In his first year of vampirism, James McGuinty took a trip to his hometown. 

He hadn’t seen his mother since Christmas 2004. It was October 2006, when he finally made another pilgrimage home. He had moved all the way from Timmins to Montreal, another province over, and the drive was almost 10 hours. He had plenty of excuses prepared about why he hadn’t been visiting: he had been working two jobs then transitioned to a full time position that demanded a lot of his time, the drive was far and gas was expensive, he had been sick for a period of time just before Christmas 2005, etc etc. His mother didn’t love hearing him rattle off explanations for why he hadn’t visited or called in so long. All that mattered was that he came back. When he did, though, he was... different. He was pale, cold all the time, and slept all day. Still, he was in good spirits; he was the happiest he had been in quite some time. 

He spent three weeks at home before making a sudden rush back to Montreal. But before he left, someone else did too: Charlie Fletcher, failed minor league hockey player and highschool bully. Charlie had fallen from grace in the years before his disappearance. Once the most promising athlete in his highschool, Charlie had gotten into a pretty bad car accident just after graduation. The townsfolk rumoured that there was alcohol involved, but Charlie wouldn’t talk about it. His plans to go to Carleton University and play for the Ravens were squandered. Instead he stayed in Timmins, bought a gym, and eventually married his high school girlfriend. His failure to live out his dreams turned to bitterness and resentment, and his bully tactics got worse. With a few arrests under his belt by Thanksgiving of ‘06, mostly DUIs, a few bar fights, and a couple of domestic “disturbance” charges, Charlie was well on his way to becoming a mostly forgotten footnote in Timmins history and remembered as a frequent visitor to the local police lockup.

All of that changed a few days after Thanksgiving 2006. It was a mild October night, a Wednesday. October 11th, 2006. Rain and fog enveloped the town. James had gone to meet a few friends at a bar that night to catch up; to tell them how Montreal was, to tell them how his mom had been doing, to ask them how their families were, to ask how things had been since he’d seen them last. It was going well until Charlie walked into the bar, already belligerent. When he saw James and his friends, he had to hurl a few insults their way. It was a tradition that brought back some of the most painful memories of adolescence for the fledgling vampire: memories of a broken tooth, a broken arm, black eyes, heads shoved in toilets, bodies shoved in lockers, 4 years of torture and a hell of a lot of ice packs. It brought up a rage in him, and an idea, one he hadn’t considered until he realized that now he could take him. Now, he was strong enough to fight back. Now, he was devious enough to pretend to leave early, and lie in wait in the alley beside the bar until the moment was right. A few friends left with him, and told him how Charlie Fletcher had fared since high school. They told him of his bride Chantal and her broken, her black eyes, the ones she hid in the summer behind sunglasses and in the winter with cakey concealer. That sealed the decision for him; Charlie Fletcher had to die. So James walked off, far enough that everyone would think he left. Then, slowly, he made his way back to the bar. There, in the alley, he waited.

Just before closing time, Charlie Fletcher wandered out of the bar, drunk. It wasn’t hard to grab him from behind and drag him behind the bar. James wanted to draw things out, make him suffer, but he didn’t want to get caught. Charlie’s death was quick, but vicious. He tried to fight back. When the long sharp fangs in James’s mouth plunged into his neck, he thrashed. The teeth ripped through his skin, his veins. The scene was gruesome. Blood poured out of open wounds, chunks of flesh sat on the pavement, and James drank as much blood as he could manage in one sitting. When he was done, he dragged the body to a dumpster and shoved it inside. He snuck through the dark, as fast as he could manage, to the banks of the Mattagami River. He took a book of matches from his pocket and burned his clothes (save for his underwear) and dumped the remains in the water before rinsing the blood off of his skin. He headed home, lucky not to be spotted. It was quiet, and he knew the town well. He snuck in through the back door of his mother’s house, took a shower, and retired to bed as if nothing had occurred.

By the time Charlie’s body was found two days later, the cause of death was hard to determine. Nobody figured that a human could’ve done such damage. It looked like he had been attacked by an animal, and in the intervening days had been snacked on by rats and maggots, further complicating matters. Although everyone in town had suspicions about who or what killed Charlie Fletcher, he was buried without anyone ever knowing the truth.

