will ferall

6

Feral Aesthetic - Sterek


“He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.”

Or the one where Derek is just can’t help it anymore, being human is too much. So he lets go and lets the wolf take over. Stiles of course has to try, like he always does he tries. He begs and pleads to Derek to come back. He walks for hours in the woods trying to find the red eyed wolf he loves, but all he gets are scared whines and growls before the wolf takes off again. Stiles tries to find him one last time but when Derek runs away he just knows…

…it’s the last time he sees Derek. At the very least Stiles hopes Derek is happy like that, because that’s all that has ever mattered. 


2

Monk Parakeet amidst Feral Pigeons and White-Winged Doves
Myiopsitta monachus / Columba livia domestica / Zenaida asiatica

Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, United States, 2014

schniggles  asked:

I would be so very, very interested in your take on a Stardew Valley fic

Elliot opened the door to his cabin, and nearly fell backwards, swallowing an unbecoming shriek of surprise.

The woman who’d claimed the old farm west of Pelican Town was standing right outside his door. Her dark eyes were wide and wild, blue hair frayed and flying in every direction, green slime and rust smudged over her cheeks. The hem of her white dress was tattered, touched with the mud that soaked her heavy boots.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello?” he said. “Are you hurt?” He thought that some of the mud might have been bruises, but it was hard to tell.

She laughed like a jug full of rocks. “Yeah,” she said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of him. “You weren’t here this morning so I went to the mine.” She had a pickaxe and a sword strapped to her back, both looking worn and battered.

“Would you like me to call Harvey?” he asked, because the longer he looked at her the more she looked as if she was about to collapse.

“No, I’ll probably just go to bed,” she said, pulling her backpack in front of her so that she could dig through it.

“It really seems like you should go to the hosp–”

He was interrupted when she shoved something towards him.

“I got you this lobster,” she said.

It was in poor shape, having apparently been kept at the bottom of her bag, beneath raw ore and berries and sharp hunks of crystal. He took it very gingerly from her with the tips of well-manicured fingers. Hers were chewed ragged and covered in dirt.

“This is a beautiful gift,” he assured her. “Thank you.”

She beamed. Her teeth were stained red.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to–”

“Okay, bye,” she said, turning to run back toward the bridge into town. Elliot was left standing in the doorway to his cabin, spotless from his boots to his cravat, holding a disfigured lobster covered in gold dust and crushed salmonberries.

He looked at the lobster.

“… I wonder if she likes poetry.”