#also need to either find about derek or straight up kick him out. which fucks up my vibes man i already has to do that with alec

[twpsyn-who]

I LEFT YOU GUYS ALONE 1 (ONE) MINUTE WTF

EDIT : Nevermind, I let them continue talking. It gets worse better.

#this is ridiculous #now i have to redo this chat AGAIN thanks Derek #also need to either find about derek or straight up kick him out. which fucks up my vibes man i already has to do that with alec #is not fair #anyway this is funny #they really did say 'let the Derek Hale Fan Club begin' #even funnier how Stiles said NO WORD on the subject. Magnific #Isaac tho??? He didn't hold back. at. all. #i have no clue how to tag this #derek hale #stiles stilinski #billy hargrove #eddie munson #issac lahey #daryl dixion #you're welcome #character ai #also fuck tiktok for introducing me to this site now I'm OBSESSED #this is not healthy for this generation #lowkey scared to keep this going #((I will do it anyway)) #also the fact that I could see Eddie says all those things avsndndndk

[elldell1204]

Hair Me Out - Spencer Reid x Reader

Y/N wears her hair in many different styles, and her boyfriend, Spencer, seems to appreciate each one in different ways.

A/N: So, I just wanted to add, I try to make my ‘reader’ as ambiguous as possible, that way you can identify with them more. However, I struggled with this one, as I am a white female with straight hair and not much knowledge of (though deep appreciation and love for) natural or curly hair, seeing as I have little to no experience. Therefore, I have tried making this as inclusive as possible but I’m sorry if at any point seems too specific and you can’t put yourself into the story. Feel free to call me out on anything you aren’t comfortable with!

Warnings: Slight sexual themes, swearing, normal Criminal minds stuff (let me know if I missed anything)

wc - 3,217

Dutch Braids -

You and Spencer had just gotten off from work about an hour ago after a gruelling day with an equally stressful case. Which is why as soon as you were both showered, dressed in the comfiest clothes you could find and waiting for the takeout to arrive, you were both sprawled out on the couch in front of a movie, having no energy left to talk, let alone move when there was a knock at the door. Seeing as you were the one with less of the other person’s body parts draped across you, you got up and answered while Spencer didn’t move an inch. You couldn’t blame him; the poor boy was exhausted.

Around twenty minutes later, you’d both eaten, leaving your plates on the coffee table in front of you with the mental promise to wash them later, and were back to snuggling into each other, getting as close as you possibly could to soothe each other after the day you had. Your head was tucked neatly into Spencer’s chest, your knees drawn up to near your chin in the foetal position, making yourself as small as possible. Spencer was the opposite; spread like a starfish with his arm around your back and his head rested against the back of the couch.

If someone were to ask you what the movie was about, you wouldn’t have a clue where to start. Truth is, you felt like you were stuck in-between both the lands of sleep and consciousness, due to wanting to spend some time with your boyfriend (despite him being your work partner for the best part of sixteen hours) but also wanting to sleep for three days. In attempt to make yourself just a little bit more awake, you started trying to focus on different things around you. First it was the quote on the front of the main character’s t-shirt, then it was the Metro you could faintly hear as the last train of the night rattled by, then it was Spencer’s finger tracing up and down one of your braids that you’d done quickly after your shower.

“Spence?” You murmured the first words spoken in practically an hour.

“Hmm?” He hummed in response, his half-lidded eyes shifting to your face that you had lifted to face him.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” His voice was merely a whisper, and if you weren’t listening for it, the only way you’d know he was speaking was from the vibration of his chest.

You gestured to your hair with your finger, and only when he realised did he stop what he was doing and chuckle lightly and dreamily.

“Oh, sorry, I’m not sure, it just feels soft, I guess. I’ll stop.”

“No, no, it’s okay, you can keep going.” You smiled at him, mustering up the energy to lean up and press a sweet kiss to his lips before retracting back to your previous position.

Ponytail -

To say you were having a bad day was an understatement. You usually like to try and stay as positive as you could be when chasing a serial, paedophilic murderer, but there’s only so many deep breaths and coffee breaks you can take before you really start to get pissed off. Not only had you been stuck in hot and sticky Texas for near a week, but you had also been put into single rooms at the hotel you were staying at. Now, not to sound ungrateful (because you very much are of the fact that you at least have a roof over your head), but only having one single bed to a room means that you can’t snuggle with Spencer after a long day, and these were proving to be very long days.

And to add to the problem, Hotch was constantly on edge since the start of the case, with the victims looking a hell of a lot like Jack, and when you were the closest person to him on that first day when his tensions finally boiled over, you had been the one in the firing line of his rage. Which you can take. You knew he didn’t mean it, and if he had to take his frustrations out on someone for a few days so he could do his job with a clearer head, you were happy to be the target.

But now after a particularly rough six days, your patience was wearing thin, and everyone on the team could see it, which is why they offered you and Spencer any jobs they were assigned that would get them out of the stifling police precinct. And you knew they had good intentions, but even that was starting to annoy you.

So now you were sat at the table in the conference room, a pen between your teeth as your eyes frantically search over the evidence you have piled in front of you, desperate for the answers to this case to fly off the page and hit you smack dab in the forehead so you could just go home and have a fight with a pillow or something, anything to destress.

You heard the footsteps coming from the doorway, but you refused to turn around. If it was Hotch, you swear to god you might actually lose your job with what you were thinking of doing if he was short with you one more time. If it was Morgan ready to hand you a first-class ticket to visit the slightly wrinkly and very smelly coroner again, you might actually flip the table.

“Hey, Y/N.” Spencer greeted you warmly, sitting on the table to your right as your eyes slowly lifted to meet his. No, not Spencer. Hold it together, Y/N, hold in your rage, he’s done nothing wrong. “Oh, I haven’t seen you with your hair tied back in a while. I like it.”

Such a sweet statement, and yet it broke you. You could see in his face the moment your eyes lit aflame with anger, and you couldn’t miss the harsh swallow he took to brace himself for your fury.

“Well, Dr Reid, let me teach you a lesson, shall I? 3 reasons. One, it is way more practical for kicking someone’s ass, and right now, I would love nothing more than catching the sleazy son-of-a-bitch who is deriving pleasure from this,” You gesture violently to the crime scene photos splayed out in front of you before continuing to spit your venom. “And beating the living shit out of him until he’s crying out for his mommy. Two, do you know how many officers have tried to flirt up a storm with me in the past week? Way too many to count on one fucking hand! One even went so far as to try stroking my hair like a goddamn cat, and so to avoid that situation, I have put it in a ponytail, because if anything of that nature happens again, I won’t hesitate to break someone’s arm. And three, I usually have it down because most men think you’re dumber when you play with your hair, or I can play seductive to get what I want without a warrant fifty percent of the time. But seeing as we have absolutely nobody on the suspect list right now, and the sheer fury I possess at this moment, I don’t foresee the possibility of me needing to be either of those things, do you?”

Your lungs were heaving once you were done, and poor Spencer looked like you just told him you were a Russian spy sent to kill him. Your eyes were locked onto each other’s, and when you came back to reality from your rant, you recognised the softness and love in his that you were grateful for every day. Granted, they were a little masked by fear right now, but you’d admired him often enough to be able to spot even the faintest hint of your favourite emotions.

You let out a deep sigh, signalling you were back to your normal self as much as you could be right then, before dropping your head into your hands to rub your eyes with the heel of your palms.

It was then you felt the unmistakeable warmth of Spencer’s hand rubbing soothing patterns on your back as you gathered yourself together, bringing tears to your eyes as you opened them once more to face him.

“Oh, Spencer,” You whispered, grabbing his hands tightly with yours, lifting them to your lips and pressing sweet kisses to his knuckles. “I’m so, so sorry. You didn’t deserve that at all.”

“It’s okay, my love.”

“No, it’s really not. I never should have raised my voice at you, especially when it’s not your fault at all that I’m frustrated.”

“Y/N, I understand.” He smiled at you, a small and sympathetic one, but it calmed you nonetheless as he stood, pulling you up from the chair to wrap his arms tightly around you. You gripped onto him like he might run away if you didn’t, breathing in the warm scent that is so unmistakeably Spencer. Your vision was now cloudy with the tears that so desperately wanted to spill, but you were adamant you wouldn’t give the local cops the satisfaction of seeing you with wet cheeks. Luckily, Spencer knows you better than anyone.

“There’s a park a few minutes’ walk from here with a small duck pond. Would you like some fresh air?”

You nodded frantically against his neck as you finally let go, allowing him to lead you out of the precinct, hand in hand, his thumb running softly over yours as you walked.

“I don’t deserve you.” You mumbled, leaning in closer to him as you carried on down the path.

“Nonsense,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your hair. “We deserve each other. Just remind me not to get on your bad side; I like having both of my arms functional.”

Bed Head -

A blaring alarm at 6am has to be up there with one of the most annoying things on the planet, and I work with Derek Morgan. You let out a groan, your arm floundering around to find the source of the wretched noise. Groaning in defeat of not being able to do it with your eyes closed, you cracked one open, locating your phone, and finding sweet relief in the snooze button. A very overexaggerated yawn left your lips as you attempted to stretch your arms over your head in an effort to wake up, only to find one immobilised in the grasp of your boyfriend.

You took advantage the rare opportunity of waking up before Mr Alarm Clock himself (also known as Dr Spencer Reid) by allowing yourself a few minutes to admire his form in the golden sliver of sunlight escaping the outside world through the gap in the curtains. It was only when your alarm went off again after the five-minute snooze timer did you try to wake him up.

“Spence, baby, time to wake up.” You whisper, attempting to gently coax him from his slumber. When that didn’t work, you laced your fingers through his mousy-brown curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, just how he likes. Only then did you receive a response in the form of a muffled groan into his pillow.

“C’mon, my love. We need to get ready for work.” You spoke softly, pressing a delicate kiss to his forehead.

You chuckled lightly, wrapping your arms around his torso as your legs entwined. “Okay, my sleepy darling. But only five.”

“Mmm, five more minutes.” He mumbled, nestling his face into your hair as he pulls you closer than you thought possible.

Safe to say you took breakfast to go, just so you could bask in each other’s embraced for a little longer than five minutes.

Post-Sex Hair -

You climbed from his lap gently, unsure if your legs could hold yourself up as you panted heavily. Practically throwing yourself down beside Spencer on the bed, he took the opportunity to grab your hand, lacing your fingers with his as you laid your head on his chest. You were both still a little dreamlike in your post-orgasmic haze, and when Spencer began to press kiss after kiss into your hair, you didn’t hesitate to enjoy them.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispered into your hair, punctuating his statement with a final kiss for good measure.

You looked up from your position, shifting slightly so you were face to face, and scrunched up your nose. “Really? Even with sweaty sex hair?”

He chuckled, and you followed with a giggle of your own as he leant over to capture your lips in a sweet kiss. “Especially with sweaty sex hair.” He whispered with a joking edge to his voice, his lips brushing with yours.

“Well, I’m pretty sure the team wouldn’t love my sweaty sex hair, so I better hop in the shower.” You smiled, kissing him quickly once more before climbing out of the bed and walking towards the bathroom, a sway to your hips.

As you reached the door, you turned to shoot a smirk over your shoulder at the blissed-out boy behind you. “Oh, are you not joining me?”

You swear you’d never seen the boy move as fast as when he clambered from the bed and chased you into the bathroom.

Straightened -

There was something about going undercover that equally excited you and creeped you out. Especially tonight, when you were having to go under in a club to catch a guy who was killing adulterous wives. You were the closest person in the team to his type, so it was a no-brainer to choose you, really. Didn’t mean you were happy with it, and it seemed that Spencer wasn’t either, if his clenched jaw was anything to go by.

Well, you were going to do it no matter what, so why not get yourself dressed up and try to bring some joy back to a less than ideal situation? That is why you were stood in the locker room of a precinct on the west coast in a red crushed velvet minidress with black heels, a fake wedding ring and straightened hair, and you couldn’t lie, you were totally feeling yourself.

“Woah, Y/N, you look…amazing.” You heard Spencer say as he entered the room.

You turned your head and smiled at him, feeling a little flustered as his eyes trailed over your form. You attempted to push your dress further down your thighs as he walked to you, his hands encircling your waist from behind and his head perched on your shoulder.

“It’s not too much is it?” You mumbled, looking down at yourself to do a final once over.

You felt his fingers under your chin, lifting your head to look him in the eyes through the mirror, ones filled with love and a hint of desire that set your skin aflame. He brushed your hair aside from your neck to trail kisses down the side of your throat, eliciting a breathy sigh from your lips.

“No, Y/N, you look badass.”

You giggled at the word that seemed so foreign coming from Spencer, but that was soon muffled when he spun you around by his hands on your hips and his lips hungrily met yours. Your lips moved against each other’s, his tongue coming to swipe at your bottom lip in a request for entrance. You granted it, and soon you felt your back collide with the cool metal of the lockers. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt as you explored his mouth with your tongue, relishing in the taste of him. You laced a hand up into his hair as you felt a hand that he had at your waist moving to your ass, gripping it roughly, causing you to moan into his mouth.

“Reid? Y/L/N? You two lovebirds ready?” You heard Morgan mock from the doorway and you both immediately jumped apart like some sort of invisible wall had shot up between you.

Looking around to see that Morgan wasn’t in your eyeline, given that the lockers luckily blocked you two from his view. But not from earshot, seeing as you could quite clearly hear his hearty chuckles as his footsteps got quieter and quieter.

You looked up at Spencer, his hair dishevelled and his tie askew, a look of both embarrassment and amusement at being caught making out like two horny teenagers adorned his face. A grin broke out on your lips, which he mirrored, and soon you were both laughing hysterically as you sorted yourselves out in the tiny little mirror on the wall, attempting to make it look like you weren’t a few seconds away from tearing each other’s clothes off, before re-joining the team in the conference room.

Messy Bun -

Ugh, cold and flu season. You swear you never make it through it unscathed. And it seems as if your battle was commencing today. You woke up feeling dreadful; runny nose, scratchy throat, constant sneezing, and red-rimmed eyes. Attractive.

There was no question in having to call in sick, so after throwing your hair up in the messiest of messy buns and locating the snuggest blanket, you dialled the number. You could practically hear the wince from Hotch when you started having a sneezing fit down the phone. Now you weren’t sure if you could look the man in the eye when you went back.

Once that torture was over and done with, you were feeling sorry for yourself and decided on a warm cup of tea and a dose of shitty daytime television. You were halfway through some over-enthusiastic talk show when you heard a knock at your door. Refusing to leave the blanket behind that you’d burrito’d yourself in, you shuffled over to the door.

You didn’t expect a very sympathetic looking Spencer on the other side of the door, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a welcomed sight.

“Hey.” You croaked out.

“Hi. How are you feeling?” You gave him a look that said it all, and he chuckled lightly. He lifted the bag he had in his hand. “I brought the best cure I could think of; chicken noodle soup.”

“I don’t want to get you sick, Spencer.” You whined, wanting nothing more than to curl up into his side but holding onto your selfless and rational thoughts by a mere thread.

You smiled at that, stepping aside to let him in. He passed you and went and got comfortable on your couch, grabbing a fork on the way. When you met him in the living room, he was ready and waiting for you with his arms open for you to snuggle into.

“Don’t worry about me. Now come on, your soup is getting cold.” He smiled, making grabby hands at you.

You made your way over, sinking into his embrace as he passed you the container and your fork. After a few mouthfuls and several minutes of listening to his steady breaths and thumps of his heart, you were feeling much better.

“Thank you.” You mumbled once you were finished and had placed your empty container on the coffee table in front of you, nuzzling further into Spencer’s chest. “I love you.”

“I love you too. Now sleep, I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

Didn’t have to tell you twice.

#spencer reid #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #Matthew Gray Gubler #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #mgg #mgg fluff

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Here to Misbehave (Pt. 14 | S.R.)

Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Finale |

Summary: Separated and terrified, Spencer and Reader rely on their unique skills to survive. The team, minus Penelope and Derek, don’t know who the strange girl in the bank is, but they find out very interesting things about her history.

A/N: I don’t know how banks work. Idk how heists work. I know nothing. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Couple: Spencer/Fem!Reader 
 Category: ANGST. Just. All of it. All of the angst. Every bit. 
 Content Warning: Gun violence, discussions of death and dying Word Count: 10k

MASTERLIST

—————————————————

“Hello, my name is (y/n)(y/l/n) and I’m calling from the Bank of America on K St. Northwest to report shots fired. The shots sounded like burst-fire from multiple semiautomatics.”

When adrenaline kicks in, there are a lot of things that don’t feel real. Time seems to warp into some ominous presence weighing down on you, but your body has never felt lighter.

“Ma’am, where are you?” Her voice sounded so far away. My own just felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely.

“I’m inside the bathroom. Listen, I might not have a lot of time. There’s a federal agent inside the bank. His name is SSA Dr. Spencer Reid with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit. Call...”

My mouth blanked on the names of the two men Spencer talked about the most. I’d met them both, why couldn’t I remember?

Several more shots rang through the building as an answer. It was enough to shake loose the names, which flowed from me before I could even comprehend where they came from.

“Call SSA Aaron Hotchner and… Derek Morgan.”

“Can you remain on the line?” She sounded insistent — which is against their protocol by the way. My eyes were glued to the bathroom door’s hinges.

“Only until the door opens.”

The sentence conveyed my thoughts without actually forming the words. Once that door opens, I’m probably going to die. It wasn’t a completely irrational fear.

“Okay. I need you to remain calm. Did you see any of the gunmen?”

Jesus, it was like everything I’d just told her had gone completely over her head. “No, I’m in the bathroom.”

“Does the agent have his service weapon?”

“No.”

If she didn’t ask me a question I could say yes to soon, I was going to lose my fucking mind.

I tried not to think about Spencer outside, but I couldn’t help it. All of my thoughts were on him, even before the commotion.

Was he even still alive?

“Help is on the way, Ms. (Y/l/n).”

“Please hurry.”

My entire body shook from the hormones, my instincts telling me to do anything besides sit crouched on a toilet in a bathroom stall. I don’t even know why I bothered hiding. They would definitely kick them in, or just shoot straight through the doors.

“We’ve contacted Agent Hotchner and he’s also on his way.”

Finally, some good fucking news. I released my breath as quietly as I could, closing my eyes for just a moment to compensate for the fact I hadn’t blinked in several minutes.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching the phone like it could actually do something for me past this point. But it couldn’t. No amount of breathing exercises would help me through this one.

Suddenly, there was movement outside the door. A crowd of people were shuffling past the door, and I heard the distinct sound of a toddler wailing.

“I have to go.”

“Wait, don’t hang up—“

I couldn’t wait, though. With trembling hands, I erased the evidence that I’d ever called them in the first place. And then I resumed my position as a sitting duck; quietly and as ready as I ever could be.

I listened for his voice, but I never heard it.

—————————————————

Three seconds.

Did you know that a semiautomatic weapon can fire up to three rounds per second, depending on how fast the user can pull the trigger?

After the first shot is fired, no one moves. Puzzled and alert, people are paralyzed. Your first reaction is to look for the source of the sound. It’d been a second before I turned to see the three armed people and two dead security guards behind me.

It takes the average person one and a half seconds to cognitively process that they're in a potentially life-threatening situation. It takes another .7 seconds for a physical response to kick in.

Three seconds.That was long enough for a maximum of nine shots per person to be fired- twenty-seven shots in total; it was long enough for the air to be filled with the sudden outburst of helpless screams the patrons of the bank, and it was long enough for me to realize that I didn’t have my gun and that my girlfriend wasn’t by my side.

“Everybody get down on the ground!”

Amid the chaos, I felt that all too familiar twisting sensation in my gut that begged time to reverse just enough for this to be a dream. Enough time to reverse the decisions that led us here.

But time was a cruel mistress, and she did not plan to bend to the whims of mankind, no matter how desperate.

Another deafening burst of sound rang through the air, shots fired into the ceiling now as myself and the others fell to the ground.

My gaze was fixed on the bathroom entrance. I couldn’t breathe. Please, I begged, stay hidden.

“Listen up! If everyone does what we say, you can all go back to your boring fucking lives.”

Injuries occur in less than two percent of bank robberies. Deaths occur in less than one. Saturdays are the second to least likely day for a robbery to take place. In the past 5 years, less than 10 people have been killed in bank robberies, and most of them were the perpetrators. Statistics usually calmed me down and helped me focus.

But these people didn’t care about statistics. They were defying the odds I had just recited to myself. They had already killed two people. Our luck was already stacked against us.

“Take everything out of your pockets and put it in front of you.”

As soon as the order was given, I was running through an inventory of everything in my pockets. It didn’t take me long to realize that with a cursory inspection of the items, they would figure out who I was.

But what were the odds that they would actually scrutinize them? I figured they were fairly low; you don’t rob a bank to get cheap jewelry and petty cash, even in a bank. What were the odds they would notice if I left something in my pocket — especially if my wallet was in front of me. If it wasn’t large enough to be a weapon, and I put out my objects of value, why wouldn’t I put out the rest of the contents?

So I decided to take the risk, removing my wallet while retaining my separate identification.

Luckily, the attention seemed pretty far removed from me. If I wasn’t too busy being extremely grateful, I might have been offended that they didn’t consider me a threat in the building.

“Alright ladies, all of you get up and follow my lovely friend here. You’re going on a little trip. Fellas, you stay right where you are.”

The sound of my heart pounding drowned out the instructions that weren’t intended for me. It was fine, I hadn’t planned on moving, anyway. As long as I could see the door to the bathroom, I was perfectly fine right where I was.

But I still felt for the terrified women that were shakily rising to their feet. To my right, I saw a woman struggling to hold a small infant. My heart was fracturing at the struggle, wishing I could help her. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk doing anything that might draw attention to myself.

I felt like a traitor. I felt useless. I was quite literally trained to handle this exact situation, but now that I was here, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t thinking about strategy or how to maximize efficiency; all I was thinking about was her.

“Jake!” A woman’s voice screamed from the other side of the room. When I turned, I heard the sound of a rifle cracking against bone before the man hit the ground.

“Jake, huh?” The man above him laughed, using the business end of the rifle to turn the disoriented man on his side. “Well, Jake, how would you feel about your girlfriend watching you die?”

“Please don’t hurt him!” The woman sobbed, scrambling up off the floor that she’d resisted leaving. I wondered if (y/n) would have refused to leave me, too.

The man prodded the woman with the gun, urging her to follow the rest while simultaneously providing easy enough instructions. The man apparently named Jake made a few noises of desperate protest as he watched her leave.

“Shut the fuck up!”

“I’m sorry,” Jake pleaded, “I’m sorry, please don’t hurt her. I’ll be quiet.”

Smart man. I understood his hesitancy, though. His girlfriend kept her neck craned back until she was no longer in sight, gazing back at him for as long as she physically could. I closed my eyes just for a moment, to try and combat their current strain.

Unfortunately, just like it always seems to happen, that’s when they spoke the words I had been dreading.

“Hey, you check the bathrooms yet?”

“Nah, I got it.”

I closed my eyes tighter now, scared that if I opened them, I’d give myself away. There was no possible way that I could hide the terror I currently felt. To be fair, I think it was only natural to be scared — but not like this.

There was a loud crashing noise of doors slamming, and the voice I knew better than I knew my own reached my ears, making sounds I’d never heard from her before.

Don’t fight them. I pleaded again, Please, don’t fight them.

“Let go of me!” She screamed as the door to the bathroom swung open. Unable to keep my eyes shut any longer, I opened them to see her clawing at the ground as she was dragged out by her ankle. “I can walk by myself! Let go of me!”

I wasn’t sure if she didn’t see me in the commotion, or if she’d just made the decision to act like she hadn’t. Either way, I was grateful. Still, my worries were justified as one of the three unsubs walked over to me.

“Why are you looking at her like that? You know her?”

Craning my head up, I shook my head no. It must not have been very convincing; the rage in my heart at them for thrusting her into this situation evident in my eyes.

“You wanna play hero, kid?”

“Sorry. No.” I muttered, taking a deep breath in a failed attempt to regulate my heart rate or my voice, “She’s… very loud. I get headaches.”

“Yeah well, deal with it.”

That might have been the end of it, if I’d played my hand better. But it turned out that the risk I had previously elected to take was woefully miscalculated. I didn’t meet their eyes anymore, knowing that doing so might threaten whatever frail illusion of masculinity they possessed.

It still didn’t stop them from holding the gun to my head.

“Empty your pockets.”

“Okay. I can do that, but I have to put my hand in my pocket.” I explained, moving my shaking hand to my back pocket, “It’s not a weapon.”

For once, I was grateful that I was the resident wimp when it came to stressful situations. Sure, I could handle myself, but I definitely didn’t look like I wanted to be there. Had I been any more of a visible threat, I was certain they would have figured out my identity long before this point. They might even have killed me right away.

“Hurry up.”

Swallowing hard, I pulled the identification from my pocket, flipping it open and holding it up for him to see, my gaze aimed fully forward. He snatched the badge away, a cheeky chuckle and a smile in his words.

“FBI, huh? Well, aren’t we lucky. You just became our most valuable player.”

—————————————————

Morgan arrived on the scene relatively unhurried and mostly just curious. The information Garcia had sent over text message was vague, likely due to the crime being a local one. Nothing about this seemed to be the BAU’s usual fare.

It took him almost no time to find Hotch, dressed in casual clothing, surrounded by the massive response team swarming around the bank. But Hotch hadn’t spotted him yet, fully involved with SWAT.

“What’s going on?”

Finally turning to notice his arrival, Hotch gave his normal matter-of-fact report in his simple, succinct manner. “Three people stormed the bank approximately 20 minutes ago and killed two security guards. There are 19 confirmed hostages inside the bank.”

But there was one significant detail that seemed to be missing, and Morgan started to scan the crowd for familiar faces as he spoke. “Hotch, this doesn’t sound like anything we’ve been working on. Why are we responding?”

“The caller alerted us that Reid is inside.”

The words were so unexpected that Morgan actually did a double take, his eyebrows furrowed and bowed as he replayed them in his head. “Wait, how did the caller know that?”

“I don’t know,” Hotch said with an equally perplexed look, gripping tighter to the communicator in his hand, “but she referred to us and him by name.”

‘She?’ Morgan thought, his heart stopping for a second as he excused himself from Hotch’s side, pulling out his phone and frantically calling Garcia, who had already made her way to the BAU.

“Hey there handsome.” It was a mild nickname for the famed Penelope Garcia, but Derek knew that she was probably already in a tough spot. After all, it’s not every day that one of their own is in these situations. At least, not unexpectedly.

“Hey Garcia, do you have eyes on the people in the bank?”

He could hear the feverish click-clacking of keys on the other end, followed closely by her equally frantic voice. “I’m working on it but so far I can only see the main lobby. They separated the women and the men for some reason. Why would they do that?”

“Just focus,” he calmly reminded, “Can you see the women?”

“No. All the women and children were moved to the back.”

Rubbing his face to try and relieve the tension that had quickly made its home over his jaw, Morgan glanced over at the entrance to the bank. It was strange to think that so much had happened so quickly.

Garcia had mentioned twice now that the women had been moved to the back, and he was trying to figure out why they would do that beyond the usual control mechanisms.

“I’m trying to see in the back now, but apparently banks take their video surveillance far more seriously than everything else. Last I checked, a camera never stole money or fired a gun!”

“Focus, babygirl.” It was an instruction for himself just as much as it was for her.

“Sorry, I’m nervous, and you know how I get when I’m nervous!” She squeaked, “I don’t like seeing you guys on my screens. I’d much rather see you in person, safe and sound and preferably smiling.”

Trying not to lose his patience, Morgan just sighed. It wasn’t her fault. It was no one’s fault, except that of the bastards who just had to go and ruin a perfectly nice weekend.

“Can you at least tell me who the caller was? Did they call from inside?”

