[ Honestly, Derek has no real idea what he's doing. But the moment Stiles is gone-- pushing on being just on time when he gets out the door and out of Derek's reach-- he gets to work, pulling out all of the ingredients that he'd prepared in advance when Stiles was distracted "grading" collages put together by his kids. Talia, ever the little helper, had been more than willing to make sure that he stayed out of the kitchen while he got everything together and into the back of the fridge. Her payment had been peanut butter gingersnaps, but it was a price he was willing to pay.
It's easy enough to get things started, once he has everything together, camera set up and recording. ]
Those of you who've watched my vlogs before will realize that this isn't a new recipe, but today's episode is a little different from the ones I've done in the past. Today we're revisiting the Pick Me Up Porker Sandwiches, but it's for a specific reason. [ He works while he talks, making idle commentary every now and then between instructing his viewers. It's easy to fall into sync with what he's doing, having made the recipe enough times that he can do it blindfolded by this point. ]
The first time I got this recipe, it was back when Laura decided to "broaden my horizons, with the help of the viewers--" [ Airquotes enunciated. ] --and a viewer, one certain kindergarten teacher that I'm sure most of my regulars know well by this point, decided to submit one of his mother's old recipes. That was in October of 2013, if you've lost track. [ His stream is interrupted briefly as he starts up the sauce, going the all-fresh route and making everything from scratch. This is an important rendition of Claudia's recipe. ]
Said kindergarten teacher has provided a decent chunk of the recipes I do-- and has even contributed to episodes, as you can see from... wherever I put the link to his playlist, probably up top-- [ He makes an idle gesture up to the corner, going back to work. ] And has infected my apartment with his project glitter. Not exactly what I expected when I replied to his message, but then again I didn't really expect the two of us to keep talking over e-mail, and eventually text. And then in person.
Guess I should say thanks, Laura. [ He rolls his eyes, before offering the camera a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. ] Thanks, Laura.
[ Four hours and one cutaway later, he works on actually tearing the pork up and getting it all together. ] Now, by this point, I don't have much longer before I have to get this episode up, so we're gonna have to finish up for the day. But there's a reason why I'm redoing this recipe for everyone to see, like I said, and it's not just because I think I've mastered it-- I think I have, anyways, but I have to say it's probably one of my favorites by this point. I wish I could've thanked the woman that originally came up with it.
[ He gets the lost family thing. He really does. But he's fairly certain that his parents would've liked Stiles, and at least Stiles' dad likes him. (The bribery through healthy yet still-tastes-like-food recipes probably helped.) ]
Right now, Stiles is probably helping kids make paper and glitter garlands, judging by the craft box he took with him this morning. For the past couple of months, he's been living with me, after having spent most of his time coming and going from his old apartment and here. Some of you know this is a pretty big deal for me-- Stiles is a pretty big deal for me-- so I think at this point, it's time to take another step forward. [ He sets the lid back onto his crockpot and shifts, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a simple, velvet box. Derek is pretty sure waiting a couple more hours for Stiles to come home is going to kill him, but he pops open the box anyways. ] What do you think?
[ The episode ends on that, and shortly before Stiles is slated to head for the parking lot, Derek shoots him a text: ]
Housewife emergency of the birthday cake persuasion, don't know when I'll be back. I managed to get today's episode up in time, though. Let me know what you think when you get home.
[ Carlos often finds himself getting lost in his experiments, his investigations. People who knew him when he was younger would say that it was a fairly common occurrence, ever since he got his first chemistry set as a child. He was fascinated with the reactions, with gravity and fire and the cycle of solid-liquid-gas. (Scientists today still don't really know what to qualify fire as, given as it's not a true gas but it isn't a liquid and it's not exactly solid, either. It's fascinating.)
Night Vale is full of limitless investigation and information, always changing (sometimes literally, when up is down and the sky is green and cats shriek inhuman shrieks) and when he first arrived it left him incredibly lost. Now, he likes to think he's mostly adapted to the strangeness that Night Vale residents tend to call the norm. Now, he knows that while things are terrifying, and people do die or go missing with an alarming frequency, a lot of the happenings of the small burg aren't as terrifying as they seem.
He would really like to find a way to put a stop to mysterious deaths and disappearances, though.
So when the radio has filled with the dulcet drone of honeybees to sing Night Vale to sleep, he looks up at the nonfunctioning clock-- which still oozes gunk occasionally from when he dismantled it, which reminds him that he needs to send a letter to his mother to have her send him a new one-- and considers. He could simply stay at the lab, where most of his associates have left for the night to hide in their apartments from the mysterious happenstances of the day, or...
Or he could put aside his research of the week, slowly sliding off his goggles and donning his glasses so he can rise from his seat. He thinks this sounds like a much better idea, and so he does it, switching his lab coats at the door from business to casual. He thinks he'd like to see Cecil, now that he should be done at the radio station, so he makes his way out of the building and takes the cautious walk from his lab to the station, passing Rico's but ignoring the cries coming from inside. It's just the cleaning staff, after all. ]
[ One of Scott's favorite places to be is the library, even if most people wouldn't peg him for it. It's safe and known, and maybe he doesn't have a lot of friends his age, but he has Stiles. So whenever his dad drops him off there, promising to pick him up before dinner so that he can finish whatever it was he was working on-- dealing with other werewolves or business with Dr. Deaton or something for work-- he heads down to the colorful children's section after giving the head librarian a friendly smile. Today it's accompanied by a missing tooth, and he has to tell Stiles about it, because he's going to try and stay up to see the tooth fairy this time.
She can't get the drop on a wolf, right? (But he'll leave that part out.)
Sniffing, unintentionally very unsubtle, he wanders through the short shelves filled with books, trying to use what dad's taught him to find where Stiles might be. He's not very good at tracking yet, but he knows Stiles scent. He's sure that he'll always be able to find him.
Barely containing an excited noise when he successfully tracks down his older friend, he sneaks as quietly as he possibly can-- not very-- so that he can crash into the back of his legs. ]
[ Letting the county take the Hale house back had been one of the hardest things Derek had ever done. But he hadn't lived in it for months, even if his name was still on the property, and there was so much vandalism and the scent of hunters filing in and out of it. It made him feel like someone was desecrating a grave, a memorial, and the idea of it twisted in his heart like a knife. The only reason he ever went back was to make use of the flora that'd grown up in the cracks, and even then he'd started to uproot them-- as carefully as he could-- to bring to Stiles, to plant in a garden that hadn't been used in eight years until suddenly they needed different strains of wolfsbane, of yarrow and geranium and every errant curative plant that Deaton ever mentioned in offhand conversation.
Letting the county tear down the Hale house would have broken Derek, a year, two years ago.
