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bamboozledbird · 2 months ago

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IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 5 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, ofc, omc Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 10.2k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), depictions of a panic attack, animal death Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter.

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: You start to unravel some of the secrets hidden in Beacon Hill's other world, and Stiles manages to worm his way into discovering some of your own.

A/N: this took a minute, so i hope the length makes up for it! comments and reblogs are love, and i am tinkerbell. also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

Tag list: @eaterof-concrete

Your anger fizzled with every mile you drove. By the time you finished your third loop around the Preserve, it was just a light simmer of irritation. The void was quickly filled with a different emotion: curiosity. There was a little dread in there too, perhaps also a touch of nausea, but the concoction was still potent enough to distract you from your...whatever that was with Lydia. Now that you were alone, trees blurring together in a ribbon of yellowing-green through your dash, all you could think about was the fire Derek’s family died in. Well, that, and another fire that was always lurking somewhere in your mind, hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the chance to jump out and strangle your heart.

Beacon Hills was a small town. A town where, until very recently, bad things hardly ever happened. What were the chances of two houses going up in flames four years apart? Of two houses burning down to the foundation in the blink of an eye? Of two homes becoming charred rubble and chilling memorials to the lives lost inside? As far as you knew, they were the only unnatural fires that’d occurred in Beacon Hills in the last century.

It could all be a coincidence, of course. Nothing. Just a delusional, grief-driven conspiracy. It would be best if you accepted that now before you fell too far down this rabbit hole. It’d taken you two years to finally realize that the police were never going to figure out what really happened to your mom, and those two years had been filled with a series of devastating misdirections, hundreds of dashed hopes and unanswered prayers to a god you no longer believed in. You knew better than this. You did. You knew better than to hope.

But…maybe. Maybe there was something there. If there was an elaborate plot afoot, you knew just the right conspiracy nut to turn to.

The last time you believed in magic, you were six. You had run the entire mile-and-a-half to Maggie’s dad’s store, hands bloody and cupped into a small nest. You’d almost choked on your quiet, congested whimpers, but after a few minutes of blubbering, you’d finally managed to spit out a few words, “You know how to fix him, right? You know everything.” There had to be a spell, you’d thought, with all the wisdom of a first-grade education. There had to be some magic flower or special potion that could make everything better.

You hadn’t noticed the look on Maggie’s face when you finally opened your fingers, but Maggie had to have been panicking once she saw exactly what needed to be fixed—cradled in your palms, was a tiny, twitching field mouse you’d found on your way home from school. His little chest had heaved so slowly as he laid limply in your hands, as if he’d already accepted his fate. You’d been so young then, too young to realize that Maggie was only nineteen and faked her confidence more often than she felt it. Nineteen had seemed so old at six, and now it was only three years away.

Maggie had known, of course, that the poor little guy probably wouldn’t live long enough to see nightfall, but she’d made the fatal mistake of looking into your big wet eyes: still so full of hope and belief in the impossible. Instead of telling you the truth, she’d just said, “I got this," and took the mouse to the backroom—where all the magic happened. You never ended up seeing the mouse again. You realized now that probably meant he died, but you appreciated Maggie letting you live in the land of make-believe for just a little while longer.

But that was ten years ago. Today, you knew that Mags was only mortal and Willowbark couldn’t actually heal fatal rodent wounds—but you were still hoping, against all hopes, that Maggie actually had the answers this time.

“Mags?” your brow crinkled as you searched for Maggie and her wild curls. Mags often got lost in the midst of all the chaos, just a small blip in a crowded collection of odd, Victorian-esque relics. You could usually spot at least a glimpse of whatever loud color Maggie was sporting that day. The yellows and pinks were always stark against the dingy backdrop, but today the only colors you could see from the front door were varying shades of sage, oxblood, and charcoal. “Maggie?”

A muffled cry sounded from the storeroom, “Back here.”

The door to the backroom was slightly ajar, and the purple lighting from the mini-greenhouse inside spilled through the crack. It cast a mesmerizing strip of dayglow lavender over the dangly earrings and mood rings for sale next to the register. “Bring me the shears, will you? The pink ones by Giz.”

You dropped your backpack behind the glass counter and drifted towards the sounds of Gizmo’s trumpeting snores. The stretch for the pruning scissors was a bit precarious; the little prince was batting his paws at something in the depths of dreamland and had no presence of mind for your fragile skin. You snagged the shears with minimal carnage and ran your finger along the cool edge, staring at the gleaming surface, “You’re into all local history, right? Not just the made-up stuff?”

Maggie took the shears from your lax hands and squatted next to the potted yew tree on the floor. It was just starting to blossom, red berries dotted sparsely around the spiky leaves—ripe for whatever ridiculous offering Maggie had planned. Maggie blew a ringlet out of her face and fixed you with a stern frown, “My ancestors were witches, and Dragons absolutely did exist. Just look at ‘dinosaur’ fossils from the—”

“Do you know anything about the fire the Hale family died in?” you looked down at your hands so that you didn’t have to see Maggie’s reaction.

You traced circles around a rosy stain on Maggie’s workbench, likely from ground flower petals or dripping pomegranate seeds, shoulders hunching towards your ears as you continued, “I mean, you’re around the same age as the older sister, right?” Laura. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name, and the hypocrisy was stifling. You hated when people tiptoed around death, when they used pretty euphemisms like that could make what actually happened any less brutal. Less evil. Less unfair. But there was no softening grief. Death. Murder. There was no candy coat sweet enough to cloak the taste of rotting—and yet, you still couldn’t say her name.

Maggie went still briefly and then continued clipping branches, ignoring or not noticing the couple of leaves stuck to her fuzzy sweater. “Why?”

You gritted your teeth and stared a burl in the wood underneath your fingers, “Why do you think?”

Sighing, Maggie spread her clippings across the maple worktop and picked at a few yellowing leaves, “Where is this coming from, babe? I mean, that was a long time ago. I’m almost thirty, you know—ancient by most standards.”

You didn’t smile. Couldn’t. “Do you know anything or not?”

“No,” Maggie sounded genuine, but she kept her eyes on the red stains underneath her fingernails, “nothing more than what was on the news.”

The fact that Maggie didn’t make a quip or a stupid pun was even more telling than her refusal to look in your direction. You folded your arms over your chest and leaned your hip against the doorframe, “Sure.”

“Are you okay, babe?” Maggie wiped the berry residue off on her skirt, and the long hem swished around her ankles as she crept towards you. Her hand was cautious when she placed it on your rigid shoulder, “You aren’t skipping your meds again, are—”

Your eyes flashed as you shook off Maggie’s light touch with a jerk of your shoulder, “Is it possible for me to have a single feeling without everyone jumping down my throat about my meds.”

“I just worry,” Maggie said softly, and she reached for you again, waiting for you to pull away. She tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear when you didn’t. Your limbs were still stiff, and your face was still stony, but you let Maggie grab your hand. It was slightly sweaty, probably from all the indoor-gardening, but there was some comfort in the circles she smoothed over your knuckles. “You know I’m a worrier. Comes with the conspiracy theorist in me.”

You looked down at your feet and dug your toes into the concrete floor, “And my mom’s dying wish—I know.”

A bit of hurt quivered in the corners of Maggie’s reassuring smile, even though she tried her best to hide it, “That’s not the reason I do it.”

Your entire frame slumped with guilt, “I know.” And you did; you did know. You made Maggie drive you to the library every weekend before you got your license, and in return Maggie stole about a dozen of your sweaters once she realized you were finally the same size—Mags wasn’t just your mom’s weird friend from the neighborhood; she was family. She taught you how to make pie crust and scones, and she always read ‘happily ever after’ in the lines of your palms when you needed something to smile about. Maggie did a million little things for you without any appreciation, and you tried to remember every single one as you sat on the floor in front of the ‘Local Culture’ shelf.

Your nose scrunched as you looked over the titles on the spines, searching for anything that sounded even remotely real. Maggie knelt next to you, patch-work skirt billowing around her knees, and watched your fingers drum against the floor.

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” Maggie bumped your shoulder with her own, and you grunted a little response.

“Nothing you can help me with.” Evidently, you thought with only a bit of bitterness.

Maggie didn’t say anything for a long time. You almost forgot she was there, and then her bracelets clacked together as she shifted. “Here,” Maggie pulled a thick journal out of the depths of her baggy cardigan and held it out with a complicated expression on her face—something halfway between a frown and a smile, “I think you’ll find this one particularly interesting.”

You looked down at the title and rubbed your thumb over the engraved font, “‘A History and Detailed Account of Beacon Hills Bloodlines’?”

Maggie nodded and shoved her hands into her skirt pockets, “Goes back all the way to the beginning—not literally, obviously. I don’t think they wanted to get into the whole ‘God vs. Big Bang’ debate, but it dates back to when the town was founded.”

“That’s…interesting, I guess,” you flipped through the pages and bit down on your tongue to squash the sneer curling across your lips. It was a nice gesture. You knew that—but what else were you supposed to do when the ‘History’ and ‘Detailed Account’ fell open to an artistic diagram of 'local werewolf packs’ genealogy lines. You were a little interested to see if the names were entirely fictional, or if the journal was an accurate record of Beacon Hill’s very own Werewolf Trials. Probably the first, you’d remember learning about extra hairy men and women being burned at the stake in social studies.

Maggie huffed out a little laugh and pushed her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “I know you won’t believe everything in there, but who knows,” she shrugged and held out a hand for you to grab onto, “maybe you’ll finally be enlightened.”

You took her hand and hummed, “While you’re feeling so generous and bad for me ‘cause I’m functionally an orphan, could I get some more of that wolfsbane gunk?” You batted your lashes over the edge of the leather cover and grinned your most adorable smile—the one that dusted off a rare view of your dimples, “It can be my birthday present.”

It was an obvious ploy, but Maggie just laughed and poked one of your dimples, “Your birthday is months away.”

You picked up the speed of your blinking, approaching butterfly-wing territory, and rocked onto your tiptoes, “An early birthday present is still a birthday present.”

Mags watched you through narrowed eyes for a moment, “You don’t even believe in werewolves.”

You shrugged and smirked, “It works on humans too.”

“Please, please don’t make me an accessory to murder.” Maggie gripped your shoulders and shook you a little, fighting a smile, “I would not fare well in prison. They limit your internet privileges there—no Wi-Fi, babe. No Wi-Fi. I would be completely alone with my thoughts.”

“The horror,” your eyes glittered with your grin, and for a sweet moment you forgot about the journal in your hands and all the questions it wouldn’t answer. “It’s not for me,” you admitted, grimacing as Maggie’s lips puckered. The pursing of her lips, the hollowing of her cheeks—that always came before a very long and arduous inquisition. Maggie could be relentless when she wanted to be.

“And whom would you be giving such a precious gift to?” The thickness of her brows only magnified the suspicion in Maggie’s tapered expression, “A gift you called—what was it? ‘Useless’ and ‘stupid’ less than 24-hours ago?”

“Just because I think it’s stupid, doesn’t mean it’s a bad gift for someone else. I thought the Sonic Chia Pet I gave you was stupid, and you loved it.” You knew you won when Maggie started walking away from you towards the storeroom. You still had no idea how Curio Killed the Cat stayed in business when Maggie handed out inventory like candy, but presently its troubling business model was a blessing in disguise.

“Don’t disparage him,” Maggie crooned over her shoulder, “it’s bad luck.”

“If everything is sacred, nothing is,” you sniped, doing your best Vulcan impression.

Maggie smiled brightly as she hopped over the counter, sticking out her tongue, “I don’t think everything is sacred—just all the things I like.”

Speaking of things Maggie liked—you tucked your first gift under your armpit and held out your hands, palms cupped together. Your mouth curved into a cheesy grin as you said, “Trick-or-Treat.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, but her puckish spark dwindled when she looked at the vile of wolfsbane. It was balanced between her thumb and forefinger, glass reflecting the light, and you felt a bit like you were accepting the One Ring and a quest you weren't prepared for. “Be careful, okay?” Maggie hesitated before dropping the vile into your waiting hands, “I know you love Buffy, but resurrection isn’t so easy off-screen.”

You were a little startled by the concern wrinkling the corners of Maggie’s eyes. She looked almost more worried now than she did when you asked her about the Hale fire. “Like I said,” you carefully eased the wolfsbane into your corduroy skirt, “it’s not for me.”

Maggie's eyes combed over your face, searching for something, and then she sighed, “Just…don’t let anyone drag you into something stupid. I don’t care how cute he is; no boy is worth the risk of ruining your gorgeous face. It’s your money-maker, babe.”

There was a lot to unpack in those three sentences; you didn’t even know where to begin. There was, of course, the implication that you were going to join some kind of Scooby-Doo gang that dealt wolfsbane on the side. While the thought of going ghost hunting with a pair of boys who couldn’t make it to class without tripping over their feet was, in fact, asinine…that wasn’t the part twisting stubborn knots around your ear canal.

Your face was dragged down by a broody pout, “For your information, I’m not giving it to Stiles; it’s actually for a guy who isn’t the leading cause of pulmonary embolisms in Beacon County—and I don’t think either of them are cute.”

That wasn’t strictly true. You did think that Scott was cute, just like you thought Gizmo was cute when he pleaded for treats. You could see the appeal of Scott McCall, why Allison liked him, but you hadn’t thought someone was cute like that in a very long time. A person generally had to actually look at people to think they were cute, and you hadn’t looked beyond forcing one foot in front of the other and your nubby nails in years.

