TEEN WOLF IMAGINES

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PERCHED ON THE chilled bleachers built to the side of the ample lacrosse field, you pulled your coat tighter around your shivering body and glared up at the near full moon as if it was at fault for the cold, shadowed night, and the thick mist that spilt like smoke across the vast of green.

Coach blew his whistle from where he stood, next to Scott who was enjoying his final time as Assistant Coach before he left for UC Davis. As much as you were proud of your friend for making it into the college he applied for and he smiled happily whilst obtaining his final moments as Assistant Coach, the shrill sound screeching in your ears did not aid the pounding in your head initially provoked and brought on by the bright, bleach white floodlights looming down onto the pitch.

You let your eyes wander back down to the mass of lacrosse players filtered out and practising their gameplay for the next big match, before they singled in on your boyfriend. Number 9. The drills continued and you watched as Liam scooped the ball up from the ground and captured it within the pocket of weaved stringing and then proceeded to skillfully twist and dodge his way through the defenders that aimed to stop him.

Then, he drew his arms back before launching the ball strongly past the goalie that failed to seize it himself as it flew into the net, and Coach blew the whistle again - surprisingly commenting on his great shot without the dire sarcasm that usually seemed to seep from every word he spoke.

A few minutes later and Liam had the ball once again, only this time when he aimed to make yet another shot, someone roughly shoved into him and swept his feet out from under him. He landed on the floor with a thud, and you winced as you observed the scene, but not panicking as whatever hurt would heal instantly anyway.

You assumed everything was fine until Scott dropped his things and expeditiously rushed across the pitch from where he stood with Coach toward Liam who continued to reside on the hard ground - his back to you. You stood from your seat on the middle level of bleachers, your suddenly worrisome-struck eyes darting over the crouched figures of your boyfriend and good friend.

Scott grasped Liam's helmet between his hands and tugged his head down, shielding his face away from the other players who had stopped practising to witness what was happening, and you.

You had a feeling that you knew what Scott was attempting to conceal and there was clear confusion painted across your rosy features due to it; Liam had gotten so much better at keeping himself under control when playing the violent sport and even better at obtaining that same control near and on the full moons. So why had one hit from the opposing team sent him tumbling into a sudden loss of control?

Next thing you knew, the beta was ripping himself away from his alpha, wrenching his helmet off his head and forcefully hurling it onto the grassy land, and without so much as a glance over his shoulder, he raced off toward the school building. You caught Scott's dark chocolate eyes and before you could fully perceive the permissible nod he shot in your direction to indicate that you should follow him, you were bolting down the steps and across the field.