#yeah anyway!

[coldercreation]

Wild Wolves

Raised in a pack of wolves, he didn’t have the words to express any of what he was witnessing right then.

The fear was pure and unadulterated. It was... overwhelming. Viscerally terrifying, making him want to lash out.

Which he did. Violently and without sense – without regret. 

Anything to protect the pack. Anything to survive. 

The whites of his eyes flashing he stared up at that strange and unwelcome animal in front of him. Two-legged, tall, and so incredibly alien… 

Yet somehow, unmistakably, a wolf. 

The blood dripping down his muzzle was warm, clinging to his bared teeth, spraying as he snarled at the intruder. He heard the nervous yipping of his pack brothers and sisters fading as they escaped deeper into the forest, pack Mother and pack Father leading them away from the danger.

He didn’t know what to do when, instead of the danger coming for him, it simply… 

Followed?

-

Colton had named the young shifter living with the wild pack ‘Tawny’. 

Decidedly not Tony, which was boring and lame and over-used, and sounded nothing like the much cooler name Tawny, shut up Seb. 

Tawny was lots better, and it matched the nice yellowish brown of the runt’s coat. He was always easy to spot amongst the wilds; their fur different fades of greys and whites, and Tawny standing almost a head taller than any of them. 

Compared to what Colton was used to, he was still small, maybe even sickly from all the stressors of the harsh mountain environment the pack lived in. There was something very juvenile about him too, oversized paws supporting rangy legs, ears far too big for his head. Mia had guessed that the kid was probably younger than Seb, even. Which, in all honesty, had been the first time Colton kind of regretted ever getting involved after he had come across the pack on his hikes.

Teenagers were the worst.

But a teenager raised by literal wolves?

Yeah.

‘Fucking oof…’ was all Colton could think, cradling his mangled, bloody arm against his chest.

[queenangst]

oh no im sad

[breathofnyx]

Ahhhh that snippet makes me want to jump out of the window, I think that fashion week would be really interesting to see from Max perspective :)

Max has never been so uncomfortable in his life. Sitting on a bench that hurt his ass and watching people dressed in weird clothes that he frankly finds terrible.

He’s still a bit sweaty from the plane and running through Paris’ busy streets to get to the show on time. The people next to him are not helping either, looking up and down at his skinny jeans and white shirt in disdain and it’s only at Max’s glare that they stop whispering amongst themselves. Fuck, Max now understands Charles better.

But it’s worth it, it really is. Charles has been talking about this fashion week, and this particular show for the past month or so and the small opening on Max’s schedule was too good not to take. 

At least, it would be if Charles dared to show up. It’s been twenty minutes already and he still hasn’t seen the shadow of long legs and sharp green eyes—making him check his phone to verify one more time the address Andrea gave him. 

Don’t mess with him, is the message attached to the link. Max ignores it. 

The music switches and Max raises his head just in time for his heart to catch in his throat. 

The dress is nice, whatever. Flowy, a nice color, a nice cut. But the person in it wears it like some sort of angel, coming back from the sky to rip Max’s lungs out of his chest and feast on it. Of course, Max has seen pictures of Charles on the runway, but he could not have been prepared enough to see it in real life, under spotlights highlighting his cheeks, the glow of his skin, and the carefully painted lips. Deadly.

It feels unfair to everybody else that Charles looks like that. Max feels dizzy just being in the same room as him.

When they meet afterward, when Max is waiting outside for him with all these people who look almost offended he’s not asking them for their signature, there’s only one thing Max can think about.

Lean on me. Trust me. 

Charles talks about not eating like it’s just another quirk, another thing that Max should accept about his situation and he can only think about when he found him sitting on the pavement at the party, months ago. At how sad he looked. It’s been less present these days, the sadness, but it’s never too far. Actually, Max prefers Charles like this, vengeful and with anger staining his cheeks red.

Charles snarls, like a wounded animal and Max wants to give him his hand to gnaw on.

“Why the fuck are you here if it’s just to tell me that?” he asks. Max almost wants to laugh. 

Isn’t it obvious?

“Charles. You know why, I’m here for you.”

It’s almost as if he can see the fight physically leaving Charles’ body, making him stumble and tense and relax at the same time; and Max knows. They will get there.