#lizard goes on a tirade

[monrageo]

Saw a lot of Spider-Steve art so I had to jump in. Most art modernised him but I want my 80s, mallrat, neon lights Spider-Man + I wrote his origin story. *POSES FOUND ON PINTEREST*

Also Steve looks great in the classic red and blue but I wanted him to have his own costume so yellow he shall be. Now onto my headcanons.

In a world where Hawkins is a megapolis a teen boy gets bitten by a radioactive spider in 83’ while visiting Hawkins Lab (Think less abandoned more Oscorp/Alchemax) and so it begins. He starts doing small good things around the city, experimenting with his powers.

But he isn’t thinking about being a superhero or anything close to that (I imagine the drawing with the sweats and goggles is his first “costume”). Then he gets with this amazing girl-Nancy Wheeler.

Life is looking up for Steve he’s got these weird powers that get him to be the basketball and swim team captain. He’s popular, he’s got this amazing girl that inspires him to be better and better.

He looses his popular crowd friends, he wants to be better. He starts thinking about the superhero thing and actually goes through with it. He isn’t shouting it from the rooftops but news is getting around that a guy in spandex is busting criminals- Spider-man/King Spider.

Steve gets cocky, thinks he’s on top of the world, untouchable. Then Will Byers goes missing-that’s a whole separate story. Nancy and John start their investigation. Steve gets jealous etc.

In the end a battle breaks out and Steve is unable to save one person-Barbara Holland. His girlfriend’s best friend. That of course destroys Nancy. She doesn’t know Steve is Spider-man, she seeks comfort in him but things are not the same.

There’s this whole thing with Jonathan, the obvious attraction, the compatibility. But also Steve’s guilt, his self hatred. He realises he was too blindsided by his cockiness. Barb’s death is on his hands. He breaks up with Nancy and solely focuses on being the best Spider-man he can be.

That of course costs him friends etc. but when you’ve been through what he has high school drama just seems pointless… and so King Steve falls from the throne.

I imagine the Nancy story line parallels the Gwen Stacy one in the original comics (without the death and clones), maybe Nancy even blames and hates Spider-man the way Gwen did… that also contributes to the Stancy break-up.

Perhaps Nancy becomes hyper focused on catching this Spider-man so he can be held accountable for Barb’s death.

Anyways now Steddie, I think Eddie would love Spider-man / King Spider he’s some guy with spider powers and bright spandex that helps people, super camp, Eddie would love him.

I think Steve starts noticing Eddie in a new light when his lunch table tirades now also include how awesome spider-man is. This unapologetic support makes the now loser Steve feel like it is all worth it-the stress, the pain, the loneliness-

Tough he of course knows Eddie isn’t talking about him, he’s talking about Spider-man, the hero. Not the former popular guy Steve Harrington.

I have many ideas regarding a Stranger things!Spider-verse and which characters could be what. Maybe Barb’s death was something Lizard-like, but upside down version. Like something from the lap infected her? I like the idea of Steve’s father being involved in the labs, perhaps as a Norman Osborn parallel, without becoming the Goblin though.

The goblin/Norman/Harry Osborn storyline could be reimagined with Tommy perhaps??? Then Venom with Eddie (so perfect) or Billy (a tragic end)??

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #spiderman #spidersona #digital art #monrageo art

[thunderandsage]

star trek tos episode pitch: vulcans can regrow their limbs like lizards regrowing their tails. after a mission gone wrong, mccoy is deeply disturbed by spock’s reaction (or lack thereof) when his arm is severed cleanly off and goes on an hour-long tirade to which spock replies with nothing more than an eyebrow raise while kirk panics about whether spock will leave starfleet due to the injury. the camera angles are all set up to poorly disguise the fact that the “severed arm” is just leonard nimoy hiding his hand behind his back the whole time.

#star trek #star trek tos #crack #spock #leonard mccoy #james t kirk #vulcans

[taizi]

run, boy, run

chapter four

natsume yuujinchou pairing: one-sided kitanishi word count: 3k summary: Nishimura has a cursed mark on his arm, a crush on Natsume’s famous idol friend, and a whole lot of brand new problems that start and end with the taboo circle on his arm. full circle au

read on ao3

x

Satoru’s first clue that something is off is the black town car with dark-tinted windows parked a few blocks down from his house.

Most of his neighbors don’t have cars, and the ones who do have little boxy, fuel-efficient numbers that live under tarps in driveways until it’s time for the bi-monthly grocery haul.

The unfamiliar vehicle makes his lizard brain stir uneasily, but Satoru has been having a hard time lately distinguishing between things he should actually be worried about and things the curse is twisting all out of proportion.

Since no one else on the street is outwardly panicking, he takes that as his cue to keep walking.  

Satoru’s second clue is what gives him real pause. Fish, perched on his shoulder, is making a noise he’s never heard from her before. It’s a subvocal thing, low and rumbling, and her beady eyes are fixed without wavering on the car.

Or something near the car.

Automatically, his hand drifts toward his pocket, and the cellphone there that’s practically bursting with the names of people who made him swear to reach out to them if he was in trouble.

Kiyoshi was still home when I left, Satoru thinks. I could just turn around.

But mom was still home, too, and if he walked back through the front door at the same time he should have been walking into homeroom, she would blow a fuse.

The thought of her tirade causes his arm to twinge sharply, and he drops his hand away from his pocket. Be normal, he scolds himself. You promised Kitamoto you’d be normal. Normal people don’t worry about random cars.

Since he first discovered Taki’s circle, Satoru has seen dozens of yokai around town, big and small, mostly minding their own business. And their own business had very little to do with Satoru unless he stuck his nose in it. If there’s a spirit over there on the other end of the street, one that’s causing Fish to bait her wings and grumble, then there’s a good chance it doesn’t have anything to do with Satoru anyway.

At the very least, he’s certain that it isn’t the monster that cursed him. He and Fish have an agreed-upon signal for that, which is essentially just Fish screeching like a klaxon until help shows up.

Still, Satoru pivots on his heel and cuts down a side-street. He’ll take the long way to school today. He doesn’t want to go near that car.

“We keep meeting in alleys,” an unfortunately familiar voice says cheerfully, just before a hand lands on his shoulder.

Fish takes off in a flurry of feathers, a distant speck in the sky before anyone could even think about catching her. The first thing Satoru feels is relief that she’s gone. Right on the heels of relief comes a cool wash of dread, and a dull, steady ache in his arm. He turns, already knowing who he’ll find behind him.

As easily as if they’re old friends, Matoba Seiji smiles.

#

At school, Nishimura’s friends are lingering by the entrance, getting more and more restless with every second. When the bell rings, and they should all be in class, detention is the last thing on their minds.

Over the last week, one or more of them has always been there to walk with Nishimura before and after school, but he insisted and they agreed to let the constant guard taper off a bit.

He’s been doing a lot better since their war council with Natori, but the curse is still active and present in his mind, and they can see it when it goes to work on him. When Nishimura starts to think his friends don’t trust him to do something as simple as make it to school on his own, and his arm blooms with vivid, obscene color, the only thing they can do is assure him. Tell him of course that isn’t true, they do trust him, and if he thinks he doesn’t need an entourage, then they’ll be willing to back off a bit and give it a try. Anything that might give him a foothold to wrestle control of his mind back.

But he was supposed to be here nearly ten minutes ago, even accounting for the way he constantly gets distracted by cute dogs and weird bugs and talkative neighbors. Tsuji, who lives a few houses down from Nishimura, once famously dragged him into homeroom by the elbow and announced, “I bumped into him in the combini this morning, holding the bento he bought for lunch in his hands, and he told me he forgot about school until he saw my uniform.” It was hilarious at the time.

“Sensei left early to make sure he got here,” Natsume says tersely. “Something’s wrong.”

“I’m calling Kiyoshi-niisan,” Kitamoto says, phone already pressed to his ear.  

