01.31.2017 w/ Moon @ Cafe Gratitude in the Art’s District in Downtown LA- an all organic, entirely plant-based restaurant nestled in the most interesting and unappreciated part of Los Angeles. Check this place out! Maybe I’ll see ya there.
(happy hour is from 3 to 6pm daily, just saying! )
Sometimes, when Peter looks at Stiles in the right light, at
the right angle, just out of the corner of his eye, he can make out angel wings
flaring from the boy’s back.
Nobody else seems to notice. Not the wings, not the peculiar, silent, almost floating grace Stiles walks with in those rare moments when he isn’t actively pretending to be flailing around and tripping over thin air, not the eyes that sometimes gives Peter the impression of staring into a black hole perhaps, endless and cold and ancient.
And they certainly don’t notice the little things that happen around them - a hunter’s bullets just missing their mark in turning Scot into Swiss cheese, a challenging Alpha’s claws never close enough to an important artery despite the entire pack’s strategy consisting of flinging themselves at the enemy and hoping brute force would work this time after the first dozen times of failure, even darling sweet Allison surviving the Nogitsune with little consequence save for a new set of nightmares, a small price to pay for dodging the drooling comatose mess that the ordeal should have left her in, and the Nogitsune itself mysteriously disappearing overnight - all the near little misses with death that the pack tends to dismiss as nothing more than good luck, time after time after time.
Since when has anything to do with Beacon Hills ever won the favour of Lady Luck?
But Peter sees. Mostly because he’s always watching Stiles, fascinated by this boy-not-boy from the very beginning, the otherworldliness that marks him as something not just not-human like the werewolves and banshee and kitsune in their midst but beyond-human, in the edge of overwhelming power in his scent and the detached amusement he regards everything with and the way Peter - when he manages to catch a glimpse of those brilliant, bright wings - always has to look away when they begin to make his eyes burn.
Peter sees because he’s always looking, every pack meeting, every fight, every research session, every shared meal and then shared lazy afternoon and then shared day out in town. And soon, although longer than Peter expects, Stiles notices him looking. Notices him seeing, all the things that make Stiles other. And Peter makes certain that Stiles also notices how Peter cares, but only because he likes Stiles, in all his hidden angelic glory, and maybe one day, he’ll tell Peter why he’s here at all, walking amongst humanity, indulging a pack of idiots who don’t even know they should be so, so grateful to the sole protector in their midst.
But until then, Peter will enjoy everything Stiles already gives him, every smile, every word, every softened look from those eyes that are still old but seem to thaw a little more when directed at him with each passing day.
The first time Peter feels something big and soft and encompassing fold around him like a particularly feathery blanket, they’re enjoying a picnic out in the woods.
Stiles is perfectly nonchalant about it. Peter couldn’t stop himself from smiling if he tried, so it’s good he doesn’t have to, and he lets himself lean willingly into the warm embrace instead.
On the stiff twig up there
Hunches a wet black rook
Arranging and rearranging its feathers in the rain.
I do not expect a miracle
Or an accident
To set the sight on fire
In my eye, nor seek
Any more in the desultory weather some design,
But let spotted leaves fall as they fall,
Without ceremony, or portent.
Although, I admit, I desire,
Occasionally, some backtalk
From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain:
A certain minor light may still
Out of kitchen table or chair
As if a celestial burning took
Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --
Thus hallowing an interval
By bestowing largesse, honor,
One might say love. At any rate, I now walk
Wary (for it could happen
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical,
Yet politic; ignorant
Of whatever angel may choose to flare
Suddenly at my elbow. I only know that a rook
Ordering its black feathers can so shine
As to seize my senses, haul
My eyelids up, and grant
A brief respite from fear
Of total neutrality. With luck,
Trekking stubborn through this season
Of fatigue, I shall
Patch together a content
Of sorts. Miracles occur,
If you care to call those spasmodic
Tricks of radiance miracles. The wait's begun again,
The long wait for the angel,
For that rare, random descent.
Survey the Heavens, Open the Heavens… All the stars, far and wide… Show me thy appearance… With such shine. Oh Tetrabiblos… I am the ruler of the stars… Aspect become complete… Open thy malevolent gate. Oh 88 Stars of the heaven… Shine! Urano Metria!
What a title. My most creative yet! Prompt: Transformation.
She should have never taken that dare.
She should have never entertained the
brash teasing in potions class. She was a proud Ravenclaw with high
intelligence and wit. There were smarter ways to deal with incessant
teasing from the Slytherin girls of her class. Like, telling them to
shove it, by chance.