Now he just feels hollow, watching from a distance as the crew gathers together after he signs the papers. The Hale name is still on the property, even if they've given over the house, they need his permission to sweep away an eyesore. (Derek had very nearly whipped the clipboard into the man's face when he'd called that, but suddenly Stiles had been there, had reached out to touch him and smoothed things over.)
His jaw works a little as the first CAT's engine turns over, fingers curling tight into fists at his sides as they had when he first came back to Beacon Hills. The only difference now is that his hands don't hide in his sleeves, jacket filled out, but the tension sits solidly in his shoulders. This is supposed to be for the best, sweeping away old ghosts and burnt out ruins that he hasn't had the heart to try and restore.
[ At first, it'd be easy to say that Derek was a little hesitant towards the idea of a mission into the Core. But after listening to Stiles talk it out, after listening to James and Castiel as they built it up into something more than a simple idea, he thinks they have a chance. They can take the Jabberwock out, drag it into the Core and hopefully, finally, be rid of it.
It's a huge risk, but it's one that he's willing to take. If it means protecting this new home that he's found, with the pack that's grown over the past five years since he's arrived, then he's going to do it. And he trusts Stiles, above all else. Things have changed since they first met-- they've changed-- and he believes in him, knows that if anyone can come up with a plan to help them fight the monster that plagues Wonderland, it'll be him.
After knowing each other for a good five, almost six years, it's easy to find where Stiles has gone off to. He barely needs to follow his scent or the sound of his heartbeat to locate where he's gone off to, especially at this time of night-- or, well, morning. Still, the moment he hears the familiar jackrabbit pulse, th-thumpthump th-thumpthump, he immediately turns, follows it to a familiar window.
Reaching out without hesitation, he curls his fingers along the back of his neck, through the short hair just at the base of his skull. And it's natural progression, following his touch, that he bows forward and presses his lips to the top of his head. A small rumble leaves him, tired but affectionate and warm, in greeting. ]
How's it looking out there? [ There isn't a need to nudge at him and his giant nest of blankets, he just moves to insert himself into his space the moment he shifts the slightest bit. ]
[ This is a routine game by now. It's one part just the simple pleasure of letting go, letting his instincts take rein, and one part Stiles simply knowing him. Any time he's on edge, upset for some reason, provoked to the point that his finely tune controlled is threatened, Stiles will draw him away and out to the trees. He can still remember a day where he pressed a kiss to his mouth even as his fangs grew against his lips, his old anger resurfacing, and stripped him down so that he could shift without ripping his clothes.
But there are better days, where it's simply them playing and training with each other, with the pack. He lives for those days, where he doesn't run to burn away his tension and anger, where he can roughhouse with the pack and chase Stiles down. The others live to track one another, to track Stiles, but there's no one that will find him faster than Derek. Not even Scott.
It's what they're doing now on their own, Stiles hiding in the wilds around them, his scent covered by magic tricks and decoys. But the wolf knows where he's going, nosing around discarded clothes and scent traps that he dodges away from before he gets something foul projected at him. It'd be harmless, he's sure, but he's not particularly inclined towards having to drag his face through the dirt to get it out of his fur. Eyes glowing in the dim light of the woods, paws silent on the earth, he tastes the air just as much as he snuffles at trees and dirt, ears perked high on his head.
[ Derek really wasn't expecting so much to happen when he came back to Beacon Hills.
Honestly, it's sort of ridiculous but so far from surprising. Things have always happened here, and word spreads fast in the town. People knew pretty damn fast that Derek Hale was back in town, possibly for good. They also knew that Derek Hale had arrived in town with a toddler, dark haired and bright eyed and the spitting image of the prodigal son that had been gone for years and years and years.
Apparently that did something to the general population, or something. He had people stopping him when he was out shopping with Liam, stopping him when he was out and about, supposed neighbors knocking on his door. (He knew better than to think these people lived anywhere near him, their scents were foreign in the area.) It's like having a son and being back in his hometown paints a target on his back and draws literally everyone to his doorstep, which is the exact opposite of what he wants.
Which is why he likes the diner that Stiles had brought them to, one time. He hasn't been here in years, and it hasn't changed hands since he left, but he never would have remembered it if the sheriff-- sheriff, god, Stiles was in charge of law enforcement now-- had taken them here. They don't treat him and his son like they're some fascinating new fixture to the town-- they do, however, give him and Liam discounts.
He's not sure why they do that, if it's just because he's an old face, has an adorable son, or because Stiles Stilinski had some hand in it. But right now, they're enjoying the fact that they get free milkshakes. Liam sits on his knees at the counter, watching as he mixes up the milkshake with the whipped cream, poking the cherries down to the bottom as a reward for finishing it off. The woman behind the counter is cooing over them, but it's not grating like it is on the streets. She knows better than to try and touch his son, who gets shy at best and fussy at worst around strangers. ]
Stiles has been missing for a couple days now. No one's seen a single sign of him anywhere, and it's slowly killing his father, killing Scott, Melissa. It's slowly killing Derek. So many people have been attacked, hurt, possibly killed since the possession happened, but all he can do is look for Stiles. It's the most helpless he's ever felt before, but all for another person-- Stiles, of all people. If you'd told him ages ago that he would worry this much for him, hope for some way to save him where he doesn't have to die, he would probably have laughed in your face.
But if he's really been possessed by a nogitsune, then there's very little any of them can truly do. They're waiting on Deaton, waiting for some kind of hope, but if they can't find Stiles, then there is literally jack shit any of them can do. They can only look and hope-- hope to find him, hope not to find a body, hope that the monster doesn't force his hand further.
But it's in the middle of the night, the rest of the world gone to bed unawares, that Derek finds a clue. A scent, warped as it is, that draws him in. He follows it, bristled and cautious, senses alert as he goes. His eyes remain unilluminated, but he's not sure how old this fox is. It may even be able to conceal itself from sight.
He doesn't have time to alert anyone else. Not when there's been no other signs of Stiles.
[ When Derek's phone started to vibrate on the side table, he had the strangest feeling that it would be one of those nights. Considering the fact that Scott had immediately started freaking out in his ear the moment he answered it, it does seem to be shaping up that way. But when the words Stiles won't wake up come out of his mouth, he's rushing out of the loft with barely a thought in his head beyond panic.
After everything that's happened, after the nogitsune's possession and Stiles' long standing inability to sleep for very long, well...
On one hand, maybe they should let Stiles sleep for a few days. On the other, Kira had to strongarm Scott into sitting down while Derek rushed over to the Stilinski house. He meets the sheriff at the door, offering him his reassurances, before he marches up the stairs two at a time. Scott basically assaults him, and he holds his hands up. ]
Calm down, we'll fix this. [ Which is when he sets the whole pack on a research binge in the room, and he steps out after a while to make a call. There's a contact, someone that he can actually label a friend, that maybe has an answer for him.