Taki, who has been pacing in restless circles since Nishimura didn’t show up on time, says, “He can’t see. He doesn’t have the circle anymore. What if—”

“Don’t,” Tanuma says, not unkindly, but more like he can’t bear to listen to her bolt down that frightening rabbit hole. “I’m sure he’s okay. Fish would have told us if he wasn’t.”

At about that moment, in an example of the most absurdly perfect timing any bird has ever had, an agitated magpie flutters down onto the closed gate and raises the alarm.

#

Sitting in the backseat of the town car, his arms folded tightly across his front to hide the way his hands are trembling, the unconscious Nyanko-sensei a heavy, boneless weight in his lap, Satoru says, as firmly as he can manage, “I told you, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do,” Matoba replies easily. “Your little pet is proof of that.”

Even more glad now that Fish seized the opportunity to bolt at the first sign of trouble, Satoru insists, “She’s just a bird. There’s a ton of birds just like her around here. Natsume’s mom has crows in her garden.”

He doesn’t know how long he’ll get away with playing dumb—when Nyanko-sensei scared Matoba off that night after the visit with Natori, the lucky cat spoke in front of them both. There’s no way this guy forgot about that. But Satoru has no idea what is safe to discuss with this boogeyman Natsume was so careful to warn him about, so he defaults to bald-faced denial.  

Something darts across Matoba’s face that looks like curiosity when Satoru mentions Touko, there and gone again in a split-second.

“This conversation would go a lot smoother if you’d do me the courtesy of honesty,” is what Matoba says, as if he’s been the epitome of good manners this entire time.  

The half of Satoru’s brain that isn’t spinning in anxious circles puffs up in indignation.  

“Courtesy? You’re the one who abducted me on my way to school!”

Rather than offense, Matoba seems to take delight in his attitude. He’s weirdly likable, for all that he’s also very dangerous and powerful, if Natsume and Nyanko-sensei are to be believed. It creates a sense of conflict in Satoru’s head, because part of him wants to sit here and argue with the friendly, conversational man, while another, much larger part wants to run far, far away.

That larger part wins, because Satoru is literally in the backseat of a strange car, alone, with his phone sitting out of reach on the dashboard up front.

He wonders, for a brief, hysterical moment, if anyone is missing him yet.  

“I can see why you and Natsume are friends,” Matoba says, as if he’s a proud relative and Natsume is a charming, if ornery, little cousin. “And I can see that you know more than you are willing to share with me. Is that loyalty, I wonder? Or ignorance?” He leans in, his long hair falling over his shoulder, and says, “Are you being kept in the dark?”

Satoru presses his arms tighter against his middle, trying to think past the hurthurthurt that pulses through the curse mark. He’s glad he wore long sleeves today.

He’s beginning to see shadows again, even here in the well-lit interior of the car. It’s a fog that creeps into his head, past reason and logic and common sense. Sometimes Satoru can feel it starting to happen, his mind turning against him as dark sympathetic magic makes him doubt, but there’s nothing he can do when that happens except cling to what he knows and hope it’s enough.  

He remembers, against better judgement, being made to wash the seeing circle away. Natori’s face frowning at him from across the table, even though he got what he wanted.

Was he being kept in the dark?

No, Satoru thinks. It was for his own good. His friends were worried.

Were they? Then where are they? If they’re so worried about him, why aren’t they here?

They don’t know where I am, Satoru thinks wildly. No one knows where I am.

He doesn’t know where he is, either. They’ve been driving for what feels like a long time, and the windows are too dark to see through unless he presses his face against the glass and he won’t do that while Matoba is watching him. Nyanko-sensei, Natsume’s unofficial shiki and glorified babysitter, is sprawled across Satoru’s knees in an unnatural sleep and dead to the world.

He’s on his own.

“I’m sure you must have heard stories about me,” the man says, almost gently. He’s still smiling. “But really, I’m not so bad. I just want to have a talk, and then I’ll drop you off wherever you want.”

Rattled, Satoru dares to glance sidelong at him. Matoba’s smile widens.

“All you have to do is tell me the truth,” he goes on. “Just level with me. Are your eyes the same as mine? Do you see the same strange world that I do? Is that why you and Natsume are such good friends, hm? A common perspective? It would explain a lot.”

Something about that remark wriggles past everything else, a slippery eel darting through muddy water. It’s the first clear-headed thought Satoru manages to grasp.

“What’s that mean?” he asks. “What does it have to do with us being friends?”

“Well, historically, Natsume doesn’t have the best track record, does he?” Matoba’s voice is rich with laughter. It isn’t mean-spirited, but it rubs Satoru wrong anyway. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Satoru blurts. The pain in his arm recedes and the shadows peel away—he’s still afraid, but it’s the normal sort of fear now. It’s not the influence of a monster, leaning on him until he can’t see or think or hear straight. And it’s eclipsed, easily, by irritation. “He’s my friend because he’s funny and sarcastic and nice to everybody and a sore loser at trivia games. I like him. Our whole class likes him. It has nothing to do with whatever you’re talking about.”

That curiosity flicks across Matoba’s expression again, like something Satoru told him is brand-new information, completely unheard of.

It doesn’t do anything to curb his knowing smile which, in Satoru’s opinion, has become less likable and more punchable with every second Matoba talks about Natsume like he actually knows anything about him.

“And even if he did see your strange world, or whatever, what does that have to do with me? And what are you accomplishing by kidnapping me?”

“I would hardly call it kidnapping—”

“There are so many other things he has to worry about without worrying about you,” Satoru goes on, warming up to the subject. “You just show up and make his life difficult and threaten him and drag him into dangerous situations like he doesn’t endanger himself enough as it is! Yeah, he told me stories about you, because you scare him.”

For the first time, Matoba seems genuinely thrown-off.

“No I don’t,” the man says. “He’s well aware that there are better things to be afraid of.”

Satoru knows that much, too. Being cursed by a yokai on the edge of the woods was equally as scary as being forced into a car by a stranger. Maybe those two situations were entirely different, but the way Satoru’s heart thundered in his chest, the way he wondered for a brutally honest split-second if he’d ever see his brother or his friends again, was exactly the same.

“That's the point,” Satoru says belligerently, aware that he’s digging his own grave, “Natsume knows a monster when he sees one.”

Matoba studies him with keen eyes. His smirk is a quiet, thoughtful thing now.

“One last question,” he says. Lifting a pale, elegant hand, he points to the other side of the partition, at the burly figure in the driver’s seat. “What do you think of that guy?”

Burying anxious fingers in Nyanko-sensei’s thick fur, Satoru darts a glance that way, trying to find the trap in Matoba’s words. The driver, for his part, doesn’t turn to look back or acknowledge Matoba in any way.

“I don’t know,” Satoru says defensively. “He hasn’t said anything this whole time.”

Matoba’s smile widens, as pleased as a cat with a canary.

“That’s fair,” he replies, and gestures with his hand. The driver catches the signal somehow and twirls the steering wheel, pulling the car around in a neat U-turn. “A deal’s a deal. Where am I taking you?”

Home, Satoru wants to say, except mom will be there, and she’ll be angry if he shows up when he’s not supposed to. Kitamoto, is his very next thought, filled with wanting, so he says, “School. Even though I’ll definitely have detention thanks to you.”

“Studious,” Matoba says with a laugh. “I admire that.”

Rubbing one of Nyanko-sensei’s velvety ears between his fingers, Satoru asks, “When will sensei wake up?”

“I’d give it another hour,” Matoba replies, his tone reassuring. “He’s a little too eager with his teeth when it’s just the two of us, so I figured it was best to be extra cautious.”

Secretly, Satoru wishes Nyanko-sensei had managed to get one good bite in. Then maybe Matoba would have slightly less to be smug about.

Something strikes the windshield, and Satoru flinches in surprise. The car continues gliding smoothly forward, but another tiny projectile joins the first, and then another after that. Satoru stares as all the windows on the car are plastered with scraps of paper until the vehicle is entirely covered.