And as far as Stiles went…honestly, you hadn’t really considered the concept of Stiles as an actual person until Maggie had to go and imply it. You supposed, now that you were thinking about it, he had an objectively nice face: big eyes, button nose, nice jaw—but when you saw him in person, it was almost always covered with an infuriating smirk or making obnoxious sounds. You usually just wanted to shove it away from you. Sometimes, when Stiles was being particularly difficult, you even thought about flicking him right in his long-lashed, honeycomb eyes. You wondered if the Sheriff would arrest you if you—

That’s right, your eyes rounded with the thought, Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

The recollection rang through every single one of your thoughts and echoed along the caverns of your skull, sparing you from ruminating on something far, far scarier. You were much more comfortable with deduction.

Your brow furrowed as you pushed yourself over the counter to grab your backpack—sure that Maggie would misinterpret your impromptu exit, but too lost in through to really care—Stiles is the Sheriff's son. You forgot that sometimes. They were so different, after all, and you were certain that Stiles had broken the law at least a few times in his life, but he was. Stiles was the Sheriff's son, and he probably knew things that he shouldn’t. Things that were only kept in confidential files. Fortunately, you didn’t need to think that someone was cute to use them for information.

“Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,” Maggie chirped. She was fiddling with her branches in the back again, picking the berries and dropping them into a little stone bowl.

You scowled at the berries like it was their fault you were in this predicament, “Gertrude sucks.

“And yet she was correct,” Maggie tossed a berry at your forehead, and it landed dead-center on the tip of your nose, dripping a small trail of crimson juice onto your cupid’s bow. Maggie laughed until a burst of snorts consumed her giggles, and you scowled deeper as you wiped your nose clean with your sleeve.

“And yet, she’s the prime example of doing something stupid for a boy.” You made a point of flipping Maggie off before trudging towards the door.

You pushed the exit open with your shoulder—rushing to get home to your notebook and pens. Ideas had a way of slipping away from you; you liked to make them real. Tangible. Inked lines and loops that couldn’t be erased.

Maggie cupped your cheeks before you could slither away to your car, startling you out of your head. “Don’t be Gertrude. Don’t be stupid,” Maggie said, incredibly solemn, but the twinkle of mischief in her eye ruined the 'Yoda effect'.

You pursed your lips as your eyes flitted towards the side, “I’ll do my best to not marry my dead husband’s brother-killer.” The door swung shut behind you, cutting off the trill of Maggie’s laughter.

You spent the rest of the night on your bed, sitting cross-legged with your notebook spread open across your lap. You tapped your pen against your knee and watched the blades on your ceiling fan spin into a fuzzy Saturn ring until your eyes watered. You were trying, and failing, to think of a way to ask Stiles for help without him making a big deal about it—contemplating if it was truly worth all the aggravation.

Sighing, you sketched random swirling lines in purple ink. They interconnected in a pretty pattern that eventually took the shape of the maze on your pendant. There was no way out of the labyrinth without breaking down a wall; it was hopeless, a path that never ended. People who entered the maze would be doomed to walk in circles until they littered the ground with their decomposing skeletons—and oh how you envied them.

Stiles would never let it go; you were pretty damn sure of that. He would poke, and prod, and stick his upturned nose into your business until he'd thoroughly invaded your privacy and got all the answers to his meddlesome questions. He could never ju—

The sound of paper tearing dragged you out of your pitiful brooding, and you sighed. Your pen had ripped through the center of the maze. You held the page up to the light, and it shone through the hole, blinding you momentarily.

There was no escaping the labyrinth—there was only pushing straight though.

You spent a lot of your time observing people lately. It wasn’t as creepy as it sounded, at least you hoped it wasn’t as creepy as it sounded. It was just…ever since Stiles dragged you back into the present—kicking, screaming, and bitching the entire way—you had been…overwhelmed by how alive everything was. It felt like so much had happened in the last four years. Everyone had gone on living while you’d hidden away in your mind and rotted in your room.

You couldn’t put a name to the strange feeling twisting in your chest. You were angry, of course, so angry that people had the audacity to just… live, like there wasn’t a gigantic, bleeding void in the world that had yet to scar over—that might never truly close—but there was something else mixed in with the bitterness, something sweeter.

There was a certain kind of beauty, you mused, in the way they enjoyed such silly things. There was just something about the way they found joy in sparkly nail polish, and their favorite song, and a boy looking in their general direction that had you choking on a foreign warmth. Everyone had something, and it was beautiful to see people grow their worlds around the ugliness while you weren't so consumed with shrinking yours.

Leaning back against your locker, you watched two freshmen girls walk side-by-side until a flock of tropical-scented, lip-gloss-coated sophomore girls passed them. The taller of the two trailed after them, linking arms with a blonde in the back of the pack. The shorter one watched their hair swish over their shoulders until they walked around the corner, absently tugging at a beaded bracelet on her wrist the entire time.

In three weeks, she’d start eating lunch alone in the library, hiding in the dark book closet with outdated textbooks as her only companions. In five, they wouldn’t speak unless they had to. You gave the girl a weak smile when she accidentally made eye-contact. Sorry, babe, I read your future. You didn’t even need to see the girl’s palm.

You pushed yourself off of your locker and shook your head a little, regrouping your thoughts as you slid into your seat next to Stiles. He looked tired. He was slumped over his desk, chin propped on his folded arms, and his eyelids hung heavily over the exhaustion coating his directionless gaze. He barely acknowledged your presence, grunting a little and nudging your foot with his.

You hid your smile behind your English binder and turned in your seat to face him. “Hey,” you paused, bundling the meager bits and pieces of courage in your chest, and then said, “your perpetual nosiness—that extends to your dad too, right?”

Stiles’s head lulled to the side, cheek pressed against his folded arms, evidently too drained to sit-up. He trailed his squinted gaze over your face, eyes hooded and unblinking, “Why?”

“No reason.” You drummed your pencil against your desk and watched the long red arrow tick forward on the clock above the whiteboard. Stiles watched you fidget with a little sleepy smirk eased into the corners of his mouth, patient and still for the first time since you’d met. It was a shame you couldn’t revel in it.

You lost the stalemate after your desperation became too thick to swallow, “I need to see a case file. There’s like…nothing on the internet or in Maggie’s local history sagas.”

That got his attention. Stiles leaned forward, glimmering with intrigue and ill-intent, and said, “Which case?”

“None of your business,” you retorted reflexively. Stiles gave you an amused look and cupped his cheek in his palm, waiting for the inevitable apology. You withered against your chair and muttered, “Does it matter?”

He snorted and lifted a shoulder, “I have a right to know what I’m potentially putting my life on the line for; breaking and entering is a very serious crime, y’know.”

You huffed and glared a little at your clasped hands, “Somehow I know you’ve done worse.”

Stiles didn’t deny it. He just grinned proudly and scooted closer to you, “Seriously, what’s so important you’re willing to steal something from the police?”

“Not steal,” you corrected, a bit too petulantly for your liking, “just…borrow indefinitely.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles pursed his lips and almost went cross-eyed scrutinizing your face, “so what’s so important you’re willing to ‘borrow’ classified information from the police ‘indefinitely’?”

You paused, not entirely sure how to answer his question without spilling over the edges and ruining everything. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, bowing your head a little. You picked at a hangnail until it was tender and inflamed, “Just a hunch, really. It’s probably nothing.”

Stiles tapped his fingers against his desk, fast and furious, and let out a dramatic puff of air, “I could help you if you’d, y’know, tell me literally one single thing about it.”

“I don’t need your help,” you scoffed, feet sliding out in front of you as you sunk into your chair.

He cocked his head and hummed, looking far too smug for 7:45 in the morning, “Besides the whole ‘stealing my dad’s keycard and making it actually possible for you to read it’ thing, right?”

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you mumbled, stalling the inevitable. It felt a little too much like losing to admit that you needed him—even though…you definitely needed him. It was a rather unfortunate fact you were fruitlessly still trying to deny.

Stiles rolled his eyes, neck too, and grabbed his backpack from the floor, “Forgive me for having a hobby.”

He opened his backpack, and you imagined, just for a moment, the zipper latching onto his mouth like a singularly-tentacled alien. It would solve all your problems; you could zip and unzip him whenever you wanted. If only. Sighing, you dropped your head against your knuckles, “Which is…irritating me?”

“Putting the pieces together,” Stiles dropped his coffee-warped, dogeared copy of Metamorphosis onto his desk and flipped to the assigned chapter. His eyes flicked from right to left, pace ridiculously fast, as he scanned through the pages. If it were anyone else, you would’ve assumed it was all for show. “I was a jigsaw kid,” he murmured, nose still stuck in his book.

Your lip stung as you gnawed on the cracking center, “If I tell you what I’m looking for, you’ll help me?”

“That,” Stiles punctuated his statement with a dramatic page flip, “and I might need a tiny favor from you.” He held his pointer finger and thumb together, almost touching, and flashed a toothy smile over the bent cover of his book, “Just an itty-bitty, very small, totally not a big deal favor.”

Your face turned thoroughly sour, “Oh god.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, like he didn’t just intentionally plant the seeds of dead bodies and false alibis in your mind two seconds ago, and huffed, “I just want to check on Lydia, okay? I think I’ll have a better chance of getting in through the front door with you.”

Your smirk flattened, “Why?”

His mouth hung open for a second, and then he shook his head firmly, peering at you through pinched lids, “You first.”

You fixed your gaze on your shoes, shifting your foot from left to the right, watching the fluorescent lights bounce off of the burgundy leather. The extra shine only made the scuffs on the toes more pronounced. “I want to look into the Hale fire, okay?” Your voice got trapped in your throat, so your tone wasn’t as biting as you wanted it to be, “Happy?”

You would’ve been content to keep staring at your boots until class ended, but your attention snapped back to Stiles when he inhaled sharply. He looked baffled, and maybe even a little green in the face, and you were starting to feel a little queasy yourself—nerves tended to turn your stomach upside-down and inside-out all in the same excruciatingly slow flip. His mouth was already ajar, but it took him several red-hand ticks to finally speak, “Why?”

“Nuh uh,” you crossed your arms and sat upright, rolling your shoulders back, “you go now.”

Stiles was still looking at you with an odd expression on his face, a little too distracted to be difficult. He answered you without any inflection in his voice, “She didn’t show up for homeroom.”

Your intestines unspun with your faint inhale and then immediately dropped to the floor along with your heart as you let out a weak, trembling exhale, “...and?”

Stiles recovered from his momentary lapse in vexation and leaned onto his forearms, "And it’s your turn again.”

You wished you had a simple answer for him, and, even more so, you wished you were a better liar. “There’s kinda no way to answer that without trauma dumping all over you,” you mumbled, intensively examining the fine ridges in your nails.

“I can handle a little trauma.” Stiles rapped his knuckles against the top of his head and smiled a little, “I’ve got nothin’ but space up here.”

People always said that—that they’d be there for you no matter what, that they could handle anything—and then they got a real good look at the ugly of it all, at the dirty hair and rotting kitchen, at the prolonged silences and self-absorbed isolation. People usually took off running pretty quickly after that. At least, Lydia had.

“There haven’t been that many residential fire fatalities here. Just two cases, actually.” You chewed on your thumbnail and shrugged, “I know they said the Hale fire was an accident, but…maybe there’s a connection.” You swallowed, and your boot squeaked against the floor when you kicked at the ground, “Or maybe I’m just a dumbass with too much spare time.”

Stiles stared at you, and you could see the exact moment he connected the pieces. You were expecting the usual nauseating sympathy, the well-intentioned kindness that always flirted with the edge of pity, oftentimes landing smack-dab in the middle of it—but there wasn’t a drip of pity in his eyes. They were filled with grief; for you or for someone else, you didn’t know. Maybe it didn’t matter. More importantly, perhaps, his eyes were shining with…relief, pure and simple relief that nothing else needed to be said.

“I’ll get you into the file room,” Stiles said, low and soft in his throat, and he didn’t look away from you until Scott slid in-between your desks. They did a complicated series of high-fives and hand-shakes with a few ‘knucks’ thrown in here and there for good measure.

Before Scott sat down behind Stiles, he smiled in your direction. You looked past him, assuming Allison was behind you, and watched a red-breasted robin flit around a tree through the window. You saw Scott’s hand move in your peripheral vision, and when you tore your eyes away from the streak of scarlet feathers and blue sky, your lips tipped into a timid smile. Scott was waving at you; he was smiling at you. You didn’t know when your world went from no friends to two, but it felt oddly…normal. Smiling back at Scott, dodging Stiles’s kicks at your feet, trying not to laugh at their goofy faces. It felt like it was part of your routine, exactly the same as organizing your pens and pencils on top of your desk at the start of class, and just like that: normal twisted into terrifying.

You chewed on the end of your pen when you felt Stiles’s gaze on the side of your face, “So…why do you want to see Lydia—besides your typical stalker behavior, obviously.”

“You’re gonna feel like such an asshole,” Stiles grinned a little and nudged your toes, but there was something strange tucked in the corners of his mouth, something a bit grim, a bit afraid. Whatever it was, his cheeks didn’t dimple with his smile, and you gnawed on your lip once you realized that you not only noticed their absence but you missed them.

You peeked at him from under your lashes and frowned when you saw that the crinkles at the corners of his eyes were gone too. Stiles’s grin eroded away to little more than a flat line once he started speaking again, “Jackson was attacked by…something last night—they’re saying mountain lion, but you and I both know that’s bullshit—anyway, she was pretty freaked out when my dad got there.”

You stiffened, spinal column drawing into a taut line from the crown of your skull to your tailbone, and your blood went cold. You already knew Lydia hadn't shown up for school today. You always knew—you felt Lydia’s absence just as fiercely as her presence. The air was just different somehow. You didn’t even have to look for her anymore; an innate rabbit-sense always reared its head when Lydia was too far away…when she was too close. Your instincts couldn’t agree on anything. They couldn’t decide if Lydia was a rabbit or a fox, and it was exhausting—but at the moment all you wanted, all you needed, was to make sure that Lydia hadn’t been torn apart by a monster with sharp claws and serrated teeth.

