#dylan pl

[laytonnpcbracket]

ROUND 1 POLL 34 SIDE B

About the NPCs:

Madame Doublée is one of London's Seven Dragons. She is fond of her pet Rex.

Otherwise known as: スコーラ・ガルフレッツアー (Japanese); Madame de Manton-Grasset (French); Madame Bimenton (Italian); Madame Trijntje Grootekin (Dutch); Madame de Papadome (Spanish); Bertha von Doppelpfund (German)

Dylan is a kid living in Future London's Chinatown. He is fond of toy cars.

Otherwise known as: Duncan (UK English, Spanish, Dutch); ディラン (Japanese)

[awarnin]

NSFW Alphabet | DYLAN MINNETTE HEADCANONS

warning: NSFW content (obvs lol), chocking.

author's note: my first time writing smut FUCK. please be kind, constructive criticism is welcome. I HOPE YOU LIKE IT <3 my inbox is open if you have a request or want to chat!

.

a = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Dylan will take care of you always, during and after sex. He will pick you up and carry you to the shower, gently wash your hair making you feel comfortable and loved. He likes to make sure you’re okay.

b = body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He LOVES your hips. He loves being able to grab them and pull you towards him to feel your bodies collide. He does it everywhere, in private, when you’re talking to someone, when you’re distracted. A discreet act but sexy enough to turn you both on. As for himself, he’s been working on his arms lately and is very comfortable with the results. He knows you like them, and he likes that.

c = cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves to cum on your stomach, seeing you lying there, defeated and with your puppy eyes waiting for him makes him give himself to you with such fervor. Plus, he'll always make sure you cum before him.

d = dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

I dare say he's always had the fantasy of cuckolding. The idea of seeing you with another man turns him on a lot.

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Experienced enough to know what he's doing, but he'll always ask you what you like and if you're comfortable with what he's doing.

f = favorite position (this goes without saying)

COWBOY. He really loves your hips, being able to hold you while watching you take control and make him cum is the best thing that can happen to him.

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He'll make a few comments that will make you laugh so you don't lose track, but most of the time he'll focus on making you roll your eyes.

h = hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

As you like. He'll keep it the way you prefer it and makes it more comfortable for you.

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Dylan won't get tired of giving you kisses on the neck, and whispering how much he loves you.

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

It's something he enjoys doing, whether you're there or not. It's something he does often and he loves doing it in places where he knows you'll catch him.

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

Choking kink: He likes you to choke him, Dylan is a multi-dynamic person, be clear about that.

Daddy kink: When he's in control, he loves you calling him that, it makes him feel like he's doing a good job.

Threesomes: Not necessarily a fetish but it's definitely something he likes to experiment with you, of course, if you want.

Praise kink: He likes to flatter you, compliment your figure and tell you to say it by doing well, he likes to receive the same.

l = location (favorite places to do the do)

He is a very closed person when it comes to having sex: your bedroom, the shower or the living room.

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Like I said before, your hips. God, he loves them so much. Also watching you wear his clothes or play his guitar.

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turns offs)

Public sex. It’s a no, no negotiation.

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He likes both. He loves feeling your legs getting stiffer and more stiffer around his neck, it gives him enormous satisfaction knowing that only his tongue can make you come that way. He loves tasting your juices. He also adores to see you on your knees ready to give it your all just to make him feel good, what can I say, he has a big ego.

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He’s the sensual type, he likes to take his time with you and make you feel great, plus he doesn't want to hurt you.

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Not a big fan.

r = risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

As I said before, he doesn't like to take risks when it comes to outsiders that you aren't sexually involved with at the time. Sex is an intimate experience and he believes it should be treated as one.

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

3 on a good day, most of the time 2.

t = toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He really enjoys using them on you, especially vibrators, he feels it adds a little extra spark to the moment. On himself, he's not into it.

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

He doesn't like to tease you too much, enough that you're already so down before you even start.

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

He's quite a talkative person during sex, he likes to whisper dirty words in your ear during the act, he'll let out a few little moans here and there.

w = wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He likes to use handcuffs sometimes, it doesn't matter on which one of you, he just enjoys using them. He enjoys having you on top of him while he's being subdued by you without being able to escape. He loves you doing whatever you want with him without him being able to interrupt. When he's in the mood, he'll return the favor.

x = x-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

He's a little bit above average, kind of 6-6.5 inches, kind of thin but really good.

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Pretty normal, he enjoys sex with you.

z = zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He would rather spend some time talking to you before going to sleep, he likes to take care of you afterwards and make sure you are okay.

.

