Erm Flintwood please if you're still doing 150. * Winning smile *
pairing: marcus flint x oliver wood
setting: modern, non-magical, soulmates-at-first-touch au
word count: 1394
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet.
It’s worse than that.
Marcus punches his soulmate in the face the first time they meet, the flats of his knuckles crunching against the guy’s jaw, hard enough to draw blood and leave a mark and hurt—and then there’s a strange fluttering sensation erupting in the pit of Marcus’s stomach, a comforting, calming warmth suffusing the blood in his veins and the marrow in his bones and it’s exactly like how they’d described it in Health class, the awareness—the connection—slotting into place so seamlessly that he’s astonished he’d never noticed something missing before now.
“Oh, fuck,” Marcus blurts out. “Oh—fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Marcus’s soulmate—who’s tall and lean and has the prettiest brown eyes, what the shit—is just sprawled out on the dirty arena floor, blinking and blinking and prodding gingerly at the bruise that’s already beginning to blossom—
“No,” the guy says firmly. “This isn’t happening.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus immediately snaps. “I rejected you first.”
The guy snorts, kind of irritatingly sarcastic, before grimacing. His emotions, so far as Marcus can tell, are all over the place; shock and dismay and frustration and—very, very deeply—a flickering, almost unwilling tremor of interest.
“It wouldn’t work, anyway,” the guy goes on, more loudly. “You have terrible opinions about hockey.”
“Fuck you,” Marcus snaps again. “You’re the one in the shitty jersey.”
“He’s won three Cups.”
“Yeah, and he was a fucking healthy scratch for two of them,” Marcus retorts. “Try again.”
“Hockey is a team sport,” the guy says hotly. “It isn't—it isn’t about individual accomplishments.”
Marcus rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever,” he drawls, “but your shitty jersey is still shitty.”
The guy’s mouth falls open, and Marcus can feel the sour note of his indignation—the jagged spike of his outrage—as clearly as if it were his own. “Jesus fucking Christ,” the guy sputters, shaking his head like he’s got a nervous tic. “What are you so—what are you so angry about?”
Marcus raises his eyebrows. “Um,” he says slowly, because, really, what the shit, “I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“No.” The guy frowns. “You’re definitely angry. I feel it, like—” He gestures vaguely to his chest and upper abdomen. “Right there. Like heartburn.”
Marcus’s nostrils flare, and he scratches viciously at the side of his neck to distract himself from the fact that this complete fucking stranger with boy band hair and, and Bambi eyes is apparently better at deciphering Marcus’s emotions than Marcus is.
“Oh, hell,” the guy sighs, “now you're—embarrassed, don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to—hey, come on, where are you—where are you going? You can’t just—hey! Come back!”
Marcus does not come back.
And the ensuing wave of regret that pulses through Marcus’s sternum is lukewarm and salty and depressingly difficult to pinpoint the origins of.
It’s not his, he thinks stubbornly.
Marcus lasts two and a half days before the persistent invisible tugging at his gut becomes too annoying to bear.
He follows it.
He follows it to a bench in Riverside Park that’s near where the gross little fish and chips stand is, and the scent of old frying oil undercut by whatever the fuck is currently decomposing in the Hudson is—less nauseating than it arguably fucking should be, seriously, what the shit.
His soulmate, his soulmate, is sitting with his legs spread obnoxiously wide, wrists crossed and hands dangling in his lap, squinting intently up at the clouds like he’s waiting for them to tell him what to do next. It’s endearing. Maybe. Marcus’s stomach is in knots—a tangled mess of dread and unease and, abruptly, relief.
“Oh,” the guy says, quirking his lips into something that Marcus chooses to generously describe as a smile. The bruise on the guy’s jaw is a lurid, chalky looking violet, partially obscured by the auburn of his stubble. “You found me.”