“And she isn’t here,” you finally said, barely above a whisper.

“And she isn’t here,” Stiles echoed, just as quiet.

“Okay,” your head bobbed with a decisive nod, knees moving before your mind had the chance to scold them, “let’s go.”

Stiles’s jaw unhinged alarmingly fast and comically wide, “Wha—now?”

You pushed everything on your desk into your backpack with a broad sweep of your arm and jerked your head towards the door, “Come on, before class starts.”

Stiles blinked at you for a few moments and then floundered for his things when you started walking out of the room without him. He stumbled into a desk in his rapid, ever-so clumsy efforts to catch up with you and twisted around to salute Scott’s empty chair. Apparently, neither of you had noticed his exit. It seemed it was a perfect morning for ditching class, but you didn’t dwell on the consequences for long. Your focus was single-minded and unwavering, and Stiles had to jog to keep up with your stalwart stride.

“Since when are you so helpful,” he muttered, slightly out of breath.

“I told you,” you gave him a wry smile and shoved the exit door open with your back, holding it for Stiles until he was halfway through the frame—and then you promptly stepped out of the way and watched the door swing shut on his backpack. Your lips twitched with a grin, “I’m a nice girl.”

Stiles yelped a little and looked over his shoulder, ensuring all his limbs were intact before yanking on his straps. His backpack smacked into his shoulders, and the heavy textbooks inside slammed together with a satisfying thump. You snickered and dodged his attempts to kick the back of your knees.

Glowering, Stiles switched tactics and tried to step on your nimble feet. Tragically for him, all the fire in his indignation was lost to his plush pout, “Since when?”

You rolled your eyes and waited next to his jeep, anxiously tracing little swirls in the dirt caked onto the passenger door, “Since I met you.”

You missed the look on Stiles’s face, but that was for the best. His honeyed smile would’ve changed your mind, and you had an ex-best friend to attend to.

****************************

The jeep was quiet for the first few minutes of the drive—at least, it was as quiet as a decrepit clunker could be. There were various clangs and squeals in-between the engine’s low rumble, and a soft indie song filled the silences in-between, but the air felt still. Stiles was intently focused on the road ahead, thumbs drumming against the steering wheel to a beat of his own making, while you picked at your cuticles, cycling between anxiety and denial. It was a subliminal game of chicken that Stiles eventually lost.

After a few false starts, Stiles blurted out, “You ever gonna tell me what happened?”

You stared straight ahead, through the bug-splattered windshield and down the winding street, “Nope.”

“Fine. That’s fine.” Stiles flexed his fingers against the steering wheel, straightening them to their impressive full-length, and then wrapped them around the wheel again. His grip was as tight as the grit of his teeth, “I don’t even want to know anyway.” You lulled your head to the side to smirk at him, but you kept your mouth thoroughly closed. Stiles’s gaze flicked in your direction briefly, and then he directed his eye roll towards the road, “I don’t. Keep your boring secret.”

You settled further into the passenger seat and propped your feet on the dash, grin warm with satisfaction, “I will.”

The beat of Stiles’s thumbs sped up, thundering against ‘9’ and ‘3’ while you hummed along to the trickle of piano and acoustic guitar strumming through the cracked speakers. The time on the dash display flickered from 8:15 to 8:16, and Stiles let out a long, drawn-out groan, “Will you just tell me! It’s killing me. Seriously, I’m going to credit you in my epitaph. ‘Here lies Stiles Stilinski: Another Victim of Gaslighting, Gatekeeping, and Girlbossing.’”

“They say you always remember your first,” you sighed dreamily, battering your butterfly lashes. The mole on the hinge of his jaw jumped with a harsh swallow, and you grinned.

Stiles snorted and then immediately grimaced like he was irritated with his mouth for having the audacity to laugh in the midst of his despair. “Good to know I’m just part of a pattern.”

“I don’t know about that,” you hummed, resting your temple against the window. The morning sun warmed your skin and washed your face with a glimmer of gold that glittered with the devilry in your eyes. You smirked at Stiles and poked the mole just below his earlobe, “I have yet to meet anyone as homicidally inspiring as you.”

He pulled a face to hide his smile as the jeep puttered to a stop against the curb, and you looked over his shoulder, blinking slowly. You hadn’t realized you were so close to Lydia’s house until you were parked in front of it.

The colonial estate loomed largely through the window. The long white pillars stood oppressively alongside the double entrance, and the meticulously manicured lawn screamed ‘keep off’ louder than any sign or barbed-wire fence. Lydia’s house had always been more like a monument than a home: an art installation, an antique, something to be admired not loved.

Tilting your head, you squinted at the familiar windows and counted along the second floor until you found Lydia’s room. The heavy purple curtains were drawn closed, and you were a little surprised that Lydia hadn’t redecorated in the last couple years. It was probably different on the inside; sixteen was a little old for dollhouses and princess crowns.

Growing up, Lydia’s room was stocked with every Barbie accessory on the market, and yet you always played Barbies at your house. Every single time. When her dad was home, Lydia’s house had teetered between too quiet and too loud. A constant vague unease hung heavily in the air, even with the volume on her CD player turned all the way up. No boy band could drown out all the screaming and icy silences, but you'd tried. Oh how you'd tried. It happened so often, you’d eventually gotten used to the noise, but you could tell it’d bothered Lydia, no matter how unbothered she’d tried to seem.

In comparison, your house was the Dreamhouse. It was so warm before it became empty. Your mom always had something baking in the oven, and Lydia had never looked more at home than when she was tucked on your window seat, plate of brownies by her side, with your mom’s gentle hands braiding her hair out of her face. You hadn’t ever minded sharing; Lydia needed the attention more than you did. She was so much softer than people gave her credit for, far more fragile than they’d ever know.

In spite of her current taste in boys, Lydia used to be a steadfast romantic. She'd always wanted to reenact the romance novels stacked on her nightstand, a little heartbreak before the inevitable happily ever after. She used to read so voraciously there was a new plot to perform every day. You were also a bookworm, but your tastes had inspired morbid hits such as Black Widow Barbie and Dreamhouse Zombie Outbreak. You'd usually take turns, or Barbie ended up falling in love with zombie Ken until he chomped on her arm.

“Not her brains,” Lydia had always insisted, “Barbie is the brains of the relationship.”

Lydia, you'd argue, Lydia was the brain. The only one that mattered.

Warm skin on your knuckles gently drew you back into the present. Stiles’s brow was pinched with concern, and his hand lingered on yours until you brushed him off with a shake of your head—but, as you’d come to learn the last couple weeks, Stiles Stilinski was nothing if not relentless. He leaned into your side as you walked along the lengthy driveway, sending you stumbling a few paces to the right. You glared at him, but it was watered down with stubborn affection. His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, and you forgot about the nerves wriggling up your esophagus until Stiles rang the doorbell. They came back full force when you heard a pair of high heels clicking towards them.

Lydia’s mom peered out the door. She looked confused as she took in Stiles’s smile, stretched far too wide to look even remotely casual. Then, her gaze landed on you and her face broke out into a bright grin, “Y/N?”

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful she was; beauty ran just as deeply as old money in the Martin family. Lydia was born with her mom’s golden-red hair and hazel eyes, and they had the same dimpled smile. It was always difficult to see anything beyond the brilliance of their perfect teeth and incandescent skin.

“Come here,” Mrs. Martin pulled you into a tight hug and cupped the back of your head with a steady hand. Your arms remained stiff by your sides, voice sticky in your throat. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d been hugged like this; the realization hurt more than you thought it would.

After a moment, your shoulders slumped, and you turned your face into Mrs. Martin’s shoulder. She still smelled the same, like patchouli and luxury, “Hi.”

She held you out at arm's-length, hands on your shoulders, and shook her head, “There’s no way that this beautiful young woman is the same little girl who tried to keep a frog colony in my guest bathroom. I can’t be that old.”

“You literally look exactly the same,” you smiled a little and rubbed your bicep.

“It has been far, far too long.” She smoothed out the wrinkles in your sleeves and then stepped back into the doorframe, “What can I do for you?”

“I…” your mouth went dry, and you looked everywhere except Mrs. Martin’s face. Your eyes flashed between the silver door knockers, the winding ivy, the sculpted shrubs. Everything was exactly the same. Nothing, not even the house, had noticed your absence.

“We came to check on Lydia,” Stiles nudged your shoulder, and you blinked a few times. Mrs. Martin was watching you with big emphatic eyes—and you hated it.

You swallowed and nodded, “Yeah…we brought her homework.”

“Come in.” She paused and pinched the bridge of her nose with freshly manicured nails, “She took a little something to relax herself, so please excuse…well, just be prepared.” Mrs. Martin sighed, and for the first time it looked like the last four years had actually aged her. She attempted a smile, but it was shriveled at the corners, “You remember the way, don’t you?”

A nod rolled up your neck to your head. You couldn’t find the words to tell Mrs. Martin that you weren’t the same girl anymore. You almost felt like her in this house: small, wild, still full of dreams. You crept up the curved staircase slowly, delaying the inevitable, and ran your fingers along the iron railing. You broke your arm falling off of it nine years ago. It was a nasty fracture that put you in a cast all summer, but it’d seemed worth it at the time. At least, you’d thought so. Your mom and Mrs. Martin hadn’t agreed with your assessment at the hospital.

You felt a twinging urge to run to the top of the stairs and slide down the railing until you became dizzy—and just like that, you were seven years old again, and you weren't scared of death or ending up alone.

“You coming?” Stiles called from the top of the stairs.

You nodded stiffly and pushed past him to the last door on the left. You held your hand on the doorknob and pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth, scowling at the anxiety crawling under your skin. You were being ridiculous. It wasn’t like you were the one who ended up in an ambulance last night.

You rapped your knuckles against the door a few times, even though it was already cracked open wide enough to catch a glimpse of the raspberry walls and flower chandelier. “Lyds–ia. Lydia,” you cleared your throat and peeked into Lydia’s room, “it’s me. I mean, it’s Y/N.” Stiles nudged you in the ribs, and you sighed, “And Stiles.”

Lydia was face-down on her four-poster bed, slowly combing her fingers through her unbrushed hair. She smacked her lips together a few times, and then her head popped up from her mountain of throw pillows, “You still haven’t explained what the hell a Stiles is.”

You snorted and shot Stiles a pointed look. He pursed his lips and glanced around the room until he spotted a little bottle of pills on top of her vanity. He read the lengthy label and let out a low whistle, “Bet you can’t say, ‘I saw Sally sell seashells by the seashore.’”

Lydia swung her legs over the foot of her bed and leaned forward, eyes sparking with bullheaded determination. “I saw….I saw…” The light in her eyes faded as she drifted off to a place no one else could see.

You sat down next to her and grabbed her hand. You didn’t have to tell your body to move; it knew before you did. Finding Lydia when she was lost, it was like…swimming to the surface, shivering in a storm, bracing for a fall. It was an instinct so deeply rooted in your soul you couldn’t rip it out without rupturing an artery. You watched Lydia’s eyes focus on your face, felt her fingers lace with yours, and all you knew was the slow thump of Lydia’s pulse against your thumb.

Lydia squeezed your hand and swiveled to face you. Her eyes were still cloudy, but something warm dawned behind the fog. You felt the pit in your stomach roll. Lydia sighed happily, “There you are. I was looking for you.”

“Well,” you almost choked on the lump in your throat and struggled to support Lydia’s weight as she went boneless against your side, “here I am.” You searched for some assistance with Lydia’s rapidly sinking frame, but Stiles was busy poking around every nook and cranny in the room. “Stiles,” you snapped.

He wrenched his hand away from Lydia’s bottle of Dior perfume, purple just like the rest of the room, and clasped it behind his back. “What?”

You gestured violently towards Lydia's wilting spine and rolled your eyes when he tripped over a discarded boot in his, frankly pathetic, haste to get to Lydia’s other side. You gently maneuvered her until she was propped up against her pillows.

“Don’t go away again, okay?” Lydia licked her lips and looked like she was about to cry—so much like a scared little girl, your heart clenched. “I keep losing you.”

“I,” you stared at her with wide eyes, and the bottle of pills enveloped your peripheral vision, “I just wanted to see if you were alright…after last night.”

“Last night,” Lydia slurred, nuzzling back against her pillows.

“Yeah, last night,” Stiles folded his arms over his chest and arched his brow, “remember anything about it?”

“I remember…” Lydia looked like she was going to cry again, eyes glassy and round, but the chemical high quickly swept over the tide, “I remember a mountain lion.”

Stiles’s head tipped back between his shoulder blades, and his cheeks slowly puffed into pink little domes as he held his breath. Apparently, there was one thing more powerful than Stiles Stilinski’s obsession with Lydia Martin: his impatience. Stiles’s lips puckered as a loud sigh whooshed through his teeth. He crouched down to Lydia’s eye-level, “You remember seeing a mountain lion, or you remember them telling you it was a mountain lion?”

Lydia hummed and nodded until her hair fell in front of her face, “Mountain lion.”

“Jesus Christ,” Stiles reached for a stuffed giraffe next to her shoulder and shook it in her face, “what’s this?”

“Mountain lion,” Lydia’s head bobbed sharply.

You snatched the stuffed animal out of Stiles’s hand, scowling as you bludgeoned his arm with the giraffe’s head. “Leave her alone. She’s doped out of her mind.”

