oh my god this is how Parks and Recreation explained Chris Pratt’s weight loss for Guardians of the Galaxy
I will always wonder how that child would be…
The next Next Gen is looking terrifying
in a good way
I was watching the episode Bad News, which always makes me cry, when I noticed…THE FUCKING NUMBERS
THEY COUNTED DOWN TO MARSHAL FINDING OUT HIS DAD DIED!!!
Kids work together to create eternal recess
They’re staring at each other across the narrow table, the silver gun still spinning sickly between them. The hunter had placed it there with a laugh and a twist of his wrist, a dark parody of spin the bottle. It’s an old-fashioned, single-action revolver, probably chosen more for dramatic effect than necessity if the rest of the hunters’ arsenal is anything to go by. The rest of their arsenal is impressive.
…One of them is going to die.
“I could just pick it up and empty it into your chest,” Stiles grits, gaze flitting from Derek to the hunter. But his eyes are on the assault rifle in the man’s hand. The man shrugs, clearly unconcerned.
“One in six chance you’ll get me before I get you. Best odds of the night. Wouldn’t you rather save that for you or your freak boyfriend?”
“He’s not my—“
But the hunter isn’t listening. The door opens and the two men that had helped snatch them back in town enter, and Stiles can’t help feeling like they’d missed their only chance. Their only chance.
One of them is going to die.
The gun slows to a stop, barrel hovering uncertainly between them.
“The rules to the game are simple. One bullet, six chances. You pick it up and take turns pulling the trigger on the other man, or we gun you both down right now. You play along, only one of you has to die. Fun game, huh?”
“There are always options. Derek, tell me there are options.”
Three hunters, spaced out across the room, armed with rapidfire, high-powered weapons. One potential bullet on their side, and a vulnerable human in the crossfire.
“The option is you shoot me.”
Stiles breath rattles out, sharp and angry.
“Or you shoot me.”
Derek’s gaze falls away.
Stiles is staring at Derek, taking in the lines and shadows of his face with unnerving focus. Derek looks down, eyes going across the chipped wooden tabletop to the gun.
“All the times I joked about shooting you in the face…”
Stiles’ voice rattles out too high, too thin. His palms are pressed-flat and white on the table, a sharp contrast to the dark wood. Derek’s own hand goes out, drifting along the uneven surface, and stops halfway between Stiles and the gun.
Stiles tracks the movement, a soft sound dragging from his throat.
“One in six, huh?”
His hands both move at once, the left one going out to grab Derek’s, squeezing tightly. The other has the gun a second later, cocking back the hammer, pressing the barrel to Derek’s forehead and squeezing the trigger.