WallflowerBlue
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"Hello, Chris," sings a honeyed voice from behind.
Chris' attention snaps toward the intruder, his gun already out of its' holster and aimed at whoever it is — a boy, apparently, with braided russet hair, a red jacket, and wise eyes. He's wearing a gas mask, but Chris can tell by the way his eyes crinkle around the edges, the way sun-burnt sand swirls in his irises, that he's smiling.
Chris cocks his gun.
"You killed my father," he says.
"No offence, but he totally deserved it," the stranger agrees with cheerful solemnity.
"What the hell are you doing in my home?" Chris demands. The kid is perched on a windowsill in Chris' office, as nonchalantly as if this were something he did every day, as if they were familiar.
"I was just wondering," the kid speaks softly, fond amusement sewn through with a peculiar resignation, "how you'd feel about putting down some nazis?"
[Or: The one where Stiles goes back in time and subsequently fucks with everything.]
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Bookmarked by WallflowerBlue
12 Nov 2020
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But I refuse to be cowed by the threat
I run with wolves, don’t you get that yet?Bookmarked by WallflowerBlue
05 Nov 2020
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"What were the possible symptoms again? Hallucinations, fever, mental impairment, disassociation, psychosis." Peter's ticking them off on his fingers, like they're in class.
Bookmarked by WallflowerBlue
31 Oct 2020