Isaac used to walk around shoulders hunched and eyes cast down, wearing oversized hoodies and in general making himself as invisible as possible.
A few weeks into being a werewolf and you could see the difference. He stood tall, shoulders squared and head held high. The hoodies were still there but now they fit instead of swallowing him whole. No longer did Isaac flinch every time anyone addressed him or avoid looking people in the eyes.
But then again, he didn’t get beaten at every imagined slight or wrongdoing. He wasn’t locked up in a dark, cramped box every night for a week for failing a test. He wasn’t alone any more.
And if Scott had anything to say in the matter, he never would be.
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And the review I got:
well were is stiles in all of this, he always loved Scott so i don’t think he will accept that situation, and if he discovers that he has magic, that he becomes an Arch-Madge, he will be extremely powerful and beware those who don’t fall into his grace
TELL ME HOW YOUR REVIEW HAS ANY CONNECTION TO MY STORY???!!?
Seriously. I don’t even…
sex or food?
Or the one where Derek finds Stiles’ YouTube channel where he works his way through all the memes currently making rounds on the internet.
“Sex. Not that I have much in the way of personal experience in the matter, you know, with another person that is, but I’m sure it’ll be way better than any food in the world.”
Stiles moves on to the next question but Derek barely registers any of it, it’s hard to concentrate from the blood rushing in his ears, he can feel his heart beat at least a hundred and there’s the familiar tightening in his jeans as always when Derek thinks of Stiles. Or sex. Or especially Stiles and sex in the same context.
Damn but the kid was brain-meltingly gorgeous. A maddening mix of innocence and precociousness and Derek wanted him, so bad it was driving him slowly insane. Something would have to give, and soon - before someone else snapped the kid up and that would not do.
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Wifey wanted fluff to brighten up her day. It’s small and written in a hurry but hope you like.
616 words, rating G, I suppose? It’s just fluffy.
I am yours
It’s barely more than a breath, buried into his skin and muffled by Stiles’ hood but Derek hears every word crystal clear and doesn’t miss the emphasis. He can’t find the words to respond, to tell Stiles how the confession fills him with some unnamed and untamed emotion, how every fibre of his being sings as if to say ‘yes, you are mine and I am yours’. So instead he just holds Stiles close, buries his head in the crook of the boy’s neck and closes his eyes.
Shaun always said that, ‘go away’.
But what he really meant was ‘you’re gorgeous and way too distracting and I like you but maybe I shouldn’t think of you that way, better if you go before I say something I will regret’.
But Desmond stubbornly refused to go away, no matter how many time Shaun snapped at him and slowly Shaun started to think that maybe it would not be a total disaster if he did say something.
Next time Desmond came to peer over his shoulder Shaun swallowed, turned to face the assassin and said ‘Hello Desmond. Cup of coffee?’
He didn’t regret it.
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A sort of a prelude to a Christmas fic I’m writing for Maura, but mainly an attempt to give words to my own anxieties about the coming holiday season, an exercise in keeping sane if you like.
Christmas. Not Danny’s favourite time of the year. It used to be, back when his dad was alive, there used to be laughter and presents and watching the game on Boxing Day and they were a family. Now…now Mari fussed with presents and cards and decorations, mother made too much food for four and went to bed early. Carver emerged from his room only to eat and Danny…Danny escaped to Correm’s as soon as feasible, most of all because it hurt too much to keep pretending everything was just fine.
He hadn’t cried since the funeral, at least not where anyone could see. The nights spent lying awake in the dark were his own, he didn’t want anyone to know he cried onto his pillow like a baby because he missed his dad. Mother cried all the time, Mari sometimes too and Carver was just irritable, but every Christmas they tried to be a family again - and failed.
So no, Christmas was not the time of joy and peace for Danny. Not for a long while.
if you play with my hair until i fall asleep i will fall in love with you
Have a ficlet.
It’s a silly thing, surely not something Isaac would ever confess to anyone but he liked people playing with his hair.
See, when he was little - back when he still had a family - it was the guaranteed way to get him to fall asleep, mom carding her fingers through his too-long hair while telling a good-night story.
So when he started having nightmares and Derek and Stiles created the Arrangement to help him, of course he managed to have an absolutely disastrous night when it was the girls’ turn to mind him. And when he couldn’t settle back to sleep, he’d laid his head on Lydia’s lap and she had smoothed his sweaty curls away from his eyes and somehow he’d relaxed at once.
It was their little secret thing after that, his and Allison’s and Lydia’s. There were things the others did for him that were nice and made him fall asleep again but this was the best, the one he loved the most.
I am need of some syrupy sweet fluff in my life, so here’s a little something I wrote.
As usual, thank you to Janice :)
For the hundredth time in the five minutes he’d stood outside the McCall house Isaac went through all the ways in which this could go wrong in his mind, gathering the courage to go through with his plan. C’mon, get a grip on yourself and get on with it!
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This is for Janice. Thank you.
They hardly ever get to spend an entire night together, Peter can count on one hand the times he’s woken up with Chris in the past two years. It’s something to treasure then, the rare occasions he gets to watch his boyfriend sleep.