The interior is dim now, cave-like, and Satoru clutches Nyanko-sensei closer.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Matoba says, making another gesture. The car slows and comes to a stop. He sounds unbothered, unlocking the doors with the button panel by his arm. “They’re here for you.”

When the door lock springs up, Satoru grapples for the handle and wrenches it open before Matoba can change his mind. He all but topples out of the car, Natsume’s cat clutched in the crook of one arm.

By the time he’s managed to find his feet, large hands are on his shoulders, guiding him upright. He jerks back reflexively, whipping his head around, but it’s not another stranger. It’s Natori, and the breath goes out of Satoru’s lungs in a rush of relief. He doesn’t even question how the man is standing here in front of him, the last place on earth a famous actor should be.

“Easy,” the man says, studying Satoru’s face carefully. “Are you hurt?”

Satoru shakes his head. For all that he was running his mouth a moment ago, he’s got nothing to say now. He lets himself be pushed behind Natori’s back as Natori makes himself a wall between Satoru and Matoba.

“There is such a thing,” Natori grits out, glaring murder at his shadowy counterpart, “as going too far.”

“You’re always one step ahead of me, Shuuichi-kun,” Matoba replies genially. “It seems like every remarkable child I manage to find has already been snatched up by the Natori clan.”

“This child has a family willing to press charges,” Natori bites back. “If you don’t think his aunt would take you to court and drag your name through dirt until she won, that’s only because you haven’t met her yet.”

Kitamoto’s mom, Satoru’s Auntie Mikako, is a force of nature. If she got wind of this, it’s over for Matoba already.

But he remembers Natsume’s warnings, how he talked about Matoba’s connections and his powerful family, and he doesn’t want the Kitamotos anywhere near him.

“Natori-dono,” someone behind Satoru says.  

Jerking his head, as if shaking off a collar someone tried to put around his neck, Natori says, “This is far from over. But for now, get lost.”

“It’s always such a pleasure,” Matoba laughs, and leans out the door Satoru left hanging ajar to pass Satoru’s phone to Natori. After snapping the door shut smartly, he rolls down the window, because of course he has something else to say. Satoru tenses when Matoba looks at him, and Natori makes a furious sound, but the strange man only adds in parting, “Natsume is lucky to have a friend like you. I hope he keeps you close.”

From anyone else, it might have been a threat. From Matoba, it sounds genuine. For the life of him, Satoru can’t get a bead on this guy at all.

When the car pulls away, Natori says, “Follow. Make sure he leaves,” which Satoru assumes is a command to his shiki. He’s too busy staring down at the lucky cat in his arms and keeping his breathing steady to worry overmuch about what’s going on around him now.

That is, until Natori touches his chin, a gentle instruction to lift his head. The man looks angry and exhausted and worried, his eyes sharp behind his glasses.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he demands.

“I’m sure,” Satoru replies. “All he did was talk to me. He asked me questions about Natsume and the guy driving the car and then said he’d drop me off at school. He’s really weird.”

Natori’s face does something strange. “There wasn’t a guy driving the car.”

Satoru frowns at him, pushed well past his personal threshold of stuff he’s willing to put up with. He’s over today. He’s going to have to deal with an unexplained absence from school and his mom’s temper when she finds out, but that sounds like tomorrow’s problem. All he wants right now is his bird and his best friend and a stack of comfort movies and sugary snacks, and maybe his brother, too. He doesn’t think that’s too much to ask for.

“It’s not like it was driving itself,” he mutters.

“No,” Natori says slowly. “You misunderstood me. There wasn’t a human driving the car.”

Satoru blinks at him. As he watches, a little black tattoo crawls up the side of Natori’s face, coming to rest on his forehead.

“Oh,” he says dumbly.

Belatedly, he looks over his shoulder, and finds Hiiragi lingering behind him, where she’s probably been this whole time. She’s a little hazy around the edges, like he needs to squint to see her properly, but she’s there.

“You’re not wearing the circle?” Natori asks in a quiet voice. He sounds like he already knows the answer.

Satoru shakes his head, wide-eyed.

“Guess my eyes adjusted,” he whispers.

#natsume yuujinchou #natsuyuu #nishimura satoru #matoba seiji #natori shuuichi #my writing #full circle #natsuyuu fic #and it only took me 2 years :)

[megan-is-mia]

Hello. This is my first time making a request, so I hope this goes through. May I request a yandere Malleus with MCW191?

(give it up for first time requests!) 191. “Am I scaring you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I can be a little overzealous at times.” (Yandere! Malleus Draconia x Fem! S/o)

Malleus was watching her again, even though (Y/n) couldn’t see him she knew his eyes were on her again. Sometimes from the corner of her eye, she could catch glimpses of those glowing green-eyes staring into her as if they could see right into her very soul. Hell, maybe he could see all the way to her soul but there was no way she would ask him for confirmation of her suspicions. No way, she wanted nothing to do with the dragon-fae even if it would stop the constant staring.

He’d been watching her for a couple of weeks and he was still not bored. There was something about (Y/n) that fascinated him. Malleus couldn’t figure out what it was about the girl that made it impossible to take his eyes off of her. He found himself following after her like a lost puppy, keeping to the shadows as to not unnerve him with his presence. He knew his terrifying reputation would always precede him, so to help her be at ease he would keep his pastime of observing her a secret.

At least that had been the plan at first, back when he thought his interest would be a fleeting one like watching a bird singing in a tree before it flies away never to be seen again. Except that didn’t happen, not even a little. His pastime was slowly becoming an obsession and it was only getting worse. Malleus saw no point in hiding his presence to (Y/n), in fact, he wanted her to know he was watching even as his form remained concealed for he was curious what it would take to get her to confront him. She was starting to grow tired of the dragon-fae’s unnerving behavior. Any other day she could have just forced herself to ignore it and go on with her day but today? Today she was tired so tired and angry. So as the bell rang (Y/n) stood up with a determined look on her face as she stomped towards the back of the classroom where the fae sat staring at her as she approached him. Malleus didn’t look the least bit ashamed, in fact, he was wearing a grin on his face as she came closer.

“Stop staring at me! I’m tired of it!” (Y/n) said with a glare as she jabbed Malleus in the chest with her finger. “Day in and day out I can feel your eyes on me and I’ve had it! Just leave me alone you creepy lizard man!” she said her face starting to turn red with aggravation not helped by the fact that Malleus was still smiling even as she chewed him out. “Do you have any idea how unnerving it is to be stared at all the fucking time! If you don’t stop I’m going to tell a teacher!” she finished spluttering a bit with her rage.

“Am I scaring you?” Malleus said tilting his head and speaking softly once he was sure (Y/n)’s tirade was complete. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to” he added putting a hand over the finger on his chest and gently tugging so the girl’s hand was resting flat against his body. “I can be a little overzealous at times” he finished standing up and gently squeezing the hand resting on his chest. The young woman blinked slowly, her rage extinguished by how chilling calm the dragon-fae’s response had been.

“Do not fear my dear human, I will make sure you never have to feel afraid of me ever again. Let us return to Diasomnia where it will be more comfortable for us to continue this conversation” Malleus said already casting a transportation spell before (Y/n) had a chance to open her mouth to protest. She began to quiver with fear as the gothic interior lit by green-flamed torches started to come into focus signaling that they’d reach their destination and her fate was already sealed...

THE END

#Malleus Draconia #Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Yandere TWST #Yandere Twisted Wonderland #Yandere Malleus Draconia

[moody-bloosh]

my true love sent to me (Pannacotta Fugo)

y’all know I love Fugo but you know what I love my homies even more, so @risottostitties​ this is for you. Merry Christmas, thank you for always being there for me when I yell about Fate and Fugo. <3 

Everyone Lives AU because please it’s the holidays i want to be merry. 

Surely this year, you would be able to tell him. Those 3 words. How many times had you spent practicing in front of the mirror, your eyes trained on the photograph of him you’d taped there. 

“I like you!” You would say over and over again, hoping that by practicing you would be able to get rid of your jitters so that when you saw him again you would finally be able to say it to him.