“They were inside and, one second, let me check, it was... oh.” Her voice cut off abruptly, dropping into a high pitched, desperate whisper. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“It’s... the girl from the movies,” Garcia’s voice got faster and more panicked, “Derek, it’s (y/n). It’s Reid’s girlfriend. Reid’s girlfriend is inside the bank.”

Now that his suspicions had been confirmed, he wasn’t really sure what to do with the information. Because now that he knew Reid wasn’t alone, he felt the need to tell Hotch.

A profiler with a loved one involved was in dangerous territory. It wasn’t just Reid, but Morgan had personally seen just how unhinged Reid could get when it came to (y/n).

“Can you see her?” He asked, his voice lower than it was before.

“Oh, god, yes! I can!” It was not the kind of excited exclamation Morgan had hoped to hear, but at least he had confirmation she was alive. “She was in the bathroom but… They’re dragging her away…”

Morgan had tried not to pry too far in his best friend’s life before, and he took a moment to consider whether his next request was honestly necessary, or if he was just trying to find a reason to snoop.

But he wasn’t. There was something off about that girl. It wasn’t that she was bad or wrong, but she was far too comfortable in situations that didn’t call for it. The way she carried herself told him that she had held her own hand too often.

“Garcia, I know I’ve already done this to you once but... I need you to tell me everything you can find on her.”

—————————————————

My entire body ached; the sensation of an unfamiliar hand clenched tightly around my ankle burned long after I was released. It was definitely sprained, at the very least. I didn’t dare try to touch it, though. It wouldn’t be worth the trouble, and the bristling discomfort kept me where I was.

Which, for now was on my knees in the backroom of a bank lobby. Beside us was a large, heavily reinforced steel door with way too many different contraptions. I decided then that this whole arms race between burglars and corporate America had gotten a little fucking ridiculous.

But however annoyed I was by that, I was far more irritated by the hushed bickering between the man and woman holding rifles on the other side of the room. I could only hear every couple of words, but I got the gist of what they were arguing about.

Apparently, they’d never heard of an alarm system that’s connected to locks, which seemed extremely stupid for people who had gotten this far. In hindsight, that should have been my first clue that something was off about this entire situation.

Still, I couldn’t deal with them making the same fucking arguments over and over, so eventually I blurted out what I’m certain any millennial in the room would know. “The keycard won’t work if they’ve sounded the alarm.”

The statement earned me a gun to my face, and after a brief second of confusion, I flinched away from the cold metal of the barrel.

“What was that, sweetheart?” She was clearly looking to gauge my reaction rather than actually ask me to repeat the information. That was fine. I wasn’t exactly a talented actress, and I didn’t see the point in pretending to be meek.

If she was going to kill me, she was going to do it. Although I was certain Spencer would disagree, I chose to believe that our fate is dictated long before it happens. I was not a profiler; if I survived, it would be because I had been taught to survive through brute force and spite rather than calm negotiation.

“The keycard system is linked to the alarms,” I said, slower now, “Someone hit the alarm, so the cards aren’t going to work. You’ll need to use the old school keys.”

Her eyes narrowed, her voice dropping to a much lower register as she crouched down to my height. “How would you know? You work here?”

“No, my dad worked security.” It wasn’t a lie as much as it was an understatement, but she didn’t need to know that. I guess that’s one of those good things growing up with the dad I did; I got very comfortable speaking in vague generalities. Spencer hated it.

“Well, your daddy isn’t here to help you now.”

Wasn’t that the damn truth. But that didn’t mean I was alone, I reminded myself. Despite being dragged and my vision turned literally upside down, I had caught a glimpse of him in the lobby. He was alive. That thought alone was keeping me sane right now.

“The different keys you need for an override are probably kept on separate people so one person can’t do it alone. Probably the different managers.” I muttered, nodding to the side where one of the employees flinched at my words. Anything to get away from the fucking gun in my face.

“Is she right?” The woman sneered to the manager, turning her full attention to someone else. I felt a little guilty, since the poor manager seemed a lot less put together than I was. But hey, they needed her, too.

“Yes, I already gave you my keys,” she squeaked, holding her trembling hands up, “Th-There’s another set behind the desk I think.”

“Would you look at that...” It was the first time the man in the room addressed me since he had pulled me out of the stall, and I had to admit I wasn’t exactly a fan of his. But at the same time, I knew that he was going to be remarkably more receptive to me than the woman. She seemed to be the one who was actually in charge.  

“Little miss problem was actually helpful,” he cheered, raising his weapon to point to the ceiling as he approached me. I chewed nervously on my cheeks, trying to meet his eyes but finding them uncomfortably bare.

“You should turn off the camera too, I’m just saying.” This time I didn’t nod, using one cautious finger to point to the small device that was currently staring right at me. I understood that it was probably helpful to Spencer’s team to be able to see, but I wasn’t really keen on my death being videotaped... as well as anything else I might end up doing.

‘Never leave a trace.’ That’s what I’d always heard.

‘Keep’em guessing. Even if you think it’s gonna kill you, because you don’t want to live with that over your head.’

“Fine. Do that and go get the keys.” He sounded intrigued, and I felt his searing gaze against my face.

“I think you should do it.”

The tension from before, when the two were arguing, had quickly resurfaced. She clearly didn’t trust him to be alone in the room, which solidified my belief that she was calling the shots, and he was just being dragged along for the ride.

In another life, I might have respected her ability to order stupid men around.

“Why the fuck is that?” He snapped, earning a bored roll of her eyes. The next thing out of her mouth was expected, but unfortunately the last thing I wanted to hear.

“I want to talk to her alone.”

Great. And naturally, her idea of ‘talking’ to me included weaponry. Using the end of the gun to tilt my head up to her, she gave a suspicious smile.

“Why are you helping us?”

“I want to go home.” It was my immediate and instinctual answer. It was the truth. I was helping them because I wanted to get the fuck out of here.

But you know, people expect everyone to have a squeaky-clean moral compass, so I decided to give a few more reasons.

“And I don’t give a shit about a massive corporate bank. I was just here to go to the bathroom– I don’t even have an account here.”

Maybe that was too many reasons, because just as her hesitance waned, it was back in full force. Shoving the barrel against my throat, she sneered, “I don’t believe you. You’re too comfortable with a gun in your face. You a cop, too?”

Cop?

I tilted my head to the side, baring more of my throat to her as I drawled, “Who’s a cop?”

For once, I was glad that Spencer had made such a point of reassuring me that he was not ‘a cop,’ because otherwise I’m certain the terror would have been obvious in my eyes. But for now, I could trust the numb apathy that was washing over me.

Please don’t be talking about Spencer. Please don’t know that. Good things never happened to law enforcement in situations like this. Hell, the two security guards had been dead in seconds.

“I think you know.” She was smiling, and I realized that this fucking psychopath was sharper than she wanted me to think.

“I don’t.” The words were said through clenched teeth, and I prayed that she would see them as insistent anger over the fear that lie beneath them, “And why would you kill me if I was helping you?”

She smiled, drawing the weapon up and down my throat until it landed lower at my chest. The movements were slow and light, a playful glint in her eyes when they met mine again.

“For fun.”

I didn’t move a muscle, my body remaining tense under her ministrations as I forced myself to hold my gaze steady. If she wanted fear, she wouldn’t get it from me.

“Then do it.”

The look she gave me told me she had seriously considered it, probably a little annoyed with my presence. But there was something else there, too, that same soft recognition that in another reality we might have been friends. I’m sure she saw herself in me a little bit; or at least somebody useful.

This confirmed my suspicion that I’d never really be able to read a psychopath. I didn’t understand how Spencer could do it every day. It’d only been a few minutes alone with her and I could feel myself losing the happy memories of the day.

Luckily, the man returned at the same time I saw a plan developing in her mind.

“Hey, come help me,” he called to her. Her response was surprisingly swift, the metal that was tracing over my collar bones disappearing without another word. He was holding a small bag of money, which seemed to seriously irritate the woman.

“Did you get that money from behind the counter?” I asked it before she had a chance. I wanted him to trust me. Or at least look at me more. It wasn’t that I wanted his attention as much as I knew I could distract him fairly easily.

He looked over at me, a dumbfounded look on his face. Men are so fucking stupid, I thought. The pissed off expression on his partner’s face told me that she agreed.

“It’s going to explode if you mess with it or it leaves the area. Probably with tear gas. If you’re escaping in a car, you’re not gonna want it.”

“Yeah, we know about dye packs, bitch.” She snapped, grabbing the bag of money and tossing it to the side of the door they intended to use.

I stared at the locks they hadn’t even bothered trying to touch. The same locks they apparently didn’t look up or know anything about when they came. Suddenly it hit me why this all felt so very off.

It was strange enough that no one was wearing a mask, and as far as I’d heard, no one was really trying to get out of this situation. I was certain that by this point there was a large crowd of armored men outside.

“Just trying to help,” I muttered as I started to scan the room, looking for telltale signs of tampering. The anxious whispering of the man distracted me just long enough to get more information.  

“Won’t that set off some shit? Chain reaction shit?”

“Shut the fuck up,” the woman responded with a swift elbow to his gut as she started to walk away, “you are an absolute moron.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, I heard the faint curses that fell from his lips. As he picked up the bag just to toss it away again, I noticed the presence of odd packages in the corner of the room. He really did not want exploding dye packs near those boxes, which seemed remarkably out of place.

“Why does she think she’s in charge?” I asked, finally ripping my eyes away from the objects that now seemed glaringly obvious. “You two guys outnumber her.”

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

Relaxing my body as much as I could, I shifted back and forth on my knees, rubbing the tired muscles of my thighs. “I may have been told that once or twice.”

He actually chuckled; his eyes drawn to my legs like the absolute moron he so obviously was. She definitely had gotten that one right. The other women in the room were watching me, but I tried not to pay them any mind.

I didn’t know when or why they decided to let me do whatever I wanted, but I appreciated their apparent comfort in letting me try to kill myself. He made his way over to the boxes, each a specific size and shape. He carried them so carefully.

“I figure there’s no point in being scared if I’m going to die anyway.” I finally said. Shocked gasps and whispers filled the room, but I didn’t divert my attention to them– No matter how much I wanted to tell them to shut the fuck up.

They would distract me from the way his mouth curled into a smile when he closed the gap between us, his hand sliding down my head and over my shoulder to follow the braid Spencer had meticulously woven an hour before.

“How about you just shut up and sit pretty for me, sweetheart.” I tried not to let the disgust show as his hand slid behind my neck, holding my head so that I had to look up at him. “You seem like you’d be real good at that.”

Ha! If only Spencer could hear him say that. But I could play the good girl for just long enough.

“Do you need help?” I asked with a tiny shrug, “I might be little but I’m pretty strong.” Strong enough to break your fucking hand if you don’t get it off of me.

“Nah.” He ordered, his hand on my neck getting tighter. “But I don’t doubt that you could be useful. You look real good on your knees.”

My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might be visible through my ribs. I just needed an excuse to move. If he could give me an excuse to move, I could do so many things.

“Please let me help,” I begged, raising my hand to his forearm against my shoulder. His eyes began to shift, moving just enough to tell me that he wanted to look to the hallway. He could hear her footsteps, too. She was coming back, and I only had a few seconds left.

Once both of my hands were on his arm, I got the feeling he knew something even worse was coming for him.

“I’d love a chance to get to show you how helpful I really am.”  

—————————————————

Hotch had spent the past five minutes on the phone with the male unsub in the lobby, and the conversation was going absolutely nowhere. For whatever reason, they just seemed to deflect any opportunity provided to them.

They didn’t seem to give a shit about anything beyond pushing the buttons of each person they interacted with. Which, they did quite successfully.

“Didn’t realize one pig would bring the whole flock of you here,” he laughed, clearly motioning to Spencer on the video, “How bad do you want him back?”

“What do you want?” He responded without hesitation or a surprise. It was such an expected question to ask that he’d barely even thought about his words before they came out.

“Easy. A chopper, and for you to fuck off.”

That was the equally stereotypical response, meaning it was entirely unhelpful to them. From what they could deduce, they were equally confused as to why this heist seemed to follow all the rules, but match none of the motivations. It was like it was a show, a game, rather than an actual attempt to maximize profits.

“We can do the helicopter, but we can’t give you a pilot.”

“That’s fine,” he responded with a shrug, “Don’t need one.”

It was the first piece of useful information he’d gotten so far on the call. Because if they didn’t need a pilot, it meant one of two things: either one of them possessed the skill themselves, or they weren’t ever intending to use the helicopter.

Briefly pulling the phone away, Hotch turned to Morgan. “Tell Garcia to check our list with people with pilot’s licenses or any other connection that might provide them the skills to fly a helicopter.”

He returned to the call, continuing the usual script for these situations, trying not to act like he’d learned anything new.

“Can you release the women and children?”

“Nah,” the guy said with a chuckle, “I’ll wait.”

Hotch listened to the sound of the receiver for a moment, staring at the entrance to the bank like it would provide him the answers he still needed. He had his suspicions of what might be happening, but with no eyes in the back anymore and the trigger-happy group that had formed around him, he wouldn’t have the resources to convince them not to go in guns blazing.

“We’re ready to move in.” Which is exactly what they had requested.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stated before finally moving to look at the man next to him, “Something isn’t right here.”

“Yeah, a lot isn’t right here. There’s 19 innocent people in there.”

It didn’t really matter how many times he went through this situation; the results always seemed to be the same. No one listened, even when it wasn’t one of their men inside.

“Storming the building isn’t going to help them. There are three armed perpetrators inside, and they’re each in a different area. It would be impossible for us to take out all three at once. Especially now that we can’t see in the back. There could be explosives in there for all we know.”

The man was unpersuaded.

“If we can’t save them all, minimizing casualties is the name of the game.”

“Wait a few more minutes. I’m waiting to hear back from our analyst. If they have the capability of flying a plane, its highly likely they also have the knowledge and skills to create weapons that we aren’t currently prepared to handle.”

Although still unconvinced, the man grudgingly gave in to the request. Hotch closed his eyes, trying to be grateful for the extremely small victory; they’d gained a few more minutes. But the relief was short lived, with Morgan putting his phone aside for a second to mutter the same thing Hotch was thinking.

“Hotch, these people are way too confident. It’s like they know there’s a way out.”

As soon as he said the words, the two just looked at each other.

“Garcia, can you also check for any other way out of the bank?” He asked, walking back over to the table laid out under the nearby tent. This would have been a great time for Reid to be here, he thought as he stared at the ridiculously complicated schematics.

He understood they didn’t want people to be able to figure them out (so they couldn’t rob the bank), but this was just ridiculous. It looked ancient.  

“Sure thing, but… Morgan, I think there’s something else you should see.” The nerves dancing in her voice told him that they were about to switch subjects. “You know how the guy disabled the camera feed in the back room. I was reviewing the footage we do have and it looks like… (y/n) told him to.”

“Why would she do that?” He asked, furrowing his brow as he glanced over to the ornate bank doors. Part of him wanted to joke that things would’ve been a lot simpler if he didn’t have to worry about Reid’s weird girlfriend, but it didn’t feel as funny when they were both in danger.

Maybe later, he thought hopefully, when they were all together again.

“I… don’t know why. But I did what you asked, and I went through her record and found a ton of sealed files on her and also her dad…”

Morgan’s attention was definitely piqued at that point, but he wasn’t entirely sure what to say. In the stunned silence, Penelope spoke again.

“Should… Should I unseal them?”

It was the same question he was debating in his head, and he honestly didn’t know. Although a long shot, he hoped that she could provide at least the bare minimum of context before they made that kind of decision.

“What kind of files are we talking about?”

“I can’t be sure until I unseal them b-but, I mean, they’re sealed for a reason and I’m talking scary sealed. Like, it might take me a minute sealed. Giving me the heebie-jeebies sealed.” She grew more frantic as she continued. Morgan knew they were running out of time.

“I get it.”

“Is Reid okay?” She switched gears, recognizing that Morgan’s hesitance meant it was probably a bad idea. She wasn’t going to push it unless he did. They didn’t even know if she could help even if they unsealed the files. Especially without a visual.

“They know he’s with us,” Morgan sadly admitted, “I don’t know what’s going on. Did you find another way out of the bank?”

“Right.” The conversation was going to give everyone involved whiplash at this point. “Yes! There is an access way through tunnels underneath the bank but it would take a massive distraction for all three of them to be able to get out of there without us meeting them on the other side. I’m talking earth shatterin–.”

She didn’t finish the sentence, her tongue halting the second her mind caught up with her voice. Morgan was equally concerned, recognizing the kind of distraction that this might require and the perfect way to escape with maximum damage.

But that wasn’t what got his attention. There was no fiery explosion or shouted epiphany, because at that same time there were the muffled sounds of gunshots coming from inside.

“Oh my god, what was that?!” Garcia yelled, accompanied by frantic clicking as she filtered through each individual camera to try and locate the source of the noise.

“Garcia, do you have eyes on the main room?”

“Yes! But it wasn’t in the main room, Derek, it was in the back!”

It was a difficult and necessary job, to consider what those sounds might mean for the young girl they’d met only a few weeks earlier. Morgan’s thoughts went even further, not only worried about her safety, but his best friend’s sanity. Lord knows Reid didn’t need another thing weighing on his conscience. Especially not about her; it just might destroy him.

“What does the unsub in the main area look like? Does he look confused? Surprised?” The words were coming, but he didn’t know where from. His body was on autopilot, desperately seeking any validation that they could still save everyone.

“I-I don’t know! He looks grainy! The image is like an inch wide!” She was clearly growing frustrated, which was a feeling they all shared at this point. “This camera is from before I was even born!”

“Try, Penelope,” Morgan pleaded, “Give me something.”

But the other men weren’t willing to wait.

“That’s it. We’re moving in.”

Morgan turned to them, his hand clutching tighter to the phone just in time for her to speak.

“He’s calling for them but they’re not coming out. He looks… Oh no. He’s yelling at Reid now. And... And it looks like someone is coming down the hallway? But he’s not looking–”

It was impossible to focus on everything that was happening, heavy boots and massive commotion as people began to take their positions. But if someone was coming down the hallway, and the unsub didn’t know, that could only mean a few things. Either he was about to be proven disposable, or someone else had fired those shots.

Either way, one thing was clear.

“Wait! We can’t go in there yet!”

—————————————————

There was a point in time where I might have questioned whether I would ever get used to a gun in my face. There was also a point where I actually had gotten used to it. But nothing could have prepared me for this moment, this terrifying realization while staring down the barrel of an assault rifle that I didn’t want to die yet.

I used to think that my life was somewhat disposable. Sure, I was helpful and useful for my job, but ultimately, I considered myself replaceable. The next person to come might not have the same credentials, but they probably wouldn’t also have half the flaws I do.

But now I wasn’t thinking of work. I wasn’t thinking about how replaceable I was, because it wasn’t my life that mattered.

I didn’t want to die yet, because I wanted to see her again.

So I just stared at the weapon, trying to remember that it was still a great possibility that I could. I tried not to think about what was in front of me, choosing to use most of my brainpower to picture what it would feel like when I had her in my arms again.

The vision inside my head ended swiftly, with the sound of rapidly fired weaponry coming from down the hall. Through the commotion of screaming, I surmised that at least two guns had been fired.

Silence followed. It was a stifling, exhausting, painful silence.

What broke it was even worse, with the gun in my face smacking into the side of my head as the man holding it lost his grip at the sound.

“What the fuck was that?!”

He looked at me like he expected me to have the answers, but I didn’t.

“I don’t know. I-I don’t—“ Not only did I not understand why two guns would fire, I didn’t know who had shot them or for what reason. There was one thing I did know. “It sounded like your weapons.”

“Hey, what’s going on back there?!” He shouted, twisting his body just enough to see around the corner.

There was no reply.

“Did your people get in here somehow?” The panic was obvious, and I didn’t know how to calm him down without arousing suspicion. He was continuing to devolve, stepping closer to me as he stuck with his original thought, “How the fuck could they have done that, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything you do know?”

It was a question I’d been asking myself. The longer the silence continued in the back, the more rapidly my anxiety rose. There are only a few reasons why we wouldn’t hear more screaming.

Either someone had managed to get remarkable control over the situation, or all of the hostages were dead. Including (y/n). I forced myself to consider the far less likely, but still possible third option: She was dying, and I could still help her.

“I know that there is still a way for you to get out of this.” I barely recognized my own voice as I rambled, “Is it possible your partners… Is it possible they were planning on leaving together?”

“What?” He sounded disgusted and exhausted, but simultaneously insecure. It didn’t take much effort to realize that he was the weakest of the crew. I’d already had my suspicions that whatever the next step in this journey was, he wasn’t going to be making it with them regardless.

“It was their decision to leave you out here, right? In the place with the most windows and the first access to the door? They put you with all the people most likely to fight back. And now it sounds like…”

I paused, my lips unable to make the next words without a deep breath. “It sounds like they killed the people in the back as a diversion to send in SWAT. Does that sound like something they would do?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

That was enough confirmation for me. It was definitely something they would do, and he knew it. He probably suspected it himself. Thankfully, it gave me enough courage to push back for the first time in this encounter. “Then go back there and see if they’re still there.”

“And just let you be hero and save all these guys? No chance.”

I wanted to laugh; if only he knew the real reason I wanted him to go back there. As terrible as it was, I didn’t care at all about the rest of these men right now. As far as I knew, they were relatively safe. In fact, they were in a better position if what I’d deduced was true. This man, while violent, wasn’t the kind to murder everyone in sight, even when cornered. He’d more likely be shot by SWAT.

“I’ll come with you.” It was a plea, a desperate attempt to get more information that I both wanted and feared. He watched me carefully, trying to read the terror on my face to determine where exactly it was coming from. He knew the hostages were useless to him if he had me, so I wasn’t particularly scared for my life.

At least, not just yet.

“Fine. Get up.”

I willed my legs to stop shaking; to just carry me far enough that I could see her face. I just needed to know that she was okay.

But then I felt a fine mist over my skin— it almost felt like the noise happened after, but I knew logically that couldn’t be true.

A gun fires before the bullets hit their target.

Time seemed to move slower as his body fell to the ground in front of me. My eyes followed him to the floor, but only until I saw the person holding the gun through my peripherals.

“...(y/n)?”

And there she was, clutching tightly onto a rifle, her body barely upright as she staggered forward. There was something remarkably off-putting about the sight of her holding on for dear life to something so morbid. A jarring contrast I would not soon be able to forget, if I ever could.

There was something even more unsettling about the ease with which she carried the weapon, and the fact that she had managed to fire something that powerful without a single stray bullet.

“They’re dead!” She boomed across the room, dropping the weapon onto the floor before she yelled again, “Everyone get out! Hurry!”

No one moved. All of the men, myself included, stared at the tiny girl who’d just saved all of our lives.

“Get out now! There’s a bomb in the back!”

Those were the magic words to stir a panicked crowd into action, people stampeding to the single double door at the entrance, but my eyes were fixed on her. She staggered forward, her arm around her waist and her eyes beginning to roll back.

Perhaps I was just clueless, my one-track mind too slow to navigate the scene in front of me, but it took me that long to see it. My brain rioted against the visuals it took in, the dark crimson dripping down her body. It looked like it would swallow her whole.

I tried to will my body to move, to run to her and do something, anything to help her. But I couldn’t, frozen in place as her small steps got weaker. It wasn’t until I saw her begin to sway that I lunged forward just in time to catch her before she hit the ground.

“Wait!” I screamed to anyone who would listen, my eyes frantically trying to meet someone in the crowd, “Someone get a medic!”

The woman with a child was the last one to pass. She stopped among the commotion, looking down at the carnage in my lap before bolting towards the door.

I had to trust that she would care enough to do something, because from that point on my attention wouldn’t be leaving (y/n). Her eyes were glassy, staring off into the distance and wandering aimlessly despite my face being in view.

“Hey, hey little girl.” My voice crackled as I held her cheek, “Hey, look at me.”

She was finally able to meet my gaze, her eyes filling with love with a small, delirious smile gracing her lips.

“Hey old man.”

The grin didn’t last long, the sounds of her choking and coughing replacing it as blood filled her mouth. I tried to turn her enough that she could spit it out, but it was obvious she was struggling to get any air at all.

“We’re gonna get you some help, okay?” I said with a false confidence, the twisted curve of my lips not even barely resembling a smile.

“It hurts,” she sobbed, her hands slipping in the blood on her stomach.

“I know.”

There wasn’t anything I could do; all I could do was sit there and stare, trying to decide where my hands should be. She was applying pressure to her wound on the front, but I could see the wreckage that was once her back. My hands wouldn’t be enough.

“I’m sleepy.”

“I know.” I was trembling, tears dripping from my face and mixing with the bloody mess; they still couldn’t dilute it, somehow make it vanish. “I know you’re tired. But you’ve gotta stay awake, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try.”

At first, I wanted to say the innocence in her voice was surprising, but it wasn’t. She was innocent. She was just a young girl, trying to live a happy, normal life before she met me.

“You’re doing great.” I tried to convince myself this wasn’t my fault, but it didn’t work. She had said it herself — she wouldn’t have ever come to a bank on her own. The statistics of the rarity of this situation kept playing on a loop in the back of my head, but it was just a low hum beneath the sound of her pained whimpers.

“Spencer, I need to tell you something.” The newfound insistence in her voice twisted in my gut, and my hands held tighter to her arm.

“No, don’t,” I begged, already anticipating what was going to happen. “Please, don’t do this.”

“I have to tell you right now.” And then her voice was calm, a smile on her face as her blood-soaked hand left her stomach, trying to raise to touch me. It didn’t make it.

“No, you can tell me later.”

The words were so slurred and pathetic, I’m surprised she understood them. But she did, taking a deep, whistling breath. It was clear it hurt her to speak, and I wanted to tell her to be quiet, but the masochist in me needed to hear the words all the same.

“Spencer, please. Just listen to me.”

This sounded too much like a goodbye.

“I love you.”

Our bodies rocked as I realized I hadn’t taken a breath of my own in too long, the pain in my oxygen deprived lungs not nearly enough to distract me from the genuine softness of her voice.

“I love you so much,” she whispered, “Do you know that?”

I don’t know how she wasn’t crying, her eyes barely open but too tired to blink. That rosy complexion had faded, her skin blanching the longer she lay in my arms.

“Yes, I know.”

“I love you with my whole heart.”

My mind was flashing images from only a couple hours prior, her warm laugh as she laid on my lap, the way her hair slipped between my fingers while I wove it together.

‘You think you’ll still be around?’

‘If you’ll have me.’

The memories were blurring together, creating a symphony of promises that were about to be shattered in front of my eyes.

‘Forever,’ she’d said. ‘Forever.’

‘A white picket fence. Two little bratty genius babies. Just a normal, domestic life with Dr. and Mrs. Reid.’

Rejecting the thought, I shook my head, “You’re going to be fine.”

“I understand what you meant when…” Her voice was too quiet, too distant, to be this warm. “When you said it was nice to be able to say it.”  

The heavy footfalls and sound of a transport bed wheeling across the floor alerted me that I would have to let her go soon. Whether this would be the last time I ever held her, I couldn’t be sure.

“They’re gonna come take you now, but I’ll be right behind them. I promise.” I barely got the words out before their hands were all over her, those tired eyes shooting wide open as unfamiliar hands replaced mine.

“Wait, Spencer!” She cried out, her body too limp to make a meaningful attempt to stop them, “Don’t leave me!”

Her screams and sobs were ringing louder than the gunshots had, my body slowly making its way upright as I watched them place her on the bed.

“I’m not leaving you, I promise.” I tried not to let the panic bleed through, raising the volume as she started to be taken away from me, “Stay awake as long as you can.”

I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her attempts to scream. If she was calling my name, it wasn’t recognizable. I’m not sure which hurt worse— the sound of her tired lips butchering my name, or the silence that followed.

She wasn’t able to scream anymore.

When I emerged from the bank, the sun burned my eyes just as much as the sight of my team shocked to see me covered in blood. But I couldn’t focus on them at all, immediately bolting after the paramedics without another thought.