“Clearly,” Stiles snorted, watching Lydia curl a strand of her hair around her finger, completely entranced by the frizzy strands.

“What did you want her to say?” You smoothed a few stray hairs sticking up from the crown of Lydia’s head back into place and met Stiles’s gaze, face impassive, “Werewolf?”

He opened his mouth and gaped like a particularly brainless fish. Before he could come up with a coherent answer—or any kind of answer, actually—Lydia’s text-tone chimed. Stiles dove across the bed for her phone, but you smacked his hand with the giraffe before he could touch it. “You are so not reading her texts, lonely boy.”

“I was just trying to help.” Stiles flopped onto her vanity chair and crossed his arms, squirming sullenly, “She can barely string two words together, let alone an actual thought.”

“I’m sure whatever it is can wait until she’s good and hungover tomorrow.” You glanced down at Lydia’s phone and paused. It was a video file. From an unknown number.

“Hey,” Lydia poked her head up and pointed at Stiles until the weight of her arm became too much to bear. It fell on top of her stomach like a limp noodle, “You.”

“Me,” Stiles squeaked.

You muted the video and made sure Stiles was sufficiently distracted by the curl of Lydia’s finger before you pressed play. Nothing happened at first. The video was shot in a strange, almost voyeuristic style, and the lighting was terrible, so dim you could barely tell that the camera was facing a large window. You squinted and made out the video store’s sign flickering above the door. So, this was from last night. Weird—but at least it wasn’t revenge porn; that had been your first guess.

You’d almost given up on finishing the video, and then the camera angle moved. Two red eyes flashed in the darkness, a large…something smashed through the glass, and you bit down on your thumbnail so hard blood welled through the sidewalls.

It was a goof, obviously. Some kind of poorly edited creepypasta. A cruel prank someone sent Lydia after they heard what happened last night. Had to be. Your hands shook as you sent yourself the video, and then you deleted it from Lydia’s phone. Your number, you realized once you stopped seeing red, was still saved as ☀️✨Babe!!!!✨☀️ in Lydia’s contacts. It took you longer than it should have to delete the sent message.

“If you’re done fighting your erection, we should get going.” Your voice sounded remarkably even, considering how scattered your mind was. It was certainly more composed than the babble spewing from Stiles’s mouth.

“I do not have—it’s not like—I wasn’t—she thought I was someone else.”

“Ah,” your phone felt heavy in your pocket, “real boner killer.”

Stiles sighed through his nose, “New rule, you can't make fun of anything I do or say when Lydia's in my fuckin' lap. Starting now."

He must’ve known something was wrong when you didn’t argue. That, and the way you practically sprinted out of the house to avoid seeing anyone else. Your hands were still shaking when you crawled into the jeep, and Stiles shot about a dozen little furious, concerned glances in your direction, but you couldn’t seem to move your tongue.

Your bottom lip quivered. Your chest tightened until your ribs corseted your lungs. The screech of your ground teeth sent an unpleasant chill down your spine, but you’d rather choke on a chipped tooth than let the beast howling in your throat escape—the last thing you needed was to cry in the passenger seat next to Stiles Stilinski.

You were clearly losing your mind; everyone said it was only a matter of time—watching a loved one burn to death tended to have that effect on a person. Not that you remembered much, but you were clearly off your rocker if you were having vivid, day-time hallucinations of red-eyed monsters roaming the streets of Beacon Hills.

You wiped your sweat-damp palms on your dress and bounced your leg up and down, driving your heel into the floor over and over again—and then you felt a solid warmth over your knee. Your eyes were a little wild when you followed the trail of Stiles’s arm to his face, and the divot between his brows deepened when he met your gaze, “Hey, she’s going to be okay. You know that, right?”

Your head jerked with a quick nod, and you sucked in a few shallow breaths, “I know.” The air got stuck in your chest, and your heart flapped erratically as the back of your eyelids played reruns of a familiar film starring your narrowing trachea. You dug your toes into the dusty floor mat, scrambling for any kind of grasp on reality, and choked on your words, “Her mom always…had…the good shit.”

Stiles kept his hand on your knee and then shook his head, pulling over against the curb and putting the jeep in park. “You don’t have to talk, but you gotta breathe.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was squeezing your kneecap in even intervals. You inhaled and exhaled with the flex of his joints until the panic receded enough for embarrassment to heat your cheeks. You slammed your head back against the seat and stared at the steel roof. You hoped that if you ignored the tears bubbling along your lash line, they’d instantaneously evaporate before they could spill onto your cheeks, “Fuck. I’m sorry. I don’t usually…this hasn’t happened in a long time.”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before.” Stiles chewed on his cheek and pulled his hand back into his lap. He drummed his fingers against his kneecap and then spoke softly, “I used to get ‘em too. Sucked.” Stiles stared out the dashboard, watching but not really seeing dead leaves swirl in little circles over the asphalt, “Happened a lot after my mom died.”

You froze for a moment, and you couldn’t stop yourself from staring. You realized, belatedly, that you hadn’t ever heard the Sheriff talk about his wife, not even once in the last four years, even though he wore a gold band on his left ring finger. It hadn’t even occurred to you to ask.

You never had the right words to explain it. For a long time, you spoke in ripples at therapy, incomprehensible circles that skirted the point in an endless loop—but you realized, as you got stuck on the honey in Stiles’s eyes, you didn’t need the right words here. With him. In fact, you didn’t really need any words at all. “Me too.”

Stiles watched your eyes steadily, and his fingers stilled against his legs, “Yeah?”

You nodded and swallowed a little, “Yeah.”

A smile tugged on his mouth, tangled with too many paradoxes to parse in the soft, short moment humming between you. You smiled back at him, far more timidly, but that wasn’t a surprise. He was brave, you decided, much braver than you. It was contagious.

Your tongue darted out, licking your chapped lips, and you clung to the fragile current of courage lapping against the back of your teeth. “We just stopped talking.”

Stiles glanced at you, clearly confused.

“Lydia and I.” You knotted your fingers in the hem of your dress and tugged on it every time you felt the stopper in your throat start to swell, “We just stopped being friends after my mom died. That’s why I didn’t…I mean, there’s not really a story to tell. We were close, and then I woke up one day, and we weren’t anymore.”

Stiles turned until he was facing you, leaning against the door and struggling to find a comfortable angle for his long legs. “Most people…they’re okay with the funeral part ‘cause it’s pretty simple—y’know: hold hands, bring food, pretend no one’s crying. And then after comes, and they can’t figure out what to do because it’s over, but it’s not.”

“Limbo,” you mirrored his position and pulled your knees to your chest. You rocked the soles of your boots from heel to toe, like small patent leather boats adrift on a sea of faded nylon, “It’s limbo, and everyone else is so incredibly, hideously alive.”

The relief was back in Stiles’s eyes, and you were swimming in it. He nodded and bent his knees, scooching his feet until the toes of his sneakers were pressed against yours. “Yeah," he exhaled, and the moment felt important, like something you were supposed to remember on your deathbed. You tried to memorize the look on Stiles's face, but you didn't know where to start. How could you etch infinity?

“It wasn’t just her,” you admitted out loud for the first time.

“Yeah,” Stiles shrugged a little and gave you a grin that brought the dimples back to his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but smile at their reappearance, “but we can pretend it was, just for today.”

You let out a breath that felt like a laugh and lifted your toes, dropping them on top of his and pressing down until they were pinned beneath the tread of your boots. Stiles narrowed his eyes and wriggled his feet free, fighting your scurrying ankles with his tongue trapped between his teeth. His triumphant cry when he finally caught the tip of your laces was just enthusiastic enough to coerce another laugh through your clamped lips.

The soft smile Stiles gave you while you laughed made his body go lax and the back of your neck warm. You quickly bent over to retie your laces, and he turned to restart the engine.

“I should probably get us back to school,” Stiles ran his hand over his head. “My dad'll kill me if I get marked truant again.”

“It’s parent teacher conferences tonight,” you recalled as the words left your mouth. You slunk down in your seat, chin catching on the seatbelt, “I’ve never skipped school before. I have no idea what my dad’s gonna say.”

Stiles’s attention shifted from the road to your profile, “Really?”

“What?” you crossed your arms over your chest and blew your hair out of your eyes.

“Nothing,” Stiles tried to hide his smirk, but it was too sharp to cover with a cough, “it’s just…hasn’t everyone skipped at least once?”

“What would I even do?” The corner of your mouth tugged into a dry smile, “Visit my catatonic ex-best friend?”

Stiles nodded agreeably, and then his head danced from side to side, rolling over other options, “Or bowling. Bowling is fun.”

You grumbled a little in your throat and sunk further into the cradle of your hips, “I hate bowling.”

Stiles grinned, “Yeah, me too.”

Pausing, your bottom lip wormed its way between your teeth, “I’d play D&D with you, though.”

“Really?”

“Mhm,” you watched the sun disappear behind the tree line over the hill and ignored the feeling of being examined like a bacterial petri dish.

“See, we are friends. The best of friends, actually. Two peas in the proverbial pod.”

And, well, you couldn’t really disagree.

#stiles stilinksi x reader #stiles stilinski #stiles stilinski imagine #dylan o'brien x reader #dylan o'brien imagine #teen wolf #stiles stilinski fanfiction #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf imagine #stiles stilinski x reader #stiles stilinski x you

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petershorcrux · 5 years ago

Photo

Favourite Teen Wolf Scenes: Scott and Lydia go into Stiles’s mind to save him and Scott signals their location to–pack member–Stiles. (3x22)

Lydia: Stiles is part of your pack! Scott: What? What do you mean? Lydia: He’s human. But, he’s still part of the pack, right? Scott: Yeah! Yeah, of course!

#twedit #teenwolflegacy #fytwolf #sciles #teen wolf #this is one of my fave sciles moments dont talk to me #tv: teen wolf #char: scott mccall #char: lydia martin #char: stiles stilinski #my gifs #mytw #*#100

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problematiquefics · 6 years ago

Note

Lydia, or Allison, or both if you like

I’m gonna do them both because I love my girls.

Allison:

How I feel about this character: I ? love ? her ? Still upset about her death tbh and I get it was because Crystal Reed wanted to move on (and I’m glad she’s finally find some post-Teen Wolf success with Gotham and soon Swamp Thing) but I really would’ve loved it if she’d stayed or even just came back later on like Allison being brought back by the Ghost Riders instead of Claudia (it would’ve made more sense since the nogitsune possessing Stiles directly caused her death and thus Stiles never existing would’ve changed that entirely).

All the people I ship romantically with this character: I understand it’s not one of her more popular ones but Allisaac! God that ship makes me cry every time, sorry not sorry. Also Scallison and Scallisaac because OT3s are great. And then like... Every femslash ship: Allydia, Allirica, Allira, hell Allison x Malia would be cool too. Allison is bi af thank you very much. Meet me in multi-shipping hell.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I mean I love platonic dynamics as much? So platonic!Allydia, platonic!Allira, platonic!Scallisaac, etc. I guess Stiles would fit best her because I don’t ship Stallison.

My unpopular opinion about this character: do I have one? I guess my appreciation of Allisaac is somewhat unpopular but it’s got it’s own solid fanbase. Also I guess I’m somewhat glad that Scallison wasn’t end game, not because I don’t love them, but because I love it when shows allow characters to move on and have other loves.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Allison should’ve lived, obviously. I also thing nogitsune!Allison would’ve been cool too? I’ve seen some mention of it though I’ve never explored it too deeply. I also wish she could’ve been around in s6 to confront Kate and Gerard who both tried to manipulate her.

Lydia:

How I feel about this character: one of the best written and developed characters on Teen Wolf, from the cold-hearted queen B who hid her intelligence behind a ditzy facade to the caring, strong, survivor that she was by the end.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Allison, Isaac, Scott (I would’ve preferred Lydia getting with Scott in 6b instead of Malia though I liked single!Scott best I think), Kira, and Malia. I realize Kydia is significantly less popular than Malydia but I actually prefer it, though I like Malydia well enough too.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Stiles, I guess? I did like the evolution of Stiles basically see her as an object, the girl to be won and earned, and the realizing she’s a person with dreams and flaws and fears and them evolving into friends. I don’t mind Stydia and I think it was stupid how they made 6a about them getting together and then just... never acknowledged it in 6b. Still, I liked them as friends. I also really like the idea of her and Jackson being friends after their break-up. And Danny.

My unpopular opinion about this character: idk what are the popular opinions about her?

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Like I said, if they had to have a Scott endgame, I would’ve preferred it to be with Lydia than Malia. Also I guess like... Wasn’t fond of the institutionalizing / medical horror they did with her in s5 but in general I block that season from my brain tbh.

#char: lydia martin #char: allison argent #ivebeenmade #answered

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babyinbluee · 3 years ago

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♡ ⃗ | 𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗪𝗢𝗟𝗙 𝗪𝗥𝗜𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦.

⌗ 𝗧𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗪𝗢𝗟𝗙 𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧;

──── my main masterlist!

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

*indicates smut/mature content!

⊱┊stiles stilinski;

↳ all I want. (long fic)

↳ if by chance. (long fic)

⊱┊scott mccall;

↳ coming soon!

⊱┊lydia martin;

↳ coming soon!

⊱┊derek hale;

↳ coming soon!

« more coming soon! »

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

#char char writes!#teen wolf #scott mccall #stiles stilinski #lydia martin

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lovelucybradford · 4 years ago

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I Pretend You’re Mine (All the Damn Time). One

Tumblr’s hottest new Derek HalexOC fic is “I Pretend You’re Mine (All the Damn Time)”. Fueled by one too many rom-coms and the author’s thirst for Tyler Hoechlin, this fic has EVERYTHING: childhood friends to lovers, fake engagement, mutual pining, Derek Hale’s family alive and well, and SLOW BURN (oh so slow).

