IF YOU HIT “X+C” IT SHUTS OFF EVERY GIF ON YOUR DASH
EVERY SINGLE ONE TURNS TO A LITTLE GREY BOX WITH A LOCK
TUMBLR HAS MADE ITSELF SAFE FOR EPILEPTICS
PASS IT ON
I BRING FORTH THIS KNOWLEDGE TO ANY FELLOW TUMBLRITES/SEIZURE-PRONE PEOPLE THAT MAY FOLLOW ME
KINDLY THANK THE OP FOR THIS KNOWLEDGE
I AM A HUMBLE MESSENGER
There was so much amazing in this episode, but Anya’s part was particularly notable for how shocking the concept of personal death was to a vengeance demon. It was such a huge leap for her character and, wow, I’m tearing up just looking at the photoset however many years later.
Are you willing to let him go?
i can’t help myself i’m sorry
“Hey, pal, you’re in the wrong parking spot,” says the Jeep. It’s an older build, light blue paint with some definite wear and tear. Its engine pings as it cools. Two teenage boys jumped out of it about five minutes ago and raced into the high rise.
“I’m sorry,” says Toyota RAV4 2013 Crossover SUV. His friends called him Rav. Well, they would have, if he’d had any back at the lot. But he was new/used and the floor models didn’t speak to him much, even though his previous owner had returned him within 30 days. For a Prius. ”I think you’re mistaken. I’ve been parked in this space all night.”
The Jeep makes a grinding noise. “Look, I’m trying to help you out here. That spot belongs to a very snarly Camaro, and if he gets back and finds you here, you’re gonna need some cosmetic work.”
“Oh, dear,” says Rav, his engine sinking. “Did you… Did you know the Camaro?”
The Jeep goes eerily quiet. “What do you mean?”
“I saw him when Owner Hale was negotiating my price. The Camaro didn’t… I’m afraid he didn’t get much for the trade-in. Something about damage from a bear?”
“What.” Steam hisses from under the Jeep’s hood.
“I’m sorry,” Rav says. “Was he your friend? Listen, if you need a chassis to lean on, I’ve got a solid construction and—”
“Don’t talk to me,” the Jeep growls dangerously.
Rav goes quiet, and autolocks his doors to show his silence.
When the Jeep’s owner gets in a few minutes later and opens the driver’s door, the Jeep swings the door out a little further and dings Rav’s side.
What an asshole.
“What are we doing, what are we doing, oh my God, the manufacturers didn’t intend this! THIS VOIDS MY WARRANTY!”
“Shut up and put on some speed!” the Jeep honks. “They’re gaining on us!”
“Yes, I can see that, thank you,” Rav replies, tires beating a heavy tattoo against the asphalt. “I do have the latest Blind Spot Monitor!”
“Hope you have shock absorbers, too!” the Jeep honks gleefully, pulling ahead just as something slams into Rav’s left rear side, causing Owner Hale to swerve slightly and dig his claws into the steering wheel.
“What was THAT?” Rav says, engine revving in terror.
“God, you really are fresh off the lot,” the Jeep says. Its engine is purring. The freak of manufacturing must actually enjoy this.
“For the love of Toyota, my first owner used me to drive her kids to soccer practice! My tires aren’t even off-road!”
The Jeep gives a bellowing laugh that sounds like a backfire. “Welcome to the mean streets of Beacon Hills, fancy rims! Take the next left turn as hard as you can and pray your stabilizers work!”
Rav has been to the mechanic six times. There are stains in his upholstery that will never come out.
He and the Jeep have towed each other out of danger. He’s given the Jeep a battery jump twice. The Jeep took an impact made for him and never mentioned the new bumper.
The Jeep is still an asshole, but against all reason, Rav has grown fond of it. A little too fond of it: Lately, he’s been wishing Owner Hale would park them closer.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he says.
“Shoot,” the Jeep replies lazily. They haven’t been chased by anything in nearly a week, and they’re resting while their owners are parked inside.
“Do… Do you prefer gear sticks or, erm, tailpipes?” Rav asks, flicking his windshield wipers, a nervous tic he hasn’t managed to shake since the factory.