And yet here you were, celebrating Christmas Eve with the team, sitting right beside Fugo, and still you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. Too giddy and flustered from the fact that Fugo had actually given you a gift this year, you can’t help but smile as you think about the pretty red fountain pen tucked away in your pocket right now. 

You ignore the soft pain in your heart as you are yet again unable to voice out your feelings for him. But as you considered the gift you had received from him, a soft smile bloomed on your lips. 

Maybe someday, you would gain enough courage to tell him how you truly felt. But for now, just being by his side, that was enough for you. 

Yes, as long as you could stand by his side, you would be happy. 

Fugo is lying on your lap, his whole face bright red from the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed, after much goading from Narancia, who bet he wasn’t tough enough to drink Abbacchio under the table.

Sadly, Narancia was right. Currently incapacitated and drunk out of his mind, you jumped at the opportunity to take care of him for the rest of the night. Bruno had given you a concerned look, insisting that as the leader, it was his job to take care of his subordinates. But you reasoned instead that since he was the leader, he was supposed to enjoy himself since he spent the whole year looking after all of you. 

After much convincing on your part, Bruno finally relented. And you pointedly ignore the smug grin and thumbs up Mista sends your way. 

You watch the rest of the team continue on with their revelry. A soft, warm feeling settled in your chest as you watched them. Oh, what you would give to frame this moment, so that you could keep it close to you for the rest of your life. 

Fugo stirs just a bit beneath you, but that is enough to snap you out of your reverie. Lavishing him with your attention, you watch as he blinks up at you sleepily before a dreamy smile blooms on his lips. In this moment, you feel as though Cupid has shot you with another one of his arrows. 

How was it possible to fall in love with someone even more? 

Emboldened by his inebriated state and perhaps, by the wine you’d sipped throughout the evening, you found yourself mustering all your courage to plant a soft kiss on Fugo’s forehead, followed by a whispered, “I like you, I like you, Fugo.” 

Your heart wrenches painfully in your chest as you glance his sleeping face, daring to gently caress his cheeks. At least this year, you had managed to say it to his face. Nevermind the fact that he was out like a light. You had said it. 

You had said you liked him. 

You try and fail to stifle the giddy little laugh that leaves your lips. 

Maybe next year, you could tell him properly. 

The next day, you find yourself sitting beside Fugo again. With a small smile, you politely greet him while he apologizes for causing you trouble yesterday. You only tell him that it wasn’t anything much, you were always happy to look after your teammates. 

Shifting into a comfortable silence after everyone had ordered, Mista and Narancia started on one of their tirades again, Abbacchio was tuned into his headphones to tune out of the drivel, Bruno was perusing the menu again, and Giorno was idly turning the silverware into lizards and back again. 

“Hey, I really liked the gift you got me yesterday,” Fugo says suddenly, “could I have another one?” 

“The planner?” Your brows had furrowed as you considered his request, “Um, sure. I’m glad you liked it a lot.” 

“No, no, not the planner,” he says all too quickly, his face was practically the same shade as yesterday, “I - I meant the kiss...” 

The restaurant goes silent just as your jaw finishes dropping to the floor. 

You can practically hear your brain say, ‘Error: _____.exe has stopped working.’

God, it would have been funny if it hadn’t been absolutely mortifying for the two of you. Thankfully, Narancia is there to break the silence. With a crisp, “fuck,” leaving his lips, you watched with growing dread as Narancia angrily throws a wad of cash in Abbacchio’s direction. The latter looked extremely smug as he eagerly took Narancia’s money. Angrily, Mista, as well as a rather disappointed Giorno followed suit. Bruno merely sent the two of you a knowing look as he sipped his wine. 

“Damn it, Fugo why couldn’t you have waited ‘til the New Year’s!?” Narancia snapped as he slumped down on his chair. 

“Shut up, you dumbass,” Mista hissed, “you’re going to ruin the moment.” 

Wisely and, perhaps, maturely, Fugo ignored Narancia’s griping and focused his gaze at you once more. Oh, your face was already heating up and you hadn’t even had a drop of alcohol this whole evening. But perhaps, that was simply the effect he had on you. 

Fugo tries again, a little more confident this time, “s-so, can I?” 

“Y-yeah, of course.” 

This time, when you lean forward to kiss him, he meets you halfway. And where you had been intending just to plant a kiss on his forehead like last night, you find yourself kissing his impossibly plush lips. 

Oh, if you’d known it would have been like this. You would have kissed him sooner. 

#fugo x reader #pannacotta fugo #pannacotta fugo x reader #fluff #everyone lives au #play #side a

[allsoundwavesarebeautiful]

other concepts for TFA episodes:

-Decepticon drinking night. Blitzwing drinks too much oil and gets locked in Random mode, the rest of the Decepticons have to deal with his shenanigans. these shenanigans include: bulk ordering live lizards from Cybertronian Amazon, trying to get piggybacks from everyone including Laserbeak, and actually crying real tears over Soundwave “because he’s just a leetle babie!” also at one point before things get too crazy, Lugnut and Blitz are sitting at the table by themselves while Megatron gets more oil and Lugnut says something like “i pegged Lord Megatron as more of a high-grade bot.” Blitz, absolutely shitfaced, lifts his head from the table and says “you did what to Megatron?” then Lugnut smacks him in the back of the head so hard he leaves a dent in the table in the shape of his face.

-Wreck-Gar somehow gets entered into the running for Detroit mayor. thanks to Wacky Happenstance, he wins. the status-quo doesn’t get restored either, from there on he’s mayor of Detroit. he’s surprisingly good at it.

-Grimlock finds out t-rexs had feathers and demands his alt mode be changed to fit reality.

-the Constructicons form Devastator and wreak havoc but end up being undone by their own horrible personalities.

-thanks to a transwarp accident, Blitzwing and Bumblebee swap minds. while in Blitz’s body, Bumblebee develops three personalities but he’s fine with it since he’s So Tall and a triple-changer, and Blitzwing is willing to deal with his tiny frame because he finally has some peace and control of himself. they both end up enjoying their new bodies so much that they don’t want to switch back; Team Prime and Team Megatron have to work together to restore the status quo.

-Starscream clones just kind of hanging out (pay service to IDW fans by having Thundercracker obtain a dog)

-Optimus Prime gets infected with a virus that causes him to involuntarily curse very loudly at random times. it’s covered up with horn sounds of course. most of the time he’s fatally embarrassed by his outbursts and eventually strikes out on his own to wait for the virus to run its course. while he’s gone, Sentinel tries and fails to control a Decepticon attack and his incompetence and unwillingness to retrieve Optimus almost cost them the day; but Optimus shows up at the last minute and saves everyone. at the end of the episode he cusses Sentinel out. his tirade begins with mostly legible words but by the end it’s just one long series of beeps while the camera cuts to different shocked reactions from the cast (even the Decepticons’ mouths are agape). it seems like it’s because of the virus and Ratchet goes “wow, that was a strong attack” and Optimus turns to him and smirks and says “the virus wore off ten minutes ago.” cue credits

#transformers animated #tfa #i said 'episodes' but i realize by ending this post with 'cue credits' it makes it seem like #this is one very big very horrible very special episode #soundwave posts

[thegameslave]

The Professional Gamer - June 17, 2019

Happy (belated) Father’s Day to all the dads out there. If you’re reading this post, I’m going to assume that you spent most of the day enjoying some video games with the kiddos. If not, I hope you found a way to enjoy the day in your own style. My only “child” is of the fuzzy variety, so I spent my day with my dad, father-in-law, and grandpa. During the rest of the week, I split my time up between Star Trek, Run with the Wind, and Breath of the Wild. All in all, it’s been a pretty good week, though I am still recovering from that time zone change. Let’s talk about some fun stuff.

