#My Story/My Writing

[who-canceled-roger-rabbit]

Some spins on the "mostly male team with a token woman" trope:

The woman is trans and stayed in her old circle of bros even after transition

The woman is the only one in her circle of "girls" who didn't turn out to be a trans man

[filiseverus]

The Barbie movie reminded me about how when I was little my parents were upset that I kept making my Barbie dolls kiss, so they bought me a Ken doll. The next day they found me having a funeral for poor Ken in the garden, he had died of tuberculosis. All the Barbies were in attendance and I buried him under our rose bush. The Barbies were too poor to afford a headstone (it was 1875) so I didn’t mark where the grave was and I never could find him again. He’s probably still there.

[write-on-world]

[lgbtlunaverse]

There's a version of the "don't go grocery shopping while hungry" rule specifically for writers where you should never under any circumstances be allowed to touch your draft within 3 hours of reading a really good story. Because sometimes when you read something great your head goes "fuck this is so much better than my stuff I should make that more like THIS instead!" Look at me. That's the devil talking and you should close the document NOW.

[xisadorapurlowx]

[flintpunks-mind]

A co-worker of mine was standing outside with me during a break from customers to share a cigarette with me, and told me about how he had lost his brother that he was close with some years ago. He told me about how they used to be in a band together with some friends, and how ever since he'd died, he hadn't played any music because he'd been too scared and anxious. I told him about how I'd lost my brother to suicide some years ago.

I went home and pulled out an old tiny wooden box my brother had given me before he'd died. I'd been using it to store guitar picks I'd collected over the years, including one guitar pick that used to be his. I haven't played the guitar since he'd died, my hands are too small to play some of the chords, so I play bass and piano instead.

I went to work the next day and gifted my brothers old guitar pick to my co-worker. I told him that it'd been sitting in a box for ten years unused, and would probably sit there for longer if I kept it there. Told him that I thought he deserved to have it, because I bet he could put it to better use than I ever would. Told him I didn't feel like it was coincidence that me and him would cross paths with each other in our lives, and that it seemed suiting that we had these similar experiences but split in two halves. That somehow, I felt like he was meant to have the guitar pick. I told him that I knew he'd not played guitar since his brother died, but that if he ever decided to play again one of these days, maybe he'd be able to honor both of our brothers by using that guitar pick.

He almost cried. He thanked me. Then he went home that night and for the first time in years he played the guitar.

I don't know what the meaning of life is or what my purpose is, but I do believe that love and human connection is one of the most important things in life. It's finding ways to tell strangers you love them and share experiences with others. I think it's all just about love.

[ivaspinoza]

not me writing this giant synopsis of my own wip to myself so i can understand what i am actually trying to create

[nerdpoe]

For an Op, Jason goes undercover at a college. He goes all out, actually signing up for classes and getting a dorm with a (shudder) roommate. Then he proceeds to have a nightmare during a thunderstorm and shoots the poor roommate.

He stares at Fenton.

Fenton stares back at him, wide eyed and shocked. Blood is starting to stain the front of his shirt.

"It's okay," Fenton says, voice strained as he clearly tries to stay calm. "It's okay, this isn't the worst thing I've had. I have a med kit in the closet, and I can do my own stitches; no one has to know."

Jason can't say anything. He's too busy staring at the blood.

It's red, until the lightning starts to fade and the glowing green flecks make themselves known.

He looks up into Fenton's eyes, and vibrant Lazarus green stares back at him.

He may have just found a bigger problem than pinning down the supplier of a new drug.

[and-corn]

[bizarrelittlemew]

i can't wait to be 30+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 40+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 50+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 60+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 70+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 80+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to be 90+ and still in fandom and i can't wait to look back on my life and know that i loved things deeply and passionately and was inspired to create and was part of communities with incredible people from all over the world brought together by the stories that touched us

[1989dreamer]

Chapter 26 of Looking for a Place to Call Home

LfaPtCH Tag

                                                                                                                     ~ * ~

Derek can barely keep his eyes open as they eat, still leaning on Stiles. He keeps expecting to be shrugged off, but Stiles smells content and actually loops an arm around Derek to keep him upright when he lists a little too far and starts tipping over.

