Stiles definitely wasn't in his own room and wasn't lying on his own bed (he was lying on a bed though, a not very cosy one to boot). He blinked his eyes open in confusion and as soon as he had taken in the surroundings, he realized this was a room in the local hospital. With his brain kicking in, he recalled the events prior to losing his consciousness – the memories were like a tidal wave washing over him, and drowning him in a sea of information in the progress.

Experiment

Trials

Deceit

Lies

Death

Newt.

He had shot his best friend in the head. He stared at his hands; they were smeared with blood – Newt's blood.

Neither did Stiles notice that he wasn't the only presence in that room nor did he pay attention to a hand squeezing and rubbing his arm gently as his breathing became heavier and his lungs started to burn like fire; he was desperately trying to inhibit having a panic attack - it was like clinging on to the edge of a cliff with only one hand, an abyss brimming with distress and agony awaiting him below. He hungered for air.

A familiar voice finally brought him out of his trance and into reality:

“Stiles, are you having a panic attack?” The addressed tore his gaze from bloodied hands to the source of the voice, only to see Scott's face with a worried expression on his face.

“Stiles, focus on my voice,” another one urged – his dad, Stiles figured, “you're safe now. No one can hurt you anymore.”

He could feel his heart beat slowing to a steady pace and his breath slowly evened out. He glimpsed at his hands again – there was no blood. Was his mind playing tricks on him?

His thoughts drifted off to his encounter with Newt in the storage room – he recalled the burning sensation of the dagger carving a smooth line into his skin.

Stiles pulled the hospital gown down and caught sight of a band-aid just below his collar bones. Ignoring the protests of both men sitting at either side of the bed, he tore it off – there was no gash, not even a scratch, although the band-aid was drenched in blood. What the hell?

The surprise Stiles felt was a mutual feeling, judging from the startled expression on Scott's and his dad's faces.

His friend's head hung low as he stated, his voice laced with self-reproach: “I should have listened to you, Stiles. I should have stayed with you, not leave you hanging. If I hadn't -”

“Stop. This isn't your fault, Scott,” Stiles interjected, slightly startled that his voice bore no sign of having been strangled. Only a dull ache in his throat reminded him of the incident.

“What happened at the party?”, his dad blurted.

Stiles heaved a sigh. Where the hell was he supposed begin?

“Okay. Dad, Scott, you remember that … “camp” I went to after … mom died?”

“Sure, but what has it to do with -”

“Dad, let me finish, please,” Stiles cut him short before he continued:

“Well I sort of … wasn't there. Actually, I don't think it even existed.”

The sheriff had confusion and incredulity written on his facial expression, so did Scott but before they could interrupt, he went on:

“That woman that called us – Paige – shortly after mom … she claimed to be a counsellor for teens who were going through a rough time, right? That she had established an institution for troubled teens to help them? That a 4-month-stay would do wonders on my psychological state?”

“It was all a lie. She was the head of some occult, governmental institution that tested teenagers on their ability to survive. They conducted an experiment to see if we could withstand certain conditions, in case the world would be infested with catastrophe. We had to go through trials that tested which of our abilities made each of us more … viable. They gave us new names, new identities and temporary erased every memory of our previous lives.”

Stiles went on with a more detailed description of the trials and throughout the whole explanation he tried to be as indifferent and neutral as possible; he succeeded – well that was until he came to speak of Newt. Whenever he mentioned the name of the blonde, he felt a lump in his throat and Stiles tried hard to fight the tears back from flowing. He told them everything, except for one event that was replaying so vividly in his head ever since he got his memory back – he wasn't ready to share it yet, it was something only Newt and him knew of and Stiles wanted to keep it that way.

When he got to the point of the blonde's death, he felt the tears trickling down his cheeks.

They made him believe that the Flare existed. They made him believe that Newt was a Crank. They made him believe that killing him would take him out of his misery. He was deceived, there was no denying that, but it didn't erase the fact that Stiles had killed an innocent boy – his friend.

He was a murderer.

“Soon after even the head of the organisation realized what she had done – they had killed innocent children – she abandoned the experiment and kept it under concealment; there were people that threatened to reveal their secret though – us. Instead of getting rid of us as well, they swiped our memories of the trials permanently from our brains and filled it with fake ones instead – the reason why I genuinely believed I had gone to that fucking camp.”