Hopefully he can help, but who knows with the things that happen in Beacon Hills. But all the while on the phone, listening to the British lilt explain their options, he keeps looking at Stiles through the doorway. He has an idea of what can be done, but he's not sure he's quite prepared for it. ]
[ trying to deal with the madness in his head had been like struggling with a griever.
there wasn't really any other way for newt to describe it, anything else for him to compare it too; like knifelike claws and saws and wheels were gnashing and pulling to take him apart. and maybe that was a little poetic, because when he wasn't angry (and even sometimes when he was) he could replay the image of alby being taken apart in the same way in his head, the same way it had been since thomas held him back and kept him from going after.
it was like having his bloody skin ripped off, in every sense of the phrase.
his sacrifice had gone in vain, newt had thought, and there was nothing that could make him more determined to not let himself hold them back. alby had done everything for the gladers since his first day, and newt had stood beside him for every step, until he slid out of his fingers, changed and then gone. so he screams at thomas when he comes, because he doesn't want to be the one to stop them. because he has a reason to die now, because his first reason to live died at the hands of WICKED, because the tether he had keeping him from trying again was gone too. so he'd got up and moved on, walked forward, fought, dreamed, and begged with every shred of sanity he held with his trembling fingertips that thomas--tommy--would do the right thing.
Things went red and then they went black.
when newt awakes, it isn't with a gasping breath; it's like rising from the best sleep he's ever had. he sits up and squints into pleasant sunlight, feels something soft under his hands (soil, maybe) and it's a forest. a part of him thinks the insanity has really taken over. but he's not in pain, and a hand comes up to touch his forehead. there's no blood.
he feels fine.
muttering a low "bloody hell" under his breath, the former glader stands up, and for once, his leg doesn't twinge in response.
he says it again, louder this time, half wondering, half knowing, and he swallows a lump in his throat. ] Bloody hell.
Most of his life as he's known it for two years has been made up of waiting-- waiting for answers to who they were, why they were sent to the Glade; waiting for the Runners to come back; waiting for Newt to heal; waiting for the Changing to just end-- but just this once, he was all right with waiting. No matter how long it took, he would wait.
It gives him time to think about everything. About how the first group of twenty and their initial leaders. But, in his opinion, they hadn't done very well. He'd taken charge not too long after, had handled things in a way most of them seemed to agree with. But maybe others that came after him had thought the same of him-- Gally certainly seemed to most days-- and, hell. They'd been pretty shucking right, at the end.
Death sort of helps clear your mind. His memories during the Changing had terrifie him, hollowed him out with the images of a wasteland outside their Glade, the Maze. Scorched dry. Not that they were really living before, and suddenly he felt guilt for saving Newt and then turning around and taking his own leap to death.
But he's had weeks to think about it. To think about Newt, about them. About how Newt's nickname stuck, had everyone forgetting about Albert. About how he'd told Newt that they needed him, that Alby did. (And in the end maybe they both needed each other, but he realizes pretty fast that he'd left him behind when Newt needed him, too.)
So, he waits. Because Newt'll be along in due time.
When he does show, weeks after Alby's arrived but too soon, so soon, he gets up from where he's been seated. Dusting himself off as if he hadn't been torn apart by Grievers, he looks at him, watching. Waiting for his reaction. ]
Edited (i keep finding phone typos) 2014-04-06 22:08 (UTC)
[ Since his first tattoo, Minho has been regarded as a delinquent and general hooligan. Paired with his general attitude, it's only been amplified over the years. Most conservative people are overwhelmed by his presence, or find themselves basically clutching their pearls, and he... well, these days he just laughs at it. Hell, he knows he's no shucking peach. They don't need to tell him that, he's bullheaded and confident and he knows it can get abrasive or intimidating.
But he's still managed to find a better family than the foster homes he filtered through over the years, cited as a problematic child and one that the state had to juggle constantly. And of course it's with people that have known similar situations to him, have been brought together through circumstance. The first time he rode passenger on a bike, it was the same as when he ran.
So of course he joined immediately, poured the money he could get his hands on into getting a bike of his own.
Which is where he is now, outside and perched on his Harley while everyone else mills around inside the trucker station they've stopped at. Most of them are either eating or milling around before they get rolling again, but he's taking a break from the other Gladers. Even someone like him needs a moment to himself, especially since he's around them almost 24/7/365. Leaning his weight forward on his handlebars, he blows out noisily, watching truckers and roadtrippers coming and going.
It's nice enough out that he's got his jacket shucked off on the seat behind him, bare arms covered only in the vibrancy of his tattoo sleeves. Overall, he just looks like he's meant to be with a motorcycle, and these days it feels like it's true. It's going to be a long time before he retires from this life, to be honest. ]
[ When Alby gets home from his meeting, the first thing he does is sign on to Skype. He has to change out of his suit and tie, get into something more comfortable for the rest of the night, but it's been routine for the longest time now. He moves immediately to his starred list and pulls up Newt's name, noticing the away status but disregarding it. Half the time, when someone is away, they're just pretending or have their eyes on a different window. ]
Hey you. [ He leaves it at that for a moment, undoing his tie and blowing out noisily as he tosses it over the back of his chair as he gets up from his desk. His suit jacket goes the same way once it's off, and he starts digging through his drawers. It's been a long day, and, honestly? He could use some quality Newt time after that. They're still doing mock-assignments in class, roleplaying scenarios and possible cases they might wind up taking on.
He knows exactly how stressful his career path is going to be, but he's not about to give up on it when he's so close to having it. There wasn't anywhere for him when he was in those kids' places, so he's going to make up for it now. Somehow, anyways.
Doesn't change the fact that the scenarios put a sour taste in his mouth. Made him want to come home and just pull up some mindless game to play, talk to the one person that could make his rage subside and that sourness leave.
[ It's been a couple days now since Ime brought them to Newt, breathless and fluttering wildly like she was the one that was dying.
It's been a few days since Newt tried to kill himself.
Neither of them has said a word about what happened, have just left it at something happened in the Maze, have waved off every question that's come their way about it. The Med-Jacks have been in and out, but mostly leave the Runner in Alby's care. Emese maintains constant vigil over them, her head resting on the leg that wasn't apparently fractured beyond repair. The contact has earned a couple glances from the other Gladers, but she just lays there in silence, her giant, brown head motionless as dark eyes remain focused on the too-pale face, the bundle of brown and tawny and cream feathers tucked close to his neck.