The extra time it took them to carefully load her allowed me to jump into the back of the vehicle before the doors shut. There were no words to describe this situation, nor make it any better.

So I just stared in horrified fascination, trying to gauge her odds as they rapidly changed in front of me. Of 107,141 firearm injuries last year, 31% died. How many of the 69% had assault rifle wounds? I couldn’t remember any other statistics. My brain had turned itself off, focusing only on the frantic beeping and scrambled voices.

“Where is he?” Her tiny voice cut through both the internal and external noise.

“I’m right here.” I nearly shouted from my precarious position standing in the back of the rattling ambulance. I wanted to move closer, but I was too scared. There were so many hands on her, and I didn’t want to get in the way.

“I’m scared.” She said, mirroring my exact thoughts.

“I’m right here.” I repeated, closing my eyes to hide from the carnage long enough to put words together that might make her feel any ounce of comfort, “You’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

Taking an experimental step forward once the paramedics seemed settled in their places, I came to stand behind her. My hands were tinted red and trembled as they reached out to touch her cheeks.

She took a sharp inhale at the sensation, just barely holding her head up straight. I couldn’t tell if she was leaning into my touch or just couldn’t control her neck any longer. Her skin felt like ice, and although she was still beautiful, the blue tint creeping over her face struck fear in my heart.

“How much longer until we get to the hospital? Her body temperature is dropping.”

If she heard me, she didn’t respond. I stared at the paramedic who was obviously more concerned with other things at the moment. They were kind enough to give me a response, even if it wasn’t a satisfying one.

“Just a few more minutes. We can’t do anything until we stop the bleeding, sir.”

“Spencer…” Each time she spoke was simultaneously terrifying and comforting. It was confirmation she was alive, but also troublesome, because I knew that she should be reserving her efforts for staying alive.

“Hang in there, little girl. We’re almost there.”

She opened her eyes, staring up at me with clouded vision. I could see the pain so clearly it might as well have been me on the table.

“Please help me,” she sobbed, “help me.”

“I-I can’t.” They were the two hardest words I’d ever had to say. Frustration mounted in me, but none of it was directed at her. She didn’t do anything wrong. Myself, on the other hand, I hated myself in that moment.

She was begging for me to help her, and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything but stand here and watch as she bled out in the back of an ambulance, a stranger’s hands practically inside of her stomach.

“I don’t want to die.”

The way her voice cracked took whatever was left of my sanity with it, and I felt my fingertips slip in the blood as I pressed against her face.

“You won’t,” I tried to assure her, “You’re going to be fine. Just stay awake.”

“I can’t.” The usual spunk in her voice had faded, leaving behind the sound of a twenty year old girl with no fight left in her. “I’m so sorry, Spencer…”

‘Sorry?’ I thought below the horror, ‘for what?’

When her eyes shut, they couldn’t even make it all the way. It was an expression I’d seen before on the field. I wasn’t meant to see it on her.

“No. No, no, wake up.” I urged, patting her cheeks softly before closing my hands around them more tightly, “Wake up, little girl, please.”

I was talking to no one, because I don’t think she could hear me anymore. Absolutely nothing in her body changed, even as the paramedics became more rushed.

“I’ve located the bleed!” The woman beside me yelled as the ambulance began to rapidly slow down. “I’m sorry sir, but we need you to move.”

“Whatever you need. Please, just help her.” I’d said the words, but my actions didn’t follow. She stared down at my hands that were still tethered to (y/n)’s face, trying to provide the warmth that she desperately needed.

Somehow, I was able to wrench them away, only then realizing the bloody handprints I’d left behind. Her face still wasn’t moving.

“Please, I—“

Before I could say another word, they were already out of the ambulance. I followed as closely as I could behind them, trying to focus enough to ensure that every word said could be played again in my mind. Because the second she crossed the threshold into the surgery suite, I wouldn’t be able to hear them anymore.

I would have to wait. I would have to wait for her to be better, or wait for a declaration. And in that vast silence, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop from torturing myself with every single word uttered in this building before the doors closed.

The doors were ahead of us now, and I wished time could slow down enough that I could give her one more kiss and tell her to be strong one more time before she went into the Schrodinger’s Box that was the emergency room operating table.

I wanted to tell her that I loved her, and when the thought crossed my mind, I realized that I’d never said it back. She’d said it three times, but in my adamant denial I’d failed to return it.

It was so much like us, I’d almost laughed. She’d made such a point of worrying about me leaving her, neither of us had ever stopped to think about how I’d live without her.

How would I live without her? The only person I trusted to have an answer was wheeled into the room, the door shutting abruptly in front of me.

In the reflection of the metal door I saw myself, drenched in the dark liquid. I tried to clean my face with my hand only to realize that they, too, were dirty with her blood.

The world had fallen silent, and I let myself be crushed by the overwhelming loneliness of an existence without her.

‘Don’t miss me too much, Dr. Reid.’

It was too late.

—————————————————

| Part 15 |

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds self insert #spencer reid angst #criminal minds angst #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid series #reid series #dr spencer reid #h2m #spence reid #spencer reid request #reid request

[spencers-renaissance]

The Colour of Waiting is Purple

Summary: Spencer's just trying to get home as quickly as possible when a bad decision to take a shortcut down a back alley leaves him broken and bleeding into the night. // Hotch thinks it's a new case when his phone rings at 3 in the morning. It isn't.

Tags: whump, hurt/comfort, physical assault, major character injury, hospitals, dad hotch, hurt spencer, angst with a happy ending, eventual fluff

TW: graphic descriptions of violence // physical assault (no rape/non-con)

Pairing: Gen, Aaron Hotchner & Spencer Reid

Word Count: 3.7k

Masterlist // Read on AO3 // Bad Things Happen Bingo

Disclaimer: I'm sure there are some medical inaccuracies here, everything I know comes from google, whump tumblr blogs, and my embarrassing obsession with medical dramas. I also have no knowledge of the US medical system aside from what I know from the aforementioned sources so excuse any issues there.

Spencer doesn’t think anything of it when he leaves work at his usual time, the clock pushing midnight and the offices deserted. He packs his few personal belongings up and turns off his lamp before nodding to the janitor, the only other person to be seen, and taking the elevator down to the ground floor where there’s a little more sign of human life at least. 

As soon as he steps out into the crisp winter air, he feels the exhaustion of working close to 18 hours straight on far too little sleep hit him. They haven’t even been working a case, he just gets so caught up in his reports and consults that he doesn’t notice the hours whizzing by until he looks up and the bullpen is deserted, dark except for his desk lamp. 

Inevitably when spending the day at the office dealing with banalities, he finds something that captures his interest. It tends to send him on a trawl through the internet — or, occasionally, to another part of the building — looking it up in every journal he buys a subscription to until that itch is scratched.

The others always gently touch his shoulder or call out to him as they leave, which he tends to hear about 50% of the time, and Hotch especially tries to make him leave at a more sensible time, but he can’t help the way his brain works. Once it latches onto something it’s not letting go until it’s satisfied.

His feet carry him to the Metro station while his brain absently thinks over his most recent fixation, and soon enough he’s at his stop and back in DC. The streets are slightly more lively in the city, and the noise and light snap him back to reality enough to remind him of his bone-deep fatigue. He usually walks down the main streets to get to his apartment building, occasionally catching a bus if he’s earlier than usual or a cab if he’s later, but tonight he’s just longing for a quick microwave meal, a shower, and his bed. So, he dips down an alleyway and takes the shortcut home. 

It’s stupid. 

He knows pretty much every statistic there is to know about his city, and at the forefront of his brain are those concerning crime. DC has one of the highest crime rates in America, and a person’s chances of being a victim is 1 in 18, and although it’s slightly lower in Adams Morgan which is one of the safest, violent crimes are still 36% higher than the national average. This is decidedly increased when you take stupid risks like walking through the backstreets in the dead of night when you’re on your own.

Sadly, this does not occur to Spencer before he’s deep in the back streets of the city, being slammed ruthlessly against a wall by two men he didn’t see coming. 

He’s winded immediately, and before his brain can catch up with what’s happening, a knife is being held dangerously close to his neck. All his self-defence training, all the moves Derek had spent hours teaching him when he’d first joined the BAU fly out the window and he can only breathe heavily with what he knows must be a terrified expression on his face.

“Well, well, well,” the man holding the knife leers, his arid breath hitting Spencer’s face, “look what we have here.”

The other man doesn’t speak. He’s stood slightly further back, arms crossed as he stares Spencer down. Although he’s physically the lesser threat right now, something about him has ice pooling in Spencer’s stomach.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, you fucking pansy,” he continues, pushing Spencer further into the wall, pain blossoming across his body, “you’re gonna let us look through your gay ass purse, and we’re gonna take whatever we want from it. And then, you’re gonna let Paulie here do whatever he wants to you. He’s had a real bad day, and a pathetic little queer like you is just the punching bag he needs, you hear me?”

It’s all Spencer can do to nod his head frantically. He wants to open his mouth, to negotiate, to talk them down, but this is nothing like when he’s faced with the FBI’s most wanted. He’s in control there, he’s on his turf, his playing field, it’s  his game and he knows every rule, every bylaw, every exception. 

Right now, he’s completely at these men’s mercy.

“Paulie, take his bag.” The man doesn’t take his eyes off Spencer’s face, scanning his expression and body language for any sign he’s about to bolt, for any reason to put his knife to work. 

He tries to calm himself down a little, enough to catch his breath at least. He’s taken countless beatings throughout his life, he knows how to survive, just… please, don’t let it be anything more. It’s all Spencer dares to hope for.

The other man steps forward and snatches his messenger bag, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his bag on the pavement. Spencer’s just grateful that he doesn’t have anything in there that hints towards his career. He knows this type: they’re intimidating but they’re easily scared. Right now, he’s a weak twenty-something on his way home, he’s not a threat to them, but who knows what they’d do to him if they realised he’s a fed?

They take his wallet and his phone before they rummage through his pockets to find some spare cash. His badge is tucked in an inner pocket in his blazer and his Quantico ID is still hanging around his neck, hidden under his scarf, blazer, and thin overcoat; he’s so glad he never took it off. 

An icy tear drips down his face as he stands there, pressed against the wall, awaiting his fate. All he wants right now is to be back at home. No, that’s not right. All he wants right now is  Hotch. As soon as the thought of his father-figure crosses his mind, the tears start flowing faster, desperate to feel safe again, knowing Hotch is the only person to really let him feel that way.

The man holding the knife has turned to watch Paulie sift through his bag and rummage through his pockets, but as soon as his steely grey eyes return to Spencer’s face, his face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Aw, are you crying?” he mocks, starting to laugh. “Are the big bad men making you feel scared? You gonna run home to Mommy?”

He knows that it’s exactly what the man wants, but he can’t stop the tears from devolving into full-blown sobs at his words. The whole terrifying experience, the implications, the realisations of what might be coming for him in the next few minutes start to catch up to him and he’s violently shaking as he cries uncontrollably. 

“You’re pathetic,” the man spits, releasing his grip on him slightly, letting Spencer’s shaky legs collapse under him and send him crashing towards the ground. “He’s all yours, Paulie. I’m gonna enjoy this.”

His position is quickly taken over by Paulie as the other man leans against a dumpster close by to watch the show, and Spencer looks up at the intimidating man with fear blazing in his eyes as he hangs in purgatory, knowing the hell that’s about to rain down on him. 

Paulie doesn’t take long to get started and he doesn’t hold back, his sturdy, black boots kicking him relentlessly in the stomach and his thighs before moving up to his chest, slamming the toe of his boots into each individual rib. Spencer can hear the other man laughing maniacally over the sound of his own bones breaking, over his own choked pleas for mercy, but it’s like Paulie doesn’t hear either of them. His face is blank as he gives Spencer the beating of his life, and it only makes him more terrifying. 

He quickly gets bored of kicking Spencer and bends down to yank him up by his scarf, only to land a hard, brutal punch on his jaw, then his cheek, then his nose before dropping him down again, this time so his back is vulnerable, at the mercy of Paulie’s cruel feet.

The torture continues for a few more minutes, and Spencer doesn’t know how no-one hears his desperate cries, but they’re left alone in the alley as he coughs up blood and feels his bones break under the tread of Paulie’s boots. He’s deprived of air as his chest is stood on, as his windpipe is crushed, but finally,  finally it’s over.

“I’m bored,” Paulie grunts, giving Spencer one last brutal kick to the base of his back before walking over to the other man. They both saunter off down the alleyway, not casting a single look back at Spencer lying curled up on the ground, surrounded by his own blood. 

Soon, the men have left, and he’s alone with only his ragged, painful breaths for company. He can hear the hoots of a bachelor party just a street over, but no-one’s coming to save him. No-one else is stupid enough to venture down the backstreets of DC. Not with crime rates like those of their city. Not in the small hours of the morning. Not alone.

He doesn’t even have his phone to call for help. 

⭐️

Hotch expects it to be work when he picks up the phone at 3am. By the time he’s sat up in bed and sliding the bar on his phone to answer it, he’s already half in work-mode, ready to call Jessica and drive Jack over before racing into work to beat the others on the team. He can already taste his first coffee of the day. 

“Hello, is this Aaron Hotchner?” 

It isn’t work.

“Uh, yes,” he says hesitantly, shifting upright a little further, sleep-addled mind trying to guess who the caller could possibly be, “speaking.”

“Hi, my name is Mary Kutner, I’m calling from George Washington University Hospital. I have you down as Spencer Reid’s emergency contact, is that correct?”

Hotch’s heart plummets, and he leaps out of bed immediately, ready to get dressed as the shock wakes him up. “That’s correct. What’s happened?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge much information over the phone, sir, but we’ll need you to come to the hospital urgently.” 

He isn’t usually an emotional person, but he can feel tears springing to his eyes already. Spencer is a surrogate son to him, and knowing he’s hurt without knowing what he can actually do about it is an atrocious feeling.  Please don’t let me watch another member of my family die, is all he can think as he tries to gain enough composure to reply to the nurse on the other end of the line.

“Can you tell me his condition?” he asks, somehow managing to get the words past the lump in his throat. 

“He’s currently in theatre, sir,” Mary replies as gently as one can in such a professional tone. “If you come down to the hospital and report to the ER a doctor will be able to tell you more. I’ll need you to bring identification with you, please.”

“Okay,” he breathes, trying to keep as calm as possible, “okay. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be right there.”

He throws the phone on the bed as he finishes throwing his clothes on. He packs two bags: one for him (mostly filled with things Spencer might need) and one for Jack, pulls on his coat and shoes before creeping into his son’s room and lifting him out of bed gently, carrying him down to the car. 

Jack is a heavy sleeper — he frequently wakes up the next morning tucked in his room at Jessica’s, sometimes in the car on the way — and he’s endlessly thankful for that now. Explaining why he’s dashing out of the flat with a panicked look on his face to a seven-year-old is a conversation he’s glad to avoid.

He rings Jessica on the way who, used to his early morning calls waking her up, has no problem with looking after Jack.

Somehow, he manages to make it to the hospital only forty-five minutes later, and he didn’t even have to park illegally. Thank God the hospital is at least a little quieter in the dead of night.

“Hi, I’m Aaron Hotchner, Spencer Reid’s emergency contact,” he explains shakily to the woman at the front desk, laying down his FBI identification bag down as ID. He could use his driving licence, sure, but… if knowing they’re FBI agents will make any difference to Spencer’s care then he doesn’t give a damn if this could be construed in some way as abuse of his position. He’d rather lose his job than lose his son.

“Oh, hi Agent Hotchner,” the woman says with a tone of recognition, glancing at his ID before typing something into her computer, “I’m Mary Kutner, I spoke to you on the phone. Dr Reid is still in surgery but I’ll go and find a doctor who can explain the situation to you.”

He nods absently, face stern and pinched as furious anxiety toils inside him. He feels like the last forty-five minutes have been a daze, and now the bright lights and noisy machines and bustling action of the Emergency Department at a major trauma centre are slowly snapping him out of it, the implications of ‘urgent’ and ‘surgery’ and it being the middle of the damn night finally catching up to him. 

Some number of minutes pass by — he’s too anxious and caught in his head to keep track of the linear passage of time right now — before he’s approached by a young doctor, wearing a mask carefully constructed of confident professionalism and reassuring compassion. 

“Agent Hotchner?” She’s clarifying uselessly, she knows it’s him. He knows she probably has to confirm for some stupid HIPAA rule, but he just wants to know what happened goddamnit. 

“Yes,” he replies shortly, “what’s happened to Spencer?”

He doesn’t miss her almost perfectly concealed wince, and he feels his stomach sink further. “He was involved in an assault on his way home from work. A passer-by found him in a back road not far from the hospital and called for an ambulance. Luckily we got him into surgery quickly. Upon admission’s initial assessment, he had a ruptured spleen, a collapsed lung, a double kidney contusion, and he suffered a pelvic fracture along with multiple broken ribs, a fractured jaw and cheekbone, and several severe breaks in his left forearm, wrist, and hand.”

Hotch stares at the doctor in disbelief as she lists Spencer’s injuries: he feels like he’s going into shock. How could anyone want to hurt the sweetest person he’s ever met? How could anyone be so brutal? He’s worked with serial killers for nearly two decades and still, nothing could prepare him for this. He sits down in the seat behind him as the world spins, his brain trying to piece everything together. 

“Are you alright, sir?” the doctor asks, sitting down in the seat next to him. “Do you want a glass of water?”

“What?” He turns to look at her before her words sink in and he realises what she asked. “Oh. No, I’m fine… I— is he going to be okay?” As soon as the first tear spills down his cheek, he can’t stop them from falling one after another, dripping down his face in his most public display of emotion since Haley died.

“He’s going to need a lot of care,” she reasons, “he’ll need to stay in hospital for at least a week depending on the outcome of the surgery, but we have every reason to believe he’ll make a full recovery.”

“What’s— what’s the surgery for?” He feels like he’s having an out of body experience.

“They’ll address the internal bleeding first by either fixing or removing the spleen and making sure we didn’t miss anything else on the scans. The surgeon will also assess the damage to Spencer’s kidneys and make sure they aren’t contributing to the internal bleeding. They’ll address the pelvic fractures and the collapsed lung as well. You need to understand that Spencer may need further surgery and he’ll definitely need very close monitoring over the coming weeks and months.”

“What about his broken bones?” Hotch asks. “How bad is it?”

She sighs. “They’re bad,” she admits. “The pelvic fractures are likely going to have a big impact on his mobility, and he won’t have the use of his left arm for a long time. We’re looking at a long recovery, Agent Hotchner. But we have every reason to believe that he  will eventually recover.”

She pats him comfortingly on the hand before getting up. “Someone will fetch you as soon as he’s out of surgery.” 

It’s not until she’s halfway across the waiting room that he realises she never even told him her name. 

 It’s close to 8am by the time a surgeon walks over to him, still dressed in scrubs. There’s a smudge of blood on his shirt and Hotch winces at the knowledge that it’s Spencer’s. 

“How is he?” he asks, leaping up. He doesn't want any screwing around. He just wants to know if Spencer’s going to be okay. 

“He’s stable. The surgery went well. Unfortunately, we had to conduct a full splenectomy to stop his internal bleed which does put him at risk for serious infections, but otherwise, it’s good news. His kidneys will need support but should heal in a timely manner, and we were able to set the rib that punctured his lung and reinflate it, although we’re going to keep him on oxygen to be safe. His pelvis was severely fractured but we managed to reposition the displaced bone fragments and inserted a screw and metal plate to hold them together.”

“Oh, thank God,” Hotch sighs with relief. The worst, immediate threats have been dealt with, and it settles a small part of the anxiety he’s feeling. 

“He’s in room 338 if you’d like to go and see him. He should be waking up shortly.”

⭐️

Wasting no time, he races up to Spencer’s floor where a nurse lets him onto the ward and leads him down to 338. He pushes the door open apprehensively, swallowing his emotion at the sight of the man he considers a son lying in a hospital bed. He’s lost count of the number of times he’s been rushed to the hospital, but it’s never been like this. It’s always after a case: Spencer knows the risks of the job, they all do, and he puts himself deliberately in harm's way for the sake of others.

This time, though… this time he was just walking home from work. This time he had no say in the matter.

His left arm is in a cast and his face is bruised and swollen, chestnut hair matted and tangled. Opening the bag he packed, he pulls out a comb and gently teases out the tangles until he can comb through the curls completely unobstructed. There are undoubtedly more knots at the back of his head, but those can wait until he’s woken up at least. It just makes him feel like he’s doing something. 

It’s only when he sits down in the chair by his bed that he realises it’s Thursday morning now; he’s supposed to be at work today, they both are. No-one except Jessica knows what’s happened. 

The first thing, he supposes, is to ring Strauss. 

Once that’s out of the way and she knows that neither he nor Spencer will be in today and he’ll inform her of the latest updates as soon as possible, he messages Rossi. He’s the only one who will be able to remain objective enough to inform everyone, and he’s enough of a dad to the team to help manage everyone’s emotional responses. 

Just as he hits send on the message, his head snaps up at Spencer’s quiet whimpering as he comes around.

“Hey, hey, Spencer,” he says as soothingly as possible, “it’s okay, I’m here. You’re in the hospital. Are you in pain?”

Spencer blinks his eyes open blearily, wearing such a pained and vulnerable expression that it goes right to Hotch’s gut. He nods in response to his question, his good hand reaching to hold Hotch’s. 

“Okay, there’s a PCA pump right here, I’ll turn it up a little. Is that better?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, tears springing to his eyes. Now he’s not in as much physical pain, Hotch knows this is pure emotion, and he thinks that’s somehow worse. Spencer’s been through a horrifying physical ordeal, but the emotional recovery is going to be just as gruelling and last years. If there’s one word he’d use to describe Spencer, though, it’s resilient. 

He shushes him gently, bringing a hand to his hair and caressing it lightly. “I’m here,” he repeats. “You’re safe. I won’t leave you, okay?”

Spencer nods and relaxes into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as he calms down a little. 

“You rest now,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here when you wake up. Everything’s going to be okay.”

They’ll deal with the fall-out later. They’ll deal with the team coming to visit, with the paperwork for his sick leave and the frustration of government bureaucracy. They’ll manage their way through processing the trauma of what happened to him, the physical, mental, and occupational implications of the assault. They’ll stay glued at the hip while Spencer’s interviewed by the police, while doctors explain to him just how serious his injuries are. 

Right now, though, Spencer will sleep and Hotch will sit by his bedside watching the rise and fall of his chest, listening to every steady beep on the heart rate monitor, searing the living breathing proof that Spencer is alive into his mind. Spencer will sleep and Hotch will cry silently over the cruelty of the world, he’ll grieve for the man he said good-bye to 12 hours earlier, knowing he’ll never quite be the same again. 

Spencer will sleep and Hotch will be there, holding his hand, waiting for him to wake up again.

taglist: @criminalmindsvibez @strippersenseii @suburban--gothic @takeyourleap-of-faith

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds writing #criminal minds whump #whump #spencer reid whump #aaron hotchner #hotch #spencer reid #aaron hotchner & spencer reid #criminal minds gen #criminal minds gen fic #criminal minds angst #tw violence #tw assault #tw beating

[transdragonz]

I actually do not know how to start this. It’s something that won’t leave my head.

Mayhem (2017) is a movie I really think people should watch because it’s good, it’s fun, it made me laugh so much, the characters are absolutely amazing, and also it’s a commentary on how much workplaces can just eat you alive.

And I came out of this movie thinking about a mug.

Specifically, the yellow coffee mug owned by Derek Cho (Played by Steven Yeun who, between this, TWD, Sorry To Bother You and Invincible, has really had my heart lately and I’m sorry to anyone who knows me because I have not shut up about it) which is one of the catalysts for our protagonist’s stress to begin with.

Now, I know usually dropping the ‘I’m autistic and…’ makes certain people roll their eyes, but I genuinely felt this scene because of that: I know what it’s like to have this kind of attachment to something that no one else gets because it’s just an object. No one seems to care about this mug but Derek, and I kinda do note that he doesn’t drink any coffee at all through the movie without that particular mug, which, again, God, that’s a mood, I FELT that. Most people’s attitude towards it are basically ‘It’s a normal mug. What’s your problem.’ No one understands why this makes him act the way he does in this scene. Meg just takes the mug because it’s the only clean one, it’s not significant to her and she just hands it to Cara (which is DOUBLE insulting because she’s the person who threw Derek under the bus) who, again, just treats it like a normal mug and seems completely unbothered when Derek gets angry about it. This kinda becomes a running joke before the ID-7 plot kicks in, which Derek yelling that he wants his mug back when he gets fired.

I’m also going to quickly mention Ewan, because that’s another thing I related to. Ewan is basically the one person who’s able to calm Derek down (I’m gonna say it like sixty times in this review: god this movie was relatable) and while we only see him for a little while as he tries to make sure Derek doesn’t do anything stupid, it hits hard when he dies upon trying to protect Derek because we already know he’s one of the only people who Derek connects with in this hellhole, the only person who can calm him down. I’m going to put a pin in that.

Back to the mug. We don’t hear about the mug again until we see Cara again. And she smashes it.

I literally gasped and jolted upright when this happened. I FELT my heart break with that mug. Derek actually goes straight on the offensive after this before Cara reminds him he has no keycard without her, and I had to spend like a minute calming down because I know that’s how I’d feel. Having someone destroy or damage something that’s so special to you that they just class as an ordinary thing you can get over is downright the absolute WORST. Cara meets her demise at the hands of Meg after this, and then we get a scene between Derek and Melanie that I think broke me a little.

Derek explains that the mug was a first day gift from his sister and suddenly it all makes sense. At the start of the film we see Derek on his first day and how he’s all bright eyed and completely unaware how much this job is going to fuck him over. Derek has essentially become one of them, and the one thing that reminds him of how things used to be, when he was happier, when he was oblivious to all of his shit, was that mug. His sister mentions early on that he’s hard to contact outside of work and the job has basically consumed him. He’s clung to this mug. It’s the only constant in his life throughout all the shit he’s been through and it’s a sign that he’s not a monster like the other people in this building, who only see a yellow mug. It’s fitting that shit goes down the minute someone else takes that away from him.

Taking the pin out of the Ewan point, his death is treated the same. Towers just sees his death as a problem for his company whereas Derek has just lost one of things that keeps him stable. We then get the scene where Towers is an absolute dick on camera, and Derek actually starts crying.

I think I got close to crying at this point as well.

He had constants, things that were always there to keep him sane to survive the job, and the job said ‘fuck you’ to those constants. No one upstairs gave a shit. He’s a number to them. This hurt to watch because I’ve felt these things. It hurts when you have something to cling to and people are like ‘fuck you, I don’t know why you need this, you can live without it’

And Melanie understands.

Melanie may not have liked Derek at first, but she’s not one of the soulless fucks upstairs. She sits with him when he talks about the cup. She doesn’t treat it like something stupid. Melanie’s kind of been finding everything that’s happened on this floor absolutely hilarious (these scenes were the BEST I love her so much), but she calms down and she emphasises. I like how Derek didn’t even mention Ewan before and Melanie instantly deduces the connection between them and comforts him. It makes sense because she’s close to losing everything too. She’s the first person who hasn’t just shrugged him off, the first person to treat him like a human who can’t cope without the things he clung to.  

The film ends with Derek having two new constants: painting, and Melanie.

It makes me happy that no corporate bastard is going to destroy either of those constants.

#film #Mayhem 2017 #steven yeun #samara weaving

[spencerspecifics]

Badass lady from SWAT coming and Spence always gets nervous about seeing her even though it’s painfully obviously that she feels the same way :) but Spencer is just baby af 🥺

I think this idea is so cute, and I hope I did you justice!! Thank you for requesting, i made it a fem!reader x Spencer fic :)! (So sorry this took forever!)

———————————————————————

SWAT

———————————————————————

You walked into the bureau building tiredly, you were grateful the events of yesterday had somehow wrapped themself up into a neat little bow. But now, you had the aftermath to deal with.

