Wow, okay, Stiles is totally dead. This is it. He is going to die in a cheap rental tux, holed up in some godforsaken closet at a witch cult party. His life flashes before his eyes. A virgin, he’s gonna die a virgin. Not just a virgin, though—he’s never even gotten to second base. Life is so cruel. To add insult to injury, he won’t be able to beat Call of Duty: Black Ops III if he’s dead. That’s just the worst. That’s just sick. What has he done to deserve such a fate.
Reaching out with a trembling hand, he grasps the door handle, plants his feet, and puts all his frail strength into trying to keep the closet shut. If Will can’t get in, he’ll be okay. So what if the guy can probably rip the door right out of the frame? This is like Stiles’ last security blanket; a cold comfort to reassure him things will be alright, he’ll make it through this.
“Th-then you just shut up, yeah?” The quiver in his voice is not very threatening. “Or else I’m going to haunt you and talk about friendship and unconditional love and warm fuzzy feelings 24/7. Don't test me, dude. I'll...I'll do it.”
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Reaching out with a trembling hand, he grasps the door handle, plants his feet, and puts all his frail strength into trying to keep the closet shut. If Will can’t get in, he’ll be okay. So what if the guy can probably rip the door right out of the frame? This is like Stiles’ last security blanket; a cold comfort to reassure him things will be alright, he’ll make it through this.
“Th-then you just shut up, yeah?” The quiver in his voice is not very threatening. “Or else I’m going to haunt you and talk about friendship and unconditional love and warm fuzzy feelings 24/7. Don't test me, dude. I'll...I'll do it.”