Isaac made far too many waffles even for five werewolves and three humans, and even Laura and Cora reach their limits after a fourth helping each.

Derek manages three bites of his third serving before his stomach slips and he rushes to the bathroom, barely able to hold off on expelling the food he’s just eaten before his head is over the toilet bowl.

Someone brushes their hand down his back, offering a bit of comfort as he dry heaves, saliva dripping from his mouth.

Slowly, Derek becomes aware of the person speaking. He isn’t too surprised to find that it’s Stiles rubbing his back, talking quietly as he keeps a steady, grounding pressure on Derek’s back.

“You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

Derek doesn’t believe him. How can everything be okay when Derek can’t eat enough to put on weight and Laura is going back to her captors to rescue the child they forced her to have? How can Stiles lie so easily when Derek knows he has seen so many bad things as a deputy?

Stiles helps him stand when he finally stops retching. He wets a washcloth and gently wipes snot and saliva from Derek’s face.

“How are you feeling now?”

Derek shakes his head. He still feels queasy even if there’s nothing left in his stomach. He doesn’t know if the sensation will pass shortly or if he’ll have to stay in the bathroom in case his body decides to eject more.

Peter knocks on the door frame. “Is everyone okay?” he asks, eyeing Stiles with unbridled suspicion.

“Is there any ginger tea?” Stiles pats Derek’s back lightly before rubbing a soothing circle between his shoulder blades. “My mom swore by it whenever my dad or I felt a little under the weather.”

“Just ginger tea?” Peter asks, mischievous. “Not something stronger? She was knowledgeable about a lot of different plants, after all.”

“She was also the Hale emissary before she died.” Stiles sounds hard, like Peter pushed too hard and now he’s trying to hide any hurt behind a shield of anger.

“And your dad became our emissary after,” Peter says with forced lightness. “We—I am so grateful to your parents for the support and kindness they showed my family. I’m sure we can find some ginger tea if you think it will help.”

“What do you say, bud?” Stiles pats Derek’s back gently. “Think ginger tea sounds good?”

Derek nods. He has a faint memory of being sick as a very young child and being given something warm and spicy to drink, but he doesn’t know if that was ginger tea nor does he remember who gave it to him.

He lets Stiles heft him up into his arms and carry him into the kitchen. He could walk but his stomach hurts and he’s tired. Besides, Stiles has a nice scent. Derek buries his nose against Stiles’ shirt and inhales deeply. This smell must be why Peter likes him so much.

Stiles’ heartbeat quickens as Peter trails them back to the table where Erica already has a mug steeping.

“Thanks for supper,” John says, “but it’s way past time to be going to bed.” He yawns widely as if to make his point. “I’ll be back around 4:00. Be ready to go.” He leaves but Stiles stays at the table, watching as Derek takes careful sips from the mug. It definitely is the spicy drink he remembers, and with more life experience, he can definitely taste the ginger in it.

Peter hovers behind Stiles for a few minutes, something distinctly indecisive about his scent.

As soon as Derek finishes drinking the tea, Peter takes the mug and puts it in the sink. Then, he sits next to Stiles, who barely spares him a glance.

“Do I make you nervous?” Peter asks.

Stiles’ scent goes sour. “No,” he replies stiffly. “Why? Are you trying to make me nervous?”

Peter smells sad, as if Stiles said the wrong thing. But how could he? He’s telling the truth as far as his heartbeat and sweat response betray.

And then Derek remembers something about his uncle: he shows his teeth when he’s flirting. Mom used to explain to the men Peter brought home that if they were patient then they would get past the teeth. Not many had enough patience, and the ones that did were meaner than Peter.

Derek looks between his miserable uncle and his equally miserable crush and rolls his eyes at them. Neither of them notice because they’re too busy ignoring each other.

“Peter likes you,” he announces, making them both jump. Peter flushes under Stiles’ sudden stare. “And Stiles likes you too, Peter.”

Stiles blushes hotly too. “I do not,” he protests as his heartbeat blips wildly.

