See me bare my teeth for you:
"Hey," you say when Scott and Isaac walk up to your table at the Chipotle across from Isaac's work, trying not to sound too relieved. Lydia has been happily describing her latest fling, some grad student taking a year off to write his thesis. Lydia always overshares, but it's even more awkward than usual this time because Stiles is here and is practically green with jealously. "What's wrong?" you say when they get closer, noticing their dispirited looks. Did something happen at Derek's?
"Nothing," Isaac grunts, flopping down next to you. "Can we eat?"
"Derek more of an asshole than usual?" Stiles asks, taking an obnoxious slurp of his soda.
Both Scott and Isaac get the same vaguely ill look on their faces.
"Okay, what happened?" Stiles says, starting to look concerned. "Is it something evil again? Dammit, I knew the peace couldn't last!"
"No, it's not that," Scott says, looking both rueful and resigned. "Derek has a girlfriend."
"And you care why...?" Lydia asks, looking between Isaac and Scott in confusion.
"Let's just say we should have called ahead," Isaac says with a unhappy twist of his mouth.
Ergh, you think, disgusted.
"Ergh," Stiles chokes. "Do not tell me anymore, I have been traumatized enough for today."
"Okay, when you say it like that it sounds like it was worse than it was," Scott says, giving Isaac a reproachful look. "They were just...there and it was awkward."
"The entire room smelled like sex," Isaac informs the table.
Scott cringes and groans, letting his head fall onto the table.
"Stop talking," Stiles orders Isaac. "We are just about to eat, why do you always try to ruin everything?"
Unsurprisingly, Isaac just gives Stiles a nasty smirk and continues. "It was actually the girl who saved my life from the Alphas. Got some nasty scars, but she survived."
"Really?" you say, distracted from your disgust at the idea of Derek having sex at this new information. "Who is she?"
"Some bounty hunter," Isaac explains, already looking toward the front counter longingly. "Apparently Morrell hired her to watch out for us when the Alpha Pack came to town."
Huh. Maybe you should stop glaring at Morrell every time you see her. But seriously, who's side is she on? The whole druid obsession with balance is stupid and illogical. At least Deaton seems to have chosen a side. You don't really know him or anything about him actually, but since he's done nothing but help Scott, clearly he has good taste.
"She was kind of hot too," Isaac continues blithely.
You and Scott both turn to glare at him simultaneously.
"No, it's jus... just an observation ," Isaac protests, but sinks a little in his seat, cowed.
"Alright, that's it, appetite ruined," Stiles says, throwing his hands up in disgust. "Call me when you three have stopped being gross."
He slides out from the other side of your table and stomps off towards the door.
"Stiles," Scott says woundedly, jumping up to follow up. "Wait, c'mon, man."
"What is his problem?" Lydia says, looking incredibly confused.
Isaac just smirks knowingly. "Who knows? Can we eat now?"
You frown at his attitude and shift uncomfortably in your seat, avoiding eye contact with Lydia.
You haven't told her about you and Scott and Isaac. You know you probably should, for the sake of honesty or whatever, but you don't really want to. Lydia's extremely judgmental about, well, everything, and you know she'd disapprove.
To be fair, though, she already disapproves of your relationship with Isaac.
"Isaac and I are having sex with Scott," you tell her flatly. "And Stiles is pissed because he never learned to share in kindergarten."
Isaac pitches forward and barely manages to prevent spitting out his drink onto the table in front of Lydia. You'd feel bad, except his drink is actually Stiles's drink, which he stole after the latter left, because Isaac enjoys being an asshole.
Lydia stares at you blankly and then turns to watch Isaac cough in disgust.
"Why?" she says, with undisguised horror.
You shrug uncomfortably. "We are apparently all indecisive sluts," you say casually, but grip your jean-covered thighs under the table in order to keep yourself from shaking.
"Oh, my God," Isaac says and hides his face in his hands.
Lydia gives him a look uncannily similar to look one would give roadkill, rolls her eyes, and then seems to make the conscious decision to ignore him.
"So...how exactly does that work?" she asks, turning back to you and leaning forward interestedly.
"No!" Isaac says, dropping his hands and glaring at you. "Don't say anything!"
"Uh..." you say and curse inwardly that you didn't remember Lydia's neverending quest for details about your sex life. "Privately."
Lydia sighs and rests her chin on the heel of her hand. "What is the point of you having a threesome if I don't get to hear about it?" she asks with absolutely no irony in her voice.