Sitting in the chair next to the bed, Alby has his legs up and crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest as he dozes just barely. He hasn't slept much since they brought him in, but he's not about to go anywhere. Not when Newt'll wake up after the very few meds they have wear off, when the trauma has started to wane a little. And when he does, he'll need them there.
Then again, they've been there since the start and they never realized that something was this wrong. Why hadn't they noticed? Could they have stopped him from jumping? Did he regret it, is that why Ime came for them?
There are way too many questions, but they just don't know where to begin with them. So, they wait. ]
( i know you're gonna laugh at me just deal with it minho sincerely honestly genuinely makes a mistake and accidentally gives tommy a conscience whoops he can't really bring himself to regret it )
ALTERNATIVELY
( canon au, where thomas dies and minho does whatever it takes to bring him back )
[ There's not that much of a difference between architecture and the human body. Both are insanely complex and can be made into masterpieces, built on foundations and hard work and, really, Minho has a healthy respect for both. He's spent years drawing out mazes and skyscrapers, memorizing how they're built and figuring out all their twists and turns. Building maps of the cities he's lived in, it's not that difficult to navigate the maps that he's given when it comes to building androids. It might not be the career path he's aiming towards, but it's still something.
Hell, it's more than something. He's entrusted to mapping out the programming of each droid that comes through his station, varying from soldiers to caregivers to laborers. There's been a few that've come in where he's just supposed to upload a file given to him and not actually look at the contents of it. Curious as he is, there hasn't been a moment just yet where he's caved in and looked at it. He's being told what to do and doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter, if he wants to keep this job (and probably keep alive, if they're files from the government).
But it was inevitable that he actually sit down and go through one of those files, especially when it's WCKD that sends in the order. Everyone's heard of WCKD, you'd have to live smack on an island in the middle of nowhere to not have. He's running a huge risk, looking into that file. But he does it anyways, bypassing the security (somewhat forcefully, but he's not a security expert here) so that he can get a look at it as it's installed in the droid that's hooked up right now. Male in design, but lanky and lean like a runner, a couple inches shorter than him but with an incredibly pretty face.
(He's not normally into droids, but shuck this one's good looking.)
Multitasking while scanning over a government agency's upload is probably not the best idea, as good as he is at getting multiple things done at once. He winds up adding to and removing from the program, and only realizes it when he's... ]
--oh. Oh klunk. [ Activated the shucking droid. He's taken out bits and pieces of the upload, and given the thing extra programming that's usually given to the civilian models, meant to make them more human and empathetic. Whether they have real empathy or not is always the question, but Minho didn't mean to find out now. That was not supposed to happen, he doesn't even want to know if he's gone and given the other nondescript droid the programming that's missing. He just wants to stop this one from turning on. ]
[ At least one moon has passed since he was taken from his pack, and he knows that something bad is going to happen if he keeps missing the rise and fall of it in the sky. He understands that down in his bones, the same way that he misses the rush of fur and muscle and the unity of pack, of his family. But he also knows it in the same way that he knows his name here is Minho, that it'll have been two months after this upcoming moon, and that he's rewarded for at least wearing pants.
He doesn't really like pants all that much, but he's gotten used to wearing them to at least appease Thomas. At this point, he's really the only thing he can say he actually likes-- sure, the food isn't all that bad, but he'd prefer the chance to hunt again-- but it's not hard to like Thomas. Thomas is nice, more than nice, and actually sits down to give him explanations. The fact that he keeps at it until Minho understands is something he appreciates greatly. Contrary to what the rest of the humans containing him think, he's smart, he can understand things if he's given the time to assess and work through it, like pieces to a puzzle.
But they don't understand why he's been aggravated for the past week, despite his best attempts to explain it. Maybe if he shifted he could show them, but some ingrained part of him says that shifting in front of others that aren't his pack is a dangerous thing. An old memory from before it was just him and the wolves. So he just paces around the room they hold him in, back and forth, exactly like the caged animal he is. The moon is coming and he can feel it, but he's not going to be able to see it, to be under it, and it makes him more agitated than being here normally does.
Maybe he'll bite someone again and it'll get his point across. ]
[ To say that Minho loves performing would probably be an understatement.
There's something about being in front of the crowds, of hearing them scream out words that he's been practicing and perfecting for months on end. It puts fire in his veins and he's high off of it for hours afterwards, grinning like a maniac to the point that his band and stagehands tend to think he's gone crazy. Which, well, probably isn't that inaccurate. He just feels alive, is all, and feels so, so touched that he inspires that same feeling in the people that come to his performances.
It all started in dark corners and grungy bars where he was a no name performer with barely any cred to his name besides what he'd earned on the street, not in the circuit. With a big mouth and a bigger attitude, he didn't exactly start off with people being in his fan club, fistfights and bar brawls breaking out more than once until he'd finally landed something that could take him out of there.
And he just hit the ground running, despite it all. It's become a major theme in his music at this point, and damn if it doesn't feel good to keep on running.
But after an encore performance that comprised of five extra songs that he wasn't supposed to play (including one that had been in production, his manager is gonna kill him), he finally bids goodbye and heads backstage. Minho feels positively drenched, despite the tank top that he's got on and had stripped down to in an attempt to keep from overheating while he was running around like crazy, bouncing and cheering just as much as he was being cheered. But even with all the exhaustion, he still grins, eyes bright and crinkled with the expression.
He's pumped and confident and more than ready to meet and greet with the people who landed backstage passes for this concert, for so many reasons. ]
[ Minho still can't really believe the rags to riches story that his life took a turn for. For the longest time as a kid, he'd wanted to be a knight. Who wouldn't want to be a knight, or a member of the higher classes out there? Chivalry is admirable, and the chance to go out in the world, to explore and find new and strange things, to meet people and fight for an idea... it was a big dream that wound up coming true. He has a lot of people to thank for that, honestly, but no more than those that rule the kingdom.
Meeting Thomas had been by complete chance, but the wide-eyed royal had needed help and he was willing to give it. Even if he was some nobody, he'd pretty much fallen head over heels while running the moment he'd seen him. The fact that he'd been lost and needed help just added something more to it, and after that, well.
To be away from him for too long is a trial in and of itself, because they had become such fast friends. Closer than anyone had ever anticipated, and for as willing as he is to go out to look at the world and to fight for Thomas, he'd rather be at his side.
He and the other kingsguard come riding in through the gates, and they're barely halfway to the stables, still in motion, when Minho dismounts. With a bit of a hop to his step, he takes to jogging alongside his horse before passing the reins off to another member so that he can book it up the steps. There's no emergency, but he runs anyways, quick as anything to get inside the castle itself.