I want to talk about one episode of Deep Space Nine that I watched this week: “The Wire”. In this episode, we learn some portion of truth about “plain, simple, Garak”, though the truth is hidden among the lies. It seems that Garak has been using an implant to increase the endorphin levels in his brain, helping him cope with what has become an almost insufferable existence in exile. Unfortunately, the implant is failing and the withdrawal threatens to kill Garak. I really enjoyed Andrew Robinson’s performance in this episode. He did a remarkable job showing what Garak is like when the mask is removed. It also includes one of my favorite exchanges between Garak and Bashir. Garak claims that everything he told the doctor was true. “Even the lies?”. “Especially the lies.” This episode provides a very interesting counter-point to the events of “The Marquis”, where Garak seems willing to do almost anything to get back home, but works against his own people (and his own goal of returning home). In contrast, during a more manic phase of the withdrawal in “The Wire”, Garak goes on a tirade about his exile, from environmental considerations (station too cold and brightly lit) to the disdain that the local populace shows him. And worst of all, the fact that he enjoys his lunch conversations with Bashir. It is still a long time before we get a clear picture of Garak’s internal life and thoughts, but from this point, we know that he is conflicted. Loving and hating both his home planet and his home in exile.

In Run with the Wind, we are in the big buildup to the Hakone Ekiden. And one questions keeps coming up: why do you run? And I’ve realized that I’ve never answered that question for myself. For a long time, I ran mainly as a way to burn calories so that I could eat ice cream every day and still fit into my pants. That is still a part of my reason, because ice cream is delicious, and I have very little self control around the bakery. But I also want to make myself stronger. I want to run faster and longer. But I know that will not depend entirely on my physical strength. I know that running also developes emotional strength; a willingness to endure temporal suffering for hope of achievement afterward. I’ve just turned 36 and had my best showing at the Bolder Boulder of my entire life. I’m a stronger runner now than I was as a teenager, and I’m very proud of myself. I hope I can become stronger still. And that’s what I love about the message of this show. The characters are all looking for their own goals and motivations to keep the faces forward and run. In the end, I think we are all always doing that in life. Glancing back at where we have been and then pushing hard, with all our strength, towards the next peak.

Lastly, I played a little Breath of the Wild. With the announcement of a sequel, I figured I better get in gear if I want to kill Ganon before there is a new game released. I’m rather rusty at play control, but did alright. I gathered enough fire-resistant lizards to make an attempt at the climb up Death Mountain. I was able to complete a couple more shrines and a map tower. And that feels like fairly good progress.

That’s all for this post. Have a great week and game on!

#star trek #deep space nine #DS9 #run with the wind #Breath of the Wild

[anamelesstraveler]

| AO3 | FFN | Wattpad | Link for mobile | Series start |

A McHaleinski fanfic, rated T.

Chapter 5/8 | 5,492 words

Peter’s death was supposed to be the end of it. They were supposed to go their separate ways, supposed to ignore Derek’s new Pack as best they could. But with a reptilian nightmare and an army of hunters arriving at their doorsteps, that becomes difficult. And if they’re going to live through this, they need to find common ground. Even in the most unexpected of places.

An s2 McHaleinski AU.

This story includes an alternate s2 AU, Everyone Lives AU, developing relationship (McHaleinski), and character growth.

ALRIGHT so we've finally come up to the end of season 2. Which is... we all know that's a contentious point in the series for a lot of people. I dealt with the various character motivations and actions in what I think is a pretty fair way, but we'll see if it comes across that way.

Side B: While the young, they wait alone

Chapter 5

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Before: Side A, Ch6

Jackson Whittemore is dead. A child is dead, murdered right in front of John and everyone on that field, and no one saw a thing.

------------------------------------------------------------

Everything about the rest of the evening is a blur. Until it all comes to a crashing halt, with Gerard on his deathbed, the kanima impaled on his claws, Jackson Whittemore’s miraculous revival and Scott…

Scott. Fuck.

Just thinking his name has Derek feeling ill all over again. Makes him think of Gerard’s foul blood filling his mouth. Of Gerard’s smug grin. Of Scott gazing down at him, face startlingly impassive, foreign from everything Derek thought he knew about the boy, and his hands holding Derek still - trapped, immobile--

‘No.’ He shoves the thoughts violently away. If he stops to process it, he’s going to go low and useless. And he can’t-- Gerard may have disappeared, but he’s still alive. Chris Argent and his daughter are still present, and could turn on them at any moment.

Scott is glowering at him, and now Derek doesn’t have the strength to trust that the boy won’t lash out.

“How could you do that?” Scott hisses at him. It sounds like a gunshot in the stillness of the warehouse now. “We were supposed to save Jackson, not kill him!”

“He’s fine,” Derek grunts. Relatively, anyway. Stiles has - with a token reluctance - dragged an emergency blanket from the back of the Jeep and offered it to the naked, trembling teenager. He’s still huddled against Lydia Martin’s side, refusing to look at any of them. But he’s certainly alive, which is more than Derek ever expected.

“You stabbed him, Derek!”

“I was trying to save us all,” he snaps. “Not just a few of us.”

“No, you were trying to save yourself.”

Derek thinks of Isaac, stabbed and tossed around the building as if he were nothing. About Boyd and Erica tortured in an Argent basement. About Stiles beaten and dropped on the street as a warning, about him driving his Jeep through a wall despite his injuries. And Derek’s fury wells up inside him, a spitting, feral thing that claws up his throat. “You’ve got no right to say that. You were so concerned with your stupid little plan that you didn’t care who got hurt. Did you even stop to look for Stiles? Or Boyd, or Erica?”

“Hey,” Stiles mutters from where he’s swaying into Boyd’s space. The taller boy is supporting him at the elbow. “Leave me out of this.” But Scott swivels his head around to look at Stiles anyway. Derek watches as the boy’s expression shudders and crumples, seeming to finally realize that the state of his best friend’s face didn’t come from crashing the Jeep. That the scents of blood and pain on him are hours old.

“Stiles…”

Stiles’ eyes go wide. “Come on, man, not with the Face. I’m okay, see? Just…” But he winces as he goes to gesture reassuringly. “Just fine.”

“What happened?” Scott persists.

Derek cuts off Stiles’ inevitable dismissal with a snarl. “Gerard happened. While you were worrying about your precious girlfriend, he was kidnapping your best friend and beating the shit out of him!”

“She’s not… we’re not anymore--”

“All you cared about was her, and she stabbed us all in the back, Scott!” He gestures angrily at the Argent girl, who flinches and squares her jaw. “Or do you even care that she was torturing your friends? Did you only care about keeping your secrets and that Gerard made some bullshit promise in exchange for my life--”

“He was gonna hurt my mom, you hypocritical ass!” The words explode out of Scott with enough force that Derek’s mouth clicks shut. “You think I owe you the truth when all you’ve done is keep secrets too? When you were working with Peter to kill Jackson?”

Peter steps forward, smarmy grin in place already. “Actually, there was a plan there. Several legends reference shifters being ‘cured’ by calling their name - by reminding them of who they are. That’s why Lydia was so important--”

“Peter,” Derek barks, his eyes never straying from the irate teenager in front of him. “Shut up.”

“Don’t talk to me about Stiles getting hurt,” Scott continues with his tirade, “like you care. You sent your Betas after him before, remember? You didn’t care about him getting hurt then.”

Derek cringes. “I didn’t--”

“And after then you tried to kill Lydia - because you suspected she was the kanima. You didn’t even have any real proof, Derek! The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away. You didn’t care who had to die for it.” Scott throws up his arms, his expression twisted in distress. “I was trying to keep anyone else from dying! I was doing everything I could.”

“You could’ve told me,” Derek growls back. The hint of desperation in his own voice alarms him. The squirming, anxious feeling in his chest that begs to fix this, to hope that Scott doesn’t actually want him dead is something he doesn’t want to examine.

“If I thought you would listen, I would have! But you would have just… just growled at me and then do whatever the hell you wanted - and get some of us killed. You’re not my Alpha, Derek. I don’t owe you my trust when you sure as hell haven’t earned it.”

So that’s it, then.