When Stiles had also finished describing his encounters with Newt – he decided to stick to the truth, so he was slightly surprised as his dad didn't interject to scold him about the lie of being at Scott's when in reality he was getting drunk with a stranger – he braced himself for the flood of questions that were about to come his way.

His dad was the first one to speak up:

“Are you in love with him?”

That certainly took Stiles by surprise. He expected having to repeat his whole story again, since it was something so complex and unbelievable that not even he himself understood fully, so why out of all questions did he choose this one?

Jesus Christ, he just told him he practically lived a second life and all he comes up with is this? Did he even fucking listen?

Stiles was utterly dumbfounded and only managed to stutter a “what” under his breath.

“You heard me son. Are you in love with Newt?”, the sheriff repeated.

The addressed considered the question. He couldn't help as his mind drifted off to the one memory he agreed with himself to keep a secret.

Stiles gazed straight into his father's eyes as he uttered the following:

“Thomas was.”

FLASHBACK

“We all know WICKED's fancy cure is never gonna work, and I wouldn't want it to. Not much to live for on this piece-of-klunk planet. I'll stay on the Berg while you guys go into the city.” Newt turned and stomped away, disappearing around the corner to the common area.

Before Minho could say anything, Thomas stood up and followed his blonde friend, urging Minho to stay were he was.

Thomas found him sitting on the floor, hugging his knees. He couldn't tell if Newt was crying since his face was buried in the space between his chest and his legs.

The infected apparently didn't seem to notice Thomas' presence, so the latter said while approaching the blonde:

“Newt, I-”

Newt interjected as he looked up and gazed at Thomas sternly:

“Bloody hell Tommy, what do you buggin' want? Just go into the bloody city and leave me behind. I'm gonna lose my freakin' mind anyways so just – mpfff”

Thomas feared Newt might pull back as he slightly backed off, not far enough for Newt's lips to be out of reach though. The brunette cupped his face in his hands and felt Newt losing his stiffness, giving in to the kiss. He threw his hands around Thomas' neck and kissed him back with such a ferocity that his lips started hurting – but he didn't care. It was anything but sweet and tender but it was everything Thomas needed. He could practically taste the anger, despair and longing the blonde felt.

As they noticed their air supply running short, they broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Thomas pressed their foreheads together and muttered, still out of breath:

“We will come back for you as fast as we can, I promise. I'm never gonna leave you behind, Newt.”

“Good that.”

Soon after Stiles had told them everything he knew, a nurse came in, asking them to leave since it was past the visiting hours. Scott promised to seek Deaton out for information on the occurrence with Newt at the party, and his dad only left him reluctantly.

Stiles didn't want to rely solely on Deaton's knowledge of supernatural creatures though, so he took his phone in his hands and searched the internet. Since Newt was dead, he assumed the guy with the same appearance had to be a shape-shifter of some sort, but he found nothing.

Wait, didn't he mention foxes?

He typed in “shape-shifting foxes” and stumbled upon a creature that seemed to match the description: Kitsune.

He read that they were able to possess both dead and living bodies, though the latter required taking its target's will. Kitsune were usually benevolent, but there was a kind that was purely mischievous and its only target was to torture and harass its victim.

“Nogitsune,” Stiles muttered to himself.

“Sounds quite scary huh? But I promise, we're going to have so much fun,” a voice that was definitely in the room suddenly stated, though Stiles couldn't see the source.

Stiles enquired with a shaky voice:

“Who the hell is there?”

“You know exactly who I am, dear Stiles. Or should I call you Tommy now?”

Chapter Text

Stiles flinched. The sound of Newt – not Newt, nogitsune, he reminded himself – calling him by the name the real Newt had given him as an act of affection sent a shiver down his spine. It felt outright wrong, mostly because the monster spat out his nickname like it was venom in his mouth. He couldn't help himself as a surge of anger flushed through him, taking a spark of bravery with it.

“Don't you ever dare call me that again,” Stiles hissed, trying to sound as menacing as possible - he couldn't quite conceal the pain behind the words though.