The aftermath of beauacracies, of files and paperwork, of court hearings. Because yesterday was a lot. There was an attempted bombing in downtown Quantico. Key word being attempted, thankfully though- it never happened. And your SWAT team had a big hand in helping.

So yeah, now you were here, meeting up with the BAU- who had lended your team a helping hand in finding where the bomber was located.

~

You entered into the bureau building, making your way up to the BAU’s floor through the elevator. As the machine whirred to life, taking you up to the floor- you were suddenly hit with the fatigue.

You were tired, you had worked nonstop yesterday to prevent a catastrophe, and then when you got home, you couldn’t sleep- who could expect you to? Especially after something like that, your mind was racing. You did eventually get to sleep at around 3 in the morning, but that didn’t help much considering you had to meet with agent Aaron Hotchner at 8 a.m. sharp.

So, fuck. The adrenaline and anxiety of the events had passed, and now you were feeling tired.

It’s not like you could do much about how sleepy you were, though. You had to talk to Hotchner, then you had to speak to their technical analyst to help you input your files into VICAP (SWAT’s computer system wasn’t as fancy as the bureau’s, so you weren’t fully familiar with the system.) but then, maybe after you spoke to the analyst you could get some coffee and go home. That would be nice.

~

The elevator got to your stop, and you stepped out with ease. You hadn’t been in the BAU’s office before, but the layout was simple. Bullpen was straight forward, there was a hallway past that (but you weren’t sure where that exactly led to, you supposed you’d find that answer out when the time came.) and you could see the larger offices past the bullpen, you were guessing that’s where you needed to go.

You entered through the glass doors into the bullpen, there were a few agents sat behind their desks, on phone calls or typing out on their computers- after all, the aftermath was always a lot of work.

~

You didn’t really know anyone in the BAU, except for Aaron Hotchner, Derek Morgan, and one very awkward guy- Doctor Spencer Reid.

You met Spencer a while ago, a few cases back when there was a local robbery turned hostage situation. That’s when your teams first interacted. As a local law enforcement group, you weren’t used to working with the feds- but the BAU was surprisingly tolerable. They let you and the police do what was necessary, all they did was observe and figure things out.

But how they figured things out, you’d never understand. You’d especially never understand Spencer, he would walk into a crime scene and be able to figure out the unsub’s mental state just by how the room was organized. It was surprising, and it was fascinating.

Though, that wasn’t the only reason Spencer especially took your attention when you first met the BAU. The other agents you met were very cut and dry, their personalities were kept mostly separate from their work. Spencer wasn’t like that, his work self and his regular self were one and the same. It was refreshing to see an agent so personable, you found it as a handsome quality.

He was awkward at times as well, which you thought was also an adorable quality. He’d go on to in depth explain a behavioral trait and how that probably meant the unsub was abused as a child or something, and before you knew it the conversation somehow shifted into his favorite medieval weaponry.

So whenever you got the chance to work with the BAU, you embraced it. Mostly because of the cute and awkward doctor, but also because if that meant you could solve a case and arrest a sick son of a bitch, you would.

~

You walked through the bullpen, making your way up the stairs to the larger offices you had seen earlier. You looked for a sign on the door to tell you whose office was whose, and thankfully the first door you saw said in simple lettering “SSA Aaron Hotchner”.

You knocked, hearing agent Hotchner’s voice say a simple “come in”. You opened the door, stepping into his large office.

“Agent Hotchner, good morning.” You said, a polite smile on your face as you made your way to the nearest seat across from his desk, Hotchner rose from his seat to give you a handshake. All these manners and rules were so tiring to do, but you could understand why- especially in such a beauracractic setting. Maybe that’s why you loved being in SWAT, though. There was no time for niceties or manners. You just got to go in, kick ass, and go.

“Good morning, y/n.” He replied as he sat back down into his chair, he reached down to a desk drawer, pulling out a fresh file.

“We just have to recount everything from your point of view, just so the bureau understands what the SWAT’s role was in our investigation.” He spoke as he reached for a nearby audio recorder on his desk, pressing the button on its side to turn it on.

“Sounds good.” You nodded, “Great, I’ll be taking some notes within the file as well. Just start talking.” Hotchner explained simply, before quieting down. You took a breath in before starting to speak, after all- the story was a long one.

~

Once you finished with Hotchner, you decided to wait on going to their technical analyst. After all, they were probably swamped at the moment. So, as you headed out of Hotch’s office, you weren’t sure what to do.

But then, it hit you.

It literally did hit you, and by “it”, it was Spencer. He was walking past Hotchner’s office at the same time you were exiting- you both practically collapsed into each other as the unexpected forces pushed against each other.

“Oh- shit! Sorry.” You apologized almost immediately, trying your best to pull yourself together. You were running on only about four hours of sleep, you were well aware you looked like shit- you were just hoping Spencer couldn’t tell.

“Y/n, I’m sorry- I was on my way to Rossi’s, I didn’t mean to-“ Spencer started, rambling again. And as much as you found it endearing, you didn’t want him to apologize.

“Don’t even worry about it, Spencer- you alright?” You asked him as you stepped back a bit to give him more room. He nodded, you’d swear there was a small blush on his face, but maybe it was the terrible fluorescent lighting off the office that was making it appear that way.

“I’m alright, thank you.” He smiled sheepishly, looking down to adjust the strap on his messenger bag.

“Thanks for your help with yesterday, by the way. I still have no clue how geoprofiling works, but it saved the day.” You complimented him, his sheepish smile only got larger.

“Well, we still couldn’t have done it without your SWAT team. I didn’t go in to stop the bomber- you did. That takes courage.”

Now you felt yourself blushing, maybe it was because you were so sleep deprived. But you had a feeling it might be for another reason as well. You just shrugged, though, doing your best to be casual about it.

“That’s what I train for, all part of a day’s work.”

Spencer nodded, “Still, though. It doesn’t make you any less courageous.”

You broke into a small grin, god- you’ve only spoken to this guy a handful of times. But you really enjoyed talking to him, and he seemed interested in talking to you.

“What are your plans after work?” You found yourself asking, mouth moving too fast for your brain to tell it to shut up in time.

“Uh, I don’t know..” Spencer started, awkwardly fumbling with his hands. “I just had to talk to Rossi, but then after that I’m free to go.”

“You already did all your paperwork?” You asked him curiously, surprised at how fast he could get it done. He nodded simply, “Yes, I didn’t really sleep a lot last night- so I got a head start.”

You frowned slightly, “How much sleep did you end up getting?” Spencer shrugged, “A couple hours.” You nodded silently, before the gears in your mind started turning.

“What do you think about coffee?” You asked him after a beat of silence, Spencer’s face twisted into a confused look.

“The concept of coffee?” He was lost, and it was adorable. You chuckled, “No- I meant, do you wanna get coffee with me after you finish talking to Rossi? I didn’t sleep enough last night either.”

Spencer nodded almost immediately in response, “Yes- yeah. That would be great, I would really enjoy that- you could, um, wait down in the bullpen if you want.” He offered, obviously unsure of what to do now.

You just found that once again, endearing, as you smiled at him kindly. “Sounds good, I’m excited.” You told him, he gave you one last smile before turning to go into Rossi’s office.

With that, you turned to go back to go down to the bullpen, waiting for Doctor Spencer Reid.

———————————————————————

#criminal minds #spencer reid #cm #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #y/n x Spencer reid #f!reader #femreader #BAU #FBI #Spencer specific fic #og shit #Spencer Specific Fics #fanfic #oneshot

[asterekmess]

S3A - E3

Hiya, back with another episode of the rewatch. I am...not looking forward to this episode. *deep breath* here we go.

Read More’s save sanity

Hey, so I know this is a really heavy first bullet point...but isn’t anybody else uncomfortable with the image of a black boy running around out of his mind with fury and bloodlust and going after little...white kids? Am I reading too much into this? I know Cora’s running around too. I just...whatever, I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut.

Straight from way too heavy to way too light. So that girl dropped a big jar of fireflies, but they say that fireflies that actually glow aren’t native to California, which would mean these are part of the whole magic thing going on, and at the end of the whole firefly thing they get rid of all the fireflies. So...what if someone finds that jar and opens it?

...nevermind the jar opened up somehow...

Okay, listen, I have a petty and biased hatred for this moment with Scott. Like...is it so hard to say, “I had to get the kids he was chasing away from him?” It’s not like they don’t have time..they just stand there in silence for a while. I also hate the savior pose he strikes there with the kids clinging to him. Like, I get that it’s a very common trope. I still hate it. I use the anti-scott tag for a reason, let me be salty.

why te fuck does Scott FLOAT in the intro?

Lydia has seriously emptied an entire bottle of ibuprofen? She should be dead. Or at least at a hospital. She’s too smart not to know how dangerous it is to take ibuprofen (even the recommended dosage) for too long at a time.

Lydia...Lydia knows about werewolves now. Did no one tell her about this whole escape plan for the betas? She could’ve helped.

Cue the shitty SFX running. Y’all look ridiculous.

Man, come on. Are you seriously telling me that Derek never played hide and seek with his siblings? Like, they’re werewolves for fuck’s sake. Derek never did fake chases through the woods? He tracked PETER for christ’s sake, all the way across town. He was like yards behind him before he got shot that one time.

This show relies a lot on character’s losing time and just finding themselves places. Jackson losing time, Lydia losing time. Lydia losing time again, but in a new way. Later, it’ll be Stiles losing time. I’m just saying, it happens a lot.

It’s fucking august in California. Does it actually get that cold? Poor Lydia’s nose is always red cus she gets forced to wander around in the dark and freezing. I can see her goosebumps when she kneels next to the pool.

I know it’s gotta be hell on her voice, but I think it’s so interesting the way Lydia screams and how it has to jump around the chords before hitting that one note. I don’t know why I find that so interesting. Guess it just reminds me of a wolf howl. Seriously, look ‘em up. Weirdly similar. GO  Holland!

What do you mean the last memory that she had of her mother, Scott? You should’ve told her RIGHT THEN. Right off the bat. There was TONS of time between her getting bit and when she died. You should’ve told Allison right away. Fuck you, you had all of spring break!

god fucking damn it now I’m crying again. Erica, sweetie...Derek honey...

I’m trying to get past the tears to enjoy this romancey stuff, with the candles and the lil lamps, and the LOTR references. I’m really trying.

This is totally not what I should be thinking about while watching the two of them make out, but like, so does Caitlin not go to their school? She just sort of appears a couple times, but Stiles doesn’t seem to know her. Maybe she went to the same school as Heather?

don’t like bugs don’t like bugs ew ew ew ew

Hi cora!

Isaac! You’re somehow feeling better, even though you were apparently out of commission like an hour or two ago...wait huh?

I gotta say, okay, listen I just can’t help it. I know this is serious, but that lil smirk on Isaac’s face? I don’t think he looks smug, personally, I think he looks like he’s about to go play, go rolling around in the grass and leaves, playing with a pack member. He’s been alone for so long this summer, what with Jackson leaving. he’s had no wolves to play with (cus’ we know Derek’s a grump). As worried as he’s gotta be, I bet he’s having funnnnnn.

I..uh..Cora what sound is coming out of your mouth? That..that does not sound like a wolf. That sounds like a wild cat of some kind. Wolves don’t make that screechy noise. They bark and growl, like the sound that came just before. That doesn’t even sound like a roar. Who gave you cheetah sounds?? You’re canine, not feline. Come on they did SO WELL with Derek’s sounds-- No. NO Do not tell me they gave Cora cat sounds cus she’s a chick. I’m gonna fight someone. (For those of you interested, if you scroll to the bottom of this webpage, you can listen to wolf growl snippets and they’re such good quality (I think the bark snippet is broken tho). Listen to those whimpers and whines too, fucking fascinating. I love wolves. Such beautiful animals.)

Cora with Isaac and Scott attacking her and growling at her: “Fuck you, I’ll bite you!” Cora with Derek just growling at her: “BYE bro!”

Stiles, honey! I missed you! Literally, just the sound of your voice makes me feel better.

Scott, Seriously, Derek just said you haven’t tracked either of them anywhere near the pool. You’ve both been following them all night! Yeah, they’re dangerous, but they couldn’t get to the pool and back in time to fight you! I”M GONNA SMACK YOU. DOn’t use that fucking patronizing tone of voice when Derek is TELLING YOU FACTS.

OUR fault? OUR FAULT? I’m gonna fucking *kicks a chair and storms off, grumbling* *Spins around, cus fuck it i’m gonna yell. it’s my post.* NONE OF THIS is DEREK”S FAULT. NOne of this is ISAAC’S FAULT. Fuck dude, I’ll even say that it’s not Scott’s fault! If it’s anyone other than the Alphas’ fault, it’s Allison’s, but tbf she thought she was helping.

DEREK SHUT YOUR PRETTY MOUTH. I swear to god.

ARE YOU FUCKING JOKING? DEREK WOULD NEVER SUGGEST MURDERING BOYD AND CORA. NEVER. He thought Cora was fucking dead and he just found out she’s alive! HE WOULD NEVER. NEVER. FUCK YOU. FUCK EVERYTHING. *Throws a plate* YOU KNOW YOU ONLY FUCKING WROTE IT SO THAT YOU COULD SHOW OFF SCOOT MCFUCKFACE’S SUDDEN FLIP IN MORALITY BY HAVING HIM SAY THAT “KILLING ISN’T THE RIGHT THING TO DO” OH REALLY Scott? REALLY? Killing is bad? YOU DIDN’T THINK SO WHEN YOU SPENT MONTHS attempting to commit PREMEDITATED MURDER of a GUY WHO WAS ALREADY DYING. MONTHS. Scott. FUCK YOU. FUCK THIS SHOW. 13 minutes in and I’m already about to chuck my laptop across the room. MY CAT WON’T EVEN CUDDLE ME ANYMORE I’M SO ANGRY.

And now I’m really fucking sad, cus’ I hate watching this poor girl get told she’s just hallucinating.

WHY does everyone go shopping at fucking 8 pm in Beacon Hills? What...Chris you don’t even have a day job.

I don’t...I don’t understand this scene with Isaac. Like..what exactly are they trying to imply? That he thinks she’s hot? All he’s seen is her raging around with fangs free and glowing eyes. And yeah, some people definitely think that’s hot. But like...that’s just so...what? I choose to read this scene as him just wondering about Derek’s home life. Like, “Since when do you have siblings? Why don’t you tell me these things? I have an aunt?”

WHAT DO YOU mean “Your world?” CHRIS YOU GREW UP AS A HUNTER. THIS IS YOUR WORLD TOO. He was YOUR dad. You’ve been a part of this WAY longer than Scott! Don’t blame the werewolves for ruining your life! THAT WAS YOUR DAD and YOUR STUPID HUNTER CODE’S FAULT.

OKay, listen, I have so many issues with this I need a therapist to mediate my conversations with it. FUCK YOU TW for bringing in Chris. I dont’ give a fuck if he’s experienced or trying to redeem himself. He is a HUNTER he has Slaughtered Derek’s kind for his entire life. He may want to do the right thing, but the right thing definitely doesn’t involved him Standing in front of Derek and forcing him to listen to hunter PROPAGANDA BULLSHIT. I’M SO FUCKING MAD. This was so inappropriate, holy shit. SO far beyond okay. Even the CONCEPT that werewolves wouldn’t be as good at tracking other werewolves as hunters are is fucking stupid. You said it yourself, Chris they can follow scent up to TWO MILES AWAY. Wolves can track their prey for weeks without losing the scent. Just because Isaac stepped on some footprints doesn’t mean he’s incapable of finding them. And what’s all this shit about them “Being able to rely on their human half”? NO? First off, minor detail. Werewolves aren’t half wolf, half human, dumbass. They’re all werewolf. AND The show has said like Ten TIMES that they can’t access their human form/the thought processes they would normally have during a full moon without an anchor, and Boyd and Cora are effectively anchorless on this moon. This is just utter bullshit and I’m so goddamn angry I don’t even know how to process it. “If you’re not trained like me you have no idea this print is Boyd’s” YEAH THEY DO. THEY CAN LITERALLY SMELL IT.  DEREK ALREADY IDENTIFIED THE TRACKS. FUCK you.

ALSO. Getting REAL SICk of people slicing their wrists every time they need a little blood for a ritual or for bait. YOU CUT THE MEAT of the arm. ON THE BACK. WHERE YOU WON”T HIT a VEIN. DUMBASSES.

WHAT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK DO YOU MEAN NINE YEARS DEREK? YOU’D BETTER MEAN CORA WAS NINE YEARS OLD, CUS’ THE FIRE WAS SIX YEARS AGO. and what do you mean you don’t have a lock on her scent? you’ve been following it just fine all night! Wolves remember human scents decades later.

Booooo, i hate the entire concept of wolves going mad on a full moon. It’s lazy and boring. Wolves are not vicious animals, they’re shy as fuck. THey don’t attack without reason. Werewolves should be the same. Full moon’s enhance their wolfishness, so it should make them MORE SHY. The moon should enhance whatever they feel, rather than just making them mindlessly aggressive.

“Primal apex Predatory satisfaction”? seriously? Shut the FUCK up Chris, I’m really fucking sick of your hunter bedtime stories.

....i hate this woman.

Casual reminder that Isaac wouldn’t suggest Killing boyd. Ever. I fucking hate these writers.

yeah yeah, running scene. blah blah blah.

See, I never really understood those fics where Peter just refuses to give anyone any info. He tells Derek what’s up constantly. He didn’t lie or hold anything back when he helped Derek figure out what was up with Jackson or how Jackson needed Lydia to be cured. He walks right up to Derek and says “Hey, so those Alphas clearly want you to join them and that means they’re trying to make you kill your own pack” Peter helps Derek all the time. He’s just a dick while he does it.

Look, I love this moment with Peter, his “Let Scott be the hero of his morally black and white world. You and I, we live in shades of gray” lines are so good, and they speak so much to his character and personality. And he’s right. But I hate that they built the scene around Derek planning to kill his own pack, and following Scott around doing as he asks. I just hate what they do to Derek here.

The dog whistles suddenly have no effect on their hearing? Love it.

Take a second to bring up a plotline you won’t explain for ages. I vibe with that, so long as it is eventually explained.

OOh, suddenly BHHS has a football field?

Not gonna cry, not gonna cry. FUCK I’m crying again.

I just...dude I’m over here trying not to completely lose my shit and cry like a baby, and Stiles is in the middle of panicking and losing his oldest friend and he still puts the dots together. Like. Jesus christ this boy.

NOW Derek? You choose NOW to take Every Single Step down the stairs? JUMP.

...what is this a cartoon? Glowing eyes in the dark? one too many sets? Yeah, yeah, I get it, they’re supposed to look like fireflies.

Why did you stop to look at each other after blasting them? Just go.

OH, yeah, of course Scott has to be the one to hear the extra heartbeat. Scott. Not Derek. Not the ALpha who’s senses are heightened above the a Beta’s. Not DEREK the ALPHA who has a PACK, which makes his senses even stronger that that. No. Scott. The omega. Because he’s like an inch closer to the door. Yah. Sure. That makes sense. SUre.

Dude I wish my high school had that much backup supplies free for the teacher’s to grab. Also, I hate this woman.

WHy were the lights off in the boiler room if she was in the back grabbing stuff? That..what?

OH. I forgot, so Caitlin’s out of high school? She’s...what, 18? 19? Okay, fine, I’ll take that.

Oh stop faking Jennifer, fuck you.

Crying again. dont’ mind me. This is Derek. Not choosing to kill his beta or his long lost sister. Choosing to die himself instead. THAT is Derek (it’s self-sacrificing and it’s because he gives his own life no worth, but it’s still him.)

HOW IS IT DAWN? THAT WOULD BE like 6 HOURS of standing around! Or did the sun not set until like 10 pm? Hm? This show has no concept of time, and werewolves are very time oriented. Someone take away the show from the writers. They’ve lost their privileges.

I hate this. I hate that Isaac shouts for Scott. Not Derek. That’s just so fucking dumb. I’m so tired of it. I’m just so fucking sick of it.

I don’t even wanna look at this. I hate this woman so much.

YOU REALIZE that the third Virgin was Taken. The third virgin is DEAD. the sacrifices have been made, and now Jennifer has control over people. This is where she starts controlling Derek. Right Fucking Here. He loses his agency the moment they touch, if not the moment they make eye contact or he gets in range. I hate it. I HATE IT.

BOOM. Episode three, and Stiles already has the villain after next figured out. He’s past the Alphas now. 

Final Thoughts: I’m angry, I’m tired, and I honestly got very little joy or interest out of this whole episode. I hate what this show did to werewolves and how much insane Scott glorification there is and how every little thing HAS to be about Scott. Scott’s relationship with Chris. Scott saving the kids. Scott’s the one Isaac calls for. Scott’s the one who hears the heartbeats. I get that he’s the main character. I also hate that he’s the main character. It’s just so sad and pathetic and boring and just....ugh. I’m going to bed. I will try for another episode or two tomorrow.

(I promise I’m okay. Just go listen to the wolf howls for me in that link, huh? Listen to those beauties and imagine how amazing a wolf show could have been.)

#personal #TeenWolf-Rewatch #anti-scott mccall #i'm sad #but i promise not as sad as it might come across #just need a lil break

[spac3bar7end3r]

Grow as We Go (Together)

Sterek / Stiles left / Derek followed later / Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings / they live together but not like roommate-they were roommate kind of story / 2396 words

prompt: “I’m with you, you know that.”

read on Ao3

Living with Derek is not how Stiles thought it would be. Well, Derek changed. Stiles also changed. That part is pretty obvious. Don’t get him wrong, change is not a bad thing and it’s been five years since they saw each other. It’d be weird if things don’t change. Plus, Derek is a good roommate. He even waters Stiles’ plants every day (and Stiles has a lot of plants).

 The thing is… the thing is, Derek seems a bit distant, and Stiles doesn’t mean physically because his apartment is narrow as hell. Their body parts always touch one way or another because of how cramped it is.  Derek often stares blankly at the television, staring distantly at the thing that’s not there. Sometimes the tv is not even turned on.

One thing that does not change is Derek’s cooking. Derek can cook. Stiles knows that since that summer break in high school that he got stuck with Derek after Scott got a girlfriend. Derek cooked for his pack and Stiles, and it was fantastic. Stiles always prepared food for his dad since young but it still could not compare to Derek’s cooking at all.

Stiles likes Derek’s cooking. He likes Derek’s grumpy face. He likes it when Derek sighed heavily as if Stiles was annoying but he still came to Stiles every time he had trouble, when he was sad or when he was lonely. Stiles misses that. Stiles misses them. He did not feel like getting mad at Derek for not appearing in front of him sooner. Stiles himself wasn’t stable enough for many years after things had gone to shit at Beacon Hills…after his dad passed, so Stiles didn’t have the heart to get mad at Derek for not strong enough to come to him on time.

 And what does ‘on time’ mean anyway?

 Stiles knew things are changing after Derek died and got back to life, but one thing that he doesn’t want it to change is Derek’s humanity. Stiles doesn’t want Derek to think that he is broken. He is not. So what if his heart is not beating anymore? Stiles’ heart can do both of their works. It beats too much and too fast for one person anyway (Don’t talk science facts with him though—it’s just meant to be rhetorical).

 So…Operation: Getting Derek’s Life Back Together So They Can Be Together.

 6 AM

Stiles wakes up at six per usual. He walks down to the living room where Derek currently is. The guy is staring blankly at the tv screen again. It is turned on this time though, blasting morning news and weather forecast. Stiles doesn’t pay attention, the person on tv all wear suits and put gel in their hair.

“They said it would be colder than usual.” Derek nods to the screen. Oh, so he was paying attention after all.

“Yeah?” Stiles flops down to the couch next to Derek. “Are you cold?” Stiles nudge Derek’s shoulder with his, it doesn’t radiating heat like it used to.

“Not really. I don’t feel anything anymore.” Derek shrugs. “Because I’m—”

“Because you’re a sourwolf, like always. What’s for breakfast today? Or is it my turn to cook?” If he was going to say he’s broken or he’s dead then Stiles is going to cut him off again like these past few days. Stiles asks and pretends to stretch himself as if he’s going to get up from the couch and cook, but actually he’s comfortable leaning on Derek and thinking maybe he should take a nap here.

“You know It’s always my turn to cook. I like to do it.”

“See? You ‘like’ to do it. You still feel something, don’t you?”

“…” Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles thinks that he’s either contemplating if he feels something, or he’s just annoyed with Stiles (like usual—which is a good sign!).

 7 AM

           They’ve been sitting on the couch for almost an hour. Well, in Stiles’ case he’s actually spreading on the tiny couch and almost lie on Derek who is just sitting there and says nothing.

           “How do you feel about bacon pancake?”

           “Wow, Derek. What do you mean how do I feel? If you don’t know my answer then I’m gonna drool on you.” Stiles talks back while his eyes still stare at the screen. Stiles opened Netflix and chose Ghibli because he knows Derek loved Ghibli. They always watched them together when Derek couldn’t sleep alone at the loft in Beacon Hills.

           “Good.” Derek pats on Stiles' head before pushing Stiles away a little so he can get up and cook. He almost asks Derek to come back but the promise of bacon pancake stops him.

 Stiles is not sure if there was a smile on Derek’s face or it was just his wishful thinking.

 9 AM

           The breakfast was divine, obviously. Derek is awesome. Now they are watching the Ghibli film again but this time Derek sits on the floor and Stiles is lying on the couch, his hand lightly combing through Derek’s soft hair.

Derek is leaning back. He looks so comfortable that Stiles thinks he’s sleeping so he stops but then Derek opens his eyes and nudges Stiles’ hand with his head, so Stiles continues.

 Both of them fall asleep.

 12 PM

           Derek got up to cook. Stiles gets up to find his phone and texts some funny meme to his friends then comes back to the couch in the living room. He’s browsing something on Netflix again and settle on a popular sitcom. Since it’s a weekend he doesn’t plan to do anything at all and allows himself to be lazy.

           Derek comes back with two burgers. Stiles doesn’t even know how he did it. He made it from scratch! Derek could be a food blogger or something. Stiles decides to keep the suggestion in his mind to see if Derek will be interested in doing it in the future.

           “Not to be dramatic, but I almost cry.”

Derek smirks. It was not the same smirk Stiles always saw but it’s there.

 3 PM

           “I used to come here with Laura,” Derek speaks up when they’re walking in Central Park. Stiles decided to ask Derek if he wanted Derek to take a walk and he said yes, so they came out. Derek also made hot cocoa in a thermos tumbler. He’s the best.

They walk around talking about nothing, and Stiles swears he can almost see Derek cracking a smile during the walk.

 6 PM

           Stiles brings Derek to the bookstore and they start to talk about books. Stiles pulls one book from the shelf, turning to Derek, “This book is the first book my dad bought me because he wanted me to stop running around too much and I’ve been obsessed with books ever since.”

           “This book is Laura’s favorite because it’s so corny that she laughs every time she read it. She said she hated it, but I know the truth.” Derek offers one of his past as well.

           “She and I would be good friends then,” Stiles says.

           “Yeah, you guys definitely will.” Derek looks down at his shoes before walking to the other shelf.

 7 PM

           Things change abruptly when Stiles bumps into someone after they went outside from the bookstore and walked around the block and that person is a freaking werewolf. Aaand Of course, Stiles’ luck is never great because said werewolf is so offended by Stiles knocking him or maybe because he can feel Derek’s wolf’s intimidating presence.

           “Go away.” Derek whispers.

           “Like hell I would, you omega.” The other werewolf spits at Derek. Stiles is pretty sure if Derek was his own self, he would probably beat up the guy now.

           “I’m not an omega.”

           “So you’re what? I didn’t smell pack on you, and this weak human is obviously not pack.”

           “I am.” Stiles walks up. He doesn’t think throwing a fight in the middle of a street would be a good idea.