James left town a few days later so as to not leave too quickly and raise suspicions. After all, his friends saw him leave. They walked with him down the street. He was never brought in for questioning, nor was James, inches shorter and many pounds lighter than Charlie, ever a suspect.

For a while, the guilt bothered him. But this was the life he had chosen. It wasn’t pointless, either; he had feasted on his blood. He needed blood to keep on living, and Charlie had proven himself to be a real waste of space. A bully. An abuser. Still, a life had been taken, and with it a sense of peace and innocence.

James McGuinty continued to carry that burden. Gerard de Noailles did not.

opinion on my boy scott mccall </3 (doesn’t remember shit from the show)

(this gets really long lol this is your warning but you CAN’T ask for my opinion on teen wolf and expect a short answer)

i have really mixed feelings about scott mccall.

on one hand he was a child. he was a sixteen year old boy, a high school sophomore, barely old enough to drive. he was quiet and awkward and he wanted something for himself (s1e1, him saying he needs to get a good nights sleep so he can make first line in lacrosse). his best friend showed up and asked if he didn’t want to explore something weird and gory in the woods of their small town where nothing ever happened. and scott, a kid, aid “sure” because what else are you supposed to say when your best friend wiggles his eyebrows at you with the promise of adventure?

so i feel for him. because his life became something so different without his consent. because the first girl he ever fell in love with was being raised in a family that was trying to murder him (and then died in his arms). because he didn’t have a choice in becoming a werewolf.

and that’s about how far my sympathy extends. he didn’t choose the bite but every choice that came after was his own. telling derek peter deserved to get burned alive, that the hunters must’ve had a reason for setting fire to the hale house — despite the fact that there were innocent children, innocent human children that had nothing to do with the supernatural, living in that house. his perfect golden boy morals are infuriating. scott believes he is so much better than everyone. the show wants the audience to feel this way too. but he isn’t. he turns derek in to the police in s1e7 “night school”, telling the cops that derek is the one who was threatening them, derek is the one who killed the janitor when scott knew for a fucking fact that derek had just been trying to help him. that derek wasn’t the alpha.

hell, at this point, it was more likely that deaton was the alpha.

but scott decides that it doesn’t matter. because he hates derek. because derek is a monster. because he’s a monster just like derek and he hates that.

and then season 2. god season 2 makes me horribly angry. going behind everyone’s backs, using derek — a victim of grooming, of sexual assault, who was used by gerard’s daughter to get information that got his entire family fucking murdered —, physically forcing derek to bite gerard when he fucking knows that derek sees the bite as a gift. that being a werewolf is important to derek, is something he sees as a beautiful, positive part about himself and his family and his upbringing. to manipulate derek into giving a violent man who wants him dead, who is happy about the fact his entire family died, into giving him the most precious gift derek can possibly offer? evil evil evil. and, yeah, gerard doesn’t become a werewolf because of the mountain ash in his bloodstream, but derek didn’t fucking know that. to derek, he was being used to give another argent exactly what they wanted.

he could’ve told derek. but he didn’t. didn’t tell anybody. because his morals are what are more important, he knows better than everyone, he’s the good guy. and he’s not! he’s not a good guy! dozens upon dozens of innocent people die because scott mccall refuses to kill the bad guys. because “we don’t kill people” only applies to him so he can keep his hands clean. the bad guys? hell, they can kill the whole fucking town. wipe beacon hills clean. but as long as scott doesn’t rip their throats out he’s okay. he’s the good guy.

well, sorry, but those hands are still blood stained. refusing to kill the people doing harm when you had all the power to stop them?

those deaths are still on you.

anyway! i could actually keep going. but i will not because this is already really long. teen wolf is my biggest obsession and hyperfixation of all time i have sosososo much to say about it.

tldr; scott mccall is not the perfect golden boy he wants the audience to believe he is. he’s kind of an asshole and he was mean to derek. and no one is allowed to be mean to derek. because derek is my baby sugar plum pookie bear.

your opinion on…?