[revengesthings]

he's so tasty

[mysticallystilinski]

hey hey love! it would be super cool if you wanted to bless us mere peasants with some angsty stiles? i was thinking like you guys get in a fight and after it's over he like.... desperately needs to make up for it. i love you doll!!!!

MAKE UP OR BREAK UP

a stiles stilinski x fem!reader fic

— ౨ৎ masterlist

synopsis - problems are consistent throughout your relationship with stiles. what happens when you hit your breaking point.. and he wants to make it up to you?

CW ! 18 + SMUT ( fingering, oral intercourse [f!recieving], slightly toxic stiles, completely out of character lydia )

lav speaks.. hii lovey! i hope you enjoy this, i really wish i wrote more angst but i’m hoping to make a part 2 soon ;)

lydia.

it has always been stiles pining over lydia, until of course you showed up in the picture. you knew about stiles obsession, and how it stopped after you two got together. learning that lydia had feelings for him had bothered you since the beginning, but what could you do about it.

the touching, the flirting, but most importantly the looks. it was never stiles, always lydia. since you and stiles were more of a lowkey couple, she hadn’t known much about your relationship. only thinking it was a fling, that it would never last, she wanted to shoot her shot.

after a lacrosse game, you headed over to stiles, but lydia beat you there. placing her hand on his arm, she was gazing up at him with a seductive look. you heard the whispers of congratulation, and the way she praised your boyfriend.

it angered something in you.

slowly approaching them on the field, stiles noticed you right away. he turned away from lydia, and walked the distance to close the gap between you guys. he placed his helmet, and stick on the turf in a quick movement. a light smile brushed his face, then quickly was removed when seeing your expression.

“baby, what’s wrong?”, stiles spoke softly, placing his sweaty palm upon your cheek. you shunned your head away, practically giving him the silent treatment. your relationship was healthy, except for the way stiles dealt with lydia; or the lack of how he pushed her away.

tears welled up in your eyes, “stiles, i just can’t do this anymore.” as soon as you spoke those words, droplets fell onto your head. it started to rain, and everyone else started to leave. you wanted to stay, wanted to get an explanation, an answer.

the rain came down as fast as it possibly could, mixing the tears and precipitation together down your cheeks. stiles was in awe; not knowing what to possibly say to that. he took a step forward, you took one back.

“is this about lydia?”, he questioned. “of course it’s about lydia”, you scoffed in response. his response was out of the ordinary, “i don’t get why you have such a problem with it. lydia and i have been friends for years.”

“sti — you know it’s not like that. it’s the way she looks at you, the way she flirts with you.”

he practically laughed right at you, “you’re kidding right? she doesn’t like me like that.” you laughed back at him, not understanding his point of view. “stiles, she obviously does, how can you not see it?”.

you were getting soaking wet, the rain was making you way too cold. stiles looked beautiful in it, but you couldn’t focus on that fact when he wouldn’t understand your feelings.

stiles stood there, no response, thinking of something to say. it was like he was in slight shock, but slightly happy about it. feelings that lingered for years just don’t go away once you meet someone new.

“yeah, i’m just gonna head inside if you’re not gonna say anything. i’m tired of you defending her like she’s your girlfriend. reality check, i’m your girlfriend, not her stiles.”

you take a step away from stiles, making your way across the field. you felt his presence stay in the exact same place without having to even look back. you headed through the rain, no jacket, no boyfriend with you, and going into the dimly lit school.

heading to the locker room, you went to stiles locker to grab your spare jacket. you couldn’t handle the rain anymore as it was beating down too hard, and you didn’t have a ride home. the least you should have is your jacket.

nobody else was in the large locker room, completely vacant but yourself. when you heard the door open, you immediately knew it was stiles. “y/n, are you in here?”, he asked. your breathing fell silent as you saw him round the corner, and his face slightly contort as he saw you by his locker.

“why are you at my locker?”, he asked in a semi-harsh tone. “oh don’t you worry sti — i’m grabbing my jacket to walk home.” stiles face went from a type of anger, to compassion. “what do you mean walking home? i thought i’m taking you home.”

you laughed, turning to face stiles, gym shoes squeaking from your position. “really, you think i’m grabbing a ride with you? i’m okay. go take lydia home”, you giggled. within a snap, stiles headed from the other side of the room towards you, and placed his wet lips onto yours.

you gasped in surprise, not expecting stiles to kiss you. he reluctantly pulled back, “what don’t you get? i want you, not lydia.” stiles hand caressed your cheek, pulling your chin up to face his eyes.

the silence in the room was deadly, but so was the lust. you felt yourself ache for him, especially after he confessed to only wanting you. it wasn’t unlike stiles to profess his love, but each time it got you more turned on. he turned your head to the side forcefully, and proceeded to place kisses on the surrounding area.

between each kiss he groaned, “let me make it up to you baby, let me prove it to you.” quickly nodding, stiles took that as a sign to make hickies down your neckline. sucking, and slightly biting down, he caused you to moan out in pleasure.

you felt his smirk through his lips on your skin. each kiss on your body was passionate, and filled with a sort of energy. stiles motioned for you to life up your arms, as you did he lifted your shirt above your head. giggling, you went in to kiss stiles, but he pushed you back against the locker once again.