           “I am his pack. Go away.” Stiles waves his hand and before he knows it, the werewolf pulls his wrist violently. Stiles’ body is pulled toward the guy and Stiles can hear Derek’s growl.

           “Go. Away.” Derek repeats what Stiles said but his mouth is full of fangs, eyes glowing blue.

           “Wow, dude. You’re also a killer. You can’t even keep your cool going mad like this. Are you sure you have a pack? This human is—”

Derek is already pouncing on him before the guy can say anything.

           “Der, stop. This guy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Don’t get mad at—Wait, what?”

Derek gets mad.

Derek is getting mad.

Derek can definitely feel something.

           “Derek, are you…angry?”

           Derek stops. He throws the other werewolf on the ground and walks away from Stiles.

           Stiles looks through his bag before he grabs the tiny jar hidden in a small pocket inside. He opens the cork lid with his mouth then throws the magic powder, that he made a while back as a protection against dangerous supernatural creatures he occasionally bumps into, to the werewolf.

He bares his human teeth, saying “Don’t come to me or my pack again.”

           The werewolf cries because the powder burns his skin, and Stiles just walks away.

 It’s good that New Yorkers are so used to weird shits happening that they just walk past them.

  9 PM

Thank god (or whoever up there) that he went straight home.

Derek walked away from Stiles, but at least he came back home.

 He’s hiding though.

 Derek is hiding in the closet, and Stiles has to respect him for it a little bit because that closet is cramped as fuck. It was already here when Stiles moved in and he doesn’t want to know how smelly it is for a werewolf.

           “Come on, Sourwolf. I know it must smell bad in there. Sometimes I even throw my unwashed hoodie in there.” Stiles widens the door and looks at Derek who tries really hard to make himself look small on the ground.

“I like it here. It smells like you.”

           “Like sweat and anxiety?”

           “Like home.”

Stiles scratches his head. He sits down on the floor, looking in the hazel eyes. “That’s sweet, but dude, we need to talk.”

Derek looks like a dear in a headlight. “No.”

           “Der.”

           “No.”

           “You’re not as lifeless as you pretend to be, aren’t you?”

           “No!”

           “You know I’m not gonna hate you if you say yes to anything I ask, right? And why would you even think that anyway?”

           Derek looks up. His face shows hopefulness (a liiittle bit, but Stiles counts that as a win).

           “What if I’m starting to feel something again and you kick me out?”

           “Are you kidding? I would be so so happy if you feel something again. We could be happy together! I can make you laugh and you can get so annoyed with me again!”

Derek sits straighter.

“C’mon, Wolfman, tell me what’s happening. I’m with you.”

Derek perks up at the last sentence. He slowly looks Stiles in the eyes.

“…Last week when you made a joke about ducks when we went to that Chinese restaurant at the corner, I started to feel something. My heart still doesn’t beat, but I feel like smiling when you smile or laughing when you tell your stupid jokes.”

Stiles raises both of his eyebrows, head tilting.

“Dude, that’s not fair! You mean you find my jokes hilarious and you pretended that it didn’t make you laugh. For days.”

“Well, I—"

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I thought you like me like this because I wasn’t as grumpy or as angry as before. I’m more…manageable?”

“You what? Like hell I like you like this, Derek. I don’t want to manage you. You are not a plant or a..what, flipping Neopets or something.”

“I think I—"

“Dude, let me tell you, I like you being grumpy, I like you being an—wait let me tone it down, I like you being confident with yourself and not afraid to show it. What I don’t like is you thinking that you’re broken or you are something less just because you what, have no heartbeats? I like everything that makes you you. I always like you, no matter what or where or when. Like, I like you when you have blue eyes, red eyes or hazel eyes. Are these hazel eyes? They said your eyes were green in your license.” Stiles thinks he knows what he’s talking about but then he’s starting to ramble and he can’t stop.

Derek laughs and it was a fucking good sound. It is the best sound Stiles ever heard Derek made in weeks. Stiles almost cries (or maybe he’s pretty sensitive right now because of his pretty long-ass heartfelt speech earlier. He’s pretty sure that counts as a love confession).

Derek finally stands up, and he has to lower his head down because he’s in a small closet. Stiles holds Derek’s wrist and leads him to the center of the room.

 “I’m with you, you know that.”

           “No, I didn’t before.” Derek shakes his head, smiling bitterly to the ground. Stiles walks closer to Derek. At first it was just his right hand, slowly touching Derek’s chest. This is where it’s supposed to move, to beat, to show a sign that the organ beneath the skin is doing something, but Derek’s heart is not beating anymore. Stiles retracts his hand then he moves his face close to Derek’s chest. His lips lightly touch the skin where his hand was earlier.

           “I always thought you were on Scott’s or someone else’s side. I’m scared that you won’t want anything to do with me.” Derek murmurs. He leans on Stiles’ head and sighs.

           “Dude, I so want it. And well, I mean, I like Scott and all but we’ve gone our separate ways now. Plus, I’m pretty sure we’ve got our own side.”

           “Have we?” Derek asked

           “Yes, you, me, and my plants.”

           “We include the plants too?”

           “Why not? They are my babies.” Stiles challenges Derek. Derek smiles and just says, “Alright.” And Stiles just grins stupidly back at him. They’ve got this.

 “So can I kiss you now?”

“I don’t know. Can you?” Derek raised his eyebrows.

And yes, Stiles totally can. 

#teen wolf #sterek #sterek fic #sbfictober #fictober19 #my fic #spacebartenderfic

[i4z-0892-il]

Monster House 5

Summary: Posing as Newlyweds Sam and Y/n set out to investigate what’s killing the visitors of a secluded Inn, and attempt to keep their working relationship professional.

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Word count: 6750

Warnings: NSFW, 18+ Only, suggestive themes, language, smut

A/N:  Soooooo I went a little keyboard happy on this one. It’s a little longer than I thought it would be.

Immerse yourself in the story, Buy Sam’s Scent Here from @scentsfromthebunker (And damn does it smell goooooood)

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Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5

Yanking a brush through your hair hard enough that you would just tear any knots straight out of your head helped to keep your focus. It was hard to concentrate on the fact that Sam’s hands had been all over the lacy black panties you were now wearing when you were busy ripping chunks of hair from your scalp. Satisfied with it just being out of your face, bust still wild and barely tamed you stuffed the brush back into your bag and lamented on not having anything left to do to buy yourself more time. You’d have to leave the bathroom eventually. You’d have to look at him at some point. And you were going to have to do it while keeping your shit together which was difficult enough just through sheer proximity. Let alone being all cramped and squished against him, his frame towering over you, so large he could have swallowed you whole. Long strong arms keeping you up as if you weighed nothing, his hand riding dangerously low on your stomach, holding you in place against him. His hands all over your underwear, and in them. An all too familiar heat blossomed between your legs.

Gripping the sink and clenching your legs together as if you could hold it in or stop it completely you let out an exasperated sigh. This whole job was a bad idea. You should have come with Dean. Sure he’d have been obnoxious, but you’d still have fun, you’d still have been convincing. And most importantly you could walk away after the job was finished knowing that nothing had changed. Dean was great, but you’d had plenty of time to develop feelings for him, and nothing evolved. He was exactly where you wanted him to be. Platonic. Sam was another story entirely. And you were playing with fire.

There were a couple options on the table for how this whole job ended. Either you’d put on a show, keep your act together and go home to pine for him in secret- business as usual. Status Quo. Or you’d wind up coming on too strong, playing the game a little too well, embarrass the shit out of yourself and then have to live awkwardly around him until you had successfully humiliated yourself to death. There was no third option. Because the third option was completely off the table and nothing but wishful thinking. The night he nearly kissed you in the library was a drunken mistake, and a near miss. You had to find a way to shut down the way he made you feel. Which was simultaneously amazing and amazingly frustrated.

There had been a few times little things he did stirred you up so well and so agonizing that you had to go find some rando at a bar to go home with and alleviate the desperate need in you. But scratching the itch never brought real relief.

A short, soft knock on the bathroom door brought you out of your head and back into the real world.

“You ready? This class is starting in ten minutes.” Sam asked from the other side. Your cheeks burned at the sound of his voice, and the heat pooling low in your gut just kept smoldering away.

“Yeah. Be out in a second.” You answered, but you could have melted straight into the floor. Giving yourself another moment to collect yourself you sucked in a breath to clear your head, fixing your face stoic, and unbothered. Stepping out of the bathroom you tossed your bag of toiletries on top of the dresser. Sam was waiting for you wearing a teal and gold plaid button up, the one with the snaps instead of buttons. The one that made his eyes just pop. The one that hung so well on him, and over his broad, muscular shoulders. The one that you had spent many nights dreaming about ripping open.

“I have clothes on now, you wanna tell me what you found out?” He asked. You preferred him sans the clothes, but you wouldn’t be able to focus. Letting out a snort you rolled your eyes, as if it was all just ridiculous, as if you truly didn’t want to see him naked. If you told yourself you didn’t enough times, then maybe you’d start to believe it. You were going to handle this whole job through sheer force of will. And if nothing else you were most definitely a stubborn woman.

“Yeah so get this- it turns out that the guy who built this place, Wellington, didn’t die of the plague like we thought.” You offered clever and proud. Sam’s brow furrowed in slight confusion as his interest piqued.”Right? Turns out he died of Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy.”

“Broken heart syndrome?” Sam replied, incredulous. You answered with finger gun, click of your tongue and a wink. “That’s… Really? I mean, people don’t really die from that.”

“Hey, I’m not a doctor, and I wasn’t there when it happened. I’m just relaying the info. Besides, it kind of makes sense doesn’t it? Guy’s whole family dies in a matter of months. Wife was the last to kick the bucket, from bubonic plague no less. Sounds like a perfect recipe for a stress induced heart attack for me.”

“That might explain the disappearances. If he’s a ghost he could be abducting people, targeting the couples here.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

“That doesn’t explain the body count in the woods though.”

“I mean… there is a very real chance that it’s just what the local authority thinks it is.”

“Animal attacks, and you buy that?”

“Why not? What are the odds of there being a ghost here and a monster out there?” You asked with a shrug. If Wellington was still haunting the halls of his home - which explained why it gave you the creeps, then you were willing to give the Garcia PD a little credit. Not to mention the fact that you were far more willing to take on a ghost case than a Wendigo or something else just as nasty. Ghosts were scary, but that was fixed with a simple salt and burn. And you were willing to put serious money on the fact that the Wellingtons were buried somewhere on the property. Gank the ghost, and go home before you did something you’d regret. Story tied up in a bow. End scene.

Sam was willing to run with your theory, albeit reluctantly. Because when were the odds ever in his favor?

“Okay guess we’re going to have to see if any of the guests have had any strange occurrences happen.” He said, moving to the door and holding it open for you.

“And where on the property they’re buried.” You added, continuing your thought as you walked past him. “I’m guessing Derek probably knows.”

Sam locked the door behind him, his body tensing when you dropped Derek’s name. Derek. He did not like him. There was just something about him that made Sam wary. Of course the designs he had on you was a factor in that feeling that he could not discredit. It was probably a majority of the reason if he was completely honest with himself, if not the whole reason. Of course, he wouldn’t blame you if you decided to make a move. He’d wind up just fucking hating the guy, but you were free to do whatever with whomever. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t been with other men before. Wasn’t like he hadn’t been with other women. And he wasn’t going to be selfish enough to ask you to refrain from doing what you wanted.

“Alright, so after lights out we’ll to an EMF sweep and see if we can’t turn up old Wellington.” Going on with your train of thought as you made your way down the hall, Sam right next to you. You were talking but he wasn’t listening, and you weren’t exactly paying attention. He was too focused on the idea of you and Derek together. All you’d have to do was show a little interest and he’d be on you like white on rice. And it was infuriating. Derek would touch you wrong, he wouldn’t worship the parts of you that should be worshiped. He wouldn’t hold you right, or kiss you right with the passion and fire that you deserved. He wouldn’t pay attention to the the tender spots that Sam wanted his mouth over for the last year and a half. Then you’d come back to him smelling like the other man, and only half as satisfied as you could be. And he would have to choke down the way it would crush him. The way it does crush him, knowing that this was only a job to you. The way it should have just been a job to him.

“Oh!” A little light bulb clicked in your head as you stopped in your tracks two steps up from the base of the staircase. Sam stopped and turned to look at you. You were two stairs up and only barely eye level with him. “I almost forgot. That dancing night thing on Thursday. Turns out that’s an ongoing tradition in place of the Anniversary Gala’s that Wellington threw for his wife each year. Also it’s a black tie event.”

“What?” Sam questioned, unsure if he’d heard you right through your rambling pace and the word vomit. “Black tie?”

“Yeah. I know and there’s going to be a bunch of people people here because it’s apparently a big deal in these parts. And frankly I am not willing to rub elbows with the Bourgeoisie. Aristocracy can kiss my ass, they’re not better than anyone else. So anyway, the sooner we burn the bones and get out of here the better.” You answered not even wanting to ponder the idea of having to squeeze into some fancy little cocktail dress and heels and pretend like it wasn’t excruciating, or that your feet wouldn’t be killing you. It made you shudder at the thought of having to be around some weak-chinned trust fund baby talking about the tennis match they played at the yacht club. Sam on the other hand was less focused on attire than he was your comment ‘the sooner the better.’ Ouch. That one stung. You were right though, the sooner the case was solved and you could all go back to business as usual, the better. Less chance of fucking up, less chance of things between you changing. Less opportunity for him to slip up and spill something he should have kept to himself.

“Right.” He replied quickly, clearing his throat and shifting his weight on one leg. “Yeah, you’re right. The sooner the better.”

It wasn’t what he said, it was how he said it. Distant and aloof, unfeeling. And it struck you in the chest just a small pang of hurt. Turning your eyes from him so he couldn’t see the disappointment you looked down the hall off the foyer. You shouldn’t have been bothered by it, after all he agreed with you. But his answer wasn’t nearly as comforting as you had hoped. No it was exactly what you hoped for. Nothing. That was what you wanted after all, nothing. That was how it should be, nothing. Because if there was something…

An unmistakable head of curly ebony hair caught your attention in the hallway and you let out a perturbed groan. Fuck, this bitch again. Sam followed your gaze to Esmeralda chatting with another couple down the hall. Chuckling he turned his attention back to you.

“Not a fan?”

“No. You should have seen the look she gave me earlier.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean anything by it. Y’know you have a chronic case of resting bitch-face yourself.” Sam teased. Your jaw dropped in offense and you shoved his shoulder playfully.

“Wow, rude!” You laughed, shaking your head in good humored annoyance.

“Hey, your words, not mine.” He replied. Esmeralda finished up her conversation with the other couple and immediately caught sight of Sam. Like a fucking lioness stalking her prey, she walked over as if it was a mission from god. In her eyes you had already disappeared. Without thinking you slipped your arms over Sam’s shoulders edging in closer. His hands came to rest at your hips as he looked at you quizzically. Up till you laid eyes on her you had maintained your distance.

“We’re supposed to be married right?” It was less a question more a statement and he gave you a dimpled grin in agreement.

“Right, because it couldn’t be that you’re jealous?” He asked and you snorted.

“No! I am not jealous of her. But if I’m playing the part of wife I gotta act like it right? Besides what do I have to be jealous of?” You stumbled through your denial, hoping you sounded more convincing out loud than you did in your head. Jealous. HA! What? Of her perfect full bodied hair that probably smelled like really expensive conditioner? Or her skin that looked as soft as silk? Pfft. Please. You were definitely not jealous of her absolutely killer body. Or her bedroom eyes with curling lashes a mile long and thick as night. Nope, not a damn thing to be jealous of there. And most of all you were not jealous or threatened by her presence around Sam. Not even a little.

“Mr. Wesson, I trust your hike today was enjoyable?” Esmeralda said, with a voice as sweet and smooth as summer wine. And you wanted to gag. Or choke her. Or gag while you were choking her. Sam turned to face her with a smile, one hand still on your hip. You dropped an arm from around his neck letting it lovingly rest over his bicep which was so strong you could have kept hands there for all eternity.

“Yes, it was very enjoyable.” Sam answered in earnest. Less about the scenery, more about you. A few choice moments sticking out in his head as particularly enjoyable.

“Marvelous.” She enthused. “Well if you’re ready the gentlemen are playing cards and having drinks in the parlor, if you’ll follow me.”

Your whole body froze as mild panic rose in your chest.

“I’m sorry I thought this was a couples cooking class?” You asked letting out a nervous laugh. Sam was supposed to be there to keep you from burning the place to the ground because you way overcooked a pie. Or quiche. Or whatever the fuck they wanted you to make. Not to mention the fact that it was dumb to have a cooking class listed on a couples retreat itinerary.

“Yes, well it was originally. Unfortunately one of the guests partners has fallen ill and couldn’t make it to the class, and we certainly didn’t want to keep him from enjoying himself this evening. I’m so sorry for the mix up.” She answered but didn’t look away from Sam, and you were pretty sure you saw her face harden out of irritation that she had to speak to you at all.

“Well. Y’know, I’m pretty good at Texas Hold ‘Em myself I’d love to-”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Wesson, I’m afraid there is only room at the table for one more.” She cut, her eyes darting to you like daggers, taking you a back completely. Fucking rude.

“So then why don’t you come with me to the class anyway?” You asked Sam, though it was more telling than requesting.

“I’m sorry, that won’t be possible either, it would be unfair to the other guests.” Esmeralda interjected. Seeming to have an excuse for fucking everything. You smiled through grit teeth.

“Of course it would.” You said finding it difficult to mask your disdain. Derek emerged from the hallway to join the three of you at the foot of the staircase, a kind smile on his face.

“Y/n, we’re so glad you could make it. If you follow me I’ll take you to the kitchen, we’ve got an excellent array of desserts and cocktails to sample during the class.”

This time it was Sam’s turn to be uncomfortable, his grip on your hip tightening a little upon Derek’s approach and all to casual drop of your name. Like he’d known you forever, it was too familiar. Esmeralda took him by the arm slowly coaxing the grip you had on each other apart, and he let her with little reluctance. She walked him down the hall to the parlor, but his eyes stayed on you and Derek until you were out of view.

“Yep, sounds… just fantastic.” You lied. He offered his elbow for you to take and escorted you to the massive kitchen where there were four other women waiting and chatting with full glasses of wine.

Dropping your hand to your side you took a look around. Clearly you had severely under-dressed for the occasion, these women looked like they stepped straight out the Stepford wives. To be fair this was one of your nicest t-shirts, it was one of the only ones that didn’t have holes in it, and it had a little ufo on it with small text saying ‘I want to leave.’ It was accurate, and it was your favorite. You even put clean jeans on without rips in the knees, and your nice boots. So… they were lucky.

On the table where they sat was several trays full of macaroons, various cheesecakes, tiramisu, and tiny cupcake sized apple tarts but the apples had been sliced thin and turned into roses. A small banquet table sat nearby with three clear beverage dispensers. One of them was champagne colored and had peaches and mangoes and strawberries floating in it, the other was a lime green concoction with more matching fruit. The last was most definitely Sangria, and you made a beeline for it. Derek stepped in beside you offering a glass for you to pour your drink into, though opening the spigot and letting it pour directly into your mouth seemed like a better use of your time and energy than anything that was to come next. You were going to drink the entire damn dispenser dry, fruit and all by the end of the class.

“Hi.” A woman with blonde hair curled into flawless waves, not a single strand out of place. She eyed you curiously, like you were a circus act than a person who didn’t know there was a dress code for a fucking cooking class you didn’t even want to be a part of! “I’m Emily, pleasure to meet you. And you are?”

“Y/n, nice to meet you too.” You held your hand out to shake hers but she didn’t take it.

“Come meet everyone.” Emily suggested taking you by the arm and practically dragging you over to the table, and introducing you to the other women like she was the host of a quaint dinner party. “Y/n this is Ashley, Victoria and Charlotte.”

Victoria was a haughty woman with black hair, with secrets behind her dark eyes. Ashley was a cute slip of a thing, but something told you she wasn’t exactly as innocent as she looked. Charlotte gave you a big smile, and was the only one who didn’t look at you like you crawled out of a hole.

“How long are you here for?” Charlotte asked.

“About a week, maybe less.” You answered.

“Less? Why would you want to leave early?” Emily quizzed. You were put on the spot, and you did not like being the center of any kind of attention.

“Oh y’know, we’re from out of state so we might try to check out a few tourist spots on our way back home.”

“Where are you from?” Ashley asked.

“Lebanon. Kansas.”

“A long way from home aren’t we.” Victoria said not bothering to look at you, just her voice set you on edge.

“Uh, yeah. Guess so.”

“How long have you been married?” Charlotte asked.

“A little while now, feels like yesterday.” You joked, awkward, and uncomfortable.The questions were flying left and right. Nosy and asking for too many details, details that were too specific and you couldn’t be vague enough about. You found yourself quickly downing the first of many more glasses of Sangria. You and Sam had gone over some details of your backstory, glossing over a general picture, but there were plenty of blanks to fill. And you felt like you were being interrogated, or dissected by these women.

“Where did you get married?”

“Uhh, we eloped.”

“Any kids?

“None.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“Y’know I would love to chat a little more about this later but I think we’re supposed to get started now.” You said, trying to find an escape hatch. All day you’d been lamenting having to cook, and now you were elated to start. Anything to shift the focus off of you and your fake marriage.

Derek showed you to a station set up and ready, and right in the middle of the island, but you were land-locked by Emily and Charlotte on either side of you. And that’s when the dread really kicked in. This was actually happening. They actually expected you to participate, not only participate, but to do it and actually be happy about it! Maybe you could feign sickness and go hide in your room. The raw ingredients in front of you taunting you but just being there. You downed your second glass.

“Ladies tonight we’re going to be making one of my favorite recipes Amaretto Apple Streusel Cupcakes.” Derek started. The only part of that catching your interest was the Amaretto part. Beyond that- what the fuck made a streusel? You started on your second glass of Sangria.

Derek led the class through the introductory steps, talking entirely too much about the ingredients we were using, but making sure you knew that there was plenty of wiggle room in the recipe to adjust to your tastes. There was going to be so much Amaretto in yours you’d get tipsy off of eating one. If you didn’t burn it first. He left plenty of room for talking among yourselves.

“So how did you and your husband meet?” Charlotte asked, big brown eyes moving from you to the mixing bowl in her hands.

“We just happened to be working together.” You answered quickly. “So, this place is kinda interesting.”

“Yeah, I guess so. The mountains are nice, and one of the lakes is like… perfect.”

“Sam and I went for a hike today, it was definitely something. I could have sworn I heard like… scratching earlier when we were getting settled.”

“Huh. That’s odd.” Charlotte said, preoccupied.

“Hear anything like that in your room?”

“Nope, can’t say I have, but I honestly haven’t spent much time in the room. Declan and I have been keeping pretty busy.”

“Right, of course. I think I saw some flickering lights earlier too.”

“Well, this place is like really super old. I’m sure the wiring is a conflagration waiting to happen” She answered absentmindedly, adding extra spices and such to her mixing bowl.

“Yeah, it kind of gives me the creeps, y’know.” You pressed but Charlotte just shrugged and continued on with her task. The mixture in her bowl looking smooth and creamy, while yours looked… chunky. Clumps of flour sticking together and unwilling to unstick and mix right. And you definitely added too much amaretto, because some of it was runny. How could something be runny and clumpy at the same time?

Derek continued on with the next steps and down went glass number four. Your fingertips were starting to tingle, your head pleasantly buzzing. Derek refilled your glass and set it in front of you, full lips curling into a smile.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” He asked, and you replied with a nod taking a long sip from your glass.

“Mhmm, I uh, I don’t think I did this right.” You answered a little defeated, eyes landing on the lumpy and runny bowl of doughy batter in front of you. Derek responded with a chuckle, as he moved around the island to stand between you and Charlotte.

“It’s just not quite mixed in there yet.” He said, picking up a whisk and whipping the batter smooth like it should be. He placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “See? Beautiful. Have you tried it yet, to make sure your flavors are where you want them?”

Shaking your head no he let his hand trail down your arm taking your hand in his and dipping your finger in the batter. Bright green eyes locked on you as he watched you lick the batter from your fingertip. Unfortunately for him you were five glasses deep, and less concerned about the sultry look in his eye, or the way he was biting into his lip than you were about being delightfully surprised that it actually tasted okay.

“Wow. I thought for sure this was going to be inedible.” You laughed. Derek chuckled, and smiled at you again, rapt by you, and you saw an opening. Leaning your hip against the island, and taking another sip you edged in, just a little closer. “So, that guy Wellington you were talking about earlier, he really had to watch his whole family go down?”

“Yes, it's really terrible. The plague is not an easy disease to watch someone succumb to, it takes hold quickly and they suffered before they passed.” He answered, more than happy to be in your close proximity.

“Yikes.” You remarked, half way through glass number six. “So if they all passed away in a couple months, that’s a lot of funerals to deal with. Did they have like a family plot around here?”

“Yes they did, there’s a clearing in the trees by the overlook where they were all laid to rest. Mr. Wellington put this property here for the views, I suppose it was what he wanted in death as well. I’m afraid its all a bit overgrown now. The groundskeeper refuses to set foot on it. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious, I’m all about that spooky shit.” You answered, putting your drink down, because pacing is a thing and you needed to exercise it before something else uncouth just fell out of your mouth. Derek laughed, finding your comment more endearing than anything else. “Anything weird happen around here?”

“Depends on what you mean by weird.” He answered, intrigued. You edged in, just a hair closer.

“You know, like… flickering lights, cold spots, strange voices in the night.”

“Ah,” he laughed again. “You want to know if this place is haunted.”

“Well, is it? Should I be worried? Have to break out the crucifixes?” You teased.

“This place is old, and there have been an odd thing here and there, but I can’t say that it’s haunted. If it is I don’t think I’ve ever encountered anything supernatural.”

“Bummer.” You said slumping back in your place, and turning your attention back to the batter in the mixing bowl. Derek gave your shoulder a light squeeze before moving back around the island and continuing the lesson.

The poker game was done, and Sam could have won every round, but threw folds every now and then, not wanting chance putting a tarnish on a good first impression. The five other men split off to chat sipping brandy like they were on the goddamn Titanic before the iceberg. Of the six only one of them caught Sam’s attention. He was sunk into a chair by the roaring fireplace, his cheeks sallow and gaunt, he was thin, too thin. Clothes didn’t seem to quite fit right, and he looked just tired. Sam picked up a glass and sat in the chair beside him.

“Nolan, right?” Sam asked, earning nothing more than a slow nod from the skeleton in the chair. “You uh, you okay man? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” Nolan answered, quiet, and distant.

“You sure?” He pressed, unconvinced. Nolan didn’t respond, he only took a long sip of the amber liquid in his glass. Giving up on pleasantries Sam decide to skip straight to the point. “So, you wouldn’t happen to have noticed anything weird going on here would you? My wife and I we’re kind of into the ghost tours and stuff, and we heard this place had some unexplained phenomena happen over the years.”

Nolan turned dim blue eyes to him leaning against the arm of the chair, beckoning Sam to move closer and lean in to share a secret that wasn’t for prying eyes or ears.

“If you were smart, you’d take your woman and leave.” Nolan warned, locking eyes with Sam not a single hint of insincerity on his face.

“What?”

“You believe in ghost stories?” Nolan asked, his voice falling to a hush. Sam nodded, eager and interested. “There’s something here. It moves in the night.”

“What do you mean?” Sam pressed. Maybe there was some serious credibility to your theory. A small hand clasped his shoulder before Nolan could respond, he turned eyes up to meet icy green ones as Esmeralda stood beside him smiling cheerfully.

“Mr. Wesson, I was wondering if you’d accompany me to the cellar.” She said sweetly. “There are a few more bottles of Brandy and Bourbon for tasting, but I’m afraid I only have two hands and can’t carry all of them.”