“Of course I fucking found you,” Marcus says, dropping down next to him. Their knees brush, just for a moment, and it’s like—lightning, bright and fierce and sizzling, coiling around the base of his spine. “There’s been this—this buzzing, in the back of my head—”
“Yeah,” the guy interjects glumly. “I know. I would've—if you hadn’t. I would’ve tried to find you.” He pauses. “I missed you, I guess, which is—weird.”
Marcus scowls down at the sidewalk. There’s a crack in the cement, and it’s dirty, gritty with loose gravel around the edges, splintering off into a dozen hairline fractures before disappearing into the grass. He can feel his own surprise at the guy’s admission, and it’s so—uncomfortable, knowing that there’s nothing he can hide behind. Making himself smaller, holding himself still; they’re not antidotes for anything, not anymore, and this guy—his soulmate—he’s got a rabbit-fast heartbeat and an intimidatingly focused way of feeling things. Marcus wonders how he’s supposed to get used to that.
“I’m Marcus,” he eventually offers, voice emerging gruffer than he’d have liked. “My name, I mean. It's—Marcus.”
The guy turns, slightly, to look over at Marcus. “Oliver. I’m Oliver.” He hesitates before he goes on, sounding nonplussed, “I still can’t believe you fucking hit me. Over a jersey.”
Marcus huffs. “It’s a really shitty jersey.”
Oliver grins, short and sweet and self-deprecating, before nudging at Marcus’s ribs with the point of his elbow. “I’ve, uh. I’ve been told I’ve got kind of a…bad habit of, of taking things too seriously.” His mouth twists, and the stabbing ache of some long-ago insult, or argument; it lances through the pads of Marcus’s fingers, stinging and sharp. “Obsessive. That’s what—I dunno. That’s what I’ve been told. I can be…obsessive. About—whatever.”
“Obsessive,” Marcus repeats, shaking out his hand. “That’s your—one big fault. Enthusiasm.”
Oliver shrugs, easy and casual, like it doesn’t matter, like Marcus can’t literally feel the crippling uncertainty—the tension, swampy and thick—weighing down his limbs. “Enthusiasm is…too nice of a word for it, I think.”
“Bullshit,” Marcus hears himself say, with absolutely zero fucking direction from his brain, or his conscience, or his admittedly flimsy sense of self-preservation. “Enthusiasm is the perfect fucking word for it.”
Oliver startles, slightly, eyes widening a fraction. There’s a coolly refreshing burst of—happiness, maybe; gratitude, definitely—coating the back of Marcus’s tongue. Citrus. Summer. Chlorine and coconut. It’s fucking nice.
“Oh. Um. Okay,” Oliver says, haltingly. “Thanks.”
A tentative silence descends between them on the bench. Marcus drums his fingers against the inseam of his jeans, jiggling his foot and glaring at a rotting spear of tree bark and swallowing around a metallic-tasting lump in his throat that he instinctively wants to label curiosity.
“Sorry,” Marcus grunts, slouching forward. “About the—hitting you. I just—sorry. I was angry. I get angry.”
Oliver stares at him, bottom lip clutched between his teeth, and there’s a swirl of something taking root in his lungs, something chewy and rich, like caramel, so that every breath he takes in is like burnt brown sugar crystallizing against the roof of his mouth, but then there’s more, too, a champagne bubble pop of amusement, and—
“It’s alright,” Oliver says wryly. “I heard I was wearing a pretty shitty jersey.”
Marcus snorts, and then groans, and then laughs, almost despite himself, before confessing, as quietly as he can manage—
Here with another incredible crew member feature: Chris Tsirgiotis.
We are so thrilled to have such talent on board!
Chris Tsirgiotis is an Emmy Award winning layout and background artist known for his amazing traditional art pieces. He’s worked on many projects and animated series such as Flapjack, Wander Over Yander, Over the Garden Wall, the Mickey Mouse Shorts and many others. On the side, he creates stunning 3D printed figures and resin projects that he updates frequently on his model tumblr. All of it is quite impressive and he does plan to sell limited sets and special one of a kind items through it. We’re really excited to show the rest of his work from LGG but please give his site a look!