A spiteful laughter erupted from within the shadows. Stiles still couldn't make out the figure mocking him – not until the nogitsune stepped out of the dark and into his view. His lone presence caused Stiles to shudder; everything about him screamed danger. The way his upper-lip curled to form a malicious smirk, his dark-blonde hair sticking out in every direction like he'd been dragged through a bush backwards (but somehow still suiting him perfectly), the glint of excitement in his eyes reminding him of a kid that got to play with its favourite toy made Stiles want to take to his heels and run off – but at the same time he felt a strong and inexplicable pull towards the blonde. There was one word floating on the surface of the mess that was his brain: Newt was smoking hot.

Of course I am attracted to a fucking psychopath , Stiles mentally face-palmed.

The fair-haired boy approached him leisurely, his long legs moving in such a slow way Stiles found it to be almost teasing.

Stiles got out of his bed instinctively and pressed his back against the cold hospital wall, hoping that if he pushed hard enough it would give in and magically reveal an escape route.

The devil in disguise came to a halt only a few feet away from Stiles and observed the latter sternly, the smirk never leaving his lips.

Stiles found his courage again as he demanded, his voice shaking slightly:

“What the hell do you want?”

He regretted his outburst as soon as the blonde surged forward and closed the gap between them. Stiles couldn't react as the nogitsune rested his hands just above the brunette's shoulders, trapping him. He found himself in a fight-or-flight situation, but neither was an option; he associated the first one with bad experiences and the second was beyond question since the fox's body was trapping him like a bird in a cage.

The blonde leaned in and spoke softly, his voice luscious but not more than a breath:

“You.”

Stiles could barely keep his brain from short-circuiting.

Damn you stupid teenage hormones, now isn't the time for this, he thought to himself.

Their bodies weren't touching, but the heat radiating off Newt's was almost unbearable. He couldn't help himself as his body started reacting to the proximity: Stiles felt himself flushing and cursed inwardly; he hated how much power the nogitsune had over him, but Stiles hated even more that the bastard seemed to take every single opportunity to exert it.

“And I always get what I want, Stiles,” the blonde uttered menacingly as he pulled his head back to face the brunette. The amber eyes that had only borne devotion and warmth in Stiles' memories were darkened – the sight was almost as frightening as it was enticing.

Just stop thinking for the love of god , Stiles scolded himself.

Apparently this was the wrong way of approaching this as his eyes flickered to Newt's lips, whose smirk turned into a smug grin, shattering Stiles' hopes of the blonde not having noticed it. He couldn't help but wonder: Would they still taste like they did back in the Berg?

“Ahh Stiles, your inner strife is so tempting, I don't think I can hold it back any longer,” the nogitsune mumbled, his gaze never leaving Stiles'.

All of a sudden and without any kind of warning, he surged forward and connected their lips in a brutal and hungry kiss. Newt's mouth was rough on his own, his teeth biting and bruising. Stiles couldn't think straight – he was drowning in a sea of powerful emotions; disgust, bewilderment, arousal – but only one shut off his rational mind: the overwhelming feeling of familiarity. The nogitsune might not have acted or looked the way Newt did but he sure as hell tasted like him. With his instincts taking over, Stiles angled his head to provide a better access for the blonde, reciprocating the kiss by permitting Newt's tongue the entrance to his mouth.

The brunette suddenly felt an overwhelming wave of power coursing through his veins, dazing his entire being. It felt alien and extraneous, like some sort of venom poisoning and taking control of him from the inside.

He felt Newt pulling away from him and could barely keep himself from whining at the loss of contact.

“We will kill all of them, Stiles. One.by.one,” the blonde breathed, adding something unintelligible Stiles couldn't quite catch; he heard enough to discern that it certainly wasn't English though. There was no time to figure it out since his mind was engulfed in a haze, wrapping him in a grey cloud. It felt like someone had flipped a switch inside his brain, leading to all of his senses being temporarily shut down – even his thinking – except for his visual sense.