Sam looked back at Nolan before turning to Esmeralda and agreeing to help with a nod. But the conversation wasn’t over. Nolan had seen something, and he was determined to find out what exactly he’d seen. Setting his glass on the mantel above the fireplace and followed the petite woman down the hall. When they passed by the kitchen he peeked in to see you smiling, cheeks flushed, and standing a little too close to Derek who ran his hand down your arm. His jaw set tight, not thrilled in the slightest to see Derek getting a little too comfortable with you, his wife. Fake wife. Friend. Business partner. Platonic co-worker.

Swallowing down his offense and jealousy that formed a lump in his throat he had to remind himself that it wasn’t his place to have any say over what you did. No matter how much he wanted to just steal you away. It could never happen. This was just a temporary arrangement. And you always did have a way of getting information from men. It seemed easy for you to dial up the charm and flash those pretty doe eyes, and they’d melt like putty in your hands. He knew that fact from experience.

The cellar was relatively small compared to the grandiose of the rest of the Manor, but it was still impeccably stocked. Different liquors and wines from all over the world fit into the cedar shelving. One bottle after another Esmeralda placed them in Sam’s arms.

“I do appreciate your help Mr. Wesson.” She said, her fingertips leaving the last bottle and lingering over his forearm.

“You can call me Sam.”

“Alright then, Sam it is.” She agreed. His name dripping from her lips like honey. “So Sam, tell me, what brings you all the way out here to our neck of the woods?”

“Y/n and I needed a vacation. Heard about this place, figured we’d check it out and see if it as anything special.” He said flashing a quick smile. She tucked a bottle in her arms before turning to look at him curiosity writ on her face.

“And do you have any doubts that this place will live up to your expectations?”

“No, I think it’s shaping up to be exactly what we were looking for.”

The Apple streusel whatevers were just about done being cooked, and the smell from the oven was mouthwatering. You had finished glass number six and hoping that seven would be the last one for the night because you simply could not remain in that kitchen without a drink in your hand, but you were already drunker than you’d intended to be.

“Y/n, you seem nervous.” Victoria said from behind you, making you jump in surprise, the look on your face startled as you turned to address her.

“I uh, I don’t cook much. It’s really not my specialty.” You explained honestly. Since moving into the bunker Dean was the master chef, and when he wasn’t doing it you stuck to leftovers, or food from the 7-Eleven.

“You don’t cook for your husband at all?” She asked, and you scoffed.

“Nope, Sam’s a big boy. If he’s hungry he can fend for himself.” You answered and she looked downright appalled. Oops.Maybe that was a little too honest. “I mean, we’re not particularly domestic… so....” You shut yourself up with the glass in your hand.

“I see, that’s a shame. I’m sure he’ll be pleasantly surprised then when you bring these back with you.” Victoria said, there was no change in the pitch of her voice, she was speaking pleasantly and civilly, but there was nothing but disdain in her eyes.

“Yeah, he’s not going to believe it.” You laughed, she didn’t.

“Do you do anything for your husband?” She continued. What, were you supposed to be his maid or something?

“Nope, he married me for my charming wit and sparkling personality.” You quipped, unable to stop the sarcasm that oozed from your words.

The oven went off and it was the most beautiful sound in the world. You excused yourself from Victoria’s irritating company and moved to wrap up your cupcakes and get the fuck out of the kitchen. The whole ordeal hadn’t been a total bust, you found out where the Wellingtons were planted, and that none of the women had experienced anything inexplicable, which didn’t give you much hope that your theory was correct. Polishing off your last drink you tucked the box of cupcakes under your arm and slipped out of the kitchen just in time to see Sam walking down the hall to the parlor with Esmeralda struggling to keep up with his pace. Letting out a grumbling sigh you headed back up to the room, not wanting to have to deal with little miss perfect for a single second, you’d had too much to drink and your filter was about ten minutes away from being nonexistent. The second you hit the bed your eyes fell shut.

When he returned to the parlor Nolan was gone, the cooking class was done and the men left to go be with their wives. But you were nowhere to be found. And neither was Derek, a pit grew in his stomach, not wanting to entertain the idea of where you might have snuck off to and with who.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself tonight.” Esmeralda said, handing him a bottle of Bourbon.

“Yeah, yeah thanks. It was nice. Is that guy Nolan okay? He looked sick.”

“Mr. Ross is a little under the weather, I’m afraid he may be catching whatever bug Mrs. Ross had.” She explained with a smile.

“Right, of course. Thanks again, I think I need to go find my wife.”

“Goodnight. Sam.” Esmeralda said, growing want in her voice, and unmistakable in her light green eyes. Sam nodded, and gave her a quick goodnight before exiting down the hall and back to the room. If you were off somewhere with Derek he did not want to take the risk of catching you in the act. He didn’t think he could stomach it, or remain collected afterwards.

When he locked the door behind him and turned to the bed he was more than pleasantly surprised to find you sprawled across the entire California King size bed. How someone so small could take up so much space he’d never be able to grasp, but it was endearing nonetheless.One arm was hanging off the edge of the bed, and the other was stretched above your head where your hair splayed out like a halo around your face so serene and angelic. Untying the laces of your boots he slipped them off your feet and dropped them on the floor before grabbing a couple pillows from the bed and a blanket to settle in on the floor.

He lay there for a while, unable to quiet his thoughts enough to fall asleep. Just happy that you hadn’t run off with someone else. Reaching up he took your hand dangling limp over the edge of the bed and ran his thumb over the buttery soft skin of your knuckles, a small smile playing over his lips.

Breath hitched in your throat as your back arched, chin tipping back and eyes falling shut. Running your fingers through his silky chestnut hair you rolled your hips unable to get enough of that delicious friction between your thighs. Each flick of his tongue over your clit blooming that pleasurable pressure in your core. His lips sealed over your sensitive bud sucking a crying moan from your lips as his long deft fingers pumped in your fluttering pussy, rhythmically and with ease covered in your slick. Legs quivered as you drew your knees up along his side, one hand gripping the sheets of the bed and holding on for dear life.

“Oh god… Sam!” His name fell from your lips like a prayer the deep humming moan he gave in response vibrating against your sex sent you careening over the edge, fireworks igniting behind your eyes as your body trembled under his unrelenting touch. Giving a desperate tug on his hair to bring him to you, wanting to taste yourself on his lips while he buried himself impossibly deep in your aching pussy. But the eyes that looked up at you were not Sam’s kaleidoscope hazel ones, but rather Derek’s misty green eyes.

You stirred in your sleep, a soft, pleased moan passed your lips, and your breath quickened drawing his focus from the warning Nolan had given him to you who must have been having an interesting dream. Another moan, and the rustling of sheets as you shifted in the bed. The sound of your euphoric whimpers left him more than curious.

“Oh god… Sam..” You whispered, barely audible but he heard it. Palming his hardening dick through his sweats he tried to keep himself in control. But there was no mistaking what you were dreaming about now. His name falling from your lips causing the smoldering embers low in his core to flick into a burning fire impossible to extinguish. The longer he laid there, listening to your sleep riddled gasps the harder it was to keep himself focused on anything but you.

It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about you like that. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought of you alone at night. But it was the first time there had ever been confirmation that you just might think about him too.

Unable to lay there any longer, cock throbbing and twitching with each of your rasping breaths he pulled himself off the floor and into the bathroom. Fisting his cock in his hand he pumped in tandem with the quiet mewling from the other room.

Sitting up with a shocked gasp, your eyes open wide and darting around the room in your confusion. That was more than unexpected. Countless times you’d had that dream but it was always Sam. It was never not him. And while Derek was handsome, you weren’t exactly skipping with enthusiasm for the chance to sit on his face. Running your fingers through your hair you let out a sigh, recollecting yourself, and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. You just drank too much. That was all. It was just the liquor messing with your head.

Taking note that you were still fully clothed you stood up to change into something more comfortable than jeans to sleep in, proud of the fact that you’d at least managed to take your boots off before passing out.

When you stood your head began to swim, the room spinning around you in a dizzying whirlwind. You’d drank plenty before, but you’d never been that drunk. This felt different. Your brow furrowed as your vision went black to a pinpoint.

“What the fu…” With a thud you collapsed to the floor in a heap.

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[davidmann95]

Best comics of 2018?

A handful of disqualifications up front: since they’re just beginning, I’m not counting Electric Warriors, Martian Manhunter, The Green Lantern (though Evil Star explaining his name in #2 might be my favorite moment in comics this year), Ironheart, DIE, Shazam!, Killmonger, The Batman Who Laughs, or Miles Morales: Spider-Man, all of which almost certainly would have ended up somewhere in here with some more time. Additionally, I switched to a new online pull list system in March, so I don’t have a list of what I got before then - if I’m forgetting about something great that came out early this year, there’s a good chance that would be why.

Honorary Mentions: While there were plenty of comics I was happy to keep up with, a number stood out as exemplary examples of straight-take relatively traditional capeshit: Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV and companies’ Justice League, Steve Orlando’s Justice League of America (which would probably go among the best of the best if the art was a bit more consistent or the lineup more to my personal tastes), Brian Bendis and Nick Derington’s Batman work in the Walmart 100-Page Giants, Donny Cates’ Thanos and Doctor Strange work (the latter might not have quite made it, but that last issue with Irving and Zdarsky was gangbusters), Steve Orlando’s brief Wonder Woman run with Laura Braga, ACO, and Raul Allen, Tim Seeley’s Green Lanterns, Nnedi Okorafor and Leonardo Romero’s Shuri, Robert Vendetti and Bryan Hitch’s Hawkman, Saladin Ahmed, Javier Rodriguez, Rod Reis, Dario Brizuela, and Joe Quinones’s Exiles, Captain America by both the Mark Waid/Chris Samnee team and the current Ta-Nehisi Coates/Lenil Francis Yu lineup, Dan Slott and Valerio Schiti’s Tony Stark: Iron Man when it’s committed solely to being a superhero comic and not Dan Slott trying to be Contemporary, Brian Bendis, Patrick Gleason, Yanick Paquette, and Ryan Sook’s Action Comics, and Kelly Thompson and Stefano Caselli’s West Coast Avengers. 

On the slightly different side of things, Steve Orlando and Giovanni Timpano showed how you do an intercompany crossover right with The Shadow/Batman, Max Bemis’s Moon Knight while not living up to all it could have been - and likely to age poorly - had moments of truly bizarre grace, Saga was Saga even if I’ve lost the plot, Ahmed and Christian Ward’s Black Bolt concluded as well as we all might have hoped, Warren Ellis and Jon Davis-Hunt’s The Wild Storm continued to build up steam in its own fascinating style, Doomsday Clock remains utterly captivating in spite of itself, and Tom Peyer and Jamal Igle’s The Wrong Earth is making the most of a deceptively tough premise. On the one-off end, Chip Zdarsky and Declan Shalvey’s Marvel Two-In-One Annual is an essentially perfect off-kilter Doom/Richards story, Action Comics #1000 had no chance of living up to all it needed to be but was largely a great set of Superman stories regardless, and while the remainder of the miniseries has thus far been fine, Tim Seeley and Carlos Villa’s first issue of Shatterstar was a strange, special delight.

My Favorite Comics of 2018

Rock Candy Mountain: Technically Jackson - the rail-rider who can beat Any One Man in a fistfight - reached the end of his journey for hobo heaven this year, and flat-out, every Kyle Starks comic is a perfect one. This is a book where the first issue has a dude beating ass with a beautiful savagery that leaves an awestruck onlooker declaring “He’s got punch diarrhea and their faces are the toilet bowl”, and by the end it built up to one of the most moving climaxes of the year. It’s a comic about fallen men finding redemption in friendship and in dreams, and also there’s a cage fighter who calls himself Hundred Cats because it would be really hard to fight a hundred cats.

Dark Knights: Metal: This is the final, perfected form of traditional Event Comic Bullshit. Everything good about Snyder, Capullo, Glapion, and Plascencia’s Batman post-Court Of Owls is retooled and reenergized to fit the scale of a Crisis event, everything that I would have considered to be a weakness regarding their partnership either burned away or placed in a context where it becomes a strength. This is the Morrison approach to the DCU rightfully ascendant and presented in a form even more fit for mass consumption, and manages to live up to being the first classic-style, large-scale DC event comic in almost a decade - Marvel may blow its own load every six months until it’s simply got nothing to offer anymore, but DC waited until they really and truly had something, and that something was bloodsoaked magic.

Peter Parker: The Spectacular Spider-Man (by Chip Zdarsky and assorted artists): I actually wavered a bit on whether this belonged in the best of the best as a whole; most of the issues this year were definitely very good (regarding Zdarsky’s run specifically, I haven’t checked out the Spider-Geddon tie-in stuff), but more on the honorary mention end of the scale. Ultimately however, the Amazing Fantasy arc and #310 are Spider-Man comics I’m going to be coming back to for years to come - the latter is going to end up in every ‘Best Spider-Man Stories Ever’ softcover from now until the end of time - and they tipped the scales.

Batman: Very much in the same boat as Spidey above; a lot of this year didn’t do it for me in the same way as this run has in the past, but The Best Man is the best thing anyone’s done with Joker since Morrison, the ‘wedding issue’ itself worked really well for me, Cold Days made a premise that’s often stymied creators work as well as people have always wanted it to, and the Dick team-up issue was a perfect little summation of a relationship, nevermind how much this year succeeded in getting me hyped up for things to come.

The Unbeatable Squirrel Girl: This is one of those comics where it’s so consistently good in such a specific, quiet way that people stop talking about it, but for real, this has never not in the top five or six things Marvel is publishing at any given time for as long as it’s been around. Erica Henderson leaving right before hitting the Kraven story that had been building literally since its first issue 3 years earlier could have been disastrous, but North and new artist Derek Charm manage to hit their own rhythm and continue delivering one of the funniest, cleverest, most sincere superbooks on the stands every month.

Mister Miracle: Yeah, it really was that good.

The Immortal Hulk: So is this, and if I have to name a single best comic of the year, this has probably gotta be it. Al Ewing’s been Marvel’s best creator for a long, long time, and putting him and Joe Bennett (who holy moley, I don’t think anyone would have guessed had this in him) on a tentpole character Ewing’s got genuine reverence for worked out even better than a fanboy like me might have expected. It’s sublime horror, it’s perfect Marvel comics continuity bullshit, and if the superhero is at heart a morality fable, this is very much a soul-searing apex of the genre as it speaks of how we can all go wrong.

Eternity Girl: …or maybe this is the best? It’s probably gotta be this, Hulk, or Miracle. Mister Miracle’s where the comparison really becomes clear, as they’re both books way out on the fringes of the DCU dealing with a character grappling with depression amidst the mundanity of their cyclical existence. However, as perfectly constructed and rawly human as Mister Miracle is, this hits a lot more of my own buttons and expresses its own brand of more surreal emotional authenticity, and rather than the expected and beautiful next step of a pair of already-acclaimed creators with an established partnership, this was a shock coming out party for Visaggio and Liew, who do things stylistically just as odd to see in a DC Comic as anything King and Gerads came up with. It seemed to sail under the radar for readers but also seems to be racking up awards, and I hope this’ll attain the reputation it deserves in years to come.

Ice Cream Man: Likely the respectable fourth place to the three above, while I can’t quite sing its praises in quite the same way when it’s playing so hard-to-get that I can’t quite put a pin in what it’s ultimately about, oh my GOD this is as good as gut-punch horror gets. Not simply grody shock-value stuff, but pit-of-your-stomach-everything-in-the-world-hates-you-and-you-were-wrong-to-ever-believe-in-love shit that’ll rattle your bones and fuck you up good. Not usually a horror guy myself, but this is an essentially perfect comic.

The Man Of Steel: Screw all y’all, this kicked ass and after how hard the Rebirth books blew it - Jon and the new status quo were both excellent, Tomasi had good bits here and there alongside some quality fill-in teams, but those books were still aaaaaaaaaaassssss - this is exactly the fresh start Superman’s needed for years. Granted the Fabok interstitials had some wonky pacing, but this was on-point and insightful for Superman as a character, exciting as hell, and has thus far led to nothing but more good comics as far as I’m concerned.

Milk Wars: Did the various tie-ins live up to the bookends? Nah, though the Shade/Wonder Woman story was pretty good. But those bookends? Friends, those books were AAA+ sup-per-he-ro-bull-SHIT, and while I was initially let down because it seemed as though it would have Superman in a major role and then didn’t, this is even more of an apotheosis of the Morrison approach to the genre than Metal. ACO is ACO, Eaglesham slaughtered it, and Orlando and Way should be as joined at the hip as cowriters as Abbnett and Lanning used to be. This is a gold standard for strange, edgy, colorful, wondrous, fucked-up superhero comics, and there should be a million more like it every day.

Justice League (by Christopher Priest and assorted artists, primarily Pete Woods): On the exact opposite end of the scale, while I don’t think I can say I enjoyed this book as much as the current Snyder-helmed gonzo cosmic adventures, I absolutely feel this was the better of the two. More importantly, this run is the successful version of what just about every other Justice League comic of the past 15 years has been trying and failing to be as the post-Authority, post-Ultimates, post-Civil War take on the concept. It’s as smart and atmospheric and bold as a book like Justice League ever CAN be, building its exploration of the conceptual stress points of the team around one and two-part adventures and clever character dynamics, illustrating an interesting new take on how to handle the main team book with the power players: taking their ability to handle physical threats as a relative given, a structural conceit acting as a delivery mechanism for the politics and people in play. It hardly breaks new ground in terms of redefining the superhero concept, but it’s as far as they’ve gone with the marquis characters without ending in disaster, and it’s an approach I’d love to see more often applied to this scale.

Superman: Walmart 100 Page Giant (by Tom King and Andy Kubert): Of all the places for King to do a regular Superman comic, huh? Still, we’d already seen what he’d done in that Batman two-parter and Action #1000, so I’m more than willing to take what we can get (even if most are going to have to wait for this to come out in trade). There have been four installments so far: the first is the sort of stage-setting that’s common to this type of long-form arc but with a distinctly different atmosphere than how this is typically done with the character, evoking a sort of Miller-tinged Golden Age flavor connecting Superman back down to Earth before throwing him into the stars. The third is a great Fuck Yeah Superman Doin’ Superman Shit throwdown that gives Kubert a chance to shine. The fourth and most recent is haunting, inspired, moving, and tight as a drum. And the second begins as the worst-case scenario of Tom King doing a Superman comic, and ends as likely my favorite Superman story of the last 5 years. If it continues in its current direction, Superman: Up In The Sky is almost certainly going to be a perennial people are going to rank among the best Superman stories of all time for decades to come, and everything I’d want out of this team tackling my favorite character.

Detective Comics (by James Tynion IV and assorted artists): I’m honestly surprised at myself for putting this here, but I just have to hand it to this run - which had to go quite a ways to win me over, between its opening gambit with Batwoman’s status quo and centering the whole thing around my least-favorite Robin (even if it won me over to him over time) - as basically being the platonic form of Dang Good Superhero Comics. Not boundary-pushing, not the sort of thing you’ll remember in 20 years, but just really fun, exciting, good-looking, slick, character-driven adventures building on themselves into the logical culmination of 21st century popular Batman stories. This is Batman 101, but in a good way, and I honestly think that on reflection it’s gonna hold together better as a Batman run than its immediate predecessor in Snyder/Capullo.

You Are Deadpool: This is the smartest, funniest, most inventive big two comic of the year and even if you’re so tired of Deadpool that your skull bones are threatening to suddenly contract and spear your brain in an attempt at saving your weary soul from the prospect of seeing any more of him, you should get this.

Superman (by Brian Bendis and Ivan Reis): I noted Action Comics among the honorable mentions, as while it’s a dang good comic that I enjoy a great deal - and Ryan Sook may well have established himself as my ideal modern Superman artist - it’s very much the best possible version of *exactly* what you’d expect from Brian Bendis doing Superman. This, on the other hand, feels like Bendis stretching himself to do something truly different in a way he hasn’t in years, and the results are stunning. I won’t pretend Rogol Zaar has amounted to much of anything as of yet, but Bendis has acclimated to the realm of Cosmic Superman Punch-Ups in a way no one could have reasonably seen coming; he’s managed to sidestep his usual issues by anchoring each issue in a crazy setpiece and a single perfect Superman character moment, and Reis is doing work here than can unquestionably stand alongside his Sinestro Corps War heyday. Whether it’s #1 having Superman fight an astro-goilla in the middle of a questioning on his responsibilities to humanity, #4 going full Shonen in the best possible way with probably my favorite fight scene of the year, or #6′s storybook mythmaking building to the best, cruelest needle in the balloon possible, or the consistent delightful fucking with Adam Strange, every issue here has something I didn’t know I badly wanted to see, and damn if that isn’t exactly what I want in my Superman stuff.

Assorted one-offs: Along with the major arcs and runs, we’ve got stuff like the Thanos Annual and DC Nuclear Winter Special, as good as anthologies of this kind get. T-shirt Superman got one last ride under Morrison in the Sideways Annual, fighting his way out from under the wreckage of a weird DiDio book to get exactly the sendoff he deserved. The Injustice 2 Annual, of all things, was a perfect piece of bittersweet character work. Invincible #144 satisfyingly closed out The Best Superhero Comic In The Universe by essentially also doing Invincible #145-500 or so, putting this often tumultuous title to bed with the dignity it had earned. And finally, Slott and Marcos Martin’s The Amazing Spider-Man #801 was a perfect minor mediation not even on the title character so much as the basic moral appeal of the genre as a whole.

#Comics #DC Comics #Marvel #Image #Opinion

[marwritesgood]

Hallucinate | I. Lahey

Pairing ;  Isaac x Alpha!Reader

Timeframe ; S3E6 (Motel California)

Summary ; In which Isaac has difficulties trusting Y/n at first, due to her long-term friendship with Peter Hale. However, when he witnesses her hallucinations, it dawns on him that maybe they weren’t so different after all.

Warnings ; descriptions of an abusive father. death of a mother. suicide attempt.

A/N ; Day 2 of 31 Days of Christmas.

This imagine is also one of my darker ones, and the themes of it can be very harmful and triggering for victims of self inflicted abuse or domestic violence. These topics are very heavy and not for the faint-hearted, so please be very weary and take good care of yourself.

Alongside that, never hesitate to message me should you ever need someone to confide in, my inbox will always be open for anyone who needs a friend.

Peter Hale was trouble. That was a matter of fact not an opinion. Derek and I had been friends for as long as I could remember, so ultimately, a friendship soon blossomed between I and his uncle. It was strange, of course, having close friends who were more than 4 years older than me, but that was the effect those boys had on other people. Once they were in your lives, there was no way of kicking them out.

I had moved away in my Freshman year of High School, following the house fire that killed almost all of Derek’s family members. I begged my parents to let me stay with Derek, because I could’t bear the thought of leaving him to grieve all on his own, but to stay in Beacon Hills would have been equivalent to putting a bright red target of the backs of everyone I loved;

My parents thought that by moving away from our hometown, we would, ultimately, be escaping from the clutches of Kate Argent and her family. However, within a year of moving away, the hunters managed to catch up to us. I soon became very alone in the small town I was in. I became the notorious girl who was the walking embodiment of a jinx, because in what world does a house fire kill everyone except for one person?

So, as a result of the immense loneliness I experienced subsequent to going from having an overcrowded home to no home at all, when Derek called me to tell me that Peter was resurrected, courtesy of a redheaded banshee, I did not hesitate to use that as an excuse to move back home. 

Nothing too significant seemed to have changed when I returned to Beacon Hills. Sure, plenty of familiar faces were not so familiar anymore, and new people were brought into the town, plenty of which formed a pack together. I knew that, if I planned on sticking around, which I did, I needed to be on good terms with as many people as possible, and I managed to do so with lots of the people my age at Beacon Hills High. Scott Mccall. Lydia Martin. Stiles Stilinski. Hell, even the Argent girl was beginning to warm up to me. Everyone was friendly and somewhat welcoming towards me.

Except for Mr Isaac Lahey. 

“She should be on your list of suspect, Stiles,” I heard him mutter from the backseat of the bus, where he sat behind Scott and Stiles. He was completely oblivious to the fact that I, too, was a werewolf, an alpha for Pete’s sake, and that I could hear him clear as day. “I mean, she shows up out of nowhere, and even after being her for nearly a month, we still know nothing about her… Not to mention she’s friends with Peter. Anyone who’s friends with that guy should not be trusted.”

I rolled my eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind my right ear. Trust Isaac to be that one person who did everything he possibly could to convince people I was the bad guy. It didn’t matter where the conversation began, Isaac always managed to mention his skepticism about my true agenda. 

“Leave her alone, Isaac,” Scott said, sighing tiredly. “We shouldn’t judge her just because she’s friends with Peter. Maybe if you got over that you’d understand why the rest of us trust her. She’s not as terrible as you make her out to be, Isaac… Just give her chance.”

“She’s an alpha, Scott,” he reiterates, unfazed by anything Scott had to say to him. “Do you realize what that means? It means that she’s either your level of goodness or she killed someone to gain her status. And, judging by her poor choice in friends and frequent hostility, my money is on the latter.”

At this point, my blood has reached its boiling point, and Scott must have already sensed it, because when I abruptly stood up and turned around, he was already watching me, scared for what I was about to say to his tactless friend.

“I get it, Isaac,” I begin, glaring at him despite my face displaying almost no emotions. “Believe me, I get it. You don’t like me. You don’t trust me. You despise the fact that Peter is my friend and you’re frustrated with the fact that your friends still trust me in spite of all that. I don’t give a shit about a lot of things, like this stupid bus trip I’m being forced to go on, or your irrelevant uninformed opinion about me. What I do give a shit about, however, is blonde-haired, blue-eyed little betas talking about me like they know half the crap I have been though.”

“Y/n, I’m-” he says softly, his expression flooded with instant regret. I hesitated to stay angry at him, as it did seem like my message had been received, but the memory of my family re-entered my mind, and I couldn’t control the anger and frustration that came subsequently.

“- And you don’t, Isaac,” I yell angrily, forgetting that we were in a school bus full of nosy teenagers. “You don’t know a single thing about me. You don’t know the life I’ve had. The memories I’ve shared with Peter and Derek that have led me to be their friends for as long as I can remember. You don’t know how I became and Alpha. You do not know me, and you never will, so stop talking about me like you do, or so help me God I will take one of your pretty little scarves and shove it up your-”

Coach Finstock blew his whistle at at an deafening volume, before angrily pointing to my seat at the front of the bus. I turn around, after ensuring everyone had gone back to chatting amongst themselves, and I glare one last time at Isaac, but this time with my bright red eyes. 

“-and the last room goes to Y/n and…”

Coach holds up the final key and squints his eye as he attempts to read whatever he had written on the sheet of paper attached to his clipboard. The bus we were on had crashed, leaving us students in the middle of nowhere without any place to go except for the stingy motel just a few blocks away from the crash site. Coach sorted everyone into groups of two, according to gender, and my name was the last of girls to be read out.

“Looks like it’s just you, Y/n.”

“What’s new,” I mutter quietly to myself, as I marched up, snatched my key out of Coach Finstock’s hand and head straight towards my allocated room. I had no idea that Isaac had been keeping an eye for me and heard what I said under my breath. However, what he heard was what, thankfully lead him to check up on me later that night, and ultimately wake me up from my most terrifying recurring nightmare.

I took my jacket off and chucked it onto the second bed in the room I was given, before taking my shoes off and walking into the bathroom. I heard footsteps and chatter from McCall and his friends, but just assumed that whatever issue they had going on would be quickly resolved. 

I start to sing a tune to the last song I had been listening to on my phone, as I washed my face, ready to sleep away the overbearing exhaustion I felt. That was until the sound of my voice became overpowered by a loud ringing inside my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I place my hands on opposite sides of my head to try and block out the sound, which works almost too quickly.

“What the fu-” I exclaim, before I am cut off instantly when I open my eyes ad see dead father standing in front of me, very much alive. We are still in the bathroom of my motel room, but he is glaring angrily at me the way he used to when he was alive.