One: get me with those green eyes, baby.

“Yo Rosie, you better go over there. Cinderella’s about to steal your man,” Stiles commented nonchalantly, sipping on a Coke from a paper cup. He was trying to hide his smile, but Rosalie could see right through him.

“Shut up, Stiles. He’s not my man.” Rosalie rolled her eyes, but didn’t stray her focus from Derek, Cinderella, and her niece, Charlotte. The young girl who was playing Cinderella couldn’t be older than twenty-one. (Way too young for the man.) Sure enough, she had her dainty hand on Derek’s bicep, likely commenting on his muscles. (That had happened with Ariel, an hour before. To which Rosalie thought that she’d be able to fill out those seashells much better.)

Derek laughed, scratching the back of his neck—a sure sign that he was uncomfortable with all of the attention. It had been his tell for as long as Rosalie had known him—verging on twenty-five years, give or take the time that they’d spent apart in college and Rosalie’s four-year stint living with her father’s family in New York City (a mistake, big mistake).

That had been a change; Derek used to eat up all of the attention from women when they were younger. A lot had changed with the two friends through the years; lovers had come and go, lessons learnt the hard way—but the one thing that hadn’t changed was their connection to each other. No one quite understood Rose the way that Derek did, and she’d like to think that nobody understood Derek like she did.

Charlotte pointed one blue-painted nail towards her aunt, and suddenly all eyes were on her. “Auntie Rosie! Come here!” she called loudly.

Rosalie obliged, excusing herself from Lydia and Stiles to join Charlotte, Derek, and the princess. Cinderella smiled kindly at Rosalie, eyes briefly flicking up to her hair. She turned to Derek and asked, “Is this your princess?”

To which Rosalie flushed a bright shade of red. Cinderella was likely referring to Rosalie’s elaborate updo. Her red hair was covered in green glitter, complete with a sparkling, emerald-encrusted tiara. Charlotte, ever the shy child, had been nervous to go to the Bippity Boppity Boutique by herself, and convinced her aunt to play along. So, Rosalie had gotten the works, and Derek and Stiles teased her incessantly all day. She didn’t mind, really. She’d do anything for the kid, whether that be to sell her soul or literally become her childhood moniker.

Derek chuckled apprehensively and ducked his head. Charlotte answered for them both, giving Stiles Stilinski more fodder for his jokes.

“Yeah! This is my Auntie Rose. Uncle Derek calls her princess,” Charlotte smiled proudly. In the distance, Stiles guffawed, and Lydia leaned her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder. Likely hiding her own laugh, for Rosalie’s benefit.

Rosalie stumbled over her own words. “I…um…childhood nickname. Anyways, Char, do you want a photo so the nice people behind us get a chance to meet Cinderella, too?”

The four posed for the photo, Derek and Rosalie on either side of the princess and Charlotte, curtseying, in front. Lydia snapped a quick photo on her own phone and on Rosalie’s. Then, Rosalie graciously thanked Cinderella and the photographer, eager to get the hell out of the awkward situation.

Derek swept Charlotte up on to his shoulders, giving a polite nod before he turned to leave as well. Cinderella tapped him on the arm, and added, “Have a magical day! Your girlfriend is beautiful.”

Rosalie lost her footing at Cinderella’s words, almost crashing embarrassingly to the floor if it weren’t for Lydia’s supportive hand on her wrist. She let Lydia lead her out of the building, feeling quite lightheaded all of a sudden.

The sun had set in the near hour that they had waited to meet the princesses. The stars in the sky sparkled above, bringing a whole new sense of magic to ‘The Most Magical Place on Earth’.

“Oh my God, this picture is so cute. I’m def posting it on Instagram,” Lydia said, smiling down at her phone. She moved closer to her cousin so Rosalie could see the photo as well.

Rosalie cringed. “Um, no you’re not.” Charlotte looked adorable, as she always did. Rosalie, well—Rosalie looked exactly as she felt in that very moment. The pink in her cheeks perfectly matched the tapestry behind them, and she couldn’t blame that shade of red on a blossoming sunburn. And Derek—he looked like a deer in the headlights, wide-eyed with a tight-lipped smile. Even when mortified he still managed to look gorgeous.

It hurt Rosalie’s heart just a little bit to think that Derek was mortified because someone thought they were together. But she buried that feeling once she saw Stiles saunter towards them, Derek and a chattering Charlotte in tow.

“Too late. I already did,” Lydia announced, lips tilting into a playful smile.

“Already did what?” Derek peeked over the women’s heads.

He groaned loudly, making Charlotte laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t just post that on Instagram. God, Laura’s never going to let me live this down.”

Rosalie tilted her head upward and smirked at her best friend. “Just wait until I tell her that you got hit on by Cinderella.” She laughed at Derek’s flared nostrils and pursed lips. He smacked her on the shoulder blade with the hand that wasn’t supporting Charlotte, who was clutching Derek’s black baseball-cap covered head with both little hands.

Charlotte tilted her head, befuddled. “What does ‘hit on’ mean?”

Rosalie and Derek stayed silent, neither one wanting to answer. Stiles replied for them, winking up at the little girl. “It means that Cinderella liked your Uncle Derek. Anywho, I’m thinking that we hit that Millennium Falcon ride.”

Rosalie checked her phone. “Can’t, Stiles. We have to head to dinner.”

Stiles sighed. “Please God, tell me your father won’t be joining us, Rosalie. I already have to deal with him for a whole week. If I have to spend more time with him than that, I might chop off my arm with a lightsaber.”

Lydia checked the map, and the group began their trek towards the restaurant.

“What’s Stiles talking about?” Derek asked as he hiked Charlotte further up his shoulders.

“The Martin Family Reunion,” Lydia commented, looking pointedly at Rosalie. Rosalie, who had forgotten all about it. And furthermore, forgotten about the little white lie she’d made when she RSVP’d. “A weeklong cruise hosted by Rosalie’s father.”

Lydia pursed her lips, green eyes flitting back and forth between her cousin and the path in front of her. “The one that Drew will be at… with his new fiancée, Ashleigh.”

The mention of the two made Rosalie sick. It had been a blow to Rosalie, when she’d seen that Instagram post on her sister’s profile. She was stupid to think that it couldn’t get worse than her ex and her sister sleeping together behind her back. Then they had to go and get engaged, a sure reminder to Rosalie that Drew, the one love of her life, would never really be gone from it.

“Gross,” Charlotte said. “Drew the Douchebag.”

Rosalie’s mouth gaped in repulsion. She glared scoldingly up at her niece. “Charlotte Marie Martin, who told you that?”

Charlotte had the nerve to not look guilty at all. She innocently smiled back at her aunt. “Daddy… and Uncle Derek.”

Rosalie turned her glare to Derek, whose shoulders were shaking, and not because of the weight of the five-year-old perched on them. “You’ve never even met Drew,” she hissed.

Derek kept his gaze straight forward. “I didn’t have to, not with what he did.”

“Can’t argue there,” Stiles chimed in, and Rosalie smacked him on the back of the head.

Derek stopped, and Rosalie thought he was going to apologize. Instead, he crouched down. “Ok, Charlie. Why don’t you walk with Auntie Rose for a while? Uncle Derek’s shoulders hurt.”

Charlotte clambered off of Derek and into the welcoming hand of her aunt. Rosalie couldn’t stay mad at Charlotte. It wasn’t her fault that Rosalie’s brother let things slip. Charlie just mimicked what her father said.

Rosalie didn’t speak the rest of the way. She was too angry with what Derek and her brother had been saying behind her back. (Even though she knew they spoke the truth.)

“Rosalie? Lydia?” came a call from behind the group. Rosalie didn’t have to turn around in her beach chair to know who it was. She shifted the sleeping little girl in her lap slightly so she could sink down in it, ducking her head.

Derek snorted a laugh. “What are you doing?” His stare flickered between Rosalie and Lydia (who was in a similar position in her own chair), green eyes full of amusement.

“I’m invisible. I’m not here. I don’t exist,” Rosalie whispered, eyes scrunched shut and wishing it into reality.

Derek crouched, meeting Rosalie’s line of sight. “Why are we hiding?”

“Shh!” she shushed him with a finger to her lips. “You remember my crazy Aunt Susie?”

“Your dad’s sister? The one who looks like the female version of Donald Trump?”

“Yes. Also known as the family gossip. She will undoubtedly say something shitty about Drew and Ashleigh’s engagement.”

Derek scoffed. “Fuck them.” As an afterthought, he added, “You know what, fuck her too.”

Rosalie swatted him on the forearm. “Children, Derek. There are children present.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say it that loud… and the kid is asleep.”

“Yo Lydia, Rosalie, Derek. I’m back with the contraband.” Stiles weaved between chairs and the standing crowd, arms full of paper drink cups and soft pretzels.

Lydia kicked him in the shin. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles looked amused. “Why are you whispering?”

“Yoo Hoo! Rosalie Anne! Lydia Isabella! You can’t hide from your Aunt Susie!” Rosalie’s aunt yelled, words slurred with her southern drawl, and likely a bit of alcohol.

Stiles’ eyes widened, and he too ducked down. “Forget I asked.”

A slim, bony finger poked Rosalie on her bun-topped head. Aunt Susie shuffled around the chairs to stand in front of the group. With no escape in sight, Rosalie and her friends sighed and straightened themselves up.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Susie chirped, grabbing hold of both Rosalie’s and Lydia’s cheeks. “Look at how much you two have grown!”

Rosalie smiled kindly, as she was taught to do from a young age. She hoped if she obliged in conversation, then Aunt Susie would leave quicker and they could enjoy their night in peace.

Aunt Susie’s smile fell when her eyes swept over Lydia’s boyfriend. “And Steve…nice to see you again.”

Stiles scratched his chin, mumbling, “It’s um…Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.”

But Aunt Susie paid no mind. Her attention was completely on the man that sat to Rosalie’s left. Her eyes scanned him, seemingly sizing him up. Or checking him out. Likely the latter, Rosalie thought, knowing her aunt.

“Well, Rosalie. Who’s this?” she drawled, looking quite like a cat watching its prey.

Derek straightened out and forced a smile. He held out a hand for her to shake. “Derek Hale, ma’am.” Derek’s mother had instilled politeness in her son, even if he didn’t like the person. And Rosalie knew that Derek wasn’t fond of Rosalie’s father’s side of the family.

She took it, shaking too enthusiastically. A sense of recognition washed over her plump face, and her hand stilled. “Derek Hale… little Derek Hale? Why, you’ve grown, too. When was the last time I saw you? Ten years ago?”

Derek smirked, fire in his eyes. Rosalie prepared herself for the inevitable shit talking, already planning damage control. “Actually, it was fourteen years ago. At the second wedding of Jason Martin. When your brother married his mistress and left Rosalie, Levi, and Ms. Hart.”

Stiles snorted noisily, placing a hand over his mouth to cover up his laughter. Lydia cracked a smile, too. Rosalie kicked Derek, hard. Well, as hard as she could with a child still sleeping soundly on her lap.

Aunt Susie’s mouth opened and closed in shock, for once at a loss for words.

Charlotte woke at just the right time, deterring the awkward silence. She stretched and yawned loudly, then sat up in Rosalie’s lap. Her tiara was crooked, and her eye makeup was smudged, but she still looked cute. Rosalie wished she looked that nice after sleeping in her makeup.

“Aunt Susie!” she cried at the sight of her great-aunt, wrapping the woman in a hug. Ah, childhood innocence. Charlie didn’t know what the real world was like, what her extended family was really like, and Rosalie preferred to keep her naivety.

Charlotte easily engaged Aunt Susie in an excitable conversation. Rosalie, eerily conscious of eyes on her, shifted her ring between the fingers of both hands. It was an impulse buy, the vintage sapphire with the white gold band. She’d seen it on display in one of the shop windows and absolutely had to have it, even if it was way more than she’d ever spend on herself.

“Well, I guess I’ll be seeing you on the cruise in a few weeks.” Aunt Susie turned to leave. Her eyes caught something, and she halted, wide-eyed.

“Oh, my stars,” she commented, hands on her heart. “I… I thought after Drew you were a hopeless case, but…”

Rosalie couldn’t comprehend why her aunt was getting choked up. And the ‘hopeless case’ comment stung more than she would have liked.

Sweet, sweet Charlie reached up to dry her great-aunt’s tears. The damage was already done—white tear tracks contrasted starkly with the tangerine of the older woman’s self-tanner. “What’s wrong, Aunt Susie?”

Aunt Susie, so overwhelmed with emotion, didn’t register the little girl’s words. Instead, she grabbed Derek’s hand. It hung limply in hers. Derek looked alarmed. “Oh, Rosalie’s father will be absolutely thrilled to see you… both of his baby girls… first Drew and Ashleigh…”

Aunt Susie shook her head and dabbed at her eyes with the bottom of her red Mickey Mouse t-shirt.

With her resolve back, she straightened. “Well now, please tell me you’re coming on the cruise?”

“I, um…” Derek stuttered, looking to his best friend for help. Rosalie had no idea what was going on either, and just shrugged in response.

“Well, you absolutely must go now! Of course, Lydia and her wild boyfriend are coming--”

Stiles quietly muttered something along the lines of “I may be wild, but at least I’m not one step away from the loony bin, lady.” Rosalie leaned her elbow on the armrest and laughed into her palm.

“--and Rosie, you absolutely have to bring your fiancé,” Aunt Susie pleaded, looking straight at Derek.

Rosalie couldn’t look at him. She froze, stock still, staring in horror at the sapphire ring that had migrated from her right ring finger onto her left. Where an engagement ring would go. And her new piece of jewelry sure as hell looked like an engagement ring.

“YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED?!” Charlotte squealed loudly, clasping her hands in glee.

Rosalie was about to deny it, let the little girl down easy, when Charlotte began to cry.

“Char, why are you crying?” Rosalie asked, voice shaking. She couldn’t look anywhere else but at her niece, heart beating heavily in her chest.

“I’m just… I’m so, so, happy,” Charlotte sniffled. “I love you so much, Uncle Derek.” The little girl climbed over Rosalie and hopped into Derek’s lap, engulfing him in a huge hug. Derek didn’t hug her back, but only for a miniscule moment. He shook his head, coming to his senses, and then wrapped his arms around the girl, patting her back stiffly.

“You didn’t tell her?” Aunt Susie asked Rosalie, accusingly. Rosalie looked to her right for help. Stiles and Lydia were silently sharing a soft pretzel, looking just as stunned as Rosalie.

“No… um, we were going to tell Charlotte during the fireworks. Right, Rosie?” Derek mumbled, saving face. Rosalie thanked him silently for his quick wit.

Rosalie’s head whipped in the opposite direction. She met Derek’s apprehensive eyes. It was almost as if he was asking permission, like he actually agreed to go along with this whole charade.

It was the perfect ruse if Rosalie could ever think of one. A month ago, she’d drunkenly RSVP’d with a plus one to the family reunion cruise, as a way to save her pride and spite her family, who likely thought that she’d come alone and pine for her ex.

No way in hell, she’d thought. Even though there was no one in her life that she could even remotely think of to bring as a date. Derek was out of the question, before…

But now…

She subtly raised a brow, wordlessly asking, are you sure?

Derek subtly nodded back, lip quirking in a reassuring half smile.

Rosalie cleared her throat and straightened herself to her tallest seated height. She wasn’t confident at all, so she was going to fake it till she made it. “That’s right. We were going to wait until the fireworks, make it more magical for Charlotte.”

The speakers on the green lamppost next to them announced that the show was starting. Aunt Susie left them all with a wave and a ‘see you soon’.

No one spoke during the show, except for Charlotte, who was oblivious to the mess that she’d inadvertently got them into.

“So, I guess you’re my fiancée now,” Derek joked, lightly shoving Rosalie in the side. She smiled shyly up at her best friend. Amusement shined in his eyes. He wasn’t mad or appalled like Rosalie suspected him to be. Thank God.

“I, um, I guess I am,” Rosalie replied, swinging her now free arms beside her. Stiles had taken over the task of carrying a sleepy Charlotte to the car. He and Lydia trailed behind them, whispering. Likely about Derek and Rosalie’s… predicament.

“Dude, you two are fucked,” Stiles said, appearing suddenly on Rosalie’s left.

“So fucked,” Lydia affirmed after checking to see if Charlotte was still sleeping.

Rosalie couldn’t help but agree.

#derek hale #derek hale x reader #derek hale x oc #teen wolf #tyler hoechlin

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domesticated-feral · 4 years ago

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Steo Week 2020, Day 2

Title: Why didn't you go M.I.A this time too? (Because, you are Stiles Stilinski)

Prompt: Little League Rating: General Audiences Warnings: There be some beef between Stiles and Theo at the start. WC: 3834

You can also read it on my AO3

Summary:

“Look, I usually go M.I.A on these types of things, so this is my first time,” Theo admitted. “Why didn’t you go M.I.A this time too?” Stiles asked. “Because you are Stiles Stilinski,” Theo said. Stiles smiles and pats Theo’s back, “I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but relax, it’s going to be alright,” he said.

“Also, before you go off, I have the list for the pairings for this year’s science fair, usually you would pick your partner, but due to some of you picking the same people every year-” the teacher announced, eyeing the class- “I made the pairings this year.”

“Man, this sucks,” Scott whispered to Stiles.

“Very,” Stiles agreed.

The teacher started reading out the paired names and Stiles anxiously waited for his name to be called.

“Scott, you’ll be paired with Jackson,” the teacher said.

“Jackson?!” Scott exclaimed as he looked at Jackson, who also had the same expression on his face as well.

“Last but not least, Stiles and Theodore,” the teacher said, folding the list.

“Theo?! Mrs. Garcia, are you sure there isn’t a mistake there?” Stiles yells out.

“Come and look for yourself, Stiles,” she invited Stiles to take a look at the list.

Stiles quickly bounces up to the front of the class and looks at the list that was on her desk. It was without a doubt, ‘Mieczyslaw and Theodore’.

Stiles turns around and stares at Theo who had his usual glare plastered over his disgusting face. He scowls at the boy and goes back to his seat. The bell rings signaling that it was recess. Stiles slings his backpack over his shoulder and walks out of the classroom with Scott following.

“We both are officially dead, you got Jackson, an entitled rich kid and I got Theo, creepy dark kid,” Stiles said.

“Calm down, it’s just a stupid science fair, maybe next year they’d let us choose again,” Scott said opening his locker.

Stiles opens his locker and stuffs his science book inside and slams it shut. He leans against the locker and audibly sighs.

‘It’s just a stupid science fair, Stiles, why are you so worked up?’ he asks himself.

Scott closes his locker and the two sixth graders head off to their usual hangout spot with their friends on the side of the school.

“Who do you think Issac got? And Erica? And Boyd? And Allison?” Stiles asked.

“I dunno,” Scott said.

They walked outside the school to see everyone in their cliques talking about the science fair, the jocks were hanging out near the metal fence at the bleachers and Jackson was eyeing Scott and Stiles as they walked to the side of the school where Issac and Boyd were waiting.

“Hey, where’s Erica?” Scott asks.

“She went to return her book back to the library, she’ll be here in a sec,” Boyd said.

“Allison?” Stiles asked Issac.

“On her way probably,” he replied.

“Hey, sorry I’m late, I got assigned working as a librarian’s assistant before recess,” Allison said.

Erica comes running, completing the gang.

“So, who’d you get for the science fair?” Issac asks.

“Jackson Whittemore,” Scott said.

Everyone grimaced at the sound of the name.

“Well, I got Lydia Martin,” Erica said.

“Greenberg,” Boyd gruffed.

“I got Danny,” Issac said.

“I was paired with Kira,” Allison said.

“Who’d you get Stiles?” Issac asked.

“Theodore Raeken, out of all people, the one I hate the most!” Stiles said.

“You, Scott, and Boyd had the worst luck, I guess,” Erica said, “Lydia is smart and rich, so first place, baby!”

“Well, Greenberg isn’t that bad considering he brings an A in science?” Allison said, trying to comfort Boyd, “and Jackson won’t be that bad, I hope? So is Theo, yeah, he’s creepy, but what’s the worst that could happen?”

It was the last period of the day, Science. Stiles wasn’t that interested in Biology so he mindlessly doodled in the margins of his book when he was unjustly interrupted.

“Hey, Stiles,” Theo said, from behind Stiles.

“What is it, Theodore?” Stiles said turning around.

“Uh, I wanted to ask you what house are we doing the project in?” Theo asks.

Stiles thinks about it for a second and he decides his house would be better because he was not stepping foot inside Theo Raeken’s house.

“Mine,” Stiles answered.

“Ok, cool, when should I come over?” Theo asked again.

‘Never,’ Stiles wanted to say but he stopped himself before he could, “Uhh, how about at 4?”

“Stiles, anything you would like to share with the class?” Mr. Oliver asked.

“Nothing, Mr. Oliver,” Stiles squeaks as he turns around.

“Very well then,” he said before continuing his lecture.

Stiles goes back to doodling on his notebook, that was until he was handed his test back. He got an A, he turns around to try and sneak a peek at Theo’s grade, but Theo already stuffed it in his bag.

“Hmm, What was yours?” Stiles asks, turning around.

“Do you really need to know?” He asks.

“You’re my science fair partner, therefore, yes,” Stiles said.

“D, I hate science,” Theo mutters as he slings his bag on his shoulder.

Stiles puts his test in his bag and walks out with the rest of the class, he walks up to his locker where Scott and Issac were waiting.

“So, Allison told me that she saw you and Theo talking in Biology,” Scott said as they walked down the hallways to the bike racks.

“Yeah, he’s coming over at 4 today, I don’t even know what we will do for our project?!” Stiles said.

“Well, we got one week until the science fair, so I guess you can get to know him a little bit more today?” Issac chimed in.

“Get to know him?! I don’t want to ‘get to know him’!” Stiles said, taking Scott and Issac back by his aggressive tone.

“Whoa, calm down, Stiles, what happened between you and Theo?” Scott asked.

“Do you really want to know Scottie? Do you?” Stiles said as they stopped in front of their bikes.

Scott nods while Issac shakes his head.

“Remember when I had to move to my nana’s house for three months? I never told you why, but it was because my dad got shot and had to be in the ICU for three months. Guess who pulled the trigger, Theodore Raeken’s father,” Stiles said.

“But, isn’t he in jail?” Issac asked.

“Yeah, and anytime I look at Theo, I see that man who shot my dad, I can’t trust him,” Stiles said as he put on his bike helmet.

“What if Theo is different from his dad?” Scott asked, “his dad might be a criminal, but Theo might not be a criminal.”

“I guess we’ll find out today,” Stiles said as he unlocked his bike lock.

They rode their bikes to their neighborhood, Scott and Issac dropped Stiles off before making their way down the cul-de-sac to their house.

Stiles anxiously paced around his house, locking the knife drawer with duct tape and making sure any dangerous pointy objects are out of sight. He even went out of his way and heaved the pointy sculpture from its place above the fireplace and into the basement. It was heavy and it was surely a miracle that Stiles didn’t drop it.

The clock chimes at 4 o’clock and he leans on the window, looking out onto his front yard. He sees Theo walk up and make his way to the porch. Stiles quickly runs and pulls the door open before Theo has a chance to knock.

“Hi,” Theo said, stuffing his hand back in his black jacket.

“Uh, hey, again,” Stiles said.

They both awkwardly stand, before Stiles opens the door further, inviting Theo inside.

“Your house is pretty nice,” Theo said as he looked around.

Stiles nods, “I try to keep it tidy,” he mutters.

Stiles and Theo, being not the warmest of acquaintances to each other, were awkwardly standing -in awkward silence- in the middle of the Stilinski living room. Stiles opens his mouth to say something but he quickly closes it as whatever he was going to say, would sound insensitive.

“Look, I know you’re probably mad at me because of my dad,” Theo began to say, “he did pretty horrible things and I hated him when I found out the truth.”

“He did horrible things, he shot my dad nearly killing him!” Stiles snapped, “I won’t be surprised if you brought a gun to shoot me too!”

Stiles couldn’t stand in front of the boy anymore, he quickly stormed off to his room and slammed the door shut. He throws his bag onto the bed and it bounces off onto the floor. Stiles lets out a yell of exasperation into his pillow and he hears Theo knocking on the door.

“I- I’m sorry for the pain he had caused, but I swear, I don’t want to end up like him. Never. I am his son, but I don’t want to be known for the things he did,” Theo said, from the other side of the door.

Stiles felt as if he saw a new light, he felt a sense of clarity as he realized a very big thing. All Theo wanted was to be seen differently. He didn’t want to be known as the son of the Beacon Hills Bank Robber. Theo was a different being from his father. He was not necessarily bad, neither did it feel like he wanted to, nor he was.

“I- I’m sorry, Theo. I didn’t mean to say that,” Stiles said, apologizing for his remark.

“It’s alright, Stiles, I’ve gotten used to it, it wasn’t like you are the only one to say that,” Theo said, “Can we focus on the science project now?”

“Yeah, I g-guess,” Stiles said as he opened the door to Theo-.

Stiles felt terribly bad, so as Theo settled down in his bedroom, he went out and fetched his jar of home-baked cookies from the kitchen.

“Want a slightly-burned chocolate chip cookie that I made with my dad?” Stiles asked.

“These don’t look slightly burned, they are burned through and through,” Theo said as he took one out of the jar.

“I mean, it doesn’t taste that bad,” Stiles said, biting a big bite of one cookie.

The bitter taste of charred chocolate chip cookie fills his mouth, setting off the gag-reflex as the dry cookie hits the back of his throat. He dashes towards his bathroom, dropping the cookie jar on the carpeted floor.

He spits the crumbs out, as he rinses his mouth with water.

Theo walks up to the bathroom, stopping just under the door frame, “it doesn’t taste that bad, huh?” he said, snickering.

“Shut up, Raeken,” Stiles said as he put toothpaste on his toothbrush.

Stiles brushes his teeth, making sure to brush his tongue too, the dry ashy cookie taste felt like it was stuck in his mouth. He washes his mouth, swishing the water around before spitting it out.

Stiles picks up the cookie jar and puts it back on the shelf in the kitchen, grimacing as he still tasted the bitter taste of death in his mouth.

“Okay, science fair, I have no idea what to do for it, yet,” Stiles said as he sat down on his bed.

“I hate science and I failed science,” Theo said.

“Kiss goodbye the first place, second place, third place, and honorary mention, then,” Stiles said as he took one of his many science books out of the shelf.

“But, I didn’t say that I don’t have an idea for the science fair project,” Theo added.

Stiles shot his head up from the book, “and what is the idea for the science fair?” he asked.

“You can see the amount of iron in your cereal using a magnet, I learned that by accident once,” Theo said.

“How did you find iron in your cereal, do you eat nails for breakfast?” Stiles asked.

“Using a Neodymium Magnet and soaking cereal with water in a Ziploc bag,” Theo said.

“I thought you hated science,” Stiles asked.

“I saw it on T.V and got interested enough to try it out, alright?” Theo said.

“How do we turn this into a science fair project, then?” Stiles questioned.

“Test other cereal brands for iron?” Theo said, sounding unsure about it.

“Fine, I guess, that could work,” Stiles said, “do you still have that Neodymium magnet?”

“Yeah, that thing cost me 50 bucks, I’m not throwing it away after a morning’s use,” Theo said.

“Bring it over tomorrow, and if you got any extra Ziploc bags, bring ‘em too,” Stiles said to Theo.

“How about the cereals?” Theo asked.

“I have 3 different cereal brands in this house, if you have anything that’s different, bring it,” Stiles said, forgetting to say the 3 cereal brands.

“And what are the cereal brands you got?” Theo asks.

“Frosted Flakes, Froot Loops and Kellogg’s cornflakes,” Stiles listed the three.

“I’ll see if I have anything different at my home,” Theo said, “off-topic but why do you have 3 different cereal brands in your kitchen?”

“I have different preferences on different days, Theodore,” Stiles said.

The next day, Theo brings his magnet and a small box of Ziploc bags along with a box of Lucky Charms cereal.

“So, we have to do this and make a visual presentation, so I had my dad buy a bristol board to use as our presentation board,” Stiles said, as he showed Theo the big grey colored paper on the dining table.

“Ok, I also forgot to mention that we need warm water, not cold,” Theo said.

“Lucky for you, I know how to operate a simple electric kettle,” Stiles said as he filled the kettle with water.

They let it cook while Stiles brings out markers and pens from his room to the kitchen. Theo and he weren’t on the best of terms yet, but it was better than it was.

In the 4 days leading up to the science fair, Stiles and Theo had done the science experiments, finished up the visual presentation board, and had played Mario Kart 64 twice. Now, it was time to show their science project to the school.

Stiles met with Theo in the hall and both boys felt the energetic vibes they and the whole school were emitting during the hours before the science fair opened.

They go to their place and set their project up. Stiles rehearsed his lines, making sure there were no up-ticks or stutters during his speech on the project. Stiles’ friends came over to see what he had done, and they were pretty welcoming towards Theo. Maybe he could join their group. Or pack as Scott and Stiles liked to call it.

Soon enough, the science fair opened and the judges began making their rounds.

“Are you ready?” Theo asked, with a look on his face that Stiles had never seen before.

“Sorta, are you?” Stiles said.

“Sorta, I guess,” Theo said, scratching the back of his neck.

“You are completely nervous,” Stiles said.

“Look, I usually go M.I.A on these types of things, so this is my first time,” Theo admitted.

“Why didn’t you go M.I.A this time too?” Stiles asked.

“Because you are Stiles Stilinski,” Theo said.

Stiles smiles and pats Theo’s back, “I don't know what that's supposed to mean, but relax, it’s going to be alright,” he said.

“And the winner of this year’s science fair at Beacon Hills Middle School is,” the principal announces, Stiles anxiously awaits, chewing at his fingernails ever since they did the judges’ evaluation, “Mieczyslaw Stilinski and Theodore Raeken!”

"Oh, My GOD!" Stiles exclaims as he realizes they won and he quickly grabs Theo’s hand and marches up to the stage. The principal hands them a trophy that can be split in two so that both of them can take it home. Stiles looks at the crowd and sees his friends and his dad clap proudly at them winning.

The event ends with a small ending speech by the principal and Stiles scrambles to find his friends.

“Wanna head to Benny’s Creamery?” Scott asks.

“C-could I come?” Theo asks.

“Of course!” Stiles said, slinging his hand over Theo’s shoulders.

They all head over to Benny’s Creamery with Stiles’ dad carpooling them all to the creamery.

Issac was in the passenger seat along with Scott since both boys can fit in the seat, Boyd sat behind the passenger seat with Allison and Erica squished in the middle and Stiles was sitting behind his dad and Theo was awkwardly half on Stiles’ lap and half on the seat.

The squishing did provoke some unsaid feelings between Stiles and Theo, especially Theo, his cheeks were dusted with pink and red.

“Imitating a Solanum Lycopersicum?” Stiles whispered to Theo.

“A what?” Theo asked.

“Tomato, dummy, your face is red like a tomato,” Stiles said.

“Oh, uh, maybe,” Theo said.

His dad pulls up and parks in the small parking area of the store and everyone scrambles out. Stiles notices Theo staying quite far away from everyone as they wait to order. He holds Theo’s hand and pulls him closer.

“And what would you two boys like?” The woman asked Stiles and Theo.

“Cookies and cream with chocolate chips and whip cream in a cone, please,” Stiles said, his usual order.

“Uh, the same?” Theo said.

“Dude, you like cookies and cream with chocolate chips and whip cream too?” Stiles asked.

“Actually, I’ve never been here, so I didn’t know what else to order,” Theo said.

“Well then, trust me, it’s the best!” Stiles said, excitedly.

The lady hands Stiles and Theo two cones and they head over to sit with the rest. The sun had already set, leaving a slight tinge of purple and blue in the sky. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but it was dark enough for street lights to turn on and illuminate the road.

Stiles’ dad takes pictures of them as they all huddle together with their ice creams. With and without the picture, it was a day that everyone would cherish and remember. Especially Stiles and Theo.

Some time had passed, exactly 1 week and 4 days, as Stiles had counted. Theo is part of the pack, meeting up with the rest at recess now, and every time Stiles sees Theo, he feels weird. Weird as in his feet get restless and cold, his stomach squirms and his voice gets high-pitched than normal.

“What’s up with you these days?” Scott asks, distracting Stiles from his train-of-thought.

“What do you mean what’s up with me? I’m fine, completely fine,” Stiles said.

“What he’s trying to say is, what’s with the jitteriness especially around Theo?” Issac asked.

“What jitteriness?” Stiles asked.

“Hey, should I come to your house to watch Star Wars, tomorrow?” Theo said as he walked up to them.

Stiles stumbles over his words, and his brain frantically goes to panic mode, ‘Say hey, no, say good day, or hey,’ Stiles instructed himself.

“Gay,” Stiles blurts out.

Issac, Scott, and Theo stare at Stiles with the faces of absolute confusion, and Stiles gasps as his brain processes what he just said.

“Oh, uh, no, that’s not what I meant, I meant hey, yes, sure, star wars, tomorrow, si,” Stiles sputtered.

“I think Stiles needs to go to the bathroom right now,” Scott said.

“I do?” Stiles said.

Issac nods and Scott darts his eyes at Theo for a slight second.

“Oh yeah, I do,” Stiles said, turning around to go to the bathroom.

Scott holds his friend by the shoulder and walks him out of the school building. They stop in front of their bikes.

“Stiles, you are a mess,” Issac said.

“Thank you, Issac, but I already looked in a mirror today,” Stiles retorted as he put his helmet on.

“You’re welcome,” Issac said, his lips curling in a mischievous smile.

They ride to their houses and Issac heads home while Scott stops at Stiles’ house. Stiles gets off his bike and so does Scott.

“Do you want to tell me what’s up with you and Theo?” Scott asked.

“That, I don’t know either, Scott, I hated him then, but now, every single time I see him, I get this weird feeling-” Stiles confessed.

“Like you have a crush?” Scott interrupted Stiles.

“Why would I have a crush on Theo? I don’t like boys,” Stiles said.

“I was just suggesting, it’s alright if you do, or don’t, but from my eyes, Stiles, you look like you have a crush on Theo,”

“I mean, it is something, I’m just not sure,” Stiles said.

“You’ll figure it out, soon enough, and oh god,” Scott said, suddenly realizing something.

“What?” Stiles asks.

“I forgot to hide my Reese's peanut butter cup stash from this morning and it’s on my bed, Issac’s going to eat it all!” Scott said, jumping on his bike and riding away.

“You’re dead meat, Issac McCall!” Stiles heard Scott yell as he rode his bike down to their house.

Stiles ponders on what his relationship with Theo was, as he tows his bike into the garage. Were they just friends, and why was he feeling this weird way towards Theo?

‘This is another problem for another day, I got homework to do,’ Stiles thought, brushing the subject off.

The last two months of seventh grade came and went, for summer this year, Stiles and his dad went on a week’s trip to the grand canyon and it was amazing. Stiles had so much to tell everyone when eighth grade started, and as for the feelings towards Theo, they grew larger.

Stiles did try to explore himself more, trying to figure out his feelings for Theo, but he never found a conclusion that was concrete enough for Stiles.

On the eve of Christmas, the pack was all in the McCall household, for a sleepover. It was quite early in the night and they just had dinner, courtesy of Mama McCall, and they all sat in a circle to play truth-or-dare.

“So, Stiles, truth, or dare?” Erica asked.

“Truth,” Stiles picks.

“Out of everyone in this circle, would you choose to go on a date with?” Erica asked.

He thought about the question for a second, was he really going to say Theo, or should he lie and say someone else’s name? He did not know.

“I’m going to have to choose, Theo,” Stiles answered.

They all looked at Theo who was nervously chuckling as his face grew red.

“Theo, huh, would you say the same?” Erica asks, stifling a laugh.

“It’s not even my turn, yet,” Theo protested.

“Answer or you will get the sombrero of shame,” Erica said.

“Yeah, I guess I would say the same,” Theo said.

“Oooh, romance,” Erica sang, “cue the sexy saxophone noises!”

They all laughed and the night continued on, with more truth-or-dare, then they started binging on Christmas movies as everyone fell asleep.

“Stiles,” Theo whispered to the boy, who was still awake.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“Did you mean it?” Theo asked.

“Yeah, believe it or not, I did, did you?” Stiles said, turning his head to face Theo’s gaze.

Theo nods, “I did too,” he said.

#steoweek #steoweek2020 #stiles stilinski #theo raeken #steo #myfic

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morenotles · 4 years ago

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Teen Wolf (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Allison Argent, Peter Hale, Stiles Stilinski, Chris Argent, Gerard Argent, Lydia Martin, Adrian Harris Additional Tags: Allison Argent & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Politics, Four Seasons Total Landscaping AU, Getting Together, Humor, Gerard Argent gets what's coming to him, Crack Treated Seriously Summary:

Gerard Argent's presidential campaign is caught between a cock and a charred place.

Stiles and Allison are to blame.

#stetopher #Stiles Stilinski #Peter Hale #Chris Argent #fanfic #this is brilliant #if you need a laugh or three read this

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femmefairytales · 4 years ago

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Mobile Muse List

Auradon - Children

Ally & Maddie (Daughters of Alice & the Mad Hatter)

Annette, Collette, and Danielle (Daughters of Lady & the Tramp)

Bronagh (Daughter of the Bean Sidhe)

Careen (Daughter of Nora & Paul)

Daenerys (Daughter of Princess Marianne & the Bog King)

Dahlia (Daughter of Calla & Calvin)

Emma (Daughter of Snow White and Prince David)

Fay (Daughter of Fairy Godmother)

Fern (Daughter of Basil of Baker Street)

Fuli (Member of The Lion Guard)

Kiara (Daughter of Simba & Nala)

Lenore (Daughter of Helgamine)

Lorelei (Daughter of the Neverland Mermaids)

Lurline (Daughter of Ozma)

Magnolia (Daughter of Charlotte La Bouff)

Mahealani (Daughter of Maui)

Maya (Daughter of the Wolfman from NBC)

Melinoe (Daughter of Persephone & Hades)

Melody (Daughter of Ariel & Eric)

Olwenna (Daughter of Taran & Eilonwy)

Qadira (Daughter of Hakim)

Reagan (Daughter of Ella & Char)

Rhoswen (Daughter of the Lady of the Lake)

Rosalind (Daughter of King Richard and Roberta)

Samira (Daughter of Galavant and Isabella)

Storm (Daughter of Merryweather)

Tansy (Daughter of Fauna)

Therimachia (Daughter of Hercules & Megara)

Xiomara (Daughter of Queen Amaya & King Magnifico)

Helen-a-Dale (Daughter of Lady Kluck and Alan-a-Dale)

Marisol Alvarez (Daughter of Kuzco & Malina)

Simone of Andalasia (Daughter of Edward & Nancy)

Annelise of Arendelle (Daughter of Elsa)

Camille Charming (Daughter of Cinderella & Prince Kit)

McKenna Dalloway (Daughter of Marnie Piper and Ethan Dalloway)

Georgina “George” Darling (Daughter of John Darling)

Poppy Dennison (Daughter of Max & Allison)

Ciorstaid DunBroch (Daughter of Hamish)

Alice Clayton (Daughter of Tarzan & Jane)

Vivienne de la Fère (Daughter of Athos & Milady de Winter)

Daire Fitzherbert (Daughter of Rapunzel & Flynn Rider/Eugene Fitzherbert)

Charlotte Zylphia Gracey (Daughter of Master Gracey)

Vanessza Harker (Daughter of Mina & Jonathan)

Mary Jekyll (Daughter of Dr. Jekyll)

Briony Lightfoot (Daughter of Barley)

Gwendolyn “Gwyn” Locksley (Daughter of Robin Hood & Maid Marian)

Dulce Madrigal (Daughter of Bruno Madrigal)

Janna de Martin (Daughter of Pheobus & Esmeralda)

Scarlett Müller (Daughter of Little Red & The Big Bad Wolf)

Alainne Pendragon (Daughter of King Arthur & Queen Guinevere)

Lucy Piper (Daughter of Mary Contrary & Tom Piper)

Josephine “Poppy” Poppins (Daughter of Mary Poppins & Bert)

Yekaterina “Katya” Sudayev (Daughter of Anastasia & Dimitri)

Jada Sweet (Daughter of Joshua Sweet)

Nadije Thatch (Daughter of Milo & Kida)

Ana de Tito (Daughter of Tito & Georgette)

Lydia Von Tassel (Daughter of Mary Von Tassel and the Headless Horseman)

Amelia “Mia” Turner (Daughter of Will Turner & Elizabeth Swann)

Auradon - Parents

Della Duck (Ducktales)

Alice Liddell

Elizabeth Sanderson (Hocus Pocus: The All New Sequel)

Queen Aurora (the Sleeping Beauty)

Queen Guinevere

Lillian (”Lady”)

(Little) Red Riding Hood

Maid Marian

Isle of the Lost - Children

Eleanor (Daughter of Prince John)

Medea (Daughter of Panic)

Taryn (Daughter of Morgana)

Katrina Frankenstein (Daughter of Victor Frankenstein)

Seraphina Heart (Daughter of the King & Queen of Hearts)

Diana Hyde (Daughter of Mr. Hyde)

Calista Jane “CJ” Hook (Daughter of Captain Hook)

Citrine McLeach (Daughter of Madame Medusa and Percival McLeach)

Catherine Moreau (Daughter of Dr. Moreau)

Tatiana Rasputin (Daughter of Grigori Rasputin)

Arabella “Ara” Sanderson (Daughter of Sarah Sanderson & Gaston)

Angelica Tremaine (Daughter of Anastasia Tremaine)

Isle of the Lost - Parents

Madelena

Morgan Le Fey

Winnifred Sanderson

Zira

#(pinned post)#(muse list: a veritable who's who of auradon)

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randomestfandoms-ocs · 5 years ago

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How about C for the letter thing?

Oh god this was another where it was really hard to choose but I’m going to have to go with some forever faves!

Charlotte Jones

Full Name: Charlotte Grace Jones

Nicknames, If Any: Lottie, Char

Hogwarts House: Slytherin

Gender: Female

Sexuality: aroace

A Song I Associate With Them: Bad Reputation, Joan Jett

3 Important Relationships: FP Jones, Jellybean Jones, Jughead Jones (bonus Betty & Polly Cooper, and Malachai)

2 Fears: Clifford Blossom, losing her siblings

1 Element of their backstory: Charlotte witnessed Jason’s death and was used by Clifford as a threat to keep FP from telling anyone

Carmen Rivera

Full Name: Carmen Rivera

Nicknames, If Any: N/A

Hogwarts House: Gryffindor?

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Pan

A Song I Associate With Them: Carmen, Lana Del Rey

3 Important Relationships: Scott McCall, Melissa McCall, Lydia Martin

2 Fears: suffocating,

1 Element of their backstory: Carmen was assaulted shortly before moving to Beacon Hills

Send me a letter and if I have an OC with that initial, I’ll tell you

#ask #answered #anon #charlotte jones #about charlotte #carmen rivera #about carmen

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selfignitingimagines · 6 years ago

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Lydia- I Think I Do

Request- Lydia + number 2 of the holiday prompts would be great ^^

2. “I know I was supposed to plan the entire Christmas party, but this is A LOT harder than it looks, okay?” In which decorations are destroyed, plans go awry, and someone has to swallow their pride and ask their crush for help.

A/N- I LOVE Lydia Martin, okay? I totally changed the holiday in the prompt but oh well. Thank you for the request!! Happy early New Year guys!!

“What do you think about a dutch braid?” Lydia asked, leaning forward as she held out a thick section of your hair.

You shrugged. “Whatever you want to do.”

“This is supposed to be your makeover,” she reminded you.

You tilted your head, smiling at her in the mirror. “I think we both know it’s always been your makeover.”

Lydia’s lips curled up. “Fine, so I’m a control freak when it comes to makeup.”

“Don’t forget hair and clothes too,” you added, winking at her.

Lydia blushed, and looked back down to examine your head. “I think I’m going to try a milkmaid braid on you. And then we can curl these strands right here…”

“How did I know we would be doing this when you invited me over?”

“Because you’re the perfect model,” she said swiftly. “And you’re perfectly willing. Unlike Malia, who almost took off my fingers when I tried to paint her nails.”

You laughed softly. “Sounds like Malia.”

“And, because I already talk too much about myself,” she continued. “This way, I’m too busy to gossip, and you get to catch me up on what’s been going on with you.”

“I haven’t been that busy…”

“Y/n, everytime I texted you at school, you were always studying. We haven’t really talked in months.”

“Well, I’m just glad the semester is over,” you admitted. “I didn’t do much but study and sleep when I was at school. And when I came back, I missed almost all the action.”

Lydia scoffed. “You skipped your finals to come save us from hunters, Y/n. You were the action.”

A warm feeling spread through you, a direct result of Lydia’s admiration. “Well, calculus could never be as important as my best friend. And you’re a lot more fun.”

“Speaking of fun,” she mused. “What are you doing for New Year’s?”

“Are you throwing another party to end all parties?” you wondered, teasing her just a little.

As her best friend, you had been to a fair amount of Lydia Martin’s infamous parties, and year after year, they never failed to impress. Things changed after Allison died, and it became only you and the rest of the pack, but Lydia still went all out.

“Honestly,” she told you. “This year was hell. I’m not sure I want to celebrate it.”

Your mouth fell open. “You want a quiet night in? Lydia Martin does not do quiet nights in.”

She sighed, smiling sadly. “Maybe at one point in time. I’m just not the same girl I was in high school, Y/n. None of us are the same.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But you’re still my best friend, and to be honest, I think we should celebrate the fact that we’re all still alive.”

“I’m just not in the mood to plan it,” she admitted. “If I’m doing it, it has to be done right. I just don’t have the energy.”

“Lydia,” you said softly. “We’re all going separate ways. And since everyone comes back for the holidays, New Year’s is the one time when the stars align and put everyone back in the same place. You really wanna pass that up?”

She frowned. “I don’t know.”

“What if I plan it?” you asked her.

She glanced at you with skeptical green eyes. “You’ve never planned a party before.”

“And?” you demanded. “Everyone has to start somewhere. We can still have it here, but I’ll do all the prep work. You can sit back, put your pretty feet up, and let me throw the party.”

She pursed her red lips. “You’re sure you want to do this? It’s a lot harder than it looks.”

You rolled your eyes. “Are you forgetting that I’ve seen you at your worst?”

Her lips curled upward, and she placed a warm hand on you shoulder. “You have...I guess it’s up to you then.”

You smiled brightly at her, ready to prove yourself. It wasn’t that you particularly cared about partying. You would have been just as excited about a movie night with the pack, but you secretly wanted to impress Lydia.

For years, you had watched her light up rooms full of people with her charisma and careful planning. You wanted that too, even if it was for one night. Maybe if she saw that, she’d finally want you as more than a friend.

As her fingers wove through your hair, you pushed away your longing and plastered a smile on your face. You were going to throw an amazing party if it was the last thing you did.

-----

It was a disaster.

The decorations you ordered ended up being for Halloween, due to some mix up at the shipping facility in Oregon. Little plastic champagne flutes were decorated with spiders and skeletons, despite your order for stars and glitter. Instead of silver and black banners, you now had purple and green ones, plastered with a shaky font reading “TIME TO GET SPOOKY.”

Your cookies had burned in the oven, the cake hadn’t arrived from the baker, and Malia had knocked over the enormous platter of cheese and crackers, intending to steal a snack.

“This is awful,” you groaned, as Malia munched on a cracker from the floor.

She was sitting at your kitchen table, staring at you with raised eyebrows. “I mean, the food is still good.”

“I literally charred these,” you reminded her, snatching a blackened chocolate chip cookie and waving it in her face.

She reached for it, took a crunchy bite, and looked thoughtful. “They’re not that bad.”

You sighed and ripped it from her hand, tossing it in the trash without a second glance.

“And why are you eating those?” you demanded. “They fell on the floor!”

“They still taste the same. Maybe a little bit dusty, but mostly the same.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but ended up closing it. It was better to just drop the subject.

“You know, you could always call L-”

“I am not calling Lydia!” you snapped, sinking down into the chair across from her and putting your face in your hands. “I told her I would take care of everything. I promised I would do it.”

“Look, I get you don’t want to look stupid in front of her, but I think you’re past that…”

You glared at her, but then your lip started to tremble, and you broke down into tears. “You’re right.”

Malia grimaced. Emotions were never something she had been good at dealing with, not even her own.

She reached forward to pat your back stiffly. “Um, hey. It’s not that bad. I mean, the worst she could do is be disappointed in you.”

You began to cry harder, and Malia groaned, reaching for your phone. “Y/n, just call her. She’ll probably be happy to help. You know how easily she gets bored.”

“I don’t want her to hate me.”

“I could never hate you.”

You glanced up, jumping slightly as you realized Lydia was standing in the doorway of your kitchen. Mortified, you asked “What are you doing here?”

She sighed. “I figured you might need a little help. And Malia, is right, I was bored out of my mind.”

She came over to wrap an arm around your shoulders. “Oh, Y/n, why didn’t you just call?”

“I wanted it to be perfect,” you explained, wiping tears away from your cheeks. “I wanted to do something special for you.”

“For me?” she asked.

“Well, for everyone,” you said quickly. “But especially for you. You always go all out, Lydia.”

She smiled. “Yes, and it’s exhausting...but the fact that you wanted to do this for me is amazing. And you almost pulled it off too.”

You buried your face in your hands, and she pulled you into a hug. “You were pretty damn close...which is why this party can absolutely be saved.”

You picked your head up and looked at her with puffy eyes. “It can?”

She nodded and winked at Malia, who didn’t seem to notice as she gnawed on another burned cookie. “It’s nothing a trip to the dollar store can’t fix.”

-----

“Wow, Lydia,” Scott remarked, as he stepped into her foyer. “This place looks great.”

“Actually,” Lydia informed him, looping an arm through yours as you stood in the entryway. “Y/n planned the whole thing. I was only here for assistance.”

Scott gave an impressed nod and smiled at you.

Kira smiled as she trailed behind him, glancing up at the cheap foil banners and balloons you and Lydia had dipped in glitter glue. As it turned out, no one could really tell the difference between expensive decorations and these.

“I love it,” she told you. “It reminds me of you. Very bright.”

You flushed, and Lydia squeezed your arm excitedly.

Stiles showed up next, rolling his eyes as he led a chattering Liam and Mason into Lydia’s

house. He had been tasked with chauffeuring them to the party.

“Holy shit,” he said, as he walked inside. “You did better than I thought you would, Y/n.”

Lydia shot him a glare, and he swallowed. “It looks very nice.”

“Looks like that’s everyone,” you remarked as you followed them to the kitchen.

The cake was sitting on the kitchen table, decorated in silver and gold icing. It turned out that the bakery had just been running late, and on your way back from the door, you, Lydia and Malia had stopped by to pick it up.

Malia had stuck her face up against the glass, eyeing all the pastries and sweets, and she ended up choosing the cookies that would replace the ones you had burned. Even though, as Malia stated, “They tasted fine.”.

Throughout the night, you laughed and drank and enjoyed the time you had together. When Liam flicked on the TV to see the ball drop, you all screamed with joy as the new year rang in.

After the excitement had died down, everyone was either asleep (Malia), drunk (Mason and Stiles), or talking quietly.

You and Lydia had made your way to the top of her stairs, and were sitting quietly with near-empty glasses of champagne in your hands.

“Did you really want to do this for me?” Lydia asked softly.

You turned to her and smiled. “Yeah. You’ve come such a long way. I kinda wanted to celebrate that.”

She smiled, a light blush creeping onto her cheeks. “So have you. You’re the bravest person I know.”

“And you’re the strongest,” you said softly.

She gently shook her head, causing her red curls to shake. “I’m not strong. I’ve spent this entire year scared out of my mind, wondering if all of us are going to stay alive or not. I was terrified something would happen when you were at school.”

You laughed softly. “Lydia, I just went away to college. I was probably safer not being in Beacon Hills.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It’s just...there were things I wanted to tell you. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to say them.”

“Then tell me,” you said with a shrug. “We’re together now, aren’t we?”

She nodded. “Y/n, you’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend. Out of everyone else, I was most terrified of losing you and at first I thought that was why. But that wasn’t it.”

You felt your breath catch in your throat, and you set your glass down out of fear that Lydia could see your hands shaking.

“There’s more,” she continued. “When you did this tonight, I finally realized that you might feel the same way. That you might be in love with me too. And I really hope it’s true.”

She was staring at you with those wide green eyes, so full and hopeful. You wanted to say so many things, but you couldn’t put into words the years worth of feelings you had for her.

Instead, you leaned forward, cupping her warm cheeks and kissing her. She leaned into you, eagerly kissing you back.

With her lips on yours, you remembered all the small little moments that had told you that you loved her. They flashed through your head like a film reel, and it was like you were watching your life from the outside.

You could remember spending hours in her pool during the summer, spitting water at each other and splashing. You could see the two of you watching the notebook, hugging each other and crying. Getting ready for the first day of school together. Sitting with her after Peter attacked her. Clinging to each other for support at Allison’s funeral. Doing each other’s makeup for dances, prom, and tearfully before graduation. Saying a goodbye when you left for college, knowing it could never truly be goodbye, not with Lydia.

She kissed you back fiercely, as if she knew exactly what you were thinking and was feeling it too. When she pulled away, she reached up to run her thumb across your lip.

“You ruined your lipstick,” she remarked breathlessly.

“You can fix it,” your murmured to her, reaching forward to pull her into a hug. “Lydia, I love you.”

“I love you too,” she whispered. “So much, Y/n. You have no idea.”

You pulled away to smile at her, looking into her deep green eyes.

“I think I do.”

#teen wolf #teen wolf imagines #selfignitingimagines #lydia martin imagines

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