"Were you in the bathroom powdering your nose when they were handing out the manners?" Isaac snaps, face blotchy with embarrassment.
"Well, I'm guessing Scott's to make up for the lack of brain activity in this one," Lydia says cruelly, ignoring Isaac's comment completely and then they're off.
In retrospect you probably shouldn't have confessed to your illicit polyamorous relationship in such a public place.
They're still insulting each other when Scott and Stiles come back, and you have to kick Isaac under the table and glare at Lydia to stop before Stiles sits down and joins in.
Still, the entire lunch is extremely uncomfortable, with Stiles glaring at Isaac, who just goads him further by smirking blithely in response, and Lydia keeps looking Scott up and down speculatively, while Scott shifts awkwardly under her gaze. Thankfully Erica and Boyd already had other plans or you imagine there'd be a full-out brawl in the middle of Chipotle.
"So Derek has a new girlfriend..." Stiles says, deciding for the time being to overlook the theft of his drink. "That seems like a disaster in the making. Is she evil?"
"What?" Scott says, giving him a confused look. "What are you talking about?"
"You know, because he used to date Kate..."
"What?!" you say, feeling a cold jolt run through your body.
"Derek and Kate?" Scott says, looking just as shocked as you feel.
"Uh, yeah, did I not tell you that?" Stiles says, frowning at him.
"What are you talking about?" you say shakily, feeling suddenly like you might throw up your burrito. "That doesn't...that doesn't even makes sense, Kate hated werewolves, why would she..."
"Uh..." Stiles says, looking extremely uncomfortable. "Yeah, it was before the fire. She wanted information, so..."
So she dated Derek. You feel strangely lightheaded and make an affirmative noise in the back of your throat. Your probably shouldn't be surprised; Kate never seemed to think relationships were anything more than a means to an end. When you were younger you used to think she was so cool and practical for that. The way she'd joke about her flings and look through your yearbook and rate the guys in your clas-
How old is Derek, anyway? you wonder with a horrified lurch of your stomach. The news articles you read about the fire said he and his older sister were at school, which means the youngest he could have been was a junior. And Kate would have been, what, 23?
She probably slept with him, you realize, feeling even sicker at the thought of it. And then got information from him that led to the deaths of most of his family. God, no wonder, he's such a mess.
This revelation ruins the rest of your day. You and Lydia were planning on going to next town over to buy Halloween costumes, but you're no longer in the mood and cancel as you leave the Chipotle.
"Allison, are you okay?" Scott says, following you to your car after your rather lackluster goodbye.
"Sorry," you say tonelessly. "I just...I don't really want to talk about it."
"Okay," Scott says gently, coming closer and peering down at your face worriedly. "We don't have to talk about it. Do you want to come home with me?"
You find yourself automatically looking to Isaac, who is procrastinating going to work by eavesdropping on your conversation from the other side of the parking lot.
"Yeah," you say, and you're surprised at the intense relief you feel. You were just going to go home, but that probably isn't the best idea now that you think of it.
Isaac gives you a little wave and you try to smile at him, but it probably comes out extremely pained. It's okay, though, because you doubt he could see it anyway.
You go home with Scott and lie on his shoulder while he reads Native Son and strokes your hair every so often. The book is apparently extremely depressing (you haven't started it yet because your English teacher already said it wasn't going to be on the midterm) so he switches to his Physics book after an hour and turns on some music. You drift off despite the heavy weight of despair in your chest and wake several hours later to Isaac spooning you and lacing his fingers with yours.
You don't exactly feel great when you leave for dinner an hour later, but you feel less hopeless. What's done is done, you tell yourself firmly as your parents discuss government overregulation over dinner. You knew she was a bad person. This changes nothing.
But your steadfast attitude doesn't even last through the night.
You're in the usual motel room with Scott and Isaac, naked and eager in the dark. You're on top of Isaac, while Scott fucks you from behind, both in you, and it feels good, great, if only you could have a little more-
"Well, well, well, what do we have here, Allison?" Kate drawls from across the room.
"Kate?" you say, shocked, the pleasant burn of arousal morphing into fear.
"Look at these two," Kate smirks, eyes trailing slowly over Scott and Isaac's naked bodies. "I'm impressed, Allison. I can see why you're taking your sweet time putting them down."
"I'm not-" you say, terrified as she saunters closer.
"Don't be modest, Allison," she laughs. "You remind me of myself when I was your age; I've always told you that."