He saw Newt exiting the room and apparently he did himself, judging from the fact that the back of his head never disappeared from his sight. Stiles' movements were frantic and rapid, which was the reason why everything he perceived was a blur – everything except for the fair-haired boy a few feet before him. It was like the focus-adjustment on a camera – his focus being solely on Newt whereas everything else was no more than outlines. He spotted a long, thin object in Newt's grip, which he wasn't able to identify due to it being constantly in motion. The movements of the boy's limbs were fast but possessed a steady rhythm – forth, back,forth,back,forth,back – reminding him of the calculated moves of a graceful dancer. It didn't escape Stiles' notice that the usually white and bright halls of the hospital were somehow darkened in a reddish shade. From the corner of his eyes he caught sight of something piled on the floor.

After some time, Stiles felt his sense of hearing returning – wishing it hadn't. Screams and cries echoed through the place and for a moment he thought his eardrums would shatter from the intensity of the sounds.

With the sense of touch coming back, he became aware of the long, thin object in his grip – the same Newt had – and, looking down, Stiles grasped that it was in fact a sword. He perceived a liquid substance running from the tip of the weapon all the way down to his hands, which where completely covered in said liquid, colouring his limbs in dark-red.

His brain kicked in at last.

Nononononononononono

He lifted his gaze in order to avoid passing out from the sight of so much blood and took in the sight of a familiar girl. He was petrified with horror as he spotted Newt pressing a sharp, small object – dagger – against Allison's throat while keeping her enclosed in his arms. Being her warrior-self, she was desperately trying to conceal her fear but she couldn't hide the fact that she was trembling.

“Do it Stiles. Prove yourself and end her pathetic life,” the nogitsune addressed him with a snarl, eyes filled with complete and utter lunacy.

The monster was asking him to kill her. Asking him to kill his friend.

A painful sensation of déjà vu hit him.

His head was spinning. He couldn't kill one of his closest friends, but a tiny voice inside of him urged him on, repeating it like a mantra: Do it. Kill her.

He unconsciously tightened the grip on his sword.

“Please don't,” Allison pleaded, seeming to have noticed Stiles' inner turmoil. Did she think he was capable of killing her?

He had to ask himself: Was he capable of killing her? He did it once, so why shouldn't he be able to do it again?

His train of thoughts was interrupted by a voice from his left. Scott's voice.

“Don't do this, Stiles. This isn't who you are. You-you aren't thinking straight, just lay the weapon down so we can-”

“This is exactly who he is, wolfboy. You just never cared enough to notice what's inside of him. How much power he possesses,” Newt interjected, shaking his head. “Fatal mistake.”

“Show them what you are capable of. Show them your real self. Give them a taste of the chaos you hold inside of you,” he uttered, addressing Stiles again.

“DO IT!”

Suddenly his whole stance seemed to change: shoulders slumped, eyes clearing, face softening – it felt like he was reliving Newt's last moments; the sight evoked painful memories to resurface, causing painful twists in his stomach.

He said the following words, which had haunted Stiles ever since he regained his memories, in a soft, warm voice:

“Please, Tommy. Please.”

That was the last straw.

Blinded by sheer rage and grief, Stiles tightened his grip around the lethal weapon before he moved forward to thrust it deep inside the flesh of Allison's stomach.

The next few minutes happened too fast for his consciousness to catch on. He watched as Allison's weakened body collapsed to the ground with a thump. Newt looked down at the lifeless body, grinning like he had just completed an oeuvre, then turned around to disappear into the darkness.

The sword he had impaled his friend with clattered to the ground and he raised his hands in order to examine them – they were smeared with blood.

And he had a feeling that it wasn't just Allison's blood.

Stiles should have felt something – pain, grief, rage, remorse – but he didn't; nothing at all. Just sheer numbness.

Abruptly, the – leaving Scott's howls of grief aside – stillness of the place was disturbed by an ear-piercing wail that made him cover his ears with his hands.

The scream of a banshee.

Stiles couldn't bear it anymore as he made his way through the hospital, tumbling outside and into the dark night. He had no destination, he solely relied on his feet to carry him somewhere far away from the place – carry him away from what he had done. After a while of running, he found himself inside the woods of Beacon Hills. Barely being able to stand on his own, he leaned against a tree to support his weight and threw up everything in his stomach. He collapsed to the ground and curled himself into a ball.

What had he done?