Summary: Bucky wakes up in his hospital bed and Steve breaks the news. Bucky POV
Pairings: Bucky x Reader
Warnings: Angst, Violence, reference to a kidnapping. mortal wounds. Super Angst.
Word Count: 1143
He woke slowly to the sound of monitors beeping. The stiffness in his muscles was intensely painful. A dull ache burned beneath his clavicle and lower ribs. His head was foggy with the number of painkillers the nursing staff had pumped into him. The serum burned through the medication in record time, forcing the nurses to up the doses they gave him.
It didn’t stop him from remembering.
Tears prick the corners of his eyes and roll silently down his cheeks. His baby. His sweet little girl. He failed to protect her.
It was his one task as a father. Protect your child.
He turns on his side, ignoring the painful pull of his stitches. He brings his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around his legs. He shakes violently with the force of his sobs. Every tear a jarring memory.
He knew instantly something was wrong. The park was too quiet. There were no families. No playing children. He curled his metal arm around Reyna protectively, trying to discern figures in the tree line. He could see nothing. All he could here was the crackling of twigs underfoot as whoever was watching him shifted position.
He chose not to fight. He chose to run. A firefight or knife fight could easily get Reyna killed.
He turned his back on the tree line and held Reyna close to his chest. He walked slowly to the entrance of the park, his senses on high alert. He kept his cool, noticing how even Reyna stayed uncharacteristically quiet as they moved. He counted fifteen pairs of boots behind him. His adrenaline spikes. He shifts Reyna from his metal arm to his flesh arm, and rolls his shoulder, working out the kinks in the metal. He stops and readies himself.
His attackers stop behind him.
Bucky grimaces and gives his daughter a kiss on her forehead, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “It’s gonna be okay,” he says gently.
Her big blue eyes look sadly up at him, and not for the first time Bucky wonders whether children understand more than they let on. She always seems to understand exactly what he’s saying.
“Hand over the lass if you please, Sergeant Barnes.” The thickly accented voice is vaguely familiar.
Bucky tries to place it but draws a blank. Turning slowly to face the nameless man, he sneers, “I suggest you and your lackeys take a long walk over a short cliff, pal. You ain’t laying a filthy finger on my girl.”
The man in front of him smiles. The sharp sting of a taser whites out his vision. When the pain stops Bucky roars in anger, but he’s remained on his feet. When Reyna whimpers and pats his cheek as if to ask if he’s okay, he clicks his next from side to side and kisses her hair.
A deadly smile painted on his lips when he turns his gaze back to the group. “Alright you, bastards. Come and get me!”
“We’re gonna get them back, pal,” Steve says softly from behind him.
Bucky frowns. He hadn’t known Steve was back. Bruce must have recalled them from the mission they were on. His mind goes blank for a second before he dares ask the question, “Them?”
“Reyna and (Y/N),” Steve says slowly.
Bucky’s heart turns to ice. He sits bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wild with horror. “Whaddya mean?”
Steve’s face pales, his eyes widening as he realizes his error. He swallowed once, twice, before he sighs in defeat. “(Y/N) was taken last night. She emailed me the list the of demands the kidnappers sent. They wanted her, and only her. If she handed herself over to them without a fight they would return Reyna within five hours.”
“No,” Bucky states, ripping his IV line from his arm. He throws the covers off his body and gets shakily to his feet. He falters briefly before stalking out of his hospital room, nearly ripping the door off its hinges in his haste.
His mind repeats no over and over as he stalks the halls of the tower. He screams your name. His heartbreaking further with every passing second.
No one stops him. They let him pass, their heads bowed in silent mourning. They understood. They had all lost someone in the line of duty. It came with the territory, unfortunately. Still, it didn’t make it any easier to watch a fellow agent break as they realized someone close to them had been taken from them.