There’s a hum from the Jeep’s engine, like it’s considering. “Both.”
“Ah.” That doesn’t really tell him much. “So, would you say you’re fun and flirty…?” Rav hedges. “Or sporty and masculine? Your, uh. Your make. I mean.”
“Dude, I’m a dude,” the Jeep honks angrily. “How could you not know?”
“I didn’t want to assume,” says Rav quickly. “You’re a lovely neutral powdery blue. You don’t see that color much as an option anymore.”
“Custom paint job,” the Jeep replies, tires puffing up in pride.
“It looks good on you,” Rav says. “And your make doesn’t really matter to me one way or the other. I’m a Crossover, after all.”
The Jeep gives an amused beep. “You know what, Ravvie, you’re not so bad.”
“Yes?” Rav asks.
“I mean, you’re still kinda prissy,” the Jeep continues.
“Wanting a wash and wax once a week is not prissy,” Rav bristles. “Just because dust and Bondo aren’t holding me together—”
“See, that right there. That’s why you’re okay. I don’t mind being in the spot next to you.”
“Really?” Rav asks.
“Don’t let it go to your pretty little grille,” the Jeep says, rolling his headlights. “You’ve still got a lot to learn.”
Rav settles more comfortably in his space, feeling warmth flood his drive train. “Want me to turn on Pandora and roll down the windows?”
“I could go for some mood music,” the Jeep says carefully. “I’ve got some, uh. I’ve got some real nice motor oil in the back that I’ve been saving.”
Very slowly, they both pop open their doors until the metal edges are touching.
Derek and Stiles come down about half an hour later.
“What the hell happened to our cars?” Stiles asks.
Derek shrugs and, when Stiles isn’t looking, pats his car on the hood.
There’s a teacher….I’ll take care of her.
The steps are old, a dirty gray to go along with dingy walls, but they’re surprisingly sturdy. Her hand trails along the worn smooth bannister as she heads up the stairs, her other hand clutching her purse strap. The people hiding in the shadows seem more frightened of her than she is of them though, and none of them seem to have glowing eyes or fangs.
She can hear voices from the end of the hallway and startles when the door opens in front of her.
“-heading to Scott’s,” the boy says. “I’ll crash there tonight if it gets too late.”
His face is turned away from her, but she recognizes the curly hair and the angle of his jaw.
“Don’t forget you have a history test tomorrow,” another voice says.
Behind Isaac in the giant sprawl of a room Derek walks into view, drying his hands on a dish towel. He slows to a stop when he sees her and Isaac goes still.
“I’ll just, uh-” Isaac slips around her and disappears like a ghost, shooting one last look at Derek that she can’t begin to parse.
“I’m sorry for just dropping in like this,” she says, “but I wanted to thank you.”
She shifts as Derek continues to watch her with an unblinking gaze and then steps inside without invitation. The furniture is sparse and worn, but it looks clean. The cabinets in the kitchen are cracked, but the coffee maker looks new and for some reason it makes her smile.
She holds out the package and waits as Derek glances from it and back to her, blinking slowly.
“How did you find me?”
She lowers her arm. “You own the building,” she says simply, even though it had taken her three days to discover that fact. Her conversation with the Sheriff after the attack had been…interesting.
When it doesn’t look like he’s going to move she walks past him to the table and sets the box down gently. “Does Isaac stay here?” she asks meeting his eyes again. When he doesn’t answer she straightens her shoulders. “You saved my life and I’m thankful for that, but Isaac is my student and I have a responsibility to him.”
He looks at her for a moment longer before turning away, folding the dish towel into a neat square before he sets it on the counter. “Isaac knows he’s welcome here if he needs a place.”
“A place with a hole in the wall and at least a dozen squatters downstairs,” she says, moving until she’s in front of him.
His shoulders tense, but he doesn’t look up. “They’re not a danger to him.”
“Are you?” she asks bluntly, and watches a muscle jump in his jaw.
He takes a breath and then another before he raises his eyes. They’re not as shattered as they were three nights ago, but they still look bleak. “I would never let anyone hurt him. Not if I could stop it.”