A hopeless frustration rises like bile up his throat. “Why should I bother earning your trust when all it gets me is being turned into an Argent’s tool?” he finishes. His voice comes out icy, and not at all hurt, which is… better.

And Scott flinches back, as sure as if Derek had struck him. The righteous anger gives way to pain and guilt and for a quick, infuriating moment, Derek’s own guilt rises to meet it. He shoves the feeling down ruthlessly, squaring his jaw.

Stiles chooses that moment to step between them, or attempt something like it. He more sways into their space, cringing and balancing himself with a hand on Scott’s shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough. Both of you need to shut it. This entire thing was a barely mitigated disaster and you both fucked up royally. We managed. The end. Can we go home now, please?”

Scott turns to the boy with wounded eyes. “Stiles, you’re--” he stops, and Derek can actually see the words “you’re taking his side?” starting to form. Whether or not he stops because he sees Derek’s glare, or something else, is yet to be seen. Scott’s brow puckers in hurt and betrayal - something that satisfies the most vindictive parts of Derek’s mind. “Are you mad at me?” he asks Stiles, his voice small.

“No,” Stiles answers emphatically. “You did your best, dude. And we all survived. But you didn’t let me in on this either.” He reaches out for Scott’s shoulder. “He was threatening your mom, man. I would’ve helped. Somehow. I know I’m just the token human, but I’m not useless.”

“You’re not just the token human,” Scott protests.

“Sure thing, buddy,” Stiles agrees, his tone clearly distant and disbelieving. But before the other boy can work up an argument, his eyes zero in on Derek. “Are we done here? I want to go home.”

And Derek, really, can’t think of any reason to deny him. Not after everything.

Stiles takes his silence as assent, and tugs on Scott’s arm. “Cool. You’re comin’ back with me, right?”

Scott nods, seemingly unable to deny him either.

------------------------------------------------------------

His dad is waiting on the porch for them when the Jeep pulls into the driveway. Luckily, the Roscoe is a sturdy old girl and the darkness hides the new scratches on the front end. On top of everything, Stiles really hates the thought of trying to come up with an explanation for them that doesn’t include driving through a flimsy steel wall and an actual goddamned lizard monster.

Every muscle in his body wrenches as Stiles slides from the driver’s seat. His head swims, but he manages to stay upright this time, aware of his dad watching him like a hawk from the house. He waves sheepishly as he rounds the car towards Scott, who’s trying and failing to look casual about the whole thing.

He keeps hold of Scott’s arm the whole way up to the porch. It’s all he can do not to topple over. Everything hurts. “Heeeey, Daddio,” he greets.

John isn’t impressed.

“So, sorry for running off. Emergency, you know. Scott was stranded.” Stiles leans forward, the illusion of a conspiratorial whisper ruined by his inability to keep his own balance. “He and Allison split.”

It’s mostly true, anyway. Scott had been left without a ride home and Stiles can safely say his and Allison’s relationship is over after this. And Scott is looking suitably guilty and dejected to go with it.

His dad doesn’t even blink. “And Miss Reyes and Mister Boyd?” he asks.

“Oh, they decided they’d go home tonight after all. Called Derek over to take them.”

“Mmhm.”

Stiles nods in unison with him. “Right. So we’re just gonna… go to bed. It’s alright if Scott stays over?”

“Sure, son.”

Stiles fights to keep his smile in place. Because even though his father is agreeing, he’s humoring Stiles. His tone is full of that careful patience that he only uses when there’s a Discussion coming as soon as it’s just the two of them again. He nudges Scott’s arm to get him moving. “Night, Dad!” he calls, a little too brightly.

“We’re taking you to the hospital to get you looked over in the morning!” John shouts after them. “And we’re getting your statement too.”

“Sure thing, Dad!” Stiles already has a passable story lined up to take care of that. He knows how this works. It was dark, he’ll say. They weren’t wearing school jerseys but they talked about the game, he’ll say. He didn’t recognize them from Beacon Hills, but they could’ve been at the game. He’ll tell them they had average builds and wore hoodies. He couldn’t see their faces. It was over too quick. And that’ll be the end of it.

Except for the fact that his dad isn’t going to be letting Stiles out of his sight any time soon. But he’ll deal with that when they come to it.

“Are you okay?” Scott whispers after they’ve slowly hobbled their way up the stairs.

“M’fine,” Stiles grunts.

“No, you’re not.”

No, he’s not. Every step makes his ribs pull, and he’s seriously regretting his knee-jerk decision to drive his poor Jeep through a wall. The jarring definitely didn’t help the injuries he’s already working with.

“I’ll live,” he sighs.

But Scott’s got that hangdog look on his face, eyes sad and pleading. “Let me see?”

Stiles considers deflecting again. But the fact of the matter is that he’s exhausted and his whole body aches, and fighting with his best friend over stupid shit just really isn’t on his list of things to do right now. “Yeah, okay. Gonna need you to help me change, anyway.”

This doesn’t seem to reassure Scott in the least, because his eyes go, if possible, even rounder and sadder. “Is it that bad?”

Stiles hunches his shoulders without answer. He can’t quite make it to a shrug, because his back seizes and makes his breath catch in his aching chest. Instead he beckons Scott over as he starts to work his flannel off and the shirt up over his torso. Scott has to lift it over his head, his fingers warm where they brush against his chilly skin. He suppresses a shiver, if only because it would hurt like a bitch. Stupid, warm-running werewolves.

He steels himself for Scott’s horrified gasp, pointedly not meeting his eyes. “It looks worse than it is,” he tries.

Scott doesn’t say anything. Stiles busies himself with balling up his shirts and tossing them away, trying very hard not to be aware of how his best friend hovers in horrified silence beside him.

The hesitant caress of fingers across his side makes him jump, and nearly collapse as his body violently protests. “Sorry!” Scott chokes, sliding in closer to support Stiles’ weight. His hold is firmer, but still gentle. Like Stiles is going to break if he doesn’t have a good enough grip. Which is… embarrassing. Yeah, he’ll go with that. The flush rises high on his cheeks.

“Dude--” His dismissal cuts off, because the pain abruptly fades away. There’s a rush of warmth and relief, sending gooseflesh up and down arms. His mind blurs as it tries to comprehend what’s happening to his body, a dizzy but not unpleasant feeling.

The veins on Scott’s arms have gone black.

“Stop that.” Stiles swats weakly at Scott’s hands. His fingers are sluggish, like they’ve been filled with syrup instead of blood.

“He hurt you,” Scott says thickly. And Stiles can’t tell if that’s a statement or a question. He watches the emotions play across his friend’s face, too many and too intense for him to catalogue them all. “He hurt you because of me.”

“What? Hey, no…”

Scott’s eyes swing sharply up to meet his and they’re suspiciously bright. “You’re lying.”

Stiles huffs, dismayed. “You didn’t even let me say anything!”

“Your heartbeat was already off.”

“At least let me come up with one first!”

“He did, then,” Scott persists. “He hurt you because it’d get to me.”

“Well… well, yeah,” Stiles rambles helplessly. “But, y’know, he’s a raging asshole. Even by Argent standards. He gets his rocks off by performing nasty hemicorporectomy procedures - and not having the decency to call it straight up murdering people - and brainwashing his granddaughter and torturing teenagers, so he can’t be expected--” Scott’s expression crumples abruptly, and Stiles’ heart does a terrifying flip. “Oh no. No, come on, Scotty, please.”

“It’s my fault,” he declares miserably. His breath hitches around the words, the telltale beginnings of a sob, and it makes Stiles’ chest wrench painfully, even worse than his bruised ribs. There’s tears gathering at Scott’s lashes, and it’d be almost pretty if it weren’t so awful.

“H-Hey, no way. It’s not like that,” Stiles tries desperately to soothe. It doesn’t seem to help, because the first fat tear escapes, followed by another and another. Stiles’ eyes trace their path, his lungs squeezing tight. “Scott.” He does the only thing he can, and pulls Scott into him. The boy goes willingly, easily, all but molding himself into Stiles’ side.