“You do,” Peter says, amazement in his tone. “Even though you think I’m a murderer?”

“I know you’re a murderer,” Stiles corrects, “but I’m not so sure that you’ll keep murdering people aside from the trip you’re about to take.”

Peter lowers his head and closes his eyes. Then, slowly, he lifts his head and opens his eyes. Stiles doesn’t react to Peter’s blazing blue eyes.

“I know the people in New York have hurt your family,” Stiles says softly. “And I know law enforcement has failed you before, but I don’t trust you to come back unscathed. You have to understand; that’s my dad. My only living relative. I can’t lose him.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Peter’s eyes flicker back to human blue, “but I can tell you he’ll have better odds if I go too.”

Derek leaves them at the table and goes to his room. Isaac is sitting at the desk, writing a letter. Derek ignores him and crawls under the bed. He isn’t hiding exactly, but he doesn’t want to be found.

He doesn’t want his sister to go to New York but he does want them to find her daughter.

He also doesn’t want to listen to his uncle awkwardly try to flirt with Stiles. He’d be happy to call Stiles “Uncle” but it’s a little too soon to know if he and Peter even want to date each other.

Attraction doesn’t mean love.

Kate and the hunters have taught Derek that. He remembers things, sights, sounds, smells, and he curls into a tight ball, hands pressed against his ears, trying to block everything out.

“Are you comfortable under there?” Isaac asks, breaking into Derek’s spiraling thoughts. “I mean, I’m sure you are, but don’t you want to be on top of the bed?”

Derek slides out from under the bed and climbs under the covers. Isaac stacks his papers, clicks his pen a few times, and turns off the light.

The bed dips when Isaac gets in, and a few minutes later, he’s settled and drifting off to sleep.

Derek listens to his slowing breathing for fifteen minutes before he’s positive Isaac is asleep. Then he slips out of bed and tiptoes back to the kitchen where Peter and Stiles are still sitting.

“I don’t care what advantage it would give me,” Stiles is saying, low and vehement. “I don’t want the bite.”

“Just think of all the cases you could solve if you had my senses.” Peter sounds passionate, like he truly believes he’s offering the best thing in the world to Stiles and Stiles is too dumb to realize it.

But Derek knows, as does Peter, that not everyone survives the bite. And sometimes, they don’t turn into werewolves at all.

Peter should tell Stiles about all the risks and not just the benefits.

Stiles responds with something biting but Derek doesn’t hear it because Peter suddenly grabs him and drags him into the kitchen by his collar.

“Little pups have big ears,” he says, pulling out a chair and pushing Derek to sit in it.

Stiles glares at Peter. “You shouldn’t be so rough with the people you claim to love.”

“Claim?” Peter snorts. “There is no ‘claim,’ Deputy. I love my family beyond life itself. I don’t need you to tell me how to show it.”

“Then you need to not grab or drag people around like they’re bags waiting for you to move them.” Stiles and Peter glare at each other, and Derek holds his breath, certain that Peter will lash out and Stiles, human Stiles, will get hurt.

Instead, Peter breaks eye contact first. “I’m sorry, Derek,” he says gruffly, sincerely. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Derek stays quiet. Peter absolutely meant to scare him. What he probably didn’t mean to do was hurt him. There was no reason to grab Derek like that, and he’s glad Stiles pointed it out.

Peter hugs him, smacking a kiss onto the top of his head.

“It’s past time for you to be in bed if you’re going to New York.” Stiles’ tone is icy. He’s still mad.

“Will you stay?” Peter asks. “I’m sure we can find room for you somewhere.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I’d better head out.” He narrows his eyes at Peter as if telling him to behave. “I’ll stop back tomorrow to make sure everything is going okay.” He gives Derek a one-armed hug. “Call me if you need anything.” He presses a card into Derek’s hand. “My cell phone is always on, no matter the time. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

Then he gets up, grabs his keys, and leaves. Derek doesn’t wait for Peter to apologize again. He crawls back under the covers in his bed, listening to Isaac’s quiet snores, to Boyd’s deeper ones, his sisters’ gentle whimpers, Erica’s deep breaths, and doesn’t sleep at all.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

When Stiles gets back to his apartment, he finds Kincaid and Ramirez sitting on his front step.

