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You really have to learn not to trust a fox, it, Stiles, tells Scott, and he means it. It is one of Stile’s more lucid moments, when the Nogitsune lets him rise closer to the surface of his own body, yet Stiles cannot make himself let go of the sword.
Scott’s eyes widen comically as his blood bubbles over his lips. The utter shock on Scott’s face sends a delicious curl of vindictive pleasure through his stomach; the emotion leaves the taste of ash coating Stiles’ tongue.
You really have to learn not to trust a fox, are the words that come out of Stile’s mouth. I tried to tell you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t stop - Stiles is screaming warnings even as the monster places a comforting hand on Scott’s shoulder.
Poor, pitiable Stiles, the Nogitsune sneers - slight bones, fragile skin, years of self-doubt - the weakness just made it all that much easier for the darkness to slip in. All of the tantalizing madness of the past few weeks - the games, the shadows spilling out from the corners - has been ripped away; Stiles knows where he is, now, but it’s no comfort - instead, he’s spiraling further and further down, sinking deeper into the nightmare. This cold clarity leaves nothing for him to grab onto.
Stiles, the Nogitsune chides him almost affectionately, pay attention. This is how you gather strength.
Stiles can’t scream any louder.
Who are we, Stiles?
Chaos, Stiles whispers softly as the darkness slips over his head. We’re chaos. We’re the beginning and the end.
Scott is still trying to speak, to make his words reach Stiles even over the metal sharp in his gut.
(You really have to learn not to trust a fox, he’d warned him)
They’ll fool you, it, he, they, say, and twist the sword deeper.