She studies him for a minute before she nods slowly. Years of teaching teenagers has given her a pretty good idea of when someone is lying to her. “Okay,” she says, shoulders loosening. “I hope it fits, I had to guess on the size.” Derek’s eyebrows draw together and she smiles a little and nods to the box on the table. “To replace the one you lost.”
At the door she turns back. The box is open and Derek is running a hand over the soft olive colored t-shirt like he’s not sure what to do with it. It makes her ache for him, just a little, but she forces herself to walk back to her car and type out a quick, I’m safe, text.
The response is immediate, So what was it like meeting Batman?
She looks back up at the building, at the way the sunlight glances against the edges, just enough to make the shadows deeper. Sad, she types out, and then starts her car for home.
oh my god YES
inspired by 3x03 and Derek’s resignation in the face of death
“Like anybody’d care,” Derek mumbles, face turned away. Stiles makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat and Derek glances at him.
“Dude!” He says, voice annoyed and cracking, “do you know how like…fucking…boring it’d be around here if you died!” Stiles huffs, arms gesticulating wildly as he speaks. Derek gives him a look of disbelief, a tight scowl with something like hope burning at the edges.
“Seriously, who the hell would I engage in witty banter with,” he argues. “Peter?” He says it like an insult and the corner of Derek’s mouth quirks. Stiles grins at him, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the dude’s a worthy opponent but burying someone in a crawl space really puts a bit of a damper on the potential for a future relationship, you know?”
Derek still doesn’t look entirely convinced, but his body turns in Stiles’ direction, who shuffles forward a bit. “You’re kind of the sole reason I was a wanted fugitive for several months,” Derek points out.
“Okay, one…half of that was definitely Scott’s fault—“
“You’ve left me for dead,” Derek reasons.
“I felt bad about it!” Stiles shouts, but Derek is smirking now. “Besides, you slammed my head into a steering wheel!” Stiles reasons.
“You used my body as a form of bribery,” Derek argues.
“Punched me in the hand,” Stiles waves it in front of him, “It’s still bruised, I’ll probably have really bad tendonitis when I’m older, never be the piano player I’ve always dreamed. My hopes for the future have been crushed by your unwieldy wolf powers,” Stiles pouts.
Derek rolls his eyes, but his shoulders are less tense, the lines around his face smoothing out to something less harsh. There’s a long pause, Stiles scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor beneath him, awkwardly.
“Look,” Stiles says, voice soft, contrite, “I know almost dying is sort of part of the whole,” he gestures between them,” job description, thing, you know?” Derek catches his gaze before Stiles drops his. “But just…just stop making decisions based on some asinine belief that no one cares, okay?”
Derek looks like he’s about to argue, and Stiles shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. “Because I care, alright? Like…” he sighs heavily and flushes. Derek stares at him in stunned disbelief and Stiles feels his heart rate quicken, thumping loud in his chest.
“I’m not saying I want to be werewedded and raise your pups or anything, dude, just like…that it’s…you know it’s been…I mean it hasn’t sucked having you around or anything, lately.” Stiles’ hands fall listlessly to his sides and he sighs.
“I uh…” Derek clears his throat, stares at Stiles with his eyebrows raised high on his forehead. Stiles blinks at him, rolls his eyes. “You’re…useful,” Derek offers. Stiles raises a brow and stares at him.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he clutches at his chest dramatically. Derek huffs out an annoyed breath and turns to walk away. “Dear Diary,” Stiles narrates, trailing after him, “Derek Hale almost made a nice. Tomorrow, I’m going to share my pudding cup with him and see if he expresses emotions.”
“Go home, Stiles,” Derek throws over his shoulder.
“Okay, but I know your physical intimidation tactics are really just your way of expressing your fondness for me,” Stiles shouts after him, “no use denying it.”
“And you like me more than my homicidal undead uncle,” Derek tosses back.
Stiles smirks, waits until he’s nearly out of earshot, “those would make wonderful vows.”
Several yards away, Derek smiles for the first time in weeks.