She pulls out a gun and presses it to the back of Scott's head. "Don't worry," she tells you with a wicked grin. "I'll help."
She pulls the trigger and blood splatters across your face.
You scream into consciousness and struggle to get out from under your sheets. You clap your hand over your mouth once you realize where you are-it was just a dream, just a dream, Kate is dead, Scott and Isaac are safe, you're saf-
There's a loud bang from your bedroom door and you let a muffled shriek against your hand as your parents burst through your door, a gun and hunting knife at the ready.
You scramble backward into your headboard while your parents scan the room for intruders, weapons at the ready and faces tight with restrained violence. You've seen those faces before, but never so close.
"What are you doing?!" you demand, voice high-pitched and shaking with terror.
"Why did you scream?" your father demands right back, face as pale as a sheet and he doesn't lower his gun. He's wearing sweatpants and a white undershirt, your mother a satin night shift, but it doesn't make them any less terrifying.
"I had a nightmare!" you burst out hysterically, tears spilling down the sides of your face. You clutch your bunched up sheets underneath you to anchor you as you shake, pressing yourself against the headboard as far as you can go. "Why do you have a gun?!"
"Chris, there's no one here," your mother says quietly, lowering her knife. Her shoulders relax, relief flickering across her face and you hate her. You hate them.
"Get out!" you shriek, but it comes out more like a sob.
"Allison, what's wrong?" your mother says, alarmed at your behavior.
"Are you alright?" your father says, lowering his gun and taking a step towards you, concerned.
"Just get out!" you choke, feeling trapped, like they're closing in on you.
"Allison, calm down," your mother says with a frown and crosses the room to sit on the edge of your bed.
You practically fall off the other side trying to get away from her and almost brain yourself on your bedside table.
"Allison!" your father says, sounding shocked, but you ignore him and use the side of the bed to pull yourself to your feet.
"I'm going to Lydia's," you say wildly, because you can't stay here, not with them, not when they've brought the weapons they use to kill people into your room.
"Allison, what-?" your father says, but you dodge around him, not daring to look at him as you exit the room.
"Allison, come back here!" your mother calls after you, and you break into a run once you reach the landing and take the stairs down two at a time, hand sticking to the railing from your sweat. There's a thundering from behind you and you barely just reach the downstairs landing before your father grabs your arm.
"Allison, calm down-"
"Let go of me!" you scream, struggling to yank your arm out of his grip in the dark, but he won't, he won't, he won't, and oh God, why won't they let you leave, what do they want with you? "Let me go, let me go, let me go-"
"Chris!" your mother says from the top of the stairs and you're suddenly released. You stumble backwards and trip, slamming your back into the wall next to the stairs. Your father looks down at you, bewildered, and you bury your face in your knees and cry because you can't see a way out of this They're never going to let you go. You'll be trapped here forever.
The next morning finds you seated in-between your parents at your therapist's office. Your therapist- you should really learn her name, shouldn't you? You think it starts with an M. Mary, Margaret, Martha, something boring like that- seems very tense, and you doubt it's because of your breakdown last night. You wonder what your parents did to get an appointment the very next morning.
"Allison, do you want to add anything?" your therapist says, snapping you back to reality. You blink at her and realize you completely missed your mother's explanation of what happened last night.
You shake your head. There's no point in you being here. It's not like you can tell her what really happened.
"I'm just so tired of this," your mother says, like you're not even there. "I don't understand her. I thought the pills were supposed to make her better."
"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Mrs. Argent," your therapist says patiently, though if you're not mistaken there's a bit of a wariness in her expression as she observes your mother.
You're scaring civilians, Mom, you think dully, but don't actually care all that much.
"Now, if you don't mind, I think it would be more productive if I spoke to Allison alone," your therapist says, and you have to school your face into a blank mask to not break down in relief right then and there.
Your mother huffs a little, but doesn't complain and both your parents rise from the couch.
"We'll be right outside," your father says uncomfortably. He's by the far the more suspicious of therapy of your parents and you know he doesn't like your therapist. He made insulting comments about her weight all the way home the first time you met her. 'How are we supposed to expect someone to help Allison who can't even control her own weight?' blah, blah, blah.
Your parents are such assholes.
"Is there anything you'd like to say just between us?" your therapist asks you once your parents are gone.
You shrug and look down at the couch, wondering darkly if you should be checking for listening devices.
"It was dumb," you say finally, because you really don't want to be here. It's going to suck explaining why you missed school today to Scott, Isaac, and Lydia. "I overreacted."