“baby — i said let me make it up to you. i want to make you feel good.”

you practically came in your pants from his tone and mix of words. you tugged at the hem of his jersey, slowly pulling it off to show his glistening wet body. running your fingers across his torso, he smirked at your expression. he tugged off his own lacrosse shorts, only to be left in his tight boxers. a visible imprint was seen, completely covered but revealing to the imagination.

in response, you grabbed the waistband of your shorts, and slowly pulled them down in a seductive way. you heard stiles whine at your action, proving his loyalty to you. bra and panties, that’s all you were left in.

“let me just remove this, and take this to the shower”, stiles smirked while taking off your bra and panties, plus pointing from himself to you. “sti –”, you protested as his boxers weren’t pulled down yet. he took that as a sign to remove them, discarding them with the rest of the clothes on the bench.

without waiting for him, you headed to the private part of the showers. turning on the water, you placed it on a hot setting, just enough for the locker room to get steamy. stiles made his way towards you, eyeing you up and down as he did. “mm’ you look so good”, he groaned, lacing his fingers in the back of your hair and pulling you closer.

interlocking lips, stiles was rough. he wanted to fuck you to prove his loyalty, and especially his attraction. his tongue made his way into your mouth, just as his hand made it’s way to cup your ass. you gasped, giving him easy access to your mouth.

he kneaded his fingers into your soft skin, placing rubs up and down your back. without ever staying apart, stiles led you to the bench in the shower. he sat you down, and went down onto his knees. just him in that position made you even more wet. he was all ready just for you.

“i’m gonna show you how much i need you baby”, he spoke in a hush. before you could reply, he spread your legs apart and slowly licked a stripe up your folds. a shiver was occurring in you as he began to suck slowly on your clit.

immediately, your fingers locked in his hair. pulling and tugging as hard as you wanted made him whimper into the depths of the act. the vibrations caused your legs to begin to shake. “sti – this feels so good.”

without a verbal response, stiles moaned. you knew he enjoyed it just as much; if not more than you did. he was vocal to say the least, lapping and sucking at your soaking cunt. with each movement, bliss fell into your lap.

the stimulation was always too much with him, his tongue worked too many wonders. without an ask, he placed a single digit into you, slowly pulsing it in and out.

a gasp left your wet lips, not expecting him to go even further than he already had. that urged him to placed another finger into your heat, making a sloppy sound fueling him to the max. 2 of his fingers, deep inside you, filling you to the brim was enough for tears to stain your cheeks once again.

the mixture of him sucking, plus the deep penetration was magic. “i can’t take it anymore, i’m gonna come”, you spilled in a whine. stiles sped up his motions, causing your body to tense. your chest began to rise, and fall in a timely manner. his doe eyes looked up at you, causing the pit in your stomach to finally break.

juices spilt out of you quickly into his mouth, and all over the surrounding parts of his face. he lapped up your release to the best of his ability, trying not to leave any to waste. “you did so good princess”, stiles smirked, slowly licking the juices off his lips.

your legs closed from habit, but stiles opened them once again. “aha’ i’m not done yet”, he whispered getting closer to your face. “stiles, i don’t think i can take anymore.” the harsh reality hit you.

“well, i’m not done making it up to you just yet.”

— ᡣ𐭩 LAV

[girlchomp]

"now you see me" more like now i see fucking nothing bc there is NO ONE HERE the fandom is in the GRAVE

[greenribbon]

Help, why is this line reading so funny to me

[imhershei]

WHERE TH IS ALL THE THOMAS X READER FICS???? I THOUGHT WE ALL LOVED DYLAN IN MAZE RUNNER????????IM SO DEPRIVED IM MAKING A POST ABOUT IT!!!! THERE WAS LIKE ONLY ONE GOOD JUICY FANFIC I NEED MORE!! AND WHILE WE AT IT I NEED MORE STILES STILINSKI FICS TOO WE RUNNING LOW!!!!! IM BEGGING YEWWWW! PLEASEE👹🥹🙏🏾

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 4 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, OMC Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), alcohol as a coping mechanism, season 1 Lydia behavior (her comments on addiction are wrong and insensitive and she's knows it) 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: Your life somehow becomes further entangled with Stiles and Scott's strange secret world, and Lydia is concerned in her own aggressive way. 