A glance at the bedside clock tells Peter they have a few hours yet, he can spare the time to admire the beauty of the boy next to him. There are fading bruises, Chris says they’re nothing, just leftovers from his training sessions with Gerard but they fill Peter with an irrational hatred for the man. There are some from him too, but they were made with love, not cruelty. His own are already fading though the memory of them remains, a reminder of how much they trust one another - either one more than capable of causing real harm but choosing not to.
Chris stirs in his sleep as Peter’s fingers ghost along his jaw then neck and shoulder, before stopping at the faded scar on his stomach. They trace absent circles there while Peter gets lost in his own thoughts.
Two years. Two whirlwind years since he first laid eyes on Chris on class and they’d hit it off instantly. The hunter and the hunted, what an improbable - impossible - match, but he wouldn’t change it for the world. He would want nothing more than stay like this forever, just the two of them in the night. Everything he wants - all he would ever want - is right here next to him and knowing that his feelings are returned in equal measure makes Peter feel…whole, complete - like never before.
A drabble for Janice. Because of reasons.
Chris takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. Eighteen years since they’d last seen one another and the last six of them he’d spent thinking Peter had died in the Hale fire.
But now he was back. Standing in the doorway with that familiar smirk on his face, looking drop-dead gorgeous in the failing light. This was harder than Chris had expected, that he and Peter had been lovers in highschool was a secret he’d never told Victoria, not once in their twenty years together and now…Victoria was gone and Peter was here.
The silence stretches between them until at last Chris turns to Peter, determined to send him away, they are strangers now - there is nothing between them now. But he stops, unable to make the words come out, feeling like he’s drowning and for a moment cannot even draw breath.
There is something…a softening in Peter’s eyes as he watches Chris struggle. For once he doesn’t offer a snarky remark but instead brushes his hand against Chris’s, just a little, but it’s enough to remind them both of the fire that once existed between them.
“If you are not going to stay, you’d best leave now….” Chris finds the words at last, but they both know what he really means isdon’t leave me.Peter steps closer and still without saying a word brings the fingers clasped in his hand to his lips and kisses the bruised knuckles lightly, his eyes never leaving the other man’s.
They never make it to the bedroom in the end, shirts and shoes and jeans found littered on the floor still in the morning. It’s a good thing Allison is away for the weekend, Chris doesn’t really want her to know this, not yet with her mother gone such a short time. But Peter is here to stay, if the whispered promises in the night are to be believed and Chris does, Peter doesn’t lie - not to him.
argh. Attempting to get back into writing and…asfasklkal idk, not that great but at least it’s words, eh? *hopeful*
Would it ring true here, at the last mile to walk?
I wanted to take part in Sketchavember but I didn’t have any idea what to doodle, so I looked back what I drew last November.
The cold November wind bit through wool and leather into your very bones, no matter how many layers you wore. Not that Fenris noticed the cold, his mind was utterly occupied with other things.
You’re free now, there is nothing to keep you here any more.
It was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? To be free? Not beholden to any man ever again. He’d as good as driven Garrett away and now…now there was no way back.
Fenris didn’t stop until he was beyond sight of the city gates, far out along the Wounded Coast. There was no one to see him fall to his knees in the snow and weep. He wept for himself, for Garrett, for freedom that felt more like a prison and for words unsaid that could now never be said.
Trying to find my way back to writing…
I have a headcanon that Stiles was with his dad at the station after the Hale fire, barely eight or nine, and the Sheriff just told him to leave Derek alone because he went through something painful. And Stiles just didn’t listen, walking over and handing him his extra band-aid, the one his mother tucked into his pocket just in case.
I don’t know okay I’ve been in an art block for more than a week. This is silly.
Be careful with that paper heart, Carver. They tear easily.
Seriously, someone take my tablet away from me or I’ll just draw Carver and hearts and bubbles with gobs and gobs of pink forever and ever.
He got the first one at fourteen. Just a square of paper with a pink heart on it. No signature, no name - it just arrived in his locker on Valentine’s Day.
They arrive every year after that the same way. He becomes obsessed with finding out who his mysterious admirer is but never catches them. He takes Peaches to the junior prom because she’s pretty and laughs at his jokes but she would never draw a heart for him.
The last one sits in his now-empty locker on his last day of highschool, he almost misses it, he almost didn’t go back and check it. He picks up the now-familiar paper and sees it’s smudged, like someone had cried when drawing on it.
He keeps them all in a box under his bed, he takes them with him to bootcamp, ties them in a bundle and slips them under his uniform when he’s sent to fight.
He’s twenty-one and recovering in an army hospital when they meet. She’s twenty, all midnight hair and emerald eyes, the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. She sits by his bed every night and they talk, long into the night.
She tells him of the boy she loved all through highschool, she never had the courage to even ask his name. She laughs and tells of the paper hearts she used to draw for the boy every Valentine’s Day but never knowing if he kept them. He takes her hand and softly tells the story of the hearts that he’d kept with him throughout his travels, how he always wanted to meet the girl who sent them.
So maybe he stays at the hospital a little longer than is strictly necessary. And maybe she accepts a transfer to be closer to him when he leaves. Maybe they do live happy ever after.
But that’s another story.
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