I'm pretty sure I've got everything I need. Stiles checked his list one more time, just making sure. He had been over it so many times he could recite it in his sleep. The paper was worn thin with how often he had held it and gone over it, over and over again. His gaze moved over to look at his ever silent phone. The only noises it made was when there was a game notification these days and even those were rare.

He missed Scott. It was a classic tale of childhood friends growing apart. Some deity blessed Scott who grew into his own in high school. He chose to try the swimming team instead of lacrosse, at the insistence of his mother, and his asthma improved so much with the consistent exercise. He developed friendships with his swim teammates and, with his literal puppy dog appearance, he made friends easily. Over their freshman year, he ditched on hanging out with Stiles more and spent time with the swim team and their group of friends instead. It was a slow process and Stiles tried his best, but… he wasn't enough in the end. He was still reeling over the death of his mother and Scott was just… not there anymore. With the lack of a social outcast limpet with spastic tendencies attached to him, Scott got marginally more popular until even the great Lydia Martin deigned to give him a scathing look and a makeover. With a surprisingly unironic leather jacket and a pair of well fitting jeans, he was fully assimilated, and when the new girl, who is basically a Disney princess, came into town, Scott just smiled his crooked smile and she had dimpled back and the rest was history. Scott stopped texting him as much and then… not at all. It had been 4 months and 6 days since his last text and that had just been Scott sending a damn alien emoji and nothing else.

Stiles was man enough to admit he was hurt. He stood up to a bully for Scott when he was 5 and they'd been best friends ever since. Scott was a solid presence at his side during the loss of his mother. They had grown up together. He was Stiles' only friend until... Well. Until now.

So Stiles had had a lot of free time on his hands for the last year. He'd finally gathered his nerve and went through his mother's boxes in the attic. She had been an occult researcher, an extraordinary doctor and researcher in her field. Most of the occult community kept in touch with her research partner and neighbor, Ms. Alice Michaels, after her passing. The young woman held Stiles at the funeral when Noah Stilinski broke down at the graveside. Alice was the one to slap Noah silly when she realized he wasn't going to climb out of the bottle himself. She was the one who Stiles begged when he wanted to be told about all the different religions and what they meant as bedtime stories. She was the one to pick up the pieces of the broken Stilinskis and get them back on track. To pick up Stiles from therapy. To get him sorted with his ADHD. She had put her life on hold to help out her pseudo-family for the last 10 years and she was a second mother to him and that was why he felt so guilty to even be considering doing this.

But she wasn't his mother. She had her own life. Even whilst helping, she grew busier with research grants as Stiles got older and got offered a full-time job as a professor at one of the big colleges up north. The Stilinski men had been torn between wanting to beg for her to stay and letting her flourish. She is 8 years younger than Claudia Stilinski and had followed her mentor to Beacon Hills when Claudia had fallen in love with the small town boy in the class she was TA for in her final year of studying for her doctorate. She deserved a chance to go and enrich the minds of other people and be paid for it, not stuck in a small town out of familial guilt.

So the Stilinski men gave their well wishes and off she went, both reluctant and so happy to be given the chance. Stiles, at 17 years old now, felt like he was losing his mother again, but at least this time she was only a phone call away.

But… but still, he was alone. His father wasn't a drinker anymore (oh, the blow up Alice reaped on Noah had epic and lasting effect), but he worked. A lot. Being the Sheriff meant long hours and not a whole lot of time for family. So, Stiles being almost an adult, with no friends, finishing high school early (because what's the point in staying for Scott when he wasn't needed or remembered), with both of his motherly figures out of his life, felt completely and utterly abandoned.

Hence the pentagram on the floor.

Oh god, please don't let me screw this up. He begged silently to every god, goddess, patron and being he could think of, ashe put the final touches on the summoning circle and took a steadying breath before he started reciting the ridiculous Latin he had memorised.

About half way through he realized all the lights in the room were out and he was having trouble breathing, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop the words if he tried. He felt an itching in his palms and a burning in his chest, but he couldn't look away from the circle. It started to glow eerily and the markings had smoke curling from them. Oh god, what am I doing what am I doing what am I- BOOM. Stiles was thrown backwards, his back crashing soundly with the wall at his back. He shook his head to clear his foggy brain, tender from where it smacked the solid wall. Blinking he looked up to see… well… beauty. He looked up at the man (very definitely a very manly-oh god) smirking down at him, before he saw a blurry shift. Red skin and a tail snaking round the man's leg were crystal clear, but the image faded as quickly as it came, leaving the man behind.

Stiles gulped, wavering between wanting to jump up and woop in joy that he'd done it and curling into a ball in the corner because oh god he had done it! The man-being-demon in front of him who was still smirking at him, crossed his arms across his muscled chest (oh my god, really?!), stretching his Henley slightly across biceps and cocking his hip, the epitome of confidence even as he was still trapped in the circle.

"Hello Mieczyslaw, you rang?" the man-being-demon drawled, his eyes flashing red, his gaze never wavering from Stiles's form still slumped at the bottom of the wall.

"Oh god," Stiles whimpered.

"Not quite," Red eyes chuckled, flashing a fanged smile.

Stiles was very definitely screwed.