#a study in pov

[tothewheel]

We’re standing under the neon vacancy sign of the motel, and you’re starin’ at me and I’m lookin’ anywhere else. I’m takin’ a drag of the cig and handing it back to you, and I’m tryin’ to drag my eyes away from you takin’ a pull of it.

“Don’t it bother you?” you say, and I finally flick my eyes back up to yours. “That shit your dad says?”

I smile despite myself, ‘cause you’re just so damn honest. Not joking so I got nothin’ to snap back with. It’s new to me, the way you talk: all honest and genuine but still quick and funny. Not that stupid soft shit chicks are into, but not all rough edges like I am. I think I like it a little more than I prob’ly should.

I cross my arms over my chest and stare back out at the sky. Even after all these years, I still like it out here in small Midwest towns rather than the big East Coast cities. Lets you see more stars, and sometimes I can look up and pretend I’m at a ranch out in the country rather than a motel on the edge of another nameless town. “Do you get along with your dad?” I finally say.

You scrunch your nose up and pass me back the cig, and I’m smiling too much to take a drag of it. “Not the same, Dean,” you say.

I snort and take another drag, slow and careful with it. I can feel your eyes on me, and damn if I don’t blush. You prob’ly think I blush easy, with how much you make me do it, but it’s only you that brings it out. Only you.

“Sure, Lee,” I say. “Sure.”

And here’s the thing I’m not saying: I like that you care but I got no freakin’ clue what to do with it. No clue how to tell you all the shit about my dad ‘cause it’s been balled up inside me for years and I got a strict set of instructions in my brain when it comes to him. How to survive. How to survive when it feels like I got a shotgun for a father.

I told you once that sometimes I feel like no more than an extension of my dad and his gun and you took my hands in yours so gently, so gently and said you’re so much more and if I didn’t know any better I’d’ve started crying right then and there.

I don’t get you, Lee. You’re all lefts and rights. Rights and wrongs, sugar and salt. A hunter but not like me ‘n dad, a drinker but you don’t got that anger that comes with it, a lover but you ain’t cheap and fast about it.

I try not to think about how I know that when I see dad’s car pull up, like he’d be able to read my mind.

“You should go,” I say, dropping the stub of the cig and scuffing it under the toe of my boot. Dad’s headlights turn off.

“I thought the old man liked me,” you say playfully, with a little half-smile, but you know. We both know.

Sure, he tolerates you on hunts, but that’s about the extent to which he tolerates anyone- and that’s including me ‘n Sammy, even if I won’t say that to you. Last time he caught us drinkin’ together this late at night he pulled a gun on you. And when you left, he tucked his gun away and took out his fists.

Sometimes, I think I’d prefer the gun.

“Don’t know if he really likes anyone,” I say, laughing, but it comes out weak- nothin’ really to laugh about, I’m just tryin’ to make it seem better than it is. You see right through me and I know it. “And he sure won’t like… this.” I gesture between us, and you nod.

“See you, then,” you say, and I nod, and for a second I think you might kiss me, but you walk right past me and into the night.

I stare after you as you leave ‘cause I wanted it so bad I can’t think.

[araneapeixes]

study group is not going so well

[charmwasjess]

Maybe unpopular opinion, but I actually do like the way the whole “oh yeah, sometimes Jedi fuck” stuff is presented in recent books, because of course, the emphasis on it being a personal, individual choice, but also the implication that many Jedi do not fuck. Not because sex is forbidden or shame-based in the culture, but because within the Order, people more often choose not to, to the point that the footnote mention of “oh, but some do” needs to exist in current canon. 

It’s a society of communal living. Everyone pitches in on everything from childrearing to food growing to medicine, regardless of interpersonal relationships. Titles like father or wife that tie reproductive/family cycles to lifetime connections or property don’t exist. I love the idea of many Jedi choosing celibacy happily, and the Temple being a great place to live a lifestyle where your connection to others are expressly not dictated by a romantic or sexual relationship. And the inherent, platonic intimacy of a psychically-connected community. I really love thinking about it.

