#professoriisms

@professoriisms

Cara had moved the man just in time, a large oak chair shattering against the wall right where he’d been standing. She spun around, her eyes scanning the room, gun drawn. But where was it? Where was it? She called back to the man, “Just get out of here, it’s not safe. Go!”

[Text: Prof]: Professor! Hi! It’s Rey out of Unkar’s. Got your number off the business card you handed me when we crossed paths at the scrap market the other week. I’ve been to another couple since, which is why I’m messaging. I think I might’ve found something you’d like the look of. Picture incoming --

“Hands off.”

Isobel hated her job. It seemed like wasted beauty for her to be stripping in front of disgusting men to make rent when she could’ve easily made it on the front of a magazine. Unfortunately, the opportunity was less and no one was willing to sign a stripper with a history. 

Still, it didn’t matter how much she scolded the man that grasped at her. They would do whatever they wanted because they knew she needed the money. 

“That’s gonna cost you extra.”

@professoriisms​ | find them in nothing but an oversized shirt | accepting

@professoriisms

“Stuck in a shack in the middle of nowhere with someone I just met?” Thomas replied, “No. Not exactly. But I did grow up in the middle of nowhere, so I’m better equipped to handle it than most. I can keep the fire going, and I can make sure we stay fed until the storm passes.”

Stiles wasn’t thinking, when he got into the jeep, after his argument with Scott. And it was an argument, and - and they’d never really had those, but Stiles had fucked up, big time, he had - killing Donovan. He’d known that would be the end of things, he’d just known Scott wouldn’t - but he hadn’t, he hadn’t thought about it properly. He’d focused so much on keeping it secret that he hadn’t - he hadn’t focused on dealing with the aftermath of it all coming out, and he hadn’t dealt well, it was - so stupid, he’d said such stupid bullshit. He was trying to kill my dad, not, he was in the process of trying to remove my limbs and consume them, and - god, and he’d - some of us are human, what the fuck was he thinking, Scott - Scott’s human, he makes mistakes, and - but Stiles is just so stressed, he’s just -

Fuck.

Stiles wasn’t paying attention to the road, really, wasn’t paying attention to anything, just driving, ocasionally instinctively looking in the passenger seat at the damned wrench, the fucking bit of evidence he’d not disposed of, the one thing in the goddamn world he should’ve dealt with first - but, fuck, Stiles - argh.

Argh.

“Fuck,” Stiles said, as the jeep started sputtering. “No, no - no,” He slammed his hand onto the wheel as the car stalled, stopped, fucking gave out on him like Malia, Scott, Lydia, all kept telling him it would, but, fuck.

Fuck.

“Fuck!” Stiles shouted, got out of the car and grabbed the box of tools - wrenches - from the foot well, stormed to the front and opened the hood, coughed, waved aside the - whatever and stared, down, inside the engine, at the mess of duct-tape and missing pieces and knew, just fucking knew that it wouldn’t start agian, that he was stuck - wherever he was, trees on all sides and - god, what was that?

Stiles walked over to the sign, read it, and crumbled internally. He hadn’t noticed time pass - dawn was going to break soon, he could see it on the horizon. And - and he was a few miles north of california. Fuck.

Stiles returned back to the jeep, hands shaking in that annoying, fucking awkward way they did when the stress got bad, and he stared, sightlessly, into the engine.

“Fuck,” He said, Stiles made a loud noise of anger, spun on the spot and threw a wrench at a tree. It didn’t make him feel any better, so he threw another, and another and -

Strange whirring. Not. Whirring, exactly but - noise. In, and out, like -

And the spectre of something - a shape, like -

The wrench he’d thrown bounced off the surface of the appearing object, just before the door opened. Stiles stared, bewilderment taking over his angry, frustrated, hurt fear of - of what had happened, of what would happen, of how he’d get back, of if he’d even be wanted back there - Don’t worry about Malia. Don’t worry about Lydia. Stiles can’t do that. He just can’t - and - And Stiles just stared, transfixed, as someone stepped out of the - thing. Whatever it was, because no matter what it looked like it wasn’t that. He’s pretty sure.