"You must have been very scared, them coming into your room with weapons like that," your therapist presses.
"My dad sells guns," you tell her flatly, resisting a rude eyeroll, because, really, she's only doing her job. It's not her fault she can't help you. "It's not a big deal."
"Clearly, it was," she tells you, and you bite back a denial. "It's just me here, Allison. You don't have to pretend in here."
You keep mutinously quiet, clenching your jaw in anger.
"Do you want to talk about the nightmare you had?" she asks you after a pause.
You consider this for a moment and then decide to throw her a bone. Kate's a good excuse as any why you're a screw-up.
"My aunt," you say shortly.
"Your Aunt Kate?" your therapist says, making a note on her notepad, expression betraying nothing.
"I take it you've heard of her," you say bitterly, toes curling inside your boots.
"Your parents filled me in," your therapist says, like the discovery of your aunt's crimes and subsequent murder hadn't been national news. "Were you close?"
"Yeah," you say with a shrug, even though you suspect she already knows. "She's-she was only twelve years older than me."
"Have you had nightmares about her before?"
"No," you say truthfully.
Your therapist waits for you to say something else for a beat before continuing. "It's not uncommon for there to be a delay in grieving. When you first came here, your parents explained to me what had happened and that you were being harassed at school. You never wanted to discuss it. Would you like to talk about it now?"
"I'm not grieving over her," you say, affronted. "My nightmare was about her trying to kill my-me."
Your therapist raises her eyebrows at that and makes another note. "Did you ever feel unsafe around her?"
"No," you say tiredly. "She liked me. She always used to say we were so alike. My grandfather, though...he was a different story."
"You felt unsafe around your grandfather?" your therapist asks calmly, but you can tell she's steeling herself, as if expecting some horrific confession.
"He was just creepy," you say dismissively. "To be honest, I was glad when he died. Kate definitely got the serial killer gene from him."
"I see," your therapist says, surprise bleeding through her usually placid expression.
Shit. You probably shouldn't have said that.
But before you can figure out how to make your previous statement sound less callous, she continues: "What was your reaction when you found out what Kate did?"
You frown. "What kind of question is that?"
"Were you sad? Angry? Betrayed? A combination?"
Great, now she's trying to figure out if you're a sociopath.
You shrug uncomfortably and look down at your boots. "Well, I found out right after my parents told me she'd been murdered, so..."
Your therapist waits.
"I was sad, I guess," you say defensively. "I didn't...I didn't want her to die."
To your horror, you feel yourself tearing up and blink rapidly to clear your vision, your throat suddenly tight.
Kate was terrible. She murdered children. But death is so...final. You'll never see her again.
"Were you surprised?" your therapist asks gently.
You look away from her, down at the cactus on her desk. "No," you reply quietly, even though you know you shouldn't.
"You said she used to say you were just like her," your therapist continues in the same gentle tone. "Is that something that worries you?"
"I am like her," you say with another shrug, because you know this. You've had months to come to terms with this. "I mean, I'm not going to go out and murd-burn someone's house down, but personality-wise, yeah, we're alike."
Your therapist makes another note. You wonder if this one says "Claims similarity with serial killer aunt. Proceed with caution." You really should stop talking, but you...don't really want to.
"Did she say that a lot? That you were alike?" she asks. "You said she always said it."
"Yeah, I guess," you say, trying to think back. "She liked when I copied her, I guess. She used to buy me clothes that were like hers."
"Have you considered she was saying that because she wanted it to be true, not because it is?"
"No..." you reply slowly. You'd never really thought about it. It'd been your entire life, after all. Kate has always been there. You used to pretend she was your older sister, and she certainly liked to play the part. You liked how she was always so cool and confident- always straightforward about what she wanted in life, rolling her eyes at your parents' strict rules and sneaking you out to buy ice cream on a school night or to watch R-rated movies. Kate was the best. She was fun, never treated you like a kid, your only long-term friend in a childhood of constant moving, and you were always so envious of her ability to stand up to your parents. You wanted to be her.
Until you didn't.
It never occurred to you that she too was trying to mold you in her own image.
"I don't know," you say and again find yourself choking back tears.
Stop it, you tell yourself. This isn't a surprise. Kate murdered a family of innocents simply for existing. Of course her love was conditional.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you upset," your therapist says worriedly. "I just don't want you to take her word for it. You're seventeen years old, Allison. You get to decide who you're going to be."
I do, you think. And I already have.