A/N: this is in fact a scott mccall stan account. i love that boy like he's my own. you can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

The drive home was ultimately uneventful. No need for tasers, silver bullets, or wolfsbane goop. You would need to get gas before you left for school in the morning, but you supposed that was a relatively minor inconvenience when the other end of the scale was being torn apart by a fanged monster. 

Your jaw cracked with an aggressive yawn as you slowly stumbled through the garage door, fumbling for the light switch on the wall. You flicked on the light and paused, shivering a little as the cold air from the vent above your head skimmed over your bare arms. After a moment of hesitation, when that little persistent wriggling in your ear wouldn’t go away, you ducked back down the concrete steps to poke around the garbage can. Underneath a few Styrofoam take-out boxes, there were four empty beer bottles. The glass bottles clinked against each other as you nudged them out of the way, unearthing the real object of your paranoia. A drained bottle of 100-proof rye whiskey was cradled between two sacks of trash from the night before. You just stared at the bottles, heart and lungs wound tight, and then you dropped the lid back on top of the can.  

When you reentered the house, you were careful to keep the noise to a minimum. It wasn’t that late, only a little past nine, but you didn’t want to disrupt your dad’s slumber. Usually, he was a night owl—which, of course, was really just a pretty way of saying chronic insomniac, another thing you’d inherited from him—but it’d been a hard liquor night. Your dad always went to bed early on hard liquor nights. You didn’t know if he actually slept or if he stared at the ceiling, watching memories play on spackle until dawn streamed through the cracks in the blinds. Probably the first. You hadn’t ever heard him cry through the thin walls, not even once. You, however, couldn’t ever stop crying, not on the nights you trembled for something potent enough to mask the scent of the coconut oil your mom used to remove her makeup. The echoes of your mother had seeped into the walls, saturated the insulation with the faint sounds of the 70s pop rock vinyls she put on when she was in a good mood. They faded sometimes, but they always came back. You desperately hoped, and you hopelessly feared, that they always would. 

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hands aggressively and slipped under the covers, still in your plaid skirt and black t-shirt. Mascara smeared against your silk pillowcase, blurred your vision as it melted into your waterline. You stared at the wall until the silver swirls in the teal wallpaper started to sway. The teal was so dark it almost looked velvet with the lights off, and you had a heavy-eyed impulse to stroke it, but your hand was too leadened to lift. 

Your lids slipped shut, and in the haze between consciousness and slumber you felt the vague sensation of something solid against the back of your head. You murmured something incomprehensible and pulled your arms closer to your chest, taking in a breath of sharp whisky and a familiar woody cologne. You kept your eyes closed, and the warm weight cupped your skull for a moment. There was a brief kiss pressed against the top of your head and then the warmth was gone. Something large caught in your throat, and you squeezed your eyelids until your forehead wrinkled, forcing yourself to fall into a restless sleep filled with dreams of pancakes swimming in bourbon and howling beasts. 

Stiles was waiting for you by your locker when you arrived at school the next day. His friend—Scott, you reminded herself—was leaning against the locker next to him. Scott’s eyelids were heavy, and there was a coolness underneath them that stained his tan skin with a swathe of puce. Puce: From the French term ‘couleur puce,’ meaning ‘flea color.’  You dug your incisor into your tongue once you recognized that the intrusive internal narration was in Stiles’s voice. You didn’t even know if he spoke French, but it seemed like the kind of weird detail he’d know. You ran your tongue over your teeth and shoved your fists into your jacket pockets, thumb poking through the hole in the lining from previous twiddling—when the hell did you start thinking about the kinds of things Stiles would and wouldn’t know?  

You pivoted sharply, and your traitorous leather boots ruined your attempted exit when they squeaked against the freshly waxed floor. Stiles’s head popped up from his hushed conversation with Scott, and he waved vigorously when he made eye contact with you, “Hey! C’mere!”

You tipped your gaze towards the tiled ceiling and sighed. It was inevitable, really; you had to get your English binder before homeroom—homeroom, yet another reason to hate Wednesdays. It was one of your few classes with Lydia, and there wasn’t ever any actual teaching to distract you from the disgusting goo-goo eyes she gave her boyfriend. Studying was your only respite.

“Patience,” you nudged Stiles out of the way and spun your combination into the padlock, “work on it. It’s an essential skill.”

Stiles scoffed and leaned his shoulder against the locker next to yours, arms folded over his chest, “Essential. There’s nothing essential about wasting time. It’s actually unvirtuous if you think about it.” 

You swung her locker door open, blocking out Stiles’s frown, and rested your backpack on your knee so that you could unzip it. “Was there a point in there somewhere, or are you stalking me again?”