As captain of the guard and one of the main explorers of the kingdom, he's often needed outside the castle walls. But now that he's back inside them, he knows immediately where he needs to go and has no intention of heading anywhere else, or leaving any time soon.
So he calls out a quick-- ] Your majesty! [ --almost teasing, waiting for an answer so he knows where to go. ]
[ Alby frequents the woods far more than anyone that he's ever known, and he can't really explain what it is that draws him there. But all the same, he doesn't regret his trips there. Most days, he doesn't find too much that can be considered interesting. But then there came a day when he found the most gorgeous creature trapped, wounded, and most assuredly dying. It took all of two minutes for him to figure out it was a phoenix, trapped and probably unable to rebirth anew because of its predicament.
So, of course he set it free and did what he could to mend its leg. It was broken badly, and there was so much blood that he wasn't sure it'd live long enough to be able to set itself ablaze. There is, he thinks, a final kind of death even for the immortal. He just hoped it wasn't the case, then.
So of course he somehow finds himself taking the phoenix home after it nearly burns down the entire forest. He wraps it-- him, now-- up in his sweater and carries him home. He's all pale skin and wheat colored hair, with big, bright eyes and long limbs, making him taller than Alby but still so much lighter.
Getting clothes that even slightly fit him properly is impossible, actually. But he still manages to get him something he can wear, so that he can sit comfortably while he makes sure that his leg isn't still a mess.
The trap sits on his table nearby, the collar stuffed into the bottom of his pack. There's a quiet note in the back of his head to go looking for more of the traps, to make sure something like this doesn't happen again. ]
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this is my post and i am marking it as such
It's like I have a flag stuck to me with your name on it.
It's easy enough to get things started, once he has everything together, camera set up and recording. ]
Those of you who've watched my vlogs before will realize that this isn't a new recipe, but today's episode is a little different from the ones I've done in the past. Today we're revisiting the Pick Me Up Porker Sandwiches, but it's for a specific reason. [ He works while he talks, making idle commentary every now and then between instructing his viewers. It's easy to fall into sync with what he's doing, having made the recipe enough times that he can do it blindfolded by this point. ]
The first time I got this recipe, it was back when Laura decided to "broaden my horizons, with the help of the viewers--" [ Airquotes enunciated. ] --and a viewer, one certain kindergarten teacher that I'm sure most of my regulars know well by this point, decided to submit one of his mother's old recipes. That was in October of 2013, if you've lost track. [ His stream is interrupted briefly as he starts up the sauce, going the all-fresh route and making everything from scratch. This is an important rendition of Claudia's recipe. ]
Said kindergarten teacher has provided a decent chunk of the recipes I do-- and has even contributed to episodes, as you can see from... wherever I put the link to his playlist, probably up top-- [ He makes an idle gesture up to the corner, going back to work. ] And has infected my apartment with his project glitter. Not exactly what I expected when I replied to his message, but then again I didn't really expect the two of us to keep talking over e-mail, and eventually text. And then in person.
Guess I should say thanks, Laura. [ He rolls his eyes, before offering the camera a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. ] Thanks, Laura.
[ Four hours and one cutaway later, he works on actually tearing the pork up and getting it all together. ] Now, by this point, I don't have much longer before I have to get this episode up, so we're gonna have to finish up for the day. But there's a reason why I'm redoing this recipe for everyone to see, like I said, and it's not just because I think I've mastered it-- I think I have, anyways, but I have to say it's probably one of my favorites by this point. I wish I could've thanked the woman that originally came up with it.
[ He gets the lost family thing. He really does. But he's fairly certain that his parents would've liked Stiles, and at least Stiles' dad likes him. (The bribery through healthy yet still-tastes-like-food recipes probably helped.) ]
Right now, Stiles is probably helping kids make paper and glitter garlands, judging by the craft box he took with him this morning. For the past couple of months, he's been living with me, after having spent most of his time coming and going from his old apartment and here. Some of you know this is a pretty big deal for me-- Stiles is a pretty big deal for me-- so I think at this point, it's time to take another step forward. [ He sets the lid back onto his crockpot and shifts, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a simple, velvet box. Derek is pretty sure waiting a couple more hours for Stiles to come home is going to kill him, but he pops open the box anyways. ] What do you think?
[ The episode ends on that, and shortly before Stiles is slated to head for the parking lot, Derek shoots him a text: ]
Housewife emergency of the birthday cake persuasion, don't know when I'll be back. I managed to get today's episode up in time, though. Let me know what you think when you get home.
8D it's okay i have a matching one
WEEPS
ugh babies
Dumbs.
clutches at face
makes it better
;__;
Aaaaand this.
dreamy sigh
torn between sighs and laughter
as it should be
Perpetual feeling with them.
dumb babies tbh
Yep.
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I couldn't just pick one.
EXPERIMENT to me
Is every one I meet.
If it contain a kernel?
The figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree,
Equally plausibly;
But meat within is requisite,
To squirrels and to me.
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Night Vale is full of limitless investigation and information, always changing (sometimes literally, when up is down and the sky is green and cats shriek inhuman shrieks) and when he first arrived it left him incredibly lost. Now, he likes to think he's mostly adapted to the strangeness that Night Vale residents tend to call the norm. Now, he knows that while things are terrifying, and people do die or go missing with an alarming frequency, a lot of the happenings of the small burg aren't as terrifying as they seem.
He would really like to find a way to put a stop to mysterious deaths and disappearances, though.
So when the radio has filled with the dulcet drone of honeybees to sing Night Vale to sleep, he looks up at the nonfunctioning clock-- which still oozes gunk occasionally from when he dismantled it, which reminds him that he needs to send a letter to his mother to have her send him a new one-- and considers. He could simply stay at the lab, where most of his associates have left for the night to hide in their apartments from the mysterious happenstances of the day, or...
Or he could put aside his research of the week, slowly sliding off his goggles and donning his glasses so he can rise from his seat. He thinks this sounds like a much better idea, and so he does it, switching his lab coats at the door from business to casual. He thinks he'd like to see Cecil, now that he should be done at the radio station, so he makes his way out of the building and takes the cautious walk from his lab to the station, passing Rico's but ignoring the cries coming from inside. It's just the cleaning staff, after all. ]
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She can't get the drop on a wolf, right? (But he'll leave that part out.)
Sniffing, unintentionally very unsubtle, he wanders through the short shelves filled with books, trying to use what dad's taught him to find where Stiles might be. He's not very good at tracking yet, but he knows Stiles scent. He's sure that he'll always be able to find him.
Barely containing an excited noise when he successfully tracks down his older friend, he sneaks as quietly as he possibly can-- not very-- so that he can crash into the back of his legs. ]
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suburbia first kisses y/y uwu
yyy
Letting the county tear down the Hale house would have broken Derek, a year, two years ago.
