best crowd yet

#4: Just a Scratch!

A/N: GUYS WE ARE OFFICIALLY 200+ STRONG WOW WOW WOW THANK YOU!! I LOVE YOU ALL *deep breath* Thank you to the anon that requested this! Worried boyfriends are so cute to write. :) I hope you guys like it, and feel free to leave me some feedback or a request!

Scott McCall:

“Scott?” Melissa said into her phone, her voice slightly shaky.

“Mom, what is it?” Scott replied nervously.

“You need to get down to the hospital as soon as you can. It’s Y/N.”

Scott stuffed his phone into his pocket and ran out to his bike, going crazy with worry. You weren’t on the deadpool, since you were a human, but Scott knew there was a very real possibility that someone could try to hurt you to get to him.

He burst through the front door of the hospital, running up to the receptionist’s desk where Melissa stood waiting.

“Mom, where is she? What happened?” His voice wavered, terror consuming him.

“She got into a car accident,” Melissa replied, grabbing onto Scott’s hand and pulling him down the hall. “Nothing major, she just hit her head on the steering wheel. We just finished testing for concussions and the results should be out in a few minutes.”

She led him to a room and opened the door, waving him in.

“Scott!” you exclaimed from the bed, happy to see him. You waved to Melissa as she left the room, giving the two of you privacy.

“Y/N! Oh, God, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he breathed, taking your hand.

“I’m fine, Scott, don’t worry. Even my car’s okay." 

"What happened?”

“I saw a deer in the middle of the road and stopped short,” you explained, biting your lips. Your animal-loving instincts had definitely failed you tonight. He laughed lightly, resting his head on the edge of the hospital bed.

“Of course you did.”

He bent down to kiss your hand and you relaxed into the pillows, sighing.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Scott asked, worry written across his features once more.

“Scott, babe, it’s just a bump on my head. I’m fine,” you replied, laughing a bit. “Your mom is going to come back in here and tell you I’m fine. We can get the best doctor in the world and he can come in and tell you that I’m fine.”

At that moment, Melissa returned, holding a folder full of papers.

“Good news, Y/N; you are officially concussion-free.” She smiled down at you as both you and Scott let out a relieved sigh. “You’ll be free to go home in a few hours.”

Scott shot forward and pressed a kiss to both of your cheeks.

“I told you!” you joked, pulling him down to kiss your lips.

“You’re sure you’re okay, though?”


Stiles Stilinski:

“Now, these might take some getting used to, Y/N,” the doctor said, handing you a pair of crutches. “You’ll have to use them for a week or so while your ankle heals up.”

You sighed, looking down at the gray brace on your leg. Earlier that evening, you had tripped over one of your younger brother’s toys and went flying down the stairs, luckily escaping with just a twisted ankle.

“Let’s go, Y/N,” your mom said, helping you up. Navigating the hospital with your crutches was difficult, but you managed with the help of your mom. “I’ll be driving you to school for the next few weeks, okay?” You nodded, slightly angry that you had twisted your right ankle, and therefore lost your driving ability until it was fully healed.

The next day at school, your mom dropped you off in front of the main office, earning stares from your fellow students as you struggled up the front steps. 

“Y/N?” you heard from behind you. You whipped around to find a shocked Stiles coming up the stairs. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me?” His hands flew around, punctuating every word.

“I fell down the stairs last night…” you said sheepishly. His eyebrows shot up, his neck popping out. “Don’t worry, it’s just twisted! The crutches will be gone in a week!” You tried to calm him down, but it didn’t work, not in the slightest.

“You fell down the stairs? How? Y/N, did you…oh, my God, what am I doing?” He rushed towards you, taking your backpack and the book you had stuffed under your arm.

“From now until that ankle of yours is healed, you won’t be carrying anything. Anything.” You tried to protest, but he quickly shut you down.

“Oh, and tell your mom that she doesn’t have to pick you up after school today. I’m driving you around from now on.” You huffed, accepting that Stiles wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Fine. Let’s go.” You began to move forward, your crutches making it a lot harder to weave through the high school hallways. Stiles held open the door, keeping it open with his foot while he clung tightly to the two heavy backpacks he was carrying.

“I can take it from here, Stiles,” you said as you approached your locker.

“Nope, not going to happen,” he replied, shaking his head. “As your boyfriend, it’s my duty to carry everything you need and get you to your classes without falling again. Prepare to get sick of me, because I’m not leaving your side for the next few weeks.”