Stiles ducked around the locker door and placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders, shoving him a little closer to you, “Scott had a question for you.”

Scott’s eyes didn’t look so tired when he reared his head back to stare at Stiles. They had an intense conversation for a moment. There weren’t any words exchanged, but you got the gist: Scott was pissed, and Stiles was relentless. In the end, Scott lost the battle and swallowed thickly, “So, uh, you know a lot about supernatural stuff. That’s cool.” Stiles rolled his eyes and smacked the back of Scott’s head. Scott glared at him before mumbling, “Do you have any more of that wolfsbane…potion?” towards his muddy Converse. 

You directed your annoyance over Scott’s shoulder, more than confident that the real culprit of this request was the idiot avoiding your eye-line. “What? You already burned through your goo sample? Are the streets finally free from the demon beast of Beacon Hills?”

Stiles held up his hands and shook his head, “This is all Scott. See, me, I’m a fan of not being a greedy little bastard, but Scott—” This time Scott smacked Stiles with a resounding thwack. Stiles rubbed his shoulder, mouth agawk with indignation. 

“He…dropped it.” Scott glowered at the side of Stiles’s face, “‘Doing something stupid.” 

You smirked, “Sounds about right.” You shoved your binder into your backpack and brushed your hairs out of your eyes, “I’d give it all away for free, but it’s not up to me. Sorry.” Zipping your backpack shut, you slung one of the straps over your shoulder and shrugged, “You could always buy some more, but I’d strongly advise against such a dumb financial investment.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a smile. It was small but riddled with warmth—like he just couldn’t help it, like sunshine leaked through every one of his pores, and you were filled with the sudden urge to buy the stupid wolfsbane gunk for him. “That’s what I figured,” Scott looked at Stiles pointedly. His voice dropped a few octaves and a growl slipped into the end of his sentence, “But someone thought we should ask anyway.” 

The bell rang, and Scott flinched, smashing one of his ears into his shoulder. He turned around, a little dazed, and Stiles trailed after him after giving her a distracted wave. As you watched them leave, a parasitic impulse wrangled through your throat, prying the hinge of your jaw open as you shouted, “Hey!” The hallway was abuzz with various conversations and clomping feet, but your voice was still a bit too loud for the short distance between you and definitely too urgent for 7:45 in the morning. 

Stiles turned around first, almost tripping over his sneakers, and then he yanked on the scarlet hood of Scott’s jacket until he stopped too. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and licked your bottom lip, suddenly realizing how dry it was. “I, uh,” you sighed and took a few steps forward so that you didn’t have to raise your voice, “I could talk to Maggie. I bet she’d cut you a deal if I asked.” You let out a little laugh and raked your fingers through your hair, accidentally dislodging the satin bow tying your hair out of your face. “I know, actually. I know she’d give you some for free. She’s a terrible business woman.” 

Scott’s smile put the moon to shame, and Stiles looked like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind since the moment you told them no—when the hell did he start thinking about what you would and wouldn’t do? 

��That would be awesome,” Scott ducked down to grab your black ribbon and held it out to you with an open palm, “thank you. I’d owe you big time.”

Stiles looped his arm around Scott’s shoulders and smirked, “We’d. We’d owe you. I’ll stop by the store and bless you with my scintillating conversation sometime.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Scott, taking your ribbon from his hand. You attempted to tie your hair back in a neat bow, but it was difficult without a mirror. You assumed it was halfway decent because Stiles didn’t take the opportunity to tease you—you, on the other hand, had no such qualms about mocking him. You smiled at Stiles, far too sweetly to be considered congenial, and sneered, “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” 

Stiles’s eyes narrowed, face curved around a smirk that screamed trouble, and Scott slapped his hand over Stiles’s mouth before he could say something to make you reconsider, “Thanks again. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to pay you back. Name it, and we’re there.” Stiles winked at you with a glint in his eye that was as vexing as it was bright, and Scott rolled his eyes as he hauled him away by the nylon material of his backpack, “C’mon, dude. My mom’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.”

You watched Stiles’s buzzed head bob amidst the congested crowd of students, all shoving each other in their rush to get to class on time, until you couldn’t hear his surly complaints anymore. You rubbed your hand over your chapped lips, swallowing hollowly, like you could erase every impulsive word that’d spilt from your stupid mouth.

You were still thinking about what you’d gotten yourself into when you walked into Mrs. Farias’s classroom—and that must be why you forgot your copy of Metamorphosis in your locker. You groaned internally and dropped your forehead against your desk, bumping it against the cool laminate finish a few times, before ducking out the door with a hall pass. 