[ghostieblr]

Peter's Vows

When Derek is born, there is an earthquake. Beacon Hills is many things, but it is not a place of earthquakes. This is an anomaly, this sudden shaking of the land, and Peter watches Talia go through the pain of birthing a cub, and he makes note of how her cries resonate with the moving earth. As the baby is brought to the world of the living, the earth shakes more; giddy, Peter thinks of the land. Giddy at this baby's birth. That's what it is.

The town reels with the destruction, however minimal it seems to be. It is the strangeness of the earthquake that has the people in a panic, and it takes two days of Mayor Yukimura calling for council meetings and community barbecues that they begin to somehwat calm down.

The baby is named Derek on the first day itself, born underneath the Nemeton, his pale blue eyes reflecting the moonlight in silver hues. Talia sobs with relief, Nathan beside her, stroking her hair. Laura is back at the pack house, safely tucked in the bed, the rest of the pack members keeping watch. Talia had wanted to bring her with them, fearing the worst of the anomaly, but their mom had convinced her to not do it. The birth of the Alpha's cub is a big deal, but it is also private: only the Mate, Emissary and Left Hand are allowed to be present, for comfort, safety, and protection, respectively.

It has been tradition since ages, and Talia is the last person to break it.

Derek is a calm baby. Sleeps through the night, doesn't cry for attention. Only does it for feeding, his survival instinct as strong as his lungs. Peter adores him, even if he may never admit it to anyone.

He is also curious about the boy. Why an earthquake? It cannot be a coincidence. Truly, he wonders how some people can be so dumb. Calling it a coincidence is insulting to the Powers That Be, which must have called upon such a natural reaction of the land for a reason. Derek is a special boy, and Peter vows to find out how.

Besides his incredibly compassionate heart, that is.

It is in his eyes, which have slowly turned into a kaleidoscope of colors, the kindness of him. Derek's trust is not so easily earned, but once it is, it is extremely difficult to dislodge it.

Derek is a boy destined to become a kind man, one that will be an Alpha with mercy in his heart but cunning in his mind. Peter sees the makings of it right from the beginning, the way the boy will procure solutions to his own problems as well as those he deems important to him. Laura is the first born and thus has the claim to being the next Hale Alpha, however Peter knows, somehow, perhaps instinctually, that Derek will be the Alpha.

Another piece of the puzzle falls in place when their emissary falls pregnant. She's an amazing woman, Claudia. Peter likes her wit and humor, and he enjoys the perspective of her husband, the deputy, and if luck is on his side, soon-to-be Sheriff of Beacon Hills. Peter is happy for the couple.

He is, also, astonished to see an almost five-year-old Derek climb onto Claudia's lap one morning, his small fists rubbing against his eyes, and his nose scrunching determinedly to find a scent.

Peter remembers the conversation well.

"Derek, honey? What are you trying to find?"

"Mine," is what Derek growls in reply to Claudia, and shoves his nose against her barely-showing belly.

Peter's laughing figure is shot out of the end of the couch and onto the floor by Claudia's impeccable throw of one of the decorative pillows from said couch.

Thereafter, it was peculiar but not unseemly to find Derek following beside Claudia, his whole little being focused on the life forming inside her. And when the night came, Peter wasn't at all surprised to witness the thunderstorm.

Claudia had plans of giving birth in the hospital, but due to miscalculated steps, or simply because of reasons not privy to them, the best possible option left for her seemed to be below the Nemeton.

John had lost his damn mind at the prospect. "It's raining! Heavily!"

"Talia gave birth in an earthquake," Claudia says through gritted teeth, "And the baby doesn't care, nor do I, John. It is—"

Her words are cut off by another scream, and she is right, of course. It is time.

Talia, John, and Peter are the only ones who should go with her, but Derek, the little sneaky wolf that he seems to have become, follows them. It isn't until halfway through that John, the human, realizes his presence first.

They move forward with the determined little boy, who is all sopping wet in his wolf onesie, and really, this is no laughing matter. Except it is.