Derek Hale: 

“This is amazing, Der,” you yelled, struggling to be heard over the screams of the crowd. “Best date yet, and probably ever!” He laughed, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Happy birthday, baby.” Derek had gotten you tickets to see your favorite band for your birthday, even though they were coming to town months before it.

The band hadn’t even come on yet, and the energy in the room was already so high, you couldn’t imagine what it would be like once the music started.

Suddenly, the lights dimmed, signaling that the show was about to start. You didn’t think the crowd could get any louder in there, but you stood corrected. The screams were deafening. You began to worry about Derek, forgetting for a moment that his werewolf hearing wouldn’t be a hindrance in situations like these anymore.

The people behind the two of you pushed forward, eager to get closer to the stage and see the musicians up close. In the throng of fans, you were pushed over and slammed into Derek, who caught you before you could hit the ground.

“Are you okay, babe?” he asked, running his hands over your arms to check for any serious injuries.

“I’m-ow!” You ripped your arm away from Derek as he hit a particularly tender spot on your arm. “That must’ve been an elbow,” you joked, trying to relieve the tension that was quickly appearing on Derek’s face.

In the scramble, the two of you had gotten pushed back, the people that had practically run you over now in front of you, easily revealing them to be at fault for your injury. Derek’s eyes shot towards them, focusing on the two right in front of you.

“Derek, no,” you said, pulling him to you. You knew it wasn’t possible anymore, but you could’ve sworn that his eyes flashed to a bright yellow once more. 

“It’s not worth it, babe. They’re not worth it,” you said, grasping his hands. You whispered sweet nothings in his ear as best as you could over the music as he breathed deeply, his heart rate slowly calming down to its normal speed. 

“Can you at least see the stage?” he questioned, turning to you.

“Kind of…” you mused, standing on your tippytoes. “I can hear, though, and that’s why we’re here, right?”

“You want to get on my shoulders?”

“Derek!” you exclaimed, laughing. “This is the House of Blues, not Coachella!”

Liam Dunbar:

The wind flew through your hair as you ran, you hand tightly gripping Liam’s as he pulled you along. The grass of the lacrosse field tickled your ankles as you slowed down, finally reaching your destination. You bent over onto the ground, placing your hands on your knees and breathing heavily.

“Did we…seriously…just run fivefucking…miles…to school?” you breathed, lifting your head to find an utterly un-winded Liam. Curse those werewolf powers of his. He simply nodded and walked over to the bleachers to pull his lacrosse bag from under it.

“Ready?” he asked, holding out a lacrosse stick.

“Give me…a minute,” you breathed. “Or five.”

He laughed, offering you his hand. You happily took it, muttering your thanks as you got to your feet.

“Let’s do this,” you said, taking the lacrosse stick and ball. You stared at it, taking a deep breath. “How do I do this, again?”

Liam laughed and stepped forward, moving behind you. He wrapped his arms around you, placing his hands over yours and putting them in the right positions.

“Like this,” he whispered. You craned your neck to look back at him, struck by his sudden proximity. You licked your lips, parting them slightly. Liam’s eyes flicked to your lips, his eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.

You pressed forward, connecting your lips in a sweet kiss. The kiss quickly deepened, and Liam let go of the lacrosse stick, instead placing his hands on your waist. You began to turn around, dropping the lacrosse stick.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, breaking away. “Fuck!” You had completely forgotten about the lacrosse ball until, of course, it slammed into your toe.

“Y/N, what?” Liam asked, worried for you.

“I dropped your stupid lacrosse ball on my toe,” you groaned. “Oh, God, I think it’s starting to go numb.”

“Do you think you broke it?” Liam asked, his eyebrows furrowed together with concern.

“No, it’s just a pin and needles kind of thing. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay, okay,” he breathed, beginning to pace. “Are you sure it’s not broken?”

You walked over to him, barely limping at all. “I’m okay, see?”

“Do you want to try again?” he asked, picking up the lacrosse stick. “We can wait until another time if you want.”

“I came here to learn lacrosse, and that’s what I’m going to do tonight.” You took the stick with a new sense of determination in your movements.

“I’m not letting you get hurt again, Y/N, so I’m not kissing you until you score a goal. No more distractions.”

“What?!” You turned to glare at him. “That is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Think of it as motivation, babe.”

Isaac Lahey: 

You sat at your sewing machine, staring at the scraps of denim in front of you. Not a single piece matched the shade of blue that was your younger brother’s jeans, which had a large hole that needed mending. They were new, only a dollar fifty at your local Goodwill, even with the hole. You were confident that you had the right fabric at home, so you bought them, seeing as it was such a bargain.