The halls were empty—silent too. You could hear your own footsteps and the tick of the large clock above the main office as you walked around the corner, and then, just as you approached the hallway your locker was in, you heard something else. Voices. Angry voices. One familiar—your face scrunched as the recognition wriggled through your ears to your brain—and one not. You cautiously glanced around the corner and frowned. Jackson, Lydia’s arrogant prick of a boyfriend, was talking to a hulking, leather-clad stranger—or rather infuriating him based on the murderous look in the man’s dark eyes. 

The stranger looked a good five years too old to be in a high school hallway, but the grown-out stubble and over-defined muscles weren’t of immediate concern. You were more focused on the color of his face. His skin was pale, clammy, and quite honestly a little corpse-like thanks to the purply-blue tinge carving out the hollows of his face. You assumed that he was too strung-out to care if anyone noticed their altercation because you could hear him from halfway across the hall. 

“Where’s Scott McCall?” His voice was deep and gravelly, as expected, but there was a desperate undertone you hadn’t anticipated.

You could only see the back of Jackson’s head, but you knew exactly what his face was doing when he puffed out his chest and folded his arms—no one else could make a smirk look quite so punchable. It was a gift, truly. “And why should I tell you?” “Because I asked you politely,” the man leaned forward, bared his canines, and you couldn’t believe that Jackson didn’t even flinch, “and I only do that once.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Jackson sneered, meeting the man’s challenge with another step forward and a shrug that reeked of false-superiority, “how ‘bout I help you find him if you tell me what you’re selling him. What is it? Dianabol? HGH?”

“Steroids,” the man’s voice was dry, and if he didn’t look like he was about to double over and puke all over the floor, you’d say the menacing glimmer in his eyes was a little amused. 

“No, Girl Scout cookies. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” Jackson tutted, maddeningly haughty, and shook his head, “By the way, whatever it is you’re selling, I’d stop sampling the merchandise.” He let out a low patronizing whistle, and you kind of hoped that the stranger would suckerpunch him in the throat for it. “You look wrecked.”

The man didn’t punch him. Instead, he pushed himself off of the locker he was slumped against and started staggering stiffly down the hall, “I’ll find him myself.”

Jackson grabbed onto his broad shoulder and yanked. The veins in his bicep bulged with the strength of grasp, “We’re not done here.”

Your limbs suddenly remembered how to function. You ducked back behind the brick wall and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable sounds of bone colliding into flesh. Your right eye cracked open a sliver when the noise never came. Instead, there was a loud thud and the echo of clanging metal. You peeked around the corner again and froze, eyes wide and throat dry. Jackson was pinned against a locker by his neck. You’d already noticed that the stranger was tall, but you didn’t truly realize just how large he was until now. Jackson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t small. He was captain of the lacrosse team—everyone within a ten-mile radius knew that thanks to his constant reminders—and if anyone on campus was taking steroids, he would’ve been your first guess. But next to this sickly beast of a man, Jackson looked meek and mousey, and you didn’t even get to savor it. After a brief moment, no more than a second, Jackson’s assailant sniffed the air and slowly turned his head in your direction. It wasn’t an accident; he wasn’t surveying his surroundings. His eyes landed on yours, and he didn’t look the least bit surprised. 

The man’s irises were dark, nearly black, and they didn’t stray from your face. You forgot how to breathe, feeling distinctly like a rabbit trapped in a fox den as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. He spared you after a few seconds of paralyzing eye-contact and turned his petrifying gaze back to Jackson’s neck. You recoiled, slipping back to your spot around the wall, and pressed your back against the bricks until the sound of your heartbeat wasn’t so loud in your ears. 

When you found the courage to look down the hall again, the man was gone, and Jackson was bleeding from the back of his neck. There were four distinct punctures along his cervical spine, trickling crimson droplets onto the stark white collar of his polo. The gouges were small, almost like…nail marks. Baffling. This town was fuckin’ baffling.

You poured over the incident all day, barely conscious enough to take down notes and roll your eyes at Stiles’s badgering and bad jokes. You’d never been more ready for the final bell to ring, not even during sex education with the extraordinarily sweaty Mr. Peterson. 

You twisted your pendant around its onyx chain as you walked out of your last period, winding and unwinding the charm over and over again as you mulled over your thoughts. Scott didn’t seem like he was on drugs. You didn’t exactly know him, but he was the least aggressive person you’d ever met, and he had to be eternally patient if Stiles was his best friend. You spun the medallion again and shouldered your way through the cramped halls to the parking lot, scolding yourself. What Scott McCall did or did not inject into his bloodstream wasn’t any of your business…even if his alleged dealer looked like he was on death’s door and had a habit of throwing teenage boys around when he got mad. 