Alas, Lucy Heartfilia had a limit. A
limit that itched to cram the scathing words back down the harpy’s
It had been the whole crew today:
Minerva, Flare, and Angel. They could be nice when they felt like it
but today in Professor Porylurca’s class, the mean gene came out to
Making a Draft of Living Death was
difficult, even more so when the damn book misled the reader with
false instructions that even a blind wizard could notice in the
printing line. Cut the sopophorous
Cut the bean and feed it slowly into the cauldron.
it should have added.
decent potion maker would know that sopophorous beans secreted juice
when crushed. Lucy merely…diverted from the printed text. It was a
poor guide line, anyway.
blonde followed her instinct, much like she did with wand work, and
ended up with a draft that radiated fatality with a single drop.
Professor Porlyusica was pleased, or the blonde liked to assume it
was appraisal, as the pink haired teacher dropped a leaf into the
cauldron and hummed when it burned to a crisp.
one of her classmates did remotely as well, including Levy, who was
frazzled and desperately trying to adhere to the text like it was
the teasing began.
all knowing potions goddess: How did you do it?” Minerva asked,
shoving her shoulder harshly into Lucy as she sidled up to the
blonde, her own pathetic potion abandoned. Angel and Flare watched
from across the table, sneering so violently that the Ravenclaw woman
hoped their faces would freeze that way.
how’d you cheat?” Angel added with a snort, ignoring the glare from
the silent Levy.
pursed her lips, cleaning her black cauldron with a swivel of her
wand. At her silence, Minerva laughed obnoxiously, “Oh, Ravenclaw
secret? You’re not so spunky when your Gryffindor friends aren’t
around, you know.”
blonde did not rise to the teasing, packing up her ingredients
proudly. After all, there was no point in her staying, right?
hummed thoughtfully, picking at her rat tail with a new light to her
behavior. “You are right, Minerva! The proud Ravenclaw is so timid
without her brave Gryffindor guards! Why do they even call you an
honorary Gryffindor? You are not brave at all!”
ignored them, shouldering her bag and whispering into Levy’s ear,
“I’ll be in the Common Room.”
just don’t understand. She’s so brave in defending her friends, but
is a Pygmy Puff with every other thing. I bet she can’t even brave
the Forbidden Forest! Typical half-blood.” Minerva guffawed in
amusement, flipping her dark hair as if posing for the Daily Prophet.
blue haired woman scowled, her lips parting to speak when Angel
flicked a little water at her, all three laughing uproariously at how
Levy violently dodged for fear that it was part of a potion.
then had enough.
know what?” Her mouth moved before her mind could stop it, a fault
in her clever attitude that even Natsu pointed out once before. It
was a curse, getting so irritated that she loses control over a
certain part of herself with burning fire. It got her into trouble
more than once, especially with Professor Jose and getting into
fights in the halls. “I’ll take you on.”
was quite a gambler with her sickles, why not with her bravery?
jolted quicker than a Firebolt, latching an iron grip onto the
blonde’s robes. “You can’t be serious. Lu-chan, please reconsider.”
She warned seriously, already knowing about how her friend’s mouth
had a mind of its own.
was far too late to back out now.
Then, I dare you to go into the Forbidden Forest tonight and bring
back an item from a creature in the forest. Anything.” Minerva
specified haughtily, giving her group high fives as Lucy considered
Her stupid mouth moved without her permission.
Levy hissed, along with some of the other Ravenclaw students that had
can’t bring anybody with you and you can’t tell your precious
Gryffindor pals.” Angel added snootily with a tap of painted nails
on aged desk wood. “You have to do it on your own.”
smirked grimly, already knowing she couldn’t back down now. As pride
of the Ravenclaw house, Lucy held herself to honesty and the solid
keeping of promises. It was better than most of the Prefects, anyway.
If I do retrieve an item from a creature in the forest, I want you
three to eat Fullbuster and Dragneel’s Puking Pasties in the middle
of the Great Hall and I want you all to respect the Ravenclaw house
by referring to every member as ‘Duke or Duchess’. A curtsy for each
would be nice, don’t you think, Levy?” Lucy mused in an effort to
hide her anxiety. She was not clever at all for walking right into
was not all wit beyond measure.
was stunned silent as all three Slytherin girls whispered and then
nodded in agreement. “You’re on, Heartfilia. I’ll be writing your
eulogy.” Minerva snorted with insufferable confidence as she
sauntered back to her cauldron as if she won some battle.