fighting the blank page

Ongoing struggle with my own laziness and a thousand reasons NOT to do anything. Positive outcomes are posted here. Negative outcomes are mourned here.

[leszy]

Crown the queen

A story in three acts and six years, concerning the death of Laura Hale and the afterlife of Lydia Martin.

[leszy]

As promised, here is the Wild Hunt fic which turned into post-fire Hale fic with Lydia in the background, which turned into 10k words of me being sad, but also not really. And I dedicate this all to Christa. Which teaches us something about the dangers of befriending me. 

***

They’re running away, which isn’t a safe thing for a werewolf to do at all.

Laura can’t be sure if there’s anything to run away from, which makes it even worse. Without a den to go back to, they’re wandering for the sake of wandering, not even getting further away from Beacon Hills anymore, just not staying put.

In their last flat, one they rented for a month and stayed in for a week, Laura would forgo sleep for days, pacing around the only bedroom, her own anxiousness echoed in the dark circles under Derek’s eyes. In the motel before that, she had nightmares about swift shadows chasing them across empty highways. Even before that, she made Derek stay in the car for four days while she was driving listlessly. When he tried to ask, Laura didn’t have an answer for him – so she snapped her teeth and flashed red eyes, and they drove.

Laura hasn’t caught the scent of wolfsbane since Beacon Hills, and even the smell of smoke is phantom and not really clinging to her hair, clothes, skin. Still, she feels hunted,  and through the bond between them, the cabin syndrome of a too-small pack, Derek is skittish, too, throwing glances over his shoulder, tracking other cars passing them on the road with blank eyes.

The more Laura and Derek run, the more they want to run. Laura’s heard this story once before, but she was very young, and it seemed unimportant. When she was a child, she believed it, and every word of warning about wolves who give in to the call of the chase rang true from her mother’s lips. But Laura outgrew stories, and before she grew up enough to understand that they’re true after all, there was no one left to tell them.

(continue reading on AO3)

[leszy]

Worse than a spy

Here’s a little ficlet I promised a while ago when I accidentally prompted myself. Again. Details can be found inside.

This is dedicated to all the like-minded people of Tumblr. I seem to be finding more and more of you, and I’m really glad.

***

“Just one more time,” Laura chants. “Just one more time,” she repeats, until Lydia gives in.

She doesn’t say she’s giving in, of course. Things like giving in and giving up are gone from Lydia’s vocabulary.

Cora doesn’t say much in general; she can’t distinguish between when Laura’s here and when she isn’t, other than by watching Lydia’s reactions. Sometimes, though, she tilts her head to the side almost as if she’s listening to Laura’s voice.

“It’s not like there’s a revolving door between where you are and here,” Lydia says. The knowledge that her voice carries not only to Cora, seated in the armchair in the corner of the bedroom, but also to wherever Laura is, is as unsettling as before. Lydia adds, purposefully loudly, like it can chase away the eerie feeling, “I’m not your doorman.”

“No,” Laura says. When Lydia isn’t looking straight at her, she’s there. When Lydia turns her head towards the desk, Laura disappears, so Lydia resolutely looks at her own nails; sometimes she flicks her gaze to Cora. In her peripheral vision, something’s moving ‒ Laura tapping her foot up and down, up and down. “The way I understand, it’s more of a scale. Something leaves this place, something has to replace it. Think about what I am right now as energy. You had to steal energy from my brother to pay for Peter’s passage.”

“I didn’t want to,” Lydia says. Laura’s foot stills. Lydia looks up, wants to assess Laura’s expression, but of course, Laura isn’t there. Cora’s eyebrows arch, so Lydia says, “I didn’t want to bring Peter back.”

“We know,” Cora says.

“We know,” Laura echoes. “Look. You’ve made quite a stir.  They’re watching you now, but they couldn’t approach with Peter close, and they can’t approach with me here.”

“Who are they?” Lydia asks, angry now. Everybody’s keeping secrets, and walking circles around her, and treating her like she’s smart enough to think for them, but not smart enough to be allowed to think for herself.

