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120_minutenTeam: Mega-Team
Challenge: Crack/Humor: Schreibaufgabe: Innerer Monolog (Päckchen #10)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Charaktere: Stiles, Jackson
Wörter: 485
A/N:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
servena schlug Stiles als Charakter vor. Das war offensichtlich die richtige Wahl. Allerdings habe ich Staffel 5 nie zu ende geguckt, also ist das jetzt Future Fic basierend auf Season 1+2-Emotionen mit beiläufiger Erwähnung von Kira und Malia. Canon compliant? Never heard of her.
Become an emissary they said, Stiles thought. It will be fun they said. Okay, maybe nobody had actually said 'fun'. But nobody had said anything about sewer tunnels, either, so screw them.
Screw them and Scott and his little werewolf babies only not them because Stiles was an amazing uncle, thank you very much.
"Cubs. I think the word you're searching for is werewolf cubs."
"Oh my god, Jackson, don't fucking do that!" The guy was going to give him a heart attack one of these days.
"What? Not be a rambling idiot?"
"Screw you."
"Stop mumbling under your breath!"
Screw Jackson and screw whoever had suggested that Stiles would need fanged, sparkly-eyed supernatural support while crawling through a sewer tunnel and screw Malia for being the first to go 'Not it!' and screw Scott and Kira, too, just for good measure. This was what wanting to be helpful got you. It got you stuck in a sewer with Jackson Whittemore. None of Deaton's clever books had said a word about that. Obviously.
"You're doing it again."
"I'm carrying multiple vials of Yellow Wolfsbane, so I would shut up if I was you."
Jackson snarled something that sounded suspiciously like "As if you'd ever shut up" but Stiles, graciously, decided to ignore it. Because they had better things to do. Better things such as crawling through a damp and dark sewer tunnel in search of mold. Because that was his fucking life now, he collected mold. In a sewer.
Stiles was half convinced the whole recipe was one last, elaborate prank played on him by Deaton. He took some comfort in the fact that Jackson and his supernatural sense of smell likely suffered even more. On the other hand, he'd probably drenched his clothes in a month’s worth of cologne, just because he was Jackson fucking Whittemore. Why had that guy ever returned from England? Stiles deserved better than this.
He just wanted to help. He’d become an emissary, studied ancient magic and crawled into a sewer because he wanted to, no, he had to help. To protect his friends. To be useful, to not be a burden. To be--
"Needed?" Jackson suggested, sounding almost… nice. "Yeah, it sucks. Needing to prove your right to just be there, to exist, I get you."
Stiles turned around to the werewolf as far as his crouched position in the tunnel would allow him. “That’s so—” So not the point, he didn’t say because his mind, the dirty traitor, insisted that it so was the point. “Oh my god, Jackson, I swear. Just shut up.”
“I’ll shut up as soon as you keep your internal monologing, you know, internal.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you try, Stilinski.”
“And I’d like to see you—” Dead. Naked. In London. “Scratch that mold from the wall for me. There’s a good werewolf.”
Challenge: Crack/Humor: Schreibaufgabe: Innerer Monolog (Päckchen #10)
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Charaktere: Stiles, Jackson
Wörter: 485
A/N:
servena schlug Stiles als Charakter vor. Das war offensichtlich die richtige Wahl. Allerdings habe ich Staffel 5 nie zu ende geguckt, also ist das jetzt Future Fic basierend auf Season 1+2-Emotionen mit beiläufiger Erwähnung von Kira und Malia. Canon compliant? Never heard of her. Become an emissary they said, Stiles thought. It will be fun they said. Okay, maybe nobody had actually said 'fun'. But nobody had said anything about sewer tunnels, either, so screw them.
Screw them and Scott and his little werewolf babies only not them because Stiles was an amazing uncle, thank you very much.
"Cubs. I think the word you're searching for is werewolf cubs."
"Oh my god, Jackson, don't fucking do that!" The guy was going to give him a heart attack one of these days.
"What? Not be a rambling idiot?"
"Screw you."
"Stop mumbling under your breath!"
Screw Jackson and screw whoever had suggested that Stiles would need fanged, sparkly-eyed supernatural support while crawling through a sewer tunnel and screw Malia for being the first to go 'Not it!' and screw Scott and Kira, too, just for good measure. This was what wanting to be helpful got you. It got you stuck in a sewer with Jackson Whittemore. None of Deaton's clever books had said a word about that. Obviously.
"You're doing it again."
"I'm carrying multiple vials of Yellow Wolfsbane, so I would shut up if I was you."
Jackson snarled something that sounded suspiciously like "As if you'd ever shut up" but Stiles, graciously, decided to ignore it. Because they had better things to do. Better things such as crawling through a damp and dark sewer tunnel in search of mold. Because that was his fucking life now, he collected mold. In a sewer.
Stiles was half convinced the whole recipe was one last, elaborate prank played on him by Deaton. He took some comfort in the fact that Jackson and his supernatural sense of smell likely suffered even more. On the other hand, he'd probably drenched his clothes in a month’s worth of cologne, just because he was Jackson fucking Whittemore. Why had that guy ever returned from England? Stiles deserved better than this.
He just wanted to help. He’d become an emissary, studied ancient magic and crawled into a sewer because he wanted to, no, he had to help. To protect his friends. To be useful, to not be a burden. To be--
"Needed?" Jackson suggested, sounding almost… nice. "Yeah, it sucks. Needing to prove your right to just be there, to exist, I get you."
Stiles turned around to the werewolf as far as his crouched position in the tunnel would allow him. “That’s so—” So not the point, he didn’t say because his mind, the dirty traitor, insisted that it so was the point. “Oh my god, Jackson, I swear. Just shut up.”
“I’ll shut up as soon as you keep your internal monologing, you know, internal.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Oh, yeah? I’d like to see you try, Stilinski.”
“And I’d like to see you—” Dead. Naked. In London. “Scratch that mold from the wall for me. There’s a good werewolf.”
no subject
Date: 2020-11-06 01:43 pm (UTC)