Now, you compared the various shades of denim, all incorrect in some way or another.

“Hey, Isaac?” you called. He came over from the kitchen, where he was making a sandwich for your brother. “Which one matches more?” You were relying on his werewolf sight to pick out the best option.

He walked over, eying the scraps you were holding up. “That one,” he said, pointing to the one you swore was too dark.

“If you say so,” you sighed, putting the fabric into place. You threaded the bobbin, turning on the machine and beginning to sew.

Your family never had much money, so you had learned how to sew and mend your clothes as soon as you were patient enough to sit still for that long. Your mother usually took care of quick fixes like this one, as she was much more experienced at it, but she was working, and you had to be with your brother after school anyway.

“Your sandwich is ready, little man!” Isaac yelled, placing the plate on the kitchen table. Your younger brother came running over, plopping down into his seat.

“Thanks, Isaac!”

You looked up and smiled at the both of them, pleased at how much they truly cared for one another.

“Sh…oot!” you screamed, remembering your brother’s presence at the last second. You had lost track of your sewing, and let the needle go straight through the pad of your finger.

“Y/N! Oh, my God, there’s blood everywhere,” Isaac muttered, rushing to your aid. His eyes were wide, taking in the now blood-stained fabric of your brother’s jeans.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” you soothed, shutting down the machine and beginning the process of un-sewing your finger. This had happened before, many times, so you knew exactly what to do.

“It doesn’t look fine!”

You hushed him as you pulled the thread from you finger, running to the bathroom to get a band-aid.

“Y/N, you just sewed your finger to a pair of jeans! That’s not fine!” He dashed after you, coming into the bathroom only to find that you had already bandaged the small wound. “How did you…?”

You walked by your dumbfounded boyfriend and back out to the kitchen to finish working on your brother’s pants.

“Once I finish these, I’ll get the blood out, okay, bud?” Your brother nodded happily, his mouth full of sandwich.

“What are you doing?” Isaac blurted out as you sat back down at your machine. “That…thing pierced your finger, and you’re trying it again?”

“I have to. It’ll be okay, trust me,” you said, standing up to kiss Isaac’s cheek. He sat by your side, his eyes trained on the sewing machine as you worked.

Ten minutes later, you had sewn the patch of fabric onto your brother’s pants, good as new.

“I told you so.”

Jackson Whittemore:

“Hi, kitties,” you cooed, walking into the cats’ room at Dr. Deaton’s clinic. You had worked with Deaton, and Scott, for years now. Since Scott was bitten, he obviously couldn’t work with the cats anymore, so you were forced to take over. Not that you minded, though. You were an animal-lover at heart, and nothing pleased you more than seeing the cats’ happiness as they got their food.

You began pouring the cat food into the various bowls, following the specific directions Deaton had posted below each cage.

“Hi…Mr. Fluff!” you whispered to a particularly large, and fluffy, feline. He hissed at you, and you backed away, startled. This was a feisty one, contrary to its sweet name. “I just want to give you your food, okay? Will you let me do that?” Once he crawled to the back of the cage, you decided to go for it.

You grabbed the bowl of food and slid it through the specially-made slot. Mr. Fluff swiped at your hands as you pushed the bowl in, creating a few scratches. You gasped as his claws broke the skin, whipping your hand away.

“Bad kitty!” you scolded, moving on to the last few kittens, as the cuts were fairly small, actually, and could wait a few moments. After feeding everyone, you went out to the bathroom and cleaned your hand up, covering it with all of the necessary bandages. Your hand became a painting, multicolored band-aids littering your skin.

Later that day, once your shift ended, you left the building to go meet Jackson out front, as he was your ride home while your car was in the shop.

“Hey, babe,” you said as you got into his car, leaning over to kiss him. He dodged you, though, instead grabbing your hand and pulling it to him.

“What happened?” he asked as he turned it over, examining the multiple bandages.

“Some cat scratched me. It’s no big deal. I cleaned it all up,” you explained, shrugging your shoulders.

Jackson suddenly moved to get out of the car. You placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back to you.

“Where are you going?”

“To give Deaton a piece of my mind,” he said. Your eyebrows rose, incredulous.

“Care to explain why?” you replied, as if you were talking to a young child.

“Nobody let’s my girl get hurt.”

Your face immediately softened, a light laugh escaping your lips.

“I appreciate that, but I’d rather not be fired because my boyfriend wolfed out on my boss today,” you joked, watching as Jackson slowly calmed down. You began pressing soft kisses to his cheek and the side of his neck, letting him relax into your embrace. “Just forget about it. Let’s go.”