There’s a moment of horrible silence where Scott holds his breath, trying to suppress the sobs that are already fighting to break free. The drip of hot tears on his bare shoulder has Stiles shivering; he presses his hands to Scott’s back, so utterly unsure about how to help, how to fix this.

“It’s okay,” he attempts helplessly.

Scott is disturbingly quiet for a long while. “I’m sorry,” he whispers once. And then quieter, almost inaudibly. Stiles can feel it better than he can hear it, as it’s pressed into his shoulder over and over again like he’s trying to imprint the words into Stiles’ skin.

“Hey,” he calls gently. “I’m okay. See?” His voice comes out slightly frantic despite himself. “Hey, look at me.” Stiles nudges him until Scott leans back - which is a good thing, because Stiles doesn’t currently have the balance or strength to support both of them. The vulnerable, anguished sheen in his best friend’s eyes is enough to scatter his thoughts. He’s so close, so hurt and so fucking miserable and guilty and all Stiles wants to do is…

No. Not a good idea.

“I’m alright,” is all he manages to come up with. He plasters on a self-deprecating grin and aims for humor when all else fails. “We’ll just call it payback for me dragging you into the Preserve and getting you Bit, right? I get you viciously attacked by a crazy - now zombie - werewolf, the hunter who comes after you for it attacks me. Now we’re even.”

It seems to be the exact wrong thing to say. At the very least, it does the job of getting Scott’s tears to dry up and for him to give Stiles a wet glare instead. “It’s not… It’s not about payback.”

“Sure it is. You don’t have to worry about me getting hurt because I’m the one that started this. It’s my fault you got Bit, Scott. You would’ve been… I dunno, still fighting to make the first line and trying to impress Allison if it wasn’t for me.” Their lives are so fucked up now that the both of them being social nobodies are considered happier times. Three months ago that would have been unthinkable, laughable even.

“It doesn’t work like that!” Scott reprimands, his voice still thick with tears.

Of course it does, Stiles wants to explain. People, if not the universe in general, have always worked like that. Cause and effect work like that. People’s mistakes sometimes cause pain and misfortune. Or sometimes people just hold grudges.

Sometimes the universe punishes you for not being a good enough son, spacey and hyperactive and not observant enough to the things that really matter. Sometimes your mom dies when you wander off for that one moment where the hospital has become too painful and too boring. Sometimes your dad can’t take how bad of a kid you are, and sometimes you’re sure he’s adopted your best friend as the better son.

But none of this… none of this is anything Stiles can form into words. Or wants to.

And Scott, damn him, reads his sullen silence like an old pro. “Do you really think you’re the weak link with us?”

He shrugs uselessly. “Well, y’know. Human. Not even a useful human. At least Allison is trained to fight. Even… even if she wasn’t really on our side at the end this time.”

“You’re not useless,” Scott insists. His brow furrows stubbornly when Stiles’ frown only deepens. “I would’ve died so many times if it wasn’t for you. I never would’ve made it to getting Bitten if I didn’t have you.” He says it so earnestly, without even the barest trace doubt in his voice. And Stiles can’t help the little tendril of warmth that curls around his heart.

“Aw, geez,” he huffs.

“It’s true.”

“Just… let’s just shut up and go to bed okay? It’s getting hard to keep standing.” He’s not above using his (minor! Totally minor!) injuries to get his best friend to stop that line of thought.

Predictably, the blossoming affection on Scott’s face slips away into worry. Just like that his hands are on Stiles’ arms again. “Right! God, I’m sorry, Stiles. Here.”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he’s led to bed. But his protests are just met with tutting and gentle hands supporting him as he kicks out of his pants and climbs into his bed at a glacial pace. Scott even tugs his socks off to keep him from twisting painfully and pulls the covers up over him.

“You’re the best, dude,” Stiles sighs happily, patting the space beside him.

Scott snorts quietly - like he doesn’t believe it. What a hypocrite, giving Stiles The Eyes when he can’t even take a compliment himself. He does his best not to watch as Scott tugs his shirt over his head; to not let his eyes trace the rippling lines of muscle that hadn’t been there just last year. He picks at the blanket, resolutely Not Looking. (If he doesn’t look, he doesn’t have to confront the increasingly apparent notion that he is really, really Not Straight.) The last thing Stiles needs on top of everything else is to make this awkward.

It still doesn’t stop him from sliding into Scott’s space once the other boy climbs into bed with him. Because now this is familiar. Lying curled up facing Scott, close enough to whisper and smother laughter into the pillows long into the night is something he’s done since pre-school. Scott’s never voiced any worries about it being “weird” yet, and Stiles isn’t about to ask.

The bone-deep exhaustion takes hold once they’ve settled. The adrenaline has long since drained from Stiles, and even the anxiety isn’t going to keep him awake for long. He wonders, briefly, if Scott is even capable of being exhausted now. Does his new healing keep him alert and painless? Or does he still feel the aches and pulls even after his wounds heal? Does he have the ghosts of catastrophic injuries even after the skin and muscle and bone has knitted back together?

The syrupy, weightless feeling is back. Stiles blinks open his eyes, and finds Scott watching him, his hand resting gently on Stiles’ outstretched arm. “Quit,” he admonishes.

“You’re in pain, though.”

“And now you are, and that doesn’t make me feel better. Okay?” He shifts his arm, grasping Scott’s hand. But he thinks better of pushing it away when the black streaking veins fade back into his friend’s smooth skin. “I’ll let you take a little in the morning. If I’m having trouble.”

“Okay.”

The silence is kinder this time as it settles around them.

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

Scott sniffles. “I’m sorry I never told you about the plan.”

He sighs. “I forgive you, dude.” He does, even if it still hurts. “I would’ve helped, y’know?”

“I know. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. But you did anyway.”

“Yeah, I did. But I got hurt because Gerard was a gigantic fuckwad and not because of anything you did.”

Scott clearly ignores his attempt at placing the blame (where the blame belongs), because his frown becomes determined. “It’s not going to be like this next time.”

Stiles lifts his head off the pillow slightly. “Hm?”

He’s still holding Scott’s hand, and Scott doesn’t seem to want to let go. “I haven’t been… the best person, since all of this. I haven’t been the best student, or the best son, and not the best friend either.”

“Hey, no--”

“I want to be better,” Scott steamrolls on, as if Stiles hasn’t even opened his mouth. “I know I can be better. I can work harder, and learn more. I’ve got all this new power but… but the only thing I’ve been using it for is playing lacrosse and trying not to die.”

“We’ve all been trying not to die, man,” Stiles urges.

“I know. But I… I want to be better. If this is supposed to be a gift, then I need to start making it one.” Scott’s eyes are far off, even as he absently plays with the pads of Stiles’ fingers. Stiles has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep still, to keep from drawing attention to it. “I’m sick of feeling like this is a curse. And it’s not gonna change unless I change it.”

“You don’t need to be ‘better,’” Stiles defends. “You’re already better than anyone I know.”

But Scott isn’t convinced. Stiles isn’t even sure Scott has heard him. His eyes are far away, and Stiles can’t suppress the swell of petty distaste - not directed at Scott, exactly. ‘I’m right here,’ he thinks. ‘Look at me. Listen.’

Scott hasn’t been “here” for months, even though he’s never left Stiles’ side. And Stiles…

Fuck, he’d give anything to have that boy back, the one who wasn’t burdened by murder and invasion and the lives of everyone he knows.

Because Stiles could help that boy - the boy with the normal teenage problems like lack of popularity and finding a girlfriend. This… Stiles can only hang on and hope Scott doesn’t realize he has no idea what he’s doing.

------------------------------------------------------------

The breathing of the boys inside slows and deepens, but it doesn’t make Derek feel any better. He sits on the Stilinski rooftop, tucking his leather jacket around him to fight off the early spring chill, and shrinks away from view. The last thing he needs tonight is for the Sheriff to find out he’s up here - another disappointment to the man in a long string of them.