You feel suddenly very grateful towards her and nod silently, even though she has no idea what an impossible task that is in your situation.
"Have you talked to your parents about Kate?" she asks next and your gratitude sours immediately. Clever segway.
"They don't talk about her," you say shortly.
"Do you feel you can't talk about her with them?"
"Definitely not," you say with a snort, curling your fingers into the fabric of the leather couch. "They're embarrassed of her."
"Embarrassed?" your therapist says, frowning in confusion.
"She makes us all look bad," you say, rolling your eyes.
"Do you think they're embarrassed of you?" she asks quietly, eyes full of compassion.
"Yeah," you say and pretend those words don't feel like a punch to the gut. "But they always have been. All that's changed is I stopped trying to please them."
"That seems like a very hard position to be in," your therapist says sympathetically.
You shrug. It is, but there's nothing you can do about it. You can only work with the hand you're dealt. And you know enough to understand it could be much worse.
"Look, I know I overreacted," you say, wanting to get this over with. "But I don't see why they had to drag me here and screw up your schedule. It wasn't that big of a deal."
"Your parents seem to think it is," your therapist says neutrally, crossing her legs, shapeless under her long mauve skirt.
"My parents' response to me crying is to send me to therapy," you reply angrily, and then bite your tongue. You need to get out of here. You've already said too much.
"Your parents are uncomfortable with emotion," your therapist says. It's not a question. "What do you think about that?"
"There's nothing to think about that," you say, looking away from her at her window. The wooden blinds are angled so light comes through, but you can't see outside. "It's just the way it is."
You go home. Your parents say nothing on the ride back. You go to your room and lie in bed, heart-pounding almost painfully in your chest. You're too anxious to fall asleep, and after a while you get bored of just lying in bed, so you pace around your room. You put your fallen clothes in your hamper, throw away an empty bag of pretzels on your desk, and are organizing your jewelry box full of earrings and necklaces you never wear when you realize that Kate's necklace is gone.
What? you think, emptying your jewelry box onto your bedspread and spreading the contents out for a better look. Where could it be? You know you only wore it once and where else would you put it?
It's not in your jewelry box. You look under your dresser in case it fell and then under your bed and desk. You pull out all the drawers. You take all the moving boxes and Kate's bag of guns out of your closet. You check under your mattress, pull all your furniture away from the wall. You tear apart your room and find nothing.
It's gone, you realize, panting and sweating in the middle of the wreck of your room. Did your parents take it? Why would they do that, take the last gift Kate ever gave you?
Are they so petty they won't let you have a small harmless memento of her?
Your chest is tight-you feel like you can't breathe. You don't know why you're so upset- you didn't even like the necklace. It was physical proof of how far back murder runs in your family. Celebrates it, even. But your feel sick at its absence, trapped in this tiny room. You can't stand it here anymore, you have to get out.
You wait until you're sure your parents have gone down to the basement and then you climb out your window and drive to Lydia's.
You feel stupid when you ring the doorbell and no one answers. It's not even noon yet. You're lucky her mother isn't home, because you have no idea how you'd explain that one.
You sit in her long driveway for a while, trying to figure out what to do, before finally deciding to go to Scott's. His mother's car is luckily not in the driveway, so you park across the street, check for any observers and then climb up onto the roof. Scott's window is locked, but Isaac's is cracked a bit, and you push it up with difficulty and climb on top of his air mattress, curling yourself under his sheets. His sweatshirt is lying on the floor neck to your head and after a minute of staring at it, you pick it up and press it to your nose. You inhale the scent of his sweat and dandruff shampoo and burrow further into his pillow. You feel calm for the first time since last night, safe.
You sleep.
"Allison?" someone says, and a hand on your shoulder shakes you gently. "Hey, wake up."
You roll over onto your back and squint up at Scott. "Hey," you mumble, your mouth somehow tasting grosser than it does in the morning.
"Are you okay?" he asks you gently. "Why weren't you in school today?"
You could not be less interested in talking about it. "Got in a fight with my parents," you tell him, wiping sleep gunk out of your eyes and propping yourself up unsteadily on Isaac's air mattress. "What time is it?"
Scott shift a little from where he's seated next to you and the entire mattress shakes as a result. "Almost 3:30. You have like, uh, twenty missed calls, by the way."
He hands you your phone and you grimace at the screen. Great.
"Maybe you should just text them to tell them you're alright?" Scott says when you put the phone back down on the wood floor.
You probably should, but you don't want to. Petty as it is, you want them to suffer.
