{ argxntdefender }
âSo I know you donât like me, and Iâm not exactly your number one fan. But I⌠I wanna ask your help.â

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{ argxntdefender }
âSo I know you donât like me, and Iâm not exactly your number one fan. But I⌠I wanna ask your help.â

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{ jordanthesheriffsdeputy }
This dinner was probably going to suck. Stiles hadnât been hearing about anything other than this guy for the past couple days now. âOnly days Stiles why are you overreactingâ yeah, eff you, stupid little voices in his brain that sound suspiciously like his friends. He barely ever saw his dad. Between the losing his job and getting back his job and the kanima/slash unsolved murders, hell, the massacre at the station a few weeks back. Yeah, Stiles was lucky if he saw his dad in passing, let alone talked with him. And when those few precious moments where Stiles wasnât actively lying or dodging his dadâs concern were riddled instead with constant praise of this new deputy, resentful was not strong enough a word.Â
Mostly because Stiles felt guilty as all hell for the lying and the dodging and the supernatural shenanigans and the firing and he couldnât do anything to fix it. But no way was Stiles gonna admit that. Haha, nope. He was freshly seventeen and had been beaten by a geriatric psycho in a basement for no reason so Stiles was going to resent the fuck outta newbie deputy he dad was all starry-eyed over on principle, okay?
When the doorbell rang, Stiles grumbled and shuffled his way to the door, hating the constricting fabric of his khakis and the stupid white button up heâd hastily thrown on at his dadâs insistence. âMake him feel welcome. Heâs welcome to my foot up his ass,â Stiles muttered as he shook out his arms and rolled his neck before finally opening the door. His mouth dropped open and his eyes widened in surprise.
Aw hell. Thatâs just not playing fair.
Open to Verse
âYeah, so I mightâve tried to punch one of the Doctors. I would suggest not doing that. Those fuckers move a lot faster than youâd think. Getting tied down for a week is not a great experience, either.â
For Your Own Good || stilesbetterstilinski
stilesbetterstilinski
âWhat is this bullshit? Did you seriously like Jackson? Jackass Douchecanoe Whittemore?â Stiles demanded, slamming down a diary simple, untitled writing notebook on the table in from of his twin sister.
The McFly Stilinskis || hismomchoseit
{ hismomchoseit }
Okay, sooooo dabbling in magic? Supposed to be fun. But no, of course magic wasnât wands and owls and yer a wizard, Harry. It was focus, dedication, and time-consuming with little to no reward. Deaton swore Stiles would be able to see more results the more practice he got and the more faith he had in his spark. Well, fuck you, too, Deaton. Faith in his friends and family? Stiles had that in abundance. Faith in himself? Thanks for poking at that old wound.
It wasnât exactly Deatonâs fault Stiles was in his current mess, but watch him blame Deaton anyway. Blame him hard.Â
Oh? His predicament? Walking down Beacon Hills main street at about, three thirty in the afternoon on a Tuesday, in, oh, 1990. A good 5 years before Stiles as even born. Fantastic really. He almost slammed the door to a coffee shop open, hoping the dose of caffeine could calm him down long enough to think about his options. There was another dude, a little older than him but not much, sitting at the counter reading something, but Stiles ignored him and tapped away at the counter, leg jigging against the stool he sat on while he chewed his lip furiously. His best bet was finding Deaton, but would he still be a vet twenty-one years in the past?Â

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{ wonderslittlehare }
There had been a boy... well, a man... in Stilesâ mirror. A man with the same eyes and nose and moles that Stiles had. He even had his momâs eyes, those same brown eyes he could still remember when he wasnât dreaming of her coffin lowering into the ground because they stared back at him every day. Even when it wasnât him looking back. Which, how weird is that?
Stiles had to know who that guy was, the guy with his momâs eyes and Stilesâ smile, the one he had just before getting him and Scott in a lot of trouble. He hadnât smiled like that since his mom died, just weeks ago. So that seemed reason enough to reach, and reach, until his fingers passed through glass and he was tumbling forward into dizzying darkness.Â
Until everything was suddenly too bright, too vivid, and nothing looked real. Or maybe it looked more real. Terrified, but equally awed and curious, Stiles set off, brick road tapping mutely under the rubber soles of his sneakers. Surely that guy was around here somewhere?
Bite Your Tongue || bxrnyours
{Â bxrnyours }
For months he felt it building under his skin. The feeling grew stronger every full moon, but never quite manifested, leaving him sleepless and jittery and sick on the worst nights. Until this month, now, as the moon waxed closer and closer to full, Stiles could feel it pulling and pushing at his bones and blood. Now he stared in the mirror, gasping and sweaty, as blazing blue eyes reflected back at him.
Shaking, sweaty fingers slid over his phone screen, and he hit a single digit. The word âSourwolfâ lit up under his hand and the tinny echo of the ringing made him wince and fall to the ground, trying not to vomit. He failed.Â
Stiles wanted to laugh as the other line picked up and all he could do was retch into the toilet.Â
This is the kind of shit I find hilarious. OMFG, this is the best- says the Latin Major graduate.