"Let's go find Scott," Stiles decided after a moment of silence. I nodded in agreement, pulling away from Stiles. I walked ahead, keeping an eye out for more traps. The traps are probably well hidden, I decided.
I trudged further away from them, ignoring them calling my name with suggestions of sticking together. I located Scott after calling out his name and hearing his reply. As Scott came into view, so did an ass. No, not a donkey and not Scott himself. There was literally a bare ass belonging to a shivering girl. She clung to the forest floor, completely naked. Her hair was disheveled and matted. Her head whipped around as she looked around, her eyes wide with alarm.
"Is that Malia?" I asked, realizing who this naked chick was.
"Yeah," Scott confirmed. Malia spun her head around to face me, her eyebrows pushed together.
"Okay, so she was a coyote for what, eight years? And she has perfectly shaved legs? What the fuck is this?" I motioned toward the girl's perfect legs.
Aside from the fear in her eyes, matted hair and wild facial expression, she was beautiful. Her eyes were a muddy brown, her hair the colour of her coyote fur but a few shades darker. Her lips were parted in shock, probably from being a human for the first time in years.
I still felt too hot from my earlier episode in the trap, so I took my coat off and covered Malia's chilled body. My coat wasn't long, but it at least covered her back. No way was her ass, as nice as it was, touching my coat.
"Sorry, I'm not taking off my pants for you," I commented just as Stiles and Lydia caught up.
"That's Malia?" Stiles gasped, having a similar reaction to me.
"Yeah," Scott breathed. Stiles called his father and eventually, the Sheriff arrived. He threw his coat, which was much larger than mine, around her.
The Sheriff took Malia to Tate's house after sorting everything out at the department. Both Henry Tate and Malia had been very pleased with their reunion. After the reunion, Stiles, Lydia and I decided to tell Scott and the others about my episode.
"What did you feel when you broke the trap?" Scott asked after we filled him in, staring at me as if he'd just seen a three-eyed chimp. Who knows? Maybe he had.
"I suddenly felt...strong. I felt like I could take on anything or anyone. I remember feeling really angry, too. Absolutely furious. I could feel my eyes glowing and then suddenly I was gripping the trap and screaming words that I wasn't even saying, by the way. I didn't think those words up. I think these powers are controlling me," I explained.
"And nobody controls me. No one could handle this bitch," I added to hide the fact that I was actually quite scared.
"We'll figure this out." Scott promised.
"I hope so because that certainly wasn't the best time of my life. You definitely wouldn't find Patrick Swayze and what's-the-bitch dancing to tha shit." I sighed, slipping my coat back on. I had gotten it back after Stilinski gave her his coat to wear. My eyes travelled down to Scott's bare arm, where two thick black bands clung.
"Did it hurt?" I asked him.
"What, the tattoo?" his eyes followed mine to where his tattoo was.
"Yeah," I nodded. "The first time you got it." Scott had gotten his tattoo done at a tattoo parlour but because of his werewolf healing, it healed and disappeared. He instead went to Derek, who had a triskele tattooed in between his shoulder blades. Derek's method had worked, but it had hurt Scott immensely. Let's just say it involved a blowtorch.
"Kind of. I mean, after awhile it started to dull." He replied.
"Do you think the needle would work for me? I think I'd heal, too. I'll be fucking pissed if I sit for a few hours getting shit done and then all of a sudden, bibbity-bobbity-fucking-boo, it is gone."
"Test it out. Get something small and if it fades, then go to Derek for what you actually want. If you want a tattoo, that is," Allison spoke up.
"Damn right, I want a tattoo. You watch, by the time I'm twenty, I'll be fucking covered in tats. I'll be one of those bad-ass bitches covered in tattoos, head to toe," I grinned.
"You're going to tattoo your head?" Stiles asked.
"Fuck no. Or my neck. Not happening," I shook my head. "It's just a figure of speech."
The next day, as a celebration of solving the Malia case, Stiles, Scott and I headed to a tattoo parlour.
"Seriously, you too?" Stiles sighed.
"You should get one, too." I suggested. "You could even get the same as me."
"This is just to see if it works, remember?" Scott reminded me. "If it doesn't work on you, then he's stuck with whatever you got for his whole life."
"Shh. You weren't supposed to tell him!" I hissed jokingly.
"What are you getting, anyways? You still haven't told us," Stiles asked.
"You, my frien- you will see," I replied. I approached the counter and spoke the the employee.
Finally, I was called over by the tattoo artist to get inked. I told him my idea and he agreed, pulling out brand new equipment. I also asked him to draw out the lines for my main tattoo idea onto my skin, but not tattoo it. He raised his brow, but agreed anyways.
"How are you liking your ink, kid?" he asked Scott, eyeing Scott's arm. I suddenly recognized the man as the same guy who tattooed Scott.
"It's great. Thanks, man," Scott nodded.
"Alrighty, kiddo. You ready?" he turned to me.
"Please," I scoffed, holding out my arm. I rested the arm on the table where he told me to. Using black ink, he started the process. My jaw clenched in shock as the needles began attacking my arm, a warm feeling spreading up my arm.
"Oh god," I heard Stiles gasp.
"You guys shouldn't bring this kid. He fainted last time, too," the tattoo artist chuckled. I turned to face Stiles and not to my surprise, a thud sounded as he hit the ground.
"Loser," I rolled my eyes as I smirked. Turning to the tattooer, I asked, "can you guess which one I'm dating?"
"I would've guessed the one still standing because you're both tough, but your tone suggests that marshmallow on the floor," he answered. I held my laughter, not wanting to shake and screw up the tattoo.
"That would be the one," I replied with amusement.
The pain had begun to dull, almost becoming numb rather than like a punch from Wolverine but with needles as claws.
After the constant needle/cloth alternation, the artist finally released my forearm.
"All done, sweetheart," he spoke.
"Have you seen this tattoo? I'm far from a sweetheart," I argued then I looked down at my left forearm. There in thick blake cursive, was a four letter word.
"This is fucking sick, man!" I complimented the tattoo artist. "Thanks!"
"It's a word," Scott told Stiles, who was beginning to stir. Scott couldn't have been able to see it from where he was, so he moved forward to get a better look.
"What word?" Stiles mumbled. Scott stepped forth to get a clear view of my forearm, the area just under my wrist.
"Oh my god," Scott muttered. "Only you could pull that off."
"Thanks, Scotty," I grinned triumphantly. There on my forearm, was the four letter word in cursive: FUCK.