Tony steps in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. Natasha is standing beside him, her eyes dull and red-rimmed. Steve is behind Bucky with Bruce, having followed him through the tower. They all approach him without saying a word, laying hands on his shoulders, lending support, and comfort. They were all broken.
All except Tony, who seemed more hopeful than grief-stricken.
A few moments pass before Tony speaks, giving his friends time to process the events before he told them what he had found. For once the sass is missing. “She swallowed a tracker before she left the tower,” he says quietly.
Four heads snap to stare at him in disbelief.
“We can track her?” Steve asks, his words almost running together in his excitement.
Tony nods, a wide smile on his face. “F.R.I.D.A.Y calibrated her exact position five minutes ago. I was on my way to tell you when I ran into Nat and Barnes.”
“We need a plan,” Nat interjects.
“If there ever was a time for a code green this is it,” Bruce supplies.
“We need back up. I’m not risking anyone. We go with a full guard.” Steve agrees.
“I’ll fire up the Iron Legion.” Tony adds.
“Boss, you have a call from a downtown fire chief. A child matching Reyna’s description was left at their door thirty minutes ago with a note pinned to her chest. They want identification,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs Tony.
“Is she alive?” Tony asks sharply.
“Not a scratch on her,” she replies.
“Send me the exact location.” Tony turns his attention to Bucky, who had gone a sickly grey color. “Barnes,” he says while snapping his fingers in front of Bucky’s face. “Barnes!” he yells.
Bucky startles and focuses on Tony.
“You gotta keep it together, tin can. Your kid and your girl need you. You can’t afford to freak out. Bury it and sack up!”
Bucky inhales shakily. He pushes down the fear and horror, squares his shoulders, and sets his jaw in a hard line. “I need guns,” he says slowly.
A stray agent pipes up beside him. “How many, sir? I’ll prepare your tactical gear.”
Bucky stares at the woman contemplatively, then nods to himself.
The Watson’s annual themed Halloween parties were renowned for their beauty and finesse. Last year had been pirate themed at the insistence of their adopted child, Sherlock Holmes, despite his repeated assertions that he ‘didn’t give a damn what they did’. There had been a Disney theme (their first to celebrate Rosie’s first Halloween), Game of Thrones (much to the delight of avid fans Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper) and Harry Potter. This year, the couple had opted for a Victorian theme.
Festivities were underway with the Watson’s house turned into a gothic Victorian dwelling - John wore an uncomfortable moustache to perfect his gentlemanly costume, Mary had found a cute, old-fashioned hat to match with her costume and Rosie wanted to be a vampire queen. Classical music blared from an old gramophone John had found at a market and snacks had been prepared, laid out on plate of feux silver. After trick or treaters had been and gone, guests began to arrive. Greg Lestrade arrived wearing a pair of ridiculous sideburns, which Rosie got a good laugh out of. Stamford was keen to show off his vintage glasses and pocketwatch. But it was Molly Hooper who surprised them, as usual.
“What do you think?” The pathologist had donned a gentleman’s suit, a short wig and a small moustache. She rocked on her heels, tugging at her shirt braces proudly, “I’m a Victorian pathologist. Women wouldn’t have practiced medicine back then. Neat, eh?”
The Watson did have to admit…it was really neat. Last to arrive was Sherlock, thankfully in costume (he didn’t want to risk Mary’s wrath again), dressed in an impecible three-piece tweed suit, a fancy pocketwatch dangling from his jacket pocket; the ensemble was completed by the pipe the detective puffed from. By his side was his newly acquired Basset Hound, Roger - named by Rosie - wearing a tiny bee outfit.
“He wanted to be a bee”, was the only explanation he gave before swanning past them into the flat.