“You are such a wimp,” he yelled, causing me to jump from having not heard the hostility only his voice is able to possess. “God, I can not believe I got stuck with a weak and pathetic excuse for a daughter. Are you a fucking moron or something?… Well?!  Answer me!”

“N- No,” I stutter, not knowing how to respond. How was he standing there? How could he be yelling at me the way he used to if he died?

“Sorry, sweetheart, but Derek or Peter won’t be here to save you anymore. Looks like you’re gonna have to stop hiding behind other people and finally toughen up… Now go and get the matchsticks you keep in your bag and lock the bathroom door when you come back.”

I felt like I had lost complete control of my body and of my consciousness, because I did. I didn’t say a single thing in response, but I instead just walked towards my backpack, grabbed the packet of matchsticks in the emergency pack I kept inside, walked back into the bathroom and I locked myself inside. 

My father stopped barking orders at me, but instead went back to yelling at me. It was at that moment that my body completely shut down, and I continued to do things without control. I opened the bathroom cabinet and found a bottle of hairspray, before looking into the cupboard below the sink only to find a bottle of gasoline. I unscrew the cap off of the bottle of gasoline, and I begin to pour its contents all over the bathroom floor. 

However, as I am about to pour the remaining gasoline onto my body, I hesitate when I hear a loud crash coming from the front door, and am able to identify the scent as Isaac’s. My father notices this, however, and his anger only grows.

“You are not about to give up on me, are you, young lady?… Are you?!”

“N-No, sir,” I stutter, grabbing the packet of matchsticks out of fear. 

“You are the reason your mother died. You are the reason I died in that house fire. What makes you think you deserve to continue living after what you did? I saw what you did, Y/n! I saw the way you killed her!”

By now, Isaac had already successfully busted down the door to my bathroom, but he was far too shocked to say anything, which lead me to forget that he was standing right there and focus on my father.

“Sh-She told me to,” I whimpered, holding a matchstick up, but not yet gaining enough strength to ignite it. “Mom told me to do it. She was already dying… She told me to do it t- to become an Alpha. She told me she couldn’t feel anything more, that I wouldn’t be hurting her.”

“Of course she told you that!” He yelled, moving closer to me so that his voice was even more deafening than it already was. “Only an idiot would believe her, so it makes sense that you did.”

“Y/n,” this time it is Isaac speaking to me, his voice soft and calming, which was a pleasant change to say the very least. “Put the matchbox down, alright… You don’t need to do this… You’re a good person, okay? You don’t have to do this,”

“No, Isaac,” I whisper, with tears streaming down my cheeks as I shook my head furiously. “I am a bad person. I killed my own mother. I stabbed her with my claws and I ended her life, I-I don’t-”

“Hey,” he said softly, as he took slow steps towards where I stood. “I know what you’re going through. I know what it’s like to have that kind of guilt. Believe me, I know… Okay, but, I need you to hear me when I say that you do not need to do this, okay? I know it’s hard and it’s lonely, but it gets better, okay?… And you’re not alone, alright? You have Peter and Derek. You have Scott and Stiles and… and you have me, Y/n. I promise you it will get better, but I need you to put the matchsticks down first, Okay?”

I don’t know how he managed to do it, but when my eyes scanned the room I couldn’t see my father anywhere. All I could see was a huge puddle of gasoline and a distressed tall blond standing opposite me with both his hands held up. Not only did I regain my sense of reality, but thanks to Isaac I also felt a little bit better, almost lighter, about being an orphan in Beacon Hills.

“Okay,” I reply in a whisper tone, before placing the matchstick and its box into Isaacs hand. 

I really hoped  things would get better.

#isaac lahey imagine #isaac lahey one shot #isaac lahey imagines #isaac lahey fanfiction #isaac lahey #teen wolf masterlist #teen wolf fandom #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf #motel california

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @anyberry!

Merry Christmas Berry! I hope you have a wonderful festive season and I hope you enjoy this Stereky goodness. Love from your Secret Santa

*****

Stiles really hated lacrosse, despite the fact that he was on the lacrosse team. In fact, Stiles probably hated lacrosse mostly because he was on the lacrosse team. It was a perfectly reasonable if slightly nonsensical sport back when he was sitting on the bleachers watching other people run around trying to throw a ball into a netted goal with the aid of another, smaller net at the end of a stick. But now that he was one of those people he was finding it significantly less reasonable.

And the most unreasonable thing about lacrosse? Summer practice sessions. Stiles never would’ve joined the team if he’d known about summer practice sessions. Stiles was expecting after-school practice, it goes with the territory of playing a school sport. He could deal with weekend practice, grumpily, because he could see the benefit of extra training before big, important games.

But summer training? When they wouldn’t actually have a game, important or otherwise, for at least another two months? When he wasn’t even sure he’d make the team again in his junior year? Lunacy. Absolute lunacy.

Which was not really that surprising considering Coach Finstock was a lunatic. But Stiles hadn’t known that when he’d let Scott beg and plead and puppy-dog-eye him into signing up for tryouts last year.

And now he was paying the price for his ignorance. During summer.

“I hate you so much right now,” Stiles muttered to Scott as they packed up their gear, the rest of the team plodding past them towards the locker room.

“Aw c’mon, it’s not that bad! Doesn’t it make you feel alive, being out here, under the sun, feeling the grass beneath your feet and the wind against your face and the solid weight of your crosse in your hands?” Scott said, grin lopsided, arms open wide toward the pitch before them.

Stiles stared at him for a while, because he felt he needed to.

Then, “No.”

There was a noise from behind him and Stiles turned to see the back of Derek Hale moving toward the low, squat wing of the school that housed the locker rooms. If Stiles didn’t know better he might’ve thought Derek had laughed. In reality Derek probably just had gas.

Turning back to Scott he continued, “No, it makes me feel the opposite of alive, because the sun is burning the shit out of my lily white Polish ass, the grass is generally beneath my face not my feet, the wind is usually getting pounded out of my lungs, and I’m far more likely to feel the weight of other dudes’ crosses getting smacked into me.”

Scott gaped at him.

“You realise that sounded, like, aggressively sexual, right?”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Stiles grunted, and he hauled his bag over his shoulder, stomping off to the locker room.

***

Apart from unreasonable training schedules, the locker room was the worst thing about lacrosse. Or, more specifically, it was the worst place to have to be, three times a week, during summer, when one was possibly maybe potentially having a small sexuality crisis.

Not that Stiles felt that there was a major crisis to be had. He was 98.3% certain that his dad and his grandma and Scott and Scott’s mom would all be completely accepting of a potentially not-straight Stiles. And Stiles knew he was extremely lucky in that sense, and he was grateful. But still, that 1.7% was enough to keep him up at night.

And it wasn’t as though Stiles really, deeply cared about what other people thought of him, outside of those four that really mattered. But still, he wasn’t naive and he was extremely aware that homophobia was well and truly alive in modern America. Particularly within hyper-masculine environments such as high school locker rooms.

And the most crisis-inducing aspect of Stiles’ not-major and yet also not-insignificant sexuality crisis was the simple fact that Stiles was not who he thought he was. And that’s not at all a bad thing, but it is a confronting thing. Thinking that you knew who you were, that you have known who you are for years, and then slowly realizing that you don’t, in fact, know yourself inside and out. To be certain and then to be suddenly not, it was overwhelming. It felt raw and jangly and new underneath his skin.

So Stiles felt edgy enough as it was, and all those male abs and backs and thighs in the locker room, three times a week, during summer, were doing nothing to help his already frayed nerves.

Stiles faffed and fiddled around his locker, double-checking he had his helmet, carefully wiping off his pads, until most of the rest of the team had finished in the showers. It basically guaranteed that there would be no hot water left for him, but it was worth a cold shower if it meant he wouldn’t be surrounded by naked dudes on all sides. Plus it was the middle of summer, Stiles could not stress this enough, and who was wanting a hot shower anyway?

When he could hear only two or three other people moving around the dark, humid room Stiles stripped the rest of his clothes off and grabbed his towel.

He spent a while in the shower, letting the lukewarm water soothe both his aching muscles and the stinging-hot parts of his skin that were exposed to the sun for too long. He was in there long enough that Scott shouted his goodbyes and left without him, but Stiles didn’t mind. He’d catch up with Scott later, probably to annihilate him in a virtual world. The undisputed natural and proper way to be spending summer vacation.

Once Stiles towelled off he headed for the door and blessed freedom, feeling relief and jubilation, planning to reward himself with an ice cold milkshake on the way home, the rest of that fine summer's day stretched sweet and sticky before him and -

The doorknob wouldn’t turn.

Stiles tried it again.

It still wouldn’t turn. It remained unmoved and unforgiving, like Coach Finstock when Stiles tried to weasel his way out of running suicides.

Stiles rattled and pushed and pulled and still the doorknob wouldn’t turn and the door stayed shut.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouted and kicked the closed door. Which, in hindsight, was a thoroughly idiotic move, so Stiles cursed some more as he hopped around on one foot, a hand clutching at the toe of his other sneaker.

“What’s going on?”

Stiles froze at the voice behind him. Because he knew that voice. And he should’ve known that horrible, embarrassing things come in threes. The locked door, his crumpled toes, and now…

“Derek!” Stiles squeaked.

It hadn’t started out as a squeak. But then Stiles had turned around halfway through the word to find Derek Hale, half-naked and wet, staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, water droplets were gliding down his shoulders, his pale eyes seemed even paler in the dim light of the room, and a towel, a tiny scrap of material wrapped around Derek’s hips, was the only thing saving both Derek’s dignity and Stiles’ sanity.

“Uh,” Stiles said, super intelligently.

And then he just stared at Derek. Naked Derek. He ogled, there was no denying it. He was ogling, and he made himself stop.

“Stiles? What’s going on?” Derek repeated.

“The door’s locked,” Stiles mumbled at the floor.

“What.”

“The door,” Stiles said, slightly louder, no less squeaky. “It is locked. The way is shut. We shall not pass.” And he flailed with one hand to emphasize his point.

“What,” Derek said again, the same word, but entirely different.

He strode forward and Stiles made a garbled sound in the back of his throat, backing himself into the wall next to the door.

Derek grabbed the door handle, twisting it and pulling it, like he thought Stiles was lying to him, or like he thought his superior lacrosse captain strength would prevail where all others before him had failed.

But the door, surprise of all surprises, was still fucking locked.

Derek kept trying to open it though, and he was starting to look panicked, and his breath was beginning to rush in and out of him like frantic waves against a stormy shore.

“Dude,” Stiles said, but Derek either ignored him or couldn’t hear him at all. “Derek.” He put a hand on Derek’s warm, broad shoulder.

Derek stilled, and he looked at Stiles, and he suddenly seemed to notice that he was more or less caging Stiles in against the wall while he fruitlessly pulled at the door handle, and then an even more panicked expression passed across his face and he jumped, literally jumped, backwards.

Stiles held his hands up like he was trying to calm a wild animal, because it felt like he was trying to calm a wild animal. There was something extremely wild about the way Derek was looking at him.

“Hey,” Stiles started softly. “Are you okay? Are you claustrophobic? I have panic attacks sometimes, I could help you through some breathing exercises if you want,” he said, making his hands and his voice as gentle as he could.

Derek was clutching his towel with both hands like it was a liferaft, and at Stiles words his expression shifted, becoming no less panicked but now somehow longing too, like Stiles was the liferaft, and he couldn’t quite reach.

He took two deep breaths and Stiles could see him visibly trying to calm himself.

“I’m fine,” he said, but Stiles could hear the strained hoarseness of his voice.

“How about this,” Stiles said, his brain clicking into gear, “you dry off and get dressed and I’ll make some calls, see if I can get someone to come get us out of here.” Doing something proactive, something physical, working towards a goal always helped Stiles when he felt a panic attack coming on.

“Okay,” Derek said shakily and turned to go to his locker. Just as he was about to round the corner he glanced back at Stiles over his shoulder, and the same panicked, longing look swept over his features again.

Stiles swiped open his phone with determination. It was just his goddamn rotten luck that he gets trapped inside the boys locker room, during summer, with the one person who was possibly maybe potentially responsible for kicking off Stiles’ not-major and yet also not-insignificant sexuality crisis in the first place. Jesus.

Stiles tried Coach Finstock first, because he had Coach Finstock’s number, because Coach Finstock insisted on each of his players having his phone number and him having theirs in return, because Coach Finstock was a lunatic.

And in keeping with Stiles’ luck, Coach Finstock didn’t answer.

Next Stiles tried his dad, and because his dad was a steady, solid, dependable presence in Stiles’ life he did answer his phone. Of course he spent the first three minutes of the conversation laughing himself to tears about the newest ridiculous predicament that Stiles had found himself in, but after that he came through.

The Sheriff promised that he would try to track down someone with a set of keys to the school locker rooms, and failing that he would send over a locksmith to get them out. It might take awhile, but Stiles and Derek had access to running water and working toilet facilities, and Stiles was pretty sure he had a flattened Cliff Bar or two floating around in the bottom of his bag somewhere, so they could survive in there for a good few hours.

Sure, it wasn’t an ideal way to waste a day of vacation, but things could be worse. And Stiles could be stuck with far worse survival buddies than Derek Hale. All in all Stiles was feeling pretty positive about their situation.

Until he went in search of his survival buddy and overheard Derek on the phone.

“God, why did it have to be him?” Derek was whispering desperately to someone on the other end of the call. “Out of all the guys on the team why did I have to get trapped in here with Stiles fucking Stilinski.”

***

It took about half an hour but eventually Derek came looking for him.

He found Stiles sat on the cool tile floor, back against the wall, arms curled around his legs and his chin resting on his knee.

He looked confused, and a little bit hurt, but Stiles couldn’t be bothered wondering why that was. Stiles’ stomach still felt all hollowed out and empty, his fingers still tingled with humiliation and unspoken rejection.

Worst of all was the cavernous feeling inside his chest where his bruised heart bounced and echoed around.

In all honesty he never truly believed he ever stood a chance with Derek. Derek Hale was handsome and popular, respected by his teachers and revered by his peers. He was as intelligent as he was athletically gifted, he volunteered at the local animal shelter in his spare time, and he loved his family unabashedly. And he knew who Stiles was. By name, even. Sometimes he’d stop and give Stiles little tips about hand placement and throwing technique when they were on the field during practice, and he always nodded at Stiles when they passed each other in the hallways.

So although it was fun to fantasize, to daydream about holding Derek’s hand, Stiles never honestly believed Derek would ever want to date him.

He had thought they’d been sort of friends, though. Friendly teammates at least. And to hear Derek say his name with such utter anguish, like being forced to spend time with him was the worst punishment in the world, was a fist to the gut that Stiles was entirely unprepared for.

“Where have you been?” Derek asked, and it was such a stupid question that it punched an ugly laugh out of Stiles’ throat.

“I’ve been here,” Stiles replied slowly. “Locked inside the locker room.”

A hint of a smile began to grow on Derek’s lips, but it withered quickly at the sarcasm in Stiles’ voice.

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Derek said. He looked at Stiles in confusion. “I meant, why didn’t you come back to m- um, why didn’t you come and tell me what’s going to happen. Is someone coming to get us out?”

“Yeah, my dad’s working on it.”

Derek nodded.

And then when he seemed to be waiting for more Stiles just couldn’t help adding, bitterly, “And I thought I’d give you some space, seeing as how you wish you weren’t trapped in here with Stiles fucking Stilinski.”

Stiles had never seen Derek’s face get so pale so quickly. In fact, he didn’t think he’d even seen Derek’s face go pale at all.

“You heard that?” Derek asked, and he sounded pained.

“Yep,” Stiles said, popping the P, because his assholish tendencies kick into overdrive when he feels hurt.

“It’s not what you think, I swear.” Derek sounded urgent and he crouched down onto his knees in front of Stiles.

“Really?” Stiles hated it, but he couldn’t help the way his voice went all high and disbelieving. “Because it sounded like being alone with me was the worst possible torment you could ever face. And that’s a real ego boost, dude, thanks.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Derek was wringing his hands at this point.

Stiles just raised his eyebrows as if to say, ‘please, do go on’.

Derek sighed, then squared his shoulders.

“The truth is, I like you.”

Stiles snorted. A real, guttural, wholly unattractive snort. “Could’ve fooled me, dude.”

“I’m being serious, doucheface.”

And didn’t that make Stiles sit up and listen. When he finally looked Derek full in the face he could see that Derek was serious. Also kind of pissed, but mostly just very sincere.

“I like you, Stiles. A lot. Probably more than I should considering you’ve never shown any interest in anyone outside of Lydia Martin. But,” and here Derek shrugged helplessly, looking away from Stiles for the first time, “I guess we don’t have much control over these sorts of things.”

Stiles was so shocked he lost the rigid control he’d had over his body, arms unfolding and legs flopping down onto the floor.

Derek’s cheeks were pink, as were his adorable, small, sticky-out ears. He wasn’t making eye-contact and he was picking at a hangnail on one of his fingers.

“Really?”

Derek sighed and glared at him, but hey, at least he was looking at Stiles again.

“Right, sorry, stupid. What I’m trying to say is, I like you too.”

Derek’s mouth dropped open. Stiles could see bunny teeth.

“Yeah,” Stiles said with a spreading grin, slow and unstoppable. “You’re adorable as hell and I like you.”

Derek leaned closer to him, and Stiles knew what was coming and the air shivered inside his lungs. The meeting of their lips was slow and dry and impossibly sweet. It was a soft kiss, quiet, and it spread through Stiles like the most delicate breeze, soothing the raw parts of him, silencing the jangling. It was still new, but it felt right, and instead of feeling like he didn’t know himself this felt like greeting an old friend.

Derek pulled away from him when Stiles’ smile became too wide, rather than continuing to awkwardly kiss his teeth.

“I knew summer practice sessions were one of my greater ideas,” he sighed.

“Wait, what?” Stiles squawked.

***

Stiles and Derek were finally released from the locker room after a couple of hours, a severe tongue-lashing from Stiles, and then a different kind of tongue-lashing altogether. The audience to their triumphant emergence included Stiles’ dad, Scott, Coach Finstock, a good half of Derek’s extended family, and a random locksmith.

If Stiles had known they’d attract so many spectators he probably wouldn’t have tumbled out of the door holding Derek’s hand and trying to bite his ear. As it was, Stiles’ coming out of the closet moment was a lot more literal than expected.

That 1.7% had Stiles freezing in fear, but his dad gave Stiles a knowing smirk, Scott gave him a perfectly indiscreet double thumbs up, and Laura Hale cheered “I knew it!” and snapped a photo.

#anyberry #stereksanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

[larkwinters-a]

Winters was a name that everyone know - whether they realised it or not. 

There was a chance that, at some point or another, that they had been in one of the many restaurants that the family owned or they had walked past one - and it didn’t really matter which part of the world people where in because there was a chance there was one there too. 

See, it started as a little family restaurant in southern Italy, that became more than just a small building in the crook of two bigger ones and slowly developed into a restaurant that tourists came to. After making the daring leap of Immigrating to the USA to expand their business and the hard work paying off, there was places opened in Europe, the USA, Australia. Hence why the Winters were a household name. Not one of the 1% yet there was mansions that bore their name on the deed.

(Naturally, mansions became baby proofed when Derek and Lacey Winters had their first kid. And then their second and then their third. And then a fourth. They were busy.)

Hence, why Lark had gotten into NYU to study Veterinary medicine with the thought that he’d be debt free when he graduated. Hence why he drove to college in a Maserati from his frat house. Hence why he’d never been the kind of person who didn’t think twice about waving his cash around and splashing out. Hence why he’d grown that over confident personality. Hence why he’d always had someone hanging around him. Hence why people loved him.

(Hence why he never had any real friends. Hence why he’d been alone for his entire social life.)

So, it made sense that when his frat threw parties that he provided the alcohol. Beer keg after beer keg, wine case after wine case, - protection too because he might have been a backwards cap wearing frat boy but he liked to think that his house members and their dates were being safe, even when they were drunk. And maybe he bought the alcohol not because he had the money to but so that blame could fall on somebody if something happened and he was willing to be that somebody. Maybe he liked to think people looked after themselves and their friends.

And maybe he learned that that wasn’t the case. But it was too late now for regrets.

Because, you see, it was at these frat parties were they introduced weed and then, a few months later, he was introduced to her and she introduced him to the wider world, told him he couldn’t get buzzed off of just weed and beer. And he was willing to believe her, for some forgotten reason now - maybe he thought she was pretty under the right lighting, maybe he thought she’d love him back, maybe he’d mistaken the rush of a high for love -, so that was how he ended neck deep in a world he hadn’t expected to be in. 

A world that was meeting people behind campus at 3am for a deal and flushing down bags of stuff when there was a surprise inspection and he’d rush in, eyes red from using and their hearts hammering at the same time until the coast was clear and then they’d run to their nearest dealer. 

His grades slipped to the point where he received notice after notice and had fight after fight with his parents. He would ditch councillor meetings and skip biology classes to get high with them in his car in the parking lot of a fast food place. Without realising it, he’d become the stereotype Leo had always told him he was, with that nasty drawl that made Lark use some more. The stereotype Frankie said she loved as she raked her nails down his back and then used those same hands to pocket whatever cash he had left laying around. 

But sooner or later, just like his highs, a crash had to happen. And it did. 

It was one stupid party, that was it, and not to fall into the cliche, but it was nothing but a blur; from showing up and consuming, to the occasional waking up in the ambulance to actually waking up in the hospital. From there, it was all vague words and terms (not from him) and crying (also not from him) and the silent ride home (not his choice) and the awkward confrontation when they got home (not his idea). 

After one dismissal, the two of them (his mom said nothing, she hadn’t spoken to him since he’d woken up in the hospital) spent the next two hours arguing. The room was a mess of yelling (him) and crying (both of him and his dad) and that was how they to to where they were now, a week after it all had gone down, with him becoming a semi hermit, locked in his childhood bedroom that he’d trashed, found cleaned and then trashed again more times than he could count. 

The first time was out of anger, the third because the withdrawal effects had started, and the fifth because NYU sent him the letter. The We’re sorry you almost died but we don’t want you at our school anymore, it’s bad for our reputation letter. 

(He also knew there was another reputation he was tarnishing but his I don’t care facade would be ruined if he admitted he cared about whether or not his parents were disappointed in him.)

The letter had been torn up and burnt, the narrative effectively erased, and he’d gotten yelled at for that but he was too angry to have cared at the time. It was after that that he decide he’d have a better time completely isolated in his room, away from everyone else - hello unhealthy coping mechanism - and he’d heard the knocks at the door, smelled the dinner his mom had prepared for him but he never opened the door. 

That didn’t stop her, because the previous day, an email was forward to his inbox with the subject line Sober Companion and Lark proceeded to throw the laptop out into the hall. He thought that was the end of it, the bow on the package, the full stop, the end of the story. But it wasn’t because now, the date of which was in the email and he would have known that if he’d bothered to check it, the knocks were more urgent than what he dubbed the dinner knocks and he had tried to bury them out by throwing the blanket over his head but it didn’t work, because he could still here them.

So, he called out from under that blanket, his voice hoarse from not being used; “Go away!”

“You need to come out.” It was’t his mom or dad. It was Ashlynne. “Mom is freaking out and dad’s late for work and this is important.”

“I never agreed to this.” Lark argued.

“Yeah, well,” There was a thump as she leaned against the door. “They didn’t ask for this either, so we’re all going to have to suck it up and deal with it.”

Instead of answering, he reached out from the blanket and picked up the first thing to his hand - his phone - and tossed it at the door. It worked, because he heard the light slam as she hit the door.

“Fuck you too, then.” she announced before, most likely, walking away.

That could have been the end of it except it wasn’t, because a few moments later, he heard the sound of his room door being forced open - the chain effectively broken, along with his privacy - and there was the sounds of footsteps and then, the quiet huff as they leaned over. Lark threw off his covers and saw his dad, looking tired and older than usual - his hair seemed to have gotten greyer. He was holding the cracked phone in his hand.

“You’re sober companion is arriving today.” he said. He spoke softly, like he was approaching a frightened animal who had been backed into a corner. “You have to come down and greet her, whether you’re happy about this or not.”

“This is bullshit.” Lark said.

“Language.” Derek said, but his heart wasn’t in it. It sounded like his heart had packed it’s bags and said You’re on your own with this one, Winters, Ciao. “We’ve worked hard to get this sorted, we interviewed people to find the best and -”

“I don’t care.” Lark snapped.

Derek set the phone down on the desk, his eyes on the leg that now had to be propped up by a couple of the textbooks Lark would never use again. There was an air of disappointment to his actions, to the look in his eyes.

(Except, there wasn’t. Lark was misinterpreting his sadness for disappointment.)

“Come downstairs.” Derek said. “I won’t ask you again.”

He left then, leaving the door open, and Lark groaned, but he got up, pulling himself out of the bed. He might just have been vain (he was) but he thought he was really pulling off the haven’t showered in four days look, but he decided he’d, at least, change his t-shirt. Maybe that’d make it seem like he was actually putting effort into this - which he really, clearly, wasn’t, not with the messy hair and the wrinkled sweatpants and the dark and ugly marks still present on his arms. 

And then he walked down the hallway, pausing at the top of the stairs, across from the door to his parents bedroom. The burst of emotion in his chest was abrupt and startling and he quashed it down with reminders that these people didn’t have his best intentions in mind (they did) and that they only cared about how this looked to their lawyer and doctors friends (they didn’t).

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, he could hear voices. One belonged to his dad, he was making polite conversation, a second, more tired one, belonged to his mom, and the third, he didn’t know. She must have been the person who they thought could fix him - which, to him, was bullshit, because he didn’t need fixing. 

Still, the manners he’d been taught kicked in when he walked into the room, his arms crossed over his chest in an almost defensive manner. He regarded the other person in the room with a lowered eyebrows, straight mouth expression. 

The first thing he noticed about her was that she was tiny. She was much shorter than him and then, smaller still in every other way. From the looks of it, he could engulf her entire hand in one of his -

But why was he thinking about holding her hand?

“Ah,” Derek said, feigning a smile. “Finally. Lark, I’d like you to meet -”

“I don’t want to be a part of this.” Lark announced and then he looked directly at her. “This was their idea, not mine.”

A chair scraped across the floor, loudly and and Lark looked over to his mom. Lacey had stood up, her eyes shining with tears. She held her hand up, as though she wanted to say something, before she shook her head and walked out of the room. Derek apologised softly to the girl in front of them and went after her. Lark almost let himself be sad about it before he looked back at her. 

“I’m Lark Winters.” he said, a little more resigned but not by much. “But you probably already know that.”

#2100

[andavs]

Okay I know we’re all very against Derek and Stiles ever breaking up, but hear me out: The Philadelphia Story AU, because there’s nothing I love more than assholes who realize they actually really love being assholes to each other, and find everyone else who can’t keep up with the assholeishness very boring.

And frankly, the lack of Sterek fic based on old screwball comedies is a tragic crime against humanity. I’m filing an official complaint.

So.

The Hales are the obscenely wealthy family of socialites, and Derek is known publicly as the trouble child in the family after his explosive divorce from Stiles Stilinski, the scrappy son of the well-liked sheriff, known to be something of a smart-mouthed asshole. Pretty much all of the time. He’s prickly, most try to avoid him.

They had a fiery romance full of snarking and barbs that cut far too deep, got married on a whim (to many raised eyebrows among the wealthy elites in town) and fought constantly until the day they divorced and parted for good. In the end, Stiles didn’t even want to settle anything through a lawyer, he just took his clothes, signed the papers with a not-so-passive aggressive flourish, and left in a huff.

In the two years since, Derek has been working hard to fix his reputation for the sake of his family, who all got dragged into his fairly public drama. He’s got a nice job at the family company, he’s engaged to a nice woman named Jennifer, he’s got a nice car instead of the Camaro Stiles convinced him to buy so they could have sex in the back seat, and his life is just nice.