“Others,” Laura says, dismissively. “I don’t really‒ I don’t look over my shoulder, so I don’t know.”

Lydia sighs. She looks at her nails so long they become stains of colour against bone-pale background of her hands. “If I do this,” she asks, slow and tired, “will they go away?”

“No,” Laura says bluntly. Lydia can almost-see her perched on the bed, a hint of a woman, an echo of a face turned towards Lydia. “But I won’t go away, either. Just one more time,” she repeats.

Lydia hesitates. She doesn’t want to do this, but she doesn’t want to be completely left alone, either. Being alone leaves her mind wide open for things to slither in.

“We can make him go away,” Cora says. Lydia turns to her, losing track of the conversation, confused. “Peter,” Cora explains. “You said Derek was weakened after what you‒ after what happened with Peter. You said you stopped almost at the last moment.”

“Yes,” Lydia says. “Yes, but it wasn’t my fault.”

“Don’t stop this time,” Cora says over her. “We won’t.”

It’s been ‘we’ since the beginning, not ‘I’. Even with the sisters separated by a wall only Lydia can penetrate, they’re of the same mind. Lydia can’t look at Laura, but she’s almost sure Laura’s nodding.

“Tell me the plan,” Lydia says.

(continue reading on AO3)

[leszy]

Erica (one-sided Erica/Stiles and one-sided Erica/Allison) ficlet for the Mating Games challenge “First time/Last time”

Or, porn under the cut.

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[leszy]

Allydia ficlet for the Mating Games challenge “texts from last night”.

Or, porn under the cut.

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[leszy]

Chapter two is now up! It took me ages, I know. I’ll be better from now on, though. A preview, because why not, below.

***

“Gee, Lydia,” Stiles says. “You’re spoiling me with all that sweet talk.” He clears his throat, and adds, aiming for casual, “Is it why you keep me around? I’m entertaining?”

Usually when he asks about it, Lydia narrows her eyes and gets snappish. Questions starting with “why” aren’t her favourite ones, to put it mildly. She hates having to explain herself. But she had a good day, and seems relaxed, and Stiles is very curious. It’s worth a shot.

Lydia doesn’t answer him right away, but she doesn’t pull a face, either, so Stiles doesn’t lose hope. Instead she hops onto the edge of the pool, much like she sat before, and throws a towel around her arms. “I knew from the very start that I should steal you,” Lydia says. She reaches out to run her hand through Stiles’ wet hair. It’s the usual non-answer she gives him when she feels like saying anything at all, so Stiles sighs, ready to let it drop. His eyes snap back to Lydia when she hums in consideration, though. “You’re just like me, Stiles. Only my opposite.”

[leszy]

I’m back to writing, and here’s a thing I’m writing right now. You might’ve seen me mention it. Well. Here it is now. Yeah. Mind the warnings inside I suppose.

Summary: Lydia Martin gets whatever she wants. Nobody says “no” to the daughter of the head of the Martin Coven. And what she wants is to steal Stiles away, turning him into the companion of her teenage years. Stiles doesn’t understand coven loyalty, but he can be loyal to Lydia. At least up to the point when the choice he has to make is between Lydia and his own father, now a Sheriff in a town called Beacon Hills, under the rule of Peter Hale.

[leszy]

Totentanz

It isn’t true that the dead are always around. They’re memories ‒ if you leave them alone for long enough, they will corrode like metal left in the backyard, in the rain. The dead can’t remember themselves. Someone has to always be around, for the dead to see themselves reflected back in the living.

The dead don’t haunt cemeteries, because truth being told, cemeteries are ultimately where people forget. Nobody is truly a date and a name on a tombstone, so how can a ghost find purchase in nothing but letters and stone? They don’t even always haunt the same places where they spent most of their days. But there is a logic to it, in as much as there is logic to dying.