Now he just feels hollow, watching from a distance as the crew gathers together after he signs the papers. The Hale name is still on the property, even if they've given over the house, they need his permission to sweep away an eyesore. (Derek had very nearly whipped the clipboard into the man's face when he'd called that, but suddenly Stiles had been there, had reached out to touch him and smoothed things over.)
His jaw works a little as the first CAT's engine turns over, fingers curling tight into fists at his sides as they had when he first came back to Beacon Hills. The only difference now is that his hands don't hide in his sleeves, jacket filled out, but the tension sits solidly in his shoulders. This is supposed to be for the best, sweeping away old ghosts and burnt out ruins that he hasn't had the heart to try and restore.
So why does this hurt the way it does? ]
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Hello bad end eway.
Hello horrible feels.
It's a huge risk, but it's one that he's willing to take. If it means protecting this new home that he's found, with the pack that's grown over the past five years since he's arrived, then he's going to do it. And he trusts Stiles, above all else. Things have changed since they first met-- they've changed-- and he believes in him, knows that if anyone can come up with a plan to help them fight the monster that plagues Wonderland, it'll be him.
After knowing each other for a good five, almost six years, it's easy to find where Stiles has gone off to. He barely needs to follow his scent or the sound of his heartbeat to locate where he's gone off to, especially at this time of night-- or, well, morning. Still, the moment he hears the familiar jackrabbit pulse, th-thumpthump th-thumpthump, he immediately turns, follows it to a familiar window.
Reaching out without hesitation, he curls his fingers along the back of his neck, through the short hair just at the base of his skull. And it's natural progression, following his touch, that he bows forward and presses his lips to the top of his head. A small rumble leaves him, tired but affectionate and warm, in greeting. ]
How's it looking out there? [ There isn't a need to nudge at him and his giant nest of blankets, he just moves to insert himself into his space the moment he shifts the slightest bit. ]
sobs
openly weeps
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uwu*
TAILWAGS
But there are better days, where it's simply them playing and training with each other, with the pack. He lives for those days, where he doesn't run to burn away his tension and anger, where he can roughhouse with the pack and chase Stiles down. The others live to track one another, to track Stiles, but there's no one that will find him faster than Derek. Not even Scott.
It's what they're doing now on their own, Stiles hiding in the wilds around them, his scent covered by magic tricks and decoys. But the wolf knows where he's going, nosing around discarded clothes and scent traps that he dodges away from before he gets something foul projected at him. It'd be harmless, he's sure, but he's not particularly inclined towards having to drag his face through the dirt to get it out of his fur. Eyes glowing in the dim light of the woods, paws silent on the earth, he tastes the air just as much as he snuffles at trees and dirt, ears perked high on his head.
He'll find him. He always does. ]
gives treats
noms on merrily
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remember that au we talked about
gurgles
Honestly, it's sort of ridiculous but so far from surprising. Things have always happened here, and word spreads fast in the town. People knew pretty damn fast that Derek Hale was back in town, possibly for good. They also knew that Derek Hale had arrived in town with a toddler, dark haired and bright eyed and the spitting image of the prodigal son that had been gone for years and years and years.
Apparently that did something to the general population, or something. He had people stopping him when he was out shopping with Liam, stopping him when he was out and about, supposed neighbors knocking on his door. (He knew better than to think these people lived anywhere near him, their scents were foreign in the area.) It's like having a son and being back in his hometown paints a target on his back and draws literally everyone to his doorstep, which is the exact opposite of what he wants.
Which is why he likes the diner that Stiles had brought them to, one time. He hasn't been here in years, and it hasn't changed hands since he left, but he never would have remembered it if the sheriff-- sheriff, god, Stiles was in charge of law enforcement now-- had taken them here. They don't treat him and his son like they're some fascinating new fixture to the town-- they do, however, give him and Liam discounts.
He's not sure why they do that, if it's just because he's an old face, has an adorable son, or because Stiles Stilinski had some hand in it. But right now, they're enjoying the fact that they get free milkshakes. Liam sits on his knees at the counter, watching as he mixes up the milkshake with the whipped cream, poking the cherries down to the bottom as a reward for finishing it off. The woman behind the counter is cooing over them, but it's not grating like it is on the streets. She knows better than to try and touch his son, who gets shy at best and fussy at worst around strangers. ]
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remember when liam wasn't a character on the show
Everyday. Fondly.
smiles benignly
godddd
Stiles has been missing for a couple days now. No one's seen a single sign of him anywhere, and it's slowly killing his father, killing Scott, Melissa. It's slowly killing Derek. So many people have been attacked, hurt, possibly killed since the possession happened, but all he can do is look for Stiles. It's the most helpless he's ever felt before, but all for another person-- Stiles, of all people. If you'd told him ages ago that he would worry this much for him, hope for some way to save him where he doesn't have to die, he would probably have laughed in your face.
But if he's really been possessed by a nogitsune, then there's very little any of them can truly do. They're waiting on Deaton, waiting for some kind of hope, but if they can't find Stiles, then there is literally jack shit any of them can do. They can only look and hope-- hope to find him, hope not to find a body, hope that the monster doesn't force his hand further.
But it's in the middle of the night, the rest of the world gone to bed unawares, that Derek finds a clue. A scent, warped as it is, that draws him in. He follows it, bristled and cautious, senses alert as he goes. His eyes remain unilluminated, but he's not sure how old this fox is. It may even be able to conceal itself from sight.
He doesn't have time to alert anyone else. Not when there's been no other signs of Stiles.
All he has is hope. ]
SPARKLES AT
hhhhngh
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don't u judge me
"fae curses are a bitch, huh?"
rubs hands together
After everything that's happened, after the nogitsune's possession and Stiles' long standing inability to sleep for very long, well...
On one hand, maybe they should let Stiles sleep for a few days. On the other, Kira had to strongarm Scott into sitting down while Derek rushed over to the Stilinski house. He meets the sheriff at the door, offering him his reassurances, before he marches up the stairs two at a time. Scott basically assaults him, and he holds his hands up. ]
Calm down, we'll fix this. [ Which is when he sets the whole pack on a research binge in the room, and he steps out after a while to make a call. There's a contact, someone that he can actually label a friend, that maybe has an answer for him.