Claudia is brought below the Nemeton, and the tree, big and branching and beautiful, hums in their presence. The canopy of it sheds them some, but not completely.

And so, under hard rain and sharp thunderstorms, Mieczysław Stilinski is born, his little body almost white under the moonlight, and his eyes, when they open, a shock of topaz, like a glinting jewel; a fallen angel, Peter thinks.

Derek carefully wraps the baby in the blanket Talia removes from the packed bag, her movements locked onto her son's and the baby's, while John tends to his wife.

Peter watches. He notes the way the baby is calmest in Derek's arms, the way Derek is mesmerized.

This is more than just being True Mates.

True Mates itself are the rarest of occurrences, but something tells him this is more than that. The earthquake, and this sudden rain, in April of all things, simply cannot be coincidence. There must be a reason, one that Peter must uncover.

In the coming years, he dedicates his time to the quest, and finds that, oh, this is something unique indeed.

Unique to the point of legend.

Of course, he gathers facts before telling anyone. Derek's control goes onto the list, as does his ability to switch between his shift as easy as breathing. Having such control at the age of seven is almost impossible, but he has it without the growing ego that would have inflated anyone else's with the amount of praise he gets.

Stiles, as Derek had nicknamed Mieczysław almost immediately post his arrival in the world, is no human. His mother's line has some pretty strong magical abilities, but the kind of power that this boy exudes surpasses imagination. Nobody notices at first, not even Peter, until Stiles is a couple of months past his third birthday. It truly isn't until Derek, almost nine, comes down from his room one day into the kitchen, says, "Which packet, Stiles?" that they realize it.

"Honey, he isn't a wolf. He cannot hear you," Nathan tells him, but Derek just shrugs.

"He is for today."

Peter hears the, "Blue one! Blue one! Blue is sooo pretty, Derek!" from Stiles, who is definitely sitting in Derek's room, upstairs.

Derek grabs the blue packet and goes upstairs, and Peter follows, followed by Talia and Nathan, who beckon Claudia as well.

Stiles sitting on the floor, a myriad of toys around him, while the packets of chips sit beside him, torn open, evidently by Derek's claws, who himself is playing with Stiles.

And they're both being fed flying chips.

The three wolves turn to Claudia as one. Her shaking head and awed face is enough to clue them in, and really, Peter thinks, this is fucking incredible.

Powers don't manifest as early as this in magic wielders. They're more of the puberty package, tied to emotions at the beginning rather than will.

This is... defying it.

Peter loves to see when the next piece of the puzzle will fall.

And it does oh so enticingly.

Years later, when Derek is fourteen and Stiles is almost nine, comes the first trial. The Alpha Summit & The Argent Treaty.

Peter doesn't believe Gerard's words to do no harm, so he sets up precautions in place. It pays off, because during the summit, he almost ends up blinding Deaucalion — something that could have turned super bad if left unchecked.

Gerard's attack is met with swift retaliation, but somehow, only his goons end up dead. Gerard himself remains free, and through sheer will, maybe, the old man manages to kidnap Laura.

By the time the adults sniff out their cub, they're too late.

Not in the sense of Laura being hurt, but in the terms of missing the action, somewhat.

When they enter the warehouse, they are faced with Gerard being held down by a black wolf, fangs around his neck, the eyes of the creature a deep, ruby red. Deeper than Talia's. At first, they all assume it to be one of the visiting Alphas, but then they realize Stiles' presence, too, and it clicks.

Stiles frees Laura from the painful looking electric rod, and comes back to Derek, coaxes him back to his human form as Peter and Nathan take care of the psychopath.

Laura lets Talia mother her, and then says, "We'll have two Alphas."

Talia looks at the now human Derek, and eyes shining with pride, she nods. "Come here, both of you," she beckons, and the boys run, Stiles' chattering a comforting sound for all of them.

A few weeks later, Derek admits to everyone he has a new friend, and talks about her often. Paige this, Paige that. Laura teases him, restrained in her words, trying not to upset Derek's control. Even Cora pulls back. Stiles, though, is almost worse.