The party was a success. Guests danced and chatted, praising the Watsons for another fine get together. Rosie doted on Roger, feeding him pieces of chicken from the buffet. Sherlock, meanwhile, was transfixed by Molly, specifically her attire. Her idea was genius and historically accurate, something he apparently found pleasing. That moustache was doing things to him. Inappropriate things. He observed John’s bushy monstrosity, a growth covering most of the lower half of his face. Nothing. Sherlock studied Graham’s prominent facial hair, peeling away at the tops whenever he laughed. Not arousing in the slightest. But Molly Hooper’s piqued his deductive interest. So much so that he sidled over to her; she looked around as he approached, grinning over the wine goblet she sipped from.
"Good evening, Mister ‘olmes. How are you this fine evenin’?”
Sherlock could tell she was having perhaps a little too much fun roleplaying; well, who was he to disappoint her?
"Would you care to join me in the pantry? I wish to discuss a matter of utmost urgency.”
Molly raised an eyebrow but maintained character, “in seclusion?”
The pathologist shrugged, draining the remainder of her wine and sighed in satisfaction; Sherlock couldn’t help but notice her fake facial hair was moist from the liquid she’d just consumed. It would remain so, if he had his way.
“Lead the way, my good man,” she giggled, gesturing towards the kitchen.
The party had all but died down, the guests having left after heaping praise on their hosts and accepting well put together goody bags. John and Mary had started cleaning up when Rosie bounded in the room, a plate of leftover chicken in her hand for Roger. She sat beside the fire with the happy dog, tossing him pieces of meat.
“Mummy, Uncle Sherlock is kissing a man in the kitchen,” the youngster said innocently. She petted Roger on the head and tickled his ears, “…and that’s okay.”
John and Mary caught each other’s eye - the army doctor didn’t share his wife’s amusement. He dropped the bag, tearing off his moustache.
“I’m going to bed.”
Later, as John was fetching a glass of milk from the fridge, he heard something from the spare bedroom they’d given to Sherlock for the night that would scar him for life.
Have I talked about ‘Tetsusaiga-induced Demon Inuyasha’ before? Yknow, how during the battle with Kanna’s mirror demon Tetsusaiga pulls Inuyasha’s Youki out so he can basically fight better, and he’s *almost* himself but…. not?
(part 1) STORY ABOUT MY GAY PANIC ITS JUST TOO FUNNY NOT TO SHARE okay I’m a small guy, like I’m 5’7 and VERY lanky and skinny. Anyways I was at the store to buy bread when I see this hot guy- like, at the time I was a Straight Male™ but this dude threw me into a LOOP. So I try to get away from him because I have no idea what to do about this new realization, I’m like, “fuck, am I gay? What will my cat think?”
Anon: (part two) except as I’m spacing off and thinking about this dude, I RUN INTO HIM AND WE CRASH INTO EACH OTHER AND SINCE IM A SMALL GUY I JUST TOPPLE OVER AND HE TRIES TO CATCH ME BUT HIS HANDS ARE FULL WITH AN ORANGE JUICE CARTON AND HE ENDS UP TOPPLING OVER AND LANDING ON TOP OF ME AND HIS ORANGE JUICE BURSTS OPEN AND NOW WERE BOTH DRENCHED IN ORANGE JUICE AND HES LAUGHING AND IM BURNING WITH EMBARRASSMENT AND THE MANAGER COMES OVER
Anon: (part three and final part of gay panic story) and oh boy it was so embarrassing. And the hot guy is just laughing his ass off and after I pay for his burst orange juice and apologize many many many times he asks me out for coffee to apologize for knocking me over and long story short hot guy and I have been dating for four months ❤️
ASDFGH WHERE ARE YOU GUYS GETTING YOUR CUPIDS OH MY GOD - Karri
Welcome back, hope you’re enjoying the series. Tell me in the comments which part has been your favourite so far x