“No offense,” he tells them before they can say anything, “but I’m really not in the mood.”

It may not be  terribly late—only just past 8:00 p.m.—but Stiles is exhausted. Maybe it’s the conversation he just had with Peter Hale. Maybe it’s the overtime he’s pulled the last few days. Whatever the cause, he can feel it in his bones, and he does not want to be dragged into whatever the rookie officers have come to consult him on.

“We just wanted to let you know that the preliminary autopsy on Alan Deaton didn’t find any wounds,” Ramirez says. “Apparently, he just drove into the lake on his own.”

“Or he swerved to avoid an animal,” Kincaid adds.

“I don’t care,” Stiles says. He still believes Peter had something to do with it, but at least he was sort of telling the truth when he said he hadn’t killed Deaton.

“Just thought you should know, sir.”

“If it’s any consolation, we think the FBI agent investigating the connection between the murders and the Hale house fire is a giant douchebag.”

Stiles stifles a laugh. Ramirez is going to be a great officer if she keeps her wits about her and doesn’t let the politics of law enforcement twist her morals. And as long as Kincaid follows Ramirez, and as long as he remains uncorrupted, he’ll be just fine too.

“Anything else?” he asks, key in his lock.

Kincaid blushes while Ramirez makes direct eye contact with him, challenging him to something he doesn’t realize until she follows it with, “We’re together, Thomas and I. We won’t let it affect our work, but we also won’t let it keep us apart.”

“Congratulations,” Stiles says dryly. “But I’m not your supervisor. If you want to make it official, you’ll have to take it up with Sheriff Parrish.”

Ramirez and Kincaid exchange a look of relief.

“Thank you, sir,” Kincaid says. “We’ll let you get back to your evening now. Have a nice night.” He takes Ramirez’s hand and leads her to a powder blue Toyota Corolla that has seen better days parked in front of Mrs. Henderson’s house.

Stiles waves them off and then heads inside. He hangs up his keys, locks the door, and grabs a beer from the fridge.

He doesn’t drink often, too afraid he’ll end up like his dad did right after his mom passed. It had taken almost three years before Dad sobered up enough to pay attention to Stiles again. By that time, it was almost too late to salvage their relationship.

Stiles has been very careful and only consumes alcohol in moderation, but tonight he just really needs a drink to help him digest everything.

He picks up a bottle opener and heads out to his back steps. He flicks off the cap and takes a long swallow.

Peter killed Kate Argent. Of that there’s no doubt. Although, Stiles doesn’t think he’d be any more likely to abstain if he’d found out she was the one who burned his family alive and kidnapped his nieces and nephew.

Peter’s involvement in the deaths of Deaton and Myers is less certain.

And to complicate things even more, Peter keeps flirting with Stiles.

There must be some kind of neon sign stuck to him that attracts crazy—no, Stiles corrects himself quickly, not crazy. Supernatural.

He sighs, finishing the bottle and setting it by his feet. It’s disgusting to him, but that’s why he drinks it. He won’t ever be tempted to empty his fridge if all he has is this cheap swill.

Nudging at the bottle with the toe of his shoe, Stiles idly wonders what effect alcohol has on werewolves. Would they get drunk and recover faster? Or would it not affect them at all?

He could ask Peter, but he doesn’t think that’s the best idea. Peter might just try to bite him.

Why, though? What’s wrong with being human? And more pressingly, would Stiles survive the bite? Mom was a spark, according to Dad. And something else, like Mom or Deaton’s sister, made them unable to be a werewolf at the same time. Talia Hale hadn’t bitten Mom because it wouldn’t have helped.

What if Stiles has inherited the spark from his mom?

Could he accept the bite knowing that it could—would probably—kill him?

No, Stiles decides. Human is what he’ll have to stay. He doesn’t need enhanced senses to know when someone is lying to him. He doesn’t need extra strength to take down perpetrators.

He doesn’t need to be a werewolf.

Stiles yawns widely, jaw creaking with it. He doesn’t need supernatural abilities, but he does need a good night’s rest. Especially if his plans to see his dad and his “team” off to the airport.