"How did you get in here?" Stiles says from the door and you jump, almost causing Scott to fall off the bed. You didn't realize he was in here.
He's leaning against the door frame, looking at you suspiciously, no doubt for ruining his alone time with Scott.
"Window," you grunt, not at all interested in dealing with him right now.
"You have got to start locking those, dude," Stiles tells Scott and then looks over at Isaac's clothes folded in piles on top of the empty desk. "Wow, Isaac actually has his stupid scarfs color-coded, I have to take a picture of this."
"Stiles," Scott says, turning around to give him a reproachful look.
Isaac's scarfs are, you must admit, really, really stupid. They do make a convenient hand-hold, though.
"You wanna go get the TV set up?" Scott asks Stiles, putting a hand comfortingly on your back.
"Are you trying to get rid of me?" Stiles asks, a hard edge to his voice.
"What are you doing?" you ask, sitting up completely.
"Playing Halo," Stiles says shortly. "Two-player mode."
"Okay," you say dully and roll out of bed.
You walk past Stiles and wash your face off in the bathroom, wincing inwardly at the miserable look on your face. You're so transparent, you think in disgust.
Scott is waiting outside the door when you come out. "Hey, you okay?" he asks worriedly.
"Yeah," you say with a shrug, and it's not completely a lie. You feel much better than you did a couple hours ago.
You end up sitting downstairs next to Scott on the couch while he and Stiles play Halo, the sound of gunfire echoing uselessly through your head. Stiles is annoyed and suspicious, but he seems to get over it when you don't say anything or try anything to turn Scott's attention towards you. Scott presses the side of his body to yours steadfastly and you curl into him, feeling numb, but it's a welcome relief compared to how you felt this morning. After an hour you get a text from Lydia saying that your parents were over at her house looking for you. Shit, that means it won't be long before they come here. You reluctantly pick yourself off the couch and head home.
"If they come here tell them you haven't seen me," you tell Scott as you pull open his front door, because the last thing you need is your parents mad at you about hanging out alone with boys.
"Okay," Scott says worriedly. "Just...just, call me if you need anything, okay?"
"Okay," you say and try to smile. "I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow."
Scott nods, brow furrowed in concern and you literally feel sick as you walk down his lawn to your car. You don't want to go home. You hate home. You wish you could stay here forever.
Your parents arrive home ten minutes after you text them of your return and they're so furious with you they can barely speak. They spend almost an hour lecturing you in the living room about how worried they were about you, about how anything could have happened to you. It'd be more intimidating except they gave you the same speech when you walked home from school with your friends in third grade that one time.
They don't mention anything about last night. They never apologize for scaring you. To be fair, you don't think your parents have ever apologized to you in your life.
You don't really say much. Just nod and say "Yes, I understand" at the appropriate intervals. At least until your mother tells you you're grounded for two weeks.
"What?" you say, head snapping up to stare at her. "Are you serious?"
You've never been grounded before. And this is the straw that broke the camel's back?
"This kind of behavior cannot continue, Allison," your mother says unwaveringly. "You're almost eighteen; you need to stop acting like a child. Your father and I have decided we won't tolerate any more...episodes. You can't just run away every time you get upset."
Your blood boils with anger, but you bite your tongue before you can say anything you'll regret. I hate you, you think. I hate you, I hate you, I hate y-
"You have to start acting more responsibly," your father says sternly, and you know this part so well you could practically say it along with him. "You have to get some control over your emotions. Do you think your mother and I let ourselves act so rashly when we get upset?"
"No," you say flatly. Do they even have emotions?
But there's no point in arguing with them, so you accept your punishment without complaint.
You get to school early the next morning just to get out of the house and sit against your locker while you wait for the bell to ring, the distant sound of the girl's volleyball team practicing in the gym echoing through the empty hallway. You don't hear Isaac approach so you jerk a little in shock when he slides down the wall of lockers to sit next to you.
"Hey," he says quietly.
You grunt in response and don't look at him.
"What happened yesterday?"
You shrug uncomfortably. "Nothing."
Isaac waits.
You grit your teeth in annoyance and clench the fabric of your jeans over your thighs. "I just can't stand them sometimes. And then I get mad and I...and now I'm grounded."
"That sucks," Isaac says carefully.
You lean against him, cheek brushing his shoulder. "They're just so..."
Mean. It sounds so petty, though. Especially considering who you're talking to.
"Where's Scott?" you ask instead.
"Cross country."
"Oh."