He riles Derek to the point of him using his Alpha voice to shut up, and the whole Pack silences itself, even Talia. Stiles, though — an exception to all things sane — doesn't back down. The voice doesn't work on him, and Derek isn't phased by it. However, the smell of guilt filters through their home, and Stiles' sigh is followed by comforting words. There is no apologizing though.

Soon, they'll learn from Derek himself that he hates that everyone is walking on eggshells. That is why he kept bringing up Paige, so that someone would tease him, uncle Peter, Laura, Cora. Or that Stiles would rile him up.

"Why would he, though? He should be happy for you. I am." Cora's words are met with a laugh from Derek, and a groan of embarrassement from Stiles.

"He's weirdly possessive — don't push me, you know you are."

"Alright," Stiles sighs, "I am."

"And Paige is a great friend, but I don't nearly think about her as much as I might have let you all believe."

And that is when Peter sees it. The blink-and-you-will-miss-it purple flash of Stiles' eyes. Peter doesn't put thought into why now; he simply focuses on completing the puzzle.

And he does. True Alpha and Purple Eyes? That's easy.

That's legend.

Set in stone as the first Alpha and the first Emissary as well as Spark, who, arguably, also set in stone the sword of Excalibur.

That part of the legend has questionable sources, though. Sure, Merlin Emrys is, as per theories, the most powerful sorcerer of all time, and Arthur Pendragon the greatest ruler, the once and future king, but it doesn't have as much merit.

What Peter is sure about is that somehow, the Powers That Be decided that this is the pack to send these two to.

He watches Stiles argue about the best type of pasta with Derek, and thinks, suddenly, that perhaps this is their happy ending. What legends end happy? None. So this must be their time to be happy.

Peter vows another quest, then. To always protect Derek and Stiles.

[tagidearte]

His instructions were very clear. Yet there you are, hand on a now broken light switch.

Timelapse of the rendering process under read more. (a little study. This is the second time I paint Sun mid switch, I think it's just great)

Wahoo. Let's be real - if you're an adult, he tells you "don't turn off the lights", and you proceed to do just that to the point they break, I think he'd be more than happy to let Moon out for some enrichment. Some play time.

[secretly-a-trekkie]

POV you're on hour 10 of studying for your Calc exam and wanna give up but these two are staring into your soul

[geminicafe]

seeing people hate on hayffie so intensely after sunrise on the reaping has singlehandedly made me ship them out of spite. the hate means nothing to me. a valiant attempt by miss suzanne to get rid of the shippers, but it was silly and i'm built different. that being said, please give me fic recs <3<3<3

[lucky-fy]

For the Laicion nation (aka, me and three other people)

I had this illustration commissioned (a big thank you to @lunehowls) for my werewolf AU Laicion fic (still a WIP).

The general pitch is as follows :

AU in which Laios never got to meet his sister again, putting his life on a whole other path, a more desperate one. A military deserter with barely a coin to his name, Laios hitches a ride on a boat to one of the elven continents, where he learns about magical tattoos that binds one’s soul to a wolf’s, effectively making them artificial werewolves. Illegal magic be damned, this feels like the answer to… everything.

In the process, he learns about the existence of an illegal fighting ring in one of the elven cities, where beastmen gladiators gather. Freshly tattooed and without anywhere else to go to, Laios decides to head there, where he meets Lycion, an elf and artificial werewolf gladiator. If they first bond over a simple shared meal, by spending time together (sharing the same room in the barracks, maybe the same bed? gasp) they find that they have a lot in common, notably a shared distaste for the body they were born in, a dysphoria partially remedied by becoming a werewolf.

They bond :)

NB: I commissioned another piece, go take a look :D

[yahllyn]

the brainworms have won

i'll back back to the scheduled fluff art now 😭

[tragedry]

"i'm sorry," and it's a promise. to do better. to stay. to never repeat the same mistake as leaving him behind.