“Hey” Scott greeted, as Malia and Kira entered and joined the others. “Did you get the text with everything we know so far?” Lydia asked. Kira nodded in agreement and flashed a small smile, Malia however let out a small growl at Isaac. “Malia, he doesn’t know anything that we don't” Stiles interrupted. “He could be lying” she retort. “He’s not” Scott interrupted, referring to Isaac’s heartbeat and loyal nature. “So what’s next?” Kira diffused. “Someone has been beating the shit out of her, to say the least” Stiles told. “Do you know if she had any problems with anyone or?” Allison asked to the group. They all had deep thought, but no one could think of anything. “The day she went missing, she came home injured, and I never got the chance to find out what happened to her” Scott stated, looking down. Malia’s heartbeat rose, drawing the attention of the werewolves. “Oh god” she mumbled, drawing the attention of everyone else. “What?” Kira asked. “I know who did that to her” she claimed. “Who?” Scott asked. “I did that” she said bluntly, looking down. “What do you mean, you did that?” Stiles asked with a firm tone. “I promise you, it’s not what it sounds like-” she tried to justify. “Why would you do that?” Lydia asked appalled. “Just let me explain!” Malia snapped. “Explain what? Trying to give Y/n brain damage?” Isaac said sarcastically. Everyone glanced at Scott, who gave a small nod for them to listen to what she had to say. “I got into a little trouble and Y/n promised to help, without telling anyone” she began. “How does this link to you beating her up, In advance?” Stiles questioned. “I didn’t beat her up, but the people I was in trouble with did, so it’s my fault” her voice cracked at the last part. Everyone sighed slightly, feeing more relieved that Malia didn’t actually beat the living daylights out of you. “Tell us what happened” Scott said, a lot more sympathetically. Malia nod and began.
“When I was looking for the Desert Wolf, I crossed a group of people I shouldn’t have-” . It turned out that Malia wasn’t the only one looking for her, the Calaveras had run into trouble with her in Mexico and didn’t take too kindly in having anyone else getting involved. Malia being Malia, ignored their warning and carried on her search. You came into the equation when they came looking for her in Beacon Hills, she was in trouble and didn’t want to tell the pack because it was her mess and she didn’t want anyone to suffer because of her. Ironically, the pair of you ended up running for your lives more than once. She didn’t want you to get sucked up into it of all people, but you insisted on helping her because you knew she would do the same for you. Human or not, she was your friend and you wasn’t going to let her go through anything alone. “How long has this been going on for?” Allison asked. “A few months” she answered. “Wait, so this arrangement you two had going on, has been over months?” Stiles asked in shock. “Carry on” Lydia leaned in, intrigued by what Malia was saying. “Y/n and I, headed out of town for the afternoon after hearing that the Desert Wolf was going to be there-” she began. “And it was a set up?” Isaac presumed. “We didn’t even get that far” she claimed. It was the day of your disappearance. Malia had skipped school that day, because she needed to meet up with Braeden for information. You had been waiting for a text all day, which you eventually got at lunch. You didn’t want to open it in front of the pack, because you knew they’d sense that was something was up, which they did. You skipped your last period and met up with Malia outside of school. “We need to go now, before the Calaveras get there” she stated. You were both moving at a quick pace, as you ran down the stairs to the carpark. “How? My mom borrowed my car to get to work” you questioned. “So, we’ll take Stiles’ jeep” she shrugged carelessly, as you reached it. You stared at her hesitantly for a moment. Stiles was staying to help out Lacrosse practice, so you knew you could return it before he noticed. She then hit the side of the door, causing it to fling open. You then both proceeded to climb in. “Do you know how to hotwire a car?” she asked. “Of course I do” you scoffed. “You took my jeep!” Stiles accidently shouted, interrupting the story. Malia looked at him calmly. “Yes” she replied bluntly. She then continued before he could go on an hour long rant.