The dead can’t remember themselves, but they have a way of knowing about things that happened, both during their lives and outside and beyond of them – not about people, maybe, or the big events, but the living are reflected back in the dead, too. The lines get blurry after a while. Those sudden bursts of knowing are sharp and unpleasant, and feel like a grounding electric shock. All of a sudden, a face appears, and it feels like the most important face you’ll ever see. And then it’s gone, and days go by, and they feel a lot like spider webs - clinging and dragging you back.

Laura used to see a face like that, but it’s been a long time (She supposes; to talk about time to her is like for the living to talk about the 11-dimensions theory, only vaguely comprehensible at best) since then. She’s not exactly alone, though sometimes she’d rather be. The others make her uneasy, and restless, because she thinks there may be something important to them, but she doesn’t know.

(read more on AO3)

[leszy]

   I have succumbed to peer pressure and Sterek’d. Results for you to behold. Now let me just… stalk back into shadows.

Title: pictures one through seven (LJ & AO3) Author: f_t_b_p aka fightingtheblankpage Rating: NC-17 Character(s)/Pairing(s): Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale Warning(s): frottage, marking, possessive behaviour, DON’T eat paint Spoiler(s): Nope Word Count: ~3000 Summary: A long, long swipe of blue — from Stiles’ collarbone, and over the canvas of his chest, and the Jackson-Pollock-moles on his stomach, and down the relief of his abdomen. The paint is warm from Derek’s fingers, and from how alive-work of art-burning Stiles’ skin is, and there is something in the patterns Derek draws with his hands, something hidden there, a map that he could— “Huh,” Stiles says, mocking (strained), “so this is you externalising your issues through painting?” Disclaimer: I don’t own anything, I don’t even know people who own things A/N: The original prompt belongs to Amy Rose, who asked me for Sterek and painting. The fic was born because Nasti was very, very determined for it to happen. Very. I was saved from this fic, and from my own writing, and from Derek, by my Beta, Elizabeth. Thank you all!

[leszy]

Amy Rose asked for Sterek + painting

Nasti asked for a rebloggable version

Therefore, here it is:

***

A long, long swipe of blue — from Stiles’ collarbone, and over the canvas of his chest, and the Jackson-Pollock-moles on his stomach, and down the relief of his abdomen. The paint is warm from Derek’s fingers, and from how alive-work of art-burning Stiles’ skin is, and there is something in the patterns Derek draws with his hands, something hidden there, a map that he could— “Huh,” Stiles says, mocking (strained), “so this is you externalising your issues through painting?”

[leszy]

peter & laura

If you’re to betray her (and you’re to betray her), don’t call her in that voice. Don’t make her think of when she used to sit in your lap, and drink orange-flavoured childhood from a glass that was warm from your fingers.

(She’s made of glass, and she’s been filled...

[leszy]

For those of you who showed interest, or may be interested in the future:

My Teen Wolf Lydia/Laura fic, third part of my you, me and the moon series is up on AO3.

Warning for Explicit rating. Details here:

going out, staying in (staying in)

[leszy]

Paradise Enough

My Teen Wolf Big Bang fic is up. Here are the details:

Writer’s Name: f_t_b_p Artist’s Name: veritycandor Genres: General, romance Rating: R Warnings: Violence, Mentions of Abuse, Mentions of Mental Health Issues, Panic Attack, Dub-con, Character Death and Discussing Death, Language Summary: The pack leaves Beacon Hills after graduating high school, and Derek and Peter are the only ones left. Derek knows there is no hope of the pack coming back to him now that they’ve tasted freedom. Scattered around the country, various members of the pack battle their own demons, like unrequited love and terrifying memories. Back home, the very much unresolved issue of Peter’s resurrection is starting to draw supernatural interest. Art Link: (coming soon!) Story Link: LJ & AO3

Make sure to check out the art. I mean, MY FIC HAS ART WHAT

[leszy]

Screw you real life, I’m working on the next instalment in my Lydia/Laura series you, me and the moon. For those who showed interest in it, here’s a snippet that may tell you what it’s going to be about, more or less. 

