I’m been meaning to do a Follow Forever for… well forever! I’ve been a TW fan ever since the show premiered, but it wasn’t until last summer I started fooling around on tumblr. Since then I’ve found some amazing people, i’ve learned a lot of new lingo and i’ve spent more hours than i’d like to count crying over the perfection that is Dylan O'Brien and tinkering around in photoshop to produce graphics (which i suck at) and gifs (which i suck at slightly less).
I’m now closing in on 3300 followers - a number that quite frankly humbles me. I want to thank you all - i don’t know why you clicked the little plus beside my url, but i’m forever grateful! i cherish each and every one of you <3 And I also want to thank some of the amazing people that help make my dash a wonderful place to be :)
My most special pumpkins - i love you the best :) and i’m pretty sure i’ve forgotten some great people because i’m kinda ditzy and sometimes people change urls and i get confused… so please check out my blogroll as well.
Allison turns out to be in town for a case. Yves Montavon, Derek flashes on the name as soon as she says it, and it leaves him dizzy and overwhelmed, again. The guy is, according to the Intersect, pretty big and wanted in several countries, even though every case made against him so far has been dropped. He gets around a lot, selling a new drug that’s been the cause of a spike in gruesome deaths, even among “casual drug users”, as Allison calls it.
Intel provides that the French guy is in Beacon Hills, attending a party of some socialite Derek’s never even heard of before. Erica snorts, pats his cheek. “I’m not even surprised,” she says while Derek glowers at her, irritated.
“We’re gonna go in and scoop out the field,” Allison instructs during the briefing. “See who he approaches. He’ll most likely use his stay here to find new buyers, maybe try to recruit dealers for this area and find a place to cook this stuff.”
“So no unnecessary violence tonight?” Derek asks, hopeful, and gets three equally weird looks. He sighs inwardly. It’s not like Stiles and Erica are trigger-happy; well, Erica is, Stiles just seems to get thrills out of dangerous situations.
“Nope,” Erica answers eventually, sprawling out in her chair with a mean smirk on her face. “But someone has to get close to Montavon,” she continues, her eyes flicking to Stiles as her grin widens. “He’s known be an equal opportunity kind of guy, or so several sources say.”
Derek doesn’t like the look on her face. He swallows, throat going uncomfortable dry, asks, “Does he have a type?” even though he thinks he already knows the answer.
Allison pulls up photos of Montavon, each one featuring a different man or woman by his side. And yeah, Derek can see his type: they’re all tall and dark-haired, slender and pale, devastatingly beautiful.
He’s looking at Stiles before he even knows it, hopes for some kind of reaction, something that’ll say Stiles doesn’t want this. Stiles, though, as usual, doesn’t give anything away. His face is an indifferent mask, composed and closed-off, and Derek feels like choking on the feeling that wells up inside of him.
“Stiles and I are gonna go in as guests, get close, see if he’ll take to one of us,” Allison explains. “We’ll go from there.”
Derek hopes the French guy’ll show interest in Allison, not Stiles.