Hopefully he can help, but who knows with the things that happen in Beacon Hills. But all the while on the phone, listening to the British lilt explain their options, he keeps looking at Stiles through the doorway. He has an idea of what can be done, but he's not sure he's quite prepared for it. ]
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owo
hahaha kill me
there wasn't really any other way for newt to describe it, anything else for him to compare it too; like knifelike claws and saws and wheels were gnashing and pulling to take him apart. and maybe that was a little poetic, because when he wasn't angry (and even sometimes when he was) he could replay the image of alby being taken apart in the same way in his head, the same way it had been since thomas held him back and kept him from going after.
it was like having his bloody skin ripped off, in every sense of the phrase.
his sacrifice had gone in vain, newt had thought, and there was nothing that could make him more determined to not let himself hold them back. alby had done everything for the gladers since his first day, and newt had stood beside him for every step, until he slid out of his fingers, changed and then gone. so he screams at thomas when he comes, because he doesn't want to be the one to stop them. because he has a reason to die now, because his first reason to live died at the hands of WICKED, because the tether he had keeping him from trying again was gone too. so he'd got up and moved on, walked forward, fought, dreamed, and begged with every shred of sanity he held with his trembling fingertips that thomas--tommy--would do the right thing.
Things went red and then they went black.
when newt awakes, it isn't with a gasping breath; it's like rising from the best sleep he's ever had. he sits up and squints into pleasant sunlight, feels something soft under his hands (soil, maybe) and it's a forest. a part of him thinks the insanity has really taken over. but he's not in pain, and a hand comes up to touch his forehead. there's no blood.
he feels fine.
muttering a low "bloody hell" under his breath, the former glader stands up, and for once, his leg doesn't twinge in response.
he says it again, louder this time, half wondering, half knowing, and he swallows a lump in his throat. ] Bloody hell.
SURPRISE I GOT A NEW USERNAME
[ Alby has been waiting.
Most of his life as he's known it for two years has been made up of waiting-- waiting for answers to who they were, why they were sent to the Glade; waiting for the Runners to come back; waiting for Newt to heal; waiting for the Changing to just end-- but just this once, he was all right with waiting. No matter how long it took, he would wait.
It gives him time to think about everything. About how the first group of twenty and their initial leaders. But, in his opinion, they hadn't done very well. He'd taken charge not too long after, had handled things in a way most of them seemed to agree with. But maybe others that came after him had thought the same of him-- Gally certainly seemed to most days-- and, hell. They'd been pretty shucking right, at the end.
Death sort of helps clear your mind. His memories during the Changing had terrifie him, hollowed him out with the images of a wasteland outside their Glade, the Maze. Scorched dry. Not that they were really living before, and suddenly he felt guilt for saving Newt and then turning around and taking his own leap to death.
But he's had weeks to think about it. To think about Newt, about them. About how Newt's nickname stuck, had everyone forgetting about Albert. About how he'd told Newt that they needed him, that Alby did. (And in the end maybe they both needed each other, but he realizes pretty fast that he'd left him behind when Newt needed him, too.)
So, he waits. Because Newt'll be along in due time.
When he does show, weeks after Alby's arrived but too soon, so soon, he gets up from where he's been seated. Dusting himself off as if he hadn't been torn apart by Grievers, he looks at him, watching. Waiting for his reaction. ]
death gurgle
someday i'll have icons to make it worse
September get here sooner.
BURBLES ANGRILY
SOON.
CRIES IN MEANTIME
I hate them so much ;___;
no you don't.
i do though they give me pain
So do all our other ships.
i also hate them
You hate everything now.
i do a lil bit [melting cat]
[glee]
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Is this when Thomas joins them is he already joined WHO KNOWS
But he's still managed to find a better family than the foster homes he filtered through over the years, cited as a problematic child and one that the state had to juggle constantly. And of course it's with people that have known similar situations to him, have been brought together through circumstance. The first time he rode passenger on a bike, it was the same as when he ran.
So of course he joined immediately, poured the money he could get his hands on into getting a bike of his own.
Which is where he is now, outside and perched on his Harley while everyone else mills around inside the trucker station they've stopped at. Most of them are either eating or milling around before they get rolling again, but he's taking a break from the other Gladers. Even someone like him needs a moment to himself, especially since he's around them almost 24/7/365. Leaning his weight forward on his handlebars, he blows out noisily, watching truckers and roadtrippers coming and going.
It's nice enough out that he's got his jacket shucked off on the seat behind him, bare arms covered only in the vibrancy of his tattoo sleeves. Overall, he just looks like he's meant to be with a motorcycle, and these days it feels like it's true. It's going to be a long time before he retires from this life, to be honest. ]
Let's go with just before.
claps
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I didn’t plan on
getting so attached
it was the late night
conversations that
got the glue on me
then the way you
looked at me and
told me I was beautiful
is what made me start
to stick
the way you said
you loved me when
I couldn’t even love
myself is what made
me stuck.
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Hey you. [ He leaves it at that for a moment, undoing his tie and blowing out noisily as he tosses it over the back of his chair as he gets up from his desk. His suit jacket goes the same way once it's off, and he starts digging through his drawers. It's been a long day, and, honestly? He could use some quality Newt time after that. They're still doing mock-assignments in class, roleplaying scenarios and possible cases they might wind up taking on.
He knows exactly how stressful his career path is going to be, but he's not about to give up on it when he's so close to having it. There wasn't anywhere for him when he was in those kids' places, so he's going to make up for it now. Somehow, anyways.
Doesn't change the fact that the scenarios put a sour taste in his mouth. Made him want to come home and just pull up some mindless game to play, talk to the one person that could make his rage subside and that sourness leave.
Hopefully he's actually online, is the thing. ]
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u3u
I was gonna make this sweet but I decided against it.
It's been a few days since Newt tried to kill himself.
Neither of them has said a word about what happened, have just left it at something happened in the Maze, have waved off every question that's come their way about it. The Med-Jacks have been in and out, but mostly leave the Runner in Alby's care. Emese maintains constant vigil over them, her head resting on the leg that wasn't apparently fractured beyond repair. The contact has earned a couple glances from the other Gladers, but she just lays there in silence, her giant, brown head motionless as dark eyes remain focused on the too-pale face, the bundle of brown and tawny and cream feathers tucked close to his neck.
Sitting in the chair next to the bed, Alby has his legs up and crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest as he dozes just barely. He hasn't slept much since they brought him in, but he's not about to go anywhere. Not when Newt'll wake up after the very few meds they have wear off, when the trauma has started to wane a little. And when he does, he'll need them there.
Then again, they've been there since the start and they never realized that something was this wrong. Why hadn't they noticed? Could they have stopped him from jumping? Did he regret it, is that why Ime came for them?