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[kindaskimpy]

Chris Argent spies on Stiles Stilinski. For reasons.

I have a theory. Everybody wants to fuck Stiles.

[leszy]

It’s a valid theory that I share.

They have a treaty now, and Chris respects it.

They have a treaty, and Chris walks that tentatively drawn line. He keeps his distance from the wolves, and they very pointedly not notice him.

But he’s allowed to still worry about the humans, isn’t he? About his daughter, of course, and about the Martin girl - still so fragile even in the glimpses that Chris gets of her when she visits Allison - and about the Sheriff’s kid.

Stiles. It would be bad if something happened to him, Chris tells himself. He’s the wolves humans, and the humans in on the wolves. He’s- important to the balance, Chris supposes. Even if he’s very much out of balance himself.

It’s hard to see at first, especially because at first, Chris keeps his distance and runs into Stiles almost by accident. They attend the same crime scenes (their equivalent of social gatherings) and show up at the same supernatural shit-storms.

Stiles is always there, and he always seems fine. A little harder around the edges, a little quicker to throw punches. But fine. Alive.

My father did this to him, Chris thinks. This boy has been shaped (twisted out of shape) by Chris’s inability to fight the evil inside his own family. Almost his responsibility, then.

Stiles holds himself together around the pack, like he’s afraid they’ll leave him behind if he doesn’t. He’s a bit more open around his Dad, but it’s when he’s left alone - waiting for the others, strolling through town, leaning against his Jeep with his shoulders hunched like there’s physical pain in his chest - that Chris can see the jagged holes in him.

He shouldn’t be left alone when he’s like that. This is Chris’s excuse. He’s looking out for what his own father destroyed, making sure that Stiles doesn’t- Slip. Accidentally catch at the edge of an old wound and tear himself open.

And it’s fascinating, in a way. Like car accidents are, and plane crashes, and human bodies when they become empty. It’s mesmerising, to watch Stiles unravel and hide himself away every day, again and again.

It’s addicting. A dangerous taste that follows Chris just like he follows Stiles - growing reckless, turning bold, almost daring Stiles to see him.

He doesn’t. Or he pretends he doesn’t. It will grow to frustrate Chris, he knows. He’ll start wanting things from Stiles, acknowledgements and whole truths, not just stolen glances and educated guesses.

It’s a game, it’s a hunt, it’s an exercise in patience. It’s even a punishment.

It’s what Chris needs, right now, and he waits until his body demands a bigger dosage.

[leszy]

12/12/12

The last time in our lives the Americans and the rest of the world will agree on a date. Makes one melancholic.

On that note, first 12 people to send me a prompt get a drabble. I’d like to say that the prompt has to be 12 words, but that’s up to you.

[leszy]

Double the love if you prompt me with a rare pairing.

[leszy]

Save wolves, get werewolves!

Guys!

It finally happened. The day my Dad feared and joked about in equal parts. I’m for sale. And I’m not the only one! It’s for a worthy cause, though, so that’s fine.

Okay, what’s up?

Wolf Pack Charity Project.

I know we had some wank in the fandom, and it probably stems from us suffering from some sort of Internet version of cabin fever. Never mind that. We can disagree about Jeff Davis, Dylan’s hair, and Derek’s love interests. Really, whatever.

What I’m sure we agree on is, wolves are fucking majestic. And cute. Pretty much like our werewolves. So, if you can spare a few dollars for them, that would be neat. If you can write, or make art (so jelly), or anything TW-related really, that would be neat, too.

On my part, I’m going to donate, and I’m going to be one of the authors writing fics for the auction. Which means that if you spare some monney and save wolves, you’ll get werewolves from me. It’s almost like magic!

Again, for details and probably less swearing go here.

And spread the word!

Love, 

Monika.

[leszy]

ficlet 01

I have way too many ideas after finishing until the moon gives you back.

So here, have a ficlet.

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