"not your fault," and it's forgiveness. it's understanding. it's taking away the burden of her guilt because he'd never fault her for choosing to protect his sister when that's always been his priority.

[astrowarr]

“How d’you care so little?” Joel fumes, eyes ablaze as he paces around the shattered glass and splintered wood of his car. It's pretty well decimated, and he's been growling and frothing about it in Gem's ear for an hour now. 

She prods testily at the soft, upturned earth carefully covering their pitfall. “It's not that I don't care,” she huffs, jumping back when the dirt crumbles a little under the toe of her boot. She glances up at Joel, who is practically shaking with rage. He can't keep his eyes off the dumb car. “You know, you really could've fixed it by now.”

Beat of silence. Then, pouting and everything, he grumbles feebly, “Shut up, Gem.” 

There's no heat behind it. If anything, her words seemed to have knocked the wind from his sails of war; he's slumped against the car now, arms crossed as he glares to the side dramatically. God, he sure does put on a show, she thinks with an overwhelming wave of affection. 

It's not that Gem doesn't care. But she can't get this feeling from the four mangrove walls of her stupid barn. She can't even get it from winning. So they can burn down everything she owns, take every last life she has to spare. In the end, none of that is tangible. None of that is what matters. This is a game, and games are meant to be played. That’s what counts for her. Why should she take issue if the universe works as it was so lovingly intended to? 

All she wants to leave behind is a trail of blood and ruin as she puts up a fight. She wants to leave her mark on this world and all the people it holds. She wants to make it hurt, once she's allowed to. She wants to play the game well, exactly how she was made to play it. She cares about that. 

Gem cares, too, about the love she dredges up along the way. She thinks of her hands set to the backdrop of a blood-caked cloak, of long brown hair curling over her fingers as they dig in tight. She thinks of the sharp edge of her sword pressed against pale skin, and the thud of knees hitting the ground. All of that meant something. It still does, she believes, in certain ways. 

“I care,” she says, feeling oddly self-conscious. Maybe it's because she knows Joel now: he can't stop caring. It explodes from every pore in his body, an inescapable curse. It's been his undoing, or so she's heard; he's easy to anger, but if you ask her, he's mostly just… easy to love.

It’s this fact that has her saying quietly, “Just… I gotta pick and choose, you know?”

She's not like Joel. There's only so much room in Gem's chest, and it's permanently occupied with a bleeding, open wound. It takes up a lot of her as she skirts around it, giving its raw, frayed edges a wide berth. Joel has an infected hole in his heart too, but his preferred method of dealing with it is tearing it wider with his bare hands.

“Yeah,” Joel drawls absently, scratching his cheek. “Never been quite good at that, I reckon.”

Gem gets that. It must be hard, holding everything so tight that it rips you apart. The thought of losing that much agency has a venomous, stinging feeling crawling down the center of her back. But… 

“You're doing it right now,” she points out, gesturing vaguely at his poor car. “You could've gone on a rampage, if you wanted.”

He scoffs. “Trust me, I wanted."

“You didn't though.”

Joel blinks. “Guess I didn't.” The answer is simple, but leaden with something that has branches so complex, it nearly consumes his words entirely. Gem can't name the something; she lacks the history she'd need to do so. Even so, his face is remarkably… light? That's a word for it. Maybe he's finally cut the infection from his own wound.

She hums in lieu of response, turning her gaze back to the trap. Whatever is draped over Joel's mind, she hopes it doesn't render him too docile. The game stops for nothing, and it deserves to be played to its fullest, Gem thinks, no matter what's left standing come judgement day. 

[pali-and-proud]

He must be mad at me. Yes. That's why he kept me out of this story. He must be mad at me, and it cannot be because I skipped out on the last story. No, he must be mad at me because I kiss too well and so we have to pretend nothing happened at all and it's the only way he won't be mad at me. I will not communicate this with anyone. I'm doing great.