You had been driving for about an hour, when you decided to pull up and put some gas in the jeep. Malia was waiting beside the jeep to get some fresh air, while you walked into the station to pay. You began to make your way back to her, when a group of blacked out cars pulled up and bright lights beamed in your face. Oh god. “Malia go now, they’re here!” you shouted, running past her. She immediately ran behind you, as you both climbed back into Stiles’ jeep and began to drive off. “Are they following us?” you shouted, not wanting to look. She simply growled and withdrew her claws. “I’ll take that as a yes” you complained, turning left off the road. They followed you for a mile, until the pair of you eventually came to a halt at a dead end. “Fuck” you muttered, hitting your hands off the steering wheel. You turned after hearing Malia unbuckle her seatbelt, seeing her getting out of the car and approaching the oncoming group. You sighed and reluctantly unbuckled your seatbelt and followed behind her. Their leader Araya Calavera stepped forward, coming face to face with a very angry Malia. Her followers immediately raised their guns at the pair of you. “Back off” the women simply spoke. “She’s my mother, isn’t she” Malia retort, glowing her eyes blue. “I made a deal with Scott to keep the peace, not you” she spoke again. Respect is a clear theme for the Calaveras, and Malia had no intentions of backing down. “Stay away” she ordered. “Make us” Malia growled. She stood her ground and smiled, before she pulled out an electrocuting rod and began to shock her with it. “Malia!” you called, but as you began to run over to her, another struck you in the head with the back of his gun. You were both on the ground as she towered above you, “Final warning, stupid girls” she shook her head in disapproval and began to walk away. Malia was holding her ribs in pain, and you felt the back of your head bleeding. You and Malia titled your heads to look at each other, she nod to give you the signal of defeat. “No, screw her” you muttered. You picked up the closest object to you, which happened to be a stupid pebble and threw it at the back of her head. “Y/n” Malia sighed, grabbing you and pulling the both of you up as quick as she could. You ran to the jeep, barely avoiding gunfire and reversed the hell out of there, managing to avoid running anyone over-. “Long story short, they caught up with us again, a small fight occurred once more, we got the message of staying away, Deaton patched us up, we returned Stiles’ jeep (after removing several bullets), and we went home and got ready for the pep rally” she finished.
“You’ve got to be kidding me” Lydia said, shaking her head. Everyone there in fact, had wide eyes and were in complete disbelief. “Where do we even begin?” Stiles gasped. “You almost got shot?” “The Calaveras?” “Could the pair of you be more stupid” “That is completely insane” they all began to say at once. “I know” Malia stared down at the floor guiltily. Scott wasn’t mad, she could have gotten you killed, but he knew you wouldn’t be able to live with yourself if anything had happened to Malia. “So the Calaveras must have her, maybe they took her to prove a point” Kira synthesised. “No, we would have gotten a message from them by now, like when they took Derek and Peter” Lydia claimed. “Well if they do have her, it’s only fair that I go alone. I got her in this mess and I’ll get her out of it” Malia still couldn’t hide the sadness in her voice, she felt terrible for making you keep such a huge secret like that, especially when it could have been the one to cause your disappearance. “No, Lydia’s right. The Calaveras wouldn’t keep her without letting us know. Y/n is human and they hunt the supernatural, it wouldn’t make sense for them to take her” Stiles inputted. “Lets get this cleared up, Y/n was hurt the night of the pep rally because of the Calaveras” Isaac began to go through rationally. “She was so nervous in the car ride, because she didn’t want us to realise that her and Malia were both inured, and question why” Stiles added. “And you were the one sending her all of the texts?” Scott asked. “I sent her one on the day of her disappearance” she said quizzically. Scott furrowed his brows, remembering the text that you had received a few weeks previous, which caused you to act nervous. “So there’s another piece missing” Kira sighed, frustrated at the lack of answers they all seemed to be getting. “So if it wasn’t you sending her messages, then who was it?” Scott questioned hypothetically. Allison’s eyes widened, as she suddenly sat up. “I think it was me” she spoke, biting her nails anxiously. If she came to the right conclusion of what may have happened to you in her head, the result wouldn’t be good for anyone. The back turned to face her, preparing for yet another side of the story.
Hope you enjoyed this part, comment what part has been your favourite so far, I’d love to know x