Scott watches you worriedly for most of the day, and holds your hand under the table at lunch, but you don't really get the chance to talk until after school.
"You want to come over?" he asks, leaning against the locker next to yours. "Isaac doesn't have work tonight."
"I'm grounded," you remind him wearily.
But even as you say it you wonder what's the worst that could happen. It's not like your parents are going to lock you in a freezer in the basement.
So you go over to Scott's.
You're not really in the mood for sex, but Scott kisses you so sweetly and you'd probably have to be dead to turn down Isaac's tongue. So, yeah. You take longer than usual to come, but you feel a lot better when you do. You guess Lydia was right about sex being good for stress-relief.
Isaac rolls over on top of Scott after you regain your breath, and you watch them kiss furiously for a minute, feeling lazy and pleased. Isaac sits back to pull off his shirt and grins down at Scott happily.
"Hey," he says flipping open the button on Scott's jeans. "Let me blow you."
"Uh," Scott says, turning red all the way down to his collarbones, exposed from before when Isaac had pull down the collar of his shirt to mouth at them, and, oh , that's pretty. "Yes? I mean, that would be awesome."
Isaac's grin widens and he pushes up Scott's shirt to kiss at his stomach. Scott pulls the rest of it off with shaking hands and moans low in his throat when Isaac pushes down his jeans and pulls his dick out of his boxer briefs.
You roll over to press yourself to Scott's side while he squirms under Isaac's ministrations, heart pounding and face burning hot at Scott's screwed up expression and whimpers of pleasure. Isaac seems annoyed that he can't get more of Scott's dick in his mouth, but he makes up for it with sheer cocksucking enthusiasm. It's kind of gross-involves way more saliva than is probably necessary-but Scott seems to enjoy it by the way he thrusts up into Isaac's mouth and moans helplessly.
"Shh," you say in his ear, and run your hands down his sweaty chest. He grabs at you, clutching your waist tightly and buries his head in your shoulder.
"Isaac," he says against your skin through gritted teeth. "Isaac, Isaac, I'm gonna, I'm gonna-"
Isaac ignores him and pushes his hips down, leaning down further to take more of him in his mouth, eyes fixed on Scott curled up in your arms, chest heaving with exertion.
Scott gives a violent jerk when he comes, groaning loudly, and Isaac pulls back automatically, coughing, his mouth dripping.
"Oh, my God," Scott moans into your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around him to steady him, but your eyes are fixed on Isaac, his mouth swollen and stained white.
That should not be so hot, you think, squirming a little at the renewed wetness between your thighs.
Isaac wipes his mouth with his forearm and leers at your naked body. "Gonna return the favor?"
Before you can answer, Scott's hand flashes up to grab Isaac by his waistband and pulls him down on top of him. He rolls Isaac onto his back before either of you can say anything and pins one wrist up over his head, unbuckling his belt with his other.
"Shhh," Scott says, gentle but firm and kicks his own pants off and onto the floor. Isaac shudders when Scott begins to stroke him, arching up into Scott as he nuzzles at neck.
Scott bites down, harder that you would have expected from him, and Isaac keens and jerks under Scott's body. His face flushes further and he pants open mouthed as Scott sucks on the bite.
"This okay?" Scott pulls back to murmur, watching Isaac's face through lidded eyes.
"Yes," Isaac gasps, straining for more. "Please."
Scott smiles and you watch dry mouthed and aching as he takes Isaac apart almost ruthlessly, peppering Isaac's neck with bites and kisses, and holding his wrist in place firmly.
Isaac makes increasingly loud and desperate noises, and when he comes you feel like you might explode if you don't do something to relieve the pressure. You press the heel of your palm against yourself in self preservation.
Isaac makes an unintelligible noise when Scott releases his arm and covers his eyes with it. Scott smiles down at him fondly and strokes his cheek gently as he clambers off him and turns his eyes to you.
His nostrils flare and eyes darken when he takes you in and you rip your hand away from yourself in embarrassment.
"Um," he says, eyes darting down between your legs and then up again immediately. "I was wondering...could I..."
You know instantly what he's talking about and blush despite yourself. You become painfully aware that you haven't shaved in a while-you started shaving your bikini area after you and Isaac first started having sex, but half the time you're too lazy to do it and it ends up looking even worse than if you never shaved at all. Which is where you're at now.
Isaac doesn't seem to care other than to complain about reverse stubble burn, but Isaac is a whiny baby who also complains when you eat garlic or when Lydia sprays some of her perfume on you, so you're more or less used to ignoring his opinions.
