OOC
WHOA BUDDY

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@volaticusinsania
OOC
WHOA BUDDY
sometimes i wanna do a thing but then you look like you’re busy with other things and i don’t wanna seem repetitive eventhough it’s been a while since we did a thing: a song by S.
{ a generic roll of his eyes and the wolf relaxes his haunches, settling on the ground with a bored expression. he didn’t even sign up to test the ash, but he’d been the only member of the pack available at the time of stiles’ inquiry, so he’d been stuck. derek was so going to pay for this. if you try and pet me, i’ll bite you. i don’t care if you’re the emissary. }
[ hey, rude wolf, wolf, can you -
no, don't finish that. ]
"Alright. Get out of it, if you can."
[ t e s t i n g is a tedious job, and takes up too much time; there's this and then there's work and there's no sleep. it shows in the color of his eyes, rather, beneath them, and it's conveyed in long yawns. he just needs to get it r i g h t and in the long run it'll do them good. ]
"And we'll try something different."
Pepper’s arch nemesis is this laptop that takes the attention off of her. Obviously, my focus should be 100% on her all the time.
Deb Caletti, Stay
{ not this shit again. the wolf laid down on the ground with his head flat and level and with a rather heavy huff, a gap appears in the line. who said the big bad wolf couldn’t conquer little red. }
"Stop that."
[ a clever curl of his hand reconnects it, and, yeah, that's still going to be awesome until he's tired of it. he crouches, knees splayed far from one another and butt bouncing off his arched heels. he could touch the wolf, but the wolf wouldn't be able to touch him (unless he does his prissy little huff again). ]
"So there's a flaw in this brand. Sue me."
[ sometimes you just realize you essentially put your life into the hands of an ash line and it kind of blows your mind. ]
[ There’s a sinister smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, a predatory gleam in his eye; he’s waiting, oh so patiently, to rip the skin from this boy’s bones, because goddamn, if he doesn’t look beautiful when he bleeds. His mouth is moving, but there’s no sound—nothing except the beat of his heart thrashing violently beneath his ribcage, beckoning the Alpha a step closer.
Somewhere behind the animosity, the hatred, the anger, and the bloodlust, Ethan is still there. He’s caged up behind a beast of a man - a monster, in every sense of the word. Imprisoned in his own mind. He’s watching the scene unfold between splashes of red, and he struggles to reign himself in. Very few understand how difficult it is to share your headspace with a rabid wolf.
The animal wants to destroy. He can already taste the copper on his tongue, feel the crunch of bone and cartilage between his maws, the flesh and blood and stripped muscle beneath his claws—what an euphoric experience that would be, to tear this kid limb from limb, for the sake of his parents. His parents that had never received a proper burial.
His parents.
His first two victims.
Counterintuitive, wasn’t it? Killing someone because they pulled at the heartstrings in a faulty attempt to gauge a reaction, determine what they could get away with and what they couldn’t. Killing someone, because they talked about the other people you’ve killed. He’s running in circles here, and - the better part of him knows it. He just keeps spiraling downward.
Guilt’s going to crush him. Eventually.
But that doesn’t stop him from finally going for the kill. ]
"W a i t,"
[ but that's no use. he's trying to bargain with a wolf - one whom he stole a rabbit from in proverbial sense. he makes a habit of being morbid in good (though it usually turns out poor) humor, but now it just makes sense. because it's face. he's legitimately doomed. he can't see with a loud, messy head and he's spitting blood because it's stuck to his tongue -
oh god, he's going to die, and maybe it's good that his father was taken so he doens't have to hear about it.
is this the part where he gave a mental salute: "see ya soon, daddio?"
probably, but there he goes, missing it, becauses there's more growling and it's not the looming Ethan, no, it's - holy, shit, Scott, and he's pretty angry.
ok, we're gonna go with pissed because it makes him feel better to think cuss words.
Scott's all roar and power and Stiles is pretty sure the dude's over him so he reaches out and pats that ankle encouragingly. go, do the thing, i'm just gonna pass out... he hears, ]
"ENOUGH!"