He sighed, putting the car into gear.

“If you get hurt here again, you’re quitting.”


The doorbell rang out loud and clear. You shot up off the couch and ran over to the kitchen.

“Pizza!” you screamed gleefully, earning a laugh from Garrett. “What do you want to drink, babe?”

“What do you think?” he replied as he walked to the door, pizza money in hand. You rolled your eyes, grabbing a can of Garrett’s favorite soda and a bottle of water for you.

You placed the drinks on the table, moving Garrett’s lacrosse bag onto the ground. His gear littered the floor, his lacrosse stick propped up against the chairs. You picked it up absentmindedly, leaning it up against the wall.

You gasped as your fingers slid over the small button at the bottom, the dagger concealed inside shooting out and slicing across the side of your finger. The cut wasn’t very deep, but it stung, and blood quickly began leaking out.

You ran over to the sink to run your hand under the water, cursing under your breath. You hissed as the cold water hit the wound and filled the sink with red.

“Did you know Greenberg got a job as a delivery guy?” Garrett questioned, walking back with the pizza box. “I thought he-” He froze at the sight of your bloody finger. “Y/N!”

He ran forward to examine your hand, spreading your fingers apart so he could see the cut better. The water had washed the blood surrounding it away, giving him a clearer view. The dagger had sliced straight across the inside of your finger, running form top to bottom.

“It’s not too deep,” he said. “What happened?” He looked up at you worriedly, his blue eyes wide.

“I was moving your lacrosse stuff off of the table and I hit the button for the dagger by accident,” you whispered, biting your lip. He sighed and kissed your forehead before running off to the bathroom, only to return with a first-aid kit.

He opened up the box, scanning the materials. He pulled out bandages, gauze, disinfectant, butterfly closures, even regular band-aids.

“I don’t think I need that much stuff, babe,” you mused, your eyes flashing between the cut and the heap of materials.

Garrett brushed you off, beginning to clean out the cut. You hissed as the disinfectant sunk into your skin, gripping onto the counter with the uninjured hand. He reached over to the first-aid kit, picking up the gauze and bandages.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you exclaimed, pulling your hand away. “It’s definitely not that serious.”

He reached out for your hand. “Just let me bandage it.”

“Not with those!” You thrust your finger forward, putting the cut on full display. “It’s barely an inch long, see? All I need is a band-aid.”

“Can I at least put some gauze on it?” he pleaded.

“Garrett, no. It’s fine.” To prove your point, you dug into the first-aid kit, pulling out a box of plain band-aids. You unwrapped two and placed them around your finger, covering the cut completely.



You put on your hard hat, cringing at the awfully bright shade of yellow.

“I feel like a highlighter,” you said, looking down at your bright orange construction vest with neon yellow stripes on it.

“A cute highlighter, though,” Aiden replied, walking past you to grab some power tools.

As part of his “good guy” plan to prove to everyone that he’s changed for the better, the two of you were spending the day volunteering with the Beacon Hills chapter of Habitat For Humanity. He had appeared at your door at seven o'clock sharp that morning, ready to whisk you away to a romantic day of building houses in the hot California sun.


It was six hours later and you were sweating profusely under your heavy gear, the work getting tougher as the day went on. You enjoyed doing it all, but it was difficult.

By three o'clock, you were dead tired. Aiden, with his werewolf strength and endurance, looked like he could go on doing this for hours.

“Can’t you at least pretend to be tired?” you pleaded as you walked over to where he was mounting a wall.

“I’m not that good of an actor, babe,” he said plainly, earning a giggle from you.

“Just hold the wall still, okay?” You stepped forward, wielding a hammer you had recently been entrusted with.

You began hitting the nail into the wall supports, surprised by your strength as it went in. On your last hit, though, your fingers slipped slightly, and you hit your index finger instead of the nail.

You dropped the hammer in a second, the pain becoming too much. You cursed violently, shaking your hand around. Aiden’s head whipped to you, immediately seeing how the pain was written across your face.

“Y/N, come on,” he said, taking your uninjured hand and pulling you over to the first-aid station they had on site.

“It’s not bleeding, it just hurts,” you whispered. “Like a bitch.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he replied, closing his eyes as he focused on taking your pain away. You immediately felt the relief and sighed.

“Thank you,” you breathed. You stood up, ready to go back to work.

“Where are you going?” Aiden asked, already taking off his construction gear.

“Back to work…?”

“No, you’re not,” he said, taking your hand once more. “We’re done with volunteering. For good.”