You’d just convinced yourself that you didn’t care what happened to Stiles’s best friend when a discord of honking stopped you in your tracks. You flitted your gaze around the parking lot, searching for the cause of obnoxiously loud cacophony; your shoulders wilted along with your resolve when you spotted the guilty party. The man from the hallway was sprawled on the asphalt, and Scott and Stiles were scrambling to help him off of the ground. 

Your feet reluctantly trudged towards the peculiar trio, arms tightly folded over your cropped sweater. You would’ve laughed at how wide Stiles’s eye stretched when he finally noticed your presence, but you were a little preoccupied with the fact that he was currently trying to stuff a ghoulish grown man into his front seat. You watched him struggle to hold up approximately 200 pounds of solid muscle with his spindly arms, absentmindedly lamenting that you couldn’t truly appreciate the humor of the situation. “Hey,” you slanted your head and searched Stiles’s face for any sign of an SOS signal, “you good?”

“Ayup,” Stiles nodded emphatically, and Scott shot you a weak thumbs-up from his squat next to his tipped-over bike. 

You looked between the two of them, waiting for the truth to crack through the awkward pretense, and narrowed your eyes, “You sure?” 

“We’re good,” the man barked from inside the jeep, teeth bared. It was a little less intimidating now that he was slumped over and at the mercy of a sixteen-year-old with a dork complex, but you still flinched. You couldn’t help it. It was a small twitch, but Scott still managed to track the minute movement from his low perch. He glared at the man, shockingly firm for such a sweet-faced boy, until the stranger stopped scowling at you. Mr. Sour Face turned his head towards the window and stared intensely at the hazy tree line over the hill. Your fingers relaxed. You hadn’t even realized that you’d dug your nails in your palms until the stinging stopped. 

Scott jumped to his feet and pulled his bike up by the handles, rushing through his weak explanation, “Stiles is just…doing me a favor. Derek needs a ride, and all I’ve got is my bike.”

Letting out a flimsy snort, your brow pinched, “So…he walked here?”

“Uh,” Scott squinted, and Stiles nodded behind him, “yeah?” 

You pursed your lips, ignoring all the students who’d started shouting over the beeping horns, and watched Derek grit his teeth and clench his fists through the dashboard window. You looked back at Stiles and chewed on your lip. Stiles was taller than you, but he was on the scrawnier side of lean and wouldn’t stand a chance against a man of Derek’s size—even if he was barely clinging to the rapidly fraying threads of consciousness. “I could use a ride to work,” you pulled the backseat door open before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Stiles lurched towards you and slammed the door shut, narrowly avoiding your fingers, “Normally, I would seize any opportunity to have you further indebted to me, but—that’s Lydia Martin.” His eyes bulged out of his head, and he leaned against his jeep, slipping down the blue frame as his legs went boneless, “Walking towards me. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

The prospect of riding in the same car with Mr. Resting Bitchface was being more appealing by the second. Lydia didn’t even look in Stiles’s direction. Her cutting green eyes were fixed on you and you alone. “Are you an idiot?” Lydia snatched your wrist, mauve manicure digging into the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist, and yanked you back to the sidewalk.

“What?” you went brainless for a moment, taking in all the glory of an enraged Lydia Martin. 

Lydia’s cheeks were flushed pink from anger and adrenaline, “Or just suicidal?”

The shock had worn off. Now, you were thoroughly pissed, “What?”

Lydia’s eyebrows, perfectly tapered and freshly threaded, knitted together until she was in danger of developing a unibrow, “Do you have any idea who you were about to get in a car with?”

Your eyes flicked to the side, and it took gargantuan strength not to roll them too. “Stiles?”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” Lydia’s riptide of fury gave way to confusion, but her soft features sharpened abruptly when she returned her attention to your scowl, “I meant Derek Hale. Obviously.”

Your hip cocked to the side as you crossed your arms, “And?”

“And he’s a murder suspect,” Lydia’s lips curled into a vehement sneer. It was so strange to finally see it first-hand. Lydia had such a sweet face, cherub cheeks and doe eyes—a clever smile. She hadn’t quite mastered disdain when you were friends; the ice queen routine wasn’t performance ready until you’d drifted apart. It was an awful face, you decided; it completely erased the last few pieces of the Lydia you knew.

“In an animal attack,” you muttered under your breath. 

Evidently, it had been a long time since someone dared to disagree with the Lydia Martin because she was struck speechless. It didn’t last for long, but it was still satisfying. “He’s dangerous,” Lydia hissed. “He went completely off the deep end after his family died. Seriously, his life is like a textbook precursor to violent behavior; he’s a profiler’s wet dream.”