[ and wonders how well the rest of Scott's simple requests go. his heart is sick in racing and he might throw up from the pain in his face, his ribs. later, he knows, he'll hear it: stiles, how could you, you dumbass, and it'll sound like Scott because it will be Scott and hey, Scott's here, didn't he go with those alpha fucks? who c a r e s he's so dizzy, so tired... ]
{ — but he’s hungry is the problem. isaac shrugs, slowly sliding his bag across the surface of the table, hands curled around the straps tightly lest it drops and his inkpot upends itself inside there. }
"Not getting anywhere with this Charms essay, am I? Taking a break’s good, yeah?"
{ but hey, if you know anything about Charms, feel free to chime in. }
"That the one NitWit assigned?"
[ he hasn't been taking kindly to professors lately. too much work and no play makes stiles a dull boy with temper problems and moments prone to weak attention spans. and poor retitle-ing of teachers. ]
"Shit. When is that due?" [ dingbat wiggles under his head, and he reaches up, presses down the muggle ballcap to confine him. remainds amused when the rat squeaks with indignation. ]
"Because humans move so slow.”
{ or maybe that’s just a stilinski trait. }
[ you really wanna start? ]
"I'm guessing slow and steady wins the race doesn't come to mind."
“I’d like to dedicate this award to Lydia, who I have had sex with many times in many different positions, with many different toys and add-ons, and you get stuck with your pre-teen fantasies and wet dreams.”
"Sorry not sorry - all the people who cared called and said they didn't."
Comfort and pain-buffering were all Derek could hope to accomplish, his hands too stained by one too many bad life decisions to ever be pure enough to offer hope. Rebuffed, he let them drop awkwardly to his sides, useless, but this wasn’t about him (had never been, and never would be). Any moment, he expected the radio to crackle, the phone to ring, but all he had was the stillness and then, more worryingly, Stiles’ voice speaking to someone that wasn’t where he seemed to think they were.
Derek swallowed, his throat a sharp bob.
He could practically smell the copper before it fell, but don’t touch, don’t touch me was plain as an exclamation point, and all he could do was press a washcloth into Stiles’ hands and hover as close as he’d be allowed.
"Come back to the bedroom. You need to sit down."
A panic attack was going to go off like an explosion if Stiles was this ungrounded in the present; Derek’s hands were useless to stop anything going on in his head, behind his eyes, within the whipcord bone and muscle and sinew of his flesh.
"Come with me. Please."
"You don't need his help," She said in his ear, but it was in his voice, and the words were I don't need your help, and it took him a moment to realize he had raised his voice at Derek - backed himself into a corner that felt too encasing. His arm stretched out along one wall, fingers spread and hands flat - hands that he wanted to use and shake Derek's neck until it clicked and flopped -
His nose spurted, and the noise made him gag, made him pitch forward, stumbling for the bathroom. The carpet would stain but whatever, he never really cared for it before, it was there when they bought it - old and grey and yellow-stained at the edges from someone's smoking habits.
Pit, pit, patter. Bright little drops of things that might've been blood all across the once-white of their tile, of their sink, and his hand slipped, smeared it all around and Stiles - might not have been able to breathe. To suck in the air he needed. It was an overwhelming joke and he swallowed hard - found the taste of copper there, like when his father used to handle his bleeds wrong as a kid. Tip him back as opposed to forward.
"He was always angry at you. After all: you took me away from him."
And she's there in the mirror but she wasn't when he looked back over his shoulder. Just Derek, with white eyes suited for a scared deer than a wolf who claimed pride in his pack.
Stiles wanted to rip them out --
"What's wrong with me?" The question was tired - in use and in tone. Briefly, he remembered being too young with too much of him and being sat down; told to calm down and control himself, kids with their pushy hands and shoulders that skinned his knees in result and what's wrong with me, mom, why am I like this --
everything, sweetie, you're just not right.
But that wasn't how it had been.
Had it?
“Are we going, or what?”
"What is it with werewolves and rushing everywhere?"
“Since you took your mouth off McCall’s dick and looked around for once.”
"And to the surprise of no one, the award for Wow, What A Douchebag goes to Jackson Whittemore. C'mon, get up here, grab the stand, give us a speech. Actually, don't, because it turns out I need those minutes of my life."
"Since when are you back?"
this is a dylan’s collarbones appreciation post. \o/