After everything, and maybe even despite everything, Derek had to know that Scott and Stiles made it home unharmed. (Or not any more harmed, in Stiles’ case.) He’d directed Boyd, Erica, and Isaac to the B&B for the night, and had backtracked all the way to the Stilinski house instead of joining them. He’d just wanted to check on them. But what he’d found hadn’t made the sick feeling deep in his belly go away at all.

“I want to be better,” Scott had said.

“I know I can be better,” he’d said.

“I’ve got all this power, but all I use it for is trying not to die,” he’d said.

“The only thing you cared about was how quickly you could make this go away,” he’d said, back in the warehouse, his eyes flickering a defiant Beta gold. “You didn’t care who had to die for it.”

“You’re the one who doesn’t belong, Derek. You’re the only piece that doesn’t fit,” Gerard had sneered as Scott held his head back, forcing him to bare his throat, eventually - Derek had been so sure at the time - for a blade.

He feels sick all over again, and leaps down off the roof. He sets off at a run, desperate to feel the burn in his lungs and the pull in his muscles, anything to drown out his circling thoughts. Derek is halfway to Celina and Eliza’s before the coherent thought surfaces:

He’s nothing like his mother. Or Laura.

He has none of the traits he so admired in them as Alphas. His mother had been a shining beacon for so many people, both magical and mundane alike. Both the people of the town and Packs across the country looked to her for guidance. She’d embodied everything Derek thought an alpha should be: kind and steadfast; firm when it was needed; open and loving to her Pack. Brave and strong as the hardest steel towards threats, but never seeking violence. And Laura, who’d become his Alpha in the aftermath of fire and death that had ripped their world apart, had done everything she could to be the Alpha they both needed. She may not have been their mother, but Laura had all the traits and abilities that a good Alpha was supposed to embody.

And Derek… Derek has none of that. The only thing he’s done is swing wildly between one life-or-death situation and the next, scrambling just to keep his head above water let alone keeping his own Betas alive.

They deserve more than that. They deserve more than a fuckup of an Alpha. The memories of his mother and sister, and his whole Pack, deserve more than that.

They deserve better than what Derek has given them up until now.

How he could possibly begin to fix that, though, is another question entirely. And not one he has the energy to dwell on tonight.

He absently pats the garden gate as he nears the Marcella’s Bed & Breakfast, not in the least bit surprised when it seems to swing open of its own accord. The moment Derek steps foot inside the property line, a wave of soothing warmth rushes over him, like easing into a soft bed or a hot bath at the end of the day. “Hi,” he sighs under his breath.

The lilac bushes near the veranda rustle in answer. They’re going to bloom soon, the flower clusters fat and already fragrant to Derek’s nose. The air smells of spring, of earth and growth and comfort, perhaps even more so inside the property line due to the house’s strange magic.

The door eases open as he’s climbing the front stairs, but not because of any supernatural force this time. Eliza’s soft eyes sparkle at him from just beyond the doorway, Celina standing mere steps behind. He takes one look at their solemn faces and flinches despite himself. “I’m sorry for not calling ahead about Isaac, Boyd, and Erica,” he says guiltily.

Celina waves his apology away. “Your Betas are asleep upstairs. We put them in the family suite near your room.”

“They fought sleeping while you were still out,” Eliza adds gently, “but the house took care of that.”

“It can do that?” Derek asks, giving the seemingly benign house a dubious look.

“Not in so many words.” Eliza pats the door frame, beckoning Derek inside. “It only does a remarkable job at making people feel safe within its walls.” That, at least, is a feeling Derek recognizes. Almost immediately so as the door closes behind him. The old Victorian house is soothing in a way no house has been since his family’s home had been destroyed.

“Here, let us have a look at you,” Celina urges brusquely. She steps into Derek’s space without a thought, hands cupping his face so she can get a good look into his eyes. The unwavering touch shocks him, his whole body jerking, but not necessarily away from her. Her hands are warm and soft.

The last person that had touched him with such gentleness had been Laura. The realization makes his throat grow tight. Everything since then had been violent or nauseatingly sexual. Not even Scott or Stiles have ever touched him outside of force or desperation - dragging his injured or barely conscious body around not because they’d like to, but because they had to. Or like what happened tonight--

Derek shuts his eyes against the thought.

“Can you feel him?” Celina asks gravely. “Argent?”

He sighs. “Not yet.” He doesn’t ask how she knows about what happened tonight. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Well, if we are lucky that means it didn’t take. Even if Scott’s little trick doesn’t kill him.”

‘How much do you know? Were you in on it too?’ The questions are on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t voice them. Derek can’t take another blow like that tonight. “Scott wouldn’t do that,” he answers instead.

“No, he wouldn’t,” Eliza agrees.

“But he’s not going to have to,” Celina adds pointedly. She smoothes down Derek’s lapels, a gesture so motherly that his heart aches.

Derek blinks at them. “What do you mean?” Celina doesn’t answer, but her smile is sharp as she steps back.

Eliza takes his arm, guiding him towards the stairs. “We’ve offered our aid to Doctor Deaton, in ensuring that Gerard Argent is no longer a threat,” she says sweetly.

“You--” Derek lets out an incredulous breath. “You’re going to hunt him down. With Deaton.”

“Oh yes. Alan’s given the typical speech about the balance being threatened, but I feel he’s doing it for the same reason as Celina and I.”

“And that would be?” Irritation and exhaustion gives his voice an edge. He doesn’t mean to be rude, not to them, but he’s just had enough tonight.

“On top of being a reprehensible abomination of a man,” Eliza explains patiently, “he’s gone and threatened those we love.” She squeezes his arm, her smile sweet and knowing, and somehow just a touch wicked. “And we can’t have that.”

It’s not fear, but guilt that immediately swamps Derek. Of course, they would know about what happened to Stiles. Of course, they’d know that the Sheriff had been attacked at the station. Of course, they’d know that Gerard had threatened Scott.

Surely, they’d also know that was just as much Derek’s fault as Gerard’s.

The apology stalls at his lips, just long enough for Celina to scoff. “She means you too, silly boy.”

Derek stares at her, and then at Eliza, who nods reassuringly at him. His lips part, but no words will come out. He can’t even begin to quantify the curious mix of emotions rising in his chest, making this throat grow tight. For a moment, his eyes burn, but he blinks it away and swallows down the swell of emotion. “I… Really?”

There’s a sad understanding to Celina’s smile. For what, Derek can’t fathom. He can’t even understand what’s transpiring in himself, let alone between them. “Of course, dear,” she soothes.

He sucks in a shaking breath. “Thank you.”

They accept his gratitude with soft smiles, and usher him up to bed.

------------------------------------------------------------

Next: Side A, Ch7

A week goes by. The town goes quiet. Jackson Whittemore is not, in fact, declared dead. His father sues the hospital for malpractice. The EMTs who declared him dead in the first place are nowhere to be found. Stiles is taken to the hospital and his injuries checked over - bruised ribs are the worst of them, the rest are deep bruises that they’re instructed to watch carefully. Stiles gives his infuriatingly generic statement.

Another week passes. The string of murders goes quiet. The mystery of who attacked his son is a cold case even before it starts.

------------------------------------------------------------

END CHAPTER 5.

#McHaleinski #ScottDerekStiles #Teen Wolf #fanfic #series: My Head is an Animal #fic: Side B #Let me weave you a Dream

[moviesteem]

ELEX Review

If you’ve ever been on a date with someone who seems very interesting and pleasant, but suddenly goes on tirades about lizard people or how the Illuminati faked the moon landing, you have some understanding of my love-hate relationship with ELEX. It’s a sprawling, ambitious, Euro-style RPG in the tradition of series like The Witcher and Gothic, and there’s plenty to admire peppered across its…

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[consoleps4vr]

ELEX Review If you’ve ever been on a date with someone who seems very interesting and pleasant, but suddenly goes on tirades about lizard people or how the Illuminati faked the moon landing, you have some understanding of my love-hate relationship with ELEX.

#ps4 #PS4 IGN