There are way too many questions, but they just don't know where to begin with them. So, they wait. ]
I hate you ftr
luv u 2
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I keep putting this one off why did I make this a sad thread.
idk man idk
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#sisi will never be over the nalby
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THE SECOND ONE IS RUDE AS BALLS UR RUDE
Hell, it's more than something. He's entrusted to mapping out the programming of each droid that comes through his station, varying from soldiers to caregivers to laborers. There's been a few that've come in where he's just supposed to upload a file given to him and not actually look at the contents of it. Curious as he is, there hasn't been a moment just yet where he's caved in and looked at it. He's being told what to do and doesn't really have much of a choice in the matter, if he wants to keep this job (and probably keep alive, if they're files from the government).
But it was inevitable that he actually sit down and go through one of those files, especially when it's WCKD that sends in the order. Everyone's heard of WCKD, you'd have to live smack on an island in the middle of nowhere to not have. He's running a huge risk, looking into that file. But he does it anyways, bypassing the security (somewhat forcefully, but he's not a security expert here) so that he can get a look at it as it's installed in the droid that's hooked up right now. Male in design, but lanky and lean like a runner, a couple inches shorter than him but with an incredibly pretty face.
(He's not normally into droids, but shuck this one's good looking.)
Multitasking while scanning over a government agency's upload is probably not the best idea, as good as he is at getting multiple things done at once. He winds up adding to and removing from the program, and only realizes it when he's... ]
--oh. Oh klunk. [ Activated the shucking droid. He's taken out bits and pieces of the upload, and given the thing extra programming that's usually given to the civilian models, meant to make them more human and empathetic. Whether they have real empathy or not is always the question, but Minho didn't mean to find out now. That was not supposed to happen, he doesn't even want to know if he's gone and given the other nondescript droid the programming that's missing. He just wants to stop this one from turning on. ]
BITE ME
kisses cheeks instead
You need an open post for Minho. Also that AU we talked about on Friday owo
I need an open post for a lot of people.
He doesn't really like pants all that much, but he's gotten used to wearing them to at least appease Thomas. At this point, he's really the only thing he can say he actually likes-- sure, the food isn't all that bad, but he'd prefer the chance to hunt again-- but it's not hard to like Thomas. Thomas is nice, more than nice, and actually sits down to give him explanations. The fact that he keeps at it until Minho understands is something he appreciates greatly. Contrary to what the rest of the humans containing him think, he's smart, he can understand things if he's given the time to assess and work through it, like pieces to a puzzle.
But they don't understand why he's been aggravated for the past week, despite his best attempts to explain it. Maybe if he shifted he could show them, but some ingrained part of him says that shifting in front of others that aren't his pack is a dangerous thing. An old memory from before it was just him and the wolves. So he just paces around the room they hold him in, back and forth, exactly like the caged animal he is. The moon is coming and he can feel it, but he's not going to be able to see it, to be under it, and it makes him more agitated than being here normally does.
Maybe he'll bite someone again and it'll get his point across. ]
get on that gosh tend to my needs
You dominate my open posts idk how I'm *not*
UvU and you dominate mine.
Damn right.
puts a gold star on your head
bears proudly
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god just 7 more to go.
sprinkles with tags vuv
returns favor uwu
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here u go
There's something about being in front of the crowds, of hearing them scream out words that he's been practicing and perfecting for months on end. It puts fire in his veins and he's high off of it for hours afterwards, grinning like a maniac to the point that his band and stagehands tend to think he's gone crazy. Which, well, probably isn't that inaccurate. He just feels alive, is all, and feels so, so touched that he inspires that same feeling in the people that come to his performances.
It all started in dark corners and grungy bars where he was a no name performer with barely any cred to his name besides what he'd earned on the street, not in the circuit. With a big mouth and a bigger attitude, he didn't exactly start off with people being in his fan club, fistfights and bar brawls breaking out more than once until he'd finally landed something that could take him out of there.
And he just hit the ground running, despite it all. It's become a major theme in his music at this point, and damn if it doesn't feel good to keep on running.
But after an encore performance that comprised of five extra songs that he wasn't supposed to play (including one that had been in production, his manager is gonna kill him), he finally bids goodbye and heads backstage. Minho feels positively drenched, despite the tank top that he's got on and had stripped down to in an attempt to keep from overheating while he was running around like crazy, bouncing and cheering just as much as he was being cheered. But even with all the exhaustion, he still grins, eyes bright and crinkled with the expression.
He's pumped and confident and more than ready to meet and greet with the people who landed backstage passes for this concert, for so many reasons. ]
thank
no thank /u/
u.u
RIP Snow.
SAME WOW
SERIOUSLY JUST KILL ME
YEP BASICALLY GOODBYE I'M GONE
I'm so done.
thank you i need this thread desperately
Considering that other damn thread.
your girlfriend is the meanest
yes yes she is but ur lucky I ain't attacking u yet
continues to show up late
best one 4 last
best one 4 first u.u
ur the best.
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Meeting Thomas had been by complete chance, but the wide-eyed royal had needed help and he was willing to give it. Even if he was some nobody, he'd pretty much fallen head over heels while running the moment he'd seen him. The fact that he'd been lost and needed help just added something more to it, and after that, well.
To be away from him for too long is a trial in and of itself, because they had become such fast friends. Closer than anyone had ever anticipated, and for as willing as he is to go out to look at the world and to fight for Thomas, he'd rather be at his side.
He and the other kingsguard come riding in through the gates, and they're barely halfway to the stables, still in motion, when Minho dismounts. With a bit of a hop to his step, he takes to jogging alongside his horse before passing the reins off to another member so that he can book it up the steps. There's no emergency, but he runs anyways, quick as anything to get inside the castle itself.
As captain of the guard and one of the main explorers of the kingdom, he's often needed outside the castle walls. But now that he's back inside them, he knows immediately where he needs to go and has no intention of heading anywhere else, or leaving any time soon.
So he calls out a quick-- ] Your majesty! [ --almost teasing, waiting for an answer so he knows where to go. ]
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So, of course he set it free and did what he could to mend its leg. It was broken badly, and there was so much blood that he wasn't sure it'd live long enough to be able to set itself ablaze. There is, he thinks, a final kind of death even for the immortal. He just hoped it wasn't the case, then.
So of course he somehow finds himself taking the phoenix home after it nearly burns down the entire forest. He wraps it-- him, now-- up in his sweater and carries him home. He's all pale skin and wheat colored hair, with big, bright eyes and long limbs, making him taller than Alby but still so much lighter.
Getting clothes that even slightly fit him properly is impossible, actually. But he still manages to get him something he can wear, so that he can sit comfortably while he makes sure that his leg isn't still a mess.
The trap sits on his table nearby, the collar stuffed into the bottom of his pack. There's a quiet note in the back of his head to go looking for more of the traps, to make sure something like this doesn't happen again. ]
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