#hellaqueue

This dinner was probably going to suck. Stiles hadn’t been hearing about anything other than this guy for the past couple days now. “Only days Stiles why are you overreacting” 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 wasn’t actively lying or dodging his dad’s concern were riddled instead with constant praise of this new deputy, resentful was not strong enough a word. 

Mostly because Stiles felt guilty as all hell for the lying and the dodging and the supernatural shenanigans and the firing and he couldn’t 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 he’d hastily thrown on at his dad’s insistence. “Make him feel welcome. He’s welcome to my foot up his ass,” 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.

stilesbetterstilinski

{ hismomchoseit }

Okay, sooooo dabbling in magic? Supposed to be fun. But no, of course magic wasn’t 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 wasn’t exactly Deaton’s fault Stiles was in his current mess, but watch him blame Deaton anyway. Blame him hard. 

There had been a boy... well, a man... in Stiles’ mirror. A man with the same eyes and nose and moles that Stiles had. He even had his mom’s eyes, those same brown eyes he could still remember when he wasn’t dreaming of her coffin lowering into the ground because they stared back at him every day. Even when it wasn’t him looking back. Which, how weird is that?

Stiles had to know who that guy was, the guy with his mom’s eyes and Stiles’ smile, the one he had just before getting him and Scott in a lot of trouble. He hadn’t 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. 

{ 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 “Sourwolf” 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.