But you don't know what you would do if Scott complained about your lack of hygiene.
"O-okay," you say shyly, swallowing past your anxiety, because you ache. Scott smiles and scoots over to lie next to you, kissing you happily, hands trailing down your body.
"You're so beautiful," he tells you, looking earnestly into your eyes.
You don't know what to say to that, it makes you feel kind of tense and wary, so you just kiss him before he can make any more uncomfortable confessions.
"Scott, c'mon," you complain when he spends far too much time kissing your boobs and groping your ass. You don't need foreplay, you need to come now.
Your phone goes off, buzzing distractedly in your purse, and you groan in frustration and pull away from Scott to glare at it. It can't even be five yet, and already they've realized you're missing?
"I got it," Isaac says sleepily, and rolls out of bed to cross the room and mute it. He flops down in Scott's desk chair instead of coming back to bed and makes an imperious motion at you. "Don't stop on my account."
You roll your eyes at him and shove Scott's head down, fingers curling into his sweat-soaked hair, because this has gone on long enough. You need to come. Scott doesn't seem to mind and lets out a soft laugh. You hiss in frustration and try not to feel embarrassed when he settles between your legs and leans forward to lick at you.
He's way too gentle, even with your encouragement, but his fingers are nice inside you and he pays more attention to your clit than Isaac did when he first started going down on you.
Eventually you get too on edge and have to pull him away and get yourself off, but it still feels great. Scott gets Isaac to come back to bed and you curl up between the two of them happily.
You're just about to drift off when there's a knock on the door and Scott goes stiff beside you.
"Is he seriously here again?" Isaac says, sounding annoyed. "That's the second time this week."
Scott sits up abruptly, expression ice cold and muscles tense. There's another knock and then both Scott and Isaac inhale sharply.
"He has a key?" Isaac says, eyes widening.
Scott doesn't reply and slips out from under the covers and grabbing a shirt from the floor.
"Hey, no, Scott, wait," Isaac says, following him. "I'll get rid of him."
"What?" Scott says blankly, staring at him.
"Stay here, I'll get rid of him," Isaac says struggling to put on his shirt and buckle his belt at the same time.
"Scott?" Scott's father calls from downstairs.
"Isaac, no, don't, you shouldn't-"
You reach out and grab Scott around the waist, pulling him back so that his unbalances and tips back into bed.
"Scott, are you up there?" his dad calls.
Scott jerks in your arms, but you don't let him go and tighten your grip.
"I got this," Isaac tells him, makes it halfway out the door, then doubles back to grab his scarf off the floor and drapes it around his neck to cover the hickey on the side of his neck with a smirk.
At least the scarves are good for something, you think. Now if only they could fix his sex hair.
Isaac goes down the stairs and you here him say: "What are you doing here?"
You can't make out a lot of the conversation, but you get the gist of it. Scott's dad insists that Scott is here because his bike is in the driveway, while Isaac denies it and tells him he's out with Stiles. Isaac tells him to leave and Scott's dad resists, but Isaac doesn't let up, accusing him of stalking Scott and trespassing.
Scott remains stiff in your arms the entire time, a muscle twitching in his jaw. You press your face into his neck comfortingly and rub his shoulders through his wrinkled shirt. He doesn't even relax when Isaac finally manages to scare him off. His heart beats rapidly through his back even as Isaac comes back upstairs.
"What an asshole," Isaac says, scowling and pulling off his scarf. "Can't he take a hint?"
"You didn't have to do that," Scott says slowly, still stiff.
Isaac shrugs. "You shouldn't have to deal with him if you don't want to." He's looking at his feet instead of at Scott though, like he's embarrassed.
Scott reaches out hesitantly, like he's not sure he should, and Isaac comes to him immediately and hugs him, Scott pressing his nose into his shoulder.
"Thanks," Scott whispers, almost inaudibly, and Isaac pulls him back down to the bed and kisses him softly.
Parents suck, you think sort of sadly as you settles against Scott's back and wrap an arm around his waist. Except Scott's mom. You can't wait to get married and change your name. You used to think the name Argent was cool, but now you hate it.
Allison Lahey, you think to yourself. It doesn't sound bad. Except that Isaac's dad is worse than your parents and Scott's dad combined.
"What's your mom's maiden name?" you ask Scott.
"Uh, Delgado," he replies.
Allison Delgado. Weird, but you think you could get used to it.
A/N: And everything is terrible again! :D Please review!