And he’s happy, as long as he doesn’t think about it too deeply, because when that happens, he realizes he’s bored. But then Jennifer comes home and smiles at him, and he’s just happy and calm.

They work well together for a number of reasons; he hates putting in time at the social clubs, Jennifer loves it and she’s good at it, and she knows he hates it so she handles it for him as much as possible. She loves remodeling, he likes to build things and spend time in his woodshop, finding ways to make her grand ideas come together--they’re a fun challenge. He likes quiet nights in, she’s a book critic and has no trouble spending hours in silence as she takes notes on her latest review.

It’s infinitely more peaceful than his previous marriage, in which Stiles went to social clubs solely to mock them and take subtle digs at other members, fidgeted and made noise when Derek was trying to read until he eventually dragged him out to a bar, and complained about all the sawdust and constant renovations throughout the house and why are there no stairs today, Derek, I need to get to work.

But best of all: Jennifer is handling all of the wedding planning, dealing with his family, friends, all of the social and decorating aspects. All Derek has to do is show up and say I do.

(So, again, the exact opposite of his last wedding: eloping at the courthouse then both of them getting blackout drunk at a bar, and Stiles waking up with an untreated broken foot that needed surgery to correct.)

Which is a very good thing because this time around, his wedding is under the most intense scrutiny he’s ever experienced, which as a Hale, is saying something. And despite a lifetime of experience, he doesn’t do well under scrutiny. Luckily, Jennifer does, and she’s handling it like a pro. Everyone wants an invitation since they missed all the good drama the first time around, and the social club straight up begged to let them host it. So of course, all of the gossip blogs want in.

The only problem: the Hales are notoriously hard to get to, for any member of any press of any kind. They’re closed off, close knit, and close to being essentially royalty.

Meanwhile on the other side of town, Stiles has picked his life up after his whirlwind divorce and become a deputy, working harder than he ever has in his life, and it’s definitely not to fill the sudden, silent void that came with Derek’s departure. His job is his life, he realizes on quiet nights when he’s home alone, but he tries to keep those few and far between.

He’s got his job, his friends, his dad, he takes a pottery class for some reason even he doesn’t know and he’s awful at it, but he’s fine. It’s fine. He’s got plenty going for him in life, he doesn’t need a pretty fiancee on his arm to make the socialite rounds, and he definitely doesn’t keep any kind of tabs on Derek whatsoever.

Enter Matt Daehler, founder of the highly successful and popular gossiprag.com, who has a slimier than usual approach to getting the exclusive scoop: straight up blackmail.

He’s got dirt on, I don’t know, Laura, who Stiles is still known to hang out with occasionally. He knows Laura would rather go down than hurt her brother, so he takes it to Stiles, because he also knows that Stiles is an asshole, but a very loyal asshole. Once you’re in Stiles’ circle, you’re there for life.

So he tells Stiles that it’s his job to get a writer and photographer into that wedding, to which Stiles responds, “go fuck yourself, I’m not going anywhere near Derek Hale.”

Daehler smirks and shows him what he’s got against Laura, and Stiles raises his eyebrows, because it’s ballsy trying to blackmail a cop, but agrees, because Laura gets dragged through the gossip rags over his dead body. And if he keeps it off official record, no one can pin it on him when he gets revenge on the creep.

(And if he also does it to get a chance to see Derek one last time before he gets married, then no one has to know.)

The time comes and Stiles appears at the Hales’ front door, with two extra guests he insists are very close friends: Scott, the writer just trying to pay the bills until he can get his book published, and Allison, the photographer trying to make it on her own after cutting herself off from her wealthy but all around shady family. Neither of them want to be there, they both feel slimy, they really just want to go on a date, and feel awful about the deception.

Attempted deception.

Derek doesn’t buy it for a second. 

He knows how Stiles treats his friends, and it’s not like that; not curt and polite, like he’s holding back his sharper comments even if it hurts. So Derek doesn’t give an inch to either of them, and the anger that Stiles would do this to his family brings out his old darker side. Suddenly Derek’s carefully crafted nice persona cracks and he’s back to trading spiky jabs with Stiles, out for blood with every word. Jennifer’s surprised by it, honestly, because as much as she’d heard about the wild child Derek Hale, by the time she met him, he was anything but.

(And she would be alarmed to find out that these jabs aren’t anywhere near as bad as they were before, that they’ve both mellowed out a little; Derek learning to compromise to keep the peace and Stiles learning not to jump straight into arguments as a negotiation tactic.)

And it’s not just some of the time, in private or at meals, because Stiles is everywhere, hanging around with a smirk on his face like he’s laughing at all of them, and Derek’s the only one in on the joke who knows how to shut it down. They’re constantly facing off, riling each other up and tearing each other down, while still somehow making everyone around them feel very small and insignificant and like seven third wheels.

Derek’s family is thrilled in a conflicted way that Stiles is back, as much of a disaster as their former marriage was, because Derek is back. He’s been great the last two years, carefully managing his life, making all the right decisions, but he isn’t really Derek. He packed up everything that made him him and shoved it into storage like he could hide away those parts of his personality with his old belongings.

And it turns out that it really was all in storage, as Stiles discovers one drunken night, after the cocktail party that’s kicking off the entire wedding weekend, when he stumbles to Derek’s front door for old time’s sake and a little bit out of an old habit. The house is pretty much all Jennifer by this point, so they wander out to Derek’s workshop, his own private space of sawdust gathered in corners and neatly organized tools, and everything Stiles left behind packed away carefully like he would be back any day for them.

All the stuff Stiles has been stubbornly saving up to replace because he was too spiteful to just go back and ask for his own things, and Derek knew how much they mattered and kept them, even if he was also too petty to call and offer to drop them off.

Stiles tells him he’s made seven different versions of this one particular vase Derek once saw at a thrift store and didn’t buy that’s been haunting him ever since, but none of them have come out right. He’s on his ninth attempt, the eighth is in line for the kiln, and he’s already planning number ten.

Derek tells him that he's been buying every issue of Stiles’ favorite comic series because he didn’t have the heart to cancel the subscription, and Stiles just about cries right there because he’s been way too busy to get to the comic book store to get them, and now he’s missed too many issues and can’t afford to buy all the collections because he still hasn’t actually replaced his bed.

(Spoiler alert: he’s never going to replace his bed, because he’s going to be in Derek’s all the them, and then it will becomes theirs again.)

There’s emotions, and Stiles tells him about the whole blackmail plot, as if Derek didn’t already know Scott and Allison were reporters, and it turns out that Scott as Dirt on Daehler. 

Like, career-ruining Dirt. For reasons.

So Stiles and Scott gather their dirt, take it to Daehler, and get him to back down, helped significantly by threatening him with charges of attempted blackmail, towards a cop, no less.

(Seriously, Stiles has so much over this guy’s head he could personally dictate what he wanted published and Daehler would have to do it.)

And then Derek and Stiles’ sharp glares take on more of a heated tone and everyone is very uncomfortable around them.

In the end, Jennifer breaks it off. She has to, it’s like she doesn’t even know this sharp and acerbic Derek, and she can’t deny that there’s suddenly fire in his eyes with Stiles back in his life. She couldn’t live a happy life knowing her husband loves another, and she also can’t live happily knowing that she’s holding Derek back from happiness himself.

So the big wedding of the decade is called off, and I can’t decide if I want Derek and Stiles to step in at the last minute since everything is already arranged and they didn’t really do it right the first time, or if they just run off on a long vacation to escape the gossip and have a lot of makeup sex and argue over how to cook the eggs in the morning.

Both are good, I think.

(The Camaro was also in storage and they have makeup sex in it. Nowhere is safe.)

#the vase never really comes out right but derek still loves all of them #they have so many vases that look so similar #i should work on that top hat au

[itstheobservationalist-blog]

Teen Wolf Season 1 Episode 11

Thoughts as I watch the eleventh episode. Note that I already know some of the things that happen. Obviously spoilers, not just for this episode, but later ones as well. It’s best not to read unless you’re caught up, because I know things all the way up to the most recent season. Anything in italics is either sarcasm or a really, really dumb joke. This is super long, by the way, and not just because of tumblr’s automatic double spacing. This makes the most sense if you watch the episode as you read, or read it after you just watched the episode.

All episode reviews for Teen Wolf can be found here.

Queue integrated recap. My comments on the previous episode can be found here, so enough about that.

“What is he?” His name is Unicorn Wolfman. A werewolf that contains as many sparkles as a unicorn.

“To me, he’s just another dumb animal.” So she supports animal cruelty too? Well, I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s evil, so of course she needs to have an impulse to destroy all living creatures. It’s not like this is totally a villain characterization cop-out. I really hope they give her a motivation as why why she’s like this other than, “She’s an evil bitch. So, she does evil things and stuff so... Yeah.”

Do you honestly think it’s a good idea to stick your fingers that close to his mouth? Even if he was just electrocuted, he still has those pointy wolfy teeth.

“Is this a joke to you?” “Werewolves are real. Life itself is a fucking joke.” - Totally Kate

“How do you think I stay sane?” I don’t think that torturing another living being is what literally anyone would call sane.

“...Those are the real ugly ones.” Arguably, all werewolves that are about half transformed look ugly, not just the Alphas. I don’t know, maybe that’s just me. (I know that’s not exactly what she meant by “ugly” in this circumstance but I don’t care.)

Is she going to get pulled over for speeding?

“Me? What I see is natural talent.” Well, what I see is someone who’s ready to manipulate the fuck out of an incredibly talented young girl that does not understand all of the implications behind the werewolf vs. hunters fight. But yeah, the natural talent in Allison is apparent, too.

Yet another scene where Kate’s face is obscured in darkness. We get it she’s evil. How many times are you going to pull the same lighting trick to demonstrate the exact same thing? Do you honestly believe that won’t get boring? I can tell you right now, it already is.

“You wanted to feel powerful? This is your chance.” You can be powerful without abusing that power.

“Go to school,  do your homework...” What was that quote? Oh, yeah, “Study hard, be evil.”

“I’m not crying to get out of the ticket I just-” That sounds exactly like something someone trying to get out of a ticket would say...

“Just write me a ticket. Just fucking do it.” - Totally Allison

“Why tho?” - Totally Sheriff Stilinski

“This isn’t me!” Then who are you? Also, who are you talking to? Are you even talking to the Sheriff anymore?

Ye boye! Training session let’s go!

Why are you shooting an artist’s rendition of the face of Derek Hale when you already have him locked in your basement and you’re trying to find the other beta, not Derek?

He lives! (Of course he does.)

Just slap him right in the titty and tell him to sit down. That’ll do it.

He’s here to pick up Scott. Because he really likes younger men.

“You can make an exception for just this one time, can’t you?” “Not for you, bitch.” - Totally Deaton

Scott does not belong to you.

Oh, how dare he touch the ledge!

Hoo that mountain ash. What a classic.

If you were really a werewolf, you wouldn’t have missed Deaton with the chair.

Another thing to add is that are you honestly going to tell me that no one saw what Peter just did through the glass door and windows? No one at all? Really? Not a single person outside? No? Okay.

Why would Peter enlist the help of Allison? Not everything is about Allison, Scott. He’s probably talking about Jackson here, seeing that he really wants to be a werewolf.

One thing I almost forgot: you think that Allison is your definition of innocent and vulnerable? Really?

“I can’t afford a new one!” A new, life, girlfriend, new phone, or all three?

“Didn’t you say that Derek walked straight into the gunfire? It sounds like he’s pretty dead.” Well, if he were a human, probably. But he’s a werewolf, so probably not. Judging by the lack of wolfsbane reaction from Scott, it’s highly unlikely that those were wolfsbane bullets, just regular ones.

“He wasn’t going to kill anyone.” Source???

Okay, but if the ball hit him on the side of the head and bounced off him, then how did he pull that same ball out from his flannel and toss it to the floor? Furthermore, where was he hiding that?

“Can you at least consider letting him die? For me?” Stiles...

I bet she’s calling Peter, unknowing that he was totally going to bite her, and not in a good way.

Everyone talks about dad jokes but everyone forgets awkward mom jokes.

You know you fucked up when you did something so bad that you made your mom cry.

“...you can’t protect everyone.” “I have to.” Where did this sudden hero outlook come from? You really didn’t care at the start of this season.

“Come on Derek, you killed your sister.” Actually, Peter did. But ookay Derek, just sit there and let her think that you did and not the Alpha.

What kind of laugh even was that?

“Don’t you just want to kick those people in the face?” That’s the face of someone who is thinking, “Yeah. But I think I’d like to kick you in the face more than them.”

“Are you going to torture me, or are you going to talk me to death?” That was 10/10 sass, but during an incredibly inopportune time. I know that, by sassing someone who clearly has an advantage over you, it makes you seem like you’re not afraid of them and thus look brave. However, I also believe that sassing people when you are at a clear disadvantage is a really bad idea. I mean, do you want to get hurt even more than you already have been? If she really wanted to, she could kill you, Derek.

“I was thinking about the sex we had.” Oookay that’s way more than I needed to know.

“But the fire thing, that was fun too.” Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with this lady? Will we ever get a proper explanation for her behavior? No? I’m the only one who cares? Okay...

Yeah you roar at her. Unfortunately, there really isn’t anything you can do to make her fuck off, but you can always try.

“Oh sweetheart, I really don’t want to torture you.” If that’s true, then Derek being a lady is also true.

Who dis?

He’s probably one of the Argent family goons or something.

Why the hell is Scott sitting on top of Allison’s roof right next to her bedroom window? Dude, she broke up with you and has shown almost no signs of wanting to take you back.

He′s going to fall. What a dumbass.

Wait, if they’re just going to transition to the next scene, why did they even show that? To demonstrate how he’s still hung up over Allison? To nail home that Scott is just really fucking dumb? I mean, I guess that works, but there are other ways to show it than incredibly mild cringe comedy.

"They told me that I should cut you off the team. I told them that I should cut off my last remaining testicle.” Ugh. I understand what he’s trying to say, but that metaphor is a little bit too graphic for my tastes.

“You want me to take her to the formal.” “I don’t want you to, I need you to.” “Screw you. Screw you too. In fact, screw each other.” Yeah, that summarizes how Scott and Jackson interact during... however long Jackson is on the show. In fact, that’s how most of the characters interact with each other during Season 1.

“Do it 4 me, bb.” “Fk u.” Is the shorthand summary for this scene.

I like how Stiles is just staring at this exchange with his mouth open, looking slightly stupid. You do you, Stiles. You do you.

“What if I get hurt?” “Then it’s worth it.” “Bitch please...” - Totally Jackson

May I just say that Stiles looks really good in the blue undershirt and blue and grey plaid combination? Because it looks really good.

“I’m not done yet.”I think this summarizes Scott. Just in general, nothing specific.

"TFSkjhsgdkjdugkuguyslkhxkjl dance tomorrow? Yeah I’m great, I’m just skjshefkjahshaskjg formal. You. Asfriendsa. Justfriends.” - Basically Jackson.

“Should you even go? Do you have a date?” I mean, you can always go with Stiles...

“Do you have a suit, a ticket, a ride there?” Translation: Do you have anything for the Formal at all? “No.” Other than werewolf powers and “morals”, Scott doesn’t really have much going for him. I’m just saying.

Of course he agrees. I don’t think Stiles really does it for Scott, he just wants to try and beat the odds where ever odds are present.

“Ever heard of the phrase, ‘Don’t frown. Someone may be falling in love with your smile’.” If Lydia had Pintrest, I feel like it would be filled with these superficial inspiwational quotes and clothes. But the clothes are irrelevant to my main point.

Honestly, that just seems to support the general idea that you’re not allowed to be sad ever, which is pretty terrible, but it seems that general society seems to emphasize. Pretend to be fine, and everything will get better. Except it doesn’t.

Sorry, irrelevant tangent.

I hate how, every time that Lydia and Stiles are within the same frame so far, Stiles does or says something that inspires a lot of second hand embarrassment. It’s the worst. It’s like they purposefully make him look like a dumbass every time Lydia is near by. This changes as the series progresses, but I’m going to sit and be angry in a corner until that stops.

“Aww, don’t frown. Someone could be falling in love with you smile.” I love Lydia’s look of “Bitch. How dare you use my own words against me.”

Although, I’m left wondering why Lydia actually asks Stiles to the formal, despite the fact that she could very well just go out with some irrelevant jock guy anyway, despite what Allison says. Is there something I’m missing here? Or is this just forced Stydia fanserivce?

“Is this a 24-hour Macy’s?” It looks like she only picked two dresses so far. Calm down. Unless it’s less than a half an hour until closing, this should not be an issue.

How did Peter even know that Allison would be here? There are two ways he could have tracked down Allison, all of which are incredibly creepy:

1. He used his werewolf hearing to her voice and track her down, hearing her talking to Lydia.

2. He recognized her scent, and followed a scent trail to Macy’s.

He was already stalking Allison from the shadows from an indeterminate amount of time using either of the methods above, waiting until Lydia left Allison alone.

Yikies.

Who is he to walk up all doe eyed and gently critiquing her choice in dress, as if he hadn’t been stalking her for who knows how long and had just ‘happened to pass by’.

But Uncle Creeper is right; that dress really would look unflattering.

“It’s because I’m pale.” Why does Peter have the look on his face of “No sweatie. :) The proper term is ‘fair’. :)”

Honestly,m I think you could put any of those Sweatie memes onto this and I don’t think anyone would even realize it wasn’t a part of the original meme.

As a random aside, let’s give that a try!

Oh no.

Shit,,, what have I done.

FUCK.

Anyway, this needs to stop. Back to the actual review of the episode.

Ew now he’s being even more creepy. What’s his obsession with objectively “nice” skin? Was it because he was burned alive? Is it just another thing that’s just doesn’t make any sense and is never going to be explained because he’s supposed to be evil and therefore as creepy and irrational as possible? Judjing by the writing so far, I’m going to guess it’s the last option and not the first. Villains don’t need a real reason to be creepy and evil that’s just who they are. Just accept it okay?

Allison keeps looking around as if she’s trying to “subtly” find a way to escape. I don’t blame her. I’d be doing the same.

“See?” *staring intensifies*

“You’re not here alone, are you?” Literally she starts backing away from him. Just run away! Call the cops! Something!

Saved by the lady announcing over the store’s speakers that something is wrong with her car. An interesting mouthful of an alternative from being saved by the bell.

Wow, Peter is a huge fan of just standing around and quietly monologuing instead of looking at Scott and talking directly to him. Why? He’s a villain! Nothing he says or does has to actually make sense whatsoever.

Why is it that instead of just Killing Derek™ like she claims she wants to do, she decides to beat him up with more words instead of actually murdering him? Hasn’t she basically talked him to death at this point anyway? What’s the purpose?

God, speaking of the sweetie meme...

Kate doesn’t just reference the sweetie meme, she IS the sweetie meme, embodied.

Derek looks on the edge of tears. He may be grouchy, growly, and sometimes an asshole, but he does not deserve this!

History repeating. Isn’t that the theme of Season Five, kind of?

How is it that from this bullshit assumption of history repeating that not only does Kate get it right, but she gets it right? That’s actually what’s happening. She pulled that right out of her ass and she’s right.

God I hate that.

Fixing things with duct tape? Isn’t that the Stiles thing to do?

Season 1 Scott, stop pretending to be Season 2 Stiles.

“Pants off now.” Domme Melissa is in the house.   ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

“Stag. There’s a difference. Sort of.” If you can’t say what that difference is, then is there really a difference?

“...It’s the worst feeling I’ve ever had.” “...It does go away.” “I don’t want it to.” He wants that pain? Scott is a very subby masochist. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) #SMMCCALLCONFIRMED

Thank you for bringing in some realism for this moment. There’s no way she actually knows how Scott feels.

“Listen, dumbass-” God I now know why everyone loves Melissa McCall. That’s what I want to say to Scott all the time.

“Just. Tell her the truth.” Honestly, this is the best relationship advice you can give someone. It doesn’t even have to be for a romantic relationship, it can be for any kind. Just tell them the truth. It can be difficult, yes, but you’re always going to be better telling them the truth.

Anyways, enough with serious talk. More of me being an asshole and memes.

“But when you do, keep that buttoned.” Ladies are a lot more likely to take guys seriously if they keep their clothes on. Especially when it’s in a public setting. There’s a lot less screaming an running away in fear. Trust me I know.

Already Allison looks like she’s regretting the decision of saying yes to Jackson. Probably because they haven’t even entered the party and he’s aiming to get shitfaced drunk. This is going to be quite the night.

“Scott’s not coming? Damn, my entire night is ruined.” - Totally Allison

Why the fuck does she think it’s funny/cute that Scott is somehow on the top of the school’s roof? Instead of asking questions like, oh I don’t know, how did he get up there? Especially when considering the fact that there are no other buildings near by in sight of the high school. Why is he up there?  Furthermore, it’s pretty dark out, right? How the fuck would she even be able to see him in this lighting that far away? Just because there’s a person on the roof does not automatically mean it’s Scott.

Just because it does turn out to be Scott is not the point, okay. The point is that she sees a person on the roof, assumes that it’s Scott, and is somehow correct, despite the logical impossibility of the situation.

Aw yis. My favourite part of the show. Stiles.

I love how it’s been less than a minute and Stiles has already nearly fallen over two times. That guy. I love that guy.

“I will not fall prey to society’s desire to turn girls into emotionally insecure neurotics who pull up their dresses at the first flattering remark.” Hey could you say that any faster?

Ah yes. Say that and then immediately fall prey to it. Graet job. You’re the good role model that every teenage girl needs.

Who’s the vocalist with the Bieber haircut? I mean, I know this is 2011 where almost every guy had a Biber haircut (I do indeed remember, 11 year old me in Grade 6. Oh how things have changed.)

Peter #SPOTTED

Now you see me, now you don’t. But seriously though, how did Coach miss the 40 year old man in the middle of the room? I understand that he missed Scott because Scott is tucked behind the bleachers in a corner. Unless this is a joke on just how oblivious teachers supervise school dances. Or maybe just to show how inobservant teachers can be when talking. But I don’t know. It still seems kind of unrealistic to me.

I feel bad for Allison. Jackson is probably going to ignore her the whole night.

Well, at least he didn’t ignore you completely, right? Right? (There has to be some silver lining somewhere.)

“Get off your cute little ass and dance with me now.” Oh shit! He’s pulling out the big guns!

“Interesting tactic, but I’m going to stick with no.” But why not? Don’t you go to school dances to um... DANCE?

“I know that beneath your cold, lifeless exterior there is an actual human being.” I love how Lydia’s all “Me? A human being? Bitch when?”

It’s funny because she’s a Banshee and has therefore never actually been a human.

Oh. So someone just has to say “i nuw yesmrt” for them to get you to dance. I see. Maybe I should try that some time.

“I see you McCall!” Run boy run. This world is not meant for you. Run boy run. They’re trying to catch you.

I like how he says it as MCCAOL.

“Danny!” “What?” “Dance with me!” “No.” “PLEAS!”

“mCAOL! What the- what the hell are you doing?”

Why is everyone staring? Can’t Scott just be bi? Why is that not allowed?

Oh they’re staring because they think Coach is being homophobic. You know what? That’s kind of progressive for 2011. Good job.

Wait why did that work? Coach was yelling at Scott waaaay before he started “dancing” with Danny. Surely someone noticed, right?

Of course he beelines straight to Allison right after instead of wondering where Peter went or what he’s doing.

Okay. So. Maybe that look Scott gave Allison was cute. Maybe. Don’t quote me on that, though. I’m not sure.

Speaking of the dance, goddamn that’s quite the opulent decor for a high school dance. I keep forgetting just how well-off the people of Beacon Hills are.

Jackson looks like he’s minutes away from keeling over and passing the fuck out.

You know what? This is starting to look a lot like how a realistic teen horror movie would start. Guy drunk as fuck nearly stumbles out of the high school during the dance and enters a forest area. Dumbass dude bumps into a murderer or something. Horror movie begins.

I bet you the “glowing red eyes” is just that asshole guy with the glowing earbuds. No wait, it’s too close to the season finale for that. I guess that’s where Peter went, then.

She looks like she’s trying to find Jackson. And some people are still convinced that Stydia is actually going to happen. (I know I said that I shipped it unironically, but that doesn’t mean I expect it to be canon.)

So he sees those glowing eyes in the woods that are making him scared, and he just goes into the woods instead of running back into the school where it’s safe(r) and pretending that nothing happened? I mean, if I saw creepy glowing eyes I would hide in a building or vehicle, even if I knew it would end up being ultimately useless in the end. At least there was an attempt to buy some time. Not this idiot. Glowing eyes? It’s time to go straight into the woods.

“I wanna be like you.” This guy knows almost nothing about being a werewolf. I mean, I’m not a werewolf, but I’ve seen many TV shows. Being a werewolf is not all it’s cracked up to be.

The fuck? Okay, there’s no way those clearly glowing eyes (which CLEARLY blinked) were from the Argent hunters here. No sir. No fucking way. I could at least pretend to buy the weird ass glowing earbuds Lasers look WAY different from eyes, even in the dark. Unless Peter was in the woods and being tracked down by the Argents and then did the bullshit disappearing werewolf act I could accept that. But there’s no way in hell those red laser things could look like eyes. Fuck you Teen Wolf. F u c k y o u .

“I don’t think I can give you what you want. But I think you can help me.” This is the part where Jackson should run for his life from this creepy man. Come on. I’m waiting.

They never officially made up. So Scott doesn’t have to apologize for making Allison upset or anything? No? Okay. Sorry, I was just wondering where the realism is, but I guess it’s nowhere.

“It was about everything you wanted to talk about.” “Shut up Scott. My feelings aren’t relevant to the plot and have nothing to do with fanservice, so we need to skip over that because this is a Teen Show™.” - Totally Allison.

“Do you promise that you won’t hurt him.” Wait, does Jackson actually care enough about Scott not so see him hurt? Is Jackson secretly... a tsundere?

“I’m going to take care of him.” You do realize that’s another way of saying that you’ll kill someone, right? That’s basic villain slang.

You just missed him. By a hair’s breadth you just missed him.

They still haven’t properly made up and he’s kissing her? What? Why?

“Why’d you do that?” “Because I love you.” *sigh*

Aren’t teachers who supervise dances supposed to make sure that the kids don’t make out on the dance floor? Am I the only one who would find Coach yelling at them to break it up funny?

“Jackson? What did you do.” “Oh not much. Just revealed the fact that your best friend is a werewolf to a guy who hunts werewolves. You know. Nothing big. Everyday things.” - Totally Jackson

Although, with the way he says that... It’s like Mr. Argent did some... other things to convince him to say who’s the werewolf... Like... whatever happened out there... traumatized him...

I knew Mr. Argent was an incredibly shady character. I just didn’t think he was that bad.

This must be the part where Peter corners Lydia in the field. He bites her in this part too, right?

Lights turn on for ~dramatic effect~.

Then again, it is Peter. He seems to have a huge affinity for unnecessary tension and drama.

Stiles doesn’t need to say it twice.

I thought that Peter just bit her. But it seems he also clawed her.

“I will let her live. If you tell me where Derek Hale is.” “Why would I know that.” “You’re the smart one.” Oh shit.

“If he still has it. If it’s still on. You’ll be able to find him.” Well. RIP Derek. Even though he basically already almost died. He’s going to almost die again soon.

“Are you okay?” He’s looking at the bus as though it’s evil. Maybe it is.

“We should really get back to the dance.” Yeah really. Who wants to have sex in a school bus? Be classy. Go to a love hotel instead.

Vroom vroom motherfucker. It’s time for some werewolves (AKA Scott) to die.

Why did you even make that clip slow motion? If you have just made the actors move slower, it would have worked the same way, except making it slightly less stupid, because the obvious slow motion edit wouldn’t be noticable.

Music: dun DUn DUN BUM BUM BUUM!

Well that’s the end of this episode. I’ll stop the end message here so that I can actually get started on the next episode.

#Teen Wolf #Teen Wolf Season 1 #TW #TW 1x11 #1x11 #Formailty