[geddyqueer]

Sentences Sunday

i think i've been tagged by @setmeatopthepyre @apollabarnes @emphasisonthehomo @adiprose and @rcmclachlan this week. throwing tags back out to @ambernotember and @newtkelly and @screamlet if they want them! and tagging @dharmaavocado for reasons. here's more of the thing i've alternately been calling "tommy's nothing" and "funeral fic", titled This be the verse:

He makes it outside and the air immediately thins. There's no one yelling, out here, no baby crying, just the sound of someone running an electric leaf-blower a block or two away.

Tommy's nowhere to be found.

The truck is still parked on the curb, sandwiched between Fish's Hyundai and one of the great-uncles' Buicks. Buck calls him and it goes straight to voicemail. Phone must be off. He doesn't have anyone's number inside, and he doesn't want to risk the fight spilling out here anyway. He's half a second from calling Maddie and asking if she can reverse-911 a phone that's off before he comes to his senses and lets himself relax.

Half the houses on this street have been torn down, new lot-fillers replacing them, extending their boundaries from one retaining wall to the next. New families must have moved in over the past couple of decades. In front of the house across the street an elementary schooler sits on her front porch, scrolling on an iPad. Buck imagines Tommy at that age. He conjures up an image of him, collected together from the pictures in Donna's house. Nine year old Tommy holding a toddler-aged Jackie in his arms, staring down at her with a sweet gentle look of awe. Twelve year old Tommy and third-grader Beth sitting back to back on the couch reading their books: Goosebumps for him, Saddle Club for her. There weren't any pictures of Tommy on any of the walls of this house, on this street. That Tommy's been wiped from physical memory.

Tommy liked being outside, Donna had said. Always in his own little world. Dreaming of something bigger, she'd theorized, but maybe he was just trying to survive the only way he could.

To his right Buck can see the mountains peeking up over a new construction, and so he heads up the sidewalk toward them, trying to channel the Tommy that lived here as he walks.

Three blocks later he's starting to doubt himself when he sees it: a little neighborhood park, a baseball field and a chain-link fence, palms and oaks and a tall hedge made up of something scrubby, a swing set and monkey bars and a spinny wheel and a few sets of picnic tables and there off to the side in the dirt behind a park bench a figure in a dark suit is huddled in the dirt.

Buck approaches slowly, like Tommy's one of the dogs at the shelter on fire, but even as he snaps a twig under his foot Tommy doesn't look up. He moves around so the sun is at his back, and he waits, and finally Tommy lifts his head and blinks up at him, red-eyed exhaustion written all over his face.

"Hey," Buck says.

"Hey," Tommy says. "Found me."

"I figured you couldn't have made it that far if you weren't flying," Buck says, and Tommy just nods.

"They still yelling?"

"Yeah, Jackie was threatening to kneecap your great-uncle Pete when I left," Buck says.

Tommy snorts. "That's good. Glad everyone's enduring memory of me is going to be the fact that I ruined Dad's funeral by holding a baby."

"If that's what it takes to ruin it, it wasn't much of a funeral to begin with." Buck squats down so he can rest his hand on Tommy's shoulder. There's a bunch of dirt stuck to his suit pants and Buck starts to pick the pieces off one by one. "I'm sorry. That was a fucked up thing for your mom to say."

"Yeah," Tommy says. He bites his lip and sniffs and brings his sleeve to his face. "Fuck."

Buck doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say. There's no one else here to feel the July sun beating down on them, to witness Buck curling around Tommy like a guard dog.

[paper-birdies]

I've been reading a Gravity Falls fanfic called "The Therapist" by @bapple117, where you - The reader- are Bill Cipher's Therapist in the Theraprism. I was on Bapple's Discord server and came across a conversation asking "What if Bill had a secret collection of art he made of the therapist and got super flustered when the therapist finds them."

Posted that and then someone mentioned that in a panic, Bill would probably try to eat the art and tries to eat the pages.

Anyways, I freakin' love this fic and this funky lil' guy.

[dinotual]

*hacker voice* i'm in.

[neversetyoufree]

Ultimately a lot of what I like most about Noé and how he's written does just kinda boil down to the fact that he's Fridge Horror: The Character