It’s a little suspect that everyone trusts this half-baked scheme. Stiles knows they can’t just be going back to New York for a gun competition, but he hopes they don’t end up murdering more people or worse.

Although, if Peter tags along, it seems likely that there might be just a touch of maiming.

Stiles takes his bottle inside to rinse and put with the other recyclable glass.

He brushes his teeth and takes a quick shower to wash off the day.

He sets an alarm, sets up his coffee pot for a few minutes before the alarm, and then lies down on his bed, listening to the building settle.

His upstairs neighbor, usually awake at this time and moving around is absent, so it should be easy to fall asleep, right?

Wrong.

Stiles’ mind is buzzing too much for his eyes to stay shut despite the lethargy pulling at his limbs.

And what is making his mind race? Peter Fucking Hale.

Peter, who flirted like it was a battle that he was going to win by sheer surprise.

Peter, who killed to avenge his family and to protect them.

Peter, who Stiles wonders what he would taste like if he kissed him.

It’s been a long time since Stiles has felt attraction. Just his luck that it’s the local murder-wolf.

Stiles sighs. He’s not getting any sleep tonight. He might as well get up and do something productive, like…like?

Like write out a list of pros and cons for dating Peter Hale.

Con: Peter is a murderer.

Pro: Peter only murders people who hurt his family.

Con: Peter confessed to killing Kate and will likely be arrested and prosecuted over it.

Pro: Peter looks like a good kisser and Stiles hasn’t been kissed in literal years.

Pro: Stiles is bi and Peter is easy on the eyes.

Pro: Stiles is ready for a relationship.

Con: With Peter?

Stiles drops his pen and buries his head in his arms.

Why does he make life so difficult on himself? Why did he have to get suspended—forced vacation, his ass—and why did he have to go back to Erica and Boyd’s house? Why is he even entertaining the idea of dating Peter Hale when there’s overwhelming evidence—and a confession to boot—that Peter Hale kills people?

He doesn’t have an answer. Not even close. He crumples up his list and throws it away.

Then he lies down on his couch and turns the TV to a late night infomercial channel, mutes it, and stares at the screen until his vision blurs enough that he can finally drift off to sleep.

He dreams of teeth and claws sharp enough to tear him apart and used gently to explore more of his body than he’s showed his last three partners.

And if Stiles wakes up with a crick in his neck and an uncomfortable hard on in his pants? At least there are no werewolf noses around to detect the shame on his skin before he washes it away with a cold shower.

On his way out the door, he grabs the pros and cons list out of the trash. He scribbles a large “X” over the page, flips it over, and writes one pro: loyal. He crumples the paper again, shoves it deep in the trash can, and then drives to the Boyds’ house.

He’s not going to stop Peter or his dad from going, but he also doesn’t want anger to be the last emotion he shares with them, especially if things go badly. And what the hell, he might as well find out if Peter kisses as good as he looks like he does.

                                                                                                                    ~ * ~

[alectology-archive]

most annoying breed of author is actually someone who doesn’t respect a genre and sets out to subvert it.

[shhhhimwatchingthis]

You want to know why Inigo Montoya remains such an iconic and beloved character even 35 years after the Princess Bride came out?

It's because he's one of the few characters in fiction who has a story where he has dedicated his life to revenge, his whole motivation is about getting revenge....and he gets it! and then he isn't empty or despairing! he doesn't regret it! he's totally satisfied!

because so many stories about revenge or rage are about characters "seeing the futility of their actions" or learning "their desire for revenge has only made them the monsters they hated" FUCK THAT.

Inigo Montoya kills the man who kills his father, is allowed to live in the narrative after and be happy about it and it is so satisfying. it's fantastic. it's iconic.

let more characters rage against the world, bring it down with bloodied hands, and let them be FUCKING RIGHT about it. Let them celebrate their success with sharp grins, and let them live happy, full lives where they always remain proud/fulfilled for what they've done

[write-on-world]

[syea-say]

The finale of a never-ending masquerade.

AQ 4.2 spoilers.

[xisadorapurlowx]