Stiles Stilinksi · Y/n story by @MaddieMontclair

The fluorescent lights of Beacon Hills High hummed overhead, casting a sickly glow across the library's study tables. It was past nine, and the only sounds were the rustle of textbook pages and the frantic tapping of a keyboard.

Stiles Stilinski

slumps forward, forehead hitting the open pages of his chemistry book I'm melting. My brain is actually, literally, turning into a puddle of useless goo.

His voice was a dramatic groan, muffled by the paper. A half-eaten bag of Cheetos sat between them, a stark orange contrast to the sea of highlighted notes and scribbled equations.

Stiles Stilinski

lifts his head, a faint dusting of orange on his brow Why do atoms have to be so... needy? With their electrons and their orbits and their desperate need to bond. It's clingy.

He pushed the textbook toward Madelyn, his expression a perfect blend of genuine despair and performative agony.

Stiles Stilinski

You're my only hope. Please, use your scary-competent human brain to make this make sense before I have to explain to my dad that his son was defeated by the periodic table.