“Because his family died,” you repeated. The numbness eroded some of the snark in your voice. 

Lydia either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the glaze creeping over your eyes. She continued, barbarous and unashamed, “Because he watched them turn into charcoal, and his sister was just ripped in half. At best, he’s unstable—but his little hobby of trolling for minors is a bit of a red flag, don’t you think?”

“Charcoal,” you spoke—more of an echo really with its resonating hollowness. Your eyes were on Lydia’s face, but your mind was somewhere far away. A lifetime ago, with the ashes of everything you once knew. 

Lydia’s eyes went wide, and her mouth gaped into a perfect little ‘o.’ Her dainty fingers twitched by her sides, and then she smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her flouncy mini-skirt. “Most of his family died in a fire,” her voice was much softer this time, a bit of tenderness accidentally rooting through the cracks in her veneer. Lydia looked away and gripped the thin strap of her handbag, “Accidental house fire. It was all over the news like five years ago.”

You stared at Lydia, and for the first time in the last four years, you didn’t miss her. For the first time in such a mind-numbingly long time, your anger strangled your heartache with a wrought-iron grip that felt a whole lot like hate. It was always going to be like this, you realized. You would just have to walk around with all these what-ifs, if-onlys, and what-really-happeneds needling your heart with every thud—always. You had to learn to live with this: knowing that Lydia was never going to apologize and that there would be no closure. Ever. 

“Right.” You laughed, shark-like, with your canines on display. You hoped it would make all your constants sharper. “So he’s gotta be a lunatic now.”

“Y/N…” It was surreal to hear your name out of Lydia’s mouth after so long. You didn’t know if you liked it, and, currently, you didn’t even know if you cared. Lydia chewed off what was left of her nude lipstick and then squared her shoulders, “So we’re just going to pretend that he wasn’t completely strung-out and totally embracing the heroin-chic aesthetic?”

You slanted your head a bit and then let out another serrated laugh. There wasn’t any point in having it out, you decided, because Lydia didn’t care. She got to move on and erase your entire existence—live her perfect, popular girl life without all this suffocating quicksand binding her to the past. Must be nice, you thought venomously, souring your tongue, stinging your eyes. Showers were probably just showers for Lydia. She didn’t singe her skin until the water went cold, imagining what she’d do, what she’d say—how she’d hurt her back. Must be so fucking nice.

“Lydia, I really don’t think you really want to get into all the things we’re pretending,” your voice was tight, strangled at the ends. You would not cry. You could not cry. Lydia sensed weakness like blood in the water, and you refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“Fine,” Lydia’s curls spilled down her back like strawberry wine as she pivoted in her designer heels, “ride off into the sunset with a 'roid-raging creep. Don’t act surprised when you turn up dead in a crack den.” 

Truthfully, Lydia had a point, but at this moment being contrary seemed far more important than being right. “It’s kind of difficult to act like anything when you’re dead,” you called, eyes zeroed-in on the back of her head as she slid into Jackson’s Porsche with a sensual grace you would never possess. Lydia was too far away to hear your retort, but you felt a little less like punching something after you said it. 

You didn’t notice that Stiles and Scott were gone until the threat of bitter tears stopped burning your sinuses. The last thing you needed was to cry like this upset you, even if the only nearby witness left on the vacant sidewalk was yourself. You scoured the parking lot for even a flash of powder blue, but the jeep was nowhere to be seen. Probably long gone by now—your spat with Lydia must have taken longer than you thought. It was certainly louder than you meant it to be. Little clusters of ambling students were looking at you a little too long to be casual, and the indiscreet whispering once they turned back to their friends forced your legs forward. 

You didn’t know where you were going when you started your car, but far, far away sounded pretty damn good.

[redaacted]

I don’t think people realize how good this casting is.

There’s a lot of shit Columbine media. That’s objective. But these two have this likeness in them that's so Eric and Dylan, I can't explain it. If I saw Ben on the street, I’d be like, “yeah, a film company would definitely make him play Eric.” Does that makes sense?

[strnilolo]

i just wanted to let you guys know that i would let dylan o’brien run me over. that’s it that’s the post

[dadrockconfessions]

[foegoal]

i really want to stay at rogers place || a love letter to the 2023/2024 season.

[redacted-thething]

oh my god im so fuckjng sorry i've bin severely slacking off on mt casuality textp osts and for what?? my gucking job???? i'm so fucking soery

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

[theinternetisfulloftrash]

Stiles Stilinski - Teen Wolf (2011-2017)

Art by theinternetisfulloftrash

[coastalwind]

Based on who showed up more on my dash this month

RB to reach more people pleeease

[three-headed-monster]

as dylan cozens would say